the citizen-soldier; or, memoirs of a volunteer. by john beatty. * * * * * cincinnati: wilstach, baldwin & co., publishers, nos. and race street. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by ellen b. henderson, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. to my brother, major william gurley beatty, whose generous sacrifice of his own inclination at the commencement of the war, and faithful devotion to my family and business, enabled me to enter the army and remain three years, this volume is respectfully and affectionately inscribed. introductory. in the lifetime of all who arrive at mature age, there comes a period when a strong desire is felt to know more of the past, especially to know more of those from whom we claim descent. many find even their chief pleasure in searching among parish records and local histories for some knowledge of ancestors, who for a hundred or five hundred years have been sleeping in the grave. long pilgrimages are made to the old world for this purpose, and when the traveler discovers in the crowded church-yard a moss-covered, crumbling stone, which bears the name he seeks, he takes infinite pains to decipher the half-obliterated epitaph, and finds in this often what he regards as ample remuneration for all his trouble. how vastly greater would be his satisfaction if he could obtain even the simplest and briefest history of those in whom he takes so deep an interest. who were they? how were their days spent, and amongst what surroundings? what were their thoughts, fears, hopes, acts? who were their associates, and on which side of the great questions of the day did they stand? a full or even partial answer to these queries would possess for him an incalculable value. so, sitting here to-night, in my little library, with wife and children near, and by god's great kindness all in life and health, i look forward one, two, five hundred years, and see in each succeeding century, and possibly in each generation, so long as the name shall last, a wonder-eyed boy, curious youth, or inquisitive old man, exploring closets and libraries for things of the old time, stumbling finally on this volume, which has, by the charity of the state librarian, still been preserved; he discovers, with quickening pulse, that it bears his own name, and that it was written for him by one whose body has for centuries been dust. dull and uninteresting as it may be to others, for him it will possess an inexpressible charm. it is his own blood speaking to him from the shadowy and almost forgotten past. the message may be poorly written, the matter in the main may be worthless, and the greater events recorded may be dwarfed by more recent and important ones, but the volume is nevertheless of absorbing interest to him, for by it he is enabled to look into the face and heart of one of his own kin, who lived when the nation was young. in leaving this unpretentious record, therefore, i seek to do simply what i would have had my fathers do for me. kinsmen of the coming centuries, i bid you hail and godspeed! columbus, _december_ , . * * * * * the third ohio volunteer infantry served under two separate terms of enlistment--the one for three months, and the other for three years. the regiment was organized april , , and on april th it was mustered into the united states service, with the following field officers: isaac h. marrow, colonel; john beatty, lieutenant colonel, and j. warren keifer, major. the writer's record begins with the day on which his regiment entered virginia, june , , and ends on january , . he does not undertake to present a history of the organizations with which he was connected, nor does he attempt to describe the operations of armies. his record consists merely of matters which came under his own observation, and of camp gossip, rumors, trifling incidents, idle speculations, and the numberless items, small and great, which, in one way and another, enter into and affect the life of a soldier. in short, he has sought simply to gather up the scraps which fell in his way, leaving to other and more competent hands the weightier matters of the great civil war. many errors of opinion and of fact he might now correct, and many items which appear unworthy of a paragraph he might now strike out, but he prefers to leave the record as it was written, when cyclopedias could not be consulted, nor time taken for thorough investigation. who can really know what an army is unless he mingles with the individuals who compose it, and learns how they live, think, talk, and act? the citizen soldier; or, memoirs of a volunteer. * * * * * june, . . arrived at bellaire at p. m. there is trouble in the neighborhood of grafton. have been ordered to that place. the third is now on the virginia side, and will in a few minutes take the cars. . reached grafton at p. m. all avowed secessionists have run away; but there are, doubtless, many persons here still who sympathize with the enemy, and who secretly inform him of all our movements. . colonel marrow and i dined with colonel smith, member of the virginia legislature. he professes to be a union man, but his sympathies are evidently with the south. he feels that the south is wrong, but does not relish the idea of ohio troops coming upon virginia soil to fight virginians. the union sentiment here is said to be strengthening daily. . arrived at clarksburg about midnight, and remained on the cars until morning. we are now encamped on a hillside, and for the first time my bed is made in my own tent. clarksburg has apparently stood still for fifty years. most of the houses are old style, built by the fathers and grandfathers of the present occupants. here, for the first time, we find slaves, each of the wealthier, or, rather, each of the well-to-do, families owning a few. there are probably thirty-five hundred troops in this vicinity--the third, fourth, eighteenth, nineteenth, and part of the twenty-second ohio, one company of cavalry, and one of artillery. rumors of skirmishes and small fights a few miles off; but as yet the only gunpowder we have smelled is our own. . at twelve o'clock to-day our battalion left clarksburg, followed a stream called elk creek for eight miles, and then encamped for the night. this is the first march on foot we have made. the country through which we passed is extremely hilly and broken, but apparently fertile. if the people of western virginia were united against us, it would be almost impossible for our army to advance. in many places the creek on one side, and the perpendicular banks on the other, leave a strip barely wide enough for a wagon road. buckhannon, twenty miles in advance of us, is said to be in the hands of the secession troops. to-morrow, or the day after, if they do not leave, a battle will take place. our men appear eager for the fray, and i pray they may be as successful in the fight as they are anxious for one. . it is half-past eight o'clock, and we are still but eight miles from clarksburg. we were informed this morning that the secession troops had left buckhannon, and fallen back to their fortifications at laurel hill and rich mountain. it is said general mcclellan will be here to-morrow, and take command of the forces in person. in enumerating the troops in this vicinity, i omitted to mention colonel robert mccook's dutch regiment, which is in camp two miles from us. the seventh ohio infantry is now at clarksburg, and will, i think, move in this direction to-morrow. provisions outside of camp are very scarce. i took breakfast with a farmer this morning, and can say truly that i have eaten much better meals in my life. we had coffee without sugar, short-cake without butter, and a little salt pork, exceedingly fat. i asked him what the charge was, and he said "ninepence," which means one shilling. i rejoiced his old soul by giving him two shillings. the country people here have been grossly deceived by their political leaders. they have been made to believe that lincoln was elected for the sole purpose of liberating the negro; that our army is marching into virginia to free their slaves, destroy their property, and murder their families; that we, not they, have set the constitution and laws at defiance, and that in resisting us they are simply defending their homes and fighting for their constitutional rights. july, . . reached buckhannon at p. m., and encamped beside the fourth ohio, in a meadow, one mile from town. the country through which we marched is exceedingly hilly; or, perhaps, i might say mountainous. the scenery is delightful. the road for miles is cut around great hills, and is just wide enough for a wagon. a step to the left would send one tumbling a hundred or two hundred feet below, and to the right the hills rise hundreds of feet above. the hills, half way to their summits, are covered with corn, wheat, or grass, while further up the forest is as dense as it could well have been a hundred years ago. . for the first time to-day, i saw men bringing tobacco to market in bags. one old man brought a bag of natural leaf into camp to sell to the soldiers, price ten cents per pound. he brought it to a poor market, however, for the men have been bankrupt for weeks, and could not buy tobacco at a dime a bagfull. . the fourth has passed off quietly in the little town of buckhannon and in camp. at ten o'clock the third and fourth regiments were reviewed by general mcclellan. the day was excessively warm, and the men, buttoned up in their dress-coats, were much wearied when the parade was over. in the court-house this evening, the soldiers had what they call a "stag dance." camp life to a young man who has nothing specially to tie him to home has many attractions--abundance of company, continual excitement, and all the fun and frolic that a thousand light-hearted boys can devise. to-night, in one tent, a dozen or more are singing "dixie" at the top of their voices. in another "the star-spangled banner" is being executed so horribly that even a secessionist ought to pity the poor tune. stories, cards, wrestling, boxing, racing, all these and a thousand other things enter into a day in camp. the roving, uncertain life of a soldier has a tendency to harden and demoralize most men. the restraints of home, family, and society are not felt. the fact that a few hours may put them in battle, where their lives will not be worth a fig, is forgotten. they think a hundred times less of the perils by which they may be surrounded than their friends do at home. they encourage and strengthen each other to such an extent that, when exposed to danger, imminent though it be, they do not seem to realize it. . on the th instant a scouting party, under captain lawson, started for middle fork bridge, a point eighteen miles from camp. at eight o'clock last night, when i brought the battalion from the drill-ground, i found that a messenger had arrived with intelligence that lawson had been surrounded by a force of probably four hundred, and that, in the engagement, one of his men had been killed and three wounded. the camp was alive with excitement. each company of the third had contributed five men to captain lawson's detachment, and each company, therefore, felt a special interest in it. the messenger stated that captain lawson was in great need of help, and general mcclellan at once ordered four companies of infantry and twenty mounted men to move to his assistance. i had command of the detachment, and left camp about nine o'clock p. m., accompanied by a guide. the night was dark. my command moved on silently and rapidly. after proceeding about three miles, we left the turnpike and turned onto a narrow, broken, bad road, leading through the woods, which we followed about eight miles, when we met captain lawson's detachment on its way back. here we removed the wounded from the farm wagon in which they had been conveyed thus far, to an ambulance brought with us for the purpose, countermarched, and reached our quarters about three o'clock this morning. i will not undertake to give the details of captain lawson's skirmish. i may say, however, that the number of the enemy killed and wounded, lacerated and torn, by corporal casey, was beyond all computation. had the rebels not succeeded in getting a covered bridge between themselves and the invincible irishman, he would, if we may believe his own statement, have annihilated the whole force, and brought back the head of their commanding officer on the point of his bayonet. . this morning, at seven o'clock, our tents were struck, and, with general mcclellan and staff in advance, we moved to middle fork bridge. it was here that captain lawson's skirmish on saturday had occurred. the man killed had been buried by the fourth ohio before our arrival. almost every house along the road is deserted by the men, the women sometimes remaining. the few union men of this section have, for weeks past, been hiding away in the hills. now the secessionists have taken to the woods. the utmost bitterness of feeling exists between the two. a man was found to-day, within a half mile of this camp, with his head cut off and entrails ripped out, probably a union man who had been hounded down and killed. the dutch regiment (mccook's), when it took possession of the bridge, had a slight skirmish with the enemy, and, i learn, killed two men. on the day after to-morrow i apprehend the first great battle will be fought in western virginia. i ate breakfast in buckhannon at six o'clock a. m., and now, at six o'clock p. m. am awaiting my second meal. the boys, i ascertain, searched one secession house on the road, and found three guns and a small amount of ammunition. the guns were hunting pieces, all loaded. the woman of the house was very indignant, and spoke in disrespectful terms of the union men of the neighborhood, whom she suspected of instigating the search. she said she "had come from a higher sphere than they, and would not lay down with dogs." she was an eastern virginia woman, and, although poor as a church mouse, thought herself superior to west virginia people. as an indication of this lady's refinement and loyalty, it is only necessary to say that a day or two before she had displayed a secession flag made, as she very frankly told the soldiers, of the tail of an old shirt, with j. d. and s. c. on it, the letters standing for jefferson davis and the southern confederacy. four or five thousand men are encamped here, huddled together in a little circular valley, with high hills surrounding. a company of cavalry is just going by my tent on the road toward beverly, probably to watch the front. as we were leaving camp this morning, an officer of an ohio regiment rode at break-neck speed along the line, inquiring for general mcclellan, and yelling, as he passed, that four companies of the regiment to which he belongs had been surrounded at glendale, by twelve hundred secessionists, under o. jennings wise. our men, misapprehending the statement, thought buckhannon had been attacked, and were in a great state of excitement. the officers of general schleich's staff were with me on to-day's march, and the younger members, captains hunter and dubois, got off whatever poetry they had in them of a military cast. "on linden when the sun was low," was recited to the hills of western virginia in a manner that must have touched even the stoniest of them. i could think of nothing but "there was a sound of revelry by night," and as this was not particularly applicable to the occasion, owing to the exceeding brightness of the sun, and the entire absence of all revelry, i thought best not to astonish my companions by exhibiting my knowledge of the poets. west virginia hogs are the longest, lankest, boniest animals in creation. i am reminded of this by that broth of an irish lad, conway, who says, in substance, and with a broad celtic accent, that their noses have to be sharpened every morning to enable them to pick a living among the rocks. colonel marrow informs me that an attack is apprehended to-night. we have sent out strong pickets. the cannon are so placed as to shoot up the road. our regiment is to form on the left of the turnpike, and the dutch regiment on the right, in case the secession forces should be bold enough to come down on us. . moved from the middle fork of the buckhannon river at seven o'clock this morning, and arrived at roaring creek at four p. m. we came over the hills with all the pomp and circumstance of glorious war; infantry, cavalry, artillery, and hundreds of army wagons; the whole stretching along the mountain road for miles. the tops of the alleghanies can now be seen plainly. we are at the foot of rich mountain, encamped where our brothers of the secession order pitched their tents last night. our advance guard gave them a few shots and they fled precipitately to the mountains, burning the bridge behind them. when our regiment arrived a few shots were heard, and the bayonets and bright barrels of the enemy's guns could be seen on the hills. it clouded up shortly after, and before we had pitched our tents, the clouds came over rich mountain, settling down upon and hiding its summit entirely. heaven gave us a specimen of its artillery firing, and a heavy shower fell, drenching us all completely. as i write, the sound of a cannon comes booming over the mountain. there it goes again! whether it is at phillippi or laurel hill, i can not tell. certain it is that the portion of our army advancing up the valley river is in battle, somewhere, and not many miles away. we do not know the strength of our opponents, nor the character and extent of their fortifications. these mountain passes must be ugly things to go through when in possession of an enemy; our boys look forward, however, to a day of battle as one of rare sport. i do not. i endeavor to picture to myself all its terrors, so that i may not be surprised and dumbfounded when the shock comes. our army is probably now making one of the most interesting chapters of american history. god grant it may be a chapter our northern people will not be ashamed to read! i am not confident of a speedy termination of the war. these people are in the wrong, but have been made to believe they are in the right--that we are the invaders of their hearthstones, come to conquer and destroy. that they will fight with desperation, i have no doubt. nature has fortified the country for them. he is foolishly oversanguine who predicts an easy victory over such a people, intrenched amidst mountains and hills. i believe the war will run into a war of emancipation, and when it ends african slavery will have ended also. it would not, perhaps, be politic to say so, but if i had the army in my own hands, i would take a short cut to what i am sure will be the end--commence the work of emancipation at once, and leave every foot of soil behind me free. . from the best information obtainable, we are led to believe the mountains and hills lying between this place and beverly are strongly fortified and full of men. we can see a part of the enemy's fortifications very plainly from a hill west of camp. our regiment was ordered to be in readiness to march, and was under arms two hours. during this time the dutch regiment (mccook's), the fourth ohio, four pieces of artillery, one company of cavalry, with general mcclellan, marched to the front, the dutchmen in advance. they proceeded, say a mile, when they overhauled the enemy's pickets, and in the little skirmish which ensued one man of mccook's regiment was shot, and two of the enemy captured. by these prisoners it is affirmed that eight or nine thousand men are in the hills before us, well armed, with heavy artillery planted so as to command the road for miles. how true this is we can not tell. enough, however, has been learned to satisfy mcclellan that it is not advisable to attack to-day. what surprises me is that the general should know so little about the character of the country, the number of the enemy, and the extent of his fortifications. during the day, colonel marrow, apparently under a high state of excitement, informed me that he had just had an interview with george (he usually speaks of general mcclellan in this familiar way), that an attack was to be made, and the third was to lead the column. he desired me, therefore, to get out my horse at once, take four men with me, and search the woods in our front for a practicable road to the enemy. i asked if general mcclellan had given him any information that would aid me in this enterprise, such as the position of the rebels, the location of their outposts, their distance from us, and the character of the country between our camp and theirs. he replied that george had not. it occurred to me that four men were rather too few, if the work contemplated was a reconnoissance, and rather too many if the service required was simply that for which spies are usually employed. i therefore spoke distrustingly of the proposed expedition, and questioned the propriety of sending so small a force, so utterly without information, upon so hazardous an enterprise, and apparently so foolish a one. my language gave offense, and when i finally inquired what four men i should take, the colonel told me, rather abruptly, to take whom i pleased, and look where i pleased. his manner, rather than his words, indicated a doubt of my courage, and i turned from him, mounted my horse, and started for the front, determined to obey the order to the best of my ability, but to risk the lives of no others on what was evidently a fool's errand. after proceeding some distance, i found that the wagon-master was at my heels, and, together, we traced every cow-path and mountain road we could find, and passed half a mile beyond the enemy's outposts, and over ground visited by his scouts almost hourly. when i returned to make my report, i was curtly informed that no report was desired, as the plan had been changed. a little after midnight the colonel returned from head-quarters with important information, which he desired to communicate to the regiment. the men were, therefore, ordered to turn out, and came hesitatingly and sleepily from their tents. they looked like shadows as they gathered in the darkness about their chieftain. it was the hour when graveyards are supposed to yawn, and the sheeted dead to walk abroad. the gallant colonel, with a voice in perfect accord with the solemnity of the hour, and the funereal character of the scene, addressed us, in substance, as follows: "soldiers of the third: the assault on the enemy's works will be made in the early morning. the third will lead the column. the secessionists have ten thousand men and forty rifled cannon. they are strongly fortified. they have more men and more cannon than we have. they will cut us to pieces. marching to attack such an enemy, so intrenched and so armed, is marching to a butcher-shop rather than to a battle. there is bloody work ahead. many of you, boys, will go out who will never come back again." as this speech progressed my hair began to stiffen at the roots, and a chilly sensation like that which might ensue from the unexpected and clammy touch of the dead, ran through me. it was hard to die so young and so far from home. theological questions which before had attracted little or no attention, now came uppermost in our minds. we thought of mothers, wives, sweethearts--of opportunities lost, and of good advice disregarded. some soldiers kicked together the expiring fragments of a camp-fire, and the little blaze which sprang up revealed scores of pallid faces. in short, we all wanted to go home. when a boy i had read plutarch, and knew something of the great warriors of the old time; but i could not, for the life of me, recall an instance wherein they had made such an address to their soldiers on the eve of battle. it was their habit, at such a time, to speak encouragingly and hopefully. with all due respect, therefore, for the superior rank and wisdom of the colonel, i plucked him by the sleeve, took him one side, and modestly suggested that his speech had had rather a depressing effect on the regiment, and had taken that spirit out of the boys so necessary to enable them to do well in battle. i urged him to correct the mistake, and speak to them hopefully. he replied that what he had said was true, and they should know the truth. the morning dawned; but instead of being called upon to lead the column, we were left to the inglorious duty of guarding the camp, while other regiments moved forward toward the enemy's line. in half an hour, in all probability, the work of destruction will commence. i began this memoranda on the evening of the th, and now close it on the morning of the th. . at a. m. we were ordered to the front; passed quite a number of regiments on our way thither, and finally took position not far from the enemy's works. we were now at the head of the column. a small brook crossed the road at this point, and the thick woods concealed us from the enemy. a few rods further on, a bend in the road gave us a good view of the entire front of his fortifications. major keifer and a few other gentlemen, in their anxiety to get more definite information in regard to the position of the secessionists, and the extent of their works, went up the road, and were saluted by a shot from their battery. we expected every moment to receive an order to advance. after a time, however, we ascertained that rosecrans, with a brigade, was seeking the enemy's rear by a mountain path, and we conjectured that, so soon as he had reached it, we would be ordered to make the assault in front. it was a dark, gloomy day, and the hours passed slowly. between two and three o'clock we heard shots in the rear of the fortifications; then volleys of musketry, and the roar of artillery. every man sprang to his feet, assured that the moment for making the attack had arrived. general mcclellan and staff came galloping up, and a thousand faces turned to hear the order to advance; but no order was given. the general halted a few paces from our line, and sat on his horse listening to the guns, apparently in doubt as to what to do; and as he sat there with indecision stamped on every line of his countenance, the battle grew fiercer in the enemy's rear. every volley could be heard distinctly. there would occasionally be a lull for a moment, and then the uproar would break out again with increased violence. if the enemy is too strong for us to attack, what must be the fate of rosecrans' four regiments, cut off from us, and struggling against such odds? hours passed; and as the last straggling shots and final silence told us the battle had ended, gloom settled down on every soldier's heart, and the belief grew strong that rosecrans had been defeated, and his brigade cut to pieces or captured. this belief grew to certain conviction soon after, when we heard shout after shout go up from the fortifications in our front. major keifer with two companies had, early in the afternoon, climbed the hill on our right to look for a position from which artillery could be used effectively. the ground over which he moved was broken and covered with a dense growth of trees and underbrush; finally an elevation was discovered which commanded the enemy's camp, but before a road could be cut, and the artillery brought up, it was too late in the day to begin the attack. night came on. it was intensely dark. about nine o'clock we were ordered to withdraw our pickets quietly and return to our old quarters. on our way thither a rough voice cried: "halt! who comes there?" and a thousand shadowy forms sprang up before us. the challenge was from colonel robert mccook, and the regiment his. the scene reminded me of the one where "that whistle garrisoned the glen at once with full five hundred men, as if the yawning hill to heaven a subterranean host had given." . we were rejoiced this morning to hear of rosecrans' success, and, at the same time, not well pleased at the escape of the enemy under cover of night. we were ordered to move, and got under way at eight o'clock. on the road we met general rosecrans and staff. he was jubilant, as well he might be, and as he rode by received the congratulations of the officers and cheers of the men. arriving on yesterday's battle-field, the regiment was allowed a half hour for rest. the dead had been gathered and placed in a long trench, which was still open. the wounded of both armies were in hospital, receiving the attention of the surgeons. there were a few prisoners, most of them too unwell to accompany their friends in retreat. soon after reaching the summit of rich mountain, we caught glimpses of tygart's valley, and of cheat mountain beyond, and before nightfall reached beverly and went into camp. . six or eight hundred southern troops sent in a flag of truce, and surrendered unconditionally. they are a portion of the force which fought rosecrans at rich mountain, and morris at laurel hill. we started up the valley river at seven o'clock this morning, our regiment in the lead. found most of the houses deserted. both union men and secessionists had fled. the southern troops, retreating in this direction, had frightened the people greatly, by telling them that we shot men, ravished women, and destroyed property. when within three-quarters of a mile of huttonville, we were informed that forty or fifty mounted secessionists were there. the order to double-quick was given, and the regiment entered the village on a run. as we made a turn in the road, we discovered a squad of cavalry retreating rapidly. the bridge over the river had been burned, and was still smoking. our troops sent up a hurrah and quickened their pace, but they had already traveled eleven miles on a light breakfast, and were not in condition to run down cavalry. that we might not lose at least one shot at the enemy, i got an enfield rifle from one of the men, galloped forward, and fired at the retreating squad. it was the best shot i could make, and i am forced to say it was a very poor one, for no one fell. on second thought, it occurred to me that it would have been criminal to have killed one of these men, for his death could have had no possible effect on the result of the war. huttonville is a very small place at the foot of cheat mountain. we halted there perhaps one hour, to await the arrival of general mcclellan; and when he came up, were ordered forward to secure a mountain pass. it is thought fifteen hundred secessionists are a few miles ahead, near the top of the mountain. two indiana regiments and one battery are with us. more troops are probably following. the man who owns the farm on which we are encamped is, with his family, sleeping in the woods to-night, if, indeed, he sleeps at all. . the ninth and fourth ohio, fifteenth indiana, and one company of cavalry, started up the mountain between seven and eight o'clock. the colonel being unwell, i followed with the third. awful rumors were afloat of fortifications and rebels at the top; but we found no fortifications, and as for the rebels, they were scampering for staunton as fast as their legs could carry them. this mountain scenery is magnificent. as we climbed the cheat the views were the grandest i ever looked upon. nests of hills, appearing like eggs of the mountain; ravines so dark that one could not guess their depth; openings, the ends of which seemed lost in a blue mist; broken-backed mountains, long mountains, round mountains, mountains sloping gently to the summit; others so steep a squirrel could hardly climb them; fatherly mountains, with their children clustered about them, clothed in birch, pine, and cedar; mountain streams, sparkling now in the sunlight, then dashing down into apparently fathomless abysses. it was a beautiful day, and the march was delightful. the road is crooked beyond description, but very solid and smooth. the farmer on whose premises we are encamped has returned from the woods. he has discovered that we are not so bad as we were reported. most of the negroes have been left at home. many were in camp to-day with corn-bread, pies, and cakes to sell. fox, my servant, went out this afternoon and bought a basket of bread. he brought in two chickens also, which he said were presented to him. i suspect fox does not always tell the truth. . the fourteenth indiana and one company of cavalry went to the summit this morning to fortify. the colonel has gone to beverly. the boys repeat his rich mountain speech with slight variations: "men, there are ten thousand secessionists in rich mountain, with forty rifled cannon, well fortified. there's bloody work ahead. you are going to a butcher-shop rather than a battle. ten thousand men and forty rifled cannon! hostler, you d--d scoundrel, why don't you wipe jerome's nose?" jerome is the colonel's horse, known in camp as the white bull. conway, who has been detailed to attend to the colonel's horses, is almost as good a speech-maker as the colonel. this, in brief, is conway's address to the white bull: "stand still there, now, or i'll make yer stand still. hold up yer head there, now, or i'll make yer hold it up. keep quiet; what the h--ll yer 'bout there, now? d--n you! do you want me to hit you a lick over the snoot, now--do you? are you a inviten' me to pound you over the head with a saw-log? d--n yer ugly pictures, whoa!" . this afternoon, when riding down to huttonville, i met three or four hundred sorry-looking soldiers. they were without arms. on inquiry, i found they were a part of the secession army, who, finding no way of escape, had come into our lines and surrendered. they were badly dressed, and a hard, dissolute-looking lot of men. to use the language of one of the soldiers, they were "a milk-sickly set of fellows," and would have died off probably without any help from us if they had been kept in the mountains a little longer. they were on their way to staunton. general mcclellan had very generously provided them with provisions for three days, and wagons to carry the sick and wounded; and so, footsore, weary, and chopfallen, they go over the hills. an unpleasant rumor is in camp to-night, to the effect that general patterson has been defeated at williamsport. this, if true, will counterbalance our successes in western virginia, and make the game an even one. the southern soldiers mentioned above are encamped for the night a little over a mile from here. about dusk i walked over to their camp. they were gathered around their fires preparing supper. many of them say they were deceived, and entered the service because they were led to believe that the northern army would confiscate their property, liberate their slaves, and play the devil generally. as they thought this was true, there was nothing left for them to do but to take up arms and defend themselves. while we were at buckhannon, an old farmer-looking man visited us daily, bringing tobacco, corn-bread, and cucumber pickles. this innocent old gentleman proves to have been a spy, and obtained his reward in the loss of a leg at rich mountain. . to-day, eleven men belonging to a company of cavalry which accompanied the fourteenth indiana to the summit, were sent out on a scouting expedition. when about ten miles from camp, on the opposite side of the mountain, they halted, and while watering their horses were fired upon. one man was killed and three wounded. the other seven fled. colonel kimball sent out a detachment to bring in the wounded; but whether it succeeded or not i have not heard. a musician belonging to the fourth ohio, when six miles out of beverly, on his way to phillippi, was fired upon and instantly killed. so goes what little there is of war in western virginia. . the most interesting of all days in the mountains is one on which the sky is filled with floating clouds, not hiding it entirely, but leaving here and there patches of blue. then the shadows shift from place to place, as the moving clouds either let in the sunshine or exclude it. standing at my tent-door at eleven o'clock in the morning, with a stiff breeze going, and the clouds on the wing, we see a peak, now in the sunshine, then in the shadow, and the lights and shadows chasing each other from point to point over the mountains, presenting altogether a panorama most beautiful to look upon, and such an one as god only can present. i can almost believe now that men become, to some extent, like the country in which they live. in the plain country the inhabitants learn to traffic, come to regard money-getting as the great object in life, and have but a dim perception of those higher emotions from which spring the noblest acts. in a mountain country god has made many things sublime, and some things very beautiful. the rugged, the smooth, the sunshine, and the shadow meet one at every turn. here are peaks getting the earliest sunlight of the morning, and the latest of the evening; ravines so deep the light of day can never penetrate them; bold, rugged, perpendicular rocks, which have breasted the storms for ages; gentle slopes, swelling away until their summits seem to dip in the blue sky; streams, cold and clear, leaping from crag to crag, and rushing down nobody knows whither. like the country, may we not look to find the people unpolished, rugged and uneven, capable of the noblest heroism or the most infernal villainy--their lives full of lights and shadows, elevations and depressions? the mountains, rising one above another, suggest, forcibly enough, the infinite power of the creator, and when the peaks come in contact with the clouds it requires but little imagination to make one feel that god, as at sinai, has set his foot upon the earth, and that earth and heaven are really very near each other. . this morning, at two o'clock, i was rattled up by a sentinel, who had come to camp in hot haste to inform me that he had seen and fired upon a body of twenty-five or more men, probably the advance guard of the enemy. he desired me to send two companies to strengthen the outpost. i preferred, however, to go myself to the scene of the trouble; and, after investigation, concluded that the guard had been alarmed by a couple of cows. another lot of secession prisoners, some sixty in number, passed by this afternoon. they were highly pleased with the manner in which they had been treated by their captors. the sound of a musket is just heard on the picket post, three-quarters of a mile away, and the shot is being repeated by our line of sentinels. * * * the whole camp has been in an uproar. many men, half asleep, rushed from their tents and fired off their guns in their company grounds. others, supposing the enemy near, became excited and discharged theirs also. the tents were struck, loomis' first michigan battery manned, and we awaited the attack, but none was made. it was a false alarm. some sentinel probably halted a stump and fired, thus rousing a thousand men from their warm beds. this is the first night alarm we have had. . we hear that general cox has been beaten on the kanawha; that our forces have been repulsed at manassas gap, and that our troops have been unsuccessful in missouri. i trust the greater part, if not all, of this is untrue. we have been expecting orders to march, but they have not come. the men are very anxious to be moving, and when moving, strange to say, always very anxious to stop. . officers and men are low-spirited to-night. the news of yesterday has been confirmed. our army has been beaten at manassas with terrible loss. general mcclellan has left beverly for washington. general rosecrans will assume command in western virginia. we are informed that twenty miles from us, in the direction of staunton, some three thousand secessionists are in camp. we shall probably move against them. . the news from manassas junction is a little more cheering, and all feel better to-day. we have now a force of about four thousand men in this vicinity, and two or three thousand at beverly. we shall be in telegraphic communication with the north to-morrow. the moon is at its full to-night, and one of the most beautiful sights i have witnessed was its rising above the mountain. first the sky lighted up, then a halo appeared, then the edge of the moon, not bigger than a star, then the half-moon, not semi-circular, but blazing up like a great gaslight, and, finally, the full, round moon had climbed to the top, and seemed to stop a moment to rest and look down on the valley. . the colonel left for ohio to-day, to be gone two weeks. i came from the quarters of brigadier-general schleich a few minutes ago. he is a three-months' brigadier, and a rampant demagogue. schleich said that slaves who accompanied their masters to the field, when captured, should be sent to cuba and sold to pay the expenses of the war. i suggested that it would be better to take them to canada and liberate them, and that so soon as the government began to sell negroes to pay the expenses of the war i would throw up my commission and go home. schleich was a state senator when the war began. he is what might be called a tremendous little man, swears terribly, and imagines that he thereby shows his snap. snap, in his opinion, is indispensable to a military man. if snap is the only thing a soldier needs, and profanity is snap, schleich is a second napoleon. this general snap will go home, at the expiration of his three-months' term, unregretted by officers and men. major hugh ewing will return with him. last night the major became thoroughly elevated, and he is not quite sober yet. he thinks, when in his cups, that our generals are too careful of their men. "what are a th-thousand men," said he, "when (hic) principle is at stake? men's lives (hic) shouldn't be thought of at such a time (hic). amount to nothing (hic). our generals are too d--d slow (hic)." the major is a man of excellent natural capacity, the son of hon. thomas ewing, of lancaster, and brother-in-law of w. t. sherman, now a colonel or brigadier-general in the army. w. t. sherman is the brother of john sherman. the news from manassas is very bad. the disgraceful flight of our troops will do us more injury, and is more to be regretted, than the loss of fifty thousand men. it will impart new life, courage, and confidence to our enemies. they will say to their troops: "you see how these scoundrels run when you stand up to them." . was slightly unwell this morning; but about noon accompanied general reynolds, colonel wagner, colonel heffron, and a squad of cavalry, up the valley, and returned somewhat tired, but quite well. lieutenant-colonel owen was also of the party. he is fifty or fifty-five years old, a thin, spare man, of very ordinary personal appearance, but of fine scientific and literary attainments. for some years he was a professor in a southern military school. he has held the position of state geologist of indiana, and is the son of the celebrated robert j. owen, who founded the communist society at new harmony, indiana. every sprig, leaf, and stem on the route suggested to colonel owen something to talk about, and he proved to be a very entertaining companion. general reynolds is a graduate of west point, and has the theory of war completely; but whether he has the broad, practical common sense, more important than book knowledge, time will determine. as yet he is an untried quantity, and, therefore, unknown. . about two o'clock p. m., for want of something better to do, i climbed the high mountain in front of our camp. the side is as steep as the roof of a gothic house. by taking hold of bushes and limbs of trees, after a half hour of very hard work, i managed to get to the top, completely exhausted. the outlook was magnificent. tygart's valley, the river winding through it, and a boundless succession of mountains and ridges, all lay before me. my attention, however, was soon diverted from the landscape to the huckleberries. they were abundant; and now and then i stumbled on patches of delicious raspberries. i remained on the mountain, resting and picking berries, until half-past four. i must be in camp at six to post my pickets, but there was no occasion for haste. so, after a time, i started leisurely down, not the way i had come up, but, as i supposed, down the eastern slope, a way, apparently, not so steep and difficult as the one by which i had ascended. i traveled on, through vines and bushes, over fallen timber, and under great trees, from which i could scarcely obtain a glimpse of the sky, until finally i came to a mountain stream. i expected to find the road, not the stream, and began to be a little uncertain as to my whereabouts. after reflection, i concluded i would be most likely to reach camp by going up the stream, and so started. trees in many places had fallen across the ravine, and my progress was neither easy nor rapid; but i pushed on as best i could. i never knew so well before what a mountain stream was. i scrambled over rocks and fallen trees, and through thickets of laurel, until i was completely worn out. lying down on the rocks, which in high water formed part of the bed of the stream, i took a drink, looked at my watch, and found it was half-past five. my pickets were to be posted at six. having but a half hour left, i started on. i could see no opening yet. the stream twisted and turned, keeping no one general direction for twenty rods, and hardly for twenty feet. it grew smaller, and as the ravine narrowed the way became more difficult. six o'clock had now come. i could not see the sun, and only occasionally could get glimpses of the sky. i began to realize that i was lost; but concluded finally that i would climb the mountain again, and ascertain, if i could, in what direction the camp lay. i have had some hard tramps, and have done some hard work, but never labored half so hard in a whole week as i did for one hour in getting up that mountain, pushing through vines, climbing over logs, breaking through brush. three or four times i lay down out of breath, utterly exhausted, and thought i would proceed no further until morning; but when i thought of my pickets, and reflected that general reynolds would not excuse a trip so foolish and untimely, i made new efforts and pushed on. finally i reached the summit of the mountain, but found it not the one from which i had descended. still higher mountains were around me. the trees and bushes were so dense i could hardly see a rod before me. it was now seven o'clock, an hour after the time when i should have been in camp. i lay down, determined to remain all night; but my clothing was so thin that i soon became chilly, and so got up and started on again. once i became entangled in a wilderness of grapevines and briers, and had much difficulty in getting through them. it was now half-past seven, and growing dark; but, fortunately, at this time, i heard a dog bark, a good way off to the right, and, turning in that direction, i came to a cow-path. which end of it should i take? either end, i concluded, would be better than to remain where i was; so i worked myself into a dog-trot, wound down around the side of the mountain, and reached the road, a mile and a half south of camp, and went to my quarters fast as my legs could carry me. i found my detail for picket duty waiting and wondering what could so detain the officer of the day. . the fifteenth indiana, colonel wagner, moved up the valley eight miles. the sickly months are now on us. considerable dysentery among the men, and many reported unfit for duty. my limbs are stiff and sore from yesterday's exercise, but my adventure proves to have been a lucky one. the mountain path i stumbled on was unknown to us before, and we find, on inquiry, that it leads over the ridges. the enemy might, by taking this path, follow it up during the day, encamp almost within our picket lines without being discovered, and then, under cover of night, or in the early morning, come down upon us while we were in our beds. it will be picketed hereafter. a private of company e wrote home that he had killed two secessionists. a zanesville paper published the letter. when the boys of his company read it they obtained spades, called on the soldier who had drawn so heavily on the credulity of his friends, and told him they had come to bury the dead. the poor fellow protested, apologized, and excused himself as best he could, but all to no purpose. he is never likely to hear the last of it. i am reminded that when coming from bellaire to fetterman, a soldier doing guard duty on the railroad said that a few mornings before he had gone out, killed two secessionists who were just sitting down to breakfast, and then eaten the breakfast himself. august, . . it is said the pickets of the fourteenth indiana and the enemy's cavalry came in collision to-day, and that three of the latter were killed. it is now p. m. sergeants are calling the roll for the last time to-night. in half an hour taps will be sounded and the lights extinguished in every private's tent. the first call in the morning, reveille, is at five; breakfast call, six; surgeon's call, seven; drill, eight; recall, eleven; dinner, twelve; drill again at four; recall, five; guard-mounting, half-past five; first call for dress-parade, six; second call, half-past six; tattoo at nine, and taps at half-past. so the day goes round. hardee for a month or more was a book of impenetrable mysteries. the words conveyed no idea to my mind, and the movements described were utterly beyond my comprehension; but now the whole thing comes almost without study. . jerrolaman went out this afternoon and picked nearly a peck of blackberries. berries of various kinds are very abundant. the fox-grape is also found in great plenty, and as big as one's thumb. the indianians are great ramblers. lieutenant bell says they can be traced all over the country, for they not only eat all the berries, but nibble the thorns off the bushes. general reynolds told me, this evening, he thought it probable we would be attacked soon. have been distributing ammunition, forty rounds to the man. my black horse was missing this morning. conway looked for him the greater part of the day, and finally found him in possession of an indiana captain. it happened in this way: captain rupp, thirteenth indiana, told his men he would give forty dollars for a _sesesh_ horse, and they took my horse out of the pasture, delivered it to him, and got the money. he rode the horse up the valley to colonel wagner's station, and when he returned bragged considerably over his good luck; but about dark conway interviewed him on the subject, when a change came o'er the spirit of his dream. colonel sullivan tells me the officers now talk to rupp about the fine points of his horse, ask to borrow him, and desire to know when he proposes to ride again. a little group of soldiers are sitting around a camp-fire, not far away, entertaining each other with stories and otherwise. just now one of them lifts up his voice, and in a melancholy strain sings: somebody ---- "is weeping for gallant andy gay, who now in death lies sleeping on the field of monterey." while i write he strikes into another air, and these are the words as i catch them: "come back, come back, my purty fair maid! ten thousand of my _jinture_ on you i will bestow if you'll consent to marry me; oh, do not say me no." but the maid is indifferent to _jintures_, and replies indignantly: "oh, hold your tongue, captain, your words are all in vain; i have a handsome sweetheart now across the main, and if i do not find him i'll mourn continuali." more of this interesting dialogue between the captain and the pretty fair maid i can not catch. the sky is clear, but the night very dark. i do not contemplate my ride to the picket posts with any great degree of pleasure. a cowardly sentinel is more likely to shoot at you than a brave one. the fears of the former do not give him time to consider whether the person advancing is friend or foe. . we hear of the enemy daily. colonel kimball, on the mountain, and colonel wagner, up the valley, are both in hourly expectation of an attack. the enemy, encouraged by his successes at manassas, will probably attempt to retrieve his losses in western virginia. . at one o'clock p. m. general reynolds sent for me. two of colonel wagner's companies had been surrounded, and an attack on wagner's position expected to-night. the enemy reported three thousand strong. he desired me to send half of my regiment and two of loomis' guns to the support of wagner. i took six companies and started up the valley. reached wagner's quarters at six o'clock. brought neither tents nor provisions, and to-night will turn in with the indianians. it is true that the enemy number three thousand; the main body being ten or fifteen miles away. their pickets and ours, however, are near each other; but general reynolds was misinformed as to two of wagner's companies. they had not been surrounded. to-morrow colonel wagner and i will make a reconnoissance, and ascertain if the rebels are ready to fight. wagner has six hundred and fifty men fit for duty, and i have four hundred. besides these, we have three pieces of artillery. altogether, we expect to be able to hoe them a pretty good row, if they should advance on us. four of the enemy were captured to-day. a company of cavalry is approaching. "halt! who comes there?" cries the sentinel. "lieutenant denny, without the countersign." "all right," shouts colonel wagner, "let him come." i write with at least four fleas hopping about on my legs. . to-day we felt our way up the valley eight miles, but did not reach the rebels. to-night our pickets were sure they heard firing off in the direction of kanawha. if so, cox and wise must be having a pleasant little interchange of lead. the chaplain of the thirteenth indiana is the counterpart of scott's holy clerk of copmanhurst, or the fighting friar of the times of robin hood. in answer to some request he has just said that he will "go to thunder before doing it." the first time i saw this fighting parson was at the burnt bridge near huttonville. he had two revolvers and a hatchet in his belt, and appeared more like a firebrand of war than a minister of peace. i now hear the rough voice of a braggadocio captain in the adjoining tent, who, if we may believe his own story, is the most formidable man alive. his hair-breadth escapes are innumerable, and his anxiety to get at the enemy is intense. is it not ancient pistol come again to astonish the world by deeds of reckless daring? we have sent out a scouting party, and hope to learn something more of the rebels during the night. wagner, major wood, captain abbott, and others are having a game of whist. . our camp equipage came up to-day, so that we are now in our own tents. four of my companies are on picket, scattered up the valley for miles, and half of the other two are doing guard duty in the neighborhood of the camp. i do not, by any means, approve of throwing out such heavy pickets and scattering our men so much. we are in the presence of a force probably twice as large as our own, and should keep our troops well in hand. our scouts have been busy; but, although they have brought in a few prisoners, mostly farmers residing in the vicinity of the enemy's camp, we have obtained but little information respecting the rebels. i intend to send out a scouting party in the morning. lieutenant driscoll will command it. he is a brave, and, i think, prudent officer, and will leave camp at four o'clock, follow the road six miles, then take to the mountains, and endeavor to reach a point where he can overlook the enemy and estimate his strength. . the scouting party sent out this morning were conveyed by wagons six miles up the valley, and were to take to the mountains, half a mile beyond. i instructed lieutenant driscoll to exercise the utmost caution, and not take his men further than he thought reasonably safe. of course perfect safety is not expected. our object, however, is to get information, not to give it by losing the squad. at eleven o'clock a courier came in hot haste from the front, to inform us that a flag of truce, borne by a confederate major, with an escort of six dragoons, was on the way to camp. colonel wagner and i rode out to meet the party, and were introduced to major lee, the son, as i subsequently ascertained, of general robert e. lee, of virginia. the major informed us that his communication could only be imparted to our general, and a courier was at once dispatched to huttonville. at four o'clock general reynolds arrived, accompanied by colonel sullivan and a company of cavalry. wagner and i joined the general's party, and all galloped to the outpost, to interview the confederate major. his letter contained a proposition to exchange prisoners captured by the rebels at manassas for those taken at rich mountain. the general appointed a day on which a definite answer should be returned, and major lee, accompanied by lieutenant-colonel owen and myself, rode to the outlying picket station, where his escort had been halted and detained. major lee is near my own age, a heavy set, but well-proportioned man, somewhat inclined to boast, not overly profound, and thoroughly impregnated with the idea that he is a virginian and a lee withal. as i shook hands at parting with this scion of an illustrious house, he complimented me by saying that he hoped soon to have the honor of meeting me on the battle-field. i assured him that it would afford me pleasure, and i should make all reasonable efforts to gratify him in this regard. i did not desire to fight, of course, but i was bound not to be excelled in the matter of knightly courtesy. . major wood, fifteenth indiana, thought he heard chopping last night, and imagined that the enemy was engaged in cutting a road to our rear. lieutenant driscoll and party returned to-day. they slept on the mountains last night; were inside the enemy's picket lines; heard reveille sounded this morning, but could not obtain a view of the camp. have just returned from a sixteen-mile ride, visiting picket posts. the latter half of the ride was after nightfall. found officers and men vigilant and ready to meet an attack. obtained some fine huckleberries and blackberries on the mountain to-day. had a blackberry pie and pudding for dinner. rather too much happiness for one day; but then the crust of the pudding was tolerably tough. the grass is a foot high in parts of my tent, where it has not been trodden down, and the gentle grasshopper makes music all the day, and likewise all the night. our fortifications are progressing slowly. if the enemy intends to attack at all, he will probably do so before they are complete; and if he does not, the fortifications will be of no use to us. but this is the philosophy of a lazy man, and very similar to that of the irishman who did not put roof on his cabin: when it rained he could not, and in fair weather he did not need it. . pickets report firing, artillery and musketry, over the mountain, in the direction of kimball. the enemy's scouts were within three miles of our camp this afternoon, evidently looking for a path that would enable them to get to our rear. fifty men have just been sent in pursuit; but owing to a little misunderstanding of instructions, i fear the expedition will be fruitless. colonel wagner neither thinks clearly nor talks with any degree of exactness. he has a loose, slip-shod, indefinite way with him, that tends to confusion and leads to misunderstandings and trouble. i have been over the mountain on our left, hunting up the paths and familiarizing myself with the ground, so as to be ready to defeat any effort that may be made to turn our flank. colonel owen has been investigating the mountain on our right. the colonel is a good thinker, an excellent conversationalist, and a very learned man. geology is his darling, and he keeps one eye on the enemy, and the other on the rocks. . my tent is on the bank of the valley river. the water, clear as crystal, as it hurries on over the rocks, keeps up a continuous murmur. there will be a storm to-night. the sky is very dark, the wind rising, and every few minutes a vivid flash of lightning illuminates the valley, and the thunder rolls off among the mountains with a rumbling, echoing noise, like that which the gods might make in putting a hundred trains of celestial artillery in position. . lieutenant bowen, of topographical engineers, and myself, with ten men, carrying axes and guns, started up the mountain at seven o'clock this morning, followed a path to the crest, or dividing ridge, and felled trees to obstruct the way as much as possible. returned to camp for dinner. during the afternoon lieutenant w. o. merrill, lieutenant bowen, and i, ascended the mountain again by a new route. after reaching the crest, we endeavored to find the path which lieutenant bowen and i had traveled over in the morning, but were unable to do so. we continued our search until it became quite dark, when the two engineers, as well as myself, became utterly bewildered. finally, lieutenant merrill took out his pocket compass, and said the camp was in that direction, pointing with his hand. i insisted he was wrong; that he would not reach camp by going that way. he insisted that he would, and must be governed by some general principles, and so started off on his own hook, leaving us to pursue our own course. finally bowen lost confidence in me, said i was not going in the right direction at all, and insisted that we should turn squarely around, and go the opposite way. at last i yielded with many misgivings, and allowed him to lead. after going down a thousand feet or more, we found ourselves in a ravine, through which a small stream of water flowed. following this, we finally reached the valley. we knew now exactly where we were, and by wading the river reached the road, and so got to camp at nine o'clock at night. merrill, who was governed by general principles, failed to strike the camp directly, strayed three or four miles to the right of it, came down in stewart's run valley, and did not reach camp until about midnight. on our trip to-day, we found a bear trap, made of heavy logs, the lid arranged to fall when the bear entered and touched the bait. . this is the fourth day that captain cunard's company has been lying in the woods, three miles from camp, guarding an important road, although a very rough and rugged one. companies upon duty like this, remain at their posts day and night, good weather and bad, without any shelter, except that afforded by the trees, or by little booths constructed of logs and branches. from the main station, where the captain remains, sub-pickets are sent out in charge of sergeants and corporals, and these often make little houses of logs, which they cover with cedar boughs or branches of laurel, and denominate forts. in the wilderness, to-day, i stumbled upon fort stiner, the head-quarters of a sub-picket commanded by corporal william stiner, of the third. the corporal and such of his men as were off duty, were sitting about a fire, heating coffee and roasting slices of fat pork, preparing thus the noonday meal. . at noon colonel marrow, major keifer, and i, took dinner with esquire stalnaker, an old-style man, born fifty years ago in the log house where he now lives. two spinning-wheels were in the best room, and rattled away with a music which carried me back to the pioneer days of ohio. a little girl of five or six years stole up to the wheel when the mother's back was turned, and tried her skill on a roll. how proud and delighted she was when she had spun the wool into a long, uneven thread, and secured it safely on the spindle. surely, the child of the palace, reared in the lap of luxury and with her hands in the mother's jewel-box, could not have been happier or more triumphant in her bearing. these west virginians are uncultivated, uneducated and rough, and need the common school to civilize and modernize them. many have never seen a railroad, and the telegraph is to them an incomprehensible mystery. governor dennison has appointed a mr. john g. mitchell, of columbus, adjutant of the third. . privates vincent and watson, sentinels of a sub-picket, under command of corporal stiner, discovered a man stealing through the woods, and halted him. he professed to be a farm hand; said his employer had a mountain farm not far away, where he pastured cattle. a two-year-old steer had strayed off, and he was looking for him. his clothes were fearfully torn by brush and briars. his hands and face were scratched by thorns. he had taken off his boots to relieve his swollen feet, and was carrying them in his hands. imitating the language and manners of an uneducated west virginian, he asked the sentinel if he "had seed anything of a red steer." the sentinel had not. after continuing the conversation for a time, he finally said: "well, i must be a goin'; it is a gettin' late, and i am durned feared i won't git back to the farm afore night. good day." "hold on," said the sentinel; "better go and see the captain." "o, no; don't want to trouble him; it is not likely he has seed the steer, and it's a gettin' late." "come right along," replied the sentinel, bringing his gun down; "the captain will not mind being troubled; in fact, i am instructed to take such men as you to him." captain cunard questioned the prisoner closely, asked whom he worked for, how much he was getting a month for his services, and, finally, pointing to the long-legged military boots which he was still holding in his hands, asked how much they cost. "fifteen dollars," replied the prisoner. "fifteen dollars! is not that rather more than a farm hand who gets but twelve dollars a month can afford to pay for boots?" inquired the captain. "well, the fact is, boots is a gettin' high since the war, as well as every thing else." but captain cunard was not satisfied. the prisoner was not well up in the character he had undertaken to play, and was told that he must go to head-quarters. finding that he was caught, he at once threw off the mask, and confessed that he was captain j. a. de lagniel, formerly of the regular army, but now in the confederate service. wounded at the battle of rich mountain, he had been secreted at a farm-house near beverly until able to travel, and was now trying to get around our pickets and reach the rebel army. he had been in the mountains five days and four nights. the provisions with which he started, and which consisted of a little bag of biscuit, had become moldy. he thought, from the distance traveled, that he must be beyond our lines and out of danger. de lagniel is an educated man, and his wife and friends believe him to have been killed at rich mountain. he speaks in high terms of captain cunard, and says, when the latter began to question him, he soon found it was useless to play major andre, for paulding was before him, too sharp to be deceived and too honest to be bribed. when de lagniel was brought into camp he was wet and shivering, weak, and thoroughly broken down by starvation, cold, exposure, and fatigue. the officers supplied him with the clothing necessary to make him comfortable. . i have a hundred axmen in my charge, felling timber on the mountain, and constructing rough breastworks to protect our left flank. general reynolds came up to-day to see de lagniel. they are old acquaintances, were at west point together, and know each other like brothers. the irrepressible corporal casey, who, in fact, had nothing whatever to do with the capture of de lagniel, is now surrounded by a little group of soldiers. he is talking to them about the prisoner, who, since it is known that he is an acquaintance of general reynolds, has become a person of great importance in the camp. the corporal speaks in the broadest irish brogue, and is telling his hearers that he knew the fellow was a _sesesh_ at once; that he leveled his musket at him and towld him to halt; that if he hadn't marched straight up to him he would have put a minnie ball through his heart; that he had his gun cocked and his finger on the trigger, and was a mind to shoot him anyway. then he tells how he propounded this and that question, which confused the prisoner, and finally concludes by saying that de lagniel might be d--d thankful indade that he escaped with his life. the corporal is the best-known man in the regiment. he prides himself greatly on the middle fork "skrimage." a day or two after that affair, and at a time when whisky was so scarce that it was worth its weight in gold, some officers called the corporal up and asked him to give them an account of the "skrimage." before he entered upon the subject, it was suggested that captain dubois, who had the little whisky there was in the party, should give him a taste to loosen his tongue. the corporal, nothing loth, took the flask, and, raising it to his mouth, emptied it, to the utter dismay of the captain and his friends. the dhrap had the effect desired. the corporal described, with great particularity, his manner of going into action, dwelt with much emphasis on the hand-to-hand encounters, the thrusts, the parries, the final clubbing of the musket, and the utter discomfiture and mortal wounding of his antagonist. in fact by this time there were two of them; and finally, as the fight progressed, a dozen or more bounced down on him. it was lively! there was no time for the loading of guns. whack, thump, crack! the head of one was broken, another lay dying of a bayonet thrust, and still another had perished under the sledge-hammer blow of his fist. the ground was covered now with the slain. he stood knee-deep in secesh blood; but a bugle sounded away off on the hills, and the d--d scoundrels who were able to get away ran off as fast as their legs could carry them. had they stood up like men he would have destroyed the whole regiment; for, you see, he was just getting his hand in. "but, corporal," inquired captain hunter, "what were the other soldiers of your company doing all this time?" "bless your sowl, captain, and do you think i had nothing to do but to watch the boys? be jabers, it was a day when every man had to look after himself." . the opinion seems to be growing that the rebels do not intend to attack us. they have put it off too long. a scouting party will start out in the morning, under the guidance of "old leather breeches," a primitive west virginian, who has spent his life in the mountains. his right name is bennett. he wears an antiquated pair of buckskin pantaloons, and has a cabin-home on the mountain, twelve miles away. a tambourine is being played near by, and fox, with a heart much lighter than his complexion, is indulging in a double shuffle. there are many snakes in the mountains: rattlesnakes, copperheads, blacksnakes, and almost every other variety of the snake kind; in short, the boys have snake on the brain. to-day one of the choppers made a sudden grab for his trouser leg; a snake was crawling up. he held the loathsome reptile tightly by the head and body, and was fearfully agitated. a comrade slit down the leg of the pantaloon with a knife, when lo! an innocent little roll of red flannel was discovered. the boys are very liberal in the bestowal of titles. colonel hogseye is indebted to them for his commission. the colonel commands an ax just now. ordinarily he carries a musket, sleeps and dines with his subordinates, and is not above traveling on foot. fox's real name, i ascertained lately, is william washington. his brother, now in the service of the surgeon, is called handsome, and colonel marrow's servant is known by the boys as the bay nigger. . was awakened this morning at one o'clock, by a soldier in search of a surgeon. one of our pickets had been wounded. the post was on the river bank. the sentinel saw a man approaching on the opposite side of the river, challenged, and saw him level his gun. both fired. the sentinel was wounded in the leg by a small squirrel bullet. the other man was evidently wounded, for after it became light enough he was traced half a mile by blood on the ground, weeds, and leaves. the surgeon is of the opinion that the ball struck his left arm. from information obtained this morning, it is believed this man is secreted not many miles away. a party of ten has been sent to look for him. this is by far the pleasantest camp we have ever had. the river runs its whole length. the hospital and surgeons' tents are located on a very pretty little island, a quiet, retired spot, festooned with vines, in the shadow of great trees, and carpeted with moss soft and velvety as the best of brussels. . the name of our camp is properly elk water, not elk fork. the little stream which comes down to the river, from which the camp derives its name, is called elk water, because tradition affirms that in early days the elk frequented the little valley through which it runs. the fog has been going up from the mountains, and the rain coming down in the valley. the river roars a little louder than usual, and its water is a little less clear. the party sent in pursuit of the bushwhacker has returned. found no one. two men were seen this evening, armed with rifles, prowling among the bushes near the place where the affair of last night occurred. they were fired upon, but escaped. an accident, which particularly interests my old company, occurred a few minutes ago. john heskett, jeff long, and four or five other men, were detailed from company i for picket duty. heskett and long are intimate friends, and were playing together, the one with a knife and the other with a pocket pistol. the pistol was discharged accidentally, and the ball struck heskett in the neck, inflicting a serious wound, but whether fatal or not the surgeon can not yet tell. the affair has cast a shadow over the company. young heskett bears himself bravely. long is inconsolable, and begs the boys to shoot him. . these mountain streams are unreliable. we had come to regard the one on which we are encamped as a quiet, orderly little river, that would be good enough to notify us when it proposed to swell out and overflow the adjacent country. in fact we had bragged about it, made all sorts of complimentary mention of it, put our tents on its margin, and allowed it to encircle our sick and wounded; but we have now lost all confidence in it. yesterday, about noon, it began to rise. it had been raining, and we thought it natural enough that the waters should increase a little. at four o'clock it had swelled very considerably, but still kept within its bed of rock and gravel, and we admired it all the more for the energy displayed in hurrying along branches, logs, and sometimes whole trees. at six o'clock we found it was rising at the rate of one foot per hour, and that the water had now crept to within a few feet of the hospital tent, in which lay two wounded and a dozen or more of sick. dr. mcmeens became alarmed and called for help. thirty or more boys stripped, swam to the island, and removed the hospital to higher ground--to the highest ground, in fact, which the island afforded. the boys returned, and we felt safe. at seven o'clock, however, we found the river still rising rapidly. it covered nearly the whole island. logs, brush, green trees, and all manner of drift went sweeping by at tremendous speed, and the water rushed over land which had been dry half an hour before, with apparently as strong a current as that in the channel. we knew then that the sick and wounded were in danger. how to rescue them was now the question. a raft was suggested; but a raft could not be controlled in such a current, and if it went to pieces or was hurried away, the sick and wounded must drown. fortunately a better way was suggested; getting into a wagon, i ordered the driver to go above some distance, so that we could move with the current, and then ford the stream. after many difficulties, occasioned mainly by floating logs and driftwood, and swimming the horses part of the way, we succeeded in getting over. i saw it was impossible to carry the sick back, and that there was but one way to render them secure. i had the horses unhitched, and told the driver to swim them back and bring over two or three more wagons. two more finally reached me, and one team, in attempting to cross, was carried down stream and drowned. i had the three wagons placed on the highest point i could find, then chained together and staked securely to the ground. over the boxes of two of these we rolled the hospital tent, and on this placed the sick and wounded, just as the water was creeping upon us. on the third wagon we put the hospital stores. it was now quite dark. not more than four feet square of dry land remained of all our beautiful island; and the river was still rising. we watched the water with much anxiety. at ten o'clock it reached the wagon hubs, and covered every foot of the ground; but soon after we were pleased to see that it began to go down a little. those of us who could not get into the wagons had climbed the trees. at one o'clock it commenced to rain again, when we managed to hoist a tent over the sick. at two o'clock the long-roll, the signal for battle, was beaten in camp, and we could just hear, above the roar of the water, the noise made by the men as they hurriedly turned out and fell into line. it will not do, however, to conclude that this was altogether a night of terrors. it was, in fact, not so very disagreeable after all. there was a by-play going on much of the time, which served to illuminate the thick darkness, and divert our minds from the gloomier aspects of the scene. smith, the teamster who brought me across, had returned to the mainland with the horses, and then swam back to the island. by midnight he had become very drunk. one of the hospital attendants was very far gone in his cups, also. these two gentlemen did not seem to get along amicably; in fact, they kept up a fusillade of words all night, and so kept us awake. the teamster insisted that the hospital attendant should address him as mr. smith. the smith family, he argued, was of the highest respectability, and being an honored member of that family, he would permit no man under the rank of a major-general to call him jake. george mcclellan sometimes addressed him by his christian name; but then george and he were cincinnatians, old neighbors, and intimate personal friends, and, of course, took liberties with each other. this could not justify one who carried out pukes and slop-buckets from a field hospital in calling him jake, or even jacob. mr. smith's allusions to the hospital attendant were not received by that gentleman in the most amiable spirit. he grew profane, and insisted that he was not only as good a man as smith, but a much better one, and he dared the bloviating mule scrubber to get down off his perch and stand up before him like a man. but jake's temper remained unruffled, and along toward morning, in a voice more remarkable for strength than melody, he favored us with a song: "ho! gif ghlass uf goodt lauger du me; du mine fadter, mine modter, mine vife: der day's vork vos done, undt we'll see vot bleasures der vos un dis life, undt ve sit us aroundt mit der table, undt ve speak uf der oldt, oldt time, ven we lif un dot house mit der gable, un der vine-cladt banks uf der rhine; undt mine fadter, his voice vos a quiver, undt mine modter, her eyes vos un tears, ash da dthot uf dot home un der river, undt kindt friendst uf earlier years; undt i saidt du mine fadter be cheerie, du mine modter not longer lookt sadt, here's a blace undt a rest for der weary, und ledt us eat, drink, undt be gladt. so idt ever vos cheerful mitin; vot dtho' idt be stormy mitoudt, vot care i vor der vorld undt idts din, ven dose i luf best vos about; so libft up your ghlass, mine modter, undt libft up yours, gretchen, my dear, undt libft up your lauger, mine fadter, undt drink du long life und good cheer." . francis union was shot and killed by one of our own sentinels last night, the ball entering just under the nose. this resulted from the cowardice of the soldier who fired. he was afraid to give the necessary challenge: four simple words: "halt! who comes there?" would have saved a life. this illustrates the danger there is in visiting pickets at night. if the sentinel halts the man, the man may fire at the sentinel. the latter, if timid, therefore makes sure of the first shot, and does not challenge. we buried the dead soldier with all the honors due one of his rank, on a beautiful hill in the rear of our fortifications. he was with me on the mountain chopping, a few days ago, strong, healthy, vigorous, and young. no more hard work for him! . with wagner, merrill, and bowen, i rode up the mountain on our left this afternoon. we had one field-glass and two spy-glasses, and obtained a magnificent view of the surrounding country. here and there we could see a cultivated spot or grazing farm on the top of the mountain; but more frequently these were on the slopes. we descried one house with our glasses on the very tiptop of rich, and so far away that it seemed no larger than a tent. how the man of the house gets up to his airy height and gets down again puzzles us. he has the first gush of the sunshine in the morning, and the latest gleam in the evening. very often, indeed, he must look down upon the clouds, and, if he has a tender heart, pity the poor devils in the valley who are being rained on continually. is it a pleasant home? has he wife and children in that mountain nest? is he a man of dogs and guns, who spends his years in the mountains and glens hunting for bear and deer? may it not be the baronial castle of "old leather breeches" himself? away off to the east a cloud, black and heavy, is resting on a peak of the cheat. around it the mountain is glowing in the summer sun, and appears soft and green. a gauze of shimmering blue mantles the crest, darkens in the coves, and becomes quite black in the gorges. the rugged rocks and scraggy trees, if there be any, are at this distance invisible, and nothing is seen but what delights the eye and quickens the imagination. we see by the papers that ohio is preparing to organize a grand union party, with a platform on which both republicans and democrats can stand. i am glad of this. there should be but one party in the north, and that party willing to make all sacrifices for the union. . last night a sentinel on one of the picket posts halted a stump and demanded the countersign. no response being made, he fired. the entire fifteenth indiana sprang to arms; the cannoniers gathered about their guns, and a thousand eyes peered into the darkness to get a glimpse of the approaching enemy. but the stump, evidently intimidated by the first shot, did not advance, and so the hoosiers returned again to their couches, to dream, doubtless, of the subject of a song very common now in camp, to wit: "old governor wise, with his goggle eyes." . the twenty-third ohio, colonel scammon, will be here to-morrow. stanley matthews is the lieutenant-colonel of this regiment, and my old friend, rutherford b. hayes, the major. the latter is an accomplished gentleman, graduate of harvard law school, and will, it is said, in all probability, succeed gurley in congress. matthews has a fine reputation as a speaker and lawyer, and, i have been told, is the most promising young man in ohio. scammon is a west pointer. . five companies of the twenty-third ohio and five companies of the ninth ohio arrived to-day, and are encamped in a maple grove about a mile below us. a detachment of cavalry came up also, and is quartered near. other regiments are coming. it is said the larger portion of the troops in west virginia are tending in this direction; but on what particular point it is proposed to concentrate them rumor saith not. general mcclellan did not go far enough at first. after the defeat of pegram, at rich mountain, and garnett, at laurel hill, the southern army of this section was utterly demoralized. it scattered, and the men composing it, who were not captured, fled, terror stricken, to their homes. we could have marched to staunton without opposition, and taken possession of the very strongholds the enemy is now fortifying against us. if in our advanced position supplies could not have been obtained from the north, the army might have subsisted off the country. thus, by pushing vigorously forward, we could have divided the enemy's forces, and thus saved our army in the east from humiliating defeat. this is the way it looks to me; but, after all, there may have been a thousand good reasons for remaining here, of which i know nothing. one thing, however, is, i think, very evident: a successful army, elated with victory, and eager to advance, is not likely to be defeated by a dispirited opponent. one-fourth, at least, of the strength of this army disappeared when it heard of the rebel triumphs on the potomac. * * * * * latter part of august the writer was sent to ohio for recruits for the regiment, and did not return to camp until the middle of september. september . . reached camp yesterday at noon. my recruits arrived to-day. the enemy was here in my absence in strength and majesty, and repeated, with a slight variation, the grand exploit of the king of france, by "marching up the hill with twenty thousand men, and straightway marching down again." there was lively skirmishing for a few days, and hot work expected; but, for reasons unknown to us, the enemy retired precipitately. on sunday morning last fifty men of the sixth ohio, when on picket, were surprised and captured. my friend, lieutenant merrill, fell into the hands of the enemy, and is now probably on his way to castle pinckney. further than this our rebellious friends did us no damage. our men, at this point, killed colonel washington, wounded a few others, and further than this inflicted but little injury upon the enemy. the country people near whom the rebels encamped say they got to fighting among themselves. the north carolinians were determined to go home, and regiments from other states claimed that their term of service had expired, and wanted to leave. i am glad they did, and trust they may go home, hang up their guns, and go to work like sensible people, for then i could do the same. . this afternoon i rode by a mountain path to a log cabin in which a half dozen wounded tennesseeans are lying. one poor fellow had his leg amputated yesterday, and was very feeble. one had been struck by a ball on the head and a buckshot in the lungs. two boys were but slightly wounded, and were in good spirits. to one of these--a jovial, pleasant boy--dr. seyes said, good-humoredly: "you need have no fears of dying from a gunshot; you are too big a devil, and were born to be hung." colonel marrow sought to question this same fellow in regard to the strength of the enemy, when the boy said: "are you a commissioned officer?" "yes," replied marrow. "then," returned he, "you ought to know that a private soldier don't know anything." in returning to camp, we followed a path which led to a place where a regiment of the rebels had encamped one night. they had evidently become panic-stricken and left in hot haste. the woods were strewn with knapsacks, blankets, and canteens. the ride was a pleasant one. the path, first wild and rugged, finally led to a charming little valley, through which beckey's creek hurries down to the river. leaving this, we traveled up the side of a ravine, through which a little stream fretted and fumed, and dashed into spray against slimy rocks, and then gathered itself up for another charge, and so pushed gallantly on toward the valley and the sunshine. what a glorious scene! the sky filled with stars; the rising moon; two mountain walls so high, apparently, that one might step from them into heaven; the rapid river, the thousand white tents dotting the valley, the camp fires, the shadowy forms of soldiers; in short, just enough of heaven and earth visible to put one's fancy on the gallop. the boys are in groups about their fires. the voice of the troubadour is heard. it is a pleasant song that he sings, and i catch part of it. "the minstrel's returned from the war, with spirits as buoyant as air, and thus on the tuneful guitar he sings in the bower of the fair: the noise of the battle is over; the bugle no more calls to arms; a soldier no more, but a lover, i kneel to the power of thy charms. sweet lady, dear lady, i'm thine; i bend to the magic of beauty, though the banner and helmet are mine, yet love calls the soldier to duty." . our indiana friends are providing for the winter by laying in a stock of household furniture at very much less than its original cost, and without even consulting the owners. it is probable that our ohio boys steal occasionally, but they certainly do not prosecute the business openly and courageously. . the thirteenth indiana, sixth ohio, and two pieces of artillery went up the valley at noon, to feel the enemy. it rained during the afternoon, and since nightfall has poured down in torrents. the poor fellows who are now trudging along in the darkness and storm, will think, doubtless, of home and warm beds. it requires a pure article of patriotism, and a large quantity of it, to make one oblivious for months at a time of all the comforts of civil life. this is the day designated by the president for fasting and prayer. parson strong held service in the regiment, and the rev. mr. reed, of zanesville, ohio, delivered a very eloquent exhortation. i trust the supplications of the church and the people may have effect, and bring that higher power to our assistance which hitherto has apparently not been with our arms especially. . to-night almost the entire valley is inundated. many tents are waist high in water, and where others stood this morning the water is ten feet deep. two men of the sixth ohio are reported drowned. the water got around them before they became aware of it, and in endeavoring to escape they were swept down the stream and lost. the river seems to stretch from the base of one mountain to the other, and the whole valley is one wild scene of excitement. wherever a spot of dry ground can be found, huge log fires are burning, and men by the dozen are grouped around them, anxiously watching the water and discussing the situation. tents have been hastily pitched on the hills, and camp fires, each with its group of men, are blazing in many places along the side of the mountain. the rain has fallen steadily all day. . the thirteenth indiana and sixth ohio returned. the reconnoissance was unsuccessful, the weather being unfavorable. october, . . our camp is almost deserted. the tents of eight regiments dot the valley; but those of two regiments and a half only are occupied. the hoosiers have all gone to cheat mountain summit. they propose to steal upon the enemy during the night, take him by surprise, and thrash him thoroughly. i pray they may be successful, for since rich mountain our army has done nothing worthy of a paragraph. rosecrans' affair at carnifex was a barren thing; certainly no battle and no victory, and the operations in this vicinity have at no time risen to the dignity of a skirmish. captain mcdougal, with nearly one hundred men and three days' provisions, started up the valley this morning, with instructions to go in sight of the enemy, the object being to lead the latter to suppose the advance guard of our army is before him. by this device it is expected to keep the enemy in our front from going to the assistance of the rebels now threatening kimball. . to-night, half an hour ago, received a dispatch from the top of cheat, which reads as follows: "all back. made a very interesting reconnoissance. killed a large number of the enemy. very small loss on our side. j. j. reynolds, brigadier-general." why, when the battle was progressing so advantageously for our side, did they not go on? this, then, is the result of the grand demonstration on the other side of the mountain. mcdougal's company returned, and report the enemy fallen back. the frost has touched the foliage, and the mountain peaks look like mammoth bouquets; green, red, yellow, and every modification of these colors appear mingled in every possible fanciful and tasteful way. another dispatch has just come from the top of cheat, written, i doubt not, after the indianians had returned to camp and drawn their whisky ration. it sounds bigger than the first. i copy it: "found the rebels drawn up in line of battle one mile outside of their fortifications, drove them back to their intrenchments, and continued the fight four hours. ten of our men wounded and ten killed. two or three hundred of the enemy killed." if it be true that so many of the rebels were killed, it is probable that two thousand at least were wounded; and when three hundred are killed and two thousand wounded, out of an army of twelve or fifteen hundred men, the business is done up very thoroughly. the dispatch which went to richmond to-night, i have no doubt, stated that "the federals attacked in great force, outnumbering us two or three to one, and after a terrific engagement, lasting five hours, they were repulsed at all points with great slaughter. our loss one killed and five wounded. federal loss, five hundred killed and twenty-five hundred wounded." thus are victories won and histories made. verily the pen is mightier than the sword. . the indianians have been returning from the summit all day, straggling along in squads of from three to a full company. the men are tired, and the camp is quiet as a house. six thousand are sleeping away a small portion of their three weary years of military service. this time stretches out before them, a broad, unknown, and extra-hazardous sea, with promise of some smooth sailing, but many days and nights of heavy winds and waves, in which some--how many!--will be carried down. their thoughts have now forced the sentinel lines, leaped the mountains, jumped the rivers, hastened home, and are lingering about the old fireside, looking in at the cupboard, and hovering over faces and places that have been growing dearer to them every day for the last five months. old-fashioned places, tame and uninteresting then, but now how loved! and as for the faces, they are those of mothers, wives, and sweethearts, around which are entwined the tenderest of memories. but at daybreak, when reveille is sounded, these wanderers must come trooping back again in time for "hard-tack" and double quick. . some of the indiana regiments are utterly beyond discipline. the men are good, stout, hearty, intelligent fellows, and will make excellent soldiers; but they have now no regard for their officers, and, as a rule, do as they please. they came straggling back yesterday from the top of cheat unofficered, and in the most unsoldierly manner. as one of these stray indianians was coming into camp, he saw a snake in the river and cocked his gun. he was near the quarters of the sixth ohio, and many men were on the opposite side of the stream, among them a lieutenant, who called to the indianian and begged him for god's sake not to fire; but the latter, unmindful of what was said, blazed away. the ball, striking the water, glanced and hit the lieutenant in the breast, killing him almost instantly. . the third and sixth ohio, with loomis' battery, left camp at half-past three in the afternoon, and took the huntersville turnpike for big springs, where lee's army has been encamped for some months. at nine o'clock we reached logan's mill, where the column halted for the night. it had rained heavily for some hours, and was still raining. the boys went into camp thoroughly wet, and very hungry and tired; but they soon had a hundred fires kindled, and, gathering around these, prepared and ate supper. i never looked upon a wilder or more interesting scene. the valley is blazing with camp-fires; the men flit around them like shadows. now some indomitable spirit, determined that neither rain nor weather shall get him down, strikes up: "oh! say, can you see by the dawn's early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, o'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?" a hundred voices join in, and the very mountains, which loom up in the fire-light like great walls, whose tops are lost in the darkness, resound with a rude melody befitting so wild a night and so wild a scene. but the songs are not all patriotic. love and fun make contribution also, and a voice, which may be that of the invincible irishman, corporal casey, sings: "'t was a windy night, about two o'clock in the morning, an irish lad, so tight, all the wind and weather scorning, at judy callaghan's door, sitting upon the paling, his love tale he did pour, and this is part of his wailing: only say you'll be mistress brallaghan; don't say nay, charming judy callaghan." a score of voices pick up the chorus, and the hills and mountains seem to join in the corporal's appeal to the charming judy: "only say you'll be mistress brallaghan; don't say nay, charming judy callaghan." lieutenant root is in command of loomis' battery. just before reaching logan's one of his provision wagons tumbled down a precipice, severely injuring three men and breaking the wagon in pieces. . left logan's mill before the sun was up. the rain continues, and the mud is deep. at eleven o'clock we reached what is known as marshall's store, near which, until recently, the enemy had a pretty large camp. halted at the place half an hour, and then moved four miles further on, where we found the roads impassable for our artillery and transportation. learning that the enemy had abandoned big springs and fallen back to huntersville, the soldiers were permitted to break ranks, while colonel marrow and major keifer, with a company of cavalry, rode forward to the springs. colonel nick anderson, adjutant mitchell and i followed. we found on the road evidence of the recent presence of a very large force. quite a number of wagons had been left behind. many tents had been ripped, cut to pieces, or burned, so as to render them worthless. a large number of beef hides were strung along the road. one wagon, loaded with muskets, had been destroyed. all of which showed, simply, that before the rebels abandoned the place the roads had become so bad that they could not carry off their baggage. the object of the expedition being now accomplished, we started back at three o'clock in the afternoon, and encamped for the night at marshall's store. . resumed the march early, found the river waist high, and current swift; but the men all got over safely, and we reached camp at one o'clock. the third has been assigned to a new brigade, to be commanded by brigadier-general dumont, of indiana. the paymaster has come at last. willis, my new servant, is a colored gentleman of much experience and varied accomplishments. he has been a barber on a mississippi river steamboat, and a daguerreian artist. he knows much of the south, and manipulates a fiddle with wonderful skill. he is enlivening the hours now with his violin. oblivious to rain, mud, and the monotony of the camp, my thoughts are carried by the music to other and pleasanter scenes; to the cottage home, to wife and children, to a time still further away when we had no children, when we were making the preliminary arrangements for starting in the world together, when her cheeks were ruddier than now, when wealth and fame and happiness seemed lying just before me, ready to be gathered in, and farther away still, to a gentle, blue-eyed mother--now long gone--teaching her child to lisp his first simple prayer. . the day has been clear. the mountains, decorated by the artistic fingers of jack frost, loom up in the sunshine like magnificent, highly-colored, and beautiful pictures. the night is grand. the moon, a crescent, now rests for a moment on the highest peak of the cheat, and by its light suggests, rather than reveals, the outline of hill, valley, cove and mountain. the boys are wide awake and merry. the fair weather has put new spirit in them all, and possibly the presence of the paymaster has contributed somewhat to the good feeling which prevails. hark! this from the company quarters: "her golden hair in ringlets fair; her eyes like diamonds shining; her slender waist, her carriage chaste, left me, poor soul, a pining. but let the night be e'er so dark, or e'er so wet and rainy, i will return safe back again to the girl i left behind me." from another quarter, in the rich brogue of the celt, we have: "did you hear of the widow malone, ohone! who lived in the town of athlone, alone? oh! she melted the hearts of the swains in those parts; so lovely the widow malone, ohone! so lovely the widow malone." . mr. strong, the chaplain, has a prayer meeting in the adjoining tent. his prayers and exhortations fill me with an almost irresistible inclination to close my eyes and shut out the vanities, cares, and vexations of the world. parson strong is dull, but he is very industrious, and on secular days devotes his physical and mental powers to the work of tanning three sheepskins and a calf's hide. on every fair day he has the skins strung on a pole before his tent to get the sun. he combs the wool to get it clean, and takes especial delight in rubbing the hides to make them soft and pliable. i told the parson the other day that i could not have the utmost confidence in a shepherd who took so much pleasure in tanning hides. while parson strong and a devoted few are singing the songs of zion, the boys are having cotillion parties in other parts of the camp. on the parade ground of one company willis is officiating as musician, and the gentlemen go through "honors to partners" and "circle all" with apparently as much pleasure as if their partners had pink cheeks, white slippers, and dresses looped up with rosettes. there comes from the chaplain's tent a sweet and solemn refrain: "perhaps he will admit my plea, perhaps will hear my prayer; but if i perish i will pray, and perish only there. i can but perish if i go. i am resolved to try. for if i stay away i know i must forever die." while these old hymns are sounding in our ears, we are almost tempted to go, even if we do perish. surely nothing has such power to make us forget earth and its round of troubles as these sweet old church songs, familiar from earliest childhood, and wrought into the most tender memories, until we come to regard them as a sort of sacred stream, on which some day our souls will float away happily to the better country. . the parson is in my tent doing his best to extract something solemn out of willis' violin. now he stumbles on a strain of "sweet home," then a scratch of "lang syne;" but the latter soon breaks its neck over "old hundred," and all three tunes finally mix up and merge into "i would not live alway, i ask not to stay," which, for the purpose of steadying his hand, the parson sings aloud. i look at him and affect surprise that a reverend gentleman should take any pleasure in so vain and wicked an instrument, and express a hope that the business of tanning skins has not utterly demoralized him. willis pretends to a taste in music far superior to that of the common "nigger." he plays a very fine thing, and when i ask what it is, replies: "norma, an opera piece." since the parson's exit he has been executing "norma" with great spirit, and, so far as i am able to judge, with wonderful skill. i doubt not his thoughts are a thousand miles hence, among brown-skinned wenches, dressed in crimson robes, and decorated with ponderous ear-drops. in fact, "norma" is good, and goes far to carry one out of the wilderness. . it is after tattoo. parson strong's prayer-meeting has been dismissed an hour, and the camp is as quiet as if deserted. the day has been a duplicate of yesterday, cold and windy. to-night the moon is sailing through a wilderness of clouds, now breaking out and throwing a mellow light over valley and mountain, then plunging into obscurity, and leaving all in thick darkness. major keifer, adjutant mitchell, and private jerroloaman have been stretching their legs before my fire-place all the evening. the adjutant being hopelessly in love, naturally enough gave the conversation a sentimental turn, and our thoughts have been wandering among the rosy years when our hearts throbbed under the gleam of one bright particular star (i mean one each), and our souls alternated between hope and fear, happiness and despair. three of us, however, have some experience in wedded life, and the gallant adjutant is reasonably confident that he will obtain further knowledge on the subject if this cruel war ever comes to an end and his sweetheart survives. . the paymaster has been busy. the boys are very bitter against the sutler, realizing, for the first time, that "sutler's chips" cost money, and that they have wasted on jimcracks too much of their hard earnings. conway has taken a solemn irish oath that the sutler shall never get another cent of him. but these are like the half repentant, but resultless, mutterings of the confirmed drunkard. the "new leaf" proposed to be turned over is never turned. . am told that some of the boys lost in gambling every farthing of their money half an hour after receiving it from the paymaster. an indiana soldier threw a bombshell into the fire to-day, and three men were seriously wounded by the explosion. * * * * * the writer was absent from camp from october st to latter part of november, serving on court-martial, first at huttonville, and afterward at beverly. in november the third was transferred to kentucky. november, . . the third is encamped five miles south of louisville, on the seventh-street plank road. as we marched through the city my attention was directed to a sign bearing the inscription, in large black letters, "negroes bought and sold." we have known, to be sure, that negroes were bought and sold, like cattle and tobacco, but it, nevertheless, awakened new, and not by any means agreeable, sensations to see the humiliating fact announced on the broad side of a commercial house. these signs must come down. the climate of kentucky is variable, freezing nights and thawing in the day. the soil in this locality is rich, and, where trodden, extremely muddy. we shall miss the clear water of the mountain streams. a large number of troops are concentrating here. december, . . sunday has just slipped away. parson strong attempted to get an audience; but a corporal's guard, for numbers, were all who desired to be ministered to in spiritual things. the colonel spends much of his time in louisville. he complains bitterly because the company officers do not remain in camp, and yet fails to set them a good example in this regard. we have succeeded poorly in holding our men. quite a number dodged off while the boat was lying at the landing in cincinnati, and still more managed to get through the guard lines and have gone to louisville. the invincible corporal casey has not yet put in an appearance. the boys of the sixth ohio are exceedingly jubilant; the entire regiment has been allowed a furlough for six days. this was done to satisfy the men, who had become mutinous because they were not permitted to stop at cincinnati on their way hither. . rode to louisville this afternoon; in the evening attended the theatre, and saw the notorious adah isaacs menken heenan. the house was packed with soldiers, mostly of the sixth ohio. it seemed probable at one time that there would be a general free fight; but the brawlers were finally quieted and the play went on. one of the performers resembled an old west virginia acquaintance so greatly that the boys at once y'clepped him stalnaker, and howled fearfully whenever he made his appearance. . moved three miles nearer louisville and encamped in a grove. have had much difficulty in keeping the men in camp; and this evening, to prevent a general stampede, ordered the guards to load their guns and shoot the first man who attempted to break over. have succeeded also in getting the officers to remain; notified them yesterday that charges would be preferred against all who left without permission, and this afternoon i put my very good friend, lieutenant dale, under arrest for disregarding the order. . in camp near elizabethtown. the road over which we marched was excellent; but owing to detention at salt river, where the troops and trains had to be ferried over, we were a day longer coming here than we expected to be. the weather has been delightful, warm as spring time. the nights are beautiful. the regiment was greatly demoralized by our stay in the vicinity of louisville, and on the march hither the boys were very disorderly and loth to obey; but, by dint of much scolding, we succeeded in getting them all through. . have been attached to the seventeenth brigade, and assigned to the third division; the latter commanded by general o. m. mitchell. the general remarked to me this morning, that the best drilled and conditioned regiments would lead in the march toward nashville. . jake smith, the driver of the head-quarters wagon, on his arrival in elizabethtown went to the hotel, and in an imperious way ordered dinner, assuring the landlord, with much emphasis, that he was "no damned common officer, and wanted a good dinner." . in camp at bacon creek, eight miles north of green river. have been two days on the way from elizabethtown; the road was bad. there were nine regiments in the column, which extended as far almost as the eye could reach. at louisville i was compelled to bear heavily on officers and men. on the march hither i have dealt very thoroughly with some of the most disorderly, and in consequence have become unpopular with the regiment. . general mitchell called this afternoon and requested me to form the regiment in a square. i did so, and he addressed it for twenty minutes on guard duty, throwing in here and there patriotic expressions, which encouraged and delighted the boys very much. when he departed they gave him three rousing cheers. . a reconnoissance was made beyond green river yesterday, and no enemy found. we are short of supplies; entirely out of sugar, coffee, and candles, and the boys to-night indicated some faint symptoms of insubordination, but i assured them we had made every effort possible to obtain these articles, and so quieted them. major keifer was officer in charge of the camp yesterday, and when making the rounds last night a sentinel challenged, "halt! who comes there?" the sergeant responded, "grand rounds," whereupon the weary and disappointed irishman retorted in angry tones: "divil take the grand rounds, i thought it the relafe comin'." . the pleasant days have ended. the clouds hang heavy and black, and the rain descends in torrents. after eleven o'clock last night i accompanied general mitchell to ten regiments, and with him made the grand rounds in most of them. as we rode from camp to camp the general made the time most agreeable and profitable to me, by delivering a very able lecture on military affairs; laying down what he denominated a simple and sure foundation for the beginner to build upon. the wind is high and our stove smokes prodigiously. i have been out in the rain endeavoring to turn the pipe, but have not mended the matter at all. the major insists that it is better to freeze than to be smoked to death, so we shall extinguish the fire and freeze. adjutant mitchell has been commissioned captain and assigned to company c. . gave passes to all the boys who desired to leave camp. the major, adjutant and i had a right royal christmas dinner and a pleasant time. a fine fat chicken, fried mush, coffee, peaches and milk, were on the table. the major is engaged now in heating the second tea-pot of water for punch purposes. his countenance has become quite rosy; this is doubtless the effect of the fire. he has been unusually powerful in argument; but whether his intellect has been stimulated by the fire, the tea, or the punch, we are at this time wholly unable to decide; he certainly handles the tea-pot with consummate skill, and attacks the punch with exceeding vigor. . no orders to advance. armies travel slowly indeed. within fifteen miles of the enemy and idly rotting in the mud. acting brigadier-general marrow when informed that dumont would assume command of the brigade, became suddenly and violently ill, asked for and obtained a thirty-day leave. i would give much to be home with the children during this holiday time; but unfortunately my health is too good, and will continue so in spite of me. the major, poor man, is troubled in the same way. . lieutenant st. john goes to louisville with a man who was arrested as a spy; and strange to say the arrest was made at the instance of the prisoner's uncle, who is a captain in the union army. captain mitchell assumes command of company c to-morrow. the colonel is incensed at the major and me, because of the adjutant's promotion. he intended to make a place in the company for a non-commissioned officer, who begged money from the boys to buy him a sword. we astonished him, however, by showing three commissions--one for the adjutant, and one each for a first and second lieutenant, all of the company's own choosing. . called on general dumont this morning; he is a small man, with a thin piping voice, but an educated and affable gentleman. did not make his acquaintance in west virginia, he being unwell while there and confined to his quarters. this is a peculiar country; there are innumerable caverns, and every few rods places are found where the crust of the earth appears to have broken and sunk down hundreds of feet. one mile from camp there is a large and interesting cave, which has been explored probably by every soldier of the regiment. . general buell is here, and a grand review took place to-day. since we left elkwater there has been a steadily increasing element of insubordination manifested in many ways, but notably in an unwillingness to drill, in stealing from camp and remaining away for days. this, if tolerated much longer, will demoralize even the best of men and render the regiment worthless. january, . . albert, the cook, was swindled in the purchase of a fowl for our new year's dinner; he supposed he was getting a young and tender turkey, but we find it to be an ancient shanghai rooster, with flesh as tough as whitleather. this discovery has cast a shade of melancholy over the major. the boys, out of pure devilment, set fire to the leaves, and to-night the forest was illuminated. the flames advanced so rapidly that, at one time, we feared they might get beyond control, but the fire was finally whipped out, not, however, without making as much noise in the operation as would be likely to occur at the burning of an entire city. . general mitchell has issued an immense number of orders, and of course holds the commandants of regiments responsible for their execution. i have, as in duty bound, done my best to enforce them, and the men think me unnecessarily severe. to-day a soldier about half drunk was arrested for leaving camp without permission and brought to my quarters; he had two canteens of whisky on his person. i remonstrated with him mildly, but he grew saucy, insubordinate, and finally insolent and insulting; he said he did not care a damn for what i thought or did, and was ready to go to the guard-house; in fact wanted to go there. finally, becoming exasperated, i took the canteens from him, poured out the whisky, and directed captain patterson to strap him to a tree until he cooled off somewhat. the captain failing in his efforts to fasten him securely, i took my saddle girth, backed him up to the tree, buckled him to it, and returned to my quarters. this proved to be the last straw which broke the unfortunate camel's back. it was a high-handed outrage upon the person of a volunteer soldier; the last and worst of the many arbitrary and severe acts of which i had been guilty. the regiment seemed to arise _en masse_, and led on by a few reckless men who had long disliked me, advanced with threats and fearful oaths toward my tent. the bitter hatred which the men entertained for me had now culminated. it being sunday the whole regiment was off duty, and while some, and perhaps many, of the boys had no desire to resort to violent measures, yet all evidently sympathized with the prisoner, and regarded my action as arbitrary and cruel. the position of the soldier was a humiliating one, but it gave him no bodily pain. possibly i had no authority for punishing him in this way; and had i taken time for reflection it is more than probable i should have found some other and less objectionable mode; confinement in the guard-house, however, would have been no punishment for such a man; on the contrary it would have afforded him that relief from disagreeable duty which he desired. at any rate the act, whether right or wrong, had been done, and i must either stand by it now or abandon all hope of controlling the regiment hereafter. i watched the mob, unobserved by it, from an opening in my tent door. saw it gather, consult, advance, and could hear the boisterous and threatening language very plainly. buckling my pistol belt under my coat where it could not be seen, i stepped out just as the leaders advanced to the tree for the purpose of releasing the man. i asked them very quietly what they proposed to do. then i explained to them how the soldier had violated orders, which i was bound by my oath to enforce; how, when i undertook to remonstrate kindly against such unsoldierly conduct, he had insulted and defied me. then i continued as calmly as i ever spoke, "i understand you have come here to untie him; let the man who desires to undertake the work begin--if there be a dozen men here who have it in their minds to do this thing--let them step forward--i dare them to do it." they saw before them a quiet, plain man who was ready to die if need be; they could not doubt his honesty of purpose. he gave them time to act and answer, they stood irresolute and silent; with a wave of the hand he bade them go to their quarters, and they went. general mitchell hearing of my trouble sent for me. i explained to him the difficulties under which i was laboring; told him what i had done and why i had done it. he said he understood my position fully, that i must go ahead, do my duty and he would stand by me, and, if necessary, sustain me with his whole division. i replied that i needed no assistance; that the officers, with but few exceptions, were my friends, and that i believed there were enough good, sensible soldiers in the regiment to see me through. he talked very kindly to me; but i feel greatly discouraged. the colonel has practically abandoned the regiment in this period of bad weather, when rigorous discipline is to be enforced, and the boys seem to feel that i am taking advantage of his absence to display my authority, and require from them the performance of hard and unnecessary tasks. many non-commissioned officers have been reduced to the ranks by court-martial for being absent without leave, and many privates have been punished in various ways for the same reason. it was my duty to approve or disapprove the finding of the court. disapproval in the majority of cases would have been subversive of all discipline. approval has brought down upon me not only the hatred and curses of the soldiers tried and punished, but in some instances the ill-will also of their fathers, who for years were my neighbors and friends. very many of these soldiers think they should be allowed to work when they please, play when they please, and, in short, do as they please. until this idea is expelled from their minds the regiment will be but little if any better than a mob. . we hear of the colonel occasionally. he is still at louisville, running his train on the broad gauge. his regiment, he says, has been maneuvering in the face of the enemy beyond green river, threatened with an attack day and night. constant vigilance and continued exposure in this most inclement season of the year, so undermined his health that he was compelled to retire a little while to recuperate. he affirms that he has the best regiment of soldiers in the service; but, unfortunately, has not a field officer worth a damn. robt. e. lee was the great man of the rebel army in west virginia. the boys all talked about lee, and told how they would pink him if opportunity offered. but simon bolivar buckner is the man here on whom they all threaten to fall violently. there are certainly a hundred soldiers in the third, each one of whom swears every day that he would whip simon bolivar buckner quicker than a wink if he dared present himself. simon is in danger. had the third sergeants in my school to-night. am getting to be a pretty good teacher. . general mitchell gave the officers a very interesting lecture this evening. he is indefatigable. the whole division has become a school. had five lieutenants before me. lesson: grand guards and other outposts. . the general summoned the officers of his division about him and went through the form of sending out advanced guard, posting picket, grand guards, outposts, and sentinels. during these exercises we rode fifteen or twenty miles, and listened to at least twenty speeches. my horse was very gay, and i had the pleasure of running many races. i learned something, and am learning a little each day. had the lieutenants in my school again to-night. lesson: detachments, reconnoissances, partisans, and flankers. . the officers dress better, as a rule, than in west virginia. the only man who has not, in this regard, changed for the better, is the major. he continues the careless fellow he was. occasionally he makes an effort to have his boots polished; but finds the day altogether too short for the work, and abandons the job in despair. . every day we have the roar of artillery, the rattle of musketry, the prancing of impatient steeds, the marching and countermarching of battalions, the roll of the drum, the clash and clatter of sabers, and the thunder of a thousand mounted men, as they hurry hither and yon. but nobody is hurt; it is all practice and drill. . people who live in houses would hardly believe one can sleep comfortably with his nose separated from the coldest winter wind by simply a thin cotton canvas; but such is the fact. . general dumont called. he is to-day commandant of the camp. the general is an eccentric genius, and has an inexhaustible fund of good stories. he uses the words "damned" and "be-damned" rather too often; but this adds, rather than detracts, from his popularity. he dispenses good whisky at his quarters very freely, and this has a tendency also to elevate him in the estimation of his subordinates. general mitchell never drinks and never swears. occasionally he uses the words "confound it" in rather savage style; but further than this i have never heard him go. mitchell is military; dumont militia. the latter winks at the shortcomings of the soldier; the former does not. . we are not studying so much as we were. the general's grasp has relaxed, and he does not hold us with a tight reign and stiff bit any longer. there is a great deal of sickness among the troops; many cases of colds, rheumatism, and fever, resulting from exposure. passing through the company quarters of our regiment at midnight, i was alarmed by the constant and heavy coughing of the men. i fear the winter will send many more to the grave than the bullets of the enemy, for a year to come. . a body of cavalry got in our rear last night and attempted to destroy the nolan creek bridge; but it was driven off by the guard, after a sharp engagement, in which report says nine of the enemy were killed and six of our men. the enemy is doing but little in our front. a night or two ago he ventured to within a few miles of our forces on green river, burnt a station-house, and retired. . the colonel returned at noon. i was among the first to visit him. he greeted me very cordially, and called god to witness that he had never spoken a disparaging word of me. busy bodies and liars, he said, had created all the trouble between us. he had heard that charges were to be preferred against him; he knew they could not be sustained, and believed it an attempt of his enemies to injure him and prevent his promotion. he affirmed that he had enlisted from the purest of motives, and entered into a general defense of his acts as an officer and gentleman. i listened respectfully to his statement, and then said: "colonel, if your conduct has been such as you describe, you need not fear an investigation. i hold in my hand the charges and specifications of which you have heard. they are signed by my hand. i make them believing them to be true. if false, the court will so find, and i shall be the one to suffer. if true, you are unfit to command this regiment or any other, and it should be known. i present the charges to you, the commanding officer of the third regiment, and with them a written request that they be forwarded to the general commanding the division." he took the package, tore open the envelope, and seated himself while he read. in less than an hour captains lawson and wing called on me to report that the colonel would resign if i would withdraw the charges. i consented to do so. . had dress parade this evening, at which the colonel officiated, it being his first appearance since his return. ascertaining that he had not sent in his resignation, i wrote him a note calling attention to the promise made on the th instant, and suggesting that it would be well to terminate an unpleasant matter without unnecessary delay. we had a case of disappointed love in the regiment last night. a sergeant of captain mitchell's company was engaged to a girl of athens county. they were to be married upon his return from the war, and until within a month have been corresponding regularly. suddenly and without explanation she ceased to write, why he could not imagine. he never, however, doubted that she would be faithful to him. his anxiety to hear from home increased, until finally he learned from her brother, a soldier of the _eighteenth ohio_, that she was married. strong, healthy, good-looking fellow that he was, this intelligence prostrated him completely, and made him crazy as a loon. he imagined that he was in hell, thought dr. seyes the devil, and so violent did he become that they had to bind him. this morning he is more calm, but still deranged. he thought the straws in his bunk were thorns, and would pluck at them with his fingers and exclaim: "my god, ain't they sharp?" captain mitchell called, and the boys said: "sergeant, don't you know him?" "yes," he replied, "he is one of the devils." the captain said: "sergeant, don't you know where you are?" "of course i do; i'm in hell." when they were binding him he said: "that's right; heap on the coals; put me in the hottest place." while dr. seyes was preparing something to quiet him--laudanum, perhaps--he said: "bring on your poison; i'll take it." the boys, while living roughly, exposed to hardships and dangers, think more of their sweethearts than ever before, and are constantly recurring, in their talk, to the comfortable homes and pleasant scenes from which they are for the present separated. february, . . the colonel sent in his resignation this morning. it will go to department head-quarters to-morrow. saw the new moon over my right shoulder this evening, which i accept as an omen of good luck. let it come. it will suit me just as well now as at any time. if deceived, i shall never more have faith in the moon; and as for the man in the moon, i shall call him a cheat to his face. . the devil is to pay in the regiment. the colonel is doing his utmost to create a disturbance. his friends are busy among the privates. at noon an effort was made to get up a demonstration on the color line in his behalf. now a petition is being circulated among the privates requesting major keifer and me to resign. the night is as dark as pitch. a few minutes ago a shout went up for the colonel, and was swelled from point to point along the line of company tents, until now possibly five hundred voices have joined in the yell. the colonel's friends tell the boys that if he were to remain he would obtain leave for the regiment to go back to camp dennison to recruit; that he was about to obtain rifles and zouave uniforms for them, and that there is a conspiracy among the officers to crush him. . petitions from four companies, embracing two hundred and twenty-five names, have been presented, requesting the major and lieutenant-colonel to resign. . we closed up the day with a dress parade, the colonel in command. the camp is more boisterous than usual. no more petitions have been presented. the major received a package from home to-night containing, among other articles, a pair of slippers, which, greatly to my advantage, were too small for him. they were turned over to me, and it happens that no little thing could have been more acceptable. the bright moonlight of to-night enlivens our spirits somewhat, and fills us with new courage. the days have been dark and gloomy, and the nights still more so, for many days and nights past. from the band of the tenth ohio, half a mile away, come strains mellow and sweet. the air is full of moonlight and music. the boys are in a happier mood, and a round, full voice comes to us from the tents with the words of an old scotch song: "march, march, ettrick and teviotdale! why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order? march, march, eskale and liddlesdale! all the blue bonnets are over the border. many a banner spread flutters above your head, many a crest that is famous in story; mount and make ready, then, sons of the mountain glen! fight for the king and the old scottish border!" . the major and mr. furay are engaged in a tremendous dispute. furay is positive he can not be mistaken, and the major laughs him to scorn. when these gentlemen lock horns in dead earnest the clatter of words becomes terrible, and the combat ends only when both fall on their cots exhausted. . the colonel's resignation has been accepted. he delivered his valedictory to the regiment this evening. subsequently he passed through the company quarters, shaking hands with the boys and bidding them farewell. still later he made a speech, in which he called god to witness that he was a loyal man, and promised to pray for us all. the regiment is disorderly, if not mutinous even. the best thing he can do for it and himself is to get out. . the colonel has bidden us a final adieu. his most devoted adherents escorted him to the depot, and returned miserably drunk. one of the color guards, an honest, sensible, good-looking boy, has written me a letter of encouragement. i trust that soon all will feel as kindly toward me as he. . we left bacon creek at noon. there were ten thousand men in advance of us, with immense baggage trains. the roads bad, and our march slow, tedious, and disagreeable. many of the officers imbibed freely, and the senior surgeon, an educated gentleman, and very popular with the boys, became gloriously elevated. he kept his eye pealed for secesh, and before reaching munfordsville found a citizen twice as big as himself in possession of a double-barreled shot-gun. taking it for granted that he was an enemy, the doctor drew a revolver and bade him surrender unconditionally. the boys said the doctor was as tight as a little bull. what phase of inebriety this remark indicated i am unable to say; but certain it is that he did not for a moment lose sight of his gigantic prisoner, nor give him the slightest opportunity to escape. he was quite triumphant in his bearing; directed the movements of the captive in a loud and imperious tone, and favored him with much patriotic advice. a wagon with six unbroken mules attached is an uncertain conveyance. if the mules are desired to stop suddenly, they are certain not to do so, and if commanded to start suddenly, they are just as sure not to obey. if, after an immense amount of whipping and many fervent asseverations on the part of the driver that all mules should be in tophet, they conclude to start at all, they go as if determined to reach the place indicated without unnecessary delay. if a mud-hole, ditch, tree, or any other obstacle lies in the way, and the driver cries whoa, the mules redouble their speed, and rush forward as if they did not in the slightest degree consider themselves responsible either for the driver's neck or the traps with which the wagon is laden. it was about eight o'clock in the evening when we crossed the bridge over green river. the moon had around it a halo, in which appeared very distinctly all the colors of the national flag--red, white, and blue--and the boys said it was a good omen; that they were union people up there, and had hung out the stars and stripes. . to-morrow we start for bowling green, our division in the lead. before night we shall overtake the rebels, and before the next evening will doubtless fight a battle. . long before sunrise the whole division was astir, and at seven o'clock moved forward, our brigade in the center. far as the eye could reach, both in front and rear, the road was crowded with men. a score of bands filled the air with martial strains, while the morning sun brightened the muskets, and made the flags look more cheerful and brilliant. the day was warm and pleasant. the country before us was, in a military sense, unexplored, and every ear was open to catch the sound of the first gun. the conviction that a battle was imminent kept the men steady and prevented straggling. we passed many fine houses, and extensive, well improved farms. but few white people were seen. the negroes appeared to have entire possession. six miles from green river a young and very pretty girl stood in the doorway of a handsome farm-house and waved the flag of the union. cheer after cheer arose along the line; officers saluted, soldiers waved their hats, and the bands played "yankee doodle" and "dixie." that loyal girl captured a thousand hearts, and i trust some gallant soldier who shall win honorable scars in battle may return in good time to crown her his queen of love and beauty. from this on for fifteen miles we found neither springs nor streams. the country is cavernous, and the only water is that of the ponds. in all of these we discovered dead and decaying horses, mules, and dogs. the rebels in this way had sought to deprive us of water; but while their action in this regard occasioned a vast deal of profanity among the boys, it did not in the least retard the column. we were, however, delayed somewhat by the felled trees with which they had obstructed miles of the road. at sunset we halted and pitched our tents in a large field, near what is known as bell's tavern, on the louisville and nashville railroad. we had marched eighteen miles. the water used in the preparation of the evening meal was that of the ponds. the thought of the rotting dogs, horses, and mules, could not be banished, and when the major sipped his coffee in a doubtful way and remarked that it tasted soupy, my stomach quivered on the turning point, and, hungry as i was, the supper gave me no further enjoyment. . resumed the march at daylight. snow fell last night. the day was exceedingly cold, and the wind pierced through us like needles of ice. i think i never experienced so sudden and extreme a change in the weather. it was too cold to ride, and i dismounted and walked twelve miles. we were certain of a fight, and so pushed on with rapid pace. a regiment of cavalry and loomis' battery were in advance. when within ten miles of bowling green the guns opened in our front. leaving the regiment in charge of the major, i rode ahead rapidly as i could, and reached the river bank opposite bowling green in time to see a detachment of rebel cavalry fire the buildings which contained their army stores. the town was ablaze in twenty different places. they had destroyed the bridge over barren river in the morning, and now, having finished the work of destruction, went galloping over the hills. when the regiment arrived, it was quartered in a camp but recently evacuated by the enemy. the night was bitter cold; but the boys soon had a hundred fires blazing, and made themselves very comfortable. . this morning we were called out at daylight to cross the river and take possession of the town; a sorrier, hungrier lot of fellows never rolled out of warm blankets into the icy wind. it was impossible for many of them to get their wet and frozen shoes on, but we hurried down to the river, and were there halted until it was ascertained that our presence on the opposite side was not required, when we went back to our old quarters. . to-day we crossed the big barren, and are now in bowling green. turchin's brigade preceded us, and has gutted many houses. the rebels burned a million dollars worth of stores, but left enough pork, salt beef, and other necessaries to supply our division for a month; in fact the cigar i am smoking, the paper on which i write, the ink and pen, were all captured. general beauregard left the day before our arrival. it is said he was for days reported to be lying in general hardee's quarters, dangerously ill, and that under cover of this report he left town dressed in citizen's clothes and visited our camps on green river. . the weather is turning warm again, the men are quartered in houses. i room at the hotel. this sort of life, however pleasant it may be, has a demoralizing effect upon the soldier. . spent the forenoon at the river assisting somewhat in getting our transportation over. it is a rainy day, and i got wet to the skin and thoroughly chilled. after dinner i went to bed while william, my servant, put a few necessary stitches in my apparel, and dried my underclothing and boots. i am badly off for clothing; my coat is out at the elbows, and my pantaloons are in a revolutionary condition, the seat having seceded. the cincinnati gazette of the th instant reports that i have been promoted. thanks. . we learn from a reliable source that nashville has been evacuated. the enemy is said to be concentrating at murfreesboro, twenty or thirty miles beyond. the river has risen fifteen feet, and many of our teams are still on the other side. the water swelled so rapidly that two teams of six mules each, parked on the river bank last night so as to be in readiness to cross on the ferry this morning, were swept away. captain mitchell returned this evening from a trip north. we are glad to have him back again. . hear that fort donelson has been taken after a terrible fight, and ten thousand ears are eager to hear more about the engagement. no teams crossed the river to-day; we are flood bound. there was an immense number of deaths in the rebel army while it encamped here. it is said three thousand southern soldiers are buried in the vicinity of the town. they could not stand the rigorous northern climate. a mississippi regiment reported but thirteen men for duty. . moved at seven in the morning toward nashville without wagons, tents or camp equipage. marched twenty miles in the rain and were drenched completely. the boys found some sort of shelter during the night in tobacco houses, barns, and straw piles. . the day pleasant and sunshiny. the feet of the men badly blistered, and the regiment limps along in wretched style; made fifteen miles. . routed out at daylight and ordered to make nashville, a distance of thirty-two miles. many of the boys have no shoes, and the feet of many are still very sore. the journey seems long, but we are at the head of the column, and that stimulates us somewhat. have sent my horse to the rear to help along the very lame, and am making the march on foot. the martial band of the regiment is doing its utmost to keep the boys in good spirits; the base drum sounds like distant thunder, and the wind of hughes, the fifer, is inexhaustible; he can blow five miles at a stretch. the members of the band are in good pluck, and when not playing, either sing, tell stories, or indulge in reminiscences of a personal character. russia has been badgering william heney, a drummer. he says that while at elkwater heney sparked one of esquire stalnaker's daughters, and that the lady's little sister going into the room quite suddenly one evening called back to the father, "dad, dad, william heney has got his arm around susan jane!" heney affirms that the story is untrue. lochey favors us with a song, which is known as the warble. "thou, thou reignest in this bosom, there, there hast thou thy throne; thou, thou knowest that i love thee; am i not fondly thine own? ya--ya--ya--ya. am i not fondly thine own? chorus. das unda claus ish mein, das unda claus ish mein, cants do nic mock un do. on the banks of the ohio river, in a cot lives my rosa so fair; she is called jim johnson's darky, and has nice curly black hair. tre alo, tre alo, tre ola, ti. o come with me to the dear little spot, and i'll show you the place i was born, in a little log hut by a clear running brook, where blossom the wild plum and thorn. tre ola, tre ola, treo la ti. mein fadter, mein modter, mein sister, mein frau, undt swi glass of beer for meinself, undt dey call mein wife one blacksmit shop; such dings i never did see in my life. tre ola, tre ola, tre ola ti." . general nelson's command came up the cumberland by boat and entered nashville ahead of us. the city, however, had surrendered to our division before nelson arrived. we failed simply in being the first troops to occupy it, and this resulted from detention at the river-crossing. . crossed the cumberland and moved through nashville; the regiment behaved handsomely, and was followed by a great crowd of colored people, who appeared to be delighted with the music. general mitchell complimented us on our good behavior and appearance. . captain wilson, fourth ohio cavalry, was shot dead while on picket. one of his sergeants had eight balls put through him, but still lives. march, . . our brigade, in command of general dumont, started for lavergne, a village eleven miles out on the murfreesboro road, to look after a regiment of cavalry said to be in occupation of the place. arrived there a little before sunset, but found the enemy had disappeared. the troops obtained whisky in the village, and many of the soldiers became noisy and disorderly. a little after nightfall the compliments of a mrs. harris were presented to me, with request that i would be kind enough to call. the handsome little white cottage where she lived was near our bivouac. it was the best house in the village; and, as i ascertained afterward, very tastefully if not elegantly furnished. she was a woman of perhaps forty. her husband and daughter were absent; the former, i think, in the confederate service. she had only a servant with her, and was considerably frightened and greatly incensed at the conduct of some soldiers, of she knew not what regiment, who had persisted in coming into her house and treating her rudely. in short, she desired protection. she had a lively tongue in her head, and her request for a guard was, i thought, not preferred in the gentlest and most amiable way. her comments on our northern soldiers were certainly not complimentary to them. she said she had supposed hitherto that soldiers were gentlemen. i confessed that they ought to be at least. she said, rather emphatically, that southern soldiers _were_ gentlemen. i replied that i did not doubt at all the correctness of her statement; but, unfortunately, the branch of the northern army to which i had the honor to belong had not been able to get near enough to them to obtain any personal knowledge on the subject. the upshot of the five minutes' interview was a promise to send a soldier to protect mrs. harris' property and person during the night. returning to the regiment i sent for sergeant woolbaugh. he is one of the handsomest men in the regiment; a printer by trade, an excellent conversationalist, a man of extensive reading, and of thorough information respecting current affairs. i said: "sergeant, i desire you to brighten up your musket, and clothes if need be, go over to the little white cottage on the right and stand guard." "all right, sir." as he was leaving i called to him: "if the lady of the house shows any inclination to talk with you, encourage and gratify her to the top of her bent. i want her to know what sort of men our northern soldiers are." the sergeant in due time introduced himself to mrs. harris, and was invited into the sitting room. they soon engaged in conversation, and finally fell into a discussion of the issue between the north and south which lasted until after midnight. the lady, although treated with all courtesy, certainly obtained no advantage in the controversy, and must have arisen from it with her ideas respecting northern soldiers very materially changed. . started on the return to nashville at three o'clock in the morning. the boys being again disappointed in not finding the enemy, and considerably under the influence of liquor, conducted themselves in a most disorderly and unsoldierly way. have not had a change of clothing since we crossed the great barren river. . regiment on picket. when returning from the front i met a soldier of the thirty-seventh indiana, trudging along with his gun on his shoulder. i asked him where he was going; he replied that his father lived four miles beyond, and he had just heard that his brother was home from the southern army on sick leave, and he was going out to take him prisoner. . this afternoon the camp was greatly excited over a daring feat of a body of cavalry under john morgan. it succeeded in getting almost inside the camps, and was five miles inside of our outposts. it came into the main road between where kennett's cavalry regiment is encamped and nashville; captured a wagon train, took the drivers, captain braden, of indiana, who was in charge of the train, and eighty-three horses, and started on a by-road back for murfreesboro. general mitchell immediately dispatched kennett in pursuit. about fifteen miles out the rebels were overtaken and our men and horses recaptured. two rebels were killed and two taken; kennett is still in hot pursuit. captain braden says, as the rebels were riding away they were exceedingly jubilant over the success of their adventure, and promised to introduce him to general hardee in the evening. without asking the captain's permission they gave him a very poor horse in exchange for a very good one, put him at the head of the column and guarded him vigilantly; but when kennett appeared and the running fight occurred he dodged off at full speed, lay down on his horse, and although fired at many times escaped unhurt. morgan's men know the country so well that all the by-roads and cow-paths are familiar to them; the citizens keep them informed also as to the location of our camps and picket posts, and if need be are ready to serve them either as guides or spies, hence the success which attended the earlier part of their enterprise does not indicate so great a want of vigilance on the part of our troops, as might at first thought be supposed. . the enemy made a descent on one of our outposts, killed one man and wounded another. . went to nashville this morning to buy a few necessaries. while awaiting dinner at the st. cloud i took a seat outside the door. quite a number of union officers were seated or standing in front of the hotel, when two well, extremely well, dressed women, followed by a negro lady, approached, and while passing us _held their noses_. what disagreeable thing the atmosphere in our immediate vicinity contained that made it necessary for these lovely women to so pinch their nasal protuberances, i could not discover; certainly the officers looked cleanly, many of them were young men of the "double-bullioned" kind, who had spared no expense in decorating their persons with shoulder straps, golden bugles, and other shining trappings which appertain somehow to glorious war. after dinner i dropped into a drug store to buy a cake of soap. the druggist gave me, in the way of change, several miserably executed shinplasters. i asked: "do you call this money?" "i do." "i wonder that every printing office in the south does not commence the manufacture of such money." "o, no," he replied in a sneering way; "in the north they might do that, but in the south no one is disposed to make counterfeit money." "yes," i retorted, "the southern people are very honest no doubt, but i apprehend there is a better reason for not counterfeiting the money than you have assigned. it is probably not worth counterfeiting." private hawes of the third is remarkably fond of pies, and a notorious straggler withal. he has just returned to camp after being away for some days, and accounts for his absence by saying that he was in the country looking for pies, when morgan's men appeared suddenly, shot his horse from under him, mounted him behind a soldier and carried him away. the private is now in the guard-house entertaining a select company with a narrative of his adventures. we have much trouble with escaped negroes. in some way we have obtained the reputation of being abolitionists, and the colored folks get into our regimental lines, and in some mysterious way are so disposed of that their masters never hear of them again. it is possible the two saw-bones, who officiate at the hospital, dissect, or desiccate, or boil them in the interest of science, or in the manufacture of the villainous compounds with which they dose us when ill. at any rate, we know that many of these sable creatures, who joined us at bowling green and on the road to nashville, can not now be found. their masters, following the regiment, made complaint to general buell, and, as we learn, spoke disparagingly of the third. an order issued requiring us to surrender the negroes to the claimants, and to keep colored folks out of our camp hereafter. i obeyed the order promptly; commanded all the colored men in camp to assemble at a certain hour and be turned over to their masters; but the misguided souls, if indeed there were any, failed to put in an appearance, and could not be found. the scamps, i fear, took advantage of my notice and hid away, much to the regret of all who desire to preserve the union as it was, and greatly to the chagrin of the gentlemen who expected to take them handcuffed back to kentucky. one of these fugitives, a handsome mulatto boy, borrowed five dollars of me, and the same amount of doctor seyes, not half an hour before the time when he was to be delivered up, but i fear now the money will never be repaid. . started for murfreesboro. the day is beautiful and the regiment marches well. encamped for the night near lavergne. i called on my friend mrs. harris. she received me cordially and introduced me to her daughter, a handsome young lady of seventeen or eighteen. they were both extremely southern in their views, but chatted pleasantly over the situation, and mrs. harris spoke of sergeant woolbaugh, the guard furnished her on our first visit, in very complimentary terms; in fact, she was surprised to find such men in the ranks of the federal army. i assured her that there were scores like him in every regiment, and that our army was made up of the flower of the northern people. . the rebels having burned the bridges on the direct road, we were compelled to diverge to the left and take a longer route; toward evening we went into camp on the plantation of a widow lady, and here for the first time in my life i saw a field of cotton; the old stalks still standing with many bulbs which had escaped the pickers. . turned out at four o'clock in the morning, got breakfast, struck our tents, and were ready to march at six; but the brigade being now ordered to take the rear, we stood uncovered in a drenching rain three hours for the division and transportation to pass. all were thoroughly wet and benumbed with cold, but as if to show contempt for the weather the third sang with great unction: "there is a land of pure delight, where saints immortal reign; infinite day excludes the night, and pleasures banish pain. there everlasting spring abides, and never withering flowers; death, like a narrow sea, divides this heavenly land from ours." soon after getting under way the sky cleared, and the sun made its appearance; the band struck up, and at every plantation negroes came flocking to the roadside to see us. they are the only friends we find. they have heard of the abolition army, the music, the banners, the glittering arms; possibly the hope that their masters will be humbled and their own condition improved, gladdens their hearts and leads them to welcome us with extravagant manifestations of joy. they keep time to the music with feet and hands, and hurrah "fur de ole flag and de union," sometimes following us for miles. parson strong attempts to do a little missionary work. a dozen or more negroes stand in a group by the roadside. said the parson to an old man: "my friend, are you religious?" "no, massa, i is not; seben of my folks is, an dey is all prayen fur your side." hailing a little knot, i said: "boys where do you live?" "lib wid massa ----, sah." "all union people, i suppose?" "dey say dey is, but dey isn't." one old woman--evidently a great-grandmother in israel--climbed on the fence, clapped her hands, shouted for joy, and "bressed de lord dat dar was de ole flag agin." to a colored boy who stole into our lines last night, with his little bundle under his arm, the major said: "doesn't it make you feel bad to run away from your masters?" "oh, no, massa; dey is gone, too." reached murfreesboro in the afternoon. . men at work rebuilding the railroad bridge. general dumont returns to nashville. colonel lytle, of the tenth ohio, will assume command of our brigade. my servant has imposed upon me for about a month. he arises in the morning when he pleases; prepares my meals when it suits his pleasure, and is disposed in every thing to make me adapt my business to his own notions. this morning i became so provoked over his insolence and laziness that, in a moment of passion, i knocked him down. since then there has been a decided improvement in his bearing. the blow seems to have awakened him to a sense of his duty. . so soon as the railroad is repaired, an immense amount of cotton will be sent east from this section. the crops of two seasons are in the hands of the producer. we are encamped in a cotton field. peach trees are now in bloom, and many early flowers are to be seen. . the boys are having a grand cotillion party on the green in front of my tent, and appear to have entirely forgotten the privations, hardships, and dangers of soldiering. the army for a temperate, cleanly, cheerful man, is, i have no doubt, the healthiest place in the world. the coarse fare provided by the government is the most wholesome that can be furnished. the boys oftenest on the sick list are those who are constantly running to the sutler's for gingerbread, sweetmeats, raisins, and nuts. they eat enormous quantities of this unwholesome stuff, and lose appetite for more substantial food. finding that all desire for hard bread and bacon has disappeared, they conclude that they must be ill, and instead of taking exercise, lie in their tents until they finally become really sick. a contented, temperate, cheerful, cleanly man will live forever in the army; but a despondent, intemperate, gluttonous, dirty soldier, let him be never so fat and strong when he enters the service, is sure to get on the sick list, and finally into the hospital. the dance on the green is progressing with increased vigor. the music is excellent. at this moment the gentlemen are going to the right; now they promenade all; in a minute more the ladies will be in the center, and four hands round. that broth of an irish boy, conway, wears a rooster's feather in his cap, and has for a partner a soldier twice as big as himself, whom he calls susan. as they swing conway yells at the top of his voice: "come round, old gal!" . general mitchell returned from nashville on a hand-car. . this is a pleasant sunday. the sun shines, the birds sing, and the air stirs pleasantly. the colored people of murfreesboro pour out in great numbers on sunday evenings to witness dress parade, some of them in excellent holiday attire. the women sport flounces and the men canes. many are nearly white, and all slaves. murfreesboro is an aristocratic town. many of the citizens have as fine carriages as are to be seen in cincinnati or washington. on pleasant week-day evenings they sometimes come out to witness the parades. the ladies, so far as i can judge by a glimpse through a carriage window, are richly and elegantly dressed. the poor whites are as poor as rot, and the rich are very rich. there is no substantial well-to-do middle class. the slaves are, in fact, the middle class here. they are not considered so good, of course, as their masters, but a great deal better than the white trash. one enthusiastic colored man said in my hearing this evening: "you look like solgers. no wonder dat you wip de white trash ob de southern army. dey ced dey could wip two ob you, but i guess one ob you could wip two ob dem. you is jest as big as dey is, and maybe a little bigger." a few miles from here, at a cross roads, is a guide-board: "[illustration: symbol: right index] miles to liberty." if liberty were indeed but fifteen miles away, the stars to-night would see a thousand negroes dancing on the way thither; old men with their wives and bundles; young men with their sweethearts; little barefooted children, all singing in their hearts: "de day ob jubilee hab come, ho ho!" on the march hither we passed a little, contemptible, tumble-down, seven-by-nine frame school-house. over the door, in large letters, were the words: central academy. the boys laughed and said: "if this is called an academy, what sort of things must their common school-houses be?" but tennessee is a beautiful state. all it lacks is free schools and freemen. . colonel keifer, in command of four hundred men, started with ninety wagons for nashville. he will repair the railroad in two or three places and return with provisions. april, . . struck our tents and started south, at two o'clock this afternoon; marched fifteen miles and bivouacked for the night. . resumed the march at seven o'clock in the morning, the third in advance. at one place on the road a young negro, perhaps eighteen years old, broke from his hiding in the woods, and with hat in hand and a broad grin on his face, came running to me. "massa," said he, "i wants to go wid you." "i am sorry, my boy, that i can not take you. i am not permitted to do it." the light went out of the poor fellow's eyes in a moment, and, putting on his slouched hat, he went away sorrowful enough. it seems cruel to turn our backs on these, our only friends. if a dog came up wagging his tail at sight of us, we could not help liking him better than the master, who not only looks sullen and cross at our approach, but in his heart desires our destruction. as we approach the alabama line we find fewer, but handsomer, houses; larger plantations, and negroes more numerous. we saw droves of women working in the fields. when their ears caught the first notes of the music, they would drop the hoe and come running to the road, their faces all aglow with pleasure. may we not hope that their darkened minds caught glimpses of the sun of a better life, now rising for them? last night my bed-room was as grand as that ever occupied by a prince. the floor was carpeted with soft, green, velvety grass. for walls it had the primeval forest, with its drapery of luxuriant foliage. the ceiling, higher even than one's thoughts can measure, was studded with stars innumerable. the crescent moon added to its beauty for awhile, but disappeared long before i dropped off to sleep. we entered shelbyville at noon. there are more union people here than at murfreesboro, and we saw many glad faces as we marched through the streets. the band made the sky ring with music, and the regiment deported splendidly. one old woman clapped her hands and thanked heaven that we had come at last. apparently almost wild with joy, she shouted after us, "god be with you!" we went into camp on duck river, one mile from the town. . general mitchell complimented me on the good behavior and good appearance of the third. he said it was the best regiment in his division. at bacon creek, kentucky, he was particularly severe on us, and attributed all our trouble to defective discipline and bad management on the part of the officers. on the evening when the acceptance of marrow's resignation was read, the general was present. after parade was dismissed, i shook hands with him and said: "general, give us a little time and we will make the third the best regiment in your division." the old gentleman was glad to hear me say so, but smiled dubiously. i am glad to have him acknowledge so soon that we have fulfilled the promise. at murfreesboro heavy details were made for bridge building, and one day, while superintending the work, the general addressed the detail from the third in a very uncomplimentary way: "you lazy scoundrels, go to work! your regiment is the promptest in the division to report for duty, but you will not work." at another time he gave an order to a soldier which was not obeyed with sufficient alacrity, when he yelled: "what regiment do you belong to?" "the third." "well, sir, i thought you were one of the obstinate devils of that regiment." at another time he rode into our camp, and the boys failed to rise at his approach, when he reined in his horse suddenly and shouted: "get up here, you lazy scoundrels, and treat your superiors with respect!" riding on a little further, a private passed without touching his cap: "hold on, here," said the general, "don't you know how to salute a superior?" "yes," stammered the boy, "but i did not see you." "hold up your head like a soldier, and you will see me." one night i was making the rounds in the second ohio with the general. the guard did not turn out promptly and he became angry; diving into the guard-tent to rout them up, he ran against a big fellow so violently that he was nearly thrown off his legs. this increased his fury, and seizing the soldier by the coat collar he shook him roughly, and said: "you insolent dog, i'll stand insolence from no man. officer, put this man under arrest immediately." on the same night the guard of the thirty-third ohio turned out slowly, and some of them were found to have stolen off to their quarters. the general was still in a bad humor. "where is the officer of the day?" he asked. "at his quarters, sir," replied a sergeant. "present him the compliments of the general commanding, and tell him if he does not come to the guard-tent at once, i will send a file of soldiers after him." the officer appeared very soon. i refer to these incidents to show simply that the men of other regiments received reprimands as well as those of my own. . late in the evening the officers of the regiment, with the string band, started on a serenading expedition. after playing sundry airs and singing divers songs, ethiopian and otherwise, at the residence of a mr. warren, miss julia gurnie, sister of mrs. warren, appeared on the veranda and made to us a very pretty union speech. after a general introduction to the family and a cordial reception, we bade them good-night, and started for another portion of the village. on the way thither we dropped into the store of a mr. armstrong, and imbibed rather copiously of apple-jack, to protect us against the night air, which, by the way, is always dangerous when apple-jack is convenient. after thus fortifying ourselves, we proceeded to the residence of a mr. storey. his doors were thrown open, and we entered his parlors. here we had the honor to be introduced to miss storey, a handsome young lady, and lieutenant o'brien, nephew of parson brownlow. lieutenant o'brien is an officer of the rebel army. he accompanied parson brownlow to nashville under a flag of truce, and has been loitering on his way back until the present time. he wears the confederate gray, and when we entered the room was seated on the sofa with miss storey. after being introduced in due form, i placed myself by the young lady and endeavored to at least divide her attention with my confederate friend. the apple-jack dilated most engagingly on the remarkable beauty of the evening, the pleasantness of the weather generally, and the delightfulness of shelbyville. there was a piano in the room, and finally, after having occupied her attention jointly with o'brien for some time, i took the liberty to ask her to favor us with a song; but she pleaded an awful cold, and asked to be excused. the apple-jack excused her. the storeys are pleasant people, and i trust that, full as we were, we did nothing to lessen their respect for us. from mr. storey's we went to the house of mr. cooper, president of the shelbyville bank, but were not invited in, the family having retired. our last call was at the residence of mr. weasner, whilom member of the tennessee legislature. the doors were here thrown open, and a cordial invitation given us to enter. a pitcher of good wine was set out, and soon after miss weasner, a very pretty young lady, appeared, and played and sang many patriotic songs. when finally we bade this pleasant family good night, it was bordering on the sabbath, and we returned to camp. . colonel kennett, at the head of three hundred cavalry, made a dash into the country toward the tennessee river, captured and destroyed a train on a branch of the nashville and chattanooga railroad, and returned to camp to-night with fifteen prisoners. . party at mr. warren's, to which many of the officers have gone. . moved at six o'clock in the morning. roads sloppy, and in many places overflowed. marched sixteen miles. . resumed the march at six o'clock a. m. reached fayetteville at noon. passed through the town and encamped one mile beyond. general mitchell, with turchin's and sill's brigades and two batteries, left for huntsville on our arrival. there are various and contradictory rumors afloat respecting the condition of affairs at shiloh. the rebel sympathizers here are jubilant over what they claim is reliable intelligence, that our army has been surprised and defeated. another report, coming via nashville, says that a part of our army was terribly beaten on sunday; but reinforcements arriving on monday, the rebels were driven back, and our losses of the first day retrieved. a courier arrived about dark with dispatches for general mitchell; but they were forwarded to him unopened. . confused and unsatisfactory accounts still reach us of the great battle at pittsburg landing. it is strange what fortune, good or ill, our division has had. taking the lead at green river, we doubted not that a battle awaited us at bowling green. in advance again on the march to nashville, we were sure of fighting when we reached that place. starting again, the division pushed on alone to murfreesboro, shelbyville, fayetteville, and finally to huntsville and decatur, alabama, at each place expecting a battle, and yet meeting with no opposition. with but one division upon this line, we looked for hard work and great danger, and yet have found neither. as we advanced the honors we expected to win have receded or gone elsewhere, to be snatched up by other divisions. the boys say the third is fated never to see a battle; that the third ohio in mexico saw no fighting; that there is something magical in the number which preserves it from all danger. . the fifteenth kentucky remains here. the third and tenth ohio moved at three in the afternoon. roads bad and progress slow. bivouacked for the night near a distillery. many of the men drunk; the tenth ohio particularly wild. . resumed the march at six in the morning. passed the plantation of leonidas polk walker. he is said to be the wealthiest man in north alabama. his domain extends for fifteen miles along the road. the overseer's house and the negro huts near it make quite a village. met a good many young men returning from corinth and pittsburg landing. quite a number of them had been in the sunday's battle, and, being wounded, had been sent back to huntsville. general mitchell had captured and released them on parole. some had their heads bandaged, others their arms, while others, unable to walk, were conveyed in wagons. as they passed, our men made many good-natured remarks, as, "well, boys, you're tired of soldiering, ar'n't you?" "goin' home on furlough, eh?" "played out." "another bold soger boy!" "see the soger!" at one point a hundred or more colored people, consisting of men, women, and children, flocked to the roadside. the band struck up, and they accompanied the regiment for a mile or more, crowding and jostling each other in their endeavors to keep abreast of the music. the boys were wonderfully amused, and addressed to the motley troupe all the commands known to the volunteer service: "steady on the right;" "guide center;" "forward, double quick." reached huntsville at five in the afternoon. . just after sunset colonel keifer and i strolled into the town, stopped at the hotel for a moment, where we saw a rebel officer in his gray uniform running about on parole. visited the railroad depot, where some two hundred rebels are confined. the prisoners were variously engaged; some chatting, others playing cards, while a few of a more devotional turn were singing "come thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy praise." by his timely arrival general mitchell cut a division of rebel troops in two. four thousand got by, and were thus enabled to join the rebel army at corinth, while about the same number were obliged to return to chattanooga. . at decatur. the memphis and charleston railroad crosses the tennessee river at this point. the town is a dilapidated old concern, as ugly as huntsville is handsome. there is a canebrake near the camp, and every soldier in the regiment has provided himself with a fishing-rod; very long, straight, beautiful rods they are, too. the white rebel, who has done his utmost to bring about the rebellion, is lionized, called a plucky fellow, a great man, while the negro, who welcomes us, who is ready to peril his life to aid us, is kicked, cuffed, and driven back to his master, there to be scourged for his kindness to us. billy, my servant, tells me that a colored man was whipped to death by a planter who lives near here, for giving information to our men. i do not doubt it. we worm out of these poor creatures a knowledge of the places where stores are secreted, or compel them to serve as guides, and then turn them out to be scourged or murdered. there must be a change in this regard before we shall be worthy of success. . a detachment went to somerville yesterday. while searching for buried arms forty-two hundred dollars, in gold, silver, and bank-notes, were found. the money is, undoubtedly, private property, and will, i presume, be returned to the owner. fine, large fish are caught in the tennessee. we have a buffalo for supper--a good sort of fish--weighing six pounds. general mitchell has been made a major-general. he is a deserving officer. no other man with so few troops has ventured so far into the enemy's country, and accomplished so much. battles if they result favorably are great helps to the cause, but the general who by a bold dash accomplishes equally important results, without loss of life, is entitled to as great praise certainly as he who fights and wins a victory. colonel keifer and i have been on horseback most of the afternoon, examining all the roads leading from decatur. on our way back to camp we called at mr. rather's. he was a member of the alabama senate, favored the secession movement, but claims now to be heartily sorry for it. he received us cordially; introduced us to mrs. rather, brought in wine of his own manufacture, and urged us to drink heartily. . a beautiful day has gone by and a beautiful starlit night has come. the camp is very still. the melody of the frog, if melody it can be called, and the ripple of the tennessee, are the only sounds to be heard. thoughts of home and the quiet evenings; of youth and the gay visions; of the thousand and one pleasant scenes in life; of what we might have been and where we might have been, had the cards of our life been shuffled differently; of the deeds we might do, if peradventure the opportunity were offered, and the little we have done; all come up to-night, and we chew the cud over and over, without being able to determine whether it is bitter or sweet. the enemy, three hundred strong, made a dash on our picket last night, wounded one man, and made an unsuccessful effort to retake a bridge. . our forces are on the alert. i lay down in my clothes last night, or rather this morning, for it was between one and two o'clock when i retired. the division is stretched over a hundred miles of railway, but in position to concentrate in a few hours. before leaving this place, the rebels built a cotton fort, using in its construction probably five hundred bales. to-day we filled the bridge over the tennessee with combustible material, and put it in condition to burn readily, in case we find it necessary to retire to the north side. a man with his son and two daughters arrived to-night from chattanooga, having come all the way--one hundred and fifty miles probably--in a small skiff. . price, with ten thousand men, is reported advancing from memphis. turchin had a skirmish with his advance guard near tuscumbia. . turchin's brigade returned from tuscumbia and crossed the tennessee. . the tenth and third crossed to the north side of the river, and lieutenant-colonel burke of the tenth applied the torch to the bridge; in a few minutes the fire extended along its whole length, and as we marched away, the flames were hissing among its timbers, and the smoke hung like a cloud above it. . ordered to move to stevenson. took a freight train and proceeded to bellefonte, where we found a bridge had been burned; leaving the cars we marched until twelve o'clock at night, and then bivouacked on the railroad track. . resumed the march at daylight; one mile beyond stevenson we found the ninth brigade, colonel sill, in line of battle; formed the third in support of loomis' battery, and remained in this position until two in the afternoon, when general mitchell arrived and ordered the ninth brigade, loomis' battery and my regiment to move forward. at widow's creek we met a detachment of the enemy; a few shots from the battery and a volley from our skirmish line drove it back, and we hastened on toward bridgeport, exchanging shots occasionally with the enemy on the way. about five o'clock we formed in line of battle, on high ground in the woods, one-half mile from bridgeport, the third having the right of the column, and moved steadily forward until we came in sight of the town and the enemy. the order to double quick was then given, and we dashed into the village on a run. the enemy stood for a moment and then left as fast as legs could carry him; in fact he departed in such haste that but few muskets and one shot from a six pound gun were fired at us; one piece of his artillery was found still loaded. we captured fifty prisoners, a number of horses, two pieces of artillery and many muskets. the bridge over the tennessee had already been filled with combustible material, and when the rear of the rebel column passed over the match was applied; the fire extended rapidly, and we found it impossible to proceed further. the fright of the enemy was so great that, after getting beyond the river a mile or more, he threw away over a thousand muskets, and abandoned every thing that could impede his flight. unfortunately, however, before a raft could be constructed to convey our troops across the river, the rebels recovered from their panic, backed down a railroad train, and gathered up most of their arms and camp equipage. a little more coolness on the part of our troops would have enabled us to capture twenty-five or thirty cavalrymen, who came riding into bridgeport, supposing it to be still in the hands of their friends. as they approached, a few scattering shots were fired at them by the excited soldiers, when they wheeled and succeeded in making their escape. . the troops are short of provisions; there is a grist mill near, but the owner claims that it is out of repair, and can not be put in running order for some days, as part of the machinery is missing. on inquiry, i found that the owner of the mill was a rebel, and that the missing machinery had probably been hidden by himself. i therefore said to him that if he did not have the mill going by noon, i would burn it down; by ten o'clock it was running, and at three in the afternoon we had an abundance of corn meal. a detachment of the third under colonel keifer crossed the river and reconnoitered the country beyond. it found no enemy, but returned to camp with an abundance of bacon--an article very greatly needed by our troops. started at nine o'clock p. m. for stevenson; marched all night. whenever we stopped on the way to rest, the boys would fall asleep on the roadside, and we found much difficulty in getting them through. may, . . moved to bellefonte. . took the cars for huntsville. at paint rock the train was fired upon, and six or eight men wounded. as soon as it could be done, i had the train stopped, and, taking a file of soldiers, returned to the village. the telegraph line had been cut, and the wire was lying in the street. calling the citizens together, i said to them that this bushwhacking must cease. the federal troops had tolerated it already too long. hereafter every time the telegraph wire was cut we would burn a house; every time a train was fired upon we should hang a man; and we would continue to do this until every house was burned and every man hanged between decatur and bridgeport. if they wanted to fight they should enter the army, meet us like honorable men, and not, assassin-like, fire at us from the woods and run. we proposed to hold the citizens responsible for these cowardly assaults, and if they did not drive these bushwhackers from amongst them, we should make them more uncomfortable than they would be in hell. i then set fire to the town, took three citizens with me, returned to the train, and proceeded to huntsville. paint rock has long been a rendezvous for bushwhackers and bridge burners. one of the men taken is a notorious guerrilla, and was of the party that made the dash on our wagon train at nashville. the week has been an active one. on last saturday night i slept a few hours on the bridge at decatur. the next night i bivouacked in a cotton field; the next i lay from midnight until four in the morning on the railroad track; the next i slept at bridgeport on the soft side of a board, and on the return to stevenson i did not sleep at all. my health is excellent. . captain cunard was sent yesterday to paint rock to arrest certain parties suspected of burning bridges, tearing up the railroad track, and bushwhacking soldiers. to-day he returned with twenty-six prisoners. general mitchell is well pleased with my action in the paint rock matter. the burning of the town has created a sensation, and is spoken of approvingly by the officers and enthusiastically by the men. it is the inauguration of the true policy, and the only one that will preserve us from constant annoyance. the general rode into our camp this evening, and made us a stirring speech, in which he dilated upon the rapidity of our movements and the invincibility of our division. . the road to shelbyville is unsafe for small parties. guerrilla bands are very active. two or three of our supply trains have been captured and destroyed. detachments are sent out every day to capture or disperse these citizen cut-throats. . have been appointed president of a board of administration for the post of huntsville. after an ineffectual effort to get the members of the board together, i concluded to spend a day out of camp, the first for more than six months; so i strolled over to the hotel, took a bath, ate dinner, smoked, read, and slept until supper time, dispatched that meal, and returned to my quarters in the cool of the evening. we have in our camp a superabundance of negroes. one of these, a georgian, belonged to a captain of rebel cavalry, and fell into our hands at bridgeport. since that affair he has attached himself to me. the other negroes i do not know. in fact they are too numerous to mention. whence they came or whither they are going it is impossible to say. they lie around contentedly, and are delighted when we give them an opportunity to serve us. all the colored people of alabama are anxious to go "wid yer and wait on you folks." there are not fifty negroes in the south who would not risk their lives for freedom. the man who affirms that they are contented and happy, and do not desire to escape, is either a falsifier or a fool. . attended divine service with captain mcdougal at the presbyterian church. the edifice is very fine. the audience was small; the sermon tolerable. troubles, the preacher said, were sent to discipline us. the army was of god; they should, therefore, submit to it, not as slaves, but as christians, just as they submitted to other distasteful and calamitous dispensations. . my letters from home have fallen into the hands of john morgan. the envelopes were picked up in the road and forwarded to me. my wife should feel encouraged. it is not every body's letters that are pounced upon at midnight, taken at the point of the bayonet, and read by the flickering light of the camp-fire. moved at two o'clock this afternoon. reached athens after nightfall, and bivouacked on the fair ground. . marched to elk river. a great many negroes from the neighboring plantations came to see us, among them an elderly colored man, whose sanctimonious bearing indicated that he was a minister of the gospel. the boys insisted that he should preach to them, and, after some hesitation, the old man mounted a stump, lined a hymn from memory, sang it, and then commenced his discourse. he had not proceeded very far when he uttered this sentence: "de good lord he hab called me to preach de gospil. many sinners hab been wakened by my poor words to de new life. de lord he hab been very kind to me, an' i can nebber pay him fur all he done fur me." "never pay the lord?" broke in the boys; "never pay the lord? oh! you wicked nigger! just hear him! he says he is never going to pay the lord!" the preacher endeavored to explain: the kindness and mercy of the lord had been so great that it was impossible for a poor sinner to make any sufficient return; but the boys would accept no explanation. "here," they shouted, "is a nigger who will not pay the lord!" and they groaned and cried, "oh! oh!" and swore that they never saw so wicked a man before. fortunately for the poor colored man, a dutchman began to interrogate him in broken english, and the two soon fell into a discussion of some point in theology, when the boys espoused the negro's side of the question, and insisted that the dutchman was no match for him in argument. finally, by groans and hisses, they compelled the dutchman to abandon the controversy, leaving the colored man well pleased that he had vanquished his opponent and re-established himself in the good opinion of his hearers. . resumed the march at two o'clock in the morning, and proceeded to a point known as the lower ferry. ascertaining here that the enemy had recrossed the tennessee, and was pushing southward, we abandoned pursuit and turned to retrace our steps to huntsville. leaving the regiment in command of colonel keifer, i accompanied general mitchell on the return, and reached camp a little after dark. . appointed provost marshal of the city. have been busy hearing all sorts of complaints, signing passes for all sorts of persons, sending guards to this and that place in the city, and doing the numerous other things necessary to be done in a city under martial law. captain mitchell and lieutenant wilson are my assistants, and, in fact, do most of the work. the citizens say i am the youngest governor they ever had. . captain mitchell and i were invited to a strawberry supper at judge lane's. found general mitchell and staff, colonel kennett, lieutenant-colonel birdsall, and captain loomis, of the army, there. mr. and mrs. judge lane, colonel and major davis, and a general, whose name i can not recall, were the only citizens present. general mitchell monopolized the conversation. he was determined to make all understand that he was the greatest of living soldiers. had his counsel prevailed, the confederacy would have been knocked to pieces long ago. the evening was a very pleasant one. a few days ago we had john morgan utterly annihilated; but he seems to have gathered up the dispersed atoms and rebuilt himself. in the destruction of our supply trains he imagines, doubtless, that he is inflicting a great injury upon our division; but he is mistaken. the bread and meat we fail to get from the loyal states are made good to us from the smoke-houses and granaries of the disloyal. our boys find alabama hams better than uncle sam's sidemeat, and fresh bread better than hard crackers. so that every time this dashing cavalryman destroys a provision train, their hearts are gladdened, and they shout "bully for morgan!" . rumor says that richmond is in the hands of our troops; and from the same source we learn that a large force of the enemy is between us and nashville. fifteen hundred mounted men were within seventeen miles of huntsville yesterday. a regiment with four pieces of artillery, under command of colonel lytle, was sent toward fayetteville to look after them. . the busiest time in the provost marshal's office is between eight o'clock in the morning and noon. then many persons apply for passes to go outside the lines and for guards to protect property. others come to make complaints that houses have been broken open, or that horses, dogs, and negroes, have strayed away or been stolen. . the men of huntsville have settled down to a patient endurance of military rule. they say but little, and treat us with all politeness. the women, however, are outspoken in their hostility, and marvelously bitter. a flag of truce came in last night from chattanooga, and the bearers were overwhelmed with visits and favors from the ladies. when they took supper at the huntsville hotel, the large dining-room was crowded with fair faces and bright eyes; but the men prudently held aloof. a day or two ago one of our confederate prisoners died. the ladies filled the hearse to overflowing with flowers, and a large number of them accompanied the soldier to his last resting-place. the foolish, yet absolute, devotion of the women to the southern cause does much to keep it alive. it encourages, nay forces, the young to enter the army, and compels them to continue what the more sensible southerners know to be a hopeless struggle. but we must not judge these huntsville women too harshly. here are the families of many of the leading men of alabama; of generals, colonels, majors, captains, and lieutenants in the confederate army; of men, even, who hold cabinet positions at richmond, and of many young men who are clerks in the departments of the rebel government. their wives, daughters, sisters, and sweethearts feel, doubtless, that the honor of these gentlemen, and possibly their lives, depend upon the success of the confederacy. to-day two young negro men from jackson county came in with their wives. they were newly married, and taking their wedding journey. the vision of a better and higher life had lured them from the old plantation where they were born. at midnight they had stolen quietly away, plodded many weary miles on foot, confident that the rainbow and the bag of gold were in the camp of the federal army. . this in-door life has made me ill. i am as yellow as an orange. the doctors say i have the jaundice. june, . . have requested general mitchell to relieve me from duty as provost marshal; am now wholly unfit to do business. we have heard of the evacuation of corinth. the simple withdrawal of the enemy amounts to but little, if anything; he still lives, is organized and ready to do battle on some other field. . go home on sick leave. * * * * * . there were three little girls on the louisville packet, about the age of my own children. they were great romps. i said to one, "what is your name?" she replied "pudin' an' tame." so i called her pudin', and she became very angry, so angry indeed that she cried. the other little girls laughed heartily, and called her pudin' also, and then asked my name. i answered john smith; they insisted then that pudin' was my wife, and called her pudin' smith. this made pudin' furious, and she abused her companions and me terribly; but john smith invested a little money in cherries, and thus pacified pudin', and so got to louisville without getting his hair pulled. i saw no more of pudin' until she got off the cars at elizabethtown. going up to her, we shook hands, and i said, "good-by, pudin'." she hung her head for a moment, and tried to look angry, but finally breaking into a laugh she said, "i don't like you at all any way, good-by." . reached huntsville. the regiment in good condition, boys well; weather hot. general buell arrived last night. mccook's division is here; nelson, crittenden, and wood on the road hither. july, . . we know, or think we know, that a great battle has been fought near richmond, but the result for some reason is withheld. we speculate, talk, and compare notes, but this makes us only the more eager for definite information. i am almost as well as ever, not quite so strong, but a few days will make me right again. . it is exceedingly dull; we are resting as quietly and leisurely as we could at home. there are no drills, and no expeditions. the army is holding its breath in anxiety to hear from richmond. if mcclellan has been whipped, the country must in time know it; if successful, it would be rejoiced to hear it. why, therefore, should the particulars, and even the result of the fighting, be suppressed. rumor gives us a thousand conflicting stories of the battle, but rumor has many tongues and lies with all. general mitchell departed for washington yesterday. the rebels at chattanooga claim that mcclellan has been terribly whipped, and fired guns along their whole line, within hearing of our troops, in honor of the victory. a lieutenant of the nineteenth illinois, who fell into the enemy's hands, has just returned on parole, and claims to have seen a dispatch from the adjutant-general of the southern confederacy, stating that mcclellan had been defeated and his army cut to pieces. he believes it. my horse is as fat as a stall-fed ox. he has had a very easy time during my absence. to-morrow is the fourth, hitherto glorious, but now, like to-day's meridian sun, clouded, and sending out a somewhat uncertain light. has the great experiment failed? shall we hail the fourth as the birthday of a great nation, or weep over it as the beginning of a political enterprise which resulted in dissolution, anarchy and ruin? let us lift up our eyes and be hopeful. the dawn may be even now breaking. the boys propose to have a barbecue to-morrow, and roast a corpulent, good-natured ethiopian, named cæsar. they are now discussing the matter very voluminously, in cæsar's presence. he thinks they are probably joking; but still they seem to be greatly in earnest, and he knows little of these yankees, and thinks maybe his "massa tole him de truff about dem, after all." "the fourth is a great day," the boys go on to say, "whereon yankees always dine on roast nigger. it is a part of their religion. it is this which makes colored folks so scarce in the north." shall cæsar be stuffed or not? that is really the only question. one party claims that if cæsar be stuffed with vegetables and nicely roasted, he will be delicious. the other party insists that cæsar is sufficiently stuffed already; vegetables would not improve him. they have eaten roast nigger both ways and know. so the discussion waxes hot, and the dusky alabamian has some fear, even, that his last day may be drawing very near. . thirty-four guns were fired at noon. . an atlanta paper of the st instant says the confederates have won a decisive victory at richmond. no northern papers have been allowed to come into camp. . mccook moved toward chattanooga. general w. s. smith has command of our division. the boys have a great many game chickens. not long ago company g, of the third, and company g, of the tenth, had a rooster fight, the stakes being fifteen dollars a side. after numerous attacks, retreats, charges, and counter-charges, the tenth rooster succumbed like a hero, and the other was carried in triumph from the field. general mitchell made his appearance near the scene at the conclusion of the conflict; but, supposing the crowd to be an enthusiastic lot of soldiers who were cheering him, passed on, well pleased with them and himself. the boys have a variety of information from richmond to-day. one party affirms that mcclellan has been cut to pieces; that a dispatch to that effect has been received by general buell. another insists that he has obtained a decided advantage, and is heating the shot to burn richmond; while still another affirms that he has utterly destroyed richmond, and, marius-like, is sitting amid the ruins of that ill-fated city, eating sow belly and doe-christers. . am detailed to serve on court-martial. detail for the court. general james a. garfield. colonel jacob ammen. colonel curren pope. colonel jones. colonel marc mundy. colonel sedgewick. colonel john beatty. convened at athens at ten o'clock this morning. organized and adjourned to meet at ten to-morrow. general buell proposes, i understand, to give general mitchell's administration of affairs in north alabama a thorough overhauling. it is asserted that the latter has been interested in cotton speculations; but investigation, i am well satisfied, will show that general mitchell has been strictly honest, and has done nothing to compromise his honor, or cast even the slightest shadow upon his good name. the first case to be tried is that of colonel j. b. turchin, nineteenth illinois. he is charged with permitting his command, the eighth brigade, to steal, rob, and commit all manner of outrages. . our court has been adjourning from day to day, until colonel turchin should succeed in procuring counsel; but it is now in full blast. nelson's division is quartered here. the town is enveloped in a dense cloud of dust. . there are many wealthy planters in this section. one of the witnesses before our court has a cotton crop on hand worth sixty thousand dollars. another swears that turchin's brigade robbed him of twelve hundred dollars' worth of silver plate. turchin's brigade has stolen a hundred thousand dollars' worth of watches, plate, and jewelry, in northern alabama. turchin has gone to one extreme, for war can not justify the gutting of private houses and the robbery of peaceable citizens, for the benefit of individual officers or soldiers; but there is another extreme, more amiable and pleasant to look upon, but not less fatal to the cause. buell is likely to go to that. he is inaugurating the dancing-master policy: "by your leave, my dear sir, we will have a fight; that is, if you are sufficiently fortified; no hurry; take your own time." to the bushwhacker: "am sorry you gentlemen fire at our trains from behind stumps, logs, and ditches. had you not better cease this sort of warfare? now do, my good fellows, stop, i beg of you." to the citizen rebel: "you are a chivalrous people; you have been aggravated by the abolitionists into subscribing cotton to the southern confederacy; you had, of course, a right to dispose of your own property to suit yourselves, but we prefer that you would, in future, make no more subscriptions of that kind, and in the meantime we propose to protect your property and guard your negroes." turchin's policy is bad enough; it may indeed be the policy of the devil; but buell's policy is that of the amiable idiot. there is a better policy than either. it will neither steal nor maraud; it will do nothing for the sake of individual gain, and, on the other hand, it will not crouch to rebels; it will not fear to hurt the feelings of traitors; it will not fritter away the army and the revenue of the government in the insane effort to protect men who have forfeited all right to protection. the policy we need is one that will march boldly, defiantly, through the rebel states, indifferent as to whether this traitor's cotton is safe, or that traitor's negroes run away; calling things by their right names; crushing those who have aided and abetted treason, whether in the army or out. in short, we want an iron policy that will not tolerate treason; that will demand immediate and unconditional obedience as the price of protection. . the post at murfreesboro, occupied by two regiments of infantry and one battery, under crittenden, of indiana, has surrendered to the enemy. a bridge and a portion of the railroad track between this place and pulaski have been destroyed. a large rebel force is said to be north of the tennessee. it crossed the river at chattanooga. . the star of the confederacy appears to be rising, and i doubt not it will continue to ascend until the rose-water policy now pursued by the northern army is superseded by one more determined and vigorous. we should look more to the interests of the north, and less to those of the south. we should visit on the aiders, abettors, and supporters of the southern army somewhat of the severity which hitherto has been aimed at that army only. who are most deserving of our leniency, those who take arms and go to the field, or those who remain at home, raising corn, oats, and bacon to subsist them? plain people, who know little of constitutional hair-splitting, could decide this question only one way; but it seems those who have charge of our armies can not decide it in any sensible way. they say: "you would not disturb peaceable citizens by levying contributions from them?" why not? if the husbands, brothers, and fathers of these people, their natural leaders and guardians, do not care for them, why should we? if they disregard and trample upon that law which gave all protection, and plunge the country into war, why should we be perpetually hindered and thwarted in our efforts to secure peace by our care for those whom they have abandoned? if we make the country through which we pass furnish supplies to our army, the inhabitants will have less to furnish our enemies. the surplus products of the country should be gathered into the federal granaries, so that they could not, by possibility, go to feed the rebels. the loyal and innocent might occasionally and for the present suffer, but peace when once established would afford ample opportunity to investigate and repay these sufferers. shall we continue to protect the property of our enemies, and lose the lives of our friends? it is said that it is hard to deprive men of their horses, cattle, grain, simply because they differ from us in opinion; but is it not harder still to deprive men of their lives for the same reason? the opinions from which we differ in this instance are treasonable. the man who, of his own free will, supplies the wood is no whit better than he who kindles the fire; and the man who supplies the ammunition neither better nor worse than he who does the killing. the severest punishment should be inflicted upon the soldier who appropriates either private or public property to his own use; but the government should lay its mailed hand upon treasonable communities, and teach them that war is no holiday pastime. . returned to huntsville this afternoon; general garfield with me. he will visit our quarters to-morrow and dine with us. general rousseau has been assigned to the command of our division. i am glad to hear that he discards the rose-water policy of general buell under his nose, and is a great deal more thorough and severe in his treatment of rebels than general mitchell. he sent the rev. mr. ross to jail to-day for preaching a secession sermon last sunday. he damns the rebel sympathizers, and says if the negro stands in the way of the union he must get out. rousseau is a kentuckian, and it is very encouraging to learn that he talks as he does. turchin has been made a brigadier. . an order issued late last evening transferring our court from athens to huntsville. colonel turchin's case is still before us. no official notice of his promotion has been communicated to the court. . garfield and ammen are our guests. they are sitting with colonel keifer, in the open air, in front of our tent. we have eaten supper, and colonel ammen has the floor; he always has it. he is somewhat superstitious. he never likes to see the moon through brush. he is to some extent a believer in dreams. on one occasion he dreamed that his father, who was drowned, came up from the muddy water, looked angrily at him, and endeavored to stab him with a rusty knife. in his effort to escape he awoke. falling to sleep again, his father reappeared and made a second attempt to stab him. this so thoroughly aroused and troubled him that he could not sleep. in the morning he told this dream to a friend, and was informed that two members of his family would soon die. soon after he was summoned home, when he found his mother dead and his sister dying of cholera. at another time he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck, and was impressed with the idea that he had been shot. soon afterward he learned that his brother in the south had been shot in the back of the neck and killed. he believes that his own sensation of pain was experienced at the very instant when his brother received the fatal wound; but as he could not remember the precise hour when he was startled by the disagreeable impression, he could not be positive that the occurrences were simultaneous. when going into battle at greenbrier and at shiloh, the belief that his time to die had not come rendered him cool and fearless. he never felt more at ease or more secure. so when, at two different times, he was very ill, and informed that he could not live through the night, he felt absolutely sure that he would recover. garfield had a very impressionable relative. the night before his fight with humphrey marshall, she wrote a very accurate general description of the battle, giving the position of the troops; referring to the reinforcements which came up, and the great shout with which they were welcomed. these mysterious impressions suggested the existence of an undiscovered, or possibly an undeveloped principle in nature, which time and investigation would ultimately make familiar. colonel ammen says, "if superstition, or a belief in the supernatural, is an indication of weakness, napoleon and sir walter scott were the weakest of men." with general garfield i called on general rousseau this morning. he is a larger and handsomer man than mitchell, but i think lacks the latter's energy, culture, system, and industry. . we can not boast of what is occurring in this department. the tide seems to have set against us every-where. the week of battles before richmond was a week of defeats. i trust the new policy indicated by the confiscation act, just passed by congress, will have good effect. it will, at least, enable us to weaken the enemy, as we have not thus far done, and strengthen ourselves, as we have hitherto not been able to do. slavery is the enemy's weak point, the key to his position. if we can tear down this institution, the rebels will lose all interest in the confederacy, and be too glad to escape with their lives, to be very particular about what they call their rights. colonel ammen has just received notice of his confirmation as brigadier. he is a strange combination of simplicity and wisdom, full of good stories, and tells those against himself with a great deal more pleasure than any others. colonels turchin, mihalotzy, gazley, and captain edgerton form a group by the window; all are smoking vigorously, and speculating probably on the result of the present and prospective trials. mihalotzy is what is commonly termed "dutch;" but whether he is from the german states, russia, prussia, or poland, i know not. ammen left camp early this morning, saying he would go to town and see if he could find an idea, he was pretty nearly run out. he talks incessantly; his narratives abound in episode, parenthesis, switches, side-cuts, and before he gets through, one will conclude a dozen times that he has forgotten the tale he entered upon, but he never does. colonel stanley, eighteenth ohio, has just come in. he has in his time been a grave and reverend senator of ohio; he never loses sight of this fact, and never fails to impress it upon those with whom he comes in contact. an order has just been issued, and is now being circulated among the members of the court, purporting to come from general ammen, and signed with his name. it recites the fact of his promotion, and forbids any one hereafter to call him uncle jacob, that title being entirely too familiar and undignified for one of his rank. all who violate the order are threatened with the direst punishment. the general says if such orders please the court, he will not object to their being issued; it certainly requires but very little ability to get them up. the general prides himself on what he calls delicate irony. he says, in the town of ripley, men who can not manage a dray successfully criticise the conduct of this and that general with great severity; when they appeal to him, he tells them quietly he has not the capacity to judge of such matters; it requires a great mind and a thorough understanding of all the circumstances. after all i have said about general ammen, it is hardly necessary to remark that he does most of the talking. to-day garfield and keifer, who of course entertain the kindliest feelings, and the greatest respect for the general, in a spirit of fun, entered into a conspiracy against him. they proposed for one night to do all the talking themselves, and not allow him to edge in even a word. after supper garfield was to commence with the earliest incidents of his childhood, and without allowing himself to be interrupted, continue until he had given a complete narrative of his life and adventures; then keifer was to strike in and finish up the night. general ammen was not to be permitted to open his mouth except to yawn. we ate supper and immediately adjourned to the adjoining tent. before garfield was fairly seated on his camp stool, he began to talk with the easy and deliberate manner of a man who had much to say. he dwelt eloquently on the minutest details of his early life, as if they were matters of the utmost importance. keifer was not only an attentive listener, but seemed wonderfully interested. uncle jacob undertook to thrust in a word here and there, but garfield was too much absorbed to notice him, and so pushed on steadily, warming up as he proceeded. unfortunately for his scheme, however, before he had gone far he made a touching reference to his mother, when uncle jacob, gesticulating energetically, and with his forefinger leveled at the speaker, cried: "just a word--just one word right there," and so persisted until garfield was compelled either to yield or be absolutely discourteous. the general, therefore, got in his word; nay, he held the floor for the remainder of the evening. the conspirators made brave efforts to put him down and cut him off, but they were unsuccessful. at midnight, when keifer and i left, he was still talking; and after we had got into bed, he, with his suspenders dangling about his legs, thrust his head into our tent-door, and favored us with the few observations we had lost by reason of our hasty departure. keifer turned his face to the wall and groaned. poor man! he had been hoisted by his own petard. i think uncle jacob suspected that the young men had set up a job on him. the regiment went on a foraging expedition yesterday, under colonel keifer, and was some fifteen miles from huntsville, in the direction of the tennessee river. at one o'clock last night our picket was confronted by about one hundred and fifty of the enemy's cavalry; but no shots were exchanged. . the rebel cavalry were riding in the mountains south of us last night. a heavy mounted patrol of our troops was making the rounds at midnight. there was some picket firing along toward morning; but nothing occurred of importance. our forces are holding the great scope of country between memphis and bridgeport, guarding bridges, railroads, and towns, frittering away the strength of a great army, and wasting our men by permitting them to be picked up in detail. in short, we put down from fifty to one hundred, here and there, at points convenient to the enemy, as bait for them. they take the bait frequently, and always when they run no risk of being caught. the climate, and the insane effort to garrison the whole country, consumes our troops, and we make no progress. may the good lord be with us, and deliver us from idleness and imbecility; and especially, o! lord, grant a little every-day sense--that very common sense which plain people use in the management of their business affairs--to the illustrious generals who have our armies in hand! . we have just concluded colonel turchin's case, and forwarded the proceedings to general buell. general ammen for many years belonged to a club, the members of which were required either to sing a song or tell a story. he could not sing, and, consequently, took to stories, and very few can tell one better. the general is a member of the episcopal church, and, although a pious man, emphasizes his language occasionally by an oath. when conducting his brigade from the boat at pittsburg landing to position on the field, he was compelled to pass through the immense crowd of skedaddlers who had sought shelter under the bluffs from the storm of bullets. a chaplain of one of the disorganized regiments was haranguing the mob in what may be termed the whangdoodle style: "rally, men; rally, and we may yet be saved. o! rally! for god and your country's sake rally! r-a-l-l-y! o-h! r-a-l-l-y around the flag of your c-o-w-n-try, my c-o-wn-tryme-n!" "shut up, you god damned old fool!" said ammen, "or i'll break your head! get out of the way!" general garfield is lying on the lounge unwell. he has an attack of the jaundice, and will, i think, start home to-morrow. i find an article on the tables of the south, which, with coffee, i like very much. the wheat dough is rolled very thin, cut in strips the width of a table-knife, and about as long, baked until well done; if browned, all the better. they become crisp and brittle, and better than the best of crackers. . general ammen is so interesting to me that i can not avoid talking about him, especially when items are scarce, as they are now. our court takes a recess at one, and assembles again at half-past three, giving us two hours and a half for dinner. to-day the conversation turned on the various grasses north and south. after the general had described the peculiar grasses of many sections, he drifted to the people south who lived on farms, where he had seen a variety of grass unknown in the north, and the following story was told: in the part of mississippi where he resided for a number of years, there lived a northern family named greenfield. when he was there the farm was known as the greenfield farm. it was the peculiar grass on this farm which suggested the story. the greenfields were quakers, originally from philadelphia. one of the wealthiest members of the family was a little weazen-faced old maid, of fifty years or more. her overseer was a large, fine looking young man named roach. after he had been in her service a year she took a fancy to him, and proposed to give him twenty thousand dollars if he would marry her. he accepted, and they were duly married. a year after she grew tired of wedlock, and proposed to give thirty thousand dollars to be unmarried. he accepted this proposition also. they united in a petition for a divorce and obtained it. roach took the fifty thousand dollars thus made and invested it in the yazoo country. the property increased in value rapidly, and he soon became a millionaire. when general ammen saw him, he had married again more to his liking, and was one of the prominent men in his section. the farm of the gillyards lay near that of the greenfields, and this suggested another story. a miss gillyard was a great heiress; owned plantations in mississippi, and an interest in a large estate in south carolina. a doctor of prepossessing appearance came from the latter state, and commenced practice in the neighborhood, and an acquaintance of a few months resulted in a marriage. after living together a year very happily, they started on a visit to south carolina; she to visit relatives and look after her interest in the estate mentioned, and he to see his friends. on the way it was agreed that he should attend to his wife's business, and so full power to sell or dispose of the property, or her interest therein, was given him. at charleston she was met by the relatives with whom she was to remain, while the doctor proceeded to a different part of the state to see his friends, and afterward attend to business. when about to separate, like a jolly soul, he proposed that they should drink to each other's health during the separation. the wine was produced; they touched glasses, and raised them to their lips, when the door opened suddenly and the doctor was called. setting his wine on the table, he stepped out of the room, and the wife, more affectionate, possibly, than most women, took the glass which his lips had touched and put her own in its place. the husband reappeared shortly, and they drank off the wine. in an hour he was dead, and she in the deepest affliction. after she had recovered somewhat from the shock, she left charleston to visit his people. she found them poor, and that he had a wife and three children. the truth then broke in upon her; he had drank the wine prepared for her. this story suggested one involving some of miss gillyard's relations. two lady cousins resided in the same town. the father of one had amassed a handsome fortune in the tailoring business. the father of the other had been a saddler, and, carrying on the business extensively, had also become wealthy. the descendant of the saddler would refer to her cousin's father as the tailor, and intimate that his calling was certainly not that of a gentleman. the other hearing of this, and meeting her one evening at a large party, said: "cousin julia, i hear that you have said my father was nothing but a tailor. now, this is true; he was a tailor, and a very good one, too. by his industry and judgment he made a large fortune, which i am enjoying. i respect him; am grateful, and not ashamed of him, if he was a tailor. your father was a saddler, and a very good one. he, by industry and good management, accumulated great wealth, which you are enjoying. i see no reason, therefore, why we should not both be proud of our fathers, and i certainly can see no reason why a man-tailor should not be just as good as a horse-tailor." august, . . the judge-advocate, captain swayne, was unwell this morning. the court, therefore, took a recess until three o'clock. captain edgerton's case was disposed of last evening. colonel mihalotzy's will come before us to-day. a court-martial proceeds always with due respect to red tape. the questions to witnesses are written out; the answers are written down; the statement of the accused is in writing, and the defense of the accused's counsel is written; so that the court snaps its fingers at time, as if it were of no consequence, and seven men, against whom there are no charges, are likely to spend their natural lives in investigating seven men, more or less, against whom there are charges. it is thus the rebels are being subjugated, the union re-united, the constitution and the laws enforced. . among the curiosities in camp are two young coons and a pet opossum. the latter is the property of augustus cæsar, the esquire of adjutant wilson. cæsar restrains the opossum with a string, and looks forward with great pleasure to the time when he will be fat enough to eat. the coons are just now playing on the wild cherry tree in front of my tent, and several colored boys are watching them with great interest. one of these, a native alabamian, tells me "de coon am a great fiter; he can wip a dog berry often; but de possum can wip de coon, for he jist takes one holt on de coon, goes to sleep, an' nebber lets go; de coon he scratch an' bite, but de possum he nebber min'; he keeps his holt, shuts his eyes, and bimeby de coon he knocks under. de she coon am savager dan de he coon. i climbed a tree onct, an' de she coon come out ob her hole mitey savage, an' i leg go, an' tumbled down to de groun', and like ter busted my head. de she coon am berry savage. de possum can't run berry fast, but de coon can run faster'n a dog. you can tote a possum, but you can't tote a coon, he scratch an' bite so." the gentlemen of the south have a great fondness for jewelry, canes, cigars, and dogs. out of forty white men thirty-nine, at least, will have canes, and on sunday the fortieth will have one also. white men rarely work here. there are, it is true, tailors, merchants, saddlers, and jewelers, but the whites never drive teams, work in the fields, or engage in what may be termed rough work. judging from the number of stores and present stocks, huntsville, in the better times, does a heavier retail jewelry business than cleveland or columbus. every planter, and every wealthy or even well-to-do man, has plate. diamonds, rings, gold watches, chains, and bracelets are to be found in every family. the negroes buy large amounts of cheap jewelry, and the trade in this branch is enormous. one may walk a whole day in a northern city without seeing a ruffled shirt. here they are very common. the case of colonel mihalotzy was concluded to-day. . general ammen was a teacher for years at west point, at natchez, mississippi, in kentucky, indiana, and recently at ripley, ohio. he has devoted particular attention to the education of children, and has no confidence in the usual mode of teaching them. he labors to strengthen or cultivate, first: _attention_, and to this end never allows their interest in anything to flag; whenever he discovers that their minds have become weary of a subject, he takes the book from them and turns their thought in a new direction. nor does he allow their attention to be divided between two or three objects at the same time. by his method they acquire the power to concentrate their whole mind upon a given subject. the next thing to be cultivated is _observation_; teach them to notice whatever may be around, and describe it. what did you see when you came up street? the child may answer a pig. what is a pig, how did it look, describe it. saw a man, did you? was he large or small? how was he dressed? a room? what is a room? thus will they be taught to observe everything, and to talk about what they observe, and learn not only to think but to express their thoughts. he often amuses them by what he terms opposites. to illustrate: he will say "black," the child will answer "white." long, short; good, bad; heavy, light; dark, light. "what kind of light," he will ask, "is that kind which is the opposite of heavy?" here is a puzzle for them. next in importance to observation, and to be strengthened at the same time, is the _memory_. they are required to learn little pieces; short stories perhaps, or songs that their minds can comprehend; not too long, for neither the memory nor the attention should be overtaxed. . as general ammen and i were returning to camp this evening, we were joined by colonel fry, of general buell's staff, who informed us that general robert mccook was murdered, near winchester, yesterday, by a small band of guerrillas. mccook was unwell, riding in an ambulance some distance in advance of the column; while stopping in front of a farm-house to make some enquiry, the guerrillas made a sudden dash, the escort fled, and mccook was killed while lying in the ambulance defenseless. when the dutchmen of his old regiment learned of the unfortunate occurrence they became uncontrollable, and destroyed the buildings and property on five plantations near the scene of the murder. mccook had recently been promoted for gallantry at mill springs. he was a brave, bluff, talented man, and his loss will be sorely felt. captain mitchell started home in charge of a recruiting party this morning. i am anxious to fill the regiment to a thousand strong. . general ammen was at buell's quarters this evening, and ascertains that hot work is expected soon. the enemy is concentrating a heavy force between bridgeport and chattanooga. the night is exceedingly beautiful; our camp lies at the foot of a low range of mountains called the montesano; the sky seems supported by them. a cavalry patrol is just coming down the road, on its return to camp, and the men are singing: "an exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain, oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again; the birds singing gayly, that came at my call, give me them, with the peace of mind dearer than all. home, home, sweet home, there is no place like home; there is no place like home." . i have sometimes wondered how unimportant occurrences could suggest so much, but the faculty of association brings similar things before the mind, and a thousand collateral subjects as well. the band of the tenth ohio is playing. where, and under what circumstances, have i heard other bands? the question carries my thoughts into half the states of the union, into a multitude of places, into an innumerable variety of scenes--faces, conversations, theatres, balls, speeches, songs--the chain is endless, and it might be followed for a lifetime. . the enemy, a thousand strong, is said to be within five miles of us. one hundred and sixty-five men of the third, under major lawson, and five companies of cavalry, the whole commanded by colonel kennett, left at two o'clock to reconnoiter the front; they will probably go to the river unless the enemy is met on the way. a negro came in about four o'clock to report that the enemy's pickets were at his master's house, five miles from here, at the foot of the other slope of the mountain. he was such an ignorant fellow that his report was hardly intelligible. we sent him back, telling him to bring us more definite information. he was a field hand, bare-footed, horny-handed, and very black, but he knew all about "de mountings; dey can't kotch him nohow. if de sesesh am at massa bob's when i git back, i come to-night an' tell yer all." with these words, this poor proprietor of a dilapidated pair of pants and shirt, started over the mountains. what are his thoughts about the war, and its probable effects on his own fortunes, as he trudges along over the hills? is it the desire for freedom, or the dislike for his overseer, that prompts him to run five miles of a sunday to give this information? possibly both. cæsar said to the adjutant, "massa wilson, may i go to church?" "what do you want to go church for, cæsar?" "to hear de gospel." one day cæsar said to me, "co'nel, you belongs to de meetin don't you?" "why so, cæsar?" "kase i nebber heard you swar any." to-day one of the pet coons got after a chicken. a young half-naked negro took after the coon; and a long and crooked chase the chicken, coon, and negro had of it. . at five o'clock the members of the court met to say good-by, and drink a dozen bottles of scotch ale at general ammen's expense. this was quite a spree for the general, and quite his own spree. it was a big thing, equal almost to the battle of "shealoh." they were pint bottles, and the general would persist in acting upon the theory that one bottle would fill all our glasses. seeing the glasses empty he would call for another bottle, and say to us, "gentlemen, i have ordered another bottle." the general evidently drinks, when he imbibes at all, simply to be social, and a thimble-full would answer his purpose as well as a barrel. the court called on general buell; he is cold, smooth-toned, silent, the opposite of nelson, who is ardent, loud-mouthed, and violent. . colonel keifer has just received a telegram informing him that he has been appointed colonel of the one hundred and tenth ohio. i regret his departure too much to rejoice over his promotion. he has been a faithful officer, always prompt and cheerful; much better qualified to command the regiment than its colonel. watermelons, peaches, nectarines, are abundant. peaches thrive better in this climate than apples. i have eaten almost the whole of a watermelon to-day, and am somewhat satiated. the melon had a cross (+) on the rind. i enquired of the negro who brought it in, what the mark meant, and he replied, "de patch war owned principally by a good many niggars, sah, an' dey dewided dem afore day got ripe, an' put de mark on de rine, to show dat de p'tic'lar melon belonged to a p'tic'lar niggar, sah." governor tod is damaging the old regiments by injudicious promotions. he does in some instances, it is true, reward faithful soldiers; but often complaining, unwilling, incompetent fellows are promoted, who get upon the sick list to avoid duty; lay upon their backs when they should be on their feet, and are carousing when they should be asleep. on the march, instead of pushing along resolutely at the head of their command, they fall back and get into an ambulance. the troops have no confidence in them; their presence renders a whole company worthless, and this company contributes greatly to the demoralization of a regiment. . a little vine has crept into my tent and put out a handsome flower. general buell and staff, with bag and baggage, left this morning. . ordered to move. . we are at decherd, tennessee. i am weak, discouraged, and worn out with idleness. the negroes are busily engaged throwing up earth works and building stockades. to-night, as they were in line, i stopped a moment to hear the sergeant call the roll, "scipio mcdonald." "here i is, sah." "cæsar--cæsar mcdonald." "cæsar was 'sleep las' i saw ob him, sah." these negroes take the family name of their masters. the whole army is concentrated here, or near here; but nobody knows anything, except that the water is bad, whisky scarce, dust abundant, and the air loaded with the scent and melody of a thousand mules. these long-eared creatures give us every variety of sound of which they are capable, from the deep bass bray to the most attenuated whinny. the thirty-third ohio was shelled out of its fortifications at battle creek yesterday. colonel moore is in the adjoining tent, giving an account of his trials and tribulations to shanks of the new york herald. fifty of the third, under lieutenant carpenter, went to stevenson yesterday; on their return they were fired upon by guerrillas. jack boston shot a man and captured a horse. september, . . army has fallen back to murfreesboro. . at nashville. . to-night we cross the cumberland. . bivouacked in edgefield, at the north end of the railroad bridge. troops pouring over the bridge and pushing north rapidly. one of loomis' men was shot dead last night while attempting to run by a sentinel. . the moving army with its immense transportation train, raises such a cloud of dust that it is impossible to see fifty yards ahead. . arrived at bowling green. the two armies are running a race for the ohio river. at this time bragg has the lead. october, . . at taylorsville, kentucky. our first day's march out of louisville was disagreeable beyond precedent. the boys had been full of whisky for three days, and fell out of the ranks by scores. the road for sixteen miles was lined with stragglers. the new men bore the march badly. rain fell yesterday afternoon and during the night; i awoke at three o'clock this morning to find myself lying in a puddle of water. a soldier of captain rossman's company was wrestling with another, and being thrown, died almost instantly from the effect of the fall. . at bloomfield. shelled the rebels out of the woods in which we are now bivouacking, and picked up a few prisoners. the greater part of the rebel army is, we are told, at bardstown--twelve miles away. . still at bloomfield, in readiness to move at a moment's notice. . moved to maxville, and bivouacked for the night. perryville. . started in the early morning toward perryville. the occasional boom of guns at the front notified us that the enemy was not far distant. a little later the rattle of musketry mingled with the roar of artillery, and we knew the vanguard was having lively work. the boys marched well and were in high spirits; the long-looked for battle appeared really near, and that old notion that the third was fated never to see a fight seemed now likely to be exploded. at ten o'clock we were hastened forward and placed in battle line on the left of the maxville and perryville road; the cavalry in our front appeared to be seriously engaged, and every eye peered eagerly through the woods to catch a glimpse of the enemy. but in a little while the firing ceased, and with a feeling of disappointment the boys lounged about on the ground and logs awaiting further orders. they came very soon. at a. m. the third was directed to take the head of the column and move forward. we anticipated no danger, for rousseau and his staff were in advance of us, followed by lytle and his staff. the regiment was marching by the flank, and had proceeded to the brow of the hill overlooking a branch of the chaplin river, and was about to descend into the valley, when the enemy's artillery opened in front with great fury. rousseau and his staff wheeled suddenly out of the road to the left, accompanied by lytle. after a moment spent by them in consultation, i was ordered to countermarch my regiment to the bottom of the hill we had just ascended, and file off to the right of the road. loomis' and simonson's batteries were soon put in position, and began to reply to the enemy. a furious interchange of shell and solid shot occurred, but after a little while our batteries ceased firing, and we had comparative silence. about o'clock the rebel infantry was seen advancing across the valley, and i ordered the third to ascend the hill and take position on the crest. the enemy's batteries now reopened with redoubled fury, and the air seemed filled with shot and exploding shells. finding the rebels were still too far away to make our muskets effective, i ordered the boys to lie down and await their nearer approach. they advanced under cover of a house on the side hill, and having reached a point one hundred and fifty yards distant, deployed behind a stone fence which was hidden from us by standing corn. at this time the left of my regiment rested on the maxville and perryville road; the line extending along the crest of the hill, and the right passing somewhat behind a barn filled with hay. in this position, with the enemy's batteries pouring upon us a most destructive fire, the third arose and delivered its first volley. for a time, i do not know how long thereafter, it seemed as if all hell had broken loose; the air was filled with hissing balls; shells were exploding continuously, and the noise of the guns was deafening; finally the barn on the right took fire, and the flames bursting from roof, windows, doors, and interstices between the logs, threw the right of the regiment into disorder; the confusion, however, was but temporary. the boys closed up to the left, steadied themselves on the colors, and stood bravely to the work. nearly two hundred of my five hundred men now lay dead and wounded on the little strip of ground over which we fought. colonel curren pope, of the fifteenth kentucky, whose regiment was being held in reserve at the bottom of the hill, had already twice requested me to retire my men and allow him to take the position. finding now that our ammunition was exhausted, i sent him notice, and as his regiment marched to the crest the third was withdrawn in as perfect order, i think, as it ever moved from the drill-ground. the fifteenth made a gallant fight, and lost heavily both in officers and men; in fact, the lieutenant-colonel and major fell mortally wounded while it was moving into position. colonel pope was also wounded, but not so seriously as to prevent his continuing in command. the enemy getting now upon its right and rear, the regiment was compelled to retire from the crest. after consultation with colonel pope, it was determined to move our regiments to the left, and form a line perpendicular to the one originally taken, and thus give protection to the rear and right of the troops on our left. the enemy observing this movement, and accepting it as an indication of withdrawal, advanced rapidly toward us, when i about faced my regiment, and ordered the men to fix bayonets and move forward to meet him; but before we had proceeded many yards, i was overtaken by lieutenant grover, of colonel lytle's staff, with an order to retire. turning into a ravine a few rods distant, we found an ammunition wagon, and, under a dropping fire from the enemy, refilled our empty cartridge boxes. ascertaining while here that colonel lytle was certainly wounded, and probably killed, i reported at once for duty to colonel len. harris, commanding ninth brigade of our division; but night soon thereafter put an end to the engagement. we bivouacked in a corn-field. the regiment had grown suddenly small. it was a sorry night for us indeed. every company had its long list of killed, wounded, and missing. over two hundred were gone. nearly two hundred, we felt quite sure, had fallen dead or disabled on the field. many eyes were in tears, and many hearts were bleeding for lost comrades and dear friends. general rousseau rides up in the darkness, and, as we gather around him, says, in a voice tremulous with emotion: "boys of the third, you stood in that withering fire like men of iron." they did. they are thirsty and hungry. few, however, think either of food or water. their thoughts are on the crest of that little hill, where cunard, mcdougal, st. john, starr, and scores of others lie cold in death. they think of the wounded and suffering, and speak to each other of the terrible ordeal through which they have passed, with bated breath and in solemn tones, as if a laugh, or jest, or frivolous word, would be an insult to the slain. they have long sought for a battle, and often been disappointed and sore because they failed to find one; but now, for the first time, they really realize what a battle is. they see it is to men what an arctic wind is to autumn leaves, and are astonished to find that any have outlived the furious storm of deadly missiles. the enemy is in the woods before us, and as the sentinels occasionally exchange shots, we can see the flash of their guns and hear the whistle of bullets above our heads. the two armies are too near to sleep comfortably, or even safely, so the boys cling to their muskets and keep ready for action. it is a long night, but it finally comes to an end. . the enemy has disappeared, and we go to the hill where our fight occurred. within the compass of a few rods we find a hundred men of the third and fifteenth lying stiff and cold. beside these there are many wounded, whom we pick up tenderly, carry off and provide for. men are already digging trenches, and in a little while the dead are gathered together for interment. we have looked upon such scenes before; but then the faces were strange to us. now they are the familiar faces of intimate personal friends, to whom we are indebted for many kindly acts. we hear convulsive sobs, see eyes swollen and streaming with tears, and as our fallen comrades are deposited in their narrow grave, the lines of wolfe recur to us: "no useless coffin inclosed his breast; not in sheet or in shroud we wound him, but he lay like a warrior taking his rest, with his martial cloak around him. * * * * * slowly and sadly we laid him down from the field of his fame fresh and gory; we carved not a line, we raised not a stone, but left him alone with his glory." . we are in a field near harrodsburg. moved yesterday from perryville. we are without tents. rain is falling, and the men uncomfortable. many, perhaps most, of the boys of the regiment disliked me thoroughly. they thought me too strict, too rigid in the enforcement of orders; but now they are, without exception, my fast friends. during the battle of chaplin hills, while the enemy's artillery was playing upon us with terrible effect, i ordered them to lie down. the shot, shell, and canister came thick as hail, hissing, exploding, and tearing up the ground around us. there was a universal cry from the boys that i should lie down also; but i continued to walk up and down the line, watching the approaching enemy, and replied to their entreaties, "no; it is my time to stand guard now, and i will not lie down." meeting captain loomis yesterday, he said: "do you know you captured a regiment at chaplin hills?" "i do not." "yes, you captured the third. you have not a man now who wouldn't die for you." i have been too much occupied of late to record even the most interesting and important events. i should like to preserve the names of the private soldiers who behaved like heroes in the battle; but i have only time to mention the fact that our colors changed hands seven times during the engagement. six of our color bearers were either killed or wounded, and as the sixth man was falling, a soldier of company c, named david c. walker, a boyish fellow, whose cheeks were ruddy as a girl's, and who had lost his hat in the fight, sprang forward, caught the falling flag, then stepping out in front of the regiment, waved it triumphantly, and carried it to the end of the battle. on the next morning i made him color bearer, and undertook to thank him for his gallantry, but my eyes filled and voice choked, and i was unable to articulate a word. he understood me, doubtless. if it had not been for mccook's foolish haste, it is more than probable that bragg would have been most thoroughly whipped and utterly routed. as it was, two or three divisions had to contend for half a day with one of the largest and best disciplined of the confederate armies, and that, too, when our troops in force were lying but a few miles in the rear, ready and eager to be led into the engagement. the whole affair is a mystery to me. mccook is, doubtless, to blame for being hasty; but may not buell be censurable for being slow? and may it not be true that this butchery of men has resulted from the petty jealousies existing between the commanders of different army corps and divisions? . encamped in a broken, hilly field, five miles south of crab orchard. from perryville to this place, there has been each day occasional cannonading; but this morning i have heard no guns. the cumberland mountains are in sight. we are pushing forward as fast probably as it is possible for a great army to move. buell is here superintending the movement. . in the woods near lebanon, and still without tents. bragg has left kentucky, and is thought to be hastening toward nashville. we shall follow him. having now twice traveled the road, the march is likely to prove tedious and uninteresting. the army has been marching almost constantly for two months, and bivouacking at night with an insufficiency of clothing. the troops are lying in an immense grove of large beech. we have had supper, and a very good one, by the way: pickled salmon, currant jelly, fried ham, butter, coffee, and crackers. it is now long after nightfall, and the forest is aglow with a thousand camp-fires. the hum of ten thousand voices strikes the ear like the roar of a distant sea. a band away off to the right is mingling its music with the noise, and a mule now and then breaks in with a voice not governed by any rules of melody known to man. november, . . in camp at sinking spring, kentucky. thomas commands the fourteenth army corps, consisting of rousseau's, palmer's, dumont's, negley's, and fry's divisions; say , men. mccook has sill's, jeff c. davis', and granger's; say , . crittenden has three divisions, say , . a large army, which ought to sweep to mobile without difficulty. sinking spring, as it is called by some, mill spring by others, and by still others lost river, is quite a large stream. it rises from the ground, runs forty rods or more, enters a cave, and is lost. the wreck of an old mill stands on its banks. bowling green is three miles southward. when we get a little further south, we shall find at this season of the year persimmons and opossums in abundance. jack says: "possum am better dan chicken. in de fall we hunt de possum ebbery night 'cept sunday. he am mitey good an' fat, sah; sometimes he too fat." we move at ten o'clock to-morrow. . we have settled down at mitchellville for a few days. after dinner furay and i rode six miles beyond this, on the road to nashville, to the house of a union farmer whose acquaintance i made last spring. the old gentleman was very glad to see us, and insisted upon our remaining until after supper. in fact, he urged us to stay all night; but we consented to remain for supper only, and would not allow him to put our horses in the stable. we learned that a little over a week ago the rebels endeavored to enforce the conscription law in this neighborhood, and one of mr. baily's sons was notified to appear at gallatin to enter the southern army. he was informed that if he did not appear voluntarily at the appointed time, he would be taken, either dead or alive. he did not go, and since has been constantly on the watch, expecting the guerrilla bands, which rendezvous at tyree springs, ten miles distant, to come for the purpose of taking him away. when, therefore, he saw furay and me galloping up to the house, he mounted his horse and rode for the woods as fast as his steed could carry him. after we had been there half an hour, he returned, and, while shaking hands with us, said: "you scared me out of a full year's growth." morgan, with a force, the strength of which is variously estimated, passed near this a few days ago. many of mr. baily's neighbors are members of the guerrilla bands, and all of them willing spies and informers. we had a splendid supper: chicken, pork, ham, milk, pumpkin pie; in short, there was every thing on the table that a hungry man could desire. i had introduced mr. furay as the correspondent of the cincinnati gazette; but the good folks, not understanding this long title exactly, dubbed him doctor. there were three strapping girls in the family, who did not make their appearance until they had taken time to put on their sunday clothes. to one of these the doctor paid special attention, and finally won his way so far into her good favor as to induce her to play him a tune on the dulcimer, an abominable instrument, which she pounded with two little sticks. the doctor declared that the music was good--excellent--charming. he now attempts to get out of this outrageous falsehood by affirming that he referred simply to the air--the tune--and not to the manner in which it was executed by the young lady. this, however, is a mere quibble. it was quite dark when we said good-by to this kind-hearted, excellent family, and started on our way back to camp. the woods were on fire for miles along the road. many fences and farm buildings had caught. one large house tumbled in as we were passing, and the fences, out-buildings, and trees were all enveloped in flames. while riding slowly forward, and looking back upon the dense cloud of smoke, the flames stretching as far almost as the eye could reach, the dry trees standing up like immense pillars of fire, we were startled not a little by the sentinel's challenge, "halt!" there had been no pickets on the road when we were going out, and we were, therefore, uncertain whether the challenge came from our own men or those of john morgan. "who comes there?" continued the sentinel. "friends." "advance friends, and give the countersign." going up to the sentinel, i told him who we were, and that we had not the countersign. after a little delay, the officer of the guard came and allowed us to proceed. . to-day farmer baily came to see us. i sent his good wife a haversack of coffee, to remunerate her somewhat for the excellent dinner she had given us. he urged us to come again, and said they would have a turkey prepared for us this afternoon; but i declined with thanks. . at eight o'clock to-morrow morning we shall move to tyree springs, a little village situated in the heart of a wild, broken tract of country, which, of late, has been a favorite rendezvous for guerrillas and highwaymen. citizens and soldiers traveling to and from nashville, during the last two months, have, at or near this place, been compelled to empty their pockets, and when their clothes were better than those of their captors, have been compelled to spare them also. we have no certain information as to the enemy's whereabouts. one rumor says he is at lavergne, another locates him at murfreesboro, and still another puts him at chattanooga. general rosecrans is now in command, and, urged on by the desires of the north, may follow him to the latter place this winter. a man from whom the people are each day expecting some extraordinary action, some tremendous battle, in which the enemy shall be annihilated, is unfortunately situated, and likely very soon to become unpopular. it takes two to make a fight, as it does to make a bargain. general john pope is the only warrior of modern times who can find a battle whenever he wants to, and take any number of prisoners his heart desires. even his brilliant achievements, however, afford the people but temporary satisfaction, for, upon investigation, they are unable to find either the captives or the discomfited hosts. i predict that in twelve months rosecrans will be as unpopular as buell. after the affair at rich mountain, the former was a great favorite. when placed in command of the forces in western virginia, the people expected hourly to hear of floyd's destruction; but after a whole summer was spent in the vain endeavor to chase down the enemy and bring him to battle, they began to abuse rosecrans, and he finally left that department, much as buell has left this. our generals should, undoubtedly, do more, but our people should certainly expect less. . at tyree springs. am the presiding officer of a court-martial. the supplies for the great army at nashville and beyond, are wagoned over this road from mitchellville to edgefield junction. immense trains are passing continually. . general bob mitchell dined with me to-day. he is on the way to nashville. blows his own trumpet, as of old, and expects that a division will be given him. . this is a delightful indian summer day. i have been in the forest, under the persimmon and butternut trees. it is the first ramble i have had at this season for years, and i thought of the many quiet places in the thick woods of the old homestead, where long ago i hunted for hickory-nuts and walnuts; then of its hazel thickets, through which were scattered the wild plum, black-haw, and thorn-apple--perfect solitudes, in which the squirrels and birds had the happiest of times. how pleasant it is to recur to those days; and how well i remember every path through the dense woods, and every little open grassy plot, made brilliant by the summer sunshine. december, . . we move to-morrow, at six o'clock in the morning, to nashville. . nashville. every thing indicates an early movement. whether a reconnoissance is intended or a permanent advance, i do not even undertake to guess. the capture of a brigade, at hartsville, by john morgan, has awakened the army into something like life; before it was idly awaiting the rise of the cumberland, but this bold dash of the rebels has made it bristle up like an angry boar; and this morning, i am told, it starts out to show its tusks to the enemy. our division has been ordered to be in readiness. the kind of weather we desire now, is that which is generally considered the most disagreeable, namely, a long rain; two weeks of rain-fall is necessary to make the cumberland navigable, and thus ensure to us abundant supplies. the whole army feels deeply mortified over the loss of the brigade at hartsville; report says it was captured by an inferior force. one of our regiments did not fire a gun, and certainly the other two could not have made a very obstinate resistance. i am glad ohio does not have to bear the whole blame; two-thirds is rather too much. . during all of the latter part of last night troops were pouring through nashville, and going southward. our division, rousseau's, moved three miles beyond the city, and went into camp on the franklin road. . our court has been holding its sessions in the city, but to-day it adjourned to meet at division head-quarters to-morrow at ten o'clock a. m. the most interesting character of our court-martial is colonel h. c. hobart, of the twenty-first wisconsin; a gentleman who has held many important public positions in his own state, and whose knowledge of the law, fondness for debate, obstinacy in the maintenance of his opinions, love of fun, and kind-heartedness, are immense. he makes use of the phrase, "in my country," when he refers to any thing which has taken place in wisconsin; from this we infer that he is a foreigner, and pretend to regard him as a savage from the great west. he has, therefore, been dubbed chief of the wisconsins. the court occasionally becomes exceedingly mellow of an evening, and then the favorite theme is the "injin." such horrible practices as dog eating and cannibalism are imputed to the chief. to-night we visited the theater to witness ingomar. on returning to our room at bassay's restaurant, the members took solemn irish oaths that the man with the sheep-skin on his back, purporting to be ingomar, was no other than hobart, the wisconsin savage; and the supposition that such an individual could ever reform, and become fitted for civilized society, was a monstrous fiction, too improbable even for the stage. it should not be presumed from this, however, that the subject of our raillery holds his tongue all the time. on the contrary, he expresses the liveliest contempt for the opinions of his colleagues of the court-martial, and professes to think if it were not for the aid which the nation receives from his countrymen, the wisconsins, the effort to restore the union would be an utter failure. bassay's restaurant is a famous resort for military gentlemen. major-general hamilton just now took dinner; major-general lew wallace, brigadier-generals tyler and schoepf, and major donn piatt occupy rooms on the floor above us, and take their meals here; so that we move in the vicinity of the most illustrious of men. we are hardly prepared now to say that we are on intimate terms with the gentlemen who bear these historic names; but we are at least allowed to look at them from a respectful distance. a few years hence, when they are so far away as to make contradiction improbable, if not impossible, we may claim to have been their boon companions, and to have drank and played whist with them in the most genial and friendly way. . this afternoon negley sent over a request for help, stating that his forage train had been attacked. the alarm, however, proved groundless. a few shots only had been fired at the foragers. . the news from fredericksburg has cast a shadow over the army. we did hope that burnside would be successful, and thus brighten the prospect for a speedy peace; but we are in deeper gloom now than ever. the repulse at fredericksburg, while it has disabled thousands, has disheartened, if not demoralized a great army, and given confidence and strength to the rebels every-where. it may be, however, that this defeat was necessary to bring us clearly to the point of extinguishing slavery in all the states. the time is near when the strength of the president's resolution in this regard will be put to the test. i trust he will be firm. the mere reconstruction of the union on the old basis would not pay humanity for all the blood shed since the war began. the extinction of slavery, perhaps, will. while the north raises immense numbers of men, and scatters them to the four winds, the enemy concentrates, fortifies, and awaits attack. will the man ever come to consolidate these innumerable detachments of the national army, and then sweep through the confederacy like a tornado? it is said that many regiments in the eastern army number less than one hundred men, and yet have a full complement of field and company officers. this is ridiculous; nay, it is an outrage upon the tax-payers of the north. worse still, so long as such a skeleton is called a regiment, it is likely to bring discredit upon the state and nation; for how can it perform the work of a regiment when it has but one-tenth of a regiment's strength? these regiments should be consolidated, and the superfluous officers either sent home or put into the ranks. . this morning, at one o'clock, we were ordered to hold ourselves in readiness to march at a moment's notice, with five days' rations. court has adjourned to meet at nine o'clock a. m. monday. it is disposing of cases quite rapidly, and i think next week, if there be no interruptions, it will be able to clear the docket. a brigade, which went out with a forage train yesterday, captured a confederate lieutenant at a private house. he was engaged at the moment of his capture in writing a letter to his sweetheart. the letter was headed nashville, and he was evidently intent upon deceiving his lady-love into the belief that he had penetrated the yankee lines, and was surrounded by foes. had the letter reached her fair hands, what earnest prayers would have gone up for the succor of this bold and reckless youth. there was a meeting of the generals yesterday, but for what purpose they only know. . the dispatches from indianapolis speak of the probable promotion of colonel jones, forty-second indiana. this seems like a joke to those who know him. he can not manage a regiment, and not even his best friends have any confidence in his military capacity. in indiana, however, they promote every body to brigadierships. sol meredith, who went into the service long after the war began, and who, in drilling his regiment, would say: "battalion, right or left face, as the case may be, march," was made a brigadier some time ago. milroy, crittenden, and many others were promoted for inconsiderable services in engagements which have long since been forgotten by the public. their promotions were not made for the benefit of the service, but for the political advancement of the men who caused them to be made. last evening, a little after dark, we were startled by heavy cannonading on our left, and thought the enemy was making an attack. the boys in our division were all aglow with excitement, and cheered loudly; but after ten or fifteen minutes the firing ceased, and i have heard no more about it. the rebels are before us in force. the old game of concentration is probably being played. the repulse of our army at fredericksburg will embolden them. it will also enable them to spare troops to reinforce bragg. the confederates are on the inside of the circle, while we are on the outside, scattered far and wide. they can cut across and concentrate rapidly, while we must move around. they can meet burnside at fredericksburg, and then whip across the country and face us, thus making a smaller army than ours outnumber us in every battle. in the south the army makes public opinion, and moves along unaffected by it. in the north the army has little or nothing to do with the creation of public sentiment, and yet is its servant. the people of the north, who were clamoring for action, are probably responsible for the fatal repulse at fredericksburg and the defeat at bull run. the north must be patient, and get to understand that the work before us is not one that can be accomplished in a day or month. it should be pushed deliberately, yet persistently. we should get rid of a vast number of men who are forever in hospital. they are an expense to the country, and an incumbrance to the army. we should consolidate regiments, and send home thousands of unnecessary officers, who draw pay and yet make no adequate return for it. . the court met this morning as usual. we are now going on the fifth week of the session. new cases arise just about as fast as old ones are disposed of. the boys in front of my tent are singing: "we are going home, we are going home, to die no more." were they to devote as much time to praying as they do to singing, they would soon establish a reputation for piety; but, unfortunately for them, after the hymn they generally proceed to swear, instead of prayer, and one is left in doubt as to what home they propose to go to. . about noon there were several discharges of artillery in our front, and last night occasional shots served as cheerful reminders that the enemy was near. at an expense of one dollar and seventy-five cents, i procured a small turkey and had a christmas dinner; but it lacked the collaterals, and was a failure. for twenty months now i have been a sojourner in camps, a dweller in tents, going hither and yon, at all hours of the day and night, in all sorts of weather, sleeping for weeks at a stretch without shelter, and yet i have been strong and healthy. how very thankful i should feel on this christmas night! there goes the boom of a cannon at the front. . this morning we started south on the franklin road. when some ten miles away from nashville, we turned toward murfreesboro, and are now encamped in the woods, near the head-waters of the little harpeth. the march was exceedingly unpleasant. rain began to fall about the time of starting, and continued to pour down heavily for four hours, wetting us all thoroughly. i have command of the brigade. . we moved at eight o'clock this morning, over a very bad dirt road, from wilson's pike to the nolansville road, where we are now bivouacking. about ten the artillery commenced thundering in our front, and continued during the greater portion of the day. marched two miles toward triune to support mccook, who was having a little bout with the enemy; but the engagement ending, we returned to our present quarters in a drenching rain. saw general thomas, our corps commander, going to and returning from the front. we are sixteen miles from nashville, on a road running midway between franklin and murfreesboro. the enemy is supposed to be in force at the latter place. . at four o'clock p. m. we were ordered to leave baggage and teams behind, and march to stewart's creek, a point twenty miles from nashville. night had set in before the brigade got fairly under way. the road runs through a barren, hilly, pine district, and was exceedingly bad. at eleven o'clock at night we reached the place indicated, and lay on the damp ground until morning. . at eight o'clock a. m. the artillery opened in our front; but after perhaps two hours of irregular firing, it ceased altogether, and we were led to the conclusion that but few rebels were in this vicinity, the main body being at murfreesboro, probably. going to the front about ten o'clock, i met general hascall. he had had a little fight at lavergne, the twenty-sixth ohio losing twenty men, and his brigade thirty altogether. he also had a skirmish at this place, in which he captured a few prisoners. saw general thomas riding to the front. rosecrans is here, and most of the army of the cumberland either here or hereabouts. mccook's corps had an inconsiderable engagement at triune on saturday. loss small on both sides. riding by a farm-house this afternoon, i caught a glimpse of miss harris, of lavergne, at the window, and stopped to talk with her a minute. the young lady and her mother have experienced a great deal of trouble recently. they were shelled out of lavergne three times, two of the shells passing through her mother's house. she claims to have been shot at once by a soldier of the one hundred and nineteenth illinois, the ball splintering the window-sill near her head. her mother's house has been converted into a hospital, and the clothes of the family taken for bandages. she is, therefore, more rebellious now than ever. she is getting her rights, poor girl! . a little after daylight the brigade moved, and proceeded to within three miles of murfreesboro, where we have been awaiting orders since ten o'clock a. m. the first boom of artillery was heard at ten o'clock. since then there has been almost a continuous roar. mccook's corps is in advance of us, perhaps a mile and a half, and, with divisions from other corps, has been gradually approaching the enemy all day, driving his skirmishers from one point to another. about four o'clock in the afternoon the artillery firing became more vigorous, and, with colonel foreman, of the fifteenth kentucky, i rode to the front, and then along our advanced line from right to left. our artillery stationed on the higher points was being fired rapidly. the skirmishers were advancing cautiously, and the contest between the two lines was quite exciting. as i supposed, our army is feeling its way into position. to-morrow, doubtless, the grand battle will be fought, when i trust the good lord will grant us a glorious victory, and one that will make glad the hearts of all loyal people on new-year's day. i saw lieutenant-colonel given, eighteenth ohio. twelve of his men had been wounded. met colonel wagner, fifteenth indiana. starkweather's brigade lost its wagon train this forenoon. jeff c. davis, i am told, was wounded this evening. a shell exploded near a group, consisting of general rosecrans and staff, killing two horses and wounding two men. stone river. . at six o'clock in the morning my brigade marches to the front and forms in line of battle. the roar of musketry and artillery is incessant. at nine o'clock we move into the cedar woods on the right to support mccook, who is reported to be giving way. general rousseau points me to the place he desires me to defend, and enjoins me to "hold it until hell freezes over," at the same time telling me that he may be found immediately on the left of my brigade with loomis' battery. i take position. an open wood is in my front; but where the line is formed, and to the right and left, the cedar thicket is so dense as to render it impossible to see the length of a regiment. the enemy comes up directly, and the fight begins. the roar of the guns to the right, left, and front of my brigade sounds like the continuous pounding on a thousand anvils. my men are favorably situated, being concealed by the cedars, while the enemy, advancing through the open woods, is fully exposed. early in the action colonel foreman, of the fifteenth kentucky, is killed, and his regiment retires in disorder. the third ohio, eighty-eighth, and forty-second indiana, hold the position, and deliver their fire so effectively that the enemy is finally forced back. i find a michigan regiment and attach it to my command, and send a staff officer to general rousseau to report progress; but before he has time to return, the enemy makes another and more furious assault upon my line. after a fierce struggle, lasting from forty to sixty minutes, we succeed in repelling this also. i send again to general rousseau, and am soon after informed that neither he nor loomis' battery can be found. troops are reported to be falling back hastily, and in disorder, on my left. i send a staff officer to the right, and ascertain that scribner's and shepperd's brigades are gone. i conclude that the contingency has arisen to which general rousseau referred--that is to say, that hell has frozen over--and about face my brigade and march to the rear, where the guns appear to be hammering away with redoubled fury. in the edge of the woods, and not far from the murfreesboro pike, i find the new line of battle, and take position. five minutes after the enemy strike us. for a time--i can not even guess how long--the line stands bravely to the work; but the regiments on our left get into disorder, and finally become panic-stricken. the fright spreads, and my brigade sweeps by me to the open field in our rear. i hasten to the colors, stop them, and endeavor to rally the men. the field is by this time covered with flying troops, and the enemy's fire is most deadly. my brigade, however, begins to steady itself on the colors, when my horse is shot under me, and i fall heavily to the ground. before i have time to recover my feet, my troops, with thousands of others, sweep in disorder to the rear, and i am left standing alone. going back to the railroad, i find my men, general rousseau, loomis, and, in fact, the larger part of the army. the artillery has been concentrated at this point, and now opens upon the advancing columns of the enemy with fearful effect, and continues its thunders until nightfall. the artillery saved the army. the battle during the whole day was terrific. i find that soon after the fight began in the cedars, our division was ordered back to a new line, and that the order had been delivered to scribner and shepperd, but not to me. they had, consequently, retired to the second position under fire, and had suffered most terribly in the operation; while my brigade, being forgotten by the division commander, or by the officer whose duty it was to convey the order, had held its ground until it had twice repulsed the enemy, and then changed position in comparative safety. a retrograde movement under fire must necessarily be extremely hazardous. it demoralizes your own men, who can not, at the moment, understand the purpose of the movement, while it encourages the enemy. the one accepts it as an indication of defeat; the other as an assurance of victory. mccook had been surprised and shattered in the morning. this unexpected success had inspired the rebels and dispirited us. they fought like devils, and the victory--if victory there was to either army--belonged to them. when the sun went down, and the firing ceased, the union army, despondent, but not despairing, weary and hungry, but still hopeful, lay on its arms, ready to renew the conflict on the morrow. january, . . at dawn we are all in line, expecting every moment the re-commencement of the fearful struggle. occasionally a battery engages a battery opposite, and the skirmishers keep up a continual roar of small arms; but until nearly night there is no heavy fighting. both armies want rest; both have suffered terribly. here and there little parties are engaged burying the dead, which lie thick around us. now the mangled remains of a poor boy of the third is being deposited in a shallow grave. a whole charge of canister seems to have gone through him. generals rosecrans and thomas are riding over the field, now halting to speak words of encouragement to the troops, then going on to inspect portions of the line. i have been supplied with a new horse, but one far inferior to the dead stallion. a little before sun-down all hell seems to break loose again, and for about an hour the thunder of the artillery and volleys of musketry are deafening; but it is simply the evening salutation of the combatants. the darkness deepens; the weather is raw and disagreeable. fifty thousand hungry men are stretched beside their guns again on the field. fortunately i have a piece of raw pork and a few crackers in my pocket. no food ever tasted sweeter. the night is gloomy enough; but our spirits are rising. we all glory in the obstinacy with which rosecrans has clung to his position. i draw closer to the camp-fire, and, pushing the brands together, take out my little bible, and as i open it my eyes fall on the xci psalm: "i will say of the lord, he is my refuge and my fortress, my god; in him will i trust. surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. he shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shall be thy trust. his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. thou shalt not be, afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. a thousand shall fall by thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee." camp-fires innumerable are glimmering in the darkness. now and then a few mounted men gallop by. scattering shots are heard along the picket line. the gloom has lifted, and i wrap myself in my blanket and lie down contentedly for the night. . at sunrise we have a shower of solid shot and shell. the chicago board of trade battery is silenced. the shot roll up the murfreesboro pike like balls on a bowling alley. many horses are killed. a soldier near me, while walking deliberately to the rear, to seek a place of greater safety, is struck between the shoulders by a ricochetting ball, and instantly killed. we are ordered to be in readiness to repel an attack, and form line of battle amid this fearful storm of iron. gaunther and loomis get their batteries in position, and, after twenty or thirty minutes' active work, silence the enemy and compel him to withdraw. then we have a lull until one or two o'clock, when van cleve's division on the left is attacked. as the volume of musketry increases, and the sound grows nearer, we understand that our troops are being driven back, and brigade after brigade double quicks from the right and center, across the open field, to render aid. battery after battery goes in the same direction on the run, the drivers lashing the horses to their utmost speed. the thunder of the guns becomes more violent; the volleys of musketry grow into one prolonged and unceasing roll. now we hear the yell which betokens encouraged hearts; but whose yell? thank god, it is ours! the conflict is working southward; the enemy has been checked, repulsed, and is now in retreat. so ends another day. the hungry soldiers cut steaks from the slain horses, and, with the scanty supplies which have come forward, gather around the fires to prepare supper, and talk over the incidents of the day. the prospect seems brighter. we have held the ground, and in this last encounter have whipped the enemy. there is more cheerful conversation among the men. they discuss the battle, the officers, and each other, and give us now and then a snatch of song. officers come over from adjoining brigades, hoping to find a little whisky, but learn, with apparent resignation and well-feigned composure, that the canteens have been long empty; that even the private flasks, which officers carry with the photographs of their sweethearts, in a side pocket next to their hearts, are destitute of even the flavor of this article of prime necessity. my much-esteemed colleague of the court-martial, colonel hobart, stumbles up in the thick darkness to pay his respects. the sentinel, mistaking him for a private, tells him, with an oath, that this is neither the time nor place for stragglers, and orders him back to his regiment; and so the night wears on, and fifty thousand men lay upon their guns again. . colonel shanklin, with a strong detachment from my brigade, was captured last night while on picket. rifle pits are being dug, and i am ordered to protect the workmen. the rebels hold a strip of woods in our immediate front, and we get up a lively skirmish with them. our men, however, appear loth to advance far enough to afford the necessary protection to the workers. vexed at their unwillingness to venture out, i ride forward and start over a line to which i desire the skirmishers to advance, and discover, before i have gone twenty yards, that i have done a foolish thing. a hundred muskets open on me from the woods; but the eyes of my own brigade and of other troops are on me, and i can not back out. i quicken the pace of my horse somewhat, and continue my perilous course. the bullets whistle like bees about my head, but i ride the whole length of the proposed skirmish line, and get back to the brigade in safety. colonel humphrey, of the eighty-eighth indiana, comes up to me, and with a tremor in his voice, which indicates much feeling, says: "my god, colonel, never do that again!" the caution is unnecessary. i had already made up my mind never to do it again. we keep up a vigorous skirmish with the enemy for hours, losing now and then a man; but later in the day we are relieved from this duty, and retire to a quieter place. about nightfall general rousseau desires me to get two regiments in readiness, and, as soon as it becomes quite dark, charge upon and clean out the woods in our front. i select the third ohio and eighty-eighth indiana for this duty, and at the appointed time we form line in the open field in front of gaunther's battery, and as we start, the battery commences to shell the woods. as we get nearer the objective point, i put the men on the double quick. the rebels, discovering our approach, open a heavy fire, but in the darkness shoot too high. the blaze of their guns reveals their exact position to us. we reach the rude log breastworks behind which they are standing and grapple with them. colonel humphrey receives a severe thrust from a bayonet; others are wounded, and some killed. it is pitch dark under the trees. some of gaunther's shells fall short, and alarm the men. unable to find either staff officer or orderly, i ride back and request him to elevate his guns. returning, i find my troops blazing away with great energy; but, so far as i can discover, their fire is not returned. it is difficult, however, in the noise, confusion, and darkness, to direct their movements, and impossible to stop the firing. in the meantime a new danger threatens. spear's tennesseeans have been sent to support us, probably without any definite instructions. they are, most of them, raw troops, and, becoming either excited or alarmed at the terrible racket in the woods, deliver scattering shots in our rear. i ride back and urge them either to cease firing or move to the left, go forward and look after our flank. one regiment does move as directed; but the others are immovable, and it is with great difficulty that i succeed in making them understand that in firing they are more likely to injure friends than foes. fortunately, soon after this, the ammunition of the third and eighty-eighth becoming exhausted, the firing in the woods ceases, and, as the enemy has already abandoned the field, the affair ends. i try to find general rousseau to report results, but can not; and so, worn out with fatigue and excitement, lie down for another night. . every thing quiet in our front. it is reported that the enemy has disappeared. investigation confirms the report, and the cavalry push into murfreesboro and beyond. during the forenoon the army crosses stone river, and with music, banners, and rejoicings, takes possession of the old camps of the enemy. so the long and doubtful struggle ends. . i ride over the battle-field. in one place a caisson and five horses are lying, the latter killed in harness, and all fallen together. nationals and confederates, young, middle-aged, and old, are scattered over the woods and fields for miles. poor wright, of my old company, lay at the barricade in the woods which we stormed on the night of the last day. many others lay about him. further on we find men with their legs shot off; one with brains scooped out with a cannon ball; another with half a face gone; another with entrails protruding; young winnegard, of the third, has one foot off and both legs pierced by grape at the thighs; another boy lies with his hands clasped above his head, indicating that his last words were a prayer. many confederate sharpshooters lay behind stumps, rails, and logs, shot in the head. a young boy, dressed in the confederate uniform, lies with his face turned to the sky, and looks as if he might be sleeping. poor boy! what thoughts of home, mother, death, and eternity, commingled in his brain as the life-blood ebbed away! many wounded horses are limping over the field. one mule, i heard of, had a leg blown off on the first day's battle; next morning it was on the spot where first wounded; at night it was still standing there, not having moved an inch all day, patiently suffering, it knew not why nor for what. how many poor men moaned through the cold nights in the thick woods, where the first day's battle occurred, calling in vain to man for help, and finally making their last solemn petition to god! in the evening i met rousseau, mccook, and crittenden. they had been imbibing freely. rousseau insisted upon my turning back and going with them to his quarters. crittenden was the merriest of the party. on the way he sang, in a voice far from melodious, a pastorial ditty with which childhood is familiar: "mary had a little lamb, his fleece was white as snow, and every-where that mary went the lamb was sure to go." evidently the lion had left the chieftain's heart, and the lamb had entered and taken possession. mccook complimented me by saying that my brigade fought well. he should know, for he sat behind it at the commencement of the second assault of the enemy in the cedars, on the first day; but very soon thereafter disappeared. just when he left, and why he did so, i do not know. at rousseau's we found a large number of staff and line officers. the demijohn was introduced, and all paid their respects to it. the ludicrous incidents, of which there are more or less even in battles, of the last five days, were referred to, and much merriment prevailed. . the army is being reorganized, and we are busily engaged repairing the damages sustained in the battle. visited the hospitals, and, so far as possible, looked after the wounded of my brigade. to-morrow the chaplains will endeavor to hunt them all up, and report their whereabouts and condition. . i was called upon late in the evening to make a report of the operations of my brigade immediately, as general rousseau intends to leave for louisville in the morning. it is impossible to collect the information necessary in the short time allowed me. one of my regimental commanders, colonel foreman, was killed; another, colonel humphrey, was wounded, and is in hospital; another, lieutenant-colonel shanklin, was captured, and is absent; but i gathered up hastily what facts i could obtain as to the casualties in the several regiments, and wrote my report in the few minutes which remained for me to do so, and sent it in. i have not had an opportunity to do justice either to my brigade or myself. . move in the direction of columbia, on a reconnoitering expedition. my brigade stops at salem, and the cavalry pushes on. . have been exposed to a drenching rain for thirty hours. the men are cold, hungry, and mutinous. . ordered back to murfreesboro, and march thither in a storm of snow and sleet. it is decidedly the coldest day we have experienced since last winter. i find two numbers of harper's weekly on my return. they abound in war stories. the two heroes, of whom i read to-night, received saber cuts on the face and head, obtained leave of absence, returned home, and married forthwith. saber cuts are very rare in the army of the cumberland, and if young officers were compelled to defer entering into wedlock until they got wounds of this kind, there would be precious few soldiers married. bullet wounds are common enough; but the hand-to-hand encounters, knightly contests of swords, the cleaving of head-pieces and shattering of spears, are not incidents of modern warfare. the long rain has completely saturated the ground. the floor of my tent is muddy; but my bed will be dry, and as i have not had my clothes off for three days, i look forward to a comfortable night's rest. the picture in harper, of "christmas eve," will bring tears to the eyes of many a poor fellow shivering over the camp-fire in this winter season. the children in the crib, the stockings in which santa claus deposits his treasures, recall the pleasantest night of the year. speaking of christmas reminds me of the mistletoe bough. mistletoe abounds here. old, leafless trees are covered and green with it. it was in blossom a week or two ago, if we may call its white wax-like berries blossoms. they are known as christmas blossoms. the vine takes root in the bark--in any crack, hole, or crevice of the tree--and continues green all winter. the berries grow in clusters. . i have as guests mr. and mrs. johnson house, my old neighbors. they have come from their quiet home in ohio to look over a battle-field, and i take pleasure in showing them the points of interest. mr. house, with great frankness, tells me, in the presence of my staff, that he had been afraid i was not qualified for the high position i hold, and that i was getting along too fast; but he now feels satisfied that i am capable and worthy, and would be well pleased to see me again promoted. i introduced my friends to lieutenant van pelt, of loomis' battery, and mr. house asked: "lieutenant, will these guns shoot with any kind of decision?" "precision," i suggested. "yes," van pelt replied, "they will throw a ball pretty close to the mark." . dr. peck tells me that the wounded of the third are doing well, and all comfortably quartered. he is an excellent physician and surgeon, and the boys are well pleased with him. february, . . this has been the coldest day of the season in this latitude. the ground is frozen hard. i made the round of the picket line after dinner, and was thoroughly chilled. visited the hospital this evening. young willets, of the third, whom i thought getting along well before i left for home, died two days before my return. benedict is dead, and glenn, poor fellow, will go next. his leg is in a sling, and he is compelled to lie in one position all the time. mortification has set in, and he can not last more than a day or two. murfreesboro is one great hospital, filled with nationals and confederates. . at noon cannonading began on our left and front, and continued with intervals until sunset. i have heard no explanation of the firing, but think it probable our troops started up the shelbyville road to reconnoiter, discovered the enemy, and a small fight ensued. . it is said the enemy came within six miles of murfreesboro yesterday, and attacked a forage train. the weather has been somewhat undecided, and far from agreeable. . a lot of rebel papers, dated january st, have been brought in. they contain many extracts clipped from the northern democratic press, and the southern soul is jubilant over the fact that a large party in ohio and indiana denounce president lincoln. the rebels infer from this that the war must end soon, and the independence of the southern states be acknowledged. our friends at home should not give aid and comfort to the enemy. they may excite hopes which, in time, they will themselves be compelled to help crush. . few of the men who started home when i did have returned. the general is becoming excited on the subject of absentees. from general thomas' corps alone there are sixteen thousand men absent, sick, pretending to be sick, or otherwise. of my brigade there are sixteen hundred men present for duty, and over thirteen hundred absent--nearly one-half away. the condition of other brigades is similar. if a man once gets away, either into hospital or on detached duty, it is almost impossible to get him back again to his regiment. a false excuse, backed up by the false statement of a family physician, has hitherto been accepted; but hereafter, i am told, it will not be. uncle sam can not much longer stand the drain upon his finances which these malingerers occasion, and his reputation suffers also, for he can not do with fifty thousand men what it requires one hundred thousand to accomplish. people may say rosecrans had at the battle of murfreesboro nearly one hundred regiments. a regiment should contain a thousand men; in a hundred regiments, therefore, there should have been one hundred thousand men. with this force he should have swallowed bragg; but they must understand that the largest of these regiments did not contain over five hundred men fit for duty, and very many not over three hundred. the men in hospital, the skulkers at home, and the skedaddlers here, count only on the muster and pay-rolls; our friends at home should remember, therefore, that when they take a soldier by the hand who should be with his regiment, and say to him, "poor fellow, you have seen hard times enough, stay a little longer, the army will not miss you," that some other poor fellow, too brave and manly to shirk, shivers through the long winter hours at his own post, and then through other long hours at the post of the absentee, thus doing double duty; and they should bear in mind, also, that in battle this same poor fellow has to fight for two, and that battles are lost, the war prolonged, and the national arms often disgraced, by reason of the absence of the men whom they encourage to remain at home a day or two longer. if every northern soldier able to do duty would do it, rosecrans could sweep to mobile in ninety days; but with this skeleton of an army, we rest in doubt and idleness. there is a screw loose somewhere. . fortifications are being constructed. my men are working on them. just now i heard the whistle of a locomotive, on the opposite side of the river. this is the first intimation we have had of the completion of the road to this point. the bridge will be finished in a day or two, and then the trains will arrive and depart from murfreesboro regularly. . called at colonel wilder's quarters, and while there met general j. j. reynolds. he made a brief allusion to the stalnaker times. on my return to camp, i stopped for a few minutes at department head-quarters to see garfield. general rosecrans came into the room; but, as i was dressed in citizens' clothes, did not at first recognize me. garfield said: "general rosecrans, colonel beatty." the general took me by the hand, turned my face to the light, and said he did not have a fair view of me before. "well," he continued, "you are a general now, are you?" i told him i was not sure yet, and he said: "is it uncertainty or modesty that makes you doubt?" "uncertainty." "well," he replied, "you and sam beatty have both been recommended. i guess it will be all right." he invited me to remain for supper, but i declined. . to-day i rode over the battle-field, starting at the river and following the enemy's line off to their left, then crossing over on to the right of our line, and following it to the left. for miles through the woods evidences of the terrible conflict meet one at every step. trees peppered with bullet and buckshot, and now and then one cut down by cannon ball; unexploded shell, solid shot, dead horses, broken caissons, haversacks, old shoes, hats, fragments of muskets, and unused cartridges, are to be seen every-where. in an open space in the oak woods is a long strip of fresh earth, in which forty-one sticks are standing, with intervals between them of perhaps a foot. here forty-one poor fellows lie under the fresh earth, with nothing but the forty-one little sticks above to mark the spot. just beyond this are twenty-five sticks, to indicate the last resting-place of twenty-five brave men; and so we found these graves in the woods, meadows, corn-fields, cotton-fields, every-where. we stumbled on one grave in a solitary spot in the thick cedars, where the sunshine never penetrates. at the head of the little mound of fresh earth a round stick was standing, and on the top of this was an old felt hat; the hat still doing duty over the head, if not on the head, of the dead soldier who lay there. the rain and sun and growing vegetation of one summer will render it impossible to find these graves. the grass will cover the fresh earth, the sticks will either rot or become displaced, and then there will be nothing to indicate that-- "perhaps in this neglected spot is laid some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, or waked to ecstasy the living lyre." . the army is turning its attention to politics somewhat. generals and colonels are ventilating their opinions through the press. i think their letters may have good effect upon the people at home, and prevent them from discouraging the army and crippling the administration. surely the effort now being put forth by a great party in the north to convince the troops in the field that this is an unjust war, an abolition or nigger war, must have a tendency to injure the army, and, if persisted in, may finally ruin it. . work on the fortifications still continues. this is to be a depot of supplies, and there are provisions enough already here to subsist the army for a month. now that the cumberland is high, and the railroads in running order, any amount of supplies may be brought through. expeditions go out occasionally to different parts of the country, and slight affairs occur, which are magnified into serious engagements; but really nothing of any importance has transpired since we obtained possession of murfreesboro. a day or two ago we had an account of an expedition into the enemy's country by the one hundred and twenty-third illinois, colonel monroe commanding. according to this veracious report, the colonel had a severe fight, killed a large number of the enemy, and captured three hundred stand of arms; but the truth is, that he did not take time to count the rebel dead, and the arms taken were one hundred old muskets found in a house by the roadside. the expeditions sent out to capture john morgan have all been failures. his own knowledge of the country is thorough, and besides, he has in his command men from every neighborhood, who know not only every road and cow-path in the locality, but every man, woman, and child. the people serve him also, by advising him of all our movements. they guide him to our detachments when they are weak, and warn him away from them when strong. were the rebel army in ohio, and as bitterly hated by the people of that state as the nationals are by those of kentucky and tennessee, it would be an easy matter indeed to hang upon the skirts of that army, pick up stragglers, burn bridges, attack wagon trains, and now and then pounce down on an outlying picket and take it in. . colonel lytle, my old brigade commander, called on me to-day. he informed me that he had not been assigned yet. i inferred from this that he thought it utterly impossible for one so distinguished as himself to come down to a regiment. his own regiment, the tenth ohio, is here, and nominally a part of my brigade, although it has not acted with it since rosecrans assumed command of the army of the cumberland. under lieutenant-colonel burke, it is doing guard duty at department head-quarters. march, . . there is talk of consolidation at washington. this is a sensible idea, and should be carried into effect at once. there are too many officers and too few men. the regiments should be consolidated, and kept full by conscription, if it can not be done otherwise. the best officers should be retained, and the others sent home to stand their chances of the draft. a major of the fifteenth kentucky sent in his resignation a few days ago, assigning as a reason for so doing that the object of the war was now the elevation of the negro. the concluding paragraph of his letter was in these words: "the service can not possibly suffer by my resignation." the document passed through my hands on its way to department head-quarters, and i indorsed it as follows: "major h. f. kalfus, fifteenth kentucky volunteer infantry, being 'painfully and reluctantly convinced' that the party in power is disposed to elevate the negro, desires to quit the service. i trust he will be allowed to do so, and cheerfully certify to the correctness of one statement which he makes herein, to-wit: the service can not possibly suffer by his resignation." general rosecrans has just sent me an order to arrest the major, and send him under guard to the provost-marshal general. the arrest will be made in a few minutes, and may create some excitement among our kentucky friends. . the fortifications are progressing. the men work four hours each day in the trenches. the remainder of the time they spend pretty much as they see fit. general garfield is now chief of staff. it is the first instance in the west of an officer of his rank being assigned to that position. it is an important place, however, and one too often held not merely by officers of inferior rank, but of decidedly inferior ability. general buell had a colonel as chief of staff, and, until the appointment of garfield, general rosecrans had a lieutenant-colonel or major. to-night an ugly and most singular specimen of the negro called to obtain employment. he was not over three feet and a half high, hump-backed, crooked-legged, and quite forty years old. poking his head into my tent, and, taking off his hat, he said: "is de co'nel in?" "yes." "hurd you wants a boy, sah. man tole me co'nel eighty-eighth olehio wants a boy, sah." "what can you do? can you cook?" "yas, sah." "where did you learn to cook?" "on de plantation, sah." "what is your master's name?" "rucker, sah." "is he a loyal man?" "no, sah, he not a lawyer; his brudder, de cussen one, is de lawyer." "is he secesh?" "o, yas, sah; yas, he sesesh." "it is the colonel of the eighty-eighth indiana you should see;" and i directed him to the colonel's tent. as he turned to leave, he muttered, "man tole me eighty-eighth olehio;" but he went hobbling over to the eighty-eighth, with fear, anxiety, and hope struggling in his old face. . major kalfus, fifteenth kentucky, arrested on sunday, and since held in close confinement, was dishonorably dismissed from the service to-day for using treasonable language in tendering his resignation. he was escorted outside the lines and turned loose. the major is a cross-roads politician, and will, i doubt not, be a lion among his half-loyal neighbors when he returns home. . our picket on the manchester pike was driven in to-day. the cavalry, under general stanley, went to the rescue, when a fight occurred. no particulars. . t. buchanan reid, the poet, entertained us at the court-house this evening. the room had been trimmed up by the rebels for a ball. the words, "shiloh," "fort donelson," "hartsville," "santa rosa," "pensacola," were surrounded with evergreens. the letter "b," painted on the walls in a dozen places, was encompassed by wreaths of flowers, now faded and yellow. my native modesty led me to conclude that the letter so highly honored stood for bragg, and not for the commander of the seventeenth brigade, u. s. a. general garfield introduced mr. reid by a short speech, not delivered in his usual happy style. i was impressed with the idea all the time, that he had too many buttons on his coat--he certainly had a great many buttons--and the splendor of the double row possibly detracted somewhat from the splendor of his remarks. mr. reid is a small man, and has not sufficient voice to make himself heard distinctly in so large a hall. in a parlor his recitations would be capital. he read from his own poem, "the wagoner," a description of the battle of brandywine. it is possibly a very good representation of that battle; but, if so, the battle of brandywine was very unlike that of stone river. at brandywine, it appears, the generals slashed around among the enemy's infantry with drawn swords, doing most of the hard fighting and most of the killing themselves. i did not discover anything of that kind at stone river. it is possible the style went out of fashion before the rebellion began. it would, however, be very satisfactory to the rank and file to see it restored. mr. reid said some good things in his lecture, and was well applauded; but, in the main, he was too ethereal, vapory, and fanciful for the most of us leather-heads. when he puts a soldier-boy on the top of a high mountain to sing patriotic songs, and bid defiance to king george because "eagle is king," we are impressed with the idea that that soldier could have been put to better use; that, in fact, he is entirely out of the line of duty. the position assigned him is unnatural, and the modern soldier-boy will be apt to conclude that nobody but a simpleton would be likely to wander about in solitary places, extemporizing in measured sentences; besides it is hard work, as i know from experience. i tried my hand at it the other day until my head ached, and this is the best i could do: o! lord, when will this war end? these days of marchings, nights of lonely guard? this terrible expenditure of health and life? where is the glory? where is the reward, for sacrifice of comfort, quiet, peace? for sacrifice of children, wife, and friends? for sacrifice of firesides--genial homes? what hour, what gift, will ever make amends for broken health, for bruised flesh and bones, for lives cut short by bullet, blade, disease? where balm to heal the widow's heart, or what shall soothe a mother's grief for woes like these? hold, murmurer, hold! is country naught to thee? is freedom nothing? naught an honored name? what though the days be cold, or the nights dark, the brave heart kindles for itself a flame that warms and lightens up the world! home! what's home, if in craven shame we seek its hearthstone? bitterest of cold. better creep thither bruised, and torn, and lame, than seek it in health when justice needs our aid. where is the glory? where is the reward? think of the generations that will come to praise and bless the hero. think of god, who in due time will call his soldiers home. how comfort mother for the loss of son? what balm to which her heaviest grief must yield? ah! the plain, simple, ever-glorious words: "your son died nobly on the battle-field!" what balm to soothe a widow's aching heart? the grand assurance that in the battle shock foremost her husband stood, defying all, for freedom and truth, unyielding as the rock. then, courage, all, and when the strife is past, and grief for lost ones takes a milder hue, this thought shall crown the living and the dead: "he lived, he died, to god and duty true." . rain has been descending most of the day, and just now is pouring down with great violence. a happy party in the adjoining tent are exercising their lungs on a negro melody, of which this is something like the chorus: "de massa run, ha, ha! de nigger stay, ho, ho! it mus' be now de kingdom comin', and de year of jubelo." i can not affirm that the music with which these gentlemen so abound, on this rainy and dismal night, has that soothing effect on the human heart ascribed to music in general; but, however little i may feel like rejoicing now, i am quite sure i shall feel happier when the concert ends. the singers have concluded the negro melody, and are breathing out their souls in a sentimental piece. now and then, when more than ordinarily successful in the higher strains, they nearly equal the most exalted efforts of the tom-cat; and then, again, in the execution of the lower notes and more pathetic passages, we are brought nigh unto tears by an inimitable imitation of the wailings of a very young and sick kitten. "do they miss me at home; do they miss me?" i venture to say they do, and with much gratification if, when there, you favored them often with this infernal noise. . the weather is remarkably fine to-day. i saw mrs. and major-general mccook and mrs. and major-general wood going out to the battle-field, on horseback, this morning. mrs. general rosecrans arrived last night on a special train. . the roads are becoming good, and every body is on horseback. many officers have their wives here. on the way to murfreesboro this morning, i met two ladies with an escort going to the battle-field. returning i met general rosecrans and wife. the general hallooed after me, "how d'ye do?" to which i shouted back, at the top of my voice, the very original reply, "very well, thank you." from the number of ladies gathering in, one might very reasonably conclude that no advance was contemplated soon. still all signs fail in war times, as they do in dry weather. as a rule, perhaps, when a movement appears most improbable, we should be on the lookout for orders to start. the army, under rosecrans' administration, looks better than it ever did before. he certainly enters into his work with his whole soul, and unless some unlucky mishap knocks his feet from under him, he will soon be recognized as the first general of the union. i account for his success thus far, in part at least, by the fact that he has been long enough away from west point, mixing with the people, to get a little common sense rubbed into him. while writing the last word above, the string band of the third struck up at the door of my tent. going out, i found all the commissioned officers of that regiment standing in line. adjutant wilson nudged me, and said they expected a speech. i asked if beer would not suit them better. he thought not. i have not attempted to make a speech for two years, and never made a successful attempt in my life; but i knocked the ashes out of my pipe and began: "gentlemen: i am informed that all the officers of the third are here. i am certainly very glad to see you, and extremely sorry that i am not better prepared to receive and entertain you. the press informs us that i have been very highly honored. if the report that i have been promoted is true, i am indebted to your gallantry, and that of the brave men of the third, for the honor. you gave me my first position, and then were kind enough to deem me worthy of a second; and if now i have obtained a third, and higher one, it is because i have had the good fortune to command good soldiers. the step upward in rank will simply increase my debt of gratitude to you." the officers responded cordially, by assuring me that they rejoiced over my promotion, and were anxious that i should continue in command of the brigade to which the third is attached. charlie davison can sing as many songs as mickey free, of "charles o'malley," and sing them well. in irish melodies he is especially happy. hark! "dear erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises, an emerald set in the ring of the sea; each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes, thou queen of the west, the world's cush la machree. * * * * * thy sons they are brave; but the battle once over, in brotherly peace with their foes they agree, and the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover, the soul-speaking blush that says cush la machree." . dined with general wagner, and, in company with wagner and general palmer, witnessed an artillery review. . my brigade is still at work on the fortifications. they are, however, nearly completed. shelter tents were issued to our division to-day. we are still using the larger tent; but it is evidently the intention to leave these behind when we move. last fall the shelter tents were used for a time by the pioneer brigade. they are so small that a man can not stand up in them. the boys were then very bitter in condemnation of them, and called them dog tents and dog pens. almost every one of these tents was marked in a way to indicate the unfavorable opinion which the boys entertained of them, and in riding through the company quarters of the pioneer brigade, the eye would fall on inscriptions of this sort: pups for sale--rat terriers--bull pups here--dog-hole no. --sons of bitches within--dogs--purps. general rosecrans and staff, while riding by one day, were greeted with a tremendous bow-wow. the boys were on their hands and knees, stretching their heads out of the ends of the tents, barking furiously at the passing cavalcade. the general laughed heartily, and promised them better accommodations. the news from vicksburg is somewhat encouraging, but certainly very indefinite, and far from satisfactory. . reviews are the order of the hour. all the brigades of our division, except mine, were reviewed by general rosecrans this afternoon. it was a fine display, but hard on the soldiers; they were kept so long standing. at middletown, sixteen miles away, the rebels are four thousand strong, and within a day or two they have ventured to salem, five miles distant. . loomis, who has just returned from home, called this evening, and we drank a bottle of wine over the promotion. he is in trouble about his commission as colonel of artillery. two months ago the governor of michigan gave him the commission, and since that time he has been wearing a colonel's uniform; but general rosecrans has expressed doubts about his right to assume the rank. loomis is all right, doubtless, and to-morrow, when the matter is talked over between the general and himself, it will be settled satisfactorily. . i have been running over russell's diary, "north and south," and must say the yankee nation, when looked at through mr. russell's spectacles, does not appear enveloped in that star-spangled glory and super-celestial blue with which it is wont to loom up before patriotic eyes on fourth of july occasions. he has treated us, however, fully as well as we have treated him. we became angry because he told unpleasant truths about us, and he became enraged because we abused him for it. he thanks god that he is not an american; and should not we, in a spirit of conciliation, meet him half way, and feel thankful that he is not? flaming dispatches will appear in the northern papers to-morrow respecting the defeat of john morgan, by a small brigade of our troops under colonel hall. the report will say that forty of the enemy were killed, one hundred and fifty wounded, and one hundred and twenty captured; loss on our side inconsiderable. the reporters have probably contributed largely to the brilliancy of this affair. it is always safe to accept with distrust all reports which affirm that a few men, with little loss, routed, slaughtered, or captured a large force. peach and cherry trees are in full bloom. the grass is beginning to creep out. summer birds occasionally sing around us. in a few weeks more the trees will be in full leaf again. . general negley, who went home some time ago, returned to-day, and, i see, wears two stars. general brannan arrived a day or two ago. he was on the train captured by guerrillas, but was rescued a few minutes after. the boys have a rumor that bragg is near, and has sent general rosecrans a very polite note requesting him to surrender murfreesboro at once. if the latter refuses to accept this most gentlemanly invitation to deliver up all his forces, bragg proposes to commence an assault upon our works at twelve m., and show us no mercy. this, of course, is reliable. at sunset rain began to fall, and has continued to pour down steadily ever since. the night is gloomy. adjutant wilson, in the next tent, is endeavoring to lift himself from the slough of despond by humming a ditty of true love; but the effort is evidently a failure. this morning i stood on the bank of the river and observed the pontoniers as they threw their bridge of boats across the stream. twice each week they unload the pontoons from the wagons, run them into the water, put the scantling from boat to boat, lay down the plank, and thus make a good bridge on which men, horses, and wagons can cross. after completing the bridge, they immediately begin to take it up, load the lumber and pontoons on the wagons, and return to camp. they can bridge any stream between this and the tennessee in an hour, and can put a bridge over that in probably three hours. general rosecrans makes a fine display in his visits about the camps. he is accompanied by his staff and a large and well-equipped escort, with outriders in front and rear. the national flag is borne at the head of the column. rosecrans is of medium height and stout, not quite so tall as mccook, and not nearly so heavy. mccook is young, and very fleshy. rousseau is by far the handsomest man in the army; tall and well-proportioned, but possibly a little too bulky. r. s. granger is a little man, with a heavy, light sandy mustache. wood is a small man, short and slim, with dark complexion, and black whiskers. crittenden, the major-general, is a spare man, medium height, lank, common sort of face, well whiskered. major-general stanley, the cavalryman, is of good size, gentlemanly in bearing, light complexion, brown hair. mccook and wood swear like pirates, and affect the rough-and-ready style. rousseau is given to profanity somewhat, and blusters occasionally. rosecrans indulges in an oath now and then; but is a member of the catholic church in good standing. crittenden, i doubt not, swears like a trooper, and yet i have never heard him do so. he is a good drinker; and the same can be said of rousseau. rosecrans is an educated officer, who has rubbed much against the world, and has experience. rousseau is brave, but knows little of military science. mccook is a chucklehead. wood and crittenden know how to blow their own horns exceedingly well. major-general thomas is tall, heavy, sedate; whiskers and head grayish. puts on less style than any of those named, and is a gentlemanly, modest, reliable soldier. rosecrans and mccook shave clean; crittenden and wood go the whole whisker; thomas shaves the upper lip. rosecrans' nose is large, and curves down; rousseau's is large, and curves up; mccook has a weak nose, that would do no credit to a baby. rosecrans' laugh is not one of the free, open, hearty kind; rousseau has a good laugh, but shows poor teeth; mccook has a grin, which excites the suspicion that he is either still very green or deficient in the upper story. . colonels wilder and funkhauser called. we had just disposed of a bottle of wine, when colonel harker made his appearance, and we entered forthwith upon another. colonel wilder expects to accomplish a great work with his mounted infantry. he is endeavoring to arm them with the henry rifle, a gun which, with a slight twist of the wrist, will throw sixteen bullets in almost that many seconds. i have no doubt he will render his command very efficient and useful, for he has wonderful energy and nerve, and is, besides, sensible and practical. colonel harker is greatly disappointed because he was not confirmed as brigadier-general during the last session of congress. he is certainly young enough to afford to wait; but he seems to fear that, after commanding a brigade for nine months, he may have to go back to a regiment. he feels, too, that, being a new jersey man, commanding ohio troops, neither state will take an interest in him, and render him that assistance which, under other circumstances, either of them might do. these gentlemen dined with me. harker and wilder expressed a high opinion of general buell. wilder says gilbert is a d--d scoundrel, and responsible for the loss at mumfordsville. harker, however, defended gilbert, and is the only man i have ever heard speak favorably of him. the train coming from nashville to-day was fired upon and four men wounded. yesterday there was a force of the enemy along the whole south front of our picket line. from the cook's tent, in the rear, comes a devotional refrain: "i'm gui-en home, i'm gui-en home, to d-i-e no mo'." . we are still pursuing the even tenor of our way on the fortifications. there are no indications of an advance. the army, however, is well equipped, in good spirits, and prepared to move at an hour's notice. its confidence in rosecrans is boundless, and whatever it may be required to do, it will, i doubt not, do with a will. the conscript law, and that clause especially which provides for the granting of a limited number of furloughs, gives great satisfaction to the men. they not only feel that they will soon have help, but that if their conduct be good, there will be a fair chance for them to see home before the expiration of their term of enlistment. hitherto they have been something like prisoners without hope. . another little misfortune has occurred to our arms at brentwood. the twenty-second wisconsin, numbering four hundred men, was captured by general forrest. the rebels succeed admirably in gathering up and consolidating our scattered troops. the adjutant and others are having a concert in the next tent, and certainly laugh more over their own performance than singers do generally. they have just executed "the foin ould irish gintleman," and are at this present writing shouting "vive l' america, home of the free." i think it more than probable that as their enthusiasm increases, the punch in their punch-bowl diminishes. . a mule has just broken the stillness of the night by a most discordant bray, and i am reminded that all horses are to be turned over to the mounted infantry regiments, and mules used in the teams in their stead. mules are far better for the wagons than horses. they require less food, are hardier, and stand up better under rough work and irregular feeding. i catch the faintest possible sound of a violin. some indomitable spirit is enlivening the night, and trenching upon the sabbath, by giving loose rein to his genius. during the light baggage and rapid marches of the latter part of buell's administration, together with the mishaps at perryville, the string band of the third was very considerably damaged; but the boys have recently resuscitated and revived it to all the glory and usefulness of former days. one of its sweetest singers, however, has either deserted or retired to hospital or barracks, where the duties are less onerous and life more safe. his greatest hit was a song known as "the warble," in which the following lines occurred: "mein fadter, mein modter, mein sister, mein frau, und zwi glass of beer for meinself. dey called mein frau one blacksmit-schopt; und such dings i never did see in my life." when, at shelbyville and huntsville, this melody mingled with the moonlight of summer evenings, people generally were deluded into the supposition that an ethereal songster was on the wing, enrapturing them with harmonies of other spheres. but sutlers, it is well known, are men of little or no refinement, with ears for money rather than music. to their unappreciative and perverted senses the warble seemed simply a dolorous appeal for more whisky; and while delivering up their last bottle to get rid of the warbler and his friends, in order that they might get sleep themselves, they have been known to express the hope that both song and singers might, without unnecessary delay, go to that region which we are told is paved with good intentions. the voice of a colored person in the rear breaks in upon my recollections of the warbler. the most interesting and ugliest negro now in camp, is known as simon bolivar buckner. he is an animal that has been worth in his day eighteen hundred dollars, an estray from the estate of general s. b. buckner. he manages, by blacking boots and baking leather pies, to make money. he deluded me into buying a second pie from him one day, by assuring me, "on honah, sah, dat de las pie was better'n de fus', case he hab strawberries in him." true, the pie had "strawberries in him," but not enough to pay one for chewing the whit-leather crust. . read judge holt's review of the proceedings and findings in the case of fitzjohn porter. if the review presents the facts fairly, porter should have been not only dismissed, but hung. an officer who, with thirteen thousand men, will remain idle when within sight of the dust and in hearing of the shouts of the enemy and the noise of battle, knowing that his friends are contending against superior numbers, and having good reason to believe that they are likely to be overwhelmed, deserves no mercy. it is dull. i have hardly enough to do to keep me awake. the members of the staff each have their separate duties to perform, which keep them more or less engaged. the quartermaster issues clothing to the troops; the commissary of subsistence issues food; the inspector looks into the condition of each regiment as to clothing, arms, and camp equipage; the adjutant makes out the detail for guard and other duties, and transmits orders received from the division commander to the regiments. all of these officers have certain reports to make also, which consumes much of their time. april, . . adjutant wilson received a letter to-day, written in a hand that bespoke the writer to be feminine. he looked at the name, but could not recollect having heard it before. the writer assured him, however, that she was an old friend, and said many tender and complimentary things of him. he tried to think; called the roll of his lady friends, but the advantage, as people say, which the writer had of him was entirely too great. if he had ever heard the name, he found it impossible now to recall it. finally, as he was going to fold the letter and put it away, he noticed one line at the top, written upside down. on reading it the mystery was solved: "if this reaches you on the first day of april, a reply to it is not expected." the colored gentlemen of the staff are in a great state of excitement. one of the number has been illustrating the truth of that maxim which affirms that a nigger will steal. the war of words is terrible. "yer d--d ole nigger thief," says one. "hush! i'll break yer black jaw fer yer," says another. they say very few harder things of each other than "you dam nigger." one would think the pot in this instance would hardly take to calling the kettle black, but it does. they use the word nigger to express contempt, dislike, or defiance, as often and freely as the whites. finally, the parties to this controversy agree to leave the matter to "de co'nel." the accused was the first to thrust his head into my tent, and ask permission to enter. "dey is a gwine to tell yer as i stole some money from ole hason. i didn't done it, co'nel; as sure as i'm a livin' i didn't done it." "yaas, yer did, you lyin' nigger!" broke in old hason. "now, co'nel, i want ter tell you the straight of it." i listened patiently to the old man's statement and to the evidence adduced, and as it was very clear that the accused was guilty, put him under guard. the first day of april has been very pleasant, cool but clear. the night is beautiful; the moon is at its full almost, and its light falls mellow and soft on the scene around me. the redoubt is near, with its guns standing sentinel at each corner, the long line of earthworks stretches off to the right and left; the river gleams and sparkles as it flows between its rugged banks of stone; the shadowy flags rise and fall lazily; the sentinels walk to and fro on their beats with silvered bayonets, and the dull glare of the camp-fires, and the snow-white tents, are seen every-where. somebody, possibly the adjutant, whose thoughts may be still running on the fair unknown, breaks forth: "o why did she flatter my boyish pride, she is going to leave me now;" and then, with a vehemence which betokens desperation, "i'll hang my harp on a willow tree, and off to the wars again." from which i infer it would be highly satisfactory to the young man to be demolished at the enemy's earliest convenience. a large amount of stores are accumulated here. forty thousand boxes of hard bread are stacked in one pile at the depot, and greater quantities of flour, pork, vinegar, and molasses, than i have ever seen before. . an indiana newspaper reached camp to-day containing an obituary notice of a lieutenant of the eighty-eighth indiana. it gives quite a lengthy biographical sketch of the deceased, and closes with a letter which purports to have been written on the battle-field by one lieutenant john thomas, in which lieutenant wildman, the subject of the sketch, is said to have been shot near murfreesboro, and that his last words were: "bury me where i have fallen, and do not allow my body to be removed." the letter is exceedingly complimentary to the said lamented young man, and affirms that "he was the hero of heroes, noted for his reckless daring, and universally beloved." the singular feature about this whole matter is that the letter was written by the lamented young officer himself to his own uncle. the deceased justifies his action by saying that he had expended two dollars for foolscap and one dollar for postage stamps in writing to the d--d old fool, and never received a reply, and he concluded finally he would write a letter which would interest him. it appears by the paper referred to that the lieutenant succeeded. the uncle and his family are in mourning for another martyr gone--the hero of heroes and the universally beloved. lieutenant dubarry, topographical engineer, has just been promenading the line of tents in his nightshirt, with a club, in search of some scoundrel, supposed to be the adjutant, who has stuffed his bed with stove-wood and stones. wilson, on seeing the ghostly apparition approach, breaks into song: "meet me by moonlight alone, and there i will tell you a tale." lieutenant orr, commissary of subsistence, coming up at this time, remarks to dubarry that he "is surprised to see him take it so coolly," whereupon the latter, notwithstanding the chilliness of the atmosphere, and the extreme thinness of his dress, expresses himself with very considerable warmth. patterson, a clerk, and as likely to be the offender as any one, now joins the party, and affirms, with great earnestness, that "this practical joke business must end, or somebody will get hurt." . saw major-general mccook, wife, and staff riding out this morning. general rosecrans was out this afternoon, but i did not see him. at this hour the signal corps is communicating from the dome of the court-house with the forces at triune, sixteen miles away, and with the troops at readyville and other points. in daylight this is done by flags, at night by torches. . there are many fine residences in murfreesboro and vicinity; but the trees and shrubbery, which contributed in a great degree to their beauty and comfort, have been cut or trampled down and destroyed. many frame houses, and very good ones, too, have been torn down, and the lumber and timber used in the construction of hospitals. there is a fearful stench in many places near here, arising from decaying horses and mules, which have not been properly buried, or probably not buried at all. the camps, as a rule, are well policed and kept clean; but the country for miles around is strewn with dead animals, and the warm weather is beginning to tell on them. . it is said that the third regiment, with others, is to leave to-morrow on an expedition which may keep it away for months. no official notice of the matter has been given me, and i trust the report may be unfounded. i should be sorry indeed to be separated from the regiment. i have been with it now two years, and to lose it would be like losing the greater number of my army friends and acquaintances. . the incident of the day, to me at least, is the departure of the third. it left on the two p. m. train for nashville. i do not think i have been properly treated. they should at least have consulted me before detaching my old regiment. i am informed that colonel streight, who is in command of the expedition, was permitted to select the regiments, and the matter has been conducted so secretly that, before i had an intimation of what was contemplated, it was too late to take any steps to keep the third. i never expect to be in command of it again. it will get into another current, and drift into other brigades, divisions, and army corps. the idea of being mounted was very agreeable to both officers and men; but a little experience in that branch of the service will probably lead them to regret the choice they have made. my best wishes go with them. all are looking with eager eyes toward vicksburg. its fall would send a thrill of joy through the loyal heart of the country, especially if accompanied by the capture of the confederate troops now in possession. . six months ago this night, parching with thirst and pinched with hunger, we were lying on chaplin hills, thinking over the terrible battle of the afternoon, expecting its renewal in the morning, listening to the shots on the picket line, and notified by an occasional bullet that the enemy was occupying the thick woods just in our front, and very near. a little over three months ago we were in the hurry, confusion, anxiety, and suspense of an undecided battle, surrounded by the dead and dying, with the enemy's long line of camp-fires before us. since then we have had a quiet time, each succeeding day seeming the dullest. rode into town this afternoon; invested twenty-five cents in two red apples; spoke to captain blair, of reynolds' staff; exchanged nods with w. d. b., of the commercial; saw a saddle horse run away with its rider; returned to camp; entertained shanks, of the new york herald, for ten minutes; drank a glass of wine with colonel taylor, fifteenth kentucky, and soon after dropped off to sleep. a brass band is now playing, away over on the lebanon pike. the pontoniers are singing a psalm, with a view, doubtless, to making the oaths with which they intend to close the night appear more forcible. the signal lights are waving to and fro from the dome of the court-house. the hungry mules of the pioneer corps are making the night hideous with howls. so, and amid such scenes, the tedious hours pass by. . a soldier of the fortieth indiana, who, during the battle of stone river, abandoned his company and regiment, and remained away until the fight ended, was shot this afternoon. another will be shot on the th instant for deserting last fall. a man in our division who was sentenced to be shot, made his escape. it seems these cases were not affected by the new law, and the president's proclamation to deserters. hitherto deserters have been seldom punished, and, as a rule, never as severely as the law allowed. my parchment arrived to-day, and i have written the necessary letter of acceptance and taken the oath, and henceforth shall subscribe myself yours, very respectfully, b. g., which, in my case, will probably stand for big goose. general rosecrans halted a moment before my quarters this evening, shook hands with me very cordially, and introduced me to his brother, the bishop, as a young general. the general asked why i had not called. i replied that i knew he must be busy, and did not care to intrude. "true," said he, "i am busy, but have always time to say how d'ye do." he promised me another regiment to replace the third, and said my boys looked fat enough to kick up their heels. the general's popularity with the army is immense. on review, the other day, he saw a sergeant who had no haversack; calling the attention of the boys to it he said: "this sergeant is without a haversack; he depends on you for food; don't give him a bite; let him starve." the general appears to be well pleased with his fortifications, and asked me if i did not think it looked like remaining. i replied that the works were strong, and a small force could hold them, and that i should be well pleased if the enemy would attack us here, instead of compelling us to go further south. "yes," said he, "i wish they would." general lytle is to be assigned to stanley matthews' brigade. the latter was recently elected judge, and will resign and return to cincinnati. the anti-copperhead resolution business of the army must be pretty well exhausted. all the resolutions and letters on this subject that may appear hereafter may be accepted as bids for office. they have, however, done a great deal of good, and i trust the public will not be forced to swallow an overdose. i had a faint inclination, at one time, to follow the example of my brother officers, and write a patriotic letter, but concluded to reserve my fire, and have had reason to congratulate myself since that i did so, for these letters have been as plenty as blackberries, and many of them not half so good. a republican has not much need to write. his patriotism is taken for granted. he is understood to be willing to go the whole nigger, and, like the ogre of the story books, to whom the most delicious morsel was an old woman, lick his chops and ask for more. wilder came in yesterday, with his mounted infantry, from a scout of eight or ten days, bringing sixty or seventy prisoners and a large number of horses. . a railway train was destroyed by the rebels near lavergne yesterday. one hundred officers fell into the hands of the enemy, and probably one hundred thousand dollars in money, on the way to soldiers' families, was taken. this feat was accomplished right under the nose of our troops. to the uninitiated army life is very fascinating. the long marches, nights of picket, and ordeal of battle are so festooned by the imagination of the inexperienced with shoulder straps, glittering blades, music, banners, and glory, as to be irresistible; but when we sit down to the hard crackers and salt pork, with which the soldier is wont to regale himself, we can not avoid recurring to the loaded tables and delicious morsels of other days, and are likely at such times to put hard crackers and glory on one side, the good things of home and peace on the other and owing probably to the unsubstantial quality of glory, and the adamantine quality of the crackers, arrive at conclusions not at all favorable to army life. a fellow claiming to have been sent here by the governor of maine to write songs for the army, and who wrote songs for quite a number of regiments, was arrested some days ago on the charge of being a spy. last night he attempted to get away from the guard, and was shot. drawings of our fortifications were found in his boots. he was quite well known throughout the army, and for a long time unsuspected. . called on general rousseau. he referred to his trip to washington, and dwelt with great pleasure on the various efforts of the people along the route to do him honor. at lancaster, pennsylvania, they stood in the cold an hour and a half awaiting his appearance. our division, he informs me, is understood to possess the chivalric and dashing qualities which the people admire. with all due respect, i suggested that dash was a good thing, doubtless, but steady, obstinate, well-directed fighting was better, and, in the end, would always succeed. w. d. b., of the commercial, major mcdowell, of rousseau's staff, and lieutenant porter, called this afternoon. my report of the operations of my brigade at stone river was referred to. bickham thought it did not do justice to my command, and i have no doubt it is a sorry affair, compared with the elaborate reports of many others. the historian who accepts these reports as reliable, and permits himself to be guided by them through all the windings of a five-days' battle, with the expectation of finally allotting to each one of forty brigades the proper credit, will probably not be successful. my report was called for late one evening, written hastily, without having before me the reports of my regimental commanders, and is incomplete, unsatisfactory to me, and unjust to my brigade. . general thomas called for a moment this evening, to congratulate me on my promotion. the practical-joke business is occasionally resumed. quartermaster wells was astonished to find that his stove would not draw, or, rather, that the smoke, contrary to rule, insisted upon coming down instead of going up. examination led to the discovery that the pipe was stuffed with old newspapers. their removal heated the stove and his temper at the same time, but produced a coolness elsewhere, which the practical joker affected to think quite unaccountable. . colonel dodge, commanding the second brigade of johnson's division, called this afternoon. the colonel is a very industrious talker, chewer, spitter, and drinker. he has been under some tremendous hot firing, i can tell you! well, if he don't know what heavy firing is, and the d--dest hottest work, too, then there is no use for men to talk! the truth is, however much other men may try to conceal it, his command stood its ground at shiloh, and never gave back an inch. no, sir! every other brigade faltered or fell back, damned if they didn't; but he drove the enemy, got 'em started, other brigades took courage and joined in the chase. at stone river he drove the enemy again. bullets came thicker'n hail; but his men stood up. he was with 'em. damned hot, you better believe! well, if he must say it himself, he knew what hard fighting was. why, sir, one of his men has five bullets in him; dam' me if he hasn't five! says he, dick says he, how did they hit you so many times? the first time i fired, says dick, i killed an officer; yes, sir, killed him dead; saw him fall, dam me, if he didn't, sir; and at the same time, says dick, i got a ball in my leg; rose up to fire again, and got one in my other leg, and one in my thigh, and fell; got on my knees to fire the third time, says dick, and received two more. well, you see, the firing was hotter'n hell, and colonel dodge knows what hot firing is, sir! . since the fight at franklin, and the capture of the passenger train at lavergne, nothing of interest has occurred. there were only fifteen or twenty officers on the captured train. a large amount of money, however, fell into rebel hands. the postmaster of our division was on the train, and the confederates compelled him to accompany them ten miles. he says they could have been traced very easily by the letters which they opened and scattered along the road. . morgan, with a considerable force, has taken possession of lebanon, and troops are on the way thither to rout him. the tunnel near gallatin has been blown up, and in consequence trains on the nashville and louisville railroad are not running. . am member of a board whose duty it will be to inquire into the competency, qualifications, and conduct of volunteer officers. the other members are colonels scribner, hambright, and taylor. we called in a body on general rousseau, and found him reading "les miserables." he apologized for his shabby appearance by saying that he had become interested in a foolish novel. colonel scribner expressed great admiration for the characters jean val jean and javort, when the general confessed to a very decided anxiety to have javort's neck twisted. this is the feeling of the reader at first; but when he finds the old granite man taking his own life as punishment for swerving once from what he considered to be the line of duty, our admiration for him is scarcely less than that we entertain for jean val jean. . the columbus (ohio) journal, of late date, under the head of "arrivals," says: "general john beatty has just married one of ohio's loveliest daughters, and is stopping at the neil house. good for the general." this is a slander. i trust the paper of the next day made proper correction, and laid the charge, where it belongs, to wit: on general samuel. if general sam continues to demean himself in this youthful manner, i shall have to beg him to change his name. my reputation can not stand many more such blows. what must those who know i have a wife and children think, when they see it announced that i have married again, and am stopping at the neil with "one of ohio's loveliest daughters?" what a horrible reflection upon the character of a constant and faithful husband! (this last sentence is written for my wife.) . colonel taylor and i rode over to general rousseau's this morning. returning, we were joined by colonel nicholas, second kentucky; colonel hobart, twenty-first wisconsin, and lieutenant-colonel bingham, first wisconsin, all of whom took dinner with me. we had a right pleasant party, but rather boisterous, possibly, for the sabbath day. there is at this moment a lively discussion in progress in the cook's tent, between two african gentlemen, in regard to military affairs. old hason says: "oh, hush, darkey!" buckner replies: "yer done no what'r talkin' about, nigger." "i'll bet yer a thousand dollars." "hush! yer ain't got five cents." "gor way, yer don't no nuffin'." and so the debate continues; but, like many others, leads simply to confusion and bitterness. . this evening an order came transferring my brigade to negley's division. it will be known hereafter as the second brigade, second division, fourteenth army corps. . late last monday night an officer from stokes' battery reported to me for duty. i told him i had received no orders, and knew of no reason why he should report to me, and that in all probability general samuel beatty, of van cleve's division, was the person to whom he should report. i regarded the matter as simply one of the many blunders which were occurring because there were two men of the same name and rank commanding brigades in this army; and so, soon after the officer left, i went to bed. before i had gotten fairly to sleep, some one knocked again at my tent-door. while rising to strike a light the person entered, and said that he had been ordered to report to me. supposing it to be the officer of the battery persisting in his mistake, i replied as before, and then turned over and went to sleep. i thought no more of the matter until : a. m. next day, when an order came which should have been delivered twenty-four hours before, requiring me to get my brigade in readiness, and with one regiment of colonel harker's command and the chicago board of trade battery, move toward nashville at two o'clock tuesday morning. then, of course, i knew why the two officers had reported to me on the night previous, and saw that there had been an inexcusable delay in the transmission of the order to me. giving the necessary directions to the regimental commanders, and sending notice to harker and the battery, i proceeded with all dispatch direct to department head-quarters, whence the order had issued, to explain the delay. when i entered general rosecrans shook hands with me cordially, and seemed pleased to see me; but i had no sooner announced my business, and informed him that the order had been delivered to me not ten minutes before, than he flew into a violent passion, and asked if a battery and regiment had not reported to me the night before. i replied yes, and was proceeding to give my reasons for supposing that the officers reporting them were in error, when he shouted: "why, in hell and damnation, did you not mount your horse and come to head-quarters to inquire what it meant?" i undertook again to tell him i had received no order, and as my brigade had been detailed to work on fortifications i was expecting none; that i had taken it for granted that it was another of the many mistakes occurring constantly because there were two officers of the same name and rank in the army, and had so told the parties reporting; but he would not listen to me. his face was inflamed with anger, his rage uncontrollable, his language most ungentlemanly, abusive, and insulting. garfield and many officers, commissioned and non-commissioned, and possibly not a few civilians, were present to witness my humiliation. for an instant i was tempted to strike him; but my better sense checked me. i turned on my heel and left the room. death would have had few terrors for me just then. i had never felt such bitter mortification before, and it seemed to me that i was utterly and irreparably disgraced. however, i had a duty to perform, and while in the execution of that i would have time to think. my brigade, one regiment of colonel harker's brigade, and the chicago board of trade battery, were already on the road. we marched rapidly, and that night (tuesday) encamped in the woods north of lavergne. rain fell most of the night; but the men had shelter tents, and i passed the time comfortably in a wagon. the next morning at daylight we started again, and a little after sunrise arrived at scrougeville. here my orders directed me to halt and watch the movements of the enemy. the rebel cavalry, in pretty strong force, had been in the vicinity during the day and evening before; but on learning of our approach had galloped away. we were exceedingly active, and scoured the country for miles around, but did not succeed in getting sight of even one of these dashing cavaliers. the sky cleared, the weather became delightful, and the five days spent in the neighborhood of scrougeville were very agreeable. it was a pleasant change from the dull routine of camp duty, and my men were in exuberant spirits, excessively merry and gay. while there, a good-looking non-commissioned officer of the battery came up to me, and, extending his hand, said: "how do you do, general?" i shook him by the hand, but could not for the life of me recollect that i had ever seen him before. seeing that i failed to recognize him, he said: "my name is concklin. i knew you at sandusky, and used to know your wife well." still i could not remember him. "you knew general patterson?" he asked. "yes." "mary patterson?" "yes; i shall never forget her." "do you recollect a stroll down to the bay shore one moonlight night?" of course i remembered it. this was john concklin, mary's cousin. i remembered very well how he devoted himself to one i felt considerable interest in, while his cousin mary and i talked in a jocular way about the cost of housekeeping, both agreeing that it would require but a very small sum to set up such an establishment as our modest ambition demanded. i was heartily glad to meet the young man. he looks very different from the smooth-faced boy of ten years ago. i was slightly jealous of him then, and i do not know but i might have reason to be now, for he is a fine, manly fellow. at scrougeville--how softly the name ripples on the ear!--we were entertained magnificently. above us was the azure canopy; around us a dense forest of cedars, and in a shady nook, a sylvan retreat as it were, a barrel of choice beer. the mocking-birds caroled from the evergreen boughs. the plaintive melody of the dove came to us from over the hills, and pies at a quarter each poured in upon us in profusion; and such pies! when night threw over us her shadowy mantle, and the crescent moon blessed us with her mellow light, the notes of the whip-poor-will mingling with the bark of watch-dogs and the barbaric melody of the ethiopian, floated out on the genial air, and, as stretched on the green sward, we smoked our pipes and drank our beer, thoughts of fairy land possessed us, and we looked wonderingly around and inquired, is scrougeville a reality or a vision? i fear we shall never see the like of scrougeville again. on the morning of the th instant i received a telegram ordering our immediate return, and we reached murfreesboro at two o'clock p. m. same day. i had not forgotten the terrible scolding received from the general just before starting on this expedition; in fact, i am not likely ever to forget it. it had now been a millstone on my heart for a week. i could not stand it. what could i do? at first i thought i would send in my resignation, but that i concluded would afford me no relief; on the contrary, it would look as if i had been driven out of the army. my next impulse was to ask to be relieved from duty in this department, and assigned elsewhere; but on second thought this did not seem desirable. it would appear as if i was running away from the displeasure of the commanding general, and would affect me unfavorably wherever i might go. i felt that if i was to blame at all in this matter, it was in a very slight degree. the general's language was utterly inexcusable. he was a man simply, and i concluded finally that i would not leave either the army or the department under a cloud. i, therefore, sat down and wrote the following letter: "murfreesboro, _april , _. "major-general w. s. rosecrans, "_commanding department of the cumberland_: "sir--your attack upon me, on the morning of the st instant, has been the subject of thought since. i have been absent on duty five days, and, therefore, have not referred to it before. it is the first time since i entered the army, two years ago, as it is the first time in my life, that it has been my misfortune to listen to abuse so violent and unreasonable as that with which you were pleased to favor me in the presence of the aids, orderlies, officers, and visitors, at your quarters. while i am unwilling to rest quietly under the disgrace and ridicule which attaches to the subject of such a tirade, i do not question your right to censure when there has been remissness in the discharge of duties; and to such reasonable admonition i am ever ready to yield respectful and earnest attention; but i know of no rule, principle, or precedent, which confers upon the general commanding this department the right to address language to an officer which, if used by a private soldier to his company officer, or by a company officer to a private soldier, would be deemed disgraceful and lead to the punishment of the one or the dismissal of the other. insisting, therefore, upon that right, which i conceive belongs to the private in the ranks, as well at to every subordinate officer in the army who has been aggrieved, i demand from you an apology for the insulting language addressed to me on the morning of the st instant. "i am, sir, respectfully, "your obedient servant, "john beatty, brig.-gen'l." i sent this. would it be regarded as an act of presumption and treated with ridicule and contempt? i feared it might, and sat thinking anxiously over the matter until my orderly returned, with the envelope marked "w. s. r.," the army mode of acknowledging receipt of letter or order. fifteen minutes later this reply came: "head-quarters department of the cumberland,} "murfreesboro, _april, _. } "my dear general--i have just received the inclosed note, marked "private," but addressed to me as commanding the department of the cumberland. it compromises you in so many ways that i return it to you. i am your friend, and regretted that the circumstances of the case compelled me, as a commanding officer, to express myself warmly about a matter which might have cost us dearly, to one for whom i felt so kindly. you will report to me in person, without delay. w. s. rosecrans, maj.-gen'l. "brig.-gen'l john beatty, fortifications, stone river. "p. s.--it might be well to bring this inclosure with you." the inclosure referred to was, of course, my letter to him. the answer was not, by any means, an apology. on the contrary, it assumed that he was justifiable in censuring me as he did, and yet it expressed good feeling for me. it was probably written in haste, and without thought. it was not satisfactory; but i was led by it to hope that i could reach a point which would be. i obeyed the order to report promptly. he took me into his private office, where we talked over the whole affair together. he expressed regret that he had not known all the circumstances before, and said, in conclusion: "i am your friend. some men i like to scold, for i don't like them; but i have always entertained the best of feeling for you." taking me, at the close of our interview, from his private office into the public room, where general garfield and others were, he turned and asked if it was all right--if i was satisfied. i expressed my thanks, shook hands with him, and left, feeling a thousand times more attached to him, and more respect for him than i had ever felt before. he had the power to crush me, for at this time he is almost omnipotent in this department, and by a simple word he might have driven me from the army, disgraced in the estimation of both soldiers and citizens. his magnanimity and kindness, however, lifted a great load from my spirits, and made me feel like a new man; and i am very sure that he felt better and happier also, for no man does a generous act to one below him in rank or station, without being recompensed therefor by a feeling of the liveliest satisfaction. i may have been too sensitive, and may not, probably did not, realize fully the necessity for prompt action, and the weight of responsibility which rested upon the general. there are times when there is no time for explanation; great exigencies, in the presence of which lives, fortunes, friendships, and all matters of lesser importance must give way; moments when men's thoughts are so concentrated on a single object, and their whole being so wrought up, that they can see nothing, know nothing, but the calamity they desire to avert, or the victory they desire to achieve. nashville had been threatened. to have lost it, or allowed it to be gutted by the enemy, would have been a great misfortune to the army, and brought down upon rosecrans not only the anathemas of the war department, but would have gone far to lose him the confidence of the whole people. he supposed the enemy's movements had been checked, and was startled and thrown off his balance by discovering that they were still unopposed. the error was attributable in part possibly to me, in part to a series of blunders, which had resulted from the fact that there were two persons in the army of the same name and rank, but mainly to those who failed to transmit the order in proper time. . our large tents have been taken away, and shelter tents substituted. this evening, when the boys crawled into the latter, they gave utterance, good-humoredly, to every variety of howl, bark, snap, whine, and growl of which the dog is supposed to be capable. colonel george humphreys, eighty-eighth indiana, whom i supposed to be a full-blooded hoosier, tells me he is a scotchman, and was born in ayrshire, in the same house in which robert burns had birth. his grandfather, james humphreys, was the neighbor and companion of the poet. it was of him he wrote this epitaph, at an ale-house, in the way of pleasantry: "below these stanes lie jamie's banes. o! death, in my opinion, you ne'er took sic a blither'n bitch into thy dark dominion." . this afternoon called on general thomas; met general r. s. granger; paid my respects to general negley, and stopped for a moment at general rousseau's. the latter was about to take a horseback ride with his daughter, to whom i was introduced. may, . . the one hundred and thirteenth ohio is at franklin. colonel wilcox has resigned; lieutenant-colonel mitchell will succeed to the colonelcy. i rode over the battle-field with the latter this afternoon. . two men from breckenridge's command strayed into our lines to-day. . colonels hobart, taylor, nicholas, and captain nevin spent the afternoon with me. the intelligence from hooker's army is contradictory and unintelligible. we hope it was successful, and yet find little beside the headlines in the telegraphic column to sustain that hope. the german regiments are said to have behaved badly. this is, probably, an error. germans, as a rule, are reliable soldiers. this, i think, is carl schurz's first battle; an unfortunate beginning for him. . the arrest of vallandingham, we learn from the newspapers, is creating a great deal of excitement in the north. i am pleased to see the authorities commencing at the root and not among the branches. i have just read consul anderson's appeal to the people of the united states in favor of an extensive representation of american live stock, machinery, and manufactures, at the coming fair in hamburg. friend james made a long letter of it; and, i doubt not, drank a gallon of good dutch beer after each paragraph. . the confederate papers say streight's command was surrendered to four hundred and fifty rebels. i do not believe it. the third ohio would have whipped that many of the enemy on any field and under any circumstances. the expedition was a foolish one. colonel harker, who knows streight well, predicted the fate which has overtaken him. he is brave, but deficient in judgment. the statement that his command surrendered to an inferior force is, doubtless, false. forrest had, i venture to say, nearer four thousand and fifty than four hundred and fifty. the rebels always have a great many men before a battle, but not many after. they profess still to believe in the one-rebel-to-three-yankee theory, and make their statements to correspond. the facts when ascertained will, i have no doubt, show that the union brigade was pursued by an overwhelming force, and being exhausted by constant riding, repeated fights, want of food and sleep, surrendered after ammunition had given out and all possibility of escape gone. the enemy is strong in cavalry, and it is not at all probable that he would have sent but four hundred and fifty men to look after a brigade, which had boldly ventured hundreds of miles inside his lines. in fact, general forrest seldom, if ever, travels with so small a command as he is said to have had on this occasion. . an order has been issued prohibiting women from visiting the army. i infer from this that a movement is contemplated. . general negley called to-day, and remained for half an hour. he is a large, rosy-cheeked, handsome, affable man, and a good disciplinarian. i am going to have a horse-race in the morning with major mcdowell, of rousseau's staff. stakes two bottles of wine. when we entered murfreesboro, nearly a year ago, the boys brought in a lame horse, which they had picked up on the road. the horse hobbled along with difficulty, and for a long time was used to carry the knapsacks and guns of soldiers who were either too unwell or too lazy to transport these burdens themselves. the horse had belonged to a texas cavalryman, and had been abandoned when so lame as to be unfit for service. finally, when his shattered hoof got well, he was transferred from the hospital department to the quartermaster's, where he became a favorite. the quartermaster called my attention to the horse, and i had him appraised and took him for my own use. under the skillful and attentive hands of my hostler he soon shook off his shaggy coat of ugly brown, and put on one of velvety black. after a few days of trial i discovered not only that he was an easy goer, but had the speed of the wind. when at his fastest pace he is liable to overreach; it was thus that his left fore hoof had been shattered. to prevent a recurrence of the accident, i keep his hoof protected by leathers. i believe he is the fastest horse in the army of the cumberland. . major mcdowell did not put in an appearance until after i had returned from my morning ride. he brought colonel loomis with him to witness the grand affair; but as it was late, we finally concluded to postpone the race until another morning. some one has been kind enough to lay on my table a handsome bunch of red pinks and yellow roses. my staff has been increased, the late addition being "u. s.," a large and very lazy yellow dog. the two letters which give him his title are branded on his shoulder. he sticks very close to me, for the reason, possibly, that i do not kick him, and say "get out," as most persons are tempted to do when they look upon his most unprepossessing visage. he is a solemn dog, and probably has had a rough row to hoe through life. at times, when i speak an encouraging word, he brightens up, and makes an effort to be playful; but cheerfulness is his forte no more than "fiten" was a. ward's, and he soon relapses into the deepest melancholy. . read emil schalk's article on hooker. it is an easy matter for that gentleman to sit in his library, plan a campaign, and win a battle. i could do that myself; but when we undertake to make the campaign, fight the battle, and win the victory, we find it very much more difficult. book farmers are wonderfully successful on paper, and show how fortunes may be gathered in a single season, but when they come down to practical farming, they discover quite often that frost, or rain, or drouth, plays the mischief with their theories, and renders them bankrupt. it can be demonstrated, doubtless, that a certain blow, delivered at a certain place and time, against a certain force, will crush it; but does it not require infinite skill and power to select the place and time with certainty? a broken bridge, swollen stream, or even the most trifling incident, which no man can foresee or overrule, may disarrange and render futile the best-laid plans, and lead to defeat and disaster. after a battle we can easily look back and see where mistakes have been made; but it is more difficult, if not impossible, to look forward and avoid them. war is a blind and uncertain game at best, and whoever plays it successfully must not only hold good cards, but play them discreetly, and under the most favorable circumstances. . starkweather informs me that he has been urged to return to wisconsin and become a candidate for governor, and for fear he might accede to the wishes of the people in this regard, the present governor was urging his promotion. he is still undecided whether to accept a brigadier's commission or the nomination for this high civil office. wind. . two deserters came into our lines to-day. they were members of a regiment in cleburne's division, and left their command at fosterville, ten or fifteen miles out. they represent the southern army in our front as very strong, in good condition and fine spirits. the rebel successes on the rappahannock have inspired them with new life, and have, to some extent, dispirited us. we do not, however, build largely on the eastern army. it is an excellent body of men, in good discipline, but for some reason it has been unfortunate. when we hear, therefore, that the eastern army is going to fight, we make up our minds that it is going to be defeated, and when the result is announced we feel sad enough, but not disappointed. . generals rosecrans, negley, and garfield, with the staffs of the two former, appeared on the field where i was drilling the brigade. general rosecrans greeted me very cordially. i am satisfied that those who allow themselves to be damned once without remonstrance are very likely to be damned always. i am becoming quite an early riser; have seen the sun rise every morning for two weeks. saw the moon over my right shoulder. lucky month ahead. am devoting a little more time than usual to my military books. colonel moody, seventy-fourth ohio, has resigned. . this afternoon i received orders to be in readiness to move at a moment's notice. . the days now give us a specimen of the four seasons. at sunrise it is pretty fair winter for this latitude. an hour after, good spring; at noon, midsummer; at sunset, fall. flies are too numerous to mention even by the million. they come on drill at a. m., and continue their evolutions until sun-down. wilson, orr, and dubarry are indisposed. my cast-iron constitution holds good. as a rule, i take no medicine or medical advice. in a few instances i have acceded to the wishes of my friends, and applied to the doctors; but have been careful not to allow their prescriptions to get further than my vest pocket. the colt has just whinnied in response to another horse. he is in fine condition; coat as sleek and glossy as that of a bridegroom. yesterday i rode him on drill, and the little scamp got into a quarrel with another horse, reared up, and made a plunge that came near unseating me. he agrees with wilson's horse very well, but seems to think it his duty to exercise a sort of paternal care over him; and so on all occasions when possible he takes the reins of wilson's bridle between his teeth and holds it tightly, as if determined that the speed of the adjutant's horse should be regulated by his own. my black is also in excellent condition, and certainly very fast. my race has not yet come off. . received a box of catawba wine and pawpaw brandy from colonel james g. jones, half of which i was requested to deliver to general rosecrans, and the other half keep to drink to the colonel's health, which at present is very poor. colonel gus wood called this afternoon. he is one of those who were captured on the railroad train near lavergne, th of last april, and has returned to camp via tullahoma, chattanooga, and richmond. he says the rebel troops are in good condition and good spirits; thinks there is an immense force in our front, and that it would not be advisable to advance. the enlisted men of the third are at annapolis, maryland, and will soon be at camp chase, ohio. the officers are in libby. the box of cigars presented to me by my old friend, w. h. marvin, still holds out. whenever i am in a great straight for a smoke i try one; but i have not yet succeeded in finding a good one. i affect to be very liberal, and pass the box around freely; but all who have tried the cigars once insist that they do not smoke. they will probably last to the end of the war. . the privates of the eighty-eighth indiana presented a two-hundred-dollar sword to colonel humphreys, and the colonel felt it to be his duty to invest the price of the sword in beer for the boys. lieutenant orr was kind enough to give me a field glass. hewitt's kentucky battery has been assigned to me. colonel loomis has assumed command of his battery again. his commission as colonel was simply a complimentary one, conferred by the governor of michigan. he should be recognized by the war department as colonel. no man in the army is better entitled to the position. his services at perryville and stone river, to say nothing of those in west virginia and north alabama, would be but poorly requited by promotion. hewitt's battery has not been fortunate in the past. it was captured at this place last summer, when general t. t. crittenden was taken, and lost quite a number of men, horses, and one gun, in the battle of stone river. . at midnight orderlies went clattering around the camps with orders for the troops to be supplied with five days' provisions, and in readiness to march at a moment's notice. we expected to be sent away this morning, but no orders have yet come to move. mrs. colonel b. f. scribner sent me a very handsome bouquet with her compliments. mr. furay accompanied vallandingham outside the federal lines, and received from him a parting declaration, written in pencil and signed by himself, wherein he claimed that he was a citizen of ohio and of the united states, brought there by force and against his will, and that he delivered himself up as a prisoner of war. . captain gilbert e. winters, a. c. s., took tea with me. he is as jovial as the most successful man in the world, and overruns with small jokes and stories, many of which he claims were told him by president lincoln. from this we might infer that the president has very little to do but entertain and amuse gentlemen, who apply to him for appointments, with conversation so coarse that it would be discreditable to a stable boy. . received a letter from daughter nellie, a little school girl. she "wishes the war was out." so do i. june, . . by invitation, the mounted officers of our brigade accompanied general negley to witness the review of rousseau's division. there were quite a large number of spectators, including a few ladies. i was introduced to general wood for the first time, although i have known him by sight, and known of him well, for months. many officers of wood's and negley's divisions were present. after the review, and while the troops were leaving the field, colonel ducat, inspector-general on general rosecrans' staff, and colonel harker, challenged me for a race. soon after, major mcdowell, of rousseau's staff, joined the party; and, while we were getting into position for the start, general wagner, who has a long-legged white horse, which, he insisted, could beat any thing on the ground, took place in the line. mccook, wood, loomis, and many others, stopped to witness the race. the horses were all pacers; it was, in fact, a gathering of the best horses in the army, and each man felt confident. i was absolutely sure my black would win, and the result proved that i was correct. the only time during the race that i was honored with the company of my competitors, was at the starting; then, i observed, they were all up; but a half a minute later the black took the lead. the old fellow had evidently been on the track before, and felt as much interest in the contest as his owner. he knew what was expected of him, and as he went flying over the ground astonished me, as he did every body else. loomis, who professes to know much about horses, said to me before the race took place, "your's is a good-looking horse, but he can't beat mcdowell's." before leaving the field, however, he admitted that he had been mistaken. my horse was quicker of foot than he supposed. . called on colonel scribner and wife, where i met also colonel griffin and wife; had a long conversation about spiritualism, mesmerism, clairvoyance, and subjects of that ilk. at night there was a fearful thunder-storm. the rain descended in torrents, and the peals of thunder were, i think, louder and more frequent than i ever heard before. met loomis; he had accompanied general rosecrans and others to witness the trial of a machine, invented by wilder, for tearing up railroad tracks and injuring the rails in such a manner as to render them worthless. hitherto the rebels, when they have torn up our railroads, have placed the bars crosswise on a pile of ties, set fire to the latter, and so heated and bent the rails; but by heating them again they could be easily straightened and made good. wilder's instrument twists them so they can not be used again. the new york herald, i observe, refers with great severity to general hascall's administration of affairs in indiana; saying that "to place such a brainless fool in a military command is not simply an error, it is a crime." this is grossly unjust. hascall is not only a gallant soldier, but a man of education and excellent sense. he has been active, and possibly severe, in his opposition to treasonable organizations and notoriously disloyal men, whose influence was exerted to discourage enlistments and retard the enforcement of the draft. unfortunately, in time of civil war, besides the great exigencies which arise to threaten the commonwealth, innumerable lesser evils gather like flies about an open wound, to annoy, irritate, and kill. against these the law has made no adequate provision. the military must, therefore, often interpose for the public good, without waiting for legislative authority, or the slow processes of the civil law, just as the fireman must proceed to batter down the doors of a burning edifice, without stopping to obtain the owner's permission to enter and subdue the flames. . our division was reviewed to-day. the spectators were numerous, numbering among other distinguished personages generals rosecrans, thomas, crittenden, rousseau, sheridan, and wood. the weather was favorable, and the review a success. in the evening, a large party gathered at negley's quarters, where lunch and punch were provided in abundance. generals wood and crittenden, of the twenty-first army corps, claimed that i did not beat wagner fairly in the horse-race the other day. i expressed a willingness to satisfy them that i could do so any day; and, further, that my horse could out-go any thing in the twenty-first corps. the upshot of the matter is that we have a race arranged for friday afternoon at four o'clock. the party was a merry one; gentlemen imbibed freely. general rosecrans' face was as red as a beet; he had, however, been talking with ladies, and being a diffident man, was possibly blushing. wood persisted that the twenty-first corps could not be beaten in a horse-race, and that wagner's long-legged white was the most wonderful pacer he ever saw. negley seemed possessed with the idea that every body was trying to escape, and that it was necessary for him to seize them by the arm and haul them back to the table; he seemed also to be laboring under the delusion that his guests would not drink unless he kept his eye on them, and forced them to do so. lieutenant-colonel ducat, an irishman of the charles o'malley school, insisted upon introducing me to the ladies, but fortunately i was sober enough to decline the invitation. harker, late in the evening, thought he discovered a disposition on the part of others to play off on him; he felt in duty bound to empty a full tumbler, while they shirked by taking only half of one, which he affirmed was unfair and inexcusable. general thomas, after sitting at his wine an hour, conversing the while with a lady, arose from the table evidently very much refreshed, and proceeded to make himself exceedingly agreeable. i never knew the old gentleman to be so affable, cordial, and complimentary before. . the guns have been reverberating in our front all day. i am told that sheridan's division advanced on the shelbyville road. it is probable that a part, if not the whole, of the firing is in his front. . read the autobiography of peter cartright. it is written in the language of the frontier, and presents a rough, strong, uneducated man, full of vanity, courage, and religious zeal. he never reached the full measure of dignity requisite to a minister of the gospel. there are many amusing incidents in the volume, and many tales of adventures with sinners, in the cabin, on the road, and at camp meeting, in all of which cartright gets the better of the sons of belial, and triumphs in the lord. . the one hundred and fourth illinois, colonel moore, reported to me for duty, so that i have now four regiments and a battery. this colonel moore is the same who was in command at hartsville, and whose regiment and brigade were captured by the ubiquitous john morgan last winter. he has but recently returned from the south, where, for a time, he was confined in libby prison. the rebels are still prowling about our lines, but making no great demonstrations of power. . governor (?) billy williams;, of indiana, dined with me to-day; he resides in warsaw, is a politician, a fair speaker, and an inveterate story teller. wilson has been appointed assistant adjutant-general, with the rank of captain. . had brigade drill in a large clover field, just outside the picket line. the men were in fine condition, well dressed, and well equipped. i kept them on the jump for two hours. generals thomas and negley were present, and were well pleased. i doubt if any brigade in the army, can execute a greater variety of movements than mine, or go through them in better style. my voice is excellent, i can make myself heard distinctly by a whole brigade, without becoming hoarse by hours of exertion. starkweather has the best voice in the army; he can be heard a mile away. our division and brigade flags have been changed from light to dark blue. they look almost like a black no-quarter flag. we have one solitary rooster: he crows early in the morning, all day, and through the night if it be moonlight. he mounted a stump near my door this morning, stood between the tent and the sun, so that his shadow fell on the canvas, and crowed for half an hour at the top of his voice. i think the scamp knew i was lying abed longer than usual, and was determined to make me get up. he is on the most intimate terms with the soldiers, and struts about the camp with an air of as much importance as if he wore shoulder-straps, and had been reared at west point. he enters the boys' tents, and inspects their quarters with all the freedom and independence of a regularly detailed inspecting officer. he is a fine type of the soldier, proud and vain, with a tremendous opinion of his own fighting qualities. . had a grand corps drill. the line of troops, when stretched out, was over a mile in length. the corps was like a clumsy giant, and hours were required to execute the simplest movement. when, for instance, we changed front, my brigade marched nearly, if not quite, a mile to take position in the new line. the waving of banners, the flashing of sabers and bayonets, the clattering to and fro of muddle-headed aids-de-camp on impatient steeds, the heavy rumble of artillery wagons, the blue coats of the soldiers, the golden trappings of the field and staff, made a grand scene for the disinterested spectator to look upon; but with the thermometer ranging from eighty-five to one hundred, it was hard work for the soldier who bore knapsack, haversack, and gun, and calculated to produce an unusual amount of perspiration, and not a little profanity. major-general thomas guided the immense mass of men, while the operations of the divisions were superintended by their respective commanders. i fear the brigade and regimental commanders profited little by the drill, but i hope the major-generals learned something. the latter, in their devotion to strategy, have evidently neglected tactics, and failed to unravel the mysteries of the school of the battalion. in the morning, with my division commander, i called on general thomas, at his quarters, and had the honor to accept from his hands the most abominable cigar it has ever been my misfortune to attempt to smoke. . the army has been lying here now nearly six months. it has of late been kept pretty busy. sunday morning inspections, monthly inspections of troops, frequent inspections of arms and ammunition, innumerable drills, and constant picketing. colonel miller assumes command of a brigade in johnson's division. since the troops were at nashville he has been commanding what was known as the second brigade of negley's division; but the colonels of the brigade objected to having an imported colonel placed over them, and so miller takes command of the brigade to which his regiment is attached. he is a brave man and a good officer. colonel harker's brigade has been relieved from duty at the fortifications, and is now encamped near us, on the liberty road. . mrs. colonel scribner and mrs. colonel griffin stopped at my tent-door for a moment this morning. they were on horseback, and each had a child on the saddle. they were giving mrs. scribner's children a little ride. attended divine service in the camp of the eighty-eighth indiana, and afterward called for a few minutes on colonel moore, of the one hundred and fourth illinois. on returning to my quarters i found colonels hobart and taylor awaiting me. they were about to visit colonel t. p. nicholas, of the second kentucky cavalry, and desired me to accompany them. we dined with colonel nicholas, and, as is the custom, observed the apostolic injunction of taking something for the stomach's sake. toward evening we visited the field hospital, and paid our respects to surgeon finley and lady. here, much against our wills, we were compelled to empty a bottle of sherry. on the way to our own quarters colonel taylor insisted upon our calling with him to see a friend, with whom we were obliged to take a glass of ale. so that it was about dark when we three sober gentlemen drew near to our respective quarters. we had become immensely eloquent on the conduct of the war, and with great unanimity concluded that if grant were to take vicksburg he would be entitled to our profoundest admiration and respect. hobart, as usual, spoke of his state as if it were a separate and independent nation, whose sons, in imitation of lafayette, kosciusko and dekalb, were devoting their best blood to the maintenance of free government in a foreign land; while taylor, incited thereto by this eulogy on wisconsin, took up the cudgel for kentucky, and dwelt enthusiastically on the gallantry of her men and the unrivaled beauty of her women. when i dismounted and turned my horse over to the servant, i caught a glimpse of the signal lights on the dome of the court-house, and was astonished to find just double the usual number, in the act of performing a dutch waltz. i concluded that the signal corps must be drunk. saddened by the reflection that those occupying high places, whose duty it was to let their light shine before men, should be found in this condition of hopeless inebriety, i heaved a sigh which might have been mistaken by the uncharitable for a hic-cough, and lay down to rest. . my colt had a sore eye a day or two ago, but it is now getting well. the boys pet him, and by pinching him have taught him to bite. i fear they will spoil him. i have not ridden him much of late. he has a way of walking on his hind legs, for which the saddles in use are not calculated, and there is, consequently, a constant tendency, on the part of the rider, to slip over his tail. captain wells sent a colored teamster, who had just come in, tired and hungry, to his quarters for dinner. simon bolivar buckner, who now has charge of the commissary and culinary branch of the captain's establishment, was in the act of dining when the teamster entered the tent and seated himself at the table. buckner, astonished at this unceremonious intrusion, exclaimed: "what you doin' har, sah?" "de capin tole me fer to come and get my dinnah." "hell," shouted buckner, "does de capin 'spose i'm guiane to eat wid a d--n common nigger? git out'er har, till i'm done got through." buckner gets married every time we move camp. on last sunday captain wells found him dressed very elaborately, in white vest and clean linen, and said to him: "what's in the wind, buckner?" "gwine to be married dis ebening, sah." "what time?" "five o'clock, sah." "can't spare you, buckner. expect friends here to dine at six, and want a good dinner gotten up." "berry well, sah; can pos'pone de wedin', sah. dis'pintment to lady, sah; but it'll be all right." . the note of preparation for a general advance sounded late last night. reynolds moved at a. m.; rousseau at ; our division will leave at . a long line of cavalry is at this moment going out on the manchester pike. * * * * * rain commenced falling soon after we left murfreesboro, and continued the remainder of the day. the roads were sloppy, and marching disagreeable. encamped at big creek for the night; rousseau and reynolds in advance. before leaving murfreesboro i handed john what i supposed to be a package of tea, and told him to fill my canteen with cold tea. on the road i took two or three drinks, and thought it tasted strongly of tobacco; but i accounted for it on the supposition that i had been smoking too much, and that the tobacco taste was in my mouth, and not in the tea. after getting into camp i drank of it again, when it occurred to me that john had neglected to cleanse the canteen before putting the tea in, and go i began to scold him. "i did clean it, sah," retorted john. "well, this tea," i replied, "tastes very much like tobacco juice." "it is terbacker juice, sah." "why, how is that?" "you gib me paper terbacker, an' tole me hab some tea made, sah, and i done jes as you tole me, sah." "why you are a fool, john; did you suppose i wanted you to make me tea out of tobacco?" "don know, sah; dat's what you tole me, sah; done jes as you tole me, sah." . marched to hoover's gap. heavy skirmishing in front during the day. reynolds lost fifteen killed, and quite a number wounded. a stubborn fight was expected, and our division moved up to take part in it; but the enemy fell back. rain has been falling most of the day. a pain in my side admonishes me that i should have worn heavier boots. . moved to beech grove. cannonading in front during the whole day; but we have now become so accustomed to the noise of the guns that it hardly excites remark. the sky is still cloudy, and i fear we shall have more rain to-night. the boys are busy gathering leaves and twigs to keep them from the damp ground. general negley's quarters are a few rods to my left, and general thomas' just below us, at the bottom of the hill. reynolds is four miles in advance. . we left beech grove, or jacob's store, this morning, at five o'clock, and conducted the wagon train of our division through to manchester. rosecrans and reynolds are here. the latter took possession of the place two or three hours before my brigade reached it, and the former came up three hours after we had gone into camp. we are now twelve miles from tullahoma. the guns are thundering off in the direction of wartrace. hardee's corps was driven from fairfield this morning. my baggage has not come, and i am compelled to sleep on the wet ground in a still wetter overcoat. . my baggage arrived during the night, and this morning i changed my clothes and expected to spend the sabbath quietly; but about a. m. i was ordered to proceed to hillsboro, a place eight miles from manchester, on the old stage road to chattanooga. when we were moving out i met durbin ward, who asked me where i was going. i told him. "why," said he, "i thought, from the rose in your button-hole, that you were going to a wedding." "no," i replied; "but i hope we are going to nothing more serious." . my position is one of great danger, being so far from support and so near the enemy. last night my pickets on the tullahoma road were driven in, after a sharp fight, and my command was put in line of battle, and so remained for an hour or more; but we were not again disturbed. no fires were built, and the darkness was impenetrable. at noon i received orders to proceed to bobo's cross-roads, and reach that point before nightfall. there were two ways of going there: the one via manchester was comparatively safe, although considerably out of the direct line; the other was direct, but somewhat unsafe, because it would take me near the enemy's front. the distance by this shorter route was eleven miles. i chose the latter. it led through a sparsely settled, open oak country. two regiments of wheeler's cavalry had been hovering about hillsboro during the day, evidently watching our movements. after proceeding about three miles, a dash was made upon my skirmish line, which resulted in the killing of a lieutenant, the capture of one man, and the wounding of several others. i instantly formed line of battle, and pushed forward as rapidly as the nature of the ground would admit; but the enemy fell back. about five o'clock, as we drew near bobo's, two cannon shots and quite a brisk fire of musketry advised us that the rebels were either still in possession of the cross-roads or our friends were mistaking us for the enemy. i formed line of battle, and ordered the few cavalrymen who accompanied me to make a detour to the right and rear, and ascertain, if possible, who were in our front. the videttes soon after reported the enemy advancing, with a squadron of cavalry in the lead, and i put my artillery in position to give them a raking fire when they should reach a bend of the road. at this moment when life and death seemed to hang in the balance, and when we supposed we were in the presence of a very considerable, if not an overwhelming, force of the enemy, a half-grown hog emerged from the woods, and ran across the road. fifty men sprang from the ranks and gave it chase, and before order was fully restored, and the line readjusted, my cavalry returned with the information that the troops in front were our own. the incidents of the last six days would fill a volume; but i have been on horseback so much, and otherwise so thoroughly engaged, that i have been, and am now, too weary to note them down, even if i had the conveniences at hand for so doing. july, . . my brigade, with a battalion of cavalry attached, started from bobo's cross-roads in the direction of winchester. when one mile out we picked up three deserters, who reported that the rebels had evacuated tullahoma, and were in full retreat. half a mile further along i overtook the enemy's rear guard, when a sharp fight occurred between the cavalry, resulting, i think, in very little injury to either party. the enemy fell back a mile or more, when he opened on us with artillery, and a sharp artillery fight took place, which lasted for perhaps thirty minutes. several men on both sides were killed and wounded. the enemy finally retired, and taking a second position awaited our arrival, and opened on us again. i pushed forward in the thick woods, and drove him from point to point for seven miles. negley followed with the other brigades of the division, ready to support me in case the enemy proved too strong, but i did not need assistance. the force opposed to us simply desired to retard pursuit; and whenever we pushed against it vigorously fell back. . this morning we discover that we bivouacked during the night within half a mile of a large force of rebel cavalry and infantry. after proceeding a little way, we found the enemy in position on the bluffs on the opposite side of elk river, with his artillery planted so as to sweep the road leading to the bridge. halting my infantry and cavalry under the cover of the hill, i sent to the rear for an additional battery, and, before the enemy seemed to be aware of what we were doing, i got ten guns in position on the crest of the hill and commenced firing. the enemy's cavalry and infantry, which up to this time had lined the opposite hills, began to scatter in great confusion; but we did not have it all our own way by any means. the rebels replied with shot and shell very vigorously, and for half an hour the fight was very interesting; at the end of that time, however, their batteries limbered up and left on the double quick. in the meantime, i had sent a detachment of infantry to occupy a stockade which the enemy had constructed near the bridge, and from this position good work was done by driving off his sharpshooters. we found the bridge partially burned, and the river too much swollen for either the men or trains to ford it. rousseau and brannan, i understand, succeeded in crossing at an upper ford, and are in hot pursuit. . repaired the bridge, and crossed the river this morning; and are now bivouacking on the ground over which the cavalry fought yesterday afternoon--quite a number of the dead were discovered in the woods and fields. we picked up, at elk river, an order of brigadier-general wharton, commanding the troops which have been serving as the rear guard of the enemy's column. it reads as follows: "colonel hamar: retire the artillery when you think best. hold the position as long as you can with your sharpshooters; when forced back, write to crew to that effect. anderson is on your right. report all movements to me on this road. "jno. a. wharton, brigadier-general. "july d, ." i have been almost constantly in the saddle, and have hardly slept a quiet three hours since we started on this expedition. my brigade has picked up probably a hundred prisoners. . at twelve o'clock, noon, my brigade was ordered to take the advance, and make the top of the cumberland before nightfall; proceeding four miles, we reached the base of the mountain, and began the ascent. the road was exceedingly rough, and the rebels had made it impassable, for artillery, by rolling great rocks into it and felling trees across it. the axmen were ordered up, and while they were clearing away the obstructions i rode ahead with the cavalry to the summit, and some four miles on the ridge beyond. in the meantime, general negley ordered the artillery and infantry to return to the foot of the mountain, where we are now encamped. . since we left murfreesboro (june ) rain has been falling almost constantly; to-day it has been coming down in torrents, and the low grounds around us are overflowed. rousseau's division is encamped near us on the left, reynolds in the rear. the other day, while sitting on the fence by the roadside smoking my pipe, waiting for my troops to get in readiness to march, some one cried out, "here is a philosopher," and general reynolds rode up and shook my hand very cordially. my brigade has been so fortunate, thus far, as to win the confidence of the commanding generals. it has, during the last week, served as a sort of a cow-catcher for negley's division. at elk river general thomas rode up, while i was making my dispositions to attack the enemy, and approved what i had done and was doing. we hear that the army of the east has won a decisive victory in pennsylvania. this is grand! it will show the rebels that it will not do to put their feet on free soil. now if grant succeeds in taking vicksburg, and rosecrans drives bragg beyond the tennessee, the country will have reason to rejoice with exceeding great joy. . an old lady, whose home is on the side of the mountain, called on me to-day and said she had not had a cup of coffee since the war commenced. she was evidently very poor; and, although we had no coffee to spare, i gave her enough to remind her again of the taste. our soldiers have been making a clean sweep of the hogs, sheep, and poultry on the route. for the rich rebels i have no sympathy, but the poor we must pity. the war cuts off from them entirely the food which, in the best of times, they acquire with great labor and difficulty. the forage for the army horses and mules, and we have an immense number, consists almost wholly of wheat in the sheaf--wheat that has been selling for ten dollars per bushel in confederate money. i have seen hundreds of acres of wheat in the sheaf disappear in an hour. rails have been burned without stint, and numberless fields of growing corn left unprotected. however much suffering this destruction of property may entail on the people of this section, i am inclined to think the effect will be good. it will bring them to a realizing sense of the loss sustained when they threw aside the protecting shield of the old constitution, and the security which they enjoyed in the union. the season's crop of wheat, corn, oats, and hogs would have been of the utmost value to the confederate army; when destroyed, there will be nothing in middle tennessee to tempt it back. . hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tennesseeans have deserted from the southern army and are now wandering about in the mountains, endeavoring to get to their homes. they are mostly conscripted men. my command has gathered up hundreds, and the mountains and coves in this vicinity are said to be full of them. it rains incessantly. we moved to decherd and encamped on a ridge, but are now knee-deep in mud and surrounded by water. this morning a hundred guns echoed among the mountain gorges over the glad intelligence from the east and south: meade has won a famous victory, and grant has taken vicksburg. stragglers and deserters from bragg's army continue to come in. it is doubtless unfortunate for the country that rain and bad roads prevented our following up bragg closely and forcing him to fight in the present demoralized condition of his army. we would have been certain of a decisive victory. . dined with general negley. colonels stoughton and surwell, brigade commanders, were present. the dinner was excellent; soups, punch, wine, blackberries were on the table; and, to men who for a fortnight had been feeding on hard crackers and salt pork, seemed delicious. the general got his face poisoned while riding through the woods on the d instant, and he now looks like an old bruiser. mccook, whose corps lies near winchester, called while we were at negley's; he looks, if possible, more like a blockhead than ever, and it is astonishing to me that he should be permitted to retain command of a corps for a single hour. he brought us cheering information, however. the intelligence received from the east and south a few days ago has been confirmed, and the success of our armies even greater than first reports led us to believe. . we have a cow at brigade head-quarters. blackberries are very abundant. the sky has cleared, but the cumberland mountains are this morning covered by a thin veil of mist. supply trains arrived last night. . we hear nothing of the rebel army. rosecrans, doubtless, knows its whereabouts, but his subordinates do not. a few of the enemy may be lingering in the vicinity of stevenson and bridgeport, but the main body is, doubtless, beyond the tennessee. the rebel sympathizers here acknowledge that bragg has been outgeneraled. our cavalry started on the th instant for huntsville, athens, and decatur, and i have no doubt these places were re-occupied without opposition. the rebel cavalry is said to be utterly worn out, and for this reason has performed a very insignificant part in recent operations. the fall of vicksburg, defeat of lee, and retreat of bragg, will, doubtless, render the adoption of an entirely new plan necessary. how long it will take to perfect this, and get ready for a concerted movement, i have no idea. . our soldiers, i am told, have been entering the houses of private citizens, taking whatever they saw fit, and committing many outrages. i trust, however, they have not been doing so badly as the people would have us believe. the latter are all disposed to grumble; and if a hungry soldier squints wistfully at a chicken, some one is ready to complain that the fowls are in danger, and that they are the property of a lone woman, a widow, with nothing under the sun to eat but chickens. in nine cases out of ten the husbands of these lone women are in the confederate army; but still they are women, and should be treated well. . the brigade baker has come up, and will have his oven in operation this afternoon; so we shall have fresh bread again. general rosecrans will allow no ladies to come to the front. this would seem to be conclusive that no gentlemen will be permitted to go to the rear. . we have blackberries and milk for breakfast, dinner, and supper. to-night we had hot gingerbread also. i have eaten too much, and feel uncomfortable. meade's victory has been growing small by degrees and beautifully less; but the success of grant has improved sufficiently on first reports to make it all up. our success in this department, although attended with little loss of life, has been very gratifying. we have extended our lines over the most productive region of tennessee, and have possession also of all north alabama, a rich tract of country, the loss of which must be sorely felt by the rebels. . to-night i received a bundle of northern papers, and among others the union (?) register. while reading it i felt almost glad that i was not at home, for certainly i should be very uncomfortable if compelled to listen every day to such treasonable attacks upon the administration, sugar-coated though they be with hypocritical professions of devotion to the union, the constitution, and the soldier. how supremely wicked these men are, who, for their own personal advantage, or for party success, use every possible means to bring the administration into disrespect, and withhold from it what, at this time, it so greatly needs, the hearty support and co-operation of the people. the simple fact that abuse of the party in power encourages the rebels, not only by evincing disaffection and division in the north, but by leading them to believe, also, that their conduct is justifiable, should, of itself, be sufficient to deter honest and patriotic men from using such language as may be found in the opposition press. the blood of many thousand soldiers will rest upon the peace party, and certainly the blood of many misguided people at the north must be charged to the same account. the draft riots of new york and elsewhere these croakers and libelers are alone responsible for. after the war has ended there will be abundant time to discuss the manner in which it has been conducted. certainly quarreling over it now can only tend to the defeat and disgrace of our arms. we hardly hear of politics in the army, and i certainly did not dream before that there was so much bitterness of feeling among the people in the north. republicans, democrats, and every body else think nearly alike here. i know of none who sympathize with the so-called peace party. it is universally damned, for there is no soldier so ignorant that he does not know and feel that this party is prolonging the war by stimulating his enemies. a child can see this. the rebel papers, which every soldier occasionally obtains, prove it beyond a peradventure. . mrs. general negley, it appears, has been allowed to visit her husband. mrs. general mccook is said to be coming. received a public document, in which i find all the reports of the battle of stone river, and, i am sorry to say, my report is the poorest and most unsatisfactory of the whole lot. the printer, as if for the purpose of aggravating me beyond endurance, has, by an error of punctuation, transformed what i considered a very considerable and creditable action, into an inconsiderable skirmish. the report should read: "on the second and third days my brigade was in front, a portion of the time skirmishing. on the night of january d, two regiments, led by myself, drove the enemy from their breastworks in the edge of the woods." this appears in the volume as follows: "on the second and third days my brigade was in front a portion of the time. skirmishing on the night of january d, two regiments, led my myself, drove the enemy from the breastworks in the edge of the woods." thus, by taking the last word of one sentence and making it the first word of another, the intelligent compositor belittles a night fight for which i thought my command deserved no inconsiderable credit. i regret now that i did not take the time to make an elaborate report of the operations of my brigade, describing all the terrible situations in which it had been placed, and dwelling with special emphasis on the courage and splendid fighting of the men. in contrast with my stupidly modest report, is that of brigadier-general spears. he does not hesitate to claim for his troops all the credit of the night engagement referred to; and yet while my men stormed the barricade of logs, and cleaned out the woods, his were lying on their faces fully two hundred yards in the rear, and i should never have known that they were even that near the enemy if his raw soldiers had not fired an occasional shot into us from behind. if general spears was with his men, he must have known that his report of their action on that occasion was utterly untruthful. if, however, as i apprehend, he was behind the rifle pits, six hundred yards in the rear, he might, like thousands of others, who were distant spectators of the scene, have honestly conceived that his troops were doing the fighting. general rousseau's report contradicts his statements, and in a meager way accords the credit to my regiments. officers are more selfish, dishonest, and grasping in their struggle for notoriety than the miser for gold. they lay claim to every thing within reach, whether it belongs to them or not. i know absolutely that many of the reports in the volume before me are base exaggerations--romances, founded upon the smallest conceivable amount of fact. they are simply elaborate essays, which seek to show that the author was a little braver, a little more skillful in the management of his men, and a little worthier than anybody else. i know of one officer who has great credit, in official reports and in the newspapers, for a battle in which he did not participate at all. in fact, he did not reach the field until after the enemy had not only been repulsed, but retired out of sight; and yet he has not the manliness to correct the error, and give the honor to whom it is due. . the day has been a pleasant one. the night is delightful. the new moon favors us with just sufficient light to reveal fully the great oaks, the white tents, and the shadowy outline of the cumberland mountains. the pious few of the eighty-eighth indiana, assembled in a booth constructed of branches, are breathing out their devotional inspirations and aspirations, in an old hymn which carries us back to the churches and homes of the civilized world, or, as the boys term it, "god's country." katydids from a hundred trees are vigorous and relentless in their accusations against poor katy. that was a pleasant conceit of holmes, "what did poor katy do?" i never appreciated it fully until i came into the country of the katydids. two trains, laden with forage, commissary, and quartermaster stores, are puffing away at the depot. general rosecrans will move to winchester, two miles from us, to-morrow. no one ever more desired to look again on his wife and babies than i; but, alack and alas! i am bound with a chain which seems to tighten more and more each day, and draw me further and further from where i desire to be. but i trust the time will soon come when i shall be free again. morgan's command has come to grief in ohio. i trust he may be captured himself. the papers say basil duke is a prisoner. if so, the spirit of the great raider is in our hands, and it matters but little, perhaps, what becomes of the carcass. a soldier of the forty-second indiana, who ran away from the battle of stone river, had his head shaved and was drummed out of camp to-day. david walker, paul long, and charley hiskett, of the third ohio, go with him to nashville, where he is to be confined in military prison until the end of the war. shaving the head and drumming out of camp is a fearful punishment. i could not help pitying the poor fellow, as with carpet-sack in one hand and hat in the other he marched crest-fallen through the camps, to the music of the "rogue's march." death and oblivion would have been less severe and infinitely more desirable. . general rosecrans, although generally supposed to be here, has been, it is said, absent for some days. it is intimated that he has gone to washington. if it be true, he has flanked the newspaper men by a wonderful burst of strategy. he must have gone through disguised as an old woman--a very ugly old woman with a tremendous nose--otherwise these newspaper pickets would have arrested and put him in the papers forthwith. they are more vigilant than the rebels, and terribly intent upon finding somebody to talk about, to laud to the skies, or abuse in the most fearful manner, for they seldom do things by halves, unless it be telling the truth. they have a marvelous distaste for facts, and use no more of them than are absolutely necessary to string their guesses and imaginings upon. my colt has just whinnied. he is gay as a lark, and puts davy, the hostler, through many evolutions unknown to the cavalry service. the other day davy had him out for exercise, and when he came rearing and charging back, i said: "how does he behave to-day, davy?" "mighty rambunctious, sah; he's gettin' bad, sah." major james connelly, one hundred and twenty-third illinois, called. his regiment is mounted and in wilder's brigade. it participated in the engagement at hoover's gap. when my brigade was at hillsboro, connelly's regiment accompanied wilder to this place (decherd). the veracious correspondent reported that wilder, on that expedition, had destroyed the bridge here and done great injury to the railroad, permanently interrupting communication between bridgeport and tullahoma; but, in fact, the bridge was not destroyed, and trains on the railroad were only delayed two hours. the expedition succeeded, however, in picking up a few stragglers and horses. . general stanley has returned from huntsville, bringing with him about one thousand north alabama negroes. this is a blow at the enemy in the right place. deprived of slave labor, the whites will be compelled to send home, or leave at home, white men enough to cultivate the land and keep their families from starving. . adjutant wilson visited rousseau's division at cowan, and reports the return of starkweather from wisconsin, with the stars. this gentleman has been mourning over the ingratitude of republics ever since the battle of perryville; but henceforth he will, doubtless, feel better. a court-martial has been called for the trial of colonel a. b. moore, one hundred and fourth illinois. some ill-feeling in his regiment has led one of his officers to prefer charges against him. . general thomas is an officer of the regular army; the field is his home; the tent his house, and war his business. he regards rather coolly, therefore, the applications of volunteer officers for leaves of absence. why should they not be as contented as himself? he does not seem to consider that they suddenly dropped business, every thing, in fact, to hasten to the field. but, then, on second thought, i incline to the opinion that the old man is right. half the army would be at home if leaves and furloughs could be had for the asking. . lieutenant orr received notice yesterday of his appointment as captain in the subsistence department, and last night opened a barrel of beer and stood treat. i did not join the party until about ten o'clock, and then captain hewitt, of the battery, the story-teller of the brigade, was in full blast, and the applause was uproarious. he was telling of a militia captain of fentress county, tennessee, who called out his company upon the supposition that we were again at war with great britain; that washington had been captured by the invaders, and the arch-iv-es destroyed. a bystander questioned the correctness of the captain's information, when he became very angry, and, producing a newspaper, said: "d--n you, sir, do you think _i_ can't read, sir?" the man thus interrogated looked over the paper, saw that it announced the occupation of washington by the british, but called the attention of the excited militiaman to the fact that the date was . "so it is," said the old captain; "i did not notice the date. but, d--n me, sir, the paper just come. go on with the drill, boys." this story was told to illustrate the fact that the people of many counties in tennessee were behind the times. it would take too much time to refer, even briefly, to all the stories related, and i will allude simply to a london ghost story, which captain halpin, an irishman, of the fifteenth kentucky, undertook to tell. the gallant captain was in the last stages of inebriety, and laid the scene of his london ghost story in ireland. steadying himself in his seat with both hands, and with a tongue rather too thick to articulate clearly, he introduced us to his ancestors for twenty generations back. it was a famous old irish family, and among the collateral branches were the o'tooles, o'rourkes, and o'flahertys. they had in them the blood of the irish kings, and accomplished marvelous feats in the wars of those times. and so we staggered with the captain from dublin to belfast, and thence made sorties into all the provinces on chase of the london ghost, until finally our leader wound up with a yawn and went to sleep. the party, disappointed at this sudden and unsatisfactory termination of the london ghost story, took a mug of beer all around, and then one gentleman, drunker probably than the others, or possibly unwilling, after all the time spent, to allow the ghost to escape, punched the captain in the ribs and shouted: "captain--captain halpin, you said it was a london ghost story; maybe you'll find the ghost in london, for i'll be d--d if it's in ireland!" the captain was too far gone to profit by the suggestion. . this evening general rosecrans, on his way to winchester, stopped for a few minutes at the station. he shook hands with me, and asked how i liked the water at the foot of the mountains, and about the health of my troops. i told him the water was good, and that the boys were encamped on high ground and healthy. "yes," he replied, "and we'll take higher ground in a few days." on the march to tullahoma i had my brigade stretched along a ridge to guard against an attack from the direction of wartrace. general rosecrans passed through my lines, and was making some inquiries, when i stepped out: "hello," said he, "here is the young general himself. you've got a good ridge. who lives in that house? find a place for negley on your right or left. send me a map of this ridge. how do ye do?" . met general turchin for the first time since he was before our court-martial at huntsville. he appeared to be considerably cast down in spirit. he had just been relieved from his cavalry command, and was on his way to general reynolds to take command of a brigade of infantry. general crook, hitherto in command of a brigade, succeeds turchin as commander of a division. in short, crook and turchin just exchange places. the former is a graduate of the west point military academy, and is an ohio man, who has not, i think, greatly distinguished himself thus far. he has been in western virginia most of the time, and came to murfreesboro after the battle of stone river. general r. b. mitchell is, with his command, in camp a little over a mile from us. he is in good spirits, and dwells with emphasis on the length and arduousness of the marches made by his troops since he left murfreesboro. the labor devolving upon him as the commander of a division of cavalry is tremendous; and yet i was rejoiced to find his physical system had stood the strain well. the wear and tear upon his intellect, however, must have been very great. august, . . rode with colonel taylor to cowan; dined with colonel hobart, and spent the day very agreeably. returning we called on colonel scribner, remained an hour, and reached decherd after nightfall. my request for leave of absence was lying on the table approved and recommended by negley and thomas, but indorsed not granted by rosecrans. general rousseau has left, and probably will not return. the best of feeling has not existed between him and the commanding general for some time past. rousseau has had a good division, but probably thought he should have a corps. this, however, is not the cause of the breach. it has grown out of small matters--things too trifling to talk over, think of, or explain, and yet important enough to create a coldness, if not an open rupture. rosecrans is marvelously popular with the men. . the papers state that general r. b. mitchell has gone home on sick leave. poor fellow! he must have been taken suddenly, for when i saw him, a day or two ago, he was the picture of health. it is wonderful to me how a fellow as fat as bob can come the sick dodge so successfully. he can get sick at a moment's notice. . called on general thomas; then rode over to winchester. saw garfield at department head-quarters. he said he regretted very much being compelled to refuse my application for a leave. told him i expected to command this department soon, and when i got him and a few others, including rosecrans and thomas, under my thumb, they would obtain no favors. i should insist not only upon their remaining in camp, but upon their wives remaining out. in company with colonel mihalotzy i called on colonel burke, tenth ohio, and drank a couple of bottles of wine with him and his spiritual adviser, father o'higgin. had a very agreeable time. the colonel pressed us to remain for dinner; but we pleaded an engagement, and afterward obtained a very poor meal at the hotel for one dollar each. the board for the examination of applicants for commissions in colored regiments, of which i have the honor to be chairman, met, organized, and adjourned to convene at nine o'clock to-morrow. colonel parkhurst, ninth michigan, and colonel stanley, eighteenth ohio, are members. i am anxious to go home; but it is not possible for me to get away. almost every officer in the army desires to go, and every conceivable excuse and argument are urged. this man is sick; another's house has burned, and he desires to provide for his family; another has lawsuits coming off involving large sums, and his presence during the trial is necessary to save him from great loss; still another has deeds to make out, and an immense property interest to look after. . this is the day appointed by the president for thanksgiving and prayer. the shops in winchester are closed. colonel parkhurst has obtained a leave, and will go home on monday. . captain wilson and lieutenant ellsworth arose rather late this morning, and found a beer barrel protruding from the door of their tent, properly set up on benches, with a flaming placard over it: "new grocery!! wilson & ellsworth. fresh beer, c. a glass. give us a call." later in the day a grand presentation ceremony took place. all the members of the staff and hangers-on about head-quarters were gathered under the oaks; lieutenant calkins, one hundred and fourth illinois, was sent for, and, when he appeared, lieutenant ellsworth proceeded to read to him the following letter: "ottowa, illinois, _july_ , . "lieutenant w. w. calkins--_sir_: your old friends of ottowa, as a slight testimonial of their respect for you, and admiration for those chivalrous instincts which, when the banner of beauty and glory was assailed by traitorous legions, induced you to spring unhesitatingly to its defense, have the honor to present you a beautiful field-glass. trusting that, by its assistance, you will be able to see through your enemies, and ultimately find your way to the arms of your admiring fellow-citizens, we have the honor to subscribe ourselves, "your most obedient servants, peter brown, john smith, thomas jones, and others." the box containing the gift was carefully opened, and the necks and upper parts of two whisky bottles, fastened together by a piece of wood, taken out and delivered in due form to the lieutenant. he seemed greatly surprised, and for a few minutes addressed the donors in a very emphatic and uncomplimentary way; but finding this only added to the merriment of the party, he finally cooled down, and, lifting the field-glass to his eyes, leveled it upon the staff, and remarked that they appeared to be thirsty. this, of course, was hailed as undeniable evidence that the glass was perfect, and lieutenant calkins was heartily congratulated on his good luck, and on the proof which the testimonial afforded of the high estimation in which he was held by the people of his native town. many of his brother officers, in their friendly ardor, shook him warmly by the hand. . hewitt's battery has been transferred to the corps of engineers and mechanics, and bridges' battery, six guns, assigned to me. i gain two guns and many men by the exchange. our board grinds away eight or nine hours a day, and turns out about the usual proportion of wheat and chaff. the time was when we thought it would be impossible to obtain good officers for colored regiments. now we feel assured that they will have as good, if not better, officers than the white regiments. from sergeants applying for commissions we are able to select splendid men; strong, healthy, well informed, and of considerable military experience. in fact, we occasionally find a non-commissioned officer who is better qualified to command a regiment than nine-tenths of the colonels. i certainly know colonels who could not obtain a recommendation from this board for a second lieutenancy. saw general garfield yesterday; he was in bed sick. i have no fears of his immediate dissolution; in fact, i think he could avail himself of a twenty-day leave. i know if i were no worse than he appears to be, i would, with the permission of the general commanding, undertake to ride the whole distance home on horseback, and swim the rivers. in a little over a week i think my wife would see me, and the black horse, followed by the pepper-and-salt colt, charging up to the front door in such style as would remind her of the days of chivalry and the knights of the olden time. i should cry out in thunder tones, "ho! within! unbar the door!" the colt would kick up his heels with joy at sight of the grass in the yard, while the black would champ his bit with impatience to get into a comfortable stall once more. altogether the sight would be worth seeing; but it will not be seen. the board holds its sessions in the office of an honorable mr. turney, who left on our approach for a more congenial clime, and left suddenly. his letters and papers are lying around us in great confusion and profusion. among these we have discovered a document bearing the signatures of jeff. davis, john mason, pierre soule, and others, pledging themselves to resist, by any and every means, the admission of california, unless it came in with certain boundaries which they prescribed. the document was gotten up in washington, and colonel parkhurst says it is the original contract. dined with colonel d. h. gilmer, thirty-eighth illinois. dinner splendid; corn, cabbage, beans; peach, apple, and blackberry pie; with buttermilk and sweetmilk. it was a grand dinner, served on a snow-white table-cloth. where the colonel obtained all these delicacies i can not imagine. he is an out-and-out abolitionist, and possibly the negroes had favored him somewhat. colonel gilmer is delighted to find the country coming around to his ideas. he believes the lord, who superintends the affairs of nations, will give us peace in good time, and _that time_ will be when the institution of slavery has been rooted up and destroyed. he is a kentuckian by birth, and says he has kinfolks every-where. he is the only man he knows of who can find a cousin in every town he goes to. . dined with colonel taylor. colonels hobart, nicholas, and major craddock were present. after dinner we adjourned to my quarters, where we spent the afternoon. hobart dilated upon his adventures at new orleans and elsewhere, under abou ben butler. he says butler is a great man, but a d--d scoundrel. i have heard hobart say something like this at least a thousand times, and am pleased to know that his testimony on this point is always clear, decisive, and uncontradictory. my visitors are gone. the cars are bunting against each other at the depot. the katydids are piping away on the old, old story. the trees look like great shadows, and unlike the substantial oaks they really are. the camps are dark and quiet. this is all i can say of the night without. in a little booth made of cedar boughs is a table, on which sputters a solitary tallow candle, in a stick not remarkable for polish. this light illuminates the booth, and reveals to the observer--if there be one, which is very unlikely, for those who usually observe have in all probability retired--a wash basin, a newspaper, a penknife, which originally had two blades, but at present has but one, and that one very dull, a gentleman of say thirty, possibly thirty-five, two steel pens, rusty with age, an inkstand, and one miller, which miller has repeatedly dashed his head against the wick of the candle and discovered that the operation led to unsatisfactory results. wearied, disappointed, and disheartened, the miller now sits quietly on the table, mourning, doubtless, over the unpleasant lesson which experience has taught him. his head is now wiser; but, alas! his wings are shorter than they were, and of what use is his head without wings? he feels very like the man who made a dash for fame, and fell wounded and bleeding on the field, or the child who, for the first time, discovers that all is not gold that glitters. the gentleman referred to--and i trust it may be no stretch of the verities to call him a gentleman--leans over the table writing. he has an abundant crop of dark hair on his head, under his chin, and on his upper lip. he is not just now troubled with a superabundance of flesh, or, in other words, no one would suspect him of being fat. on the contrary, he might remind one of the lean kine, or the prodigal son who had been feeding on husks. he is wide awake at this late hour of the night, from which i conclude he has slept more or less during the day. no one, to look at this gentleman, would take him to be a remarkable man; in fact, his most intimate friends could not find it in their hearts to bring such an accusation against him. his face is browned by exposure, and his blue eyes look quite dark, or would do so if there were sufficient light to see them. when he straightens up--and he generally straightens when up at all--he is five feet eleven, or thereabouts. his appetite is good, and his education is of that superior kind which enables him, without apparent effort, to misspell three-fourths of the words in the english language; in fact, at this present moment he is holding an imaginary discussion with his wife, who has written him that the underclothing for gentlemen's feet should be spelled _s-o-c-k-s_, and not "s-o-x". he begs leave to differ with her, which he would probably not dare to do were she not hundreds of miles away; and he argues the matter in this way: s-o-x, o-x, f-o-x--the termination sounds alike in all. now how absurd it would be to insist that ox should be spelled o-c-k-s, or fox f-o-c-k-s. the commonest kind of sense teaches one that the old lady is in error, and "sox" clearly correct. much learning hath evidently made her mad. having satisfied himself about this matter, he takes a photograph from an inside pocket; it is that of his wife. he makes another dive, and brings out one of his children; then he lights a laurel-wood pipe, and, as the white smoke curls about his head and vanishes, his thoughts skip off five hundred miles or less, to a community of sensible, industrious, quiet folks, and when he finally awakes from the reverie and looks about him upon the beggarly surroundings--he does not swear, for he bethinks him in time that swearing would do no good. . colonel hobart, twenty-first wisconsin, and colonel hays, tenth kentucky, have been added to the board--the former at my request. . to-day i dined with a wisconsin friend of colonel hobart's; had a good dinner, scotch ale and champagne, and a very agreeable time. colonel hegg, the dispenser of hospitalities, is a norwegian by birth, a republican, a gentleman who has held important public positions in wisconsin, and who stands well with the people. in the course of the table talk i learned something of the history of my friend hobart. he is an old wheel-horse of the democratic party of his state; was a candidate for governor a few years ago, and held joint debates with randall and carl schurz. he is the father of the homestead law, which has been adopted by so many states, and was for many years the leader of the house of representatives of wisconsin. all this i gathered from colonel hegg, for hobart seldom, if ever, talks about himself. i imagine that even the most polished orator would obtain but little, if any, advantage over hobart in a discussion before the people. he has the imagination, the information, and the oratorical fury in discussion which are likely to captivate the masses. he was at one time opposed to arming the negroes; but now that he is satisfied they will fight, he is in favor of using them. to-night colonels hays and hobart held quite an interesting debate on the policy of arming colored men, and emancipating those belonging to rebels. hays, who, by the way, is an honest man and a gallant soldier, presented the kentucky view of the matter, and his arguments, evidently very weak, were thoroughly demolished by hobart. i think colonel hays felt, as the controversy progressed, that his position was untenable, and that his hostility to the president's proclamation sprang from the prejudice in which he had been educated, rather than from reason and justice. . old tom, known in camp as the veracious nigger, because of a "turkle" story which he tells, is just coming along as i wait a moment for the breakfast bell. the "turkle," which tom caught in some creek in alabama, had two hundred and fifty eggs in "him." "yas, sah, two hunder an' fifty." tom has peculiar notions about certain matters, and they are not, by any means, complimentary to the white man. he says: "it jus' 'pears to me dat adam was a black man, sah, an' de lord he scar him till he got white, cos he was a sinner, sah." "tom, you scoundrel, how dare you slander the white man in that way?" "'pears to me dat way; hab to tell de truf, sah; dat's my min'. men was 'riginally black; but de lord he scare adam till he got white; dat's de reasonable supposition, sah. do a man's har git black when he scared, sah? no, sah, it gits white. did you ebber know a man ter get black when he's scard, sah? no, sah, he gits white." "that does seem to be a knock-down argument, tom." "yas, sah, i've argied with mor'n a hunder white men, sah, an' they can't never git aroun dat pint. when yer strip dis subjec ob prejdice, an' fetch to bar on it de light o' reason, sah, yer can 'rive at but one 'clusion, sah. de lord he rode into de garden in chariot of fire, sah, robed wid de lightnin', sah, thunder bolt in his han', an' he cried adam, in de voice of a airthquake, sah, an' de 'fec on adam was powerful, sah. dat's my min', sah." and so tom goes on his way, confident that the first man was black, and that another white man has been vanquished in argument. . the weather continues oppressively hot. the names of candidates for admission to the corps _d'afrique_ continue to pour in. the number has swelled to eight hundred. we begin our labors at nine, adjourn a few minutes for lunch, and then continue our work until nearly six. . we move at ten o'clock a. m. had a heavy rain yesterday and a fearful wind. the morning, however, is clear, and atmosphere delightful. our board has examined one hundred and twenty men. perhaps forty have been recommended for commissions. the present movement will, doubtless, be a very interesting one. a few days will take us to the tennessee, and thereafter we shall operate on new ground. georgia will be within a few miles of us, the long-suffering and long-coveted east tennessee on our left, central alabama to our front and right. a great struggle will undoubtedly soon take place, for it is not possible that the rebels will give us a foothold south of the tennessee until compelled to do it. . we are encamped on the banks of crow creek, three miles northerly from stevenson. the table on which i write is under the great beech trees. colonel hobart is sitting near studying casey. the light of the new moon is entirely excluded by foliage. on the right and left the valley is bounded by ranges of mountains eight hundred or a thousand feet high. crow creek is within a few feet of me; in fact, the sand under my feet was deposited by its waters. the army extends along the tennessee, from opposite chattanooga to bellefonte. before us, and just beyond the river, rises a green-mountain wall, whose summit, apparently as uniform as a garden hedge, seems to mingle with the clouds. beyond this are the legions of the enemy, whose signal lights we see nightly. . our board has resumed its sessions at the alabama house, stevenson. the weather is intensely hot. father stanley stripped off his coat and groaned. hobart's face was red as the rising sun, and the anxious candidates for commissions did not certainly resemble cucumbers for coolness. hobart rides a very poor horse--poor in flesh, i mean; but he entertains the most exalted opinion of the beast. this morning, as we rode from camp, i thought i would please him by referring to his horse in a complimentary way. said i: "colonel, your horse holds his own mighty well." his face brightened, and i continued: "he hasn't lost a bone since i have known him." this nettled him, and he began to badger me about an unsuccessful attempt which i made some time ago to get him to taste a green persimmon. hobart has a good education, is fluent in conversation, and in discussion gets the better of me without difficulty. all i can do, therefore, is to watch my opportunity to give him an occasional thrust as best i can. father stanley is slow, destitute of either education or wit, and examines applicants like a demagogue fishes for votes. brigadier-general jeff. c. davis and colonel hegg called to-day. davis is, i think, not quite so tall as i am, but a shade heavier. met captain gaunther. he has been relieved from duty here, and ordered to washington. he is an excellent officer, and deserves a higher position than he holds at present. i thought, from the very affectionate manner with which he clung to my hand and squeezed it, that possibly, in taking leave of his friends, he had burdened himself with that "oat" which is said to be one too many. hobart says that scribner calls him hobart up to two glasses, and further on in his cups ycleps him hogan. wood had a bout with the enemy at chattanooga yesterday; he on the north side and they on the south side of the river. johnson is said to have reinforced bragg, and the enemy is supposed to be strong in our front. rosecrans was at bridgeport yesterday looking over the ground, when a sharpshooter blazed away at him, and put a bullet in a tree near which the general and his son were standing. . deserters are coming in almost every day. they report that secret societies exist in the rebel army whose object is the promotion of desertion. eleven men from one company arrived yesterday. not many days ago a confederate officer swam the river and gave himself up. for some time past the pickets of the two armies have not been firing at each other; but yesterday the rebels gave notice that they should commence again, as the "yanks were becoming too d--n thick." . to-day we were examining a german who desired to be recommended for a field officer. "how do you form an oblique square, sir?" "black square? black square?" exclaimed the dutchman; "i dush not know vot you means by de black square." as i write the moon shines down upon me through an opening in the branches of the beech forest in which we are encamped, and the objects about me, half seen and half hidden, in some way suggest the half-remembered and half-forgotten incidents of childhood. how often, when a boy, have i dreamed of scenes similar to those through which i have passed in the last two years! knightly warriors, great armies on the march and in camp, the skirmish, the tumult and thunder of battle, were then things of the imagination; but now they have become familiar items of daily life. then a single tap of the drum or note of the bugle awakened thoughts of the old times of chivalry, and regrets that the days of glory had passed away. now we have martial strains almost every hour, and are reminded only of the various duties of our every-day life. as we went to stevenson this morning, hobart caught a glimpse of a colored man coming toward us. it suggested to him a hobby which he rides now every day, and he commenced his oration by saying, in his declamatory way: "the negro is the coming man." "yes," i interrupted, "so i see, and he appears to have his hat full of peaches;" and so the coming man had. . rode to the river with hobart and stanley. the rebel pickets were lying about in plain view on the other side. just before our arrival quite a number of them had been bathing. the outposts of the two armies appear still to be on friendly terms. "yesterday," a soldier said to me, "one of our boys crossed the river, talked with the rebs for some time, and returned." . the band is playing "yankee doodle," and the boys break into an occasional cheer by way of indorsement. there is something defiant in the air of "doodle" as he blows away on the soil of the cavaliers, which strikes a noisy chord in the breast of uncle sam's nephews, and the demonstrations which follow are equivalent to "let 'er rip," "go in old boy." colonel hobart's emphatic expression is "egad." he told me to-day of a favorite horse at home, which would follow him from place to place as he worked in the garden, keeping his nose as near to him as possible. his wife remarked to him one day: "egad, husband, if you loved me as well as you do that horse, i should be perfectly happy." "are you quite sure mrs. hobart said 'egad,' colonel?" "well, no, i wouldn't like to swear to that." this afternoon colonels stanley, hobart, and i rode down to the tennessee to look at the pontoon bridge which has been thrown across the river. on the way we met generals rosecrans, mccook, negley, and garfield. the former checked up, shook hands, and said: "how d'ye do?" garfield gave us a grip which suggested "vote right, vote early." negley smiled affably, and the cavalcade moved on. we crossed the tennessee on the bridge of boats, and rode a few miles into the country beyond. not a gun was fired as the bridge was being laid. davis' division is on the south side of the river. the tennessee at this place is beautiful. the bridge looks like a ribbon stretched across it. the island below, the heavily-wooded banks, the bluffs and mountain, present a scene which would delight the soul of the artist. a hundred boys were frollicking in the water near the pontoons, tumbling into the stream in all sorts of ways, kicking up their heels, ducking and splashing each other, and having a glorious time generally. . (sunday.) the brigade moved into stevenson. . it crossed the tennessee. in one of the classes for examination to-day was a sergeant, fifty years old at least, but still sprightly and active; not very well posted in the infantry tactics now in use, but of more than ordinary intelligence. the class had not impressed the board favorably. this sergeant we thought rather too old, and the others entirely too ignorant. when the class was told to retire, this old sergeant, who, by the way, belongs to a michigan regiment, came up to me and asked: "was john beatty, of sandusky, a relative of yours?" "he was my grandfather." "yes, you resemble your mother. you are the son of james beatty. i have carried you in my arms many a time. my mother saved your life more than once. thirty years ago your father and mine were neighbors. i recollect the cabin where you were born as well as if i had seen it but yesterday." "i am heartily glad to see you, my old friend," said i, taking his hand. "you must stay with me to-night, and we will talk over the old times together." when the sergeant retired, hobart, with a twinkle in his eye, said he did not think much of that fellow; his early associations had evidently been bad; he was entirely too old, anyway. what the army needed, above all things, were young, vigorous, dashing officers; but he supposed, notwithstanding all this, that we should have to do something for the sergeant. he had rendered important service to the country by carrying the honored president of our board in his arms, and but for the timely doses of catnip tea, administered by the sergeant's mother, the gallant knight of the black horse and pepper-and-salt colt would have been unknown. "what do you say, gentlemen, to a second lieutenancy for general beatty's friend?" "i shall vote for it," replied stanley. "recommend him for a first lieutenancy," i suggested; and they did. in the evening i had a long and very pleasant conversation with the sergeant. he had fought under bradley in the patriot war at point au pelee; served five years in the regular army during the florida war, and two years in the mexican war. his name is daniel rodabaugh. he has been in the united states service as a soldier for nine years, and richly deserves the position for which we recommended him. september, . . closed up the business of the board, and at seven o'clock in the evening (tuesday) left stevenson to rejoin the brigade. on the way to the river i passed colonel stanley's brigade of our division. the air was thick with dust. it was quite dark when i crossed the bridge. the brigade had started on the march hours before, but i thought best to push on and overtake it. after getting on the wrong road and riding considerably out of my way, i finally found the right one, and about ten o'clock overtook the rear of the column. the two armies will face each other before the end of the week. general lytle's brigade is bivouacking near me. i have a bad cold, but otherwise am in good health. . we moved from moore's spring, on the tennessee, in the morning, and after laboring all day advanced less than one mile and a quarter. we were ascending sand mountain; many of our wagons did not reach the summit. . with two regiments i descended into lookout valley and bivouacked at brown's springs about dark. our transportation, owing to the darkness and extreme badness of the roads, remained on the top of the mountain. i have no blankets, and nothing to eat except one ear of corn which one of the colored boys roasted for me. wrapped in my overcoat, about nine o'clock, i lay down on the ground to sleep; but a terrible toothache took hold of me, and i was compelled to get up and find such relief as i could in walking up and down the road. the moon shone brightly, and many camp-fires glimmered in the valley and along the side of the mountain. it was three o'clock in the morning before gentle sleep made me oblivious to aching teeth and head, and all the other aches which had possession of me. . a few deserters come in to us, but they bring little information of the enemy. we are now in georgia, twenty miles from chattanooga by the direct road, which, like all roads here, is very crooked, and difficult to travel. the enemy is, doubtless, in force very near, but he makes no demonstrations and retires his pickets without firing a gun. the developments of the next week or two will be matters for the historian. sheridan's division is just coming into the valley; what other troops are to cross the mountain by this road i do not know. as i write, heavy guns are heard off in the direction of chattanooga. the roads are extremely dusty. this morning i consigned to the flames all letters which have come to me during the last two months. i have just returned from a ride up the valley to the site of the proposed iron works of georgia. work on the railroad, on the mountain roads, and on the furnaces, was suspended on our approach. the negroes and white laborers were run off to get them beyond our reach. the hills in the vicinity of the proposed works are undoubtedly full of iron; the ore crops out so plainly that it is visible to all passers. here the confederacy proposed to supply its railroads with iron rail, an article at present very nearly exhausted in the south. had the georgians possessed common business sense and common energy, extensive furnaces would have been in operation in this valley years ago; and now, instead of a few poorly cultivated corn-fields, with here and there a cabin, the valley and hillsides would be overflowing with population and wealth. we returned from the site of the iron works by way of trenton, the seat of justice of dade county. reynolds and sheridan are encamped near trenton. i feel better since my ride. . (sunday.) marched to johnson's crook, and bivouacked, at nightfall, at mckay's spring, on the north side of lookout mountain; here my advance regiment, the forty-second indiana, had a slight skirmish with the enemy, in which one man was wounded. . we gained the summit of lookout mountain, and the enemy retired to the gaps on the south side. . started at four o'clock in the morning and pushed for cooper's gap. surprised a cavalry picket at the foot of the mountain, in mclemore's cove, chattanooga valley. in this little affair we captured five sabers, one revolver, one carbine, one prisoner, and seriously wounded one man. while standing on a peak of lookout, we saw far off to the east long lines of dust trending slowly to the south, and inferred from this that bragg had abandoned chattanooga, and was either retiring before us or making preparations to check the center and right of our line. . marched up the valley to stephen's gap and rejoined the division. . our division marched across mclemore's cove to pigeon mountain, found dug gap obstructed, and the enemy in force on the right, left, and front. the skirmishers of the advance brigade, colonel surwell's, were engaged somewhat, and during the night information poured in upon us, from all quarters, that the enemy, in strength, was making dispositions to surround and cut us off before reinforcements could arrive. . two brigades of baird's division joined us about a. m. five thousand of the enemy's cavalry were reported to be moving to our left and rear; soon after, his infantry appeared on our right and left, and, a little later, in our front. from the summit of pigeon mountain, the rebels could observe all our movements, and form a good estimate of our entire force. our immense train, swelled now by the transportation of baird's division to near four hundred wagons, compelled us to select such positions as would enable us to protect the train, and not such as were most favorable for making an offensive or defensive fight. it was now impossible for brannan and reynolds to reach us in time to render assistance. general negley concluded, therefore, to fall back, and ordered me to move to bailey's cross-roads, and await the passage of the wagon train to the rear. the enemy attacked soon after, but were held in check until the transportation had time to return to stephens' gap. . we expected an attack this morning, but, reinforcements arriving, the enemy retired. this afternoon brannan made a reconnoissance, but the result i have not ascertained; there was, however, no fighting. i am writing this in the woods, where we are bivouacking for the night. for nearly two weeks, now, i have not had my clothes off; and for perhaps not more than two nights of the time have i had my boots and spurs off. i have arisen at three o'clock in the morning and not lain down until ten or eleven at night. my appetite is good and health excellent. last night my horse fell down with me, and on me, but strange to say only injured himself. we find great numbers of men in these mountains who profess to be loyal. our army is divided--crittenden on the left, our corps (thomas) in the center, and mccook far to the right. the greatest danger we need apprehend is that the enemy may concentrate rapidly and fight our widely separated corps in detail. our transportation, necessarily large in any case, but unnecessarily large in this, impedes us very much. the roads up and down the mountains are extremely bad; our progress has therefore been slow, and the march hither a tedious one. the brigade lies in the open field before me in battle line. the boys have had no time to rest during the day, and have done much night work, but they hold up well. a katydid has been very friendly with me to-night, and is now sitting on the paper as if to read what i have written. . marched from bailey's cross-roads to owensford on the chickamauga. . ordered to relieve general hazen, who held position on the road to crawfish springs; but as he had received no orders, and as mine were but verbal, he declined to move, and i therefore continued my march and bivouacked at the springs. about midnight i was ordered to proceed to a ford of the chickamauga and relieve a brigade of palmer's division, commanded by colonel grose. the night was dark and the road crooked. about two in the morning i reached the place; and as colonel grose's pickets were being relieved and mine substituted, occasional shots along the line indicated that the enemy was in our immediate front. chickamauga. . at an early hour in the morning the enemy's pickets made their appearance on the east side of the chickamauga and engaged my skirmishers. some hours later he opened on us with two batteries, and a sharp artillery fight ensued. during this engagement, the fifteenth kentucky, colonel taylor, occupied an advanced position in the woods on the low ground, and the shots of the artillery passed immediately over it. i rode down to this regiment to see that the men were not disturbed by the furious cannonading, and to obtain at the same time a better view of the enemy. while thus absent, captain bridges, concluding that the confederate guns were too heavy for him, limbered up and fell back. hastening to the hill, i sent captain wilson with an order to bridges to return; and, being reinforced soon after by three pieces of shultz's first ohio battery, we opened again on the advancing columns of the enemy, when they fell back precipitately, evidently concluding that the lull in our firing and withdrawal of our artillery were simply devices to draw them on. in this affair eight men of the infantry were wounded; and captain bridges had two men killed, nine wounded, and lost twelve horses. about five o'clock in the afternoon i was directed to withdraw my picket line--which had been greatly extended in order to connect with troops on the left--as silently and carefully as possible, and return to crawfish springs. arriving at the springs, the boys were allowed time to fill their canteens with water, when we pushed forward on the chattanooga road to a ridge near osbern's, where we bivouacked for the night. there had been heavy fighting on our left during the whole afternoon; and while the boys were preparing supper, a very considerable engagement was occurring not far distant to the east and south of us. elsewhere an occasional volley of musketry, and boom of artillery, with scattered firing along an extended line indicated that the two grand armies were concentrating for battle, and that the morrow would give us hot and dangerous work. . (sunday.) at an early hour in the morning i was directed to move northward on the chattanooga road and report to general thomas. he ordered me to go to the extreme left of our line, form perpendicularly to the rear of baird's division, connecting with his left. i disposed of my brigade as directed. baird's line appeared to run parallel with the road, and mine running to the rear crossed the road. on this road and near it i posted my artillery, and advanced my skirmishers to the edge of the open field in front of the left and center of my line. the position was a good one, and my brigade and the one on baird's left could have co-operated and assisted each other in maintaining it. fifteen minutes after this line was formed, captain gaw, of general thomas' staff, brought me a verbal order to advance my line to a ridge or low hill (mcdaniel's house), fully one-fourth of a mile distant. i represented to him that in advancing i would necessarily leave a long interval between my right and baird's left, and also that i was already in the position which general thomas himself told me to occupy. he replied that the order to move forward was imperative, and that i was to be supported by negley with the other two brigades of his division. i could object no further, although the movement seemed exceedingly unwise, and, therefore, pushed forward my men as rapidly as possible to the point indicated. the eighty-eighth indiana (colonel humphreys), on the left, moved into position without difficulty. the forty-second indiana (lieutenant-colonel mcintyre), on its right, met with considerable opposition in advancing through the woods, but finally reached the ridge. the one hundred and fourth illinois (lieutenant-colonel hapeman), and fifteenth kentucky (colonel taylor), on the right, became engaged almost immediately and advanced slowly. the enemy in strong force pressed them heavily in front and on the right flank. at this time i sent an aid to request general baird or general king to throw a force in the interval between my right and their left, and dispatched captain wilson to the rear to hasten forward general negley to my support. my regiment on the right was confronted by so large a force that it was compelled to fall back, which it did in good order, contesting the ground stoutly. about this time a column of the enemy, _en masse_, on the double quick, pressed into the interval between the one hundred and fourth illinois and forty-second indiana, and turned with the evident intention of capturing the latter, which was then busily engaged with the rebels in its front; but captain bridges opened on it with grape and canister, when it broke and fell back in disorder to the shelter of the woods. the forty-second indiana, but a moment before almost surrounded, was thus enabled to fight its way to the left and unite with the eighty-eighth. soon after this the enemy made another and more furious assault upon the one hundred and fourth illinois and fifteenth kentucky, and, driving them back, advanced to within fifty yards of my battery, and poured into it a heavy fire, killing lieutenant bishop, and killing or wounding all the men and horses belonging to his section, which consequently fell into rebel hands. captain bridges and his officers, by the exercise of great courage and coolness, succeeded in saving the remainder of the battery. it was in this encounter that captain lefevre, of my staff, was killed, and lieutenant calkins, also of the staff, was wounded. the enemy having now gained the woods south of the open field and west of the road, i opposed his further progress as well as i could with the fifteenth kentucky and one hundred and fourth illinois; but as he had two full brigades, the struggle on our part seemed a hopeless one. fortunately, at this juncture, i discovered a battery on the road in our rear (i think it was captain goodspeed's), and at my request the captain ordered it to change front and open fire. this additional opposition served for a time to entirely check the enemy. the eighty-eighth and forty-second indiana, compelled, as their officers claim, to make a detour to the left and rear, in order to escape capture or utter annihilation, found general negley, and were ordered to remain with him, and finally to retire with him in the direction of rossville. this, however, i did not ascertain until ten hours later in the day. firing having now ceased in my front, and being the only mounted officer or mounted man present, i left the fifteenth kentucky and one hundred and fourth illinois temporarily in charge of colonel taylor, and hurried back to see general thomas or negley, and urge the necessity for more troops to enable me to re-establish the line. on the way, and before proceeding far, i met the second brigade of our division, colonel stanley, advancing to my support. had it reached me an hour earlier, i feel assured that i would have been able to maintain the position which i had just been compelled to abandon. i directed colonel stanley to form a line of battle at once, at right angles with the road and on its left, facing north. returning to colonel taylor, i ordered him to fall back with the fifteenth kentucky and one hundred and fourth illinois, and form in rear of the left of stanley's line, as a support to it. soon after we had got our lines adjusted, the enemy pressed back the skirmishers of the fifteenth kentucky and one hundred and fourth illinois, who had not been retired with the regiments, and, following them up, drove in also the skirmish line of stanley's brigade, whereupon the eleventh michigan (colonel stoughton), and the eighteenth ohio (lieutenant-colonel grosvenor), gave him a well-directed volley, which brought him to a halt. our whole line then opened at short range, and he wavered. i gave the order to advance, then to charge, and the brigade rushed forward with a yell, drove the enemy fully one-fourth of a mile, strewing the ground with his dead and wounded, and capturing many prisoners. among the latter was general adams, the commander of a louisiana brigade. finding now that colonel taylor had not followed the movement with his regiment and the one hundred and fourth illinois, and seeing the necessity for some support for a single line so extended, i hastened to the rear, and, being unable to find taylor where i had left him, i induced four regiments, of i know not what command, which i found idle in the woods, to move forward and form a second line. at this time captain wilson, whom i had sent to general negley some time before the second brigade reached me, to inform him of my position and need of assistance, returned, and brought from him a verbal order to retire to the hill in the rear and join him. convinced that the withdrawal of the troops at this time from the position occupied might endanger the whole left wing of the army, i thought best to defer the execution of this order until i could see general negley and explain to him the necessity of maintaining and reinforcing it with the other brigade of our division. but before captain wilson could find either colonel taylor, who had in charge the fifteenth kentucky and one hundred and fourth illinois, or general negley, the enemy made a fierce attack on stanley's brigade and forced it back. the unknown brigade which i had posted in the rear to support it retired with unseemly haste, and without firing a shot. at this juncture frightened soldiers and occasional shots were coming from the right and rear of our line, indicating that the right wing of the army had either been thrown back or changed position. stanley's brigade, considerably scattered and shattered by the last furious assault of the enemy, was gathered up by its officers and retired to the ridge on the right and to the rear of the original line of battle. wilson and i made diligent efforts to find taylor, but were unable to do so. i was greatly provoked at his retirement without consulting me, and at a time, too, when his presence was so greatly needed to support stanley. but later in the day i ascertained from him that he had been ordered by major lowrie, general negley's chief of staff, to join negley and retire with him to rossville. he also had much to say about saving many pieces of artillery; but it occurred to me that his presence on the field was of much more importance than a few pieces of trumpery artillery off the field. why, at any rate, did he not notify me of the order which he had received from the division commander? the charge of stanley's brigade had not occupied to exceed thirty minutes, and as soon as it was ended i had returned to find him gone. the colonel, however, did, doubtless, what he conceived to be his duty, and for the best. his courage had been tested on too many occasions to allow me to think that anything but an error of judgment, or possibly the belief that under any circumstances he was bound to obey the order of the major-general commanding the division, could have induced him to abandon me. supposing my regiments and general negley to be still on the field, i again dispatched captain wilson in search of them, and in the meantime stationed myself near a fragment of the second brigade of our division, and gave such general directions to the troops about me as under the circumstances i felt warranted in doing. i found abundant opportunity to make myself useful. gathering up scattered detachments of a dozen different commands, i filled up an unoccupied space on the ridge between harker, of wood's division, on the left, and brannan, on the right, and this point we held obstinately until sunset. colonel stoughton, eleventh michigan; lieutenant-colonel rappin, nineteenth illinois; lieutenant-colonel grosvenor, eighteenth ohio; colonel hunter, eighty-second indiana; colonel hays and lieutenant-colonel wharton, tenth kentucky; captain stinchcomb, seventeenth ohio; and captain kendrick, seventy-ninth pennsylvania, were there, each having a few men of their respective commands; and they and their men fought and struggled and clung to that ridge with an obstinate, persistent, desperate courage, unsurpassed, i believe, on any field. i robbed the dead of cartridges and distributed them to the men; and once when, after a desperate struggle, our troops were driven from the crest, and the enemy's flag waved above it, the men were rallied, and i rode up the hill with them, waving my hat, and shouting like a madman. thus we charged, and the enemy only saved his colors by throwing them down the hill. however much we may say of those who held command, justice compels the acknowledgment that no officer exhibited more courage on that occasion than the humblest private in the ranks. about four o'clock we saw away off to our rear the banners and glittering guns of a division coming toward us, and we became agitated by doubt and hope. are they friends or foes? the thunder, as of a thousand anvils, still goes on in our front. men fall around us like leaves in autumn. thomas, garfield, wood, and others are in consultation below the hill just in rear of harker. the approaching troops are said to be ours, and we feel a throb of exultation. before they arrive we ascertain that the division is steedman's; and finally, as they come up, i recognize my old friend, colonel mitchell, of the one hundred and thirteenth. they go into action on our right, and as they press forward the roar of the musketry redoubles; the battle seems to be working off in that direction. there is now a comparative lull in our front, and i ride over to the right, and become involved in a regiment which has been thrown out of line and into confusion by another regiment that retreated through it in disorder. i assist colonel mitchell in rallying it, and it goes into the fight again. returning to my old place, i find that disorganized bodies of men are coming rapidly from the left, in regiments, companies, squads, and singly. i meet general wood, and ask if i shall not halt and reorganize them. he tells me to do so; but i find the task impossible. they do not recognize me as their commander, and most of them will not obey my orders. some few, indeed, i manage to hold together; but the great mass drift by me to the woods in the rear. the dead are lying every-where; the wounded are continually passing to the rear; the thunder of the guns and roll of musketry are unceasing and unabated until nightfall. then the fury of the battle gradually dies away, and finally we have a silence, broken only by a cheer here and there along the enemy's line. wilson and i are together near the ridge, where we have been all the afternoon. we have heard nothing of negley nor of my regiments. we take it for granted, however, that they are somewhere on the field. as the night darkens we discover a line of fires off to our left and rear, toward mcdaniels' house. that is the place where negley should have been in the morning, and we conclude he must be there now. we have been badly used during the day; but it does not occur to us that our army has been whipped. we start together to find negley. we have had nothing to eat since early morning, and so, passing a corn-field, we stop for a moment to fill our pockets with corn; then, proceeding on our way, we pass through an unused field, grown up with brush, and here meet a man coming toward us on horseback. i said to him, "are those our troops?" pointing in the direction of the line of fires. he answered, "yes; our troops are on the road and just beyond it." pretty soon we emerged from the brushy woods and entered an open field; just before us was a long line of fires, and soldiers busily engaged preparing supper. we had approached to within two hundred feet of them, and could hear the soldiers talk and laugh, as soldiers will, over the incidents of the day, when we discerned that we were riding straight into the enemy's line. instantly wheeling our horses, we drove the spurs into them and lay down on their backs. we had been discovered, and a dozen or more shots were sent after us; but we escaped unharmed. the man we met in the unused field had mistaken us for confederate officers. two or three shots were fired at us as we approached our own line, but the darkness saved us. near eight o'clock in the evening i ascertained, from general wood, that the army had been ordered to fall back to rossville, and i started at once to inform colonel stoughton and others on the ridge; but i found that they had been apprised of the movement, and were then on the road to the rear. the march to rossville was a melancholy one. all along the road, for miles, wounded men were lying. they had crawled or hobbled slowly away from the fury of the battle, become exhausted, and lay down by the roadside to die. some were calling the names and numbers of their regiments, but many had become too weak to do this; by midnight the column had passed by. what must have been their agony, mental and physical, as they lay in the dreary woods, sensible that there was no one to comfort or to care for them, and that in a few hours more their career on earth would be ended. at a little brook, which crossed the road, wilson and i stopped to water our horses. the remains of a fire, which some soldiers had kindled, were raked together, and laying a couple of ears of corn on the coals for our own use, we gave the remainder of what we had in our pockets to the poor beasts; they, also, had fasted since early morning. how many terrible scenes of the day's battle recur to us as we ride on in the darkness. we see again the soldier whose bowels were protruding, and hear him cry, "jesus, have mercy on my soul!" what multitudes of thought were then crowding into the narrow half hour which he had yet to live--what regrets, what hopes, what fears! the sky was darkening, earth fading; wealth, power, fame, the prizes most esteemed of men, were as nothing. his only hope lay in the saviour of whom his mother had taught him. i doubt not his earnest, agonizing prayer was heard. nay, to doubt would be to question the mercy of god! a confederate boy, who should have been at home with his mother, and whose leg had been fearfully torn by a minnie ball, hailed me as i was galloping by early in the day. he was bleeding to death, and crying bitterly. i gave him my handkerchief, and shouted back to him, as i hurried on, "bind up the leg tight!" the adjutant of the rebel general adams called to me as i passed him. he wanted help, but i could not help him--could not even help our own poor boys who lay bleeding near him. sammy snyder lay on the field wounded; as i handed him my canteen he said, "general, i did my duty." "i know that, sammy; i never doubted that you would do your duty." the most painful recollection to one who has gone through a battle, is that of the friends lying wounded and dying and who needed help so much when you were utterly powerless to aid them. between ten and eleven o'clock, at night, i reached rossville, and found one of my regiments, the forty-second indiana, on picket one mile south of that place, and the other regiments encamped near the town. my men were surprised and rejoiced to see me. it had been currently reported that i was killed. one fellow claimed to know the exact spot on my body where the ball hit me; while another, not willing to be outdone, had given a minute description of the locality where i fell. general negley rendered me good service by giving me something to eat and drink, for i was hungry as a wolf. at this hour of the night (eleven to twelve o'clock) the army is simply a mob. there appears to be neither organization nor discipline. the various commands are mixed up in what seems to be inextricable confusion. were a division of the enemy to pounce down upon us between this and morning, i fear the army of the cumberland would be blotted out. . early this morning the army was again got into order. officers and soldiers found their regiments, regiments their brigades, and brigades their divisions. my brigade was posted on a high ridge, east of rossville and near it. about ten o'clock a. m. it was attacked by a brigade of mounted infantry, a part of forrest's command, under colonel dibble. after a sharp fight of half an hour, in which the fifteenth kentucky, colonel taylor, and the forty-second indiana, lieutenant-colonel mcintyre, were principally engaged, the enemy was repulsed, and retired leaving his dead and a portion of his wounded on the field. of his dead, one officer and eight men were left within a few rods of our line. one little boy, so badly wounded they could not carry him off, said, with tears and sobs, "they have run off and left me in the woods to die." i directed the boys to carry him into our lines and care for him. at midnight, the fifteenth kentucky was deployed on the skirmish line; the other regiments of the brigade withdrawn, and started on the way to chattanooga. a little later the fifteenth kentucky quietly retired and proceeded to the same place. . we are at chattanooga. with the exception of a cold, great exhaustion, and extreme hoarseness, occasioned by much hallooing, i am in good condition. the rebels have followed us and are taking position in our front. . at midnight the enemy attempted to drive in our pickets, and an engagement ensued, which lasted an hour or more, and was quite brisk. . this morning another furious assault was made on our picket line; but, after a short time, the rebels retired and permitted us to remain quiet for the remainder of the day. their pickets are plainly seen from our lines, and their signal flags are discernable on mission ridge. occasionally we see their columns moving. our army is busily engaged fortifying. . (sunday.) had a good night's rest, and am feeling very well. the day is a quiet one. october, . . have been trying to persuade myself that i am unwell enough to ask for a leave, but it will not work. the moment after i come to the conclusion that i am really sick, and can not stand it longer, i begin to feel better. the very thought of getting home, and seeing wife and children, cures me at once. . the two armies are lying face to face. the federal and confederate sentinels walk their beats in sight of each other. the quarters of the rebel generals may be seen from our camps with the naked eye. the tents of their troops dot the hillsides. to-night we see their signal lights off to the right on the summit of lookout mountain, and off to the left on the knobs of mission ridge. their long lines of camp fires almost encompass us. but the camp fires of the army of the cumberland are burning also. bruised and torn by a two days' unequal contest, its flags are still up, and its men still unwhipped. it has taken its position here, and here, by god's help, it will remain. colonel hobart was captured at chickamauga, and a fear is entertained that he may have been wounded. . this is a pleasant october morning, rather windy and cool, but not at all uncomfortable. the bands are mingling with the autumn breezes such martial airs as are common in camps, with now and then a sentimental strain, which awakens recollections of other days, when we were younger--thought more of sweethearts than of war, when, in fact, we did not think of war at all except as something of the past. sitting at my tent door, with a field glass, i can see away off to the right, on the highest peak of lookout mountain, a man waving a red flag to and fro. he is a rebel officer, signaling to the confederate generals what he observes of importance in the valley. from his position he can look down into our camp, see every rifle pit, and almost count the pieces of artillery in our fortifications. captain johnson, of general negley's staff, has just been in, and tells me the pickets of the two armies are growing quite intimate, sitting about on logs together, talking over the great battle, and exchanging views as to the results of a future engagement. general negley called a few minutes ago and invited me to dine with him at five o'clock. the general looks demoralized, and, i think, regrets somewhat the part he took, or rather the part he failed to take, in the battle of chickamauga. remarks are made in reference to his conduct on that occasion which are other than complimentary. the general doubtless did what he thought was best, and probably had orders which will justify his action. after a battle there is always more or less bad feeling, regiments, brigades, and corps claiming that other regiments, brigades, and corps failed to do their whole duty, and should therefore be held responsible for this or that misfortune. there was a rumor, for some days before the battle of chickamauga, that burnside was on the way to join us, and we shouted burnside to the boys, on the day of the battle, until we became hoarse. did the line stagger and show a disposition to retire: "stand up, boys, reinforcements are coming; burnside is near." once, when palmer's division was falling back through a corn-field, our line was hotly pressed. pointing to palmer's columns, which were coming from the left toward the right, the officers shouted, "give it to 'em, boys, burnside is here," and the boys went in with renewed confidence. but, alas, at nightfall burnside had played out, and the hearts of our brave fellows went down with the sun. burnside is now regarded as a myth, a fictitious warrior, who is said to be coming to the rescue of men sorely pressed, but who never comes. when an improbable story is told to the boys, now, they express their unbelief by the simple word "burnside," sometimes adding, "o yes, we know him." . the enemy opened on us, at a. m., from batteries located on the point of lookout mountain, and continued to favor us with cast-iron in the shape of shell and solid shot until sunset. he did little damage, however, three men only were wounded, and these but slightly. a shell entered the door of a dog tent, near which two soldiers of the eighteenth ohio were standing, and buried itself in the ground, when one of the soldiers turned very coolly to the other and said, "there, you d--d fool, you see what you get by leaving your door open." . the enemy unusually silent. . visited the picket line this afternoon. a rebel line officer came to within a few rods of our picket station, to exchange papers, and stood and chatted for some time with the federal officer. there appears to be a perfect understanding that neither party shall fire unless an advance is made in force. november, . . my new brigade consists of the following regiments: one hundred and thirteenth ohio infantry, colonel john g. mitchell. one hundred and twenty-first ohio infantry, colonel h. b. banning. one hundred and eighth ohio infantry, lieutenant-colonel piepho. ninety-eighth ohio infantry, major shane. third ohio infantry, captain leroy s. bell. seventy-eighth illinois infantry, colonel van vleck. thirty-fourth illinois infantry, colonel van tassell. there has been much suffering among the men. they have for weeks been reduced to quarter rations, and at times so eager for food that the commissary store-rooms would be thronged, and the few crumbs which fell from broken boxes of hard-bread carefully gathered up and eaten. men have followed the forage wagons and picked up the grains of corn which fell from them, and in some instances they have picked up the grains of corn from the mud where mules have been fed. the suffering among the animals has been intense. hundreds of mules and horses have died of starvation. now, however, that we have possession of the river, the men are fully supplied, but the poor horses and mules are still suffering. a day or two more will, i trust, enable us to provide well for them also. two steamboats are plying between this and chattanooga, and one immense wagon train is also busy. supplies are coming forward with a reasonable degree of rapidity. the men appear to be in good health and excellent spirits. . we are encamped on stringer's ridge, on the north side of the tennessee, immediately opposite chattanooga. this morning colonel mitchell and i rode to the picket line of the brigade. the line runs along the river, opposite and to the north of the point of lookout mountain. at the time, a heavy fog rising from the water veiled somewhat the gigantic proportions of lookout point, or the nose of lookout, as it is sometimes designated. while standing on the bank, at the water's edge, peering through the mist, to get a better view of two confederate soldiers, on the opposite shore, a heavy sound broke from the summit of lookout mountain, and a shell went whizzing over into hooker's camps. pretty soon a battery opened on what is called moccasin point, on the north side of the river, and replied to lookout. later in the day moccasin and lookout got into an angry discussion which lasted two hours. these two batteries have a special spite at each other, and almost every day thunder away in the most terrible manner. lookout throws his missiles too high and moccasin too low, so that usually the only loss sustained by either is in ammunition. moccasin, however, makes the biggest noise. the sound of his guns goes crashing and echoing along the sides of lookout in a way that must be particularly gratifying to moccasin's soul. i fear, however, that both these gigantic gentlemen are deaf as adders, or they would not so delight in kicking up such a hellebaloo. this afternoon i rode over to chattanooga. called at the quarters of my division commander, general jeff. c. davis, but found him absent; stopped at department head-quarters and saw general reynolds, chief of staff; caught sight of generals hooker, howard, and gordon granger. soon general thomas entered the room and shook hands with me. on my way back to camp i called on general rousseau; had a long and pleasant conversation with him. he goes to nashville to-morrow to assume command of the district of tennessee. he does not like the way in which he has been treated; thinks there is a disposition on the part of those in authority to shelve him, and that his assignment to nashville is for the purpose of letting him down easily. palmer, who has been assigned to the command of the fourteenth corps, is rousseau's junior in rank, and this grinds him. he referred very kindly to the old third division, and said it won him his stars. i told him i was exceedingly anxious to get home; that it seemed almost impossible for me to remain longer. he said that i must continue until they made me a major-general. i replied that i neither expected nor desired promotion. at the river i met father stanley, of the eighteenth ohio. he presides over the swing ferry, in which he takes especial delight. a long rope, fastened to a stake in the middle of the river, is attached to the boat, and the current is made to swing it from one shore to the other. . my fleet-footed black horse is dead. did the new moon, which i saw so squarely over my left shoulder when riding him over waldron's ridge, augur this? the rebel journals are expressing great dissatisfaction at bragg's failure to take chattanooga, and insist upon his doing so without further delay. on the other hand, the authorities at washington are probably urging grant to move, fearing if he does not that burnside will be overwhelmed. thus both generals must do something soon in order to satisfy their respective masters. there will be a battle or a foot-race within a week or two. . have read whitelaw reid's statement of the causes of rosecrans' removal. he is, i presume, in the main correct. investigation will show that the army could have gotten into chattanooga without a battle on the chickamauga. there would have been a battle here, doubtless, and defeat would have resulted probably in our destruction; yet it seems reasonable to suppose that, if able to hold chattanooga after defeat, we would have been able to do so before. mission ridge. . orders have been issued, and to-morrow a great battle will be fought. may god be with our army and favor us with a substantial victory! my brigade will move at daylight. it is now getting ready. order to move countermanded at midnight. . the day is delightful. lookout and moccasin are furious. the eleventh corps (howard's) is now crossing the pontoon bridge, just below and before us, to take position for to-morrow's engagement. sherman is also moving up the river on the north side, with a view to getting at the enemy's right flank. my brigade will be under arms at daylight, and ready to move. our division will operate with sherman on the left. hitherto i have gone into battle almost without knowing it; now we are about to bring on a terrible conflict, and have abundant time for reflection. i can not affirm that the prospect has a tendency to elevate one's spirits. there are men, doubtless, who enjoy having their legs sawed off, their heads trepanned, and their ribs reset, but i am not one of them. i am disposed to think of home and family--of the great suffering which results from engagements between immense armies. somebody--wellington, i guess--said there was nothing worse than a great victory except a great defeat. rode with colonel mitchell four miles up the river to general davis' quarters; met there general morgan, commanding first brigade of our division; colonel dan mccook, commanding third brigade, and mr. dana, assistant secretary of war. . it is now half-past five o'clock in the morning. the moon has gone down, and it is that darkest hour which is said to precede the dawn. my troops have been up since three o'clock busily engaged making preparation for the day's work. judging from the almost continuous whistling of the cars off beyond mission ridge, the rebels have an intimation of the attack to be made, and are busy either bringing reinforcements or preparing to evacuate. noon. there has been a hitch in affairs, and i am still in my tent at the old place. about p. m. a division or more was sent out to reconnoiter the enemy's front. the movement resulted in a sharp fight, which lasted until after sunset. both artillery and infantry were engaged. as night grew on we could see the flash of the enemy's guns all along the crest of mission ridge, and then hear the report, and the prolonged reverberations as the sound went crashing among ridges, hills, and mountains. rumor says that our troops captured five hundred prisoners. . moved to caldwell's, four miles up the river. a pontoon bridge was thrown across the stream; but there were many troops in advance of us, and my brigade did not reach the south side until after one o'clock. our division was held in reserve; so we stacked arms and lay upon the grass midway between the river and the foot of mission ridge, and listened to the preliminary music of the guns as the national line was being adjusted for to-morrow's battle. . during the day, as we listened to the roar of the conflict, i thought i detected in the management what i had never discovered before on the battle-field, a little common sense. dash is handsome, genius glorious; but modest, old-fashioned, practical, every-day sense is the trump, after all, and the only thing one can securely rely upon for permanent success in any line, either civil or military. this element evidently dominated in this battle. the struggle along mission ridge seemed more like a series of independent battles than one grand conflict. there were few times during the day when the engagement appeared to be heavy and continuous along the whole line. there certainly was not an extended and unceasing roll, as at chickamauga and stone river, but rather a succession of heavy blows. now it would thunder furiously on the extreme right; then the left would take up the sledge, and finally the center would begin to pound; and so the national giant appeared to skip from point to point along the ridge, striking rapid and thundering blows here and there, as if seeking the weak place in his antagonist's armor. the enemy, thoroughly bewildered, finally became most fearful of sherman, who was raising a perfect pandemonium on his flank, and so strengthened his right at the expense of other portions of his line, when thomas struck him in the center, and he abandoned the field. the loss must be comparatively small, but the victory is all the more glorious for this very reason. . at one o'clock in the morning we crossed the chickamauga in pursuit of the retreating enemy. the first brigade of our division having the lead, i had nothing to do but follow it. at chickamauga depot we came in sight of the rebels, and formed line of battle to attack; but they retired, leaving the warehouses containing their supplies in flames. at p. m. my brigade was ordered to head the column, and we drove the enemy's rear guard before us without meeting with any serious opposition until nightfall, when, on arriving at mrs. sheppard's spring branch, near graysville, a brigade of confederate troops, with a battery, under command of brigadier-general manny, opened on us with considerable violence. a sharp encounter ensued of about an hour's duration, resulting in the defeat of the enemy and the wounding of the rebel general. my brigade behaved well, did most of the fighting, and, owing to the darkness, probably, sustained but little loss. when general davis came up i asked permission to make a detour through the woods to the right, for the purpose of overtaking and cutting off the enemy's train; but he thought it not advisable to attempt it. december, . i will not undertake to give a detailed account of our march to knoxville, for the relief of burnside, and the return to chattanooga. we were gone three weeks, and during that time had no change of clothing, and were compelled to obtain our food from the corn-cribs, hen-roosts, sheep-pens, and smoke-houses on the way. the incidents of this trip, through the valleys of east tennessee, where the waters of the hiawasse, and the chetowa, and the ocoee, and the estonola ripple through corn-fields and meadows, and beneath shadows of evergreen ridges, will be laid aside for a more convenient season. i append simply a letter of general sherman: "head-quarters department of the tennessee,} "chattanooga, _december , _. } "general jeff. c. davis, _chattanooga_. "dear general--in our recent short but most useful campaign it was my good fortune to have attached to me the corps of general howard, and the division commanded by yourself. i now desire to thank you personally and officially for the handsome manner in which you and your command have borne themselves throughout. you led in the pursuit of bragg's army on the route designated for my command, and i admired the skill with which you handled the division at chickamauga, and more especially in the short and sharp encounter, at nightfall, near graysville. "when general grant called on us, unexpectedly and without due preparation, to march to knoxville for the relief of general burnside, you and your officers devoted yourselves to the work like soldiers and patriots, marching through cold and mud without a murmur, trusting to accidents for shelter and subsistence. "during the whole march, whenever i encountered your command, i found all the officers at their proper places and the men in admirable order. this is the true test, and i pronounce your division one of the best ordered in the service. i wish you all honor and success in your career, and shall deem myself most fortunate if the incidents of war bring us together again. "be kind enough to say to general morgan, general beatty, and colonel mccook, your brigade commanders, that i have publicly and privately commended their brigades, and that i stand prepared, at all times, to assist them in whatever way lies in my power. "i again thank you personally, and beg to subscribe myself, your sincere friend, "w. t. sherman, major-general." colonel van vleck, seventy-eight illinois, was kind enough in his report to say: "in behalf of the entire regiment i tender to the general commanding the brigade, my sincere thanks for his uniform kindness, and for his solicitude for the men during all their hardships and suffering, as well as for his undaunted courage, self-possession, and military skill in time of danger." . moved to mcaffee's springs, six miles from chattanooga, and two miles from the battle-field of chickamauga. my quarters are in the state of tennessee, those of my troops in georgia. the line between the states is about forty yards from where i sit. on our way hither, we saw many things to remind us of the confederate army--villages of log huts, chimneys, old clothing, and miles of rifle pits. . just a moment ago i asked wilson the day of the week, and he astonished me by saying it was sunday. it is the first time i ever passed a sabbath, from daylight to dark, without knowing it. wilson lies on his cot to-night a disappointed man. his application for a leave was disapproved. i am quartered in a log hut; a blanket over the doorway excludes the damp air and the cold blasts. the immense chinks, or rather lack of immense chinks, in various parts of the edifice, leave abundance of room for the admission of light. there are no windows, but this is fortunate, for if there were, they, like the door, would need covering, and blankets are scarce. the fire-place, however, is grand, and would be creditable to a castle. the forest in which we are encamped, was, in former times, a rendezvous for the blacklegs, thieves, murderers, and outlaws, generally of two states, tennessee and georgia. an old inhabitant informs me he has seen hundreds of these persecuted and proscribed gentry encamped about this spring. when an officer of tennessee came with a writ to arrest them, they would step a few yards into the state of georgia and laugh at him. so, when georgia sought to lay its official clutches on an offending georgian, the latter would walk over into tennessee and argue the case across the line. it was a very convenient spot for law-breakers. to reach across this imaginary line, and draw a man from tennessee, would be kidnapping, an insult to a sovereign state, and in a states'-rights country such a procedure could not be tolerated. requisitions from the governors of tennessee and georgia might, of course, be procured, but this would take time, and in this time the offender could walk leisurely into alabama or north carolina, neither of which states is very far away. in fact, the presence of large numbers of these desperados, in this locality, at all seasons of the year, has prevented its settlement by good men, and, in consequence, there are thousands of acres on which there has scarcely been a field cleared, or even a tree cut. the somber forest, with its peculiar history, suggests to our minds the green woods of old england, where robin hood and his merry men were wont to pass their idle time; or the black forest of germany, where thieves and highwaymen found concealment in days of old. what a country for the romancer! here is the dense wilderness, the tennessee and chickamauga, the precipitous lookout with his foot-hills, spurs, coves, and water-falls. here are cosy little valleys from which the world, with its noise, bustle, confusions, and cares, is excluded. here have congregated the bloody villains and sneaking thieves; the plumed knights, dashing horsemen, and stubborn infantry. here are the two great battle-fields of chickamauga and mission ridge. here neighbors have divided, and families separated to fight on questions of national policy. here, in short, every thing is supplied to the poet but the invention to construct the plot of his tale, and the genius to breathe life into the characters. it may be possible, however, that the country is yet too young, and its incidents too new, to make it a fertile field for the novelist. the imagination works best amid scenes half known and half forgotten. when time shall have thrown its shadows over the events of the last century, and the real and unreal become so intermingled in the minds of men as to become indistinguishable, imaginary robin hoods will find hiding places in the caves; innocent men, in deadly peril, will seek safety in the mountain fastnesses until the danger be past; conspirators will meet in the shadowy recesses to concoct their hellish plots, over which truth, courage, and honesty will finally triumph. here the blue and the gray will meet to fight, and to be reconciled; and there will not be wanting the helen mcgregors and die vernons to give color and interest to the scene. . our horses are on quarter feed. some benevolent gentleman should suggest a sanitary fair for the benefit of the disabled horses and mules of the federal army. there is no suffering so intense as theirs. they are driven, with whip and spur, on half and quarter food, until they drop from exhaustion, and then abandoned to die in the mud-hole where they fall. at parker's gap, on our return from tennessee, i saw a poor white horse that had been rolled down the hill to get it out of the road. it had lodged against a fallen tree, feet uppermost; to get up the hill was impossible, and to roll down certain destruction. so the poor brute lay there, looking pitiful enough, his big frame trembling with fright, his great eyes looking anxiously, imploringly for help. a man can give vent to his sufferings, he can ask for assistance, he can find some relief either in crying, praying, or cursing; but for the poor exhausted and abandoned beast there is no help, no relief, no hope. to-day we picked up, on the battle-field of chickamauga, the skull of a man who had been shot in the head. it was smooth, white, and glossy. a little over three months ago this skull was full of life, hope, and ambition. he who carried it into battle had, doubtless, mother, sisters, friends, whose happiness was, to some extent, dependent upon him. they mourn for him now, unless, possibly, they hope still to hear that he is safe and well. vain hope. sun, rain, and crows have united in the work of stripping the flesh from his bones, and while the greater part of these lay whitening where they fell, the skull has been rolling about the field the sport and plaything of the winds. this is war, and amid such scenes we are supposed to think of the amount of our salary, and of what the newspapers may say of us. . one of my orderlies approached me on my weak side to-day, by presenting me four cigars. cigars are now rarely seen in camp. sutlers have not been permitted to come further south than bridgeport; and had it not been for the trip into east tennessee the brigade would have been utterly destitute of tobacco. while bivouacking on the hiawasse, a citizen named trotter, came into camp. he was an old man, and professed to be loyal. i interrogated him on the tobacco question. he replied, "the crap has been mitey poor fur a year or two. i don't use terbacker myself, but my wife used to chaw it; but the frost has been a nippen of it fur a year or two, and it is so poor she has quit chawen ontirely." when returning from knoxville, we passed a farm house which stood near the roadside. three young women were standing at the gate, and appeared to be in excellent spirits. captain wager inquired if they had heard from knoxville. "o yes," they answered, "general longstreet has captured knoxville and all of general burnside's men." "indeed," said the captain; "what about chattanooga?" "well, we heard that bragg had moved back to dalton." "you have not heard, then, that bragg was whipped; lost sixty pieces of artillery and many thousand men?" "o no!" "you have not heard that longstreet was defeated at knoxville, and compelled to fall back with heavy loss?" "no, no; we don't believe a word of it. a man, who came from knoxville and knows all about it, says that you uns are retreating now as fast as you can. you can't whip our fellers." "well, ladies," said the captain, "i am glad to see you feeling so well under adverse circumstances. good-by." the girls were evidently determined that the yank should not deceive them. at another place quite a number of women and children were standing by the roadside. as the column approached, said one of the women to a soldier: "is these uns yankees?" "yes, madam," replied the boy, "regular blue-bellied yankees." "we never seed any you uns before." "well, keep a sharp lookout and you'll see they all have horns on." one day, while i was at davis' quarters, near columbus, a preacher came in and said he wanted to sell all the property he could to the army and get greenbacks, as he desired to move to illinois, where his brother-in-law resided, and his confederate notes would not be worth a dime there. "how is that, parson," said davis, affecting to misunderstand him; "not worth a damn there?" "no, sir, no, sir; not worth a dime, sir. you misunderstood me, sir. i said not worth a dime there." "i beg your pardon, parson," responded davis; "i thought you said not worth a damn there, and was surprised to hear you say so." while we were encamped on the banks of the hiawasse, a union man, near seventy years old, was murdered by guerrillas. not long before, a young lady, the daughter of a methodist minister, was robbed and murdered near the same place. murders and robberies are as common occurrences in that portion of tennessee as marriages in ohio, and excite about as little attention. horse stealing is not considered an offense. . nothing of interest has transpired to-day. bugles, drums, drills, parades--the old story over and over again; the usual number of corn-cakes eaten, of pipes smoked, of papers respectfully forwarded, of how-do-ye-do's to colonels, captains, lieutenants, and soldiers. you put on your hat and take a short walk. it does you no good. returning you lie down on the cot, and undertake to sleep; but you have already slept too much, and you get up and smoke again, look over an old paper, yawn, throw the paper down, and conclude it is confoundedly dull. jack brings in dinner. you see somebody passing; it is captain clayson, the judge-advocate, and you cry out: "hold on, captain; come in and have a bite of dinner." he concludes to do so. being a judge-advocate he talks law, and impresses you with the idea that every other judge-advocate has in some respects been faulty; but he has taken pains to master his duties perfectly, and makes no mistakes. pretty soon major shane drops in, and you ask him to dine; but he has just been to dinner, and thanks you. observing captain clayson, he asks how the business of the court-martial progresses, and says: "by the way, captain, the sentence in that quartermaster's case was disapproved because the record was defective." the captain blushes. he made up the record, and it strikes him the major's remark is very untimely. it is dull! . took a ten-mile ride this afternoon. two miles from camp i met lieutenant platt, one of my aids. he had asked permission in the morning to go into the country to secure a lady for a dance, which is to take place a night or two hence. i asked: "where have you been, lieutenant?" "at mrs. calisspe's, the house on the left, yonder." i did not, of course, ask if he had been successful in his mission; but as i approached the little frame in which mrs. calisspe resided, i thought i would drop in and see what sort of a woman had drawn the lieutenant so far from camp. knocking at the door, a feminine voice said "come in," and i entered. there were three females. the elder i took to be mrs. calisspe. a handsome, neatly-dressed young lady i concluded was the one the lieutenant sought. a heavy and rather dull woman, who stood leaning against the wall, i set down as a dependent or servant in the family. "beg pardon, madam, is this the direct road to shallow ford?" "yes, sir, the straight road. won't you take a seat?" "thank you, no. good evening." trotting along over the road which mrs. calisspe said was straight, but which, in fact, was exceedingly crooked, we came finally to the camp of the thirteenth michigan, a regiment which general thomas supposes to be engaged in cutting saw-logs, when, in truth, its principal business is strolling about the country stealing chickens. it is, however, known as the saw-log regiment. on our return from shallow ford, as we approached mrs. calisspe's, we saw her handsome daughter on the porch inspecting a side-saddle, and concluded from this that the gallant lieutenant's application had been successful, and that she proposed to accompany him to the ball on horseback. as we galloped by the house, a little flaxen-haired, chubby boy, who had climbed the fence, extended his head over the top rail and jabbered at us at the top of his voice; but the handsome young lady did not favor us with even a glance. . it is late. hours ago the bugles notified the boys that it was time to retire to their dens. i have been reading thackeray's "lovell, the widower," and as i sat alone in the silence of the middle night, the scenes depicted grew distinct and life-like; the characters encompassed me about real living men and women; the drawing-rooms, dining-halls, parlors, opened out before me; the streets, walks, drives, were all visible, and i became a spectator instead of a reader. suddenly a low, unearthly wail broke the stillness, and my hair stiffened somewhat at the roots, as the fancy struck me that i heard the voice of the defunct mrs. lovell. a moment's reflection, however, dispelled this disagreeable thought. looking toward the corner of the cabin whence the ghostly sound emanated, i discovered a strange cat. my long-legged boots followed each other in quick succession toward the unhappy kitten, and i yelled "scat" in a very vindictive way. january , . standing on a peak of mission ridge to-day, we had spread out before us one of the grandest prospects which ever delighted the eye of man. northward waldron's ridge and lookout mountain rose massive and precipitous, and seemed the boundary wall of the world. below them was the tennessee, like a ribbon of silver; chattanooga, with its thousands of white tents and miles of fortifications. southward was the chickamauga, and beyond a succession of ridges, rising higher and higher, until the eye rested upon the blue tops of the great mountains of north carolina. the fact that a hundred and fifty thousand men, with all the appliances of war, have struggled for the possession of these mountains, rivers, and ridges, gives a solemn interest to the scene, and renders it one of the most interesting, as it is one of the grandest, in the world. when history shall have recorded the thrilling tragedies enacted here; when poets shall have illuminated every hill-top and mountain peak with the glow of their imagination; when the novelist shall have given it a population from his fertile brain, what place can be more attractive to the traveler? looking on this panorama of mountains, ridges, rivers, and valleys, one has a juster conception of the power of god. reflecting upon the deeds that have been done here, he obtains a truer knowledge of the character of man, and the incontestable evidences of his nobility. * * * * * standing here to-day, i take off my hat to the reader, if by possibility there be one who has had the patience to follow me thus far, and as i bid him good-by, wish him "a happy new year." capture, imprisonment, and escape, by general harrison c. hobart, of milwaukee, wisconsin. explanatory. among the union officers who escaped from libby prison at richmond, on the night of the th of february, , was my esteemed friend, general harrison c. hobart, then colonel of the twenty-first wisconsin volunteer infantry. his name is mentioned quite frequently in the preceding pages. ten years after the war closed, he spent a few days at my house, and while there was requested to tell the story of his capture, imprisonment, and escape. my children gathered about him, and listened to his narrative with an intensity of interest which i am very sure they never exhibited when receiving words of admonition and advice from their father. while my manuscript was in the hands of the publishers, it occurred to me that general hobart's story would be as interesting to others as it had been to my own family, and so i wrote, urging him to furnish it to me for publication. he finally consented to do so, and i have the pleasure now of presenting it to the reader. it bears upon its face the evidence of its entire truthfulness, and yet is as interesting as a romance. john beatty. general hobart's narrative. the battles of chickamauga were fought on the th and th of september, . the twenty-first wisconsin, which i then commanded, formed a part of thomas' memorable line, and fought through the battles of saturday and sunday. at the close of the second day, thomas' corps still maintained its position, and presented an unbroken front to the enemy, but the right of our army having fallen back, the tide of battle was turning against us. to avoid a flank movement, our brigade was ordered to leave the breastworks, which they had held against the severest fire of the enemy during the day, and fall back to a second position. here only a portion of the men, with three regimental standards, were rallied. a rebel battery was instantly placed in position on our right, and rebel cavalry swept between us and the retreating army. being the ranking officer among those who rallied, i directed the men to cut their way through to our retreating line. i was on the left of this movement to the rear, and, to avoid the approach of horsemen, rapidly passed to the left through a dense cluster of small pines, and instantly found myself in the immediate front of a rebel line of infantry. i halted, being dismounted, and an officer advanced and offered his hand, saying that he was glad to see me, and proposed to introduce me to his commander, general cleburne. i replied, that i was not particularly pleased to see him, but, under the circumstances, should not decline his invitation. i met the general, who was mounted and being cheered by his men, and surrendered to him my sword. he inquired where i had been fighting. i said, "right there," pointing to the line of thomas' corps. he replied, "this line has given us our chief trouble, sir; your soldiers have fought like brave men; come with me and i will see that no one insults or interferes with you." it was now after sun-down, and the last guns of the terrible battle of chickamauga were dying away along the hillsides of mission ridge. a large number of prisoners of war were soon gathered, and marched to the enemy's rear across the chickamauga. here we witnessed the fearful results of the battle. the ground strewed with the dead and wounded, the shattered fragments of transportation, and a general demoralization among the forces, told the fearful price which the enemy had paid for their victory. more than fifteen hundred soldiers, prisoners of war, camped by a large spring to pass the remainder of a cold night; some without blankets or overcoats, and all without provisions. the next day we were marched about thirty miles to tunnel hill, where we received our first rations from the enemy. on this march, the only food we obtained was from a field of green sorghum. here we were placed in box cars and taken to atlanta. on arriving at this place, we were first marched to an open field outside of the city, near a fountain of water, and surrounded by a guard. kind-hearted people came out of the city, bringing bread with them, which they threw to us across the guard line. immediately a second line was established, distant several rods outside of the first, to prevent them from giving us food. from this place we were marched to the old slave-pen, and every man, as he entered the narrow gate, was compelled to give up his overcoat and blanket. i remonstrated with the officers for stripping the soldiers of their necessary clothing, as an act in violation of civilized warfare and inhuman. the men who were executing this infamous duty, did not deny these charges, but excused themselves on the ground that they were simply obeying an order of general bragg from the front. that night i saw seventeen hundred union soldiers lie down upon the ground, without an overcoat or blanket to protect them from the cold earth, or shield them from the heavy southern dew. the next morning we were ordered to take the cars, and proceed on our way to richmond. these men arose from the ground, cold and wet with dew, and under my command organized and formed in column by companies, and marched to the depot through one of the main streets of atlanta, singing in full chorus the star spangled banner. crowds gathered around us as we entered the cars. a guard with muskets accompanied the train. i will here relate an incident which occurred on our way. we overtook a train of open cars, filled with confederate wounded from the battle-field. the two trains stopped for some time alongside and in close proximity. it was a spectacle to see the men of the two armies intently observe each other. on the one side was the calm, pale face of the wounded; on the other, the earnest, deep sympathy of the captive. no unkind look or word passed between them. of the seventeen hundred prisoners, there was not one who would not have given his coat, or reached for his last cent, to help his wounded brother. on the last day of september, after traveling more than eight hundred miles from the battle-field of chickamauga, we arrived at richmond, and the officers of the cumberland army, to the number of about two hundred and fifty, were marched to libby prison. this building has a front of about one hundred and forty feet, with a depth of about one hundred and five. there are nine rooms, each one hundred and two feet long, by forty-five wide. the height of ceilings from the floor is about seven feet. the building is also divided into three apartments by brick walls, and there is a basement below. on entering the prison, we were severally searched, and every thing of value taken from us. some of us saved our money by putting it into the seams of our garments before we arrived at richmond. the officers of the army of the cumberland were assigned to the middle rooms of the second and third stories. the lower middle room was used as a general kitchen, and the basement immediately below was fitted up with cells for the confinement and punishment of offenders. these rooms received the _sobriquet_ of chickamauga. the whole number of officers of the army and navy in prison at this time was about eleven hundred--all having access to each other, except those in the hospital. there were no beds or chairs, and all slept on the floor. i shared a horse blanket with surgeon dixon, of wisconsin, which was the only bedding we had for some time. our bread was made of unbolted corn, and was cold and clammy. we were sometimes furnished with fresh beef, corn beef, and sometimes with rice and vegetable soup. the men formed themselves into messes, and each took his turn in preparing such food as we could get. at one time, no meat was furnished for about nine days, and the reason given was, that their soldiers at the front required all they could obtain. during this period, we received nothing but corn bread. kind friends sent us boxes of provisions from the north, which were opened and examined by the confederates, and if nothing objectionable was found, and it pleased them, the party to whom a box was sent was directed to come down and get it. many of these were never delivered. every generous soul shared the contents of his box with his more unfortunate companions. had it not been for this provision, our life in libby would have been intolerable. there was no glass in the windows, and for some time no fire in the rooms. an application for window glass, made during the severest cold weather, was answered by the assurance that the confederates had none to furnish. the worst affliction, however, was the vermin, which invaded every department. each officer was permitted to write home the amount of three lines per week; but even these brief messages were not always allowed to leave richmond. a variety of schemes were adopted to improve or kill time. we played chess, cards, opened a theater, organized a band of minstrels, delivered lectures, established schools for teaching dancing, singing, the french language, and military tactics, read books, published a manuscript newspaper, held debates, and by these means rendered life tolerable, though by no means agreeable. an incident occurred, after we had been in prison some time, which made a deep impression upon every one. some of our men had been confined in a block not far from libby, called the pemberton building. an order had been issued to remove them to north carolina. when they left, their line of march was along the street in our front, and when they passed under our windows, we threw out drawers, shirts, stockings, etc., which they gathered up; and when they raised their pale and emaciated faces to greet their old commanders, there were but few dry eyes in libby. many of them were making their last march. our sick were removed to the room set apart, on the ground floor, for a hospital; and, when one died, he was put in a box of rough boards, placed in an open wagon, and rapidly driven away over the stony streets. there were no flowers from loving hands, and no mourning pageant, but a thousand hearts in libby followed the gallant dead to his place of rest. we were seldom visited by any person. the only call i received was from general breckenridge, of kentucky; i had known him before the war. during our interview, i referred to the resources of the north and south, and asked him upon what ground he hoped the confederacy could succeed. his only reply was, that, "five millions of people, determined to be free, could not be conquered." there being no exchange of prisoners at this time, projects of escape were discussed from the beginning. one scheme was, for a few persons at a time to put on the dress of a citizen, and attempt to pass the guard as visitors. a few actually recovered their liberty in this manner. another plan was, to dig a tunnel to the city sewer, which was understood to pass under the street in front of the prison, and escape through that to the river. this project might have succeeded had not the water interfered. the final and successful plan was as follows: on the ground floor of the building, on a level with the street, was a kitchen containing a fire-place, at a stove connected with which the prisoners inhabiting the rooms above did their cooking. beneath this floor was a basement, one of the rooms which was used as a store-room. this store-room was under the hospital and next to the street, and though not directly under the kitchen, was so located that it was possible to reach it by digging downward and rearward through the masonry work of the chimney. from this basement room it was proposed to construct a tunnel under the street to a point beneath a shed, connected with a brick block upon the opposite side, and from this place to pass into the street in the guise of citizens. a knowledge of this plan was confided to about twenty-five, and nothing was known of the proceedings by the others until two or three days before the escape. a table knife, chisel, and spittoon were secured for working tools, when operations commenced. sufficient of the masonry was removed from the fire-place to admit the passage of a man through a diagonal cut to the store-room below; and an excavation was then made through the foundation wall toward the street, and the construction of the tunnel proceeded night by night. but two persons could work at the same time. one would enter the hole with his tools and a small tallow candle, dragging the spittoon after him attached to a string. the other would fan air into the passage with his hat, and with another string would draw out the novel dirt car when loaded, concealing its contents beneath the straw and rubbish of the cellar. each morning before daylight the working party returned to their rooms, after carefully closing the mouth of the tunnel, and skillfully replacing the bricks in the chimney. an error occurred during the prosecution of this work that nearly proved fatal to the enterprise. after a sufficient distance was supposed to have been made, an excavation was commenced to reach the top of the ground. the person working, carefully felt his way upward, when suddenly a small amount of the top earth fell in, and through this he could plainly see two sentinels apparently looking at him. one said to the other, "i have been hearing a strange noise in the ground there!" after listening a short time, the other replied that it was "nothing but rats." the working party had not been seen. after consultation, this opening was carefully filled with dirt and shored up. the work was then recommenced, and after digging about fifteen feet further the objective point under the shed was successfully reached. this tunnel required about thirty days of patient, tedious and dangerous labor. it was eight feet below the street, between sixty and seventy feet in length, and barely large enough for a full-grown person to crawl through, by pulling and pushing himself along with his hands and feet. among the officers entitled to merit in the execution of this work, col. t. e. rose, of pennsylvania, deserves particular mention. when all was complete, the company was organized into two parties; the first under the charge of major mcdonald, of ohio, and the second was placed under my direction. the parties having provided themselves with citizens' clothing, which had at different times been sent to the prison by friends in the north, and having filled their pockets with bread and dried meat from their boxes, commenced to escape about seven p. m., on the th of february, ; major mcdonald's party leaving first. in order to distract the attention of the guard, a dancing party with music was extemporized in the same room. as each one had to pass out in the immediate presence of these confederate soldiers, when he stepped into the street from the outside of the line, and as the guard were under orders to fire upon a prisoner escaping, without even calling upon him to halt, the first men who descended to the tunnel wore that quiet gloom so often seen in the army before going into battle. it was a living drama; dancing in one part of the room, dark shadows disappearing through the chimney in another part, and the same shadows re-appearing upon the opposite walk, and the sentinel at his post, with a voice that rang out upon the evening air, announcing: "eight o'clock, post no. one," and "all is well!" and at the same time a yankee soldier was passing in his front, and a line of yankee soldiers were crawling under his feet. the passage was so small that the process of departure was necessarily slow; a few inches of progress only being made at each effort, and to facilitate locomotion outside garments were taken off and pushed forward. by this time the proceedings had become known to the whole prison, and as the first men emerged upon the street, and quietly walked away, seen by hundreds of their fellows, who crowded the windows, a wild excitement and enthusiasm were created, and they rushed down to the chimney, clamoring for the privilege of going out. it was the intention of the parties, organized by those who constructed the tunnel, that no others should leave until the next night, as it might materially diminish their own chances of escape. but the thought of liberty and pure air, and the death damp of the dark loathsome prison would not allow them to listen to any denial. major mcdonald and myself then held a parley, and it was arranged that the rope upon which we descended into the basement, after the last of the two parties had passed out, should be pulled up for the space of one hour; then it should be free to all in prison.[a] having joined my fortunes with col. t. s. west, of wisconsin, we were among the last of the second party who crawled through. about nine o'clock in the evening we emerged from the tunnel, and cautiously crossing an open yard to an arched driveway, we stepped out upon the street and slowly walked away, apparently engaged in an earnest conversation. as soon as we were out of range of the sentinels' guns, we concluded it would be the safest course to turn and pass up through one of the main streets of richmond, as they would not suspect that prisoners escaping would take that direction. my face being very pale, and my beard long, clinging to the arm of colonel w., i assumed the part of a decrepit old man, who seemed to be in exceeding ill health, and badly affected with a consumptive cough. in this manner we passed beneath the glaring gaslights, and through the crowded street, without creating a suspicion as to our real character. we met the police, squads of soldiers, and many others, who gave me a sympathizing look, and stepped aside on account of my apparent infirmities. approaching the suburbs of the town, we retreated into a ravine, which enabled us to leave the city without passing out upon one of the streets. while in prison i copied mcclellan's war map of virginia, which aided us materially in this escape. our objective points were to cross the chickahominy above new bridge, then cross the yorkville railroad, then strike and follow down the miamisburg pike. after resting and breathing pure air, the first time for more than four months, we resumed our journey, agreeing not to speak above a whisper, avoiding all houses and roads, and determining our course by the north star. in crossing roads, we traveled backwards, that the footsteps might mislead our pursuers. we soon came in sight of the main fortifications around richmond, and instantly dropping upon the ground we lay for a long time, listening and watching for the presence of sentinels upon that part of the line. being satisfied that there were none in our immediate front, in the most silent and cautious manner, we crossed over the fortification and pursued our way through a tangled forest. coming to a piece of low ground, tired and exhausted, we lay down to rest. our attention was soon attracted by the presence of a series of excavations; and on a close examination we found we were resting upon the battle-field of fair oaks, and among the trenches in which the confederates had buried our dead; and, although it was the midnight hour, a strange feeling of safety stole over me, and i felt as if we were among our friends. it was the step and voice of the living that we dreaded. at early dawn (wednesday) we crossed a brook, and went upon a hillside of low, thick pines to conceal ourselves, and rest during the day. the valley of the chickahominy lay before us. while in this concealment, we saw a blood-hound scenting our steps down to the place where we jumped over the brook; it then went back and returned two or three times, but finally left without attempting to cross the little stream. late in the evening, we went to the river and worked till after midnight to make or find a crossing. the water was deep and cold, and, failing to accomplish our purpose, we turned back to a haystack, and, covering ourselves with hay, rested until the first light of morning (thursday). going back to the river, we followed down its course until we found a tree which had fallen nearly across the stream. discovering a long pole, we found that it would just touch the opposite shore from the limbs of this tree. hitching ourselves carefully along this pole, we reached the left bank of the chickahominy river. we now felt as if escape was possible; but, hearing a noise like the approach of troops, for we were satisfied that the enemy's cavalry must be in full pursuit, we fled into a neighboring forest. as we approached the center of a thicket, my eye suddenly caught the glimpse of a man watching us from behind the root of a fallen tree. i concluded that we had fallen into an ambush; but our momentary apprehension was joyfully relieved by the discovery that this new-made acquaintance was colonel w. b. mccreary, of michigan, and with him major terrence clark, of illinois, who had gone through the tunnel with the first party that went out, and were now passing the day in this secluded place. the colonel was one of my intimate friends, and when he recognized me he jumped to his feet and threw his arms around me in an ecstasy of delight. by this time the whole population had been informed of the escape, and the country was alive with pursuers. we could distinctly hear the reveille of the rebel troops, and the hum of their camps. thus reinforced, we agreed to travel in company. it was arranged that one of the four should precede, searching out the way in the darkness, and giving due notice of danger. at dark we left our hiding place, and cautiously proceeded on our way. late at night we crossed the railroad running from richmond to white house, our second objective point. here colonel west saw a sentinel sitting close by the railroad, asleep, with his gun resting against his shoulder. just before daybreak we went into a pine woods, after traveling a distance of more than twenty miles, and, weary and tired, we lay down to rest. the morning (friday) broke clear and beautiful, but with its bright light came the bugle notes of the enemy's cavalry, who were in the pines close by us. we instantly arose and fled away at the top of our speed, expecting every moment to hear the crack of the rifle, or the sharp command to halt. we struck a road and about faced to cross it, the only time that we looked back. we pursued our rapid step until we came to a dense chaparral, and into this we threaded our way until we reached an almost impenetrable jungle. crawling into the center, we threw ourselves upon the ground completely exhausted. a bird flew into the branches above us as we lay upon our backs, and the words burst from my lips: "dear little bird! oh, that i had your wings!" as soon as friendly darkness again returned, we moved forward, weary, hungry, and footsore, still governed in our course by the north star. during all this toilsome way, but few words passed between us, and these generally in low whispers. so untiring was the search, and so thoroughly alarmed and watchful were the population, that we felt that our safety depended upon a bare chance. again making our way from wood to wood, and avoiding farm houses as best we might, till the light of another morning (saturday), we retired to cover in the shade of a thick forest. saturday night the journey was resumed as usual. it was my turn to act the part of picket and pilot. while rapidly leading the way through a forest of low pines, i suddenly found myself in the presence of a cavalry reserve. the men were warming themselves by a blazing fire, and their horses were tied to trees around them. i was surprised and alarmed; but recovering my self-possession, i remained motionless, and soon perceived that my presence was unobserved. carefully putting one foot behind the other i retreated out of sight, and rapidly returned to my party. knowing that there were videttes sitting somewhere at the front in the dark, we concluded to go back about two miles to a plantation, and call at one of the outermost negro houses for information. we returned, and i volunteered to make the call while the others remained concealed at a distance. i approached the door and rapped, and a woman's voice from within asked, "who was there?" i replied, that "i was a traveler and had lost my way, and wished to obtain some information about the road." she directed me to go to another house, but i declined to do so, and after some further conversation the door was opened, and i was surprised to find a large, good-looking negro standing by her side, who had been listening to the interview. he invited me to come in, and as soon as the door was closed, he said: "i know who you are; you're one of dem 'scaped officers from richmond." looking him full in the face, i placed my hand firmly upon his shoulder, and said: "i am, and i know you are my friend." his eyes sparkled as he repeated: "yes, sir; yes, sir; but you musn't stay here; a reg'ment of cavalry is right thar'," pointing to a place near by, "and they pass this road all times of the night." the woman gave me a piece of corn-bread and a cup of milk, and the man accompanying me, i left the house, and soon finding my companions, our guide took us to a secluded spot in a canebrake, and there explained the situation of the picket in front. it was posted on a narrow neck of land between two impassable swamps, and over this neck ran the main road to williamsburg. the negro proved to be a sharp, shrewd fellow, and we engaged him to pilot us round this picket. after impressing us in his strongest language with the danger both to him and to us of making the least noise, he conducted us through a long canebrake path, then through several fields, then directly over the road, crossing between the cavalry reserve and their videttes, who were sitting upon their horses but a few rods in front, and then took us around to the pike about a mile beyond this last post of the rebels. after obtaining important information from him concerning the way to the front, and giving him a substantial reward, we cordially took his hand in parting. if good deeds are recorded in heaven, this slave appeared in the record that night. the line of the pike was then rapidly followed as far as diascum river, which was reached just at light sunday morning. to cross this river without assistance from some quarter was found impossible. we tried to wade through it, but failed in this attempt. we were seen by some of the neighboring population, which largely increased our danger and trepidation; for we had been informed by our guide that the enemy's scouts came to this point every morning. after awhile we succeeded in reaching an island in the river, but could get no farther, finding deep water beyond. we endeavored to construct a raft but failed. the water being extremely cold, and we being very wet and weary, we did not dare attempt to swim the stream; and expecting every moment to see the enemy's cavalry, our hearts sank within us. at this juncture a rebel soldier was seen coming up the river in a row-boat with a gun. requesting my companions to lie down in the grass, i concealed myself in the bushes close to the water to get a good view of the man. finding his countenance to indicate youth and benevolence, i accosted him as he approached. "good morning; i have been waiting for you; they told me up at those houses that i could get across the stream, but i find the bridge is gone, and i am very wet and cold; if you will take me over, i will pay you for your trouble." the boat was turned into the shore, and as i stepped into it i knew that boat was mine. keeping my eye upon his gun, i said to him, "there are three more of us," and they immediately stepped into the boat. "where do you all come from?" said the boatman, seeming to hesitate and consider. we represented ourselves as farmers from different localities on the chickahominy. "the officers don't like to have me carry men over this river," he said, evidently suspecting who we were. i replied, "that is right; you should not carry soldiers or suspected characters." then placing my eyes upon him, i said, "pass your boat over!" it sped to the other shore. we gave him one or two greenbacks, and he rapidly returned. we knew we were discovered, and that the enemy's cavalry would very soon be in hot pursuit, therefore we determined, after consultation, to go into the first hiding place, and as near as possible to the river. the wisdom of this course was soon demonstrated. the cavalry crossed the stream, dashed by us, and thoroughly searched the country to the front, not dreaming but we had gone forward. we did not leave our seclusion until about midnight, and then felt our way with extreme care. the proximity to williamsburg was evident from the destruction every where apparent in our path. there were no buildings, no inhabitants, and no sound save our own weary footsteps; desolation reigned supreme. stacks of chimneys stood along our way like sentinels over the dead land. for five days and six nights, hunted and almost exhausted, with the stars for our guide, we had picked our way through surrounding perils toward the camp-fires of our friends. we knew we were near the outposts of the union troops, and began to feel as if our trials were nearly over. but we were now in danger of being shot as rebels by scouting parties of our own army. to avoid the appearance of being spies, we took the open road, alternately traveling and concealing ourselves, that we might reconnoiter the way. about two o'clock in the morning, coming near the shade of a dark forest that overhung the road, we were startled, and brought to a stand, by the sharp and sudden command, "halt!" looking in the direction whence it proceeded, we discovered the dark forms of a dozen cavalrymen drawn up in line across the road. a voice came out of the darkness, asking, "who are you?" we replied, "we are four travelers!" the same voice said, "if you are travelers, come up here!" moving forward the cavalry surrounded us, and carefully looking at their coats, i concluded they were gray, and was nerving myself for a recapture. it was a supreme moment to the soul. one of my companions asked, "are you union soldiers?" in broad pennsylvania language the answer came, "well we are!" in a moment their uniforms changed to glorious blue, and taking off our hats we gave one long exultant shout. it was like passing from death unto life. our hearts filled with gratitude to him whose sheltering arm had protected us in all that dangerous way. turning toward richmond, i prayed in my heart that i might have strength to return to my command. i was afterwards in sherman's advance to atlanta; the march to the sea and through the carolinas; entered richmond with the western army; and had the supreme satisfaction of marching my brigade by libby prison. footnote: [a] note.--one hundred and nine prisoners escaped through this tunnel that night, of whom fifty-seven reached our lines. index. page. march from buckhannon west virginia to rich mountain battle of rich mountain beverly and huttonville incidents at cheat mountain pass camp at elk water the flag of truce capture of de lagniel the flood the advance and retreat of lee ride to a log cabin in the mountains moonlight and music the hoosiers stir up the enemy the expedition to big springs the accomplished colored gentleman at louisville kentucky march to bacon creek incidents of the camp trouble in the regiment a little unpleasantness with the colonel a case of disappointed love the advance to green river the march to nashville a southern lady wants protection john morgan on the rampage incidents at nashville march to murfreesboro the dash into north alabama general o. m. mitchell rumors of the battle at shiloh affair at bridgeport the rendezvous of the bushwhackers the negro preacher provost marshal of huntsville pudin' an' tame grape-vines from richmond garfield and ammen two pious men meet at pittsburgh landing uncle jacob tells a few stories de coon am a great fiter general ammen as a teacher the murder of general robert mccook the race for the ohio river the battle of perryville, kentucky pursuit of bragg the army of the cumberland incidents on the way to nashville colonel h. c. hobart the advance on murfreesboro the battle of stone river a ride over the battle-field the absentees t. buchanan reid, the poet the chiefs an interesting letter the third starts on the streight raid a good fighter general rosecrans angry the confederate account of streight's surrender the lame horse negley's party go out to dinner simon bolivar buckner (colored) advance on tullahoma the retreat of the enemy the peace party fact vs. fiction board for the examination of applicants for commissions in colored regiments the advance to the tennessee cross the tennessee battle of chickamauga fight at rossville incidents at chattanooga battle of mission ridge march to knoxville general sherman's letter camp at mcaffee's spring good-by general h. c. hobart's narrative * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , "genman" changed to "gentleman" (innocent old gentleman) page , "melancholly" changed to "melancholy" (a melancholy strain) page , "rumbbling" changed to "rumbling" (with a rumbling) page , "neccesary" changed to "necessary" (give the necessary) page , "befiting" changed to "befitting" (melody befitting so) page , "imporant" changed to "important" (equally important results) page , "to to" changed to "to" (us to mrs. rather) page , "fo" changed to "for" (our care for) page , "th" changed to "the" (we make the) page , "establshed" changed to "established" (when once established) page , "occurences" changed to "occurrences" (occurrences could suggest) page , word "a" added to text (form a line) page , "jeolousies" changed to "jealousies" (petty jealousies existing) page , "vallandigham" changed to "vallandingham" (accompanied vallandingham outside) page , "shirked" changed to "shirked" (they shirked by) page , "hardie's" changed to "hardee's" (hardee's corps was) page , "to to" change to "to" (wilder to this) page , "cavliers" changed to "cavaliers" (of the cavaliers) page , "sure sure" changed to "sure" (quite sure mrs.) page , "lieutenantcy" changed to "lieutenancy" (to a second lieutenancy) page , "popuulation" changed to "population" (overflowing with population) page , word "a" added to text (form a line) page , "chicamauga" changed to "chickamauga" (battle of chickamauga) page , extraneous word "in" was removed from the text in the phrase: "one of the rooms which was used as a store-room". the original read: "one of the rooms in which was used as a store-room" page , "of" changed to "off" (taking off our) page , "bushwackers" changed to "bushwhackers" (rendevous of the bushwhackers) page , "alaabma" changed to "alabama" (into north alabama) page , "good-bye" changed to "good-by" to match text. three instances each of secesh/sesesh were retained. one instance each of the following words was retained: barefooted/bare-footed whitleather/whit-leather jerroloman/jerroloaman page , the section reads "an assault upon our works at twelve m." in the original. it is unclear whether a. m. or p. m. was intended and so this was retained. from the journal of the cincinnati society of natural history, oct. , jan. . the myxomycetes of the miami valley, ohio. by a. p. morgan. first paper. (read january , .) table of contents myxomycetes, wallr. order genera page liceaceÆ. licea tubulina lycogala reticulariaceÆ. reticularia clathroptychium cibraria dictydium perichÆnaceÆ. perichæna ophiotheca arcyriaceÆ. lachnobolus arcyria heterotrichia trichiaceÆ. hemiarcyria calonema trichia oligonema stemonitaceÆ. clastoderma lamproderma comatricha stemonitis enerthenema diachaea didymiaceÆ. didymium spumaria diderma lepidoderma physaraceÆ. angioridium cienkowskia leocarpus physarella cytidium craterium physarum fuligo badhamia scyphium list or illustrations vol. xv. plate iii. figs. - . vol. xvi. plate i. figs. - . vol. xvi. plate xi. figs. - . vol. xvi. plate xii. figs. - . vol. xix. plate xiii. figs. - . vol. xix. plate xiv. figs. - . vol. xix. plate xv. figs. - . preston, hamilton county, ohio, december , . mr. davis l. james _dear sir_--along with this i send you the first installment of the papers, entitled "the myxomycetes of the miami valley, ohio." the work in these papers is based upon my ample collection of myxomycetes growing in this region, comprising more than one hundred species; these have been diligently compared with specimens obtained from correspondents elsewhere in this country and in europe. at the same time, i have also included many extra limital species. this has been done chiefly to more clearly elucidate the subject in places where the local material is not sufficient. the only apology i can make for the arrangement which i present, is that i have been obliged to choose from several different systems. i have aimed not to hamper myself, by attaching paramount importance to some particular character throughout. i purpose to furnish a synopsis of the whole at the end of the work. very truly yours, a. p. morgan. * * * * * myxomycetes, wallr. fructification essentially a minute membranaceous vesicle, the sporangium inclosing the spores, the product of a motile protoplasmic body called the plasmodium. microscopic organisms with the habit of the fungi. the ripe spore of the myxomycetes is globose or ellipsoidal in shape, with the epispore colorless or colored, and smooth or marked by characteristic surface--sculpture according to the species; the spore in germination gives rise to an elongated protoplasmic body, which exhibits amoeboid movements, and is known by the name of _swarm-cell_. the swarm-cells multiply by bipartition, which may be repeated through several generations; they then unite together to form the large motile protoplasmic bodies named _plasmodia_. the newly-formed plasmodium is distinguished by its greater size from the swarm-cells, while it exhibits essentially the same movements and changes of shape. the plasmodia gradually increase in size, and as they grow assume commonly the form of branched strands; these spread over the surface of the substratum, which is usually the decaying parts of plants, in the form of veins and net-works of veins, giving rise to a copiously-branched reticulated or frill-like expansion, which covers surfaces varying in extent from a few to several centimeters. they are chiefly composed of a soft protoplasm of the consistence of cream, which may be readily spread out into a shapeless smear, and is usually colorless, but sometimes exhibits brilliant colors of yellow, orange, rose, purple, etc. the development of the plasmodium ceases with the formation of the _spores_ within their _sporangia_. the formation of the sporangia out of the plasmodium appears under three general forms, which, however, pass into each other and are, therefore, not strictly limited. _first:_ an entire plasmodium spread out on its substratum becomes transformed into a sporangium, or it divides into a variable number of unequal and irregular pieces, each of which undergoes transformation. such a sporangium lying flat on the substratum, more or less elongated and flexuous, often branched and reticulate, is termed a _plasmodiocarp_. _second:_ erect sporangia on a narrow or stalk-like base, begin as node-like swellings on the branches of the plasmodium, and gradually rise to their ultimate form as the surrounding protoplasm flows into them and assumes an upward direction. these sporangia are nearly always perfectly regular in shape; they may be globose, obovoid, somewhat depressed, or more or less elongated, and are either stipitate or sessile. _third:_ a number of plasmodia collect together from every side and become fused into a single body, often of considerable dimensions; from these combinations originate the large spore-receptacles which are called _æthalia_. the component sporangia may be regular in shape, standing close together, in a single stratum, with entire connate walls; more often, being elongated and flexuous, they branch and anastomose freely, their walls becoming perforated and more or less defective; in other cases, the æthalium is a compound plasmodiocarp, the narrow sinuous sporangia branched and anastomosing in all directions, forming an intricate network, closely packed together and inseparable. the surface of the æthalium is often covered by a continuous layer of some excreted substance, which is called the _common cortex_. the wall of the sporangium, typically, is a thin, firm membrane, colorless and pellucid, or colored in various shades of violet, brown, yellow, etc.; it is sometimes extremely delicate, as in lamproderma, or is scarcely evident, as in stemonitis; in other instances it is thickened by deposits on the inner surface, as in tubulina, or by incrustations on the outer surface, as in chondrioderma. the stipes are tubes usually with a thick wall, which is often wrinkled and folded lengthwise, and is confluent above with the wall of the sporangium; in some cases the stipe also enters the sporangium, and is more or less prolonged within it as a _columella_. the stipe commonly expands at the base into a membrane, which fastens it to the substratum, and is called the _hypothallus_; when all the stipes of the same group of sporangia stand upon a single continuous membrane, it is called a _common hypothallus_. in the simplest forms, the cavity of the sporangium is filled exclusively with the numerous spores; but in most all of the genera, tubules or threads of different forms occur among the spores and constitute the _capillitium_. the capillitium first makes its appearance in reticularia, in which upon the inner surface of the walls of the sporangia there are abundant fibrous thickenings; next in cribraria it is spread over the inner surface of the wall, and is early separated from it; here, also, it first assumes a more definite form and arrangement; in physarum it is in connection with the wall of the sporangium only by its extremities while it traverses the interior with a complicated network; in stemonitis and its allies the capillitium originates wholly from the columella; in most species of arcyria it issues from the interior of the stipe. the capillitium in trichia consists of numerous slender threads which are _free_, that is, are not attached in any way; they are usually simple and pointed at each extremity; the surface of these threads exhibits beautiful spiral markings. order i. liceaceÆ. sporangia always sessile, simple and regular or plasmodiocarp, sometimes united into an æthalium. the wall a thin, firm, persistent membrane, often granulose-thickened, usually rupturing irregularly. spores globose, usually some shade of umber or olivaceous, rarely violaceous. the species of this order are the simplest of the myxomycetes; the sporangium, with a firm, persistent wall contains only the spores. there is no trace of a capillitium, unless a few occasional threads in the wall of tubulina prefigure such a structure. to the genera of this order is appended the anomalous genus lycogala, which seems to me better placed here than elsewhere. table of genera of liceaceÆ. . licea. sporangia simple and regular or plasmodiocarp, gregarious; hypothallus none. . tubulina. sporangia cylindric, or by mutual pressure becoming prismatic, distinct or more or less connate and æthalioid, seated upon a common hypothallus. . lycogala. Æthalium with a firm membranaceous wall; from the inner surface of the wall proceed numerous slender tubules, which are intermingled with the spores. i. licea, schrad. sporangia sessile, simple and regular or plasmodiocarp, gregarious, close or scattered; hypothallus none; the wall a thin, firm membrane, sometimes thickened with scales or granules, breaking up irregularly and falling away or dehiscent in a regular manner. spores globose, variously colored. the sporangia are not seated on a common hypothallus; they are, consequently, more or less irregularly scattered about on the substratum. . licea variabilis, schrad. plasmodiocarp not much elongated, usually scattered, sometimes closer and confluent, somewhat depressed, the surface uneven or a little roughened and not shining, reddish-brown or blackish in color; the wall a thin, firm pellucid membrane, covered by a dense outer layer of thick brown or blackish scales, rupturing irregularly. spores in mass pale ochraceous, globose or oval, even or nearly so, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. plasmodiocarp - . mm. in length, though sometimes confluent and longer. the wall is thick and rough, not at all shining. it is evidently the species of schweinitz referred to by fries under this name. . licea lindheimeri, berk. sporangia sessile, regular, globose, gregarious, scattered or sometimes crowded, dark bay in color, smooth and shining; the wall a thin membrane with a yellow-brown outer layer, opaque, rupturing irregularly. spores in mass bright bay, globose, minutely warted, opaque, - mic. in diameter. growing on herbaceous stems sent from texas. sporangia about . mm. in diameter. the bright bay mass of spores within will serve to distinguish the species. the thin brown wall appears dark bay with the inclosed spores. . licea biforis, morgan, n. sp. sporangia regular, compressed, sessile on a narrow base, gregarious; the wall thin, firm, smooth, yellow-brown in color and nearly opaque, with minute scattered granules on the inner surface, at maturity opening along the upper edge into two equal parts, which remain persistent by the base. spores yellow-brown in mass, globose or oval, even, - mic. in diameter. see plate iii, fig. . growing on the inside bark of liriodendron. sporangia . -. mm. in length, shaped exactly like a bivalve shell and opening in a similar manner. i have also received specimens of this curious species from prof. j. dearness, london, canada. . licea pusilla, schrad. sporangia regular, sessile, hemispheric, the base depressed, gregarious, chestnut-brown, shining; the wall thin, smooth, dark-colored and nearly opaque, dehiscent at the apex into regular segments. spores in the mass blackish-brown, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, sporangium about mm. in diameter. on account of the color of the spores the genus _protoderma_ was created for this species by rostafinski. it is number , of schweinitz's n. a. fungi. ii. tubulina, pers. sporangia cylindric, or by mutual pressure becoming prismatic, distinct or more or less connate and æthalioid, the apex convex, seated upon a common hypothallus; the wall a thin membrane, minutely granulose, firm and quite persistent, gradually breaking away from the apex downward. spores abundant, globose, umber or olivaceous. the sporangia usually stand erect in a single stratum, with their walls separate or grown together: in the more compact æthalioid forms, however, the sporangia, becoming elongated and flexuous, pass upward and outward in various directions, branching and anastomosing freely. see plate iii, figs. , , . . tubulina cylindrica, bull. sporangia cylindric, more or less elongated, closely crowded, distinct or connate, pale umber to rusty-brown in color, seated on a well developed hypothallus; the wall thin, firm, with minute veins and granules, semi-opaque, pale umber, often iridescent. spores in mass pale umber to rusty-brown, globose, most of the surface reticulate, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, mosses, etc. Æthalium circular or irregular in shape, from one to several centimeters in extent, the individual sporangia - mm. in height. plasmodium at first milky-white, soon changing to bright red, then to umber, becoming paler when mature and dry. . tubulina casparyi, rost. sporangia more or less elongated, closely crowded and prismatic, connate, pale umber to brown in color, seated on a conspicuous hypothallus; the wall thin, firm, minutely granulose, semi-opaque, pale umber, iridescent when well matured; all or many of the sporangia traversed by a central columella, from which a few narrow bands of the membrane stretch to the adjacent walls. spores in the mass pale umber to brown, globose, the surface reticulate, - mic. in diameter. growing on old prostrate trunks. Æthalium two or three to several centimeters in extent, the individual sporangia - mm. in height. plasmodium white, the immature sporangia dull-gray tinged with sienna color. the columella, with its radiating bits of membrane, is the same substance as the wall; it may be a reëntrant edge of the prismatic sporangium, caused by excessive crowding together; at least, this may be regarded as its origin; there may have arisen some further adaptation. the species is _siphoptychium casparyi_, rost. i am indebted to dr. george a. rex for the specimens i have examined. . tubulina cÆspitosa, peck. sporangia short-cylindric, closely crowded, distinct or connate, argillaceous olive to olive-brown in color, seated on a well-developed hypothallus; the wall a thin membrane, with a dense layer of minute dark-colored round granules on the inner surface. spores argillaceous olive in the mass, globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. Æthalium in irregular patches sometimes several centimeters in extent, the single sporangia about mm. in height. plasmodium dark olivaceous, the sporangia blackish if dried when immature, taking a paler shade of olivaceous, according to development and maturity. this is _perichæna cæspitosa_, peck, in the st n. y. report. iii. lycogala, mich. Æthalium with a firm membranaceous wall; from the inner surface of the wall proceed numerous slender tubules, which are intermingled with the spores. the material of the wall appears under three different forms: the inner layer is a thin membrane, uniform in structure, of a yellow-brown color, and semi-pellucid; the outer layer consists of large flat roundish or irregular vesicles, brown in color, filled with minute granules, and arranged in one or more strata; from these vesicles originate the tubules, which traverse the wall for a certain distance, and then enter the interior among the spores; the tubules are more or less compressed, simple or branched, and the surface is ornamented with warts and ridges, which sometimes form irregular rings and reticulations. if the sporophores in this genus be regarded as simple sporangia, which is the view that rostafinski takes of one of the species, the tubules are simply the peculiar threads of a capillitium. if, however, the æthalium is a compound plasmodiocarp, the tubules stand for the original plasmodial strands and, consequently, represent the component sporangia. . lycogala conicum, pers. Æthalia small, ovoid-conic, gregarious, sometimes close together with the bases confluent, the surface pale umber or olivaceous marked with short brown lines, regularly dehiscent at the apex. the wall thin; the outer layer not continuous, the irregular brown vesicles disposed in angular patches and elongated bands, which have a somewhat reticulate arrangement. the tubules appear as a thin stratum upon the inner membrane; they do not branch, and they send long slender simple extremities inward among the spores. spores in mass pale ochraceous, globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. see plate iii, fig. . growing on old wood. Æthalium - mm. in height, the tubules - mic. in thickness. this is _dermodium conicum_ of rostafinski's monograph, but the structure is essentially the same as in the other species. massee evidently did not have specimens of this species. i have never seen any branching of the tubules either in the wall or in the free extremities of the interior. . lycogala exiguum, morg. n. sp. Æthalia small, globose, gregarious, the surface dark brown or blackish, minutely scaly, irregularly dehiscent. the wall thin; the vesicles with a dark polygonal outline, disposed in thin irregular reticulate patches, which are more or less confluent. the tubules appear as an interwoven fibrous stratum upon the inner membrane; they send long slender branched extremities inward among the spores. spores in mass pale ochraceous, globose, nearly smooth, - mic. in diameter. see plate iii, fig. . growing on old wood. Æthalium - mm. in diameter, the threads - mic. in thickness, with very slight thickenings of the membrane. the polygonal vesicles give a reticulate appearance to the dark-brown patches which ornament the surface of the wall. . lycogala epidendrum, buxb. Æthalia subglobose, gregarious, sometimes closely crowded and irregular, the surface umber, brown or olivaceous, minutely warted, at length, irregularly dehiscent at or about the apex. the wall thick, the brown vesicles loosely aggregated and densely agglutinated together, traversed in all directions by the much-branched tubules, which send long-branched extremities inward among the spores; the main branches thick and flat, with wide expansions, especially at the angles, the ultimate branchlets more slender and obtuse at the apex. spores in the mass from pale to reddish ochre, globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. see plate iii, fig. . growing on old wood. Æthalium - mm. in diameter, the width of the tubules varying from - mic. in the main branches, with broader expansions at the angles, to - mic. in the more slender final branchlets. this is one of the most common of the myxomycetes; it grows in all countries, and in this region may be found on old trunks at all seasons of the year. . lycogala flavofuscum, ehr. Æthalia large, subglobose or somewhat pulvinate, solitary or gregarious, the surface at first silvery-shining, becoming yellow-brown, minutely areolate, irregularly dehiscent. the wall very thick and firm, hard and rigid; the thick outer layer of roundish brown vesicles closely compacted in numerous strata; from the vesicles of the lower strata the long and broad much-branched tubules proceed into the interior among the spores; the ultimate branchlets clavate and obtuse at the apex. spores in the mass pale ochre, cinerous or brownish, globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. see plate iii, figs. , . growing on old trunks. Æthalium to several centimeters in diameter, the width of the tubules varying from - mic. in the main branches, with sometimes much broader expansions at the angles, to - mic. in the ultimate branchlets. the brown vesicles of the outer wall are easily separated from each other and emptied of their contents by maceration; it is then seen that a thin pellucid membrane incloses numerous roundish granules, much resembling the spores, but usually a little larger, - mic. in diameter. order ii.--reticulariaceÆ. sporangia simple, regular and stipitate, or compound, forming an æthalium; the wall a thin membrane with distinct fibrous thickenings upon the inner surface, the membrane, or at least certain portions of it, disappearing usually at the maturity of the spores, leaving behind the more permanent fibrous thickenings as a more or less definite capillitium. spores globose, purple, brown, ochraceous, rarely violaceous. in this order the threads of a capillitium first make their appearance; but they are confined to the inner surface of the wall of the sporangium, being set at liberty by the early decay of the outer membrane. table of genera of reticulariaceÆ. _a. Æthalia._ . reticularia. Æthalium composed of numerous slender sinuous sporangia which repeatedly branch and anastomose. . clathroptychium. Æthalium composed of numerous regular erect sporangia. _b. sporangia simple._ . cribraria. capillitium of slender threads combined into a network of polygonal meshes. . dictydium. capillitium of numerous convergent ribs, which extend from base to apex, and are united by fine transverse fibers, thus forming a network of rectangular meshes. i. reticularia, bull. Æthalium composed of numerous slender sinuous sporangia, which repeatedly branch and anastomose, closely packed together and seated upon a common hypothallus, the apices of the final branches coherent at the surface, and naked or covered by an additional corticate layer. walls of the sporangia consisting of a thin membrane, with abundant fibrous thickenings, presenting broad expansions, narrowing to thin flat bands, and reduced in many places to slender fibrous threads. spores abundant, globose, umber or violaceous. after the maturity of the spores disintegration of the sporangial wall begins, the thin membrane disappearing more rapidly than the fibrous thickenings or the portions of the sporangial walls near the base, which are more compactly grown together; there is thus left at each stage an increasing number of the shreddy fibers mingled with the spores. . reticularia splendens, morg. n. sp. Æthalium pulvinate, circular or more or less elongated and irregular, seated on a conspicuous silvery hypothallus; the surface naked, bright umber, smooth and shining. walls of the sporangia firm and quite persistent, pale umber, slowly disintegrating, consisting for the most part of wide expansions, with their angles tapering to narrow bands and slender threads. spores in the mass pale umber, globose, most of the surface reticulate, - mic. in diameter. see plate iii, fig. . growing on old wood. Æthalium from to several centimeters in extent and - mm. in thickness, usually growing singly, rarely close enough to be confluent. this species has lately been referred to _reticularia rozeana_, rost., but it varies greatly from the account given of that species in the journal of botany for september, . . reticularia umbrina, fr. Æthalium pulvinate, roundish, more or less irregular, the surface covered by a thin, silvery, shining, common cortex, which at the base is confluent with the hypothallus. walls of the sporangia umber or rusty-brown next the base, with broad expansions in places thickly grown together, toward the surface passing into narrow bands and abundant fibrous threads, which rapidly disintegrate. spores in the mass umber or rusty brown, globose, most of the surface reticulate, - mic. in diameter. growing on old trunks. Æthalium one to several centimeters in extent, and - mm. in thickness. the walls of the sporangia are much more reduced to the shreddy fibrous condition than in the preceding species, and on this account they much more rapidly disintegrate, causing the æthalium soon to collapse. it is _reticularia lycoperdon_, bull. . reticularia atra, a. & s. Æthalium pulvinate, variable in form and size, covered with a thin, fragile, blackish, cortical layer. walls of the sporangia violaceous, next the base with broad expansions, in places more thickly grown together, toward the surface becoming narrow with more abundant fibrous threads, sometimes presenting a loose irregular network, the whole structure, however, quite variable, according to the stage of the disintegration. spores globose, violet, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on wood and bark, especially of pine. Æthalium or to several centimeters in extent. this is _amaurochæte atra_ of rostafinski's monograph, but the structure appears to be altogether similar to that of _reticularia umbrina_. ii. clathroptychium, rost. Æthalium composed of numerous regular erect sporangia, seated in a single compact stratum, on a well-developed hypothallus, the surface formed by the coherent apices. sporangia at first cylindric, with the apex convex and the wall entire; soon, by mutual pressure, they become prismatic and the lateral faces disappear, leaving the edges and the apex permanent. spores globose, ochraceous. . clathroptychium rugulosum, wallr. Æthalium composed of numerous very slender sporangia, closely compacted into a single stratum, and seated on a conspicuous silvery hypothallus; the surface ochroleucous, honey color or olivaceous. the sporangia are typically hexangular when the lateral faces disappear, leaving at the edges six simple triangular threads, extending from the angles of the hexagonal apex downward to the base. spores in the mass ochraceous, yellowish or brownish, globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. Æthalium somewhat circular, or often quite irregular in shape, to several centimeters in extent, the individual sporangia nearly mm. in height, but scarcely . mm. in thickness. deviations from the typical form of the sporangia sometimes occur, they are not seldom pentangular, and i have seen the apices quadrangular, with only four threads, or even triangular, and with but three; the threads, too, are said occasionally to branch and anastomose. _reticularia plumbea_, fries, s. m. iii, ; and _ostracoderma spadiceum_, schw., n. a. fungi no. , . iii. cribraria, pers. sporangia simple, globose or obovoid, stipitate, often cernuous; the wall regularly thickened on the inner surface in two ways, the lower basal portion by radiating ribs consisting of minute brown granules, the upper part by slender threads combined into a network of polygonal meshes; the basal portion of the membrane is commonly persistent with its thickening and is called the _calyculus_, the upper part nearly always disappears from the network at maturity; there are usually nodules of the brown granules at the angles of the network. spores globose, purple, brown, ochraceous. _a. sporangium, large._ . cribraria argillacea, pers. sporangia globose or obovoid, stipitate or nearly sessile, standing close together on a thin and evanescent hypothallus; the wall quite firm, silvery-shining, the greater portion persistent, breaking away about the apex; calyculus small, the brown radiating ribs soon passing into a network of polygonal meshes, the threads with irregular granulose-thickened portions at intervals throughout their whole extent. stipe very short, erect, brown. spores in the mass argillaceous, globose, - mic. in diameter. growing in large irregular patches on rotten trunks. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe always much shorter than the sporangium, sometimes nearly obsolete. the resemblance of this species to some forms of _tubulina cæspitosa_ is very great. . cribraria vulgaris, schrad. sporangium large, globose, stipitate, somewhat cernuous; the calyculus brown, finely ribbed and granulose within, occupying but a small part of the sporangium; the network of slender threads, with very small nodules at the angles, each with several ( - ) radiating threads, sometimes with one or two free extremities, the meshes triangular or rhombic. stipe rather short, stout, tapering upward, usually a little bent or curved at the apex, dark purplish brown in color. spores in the mass pale ochraceous, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times the diameter of the sporangium in length. recognized by the large sporangium and the very small nodules with their few radiating threads. . cribraria dictydioides, c. & b. sporangium large, globose, stipitate, cernuous; the calyculus small, with thickish brown ribs, from which the outer thin membrane often disappears soon after maturity; the network of slender threads, with large brown nodules at the angles, more or less elongated and irregular in shape, each with numerous ( - ) radiating threads, usually some with free extremities, the meshes largely triangular. stipe long, tapering upward, flexuous, curved at the apex, dark purplish-brown in color. spores in mass pale ochraceous, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on rotten wood, especially of oak. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe from three to five times as long. this species appears to be intermediate between _cribraria vulgaris_ and _cribraria intricata_; the nodules are usually large and irregular, but the characteristic parallel threads of _c. intricata_ do not often occur. the outer membrane of the calyculus is by no means always absent. . cribraria elegans, b. & c. sporangium rather large, globose, stipitate, somewhat cernuous; the calyculus thickly coated inside with dark purple granules, faintly ribbed, occupying about a third part of the sporangium; the network of slender threads, with large irregular dark purple nodules, quite variable in shape and size, angular and lobed, below sometimes much elongated, the meshes very irregular. stipe rather short, tapering upward, bent at the apex, dark purple in color. spores in the mass bright purple, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times as long. it does not appear to be greatly different from _cribraria purpurea_, schrad. _b. sporangium, small._ . cribraria tenella, schrad. sporangium small, globose, stipitate, cernuous; the calyculus brown, shining, granulose within and faintly ribbed, occupying from one-fourth to one-half the sporangium, sometimes the outer thin membrane early disappearing; the network of slender threads with small roundish or irregular nodules at the angles, each with several ( - ) radiating threads, sometimes two or three with free extremities, the meshes triangular or rhombic. stipe long, tapering upward, flexuous, curved at the apex, purplish-brown in color. spores pale ochraceous in mass, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. the sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe three to five times as long. this is a much more delicate species than _cribraria dictydioides_. the calyculus is variable in size; in some examples the thin connecting membrane between the ribs has disappeared. . cribraria microcarpa, schrad. sporangium very small, globose, stipitate, somewhat cernuous; the calyculus represented by a few short brown ribs, the outer membrane soon disappearing; the network of slender threads, with small roundish nodules at the angles, each with several ( - ) radiating threads, with an occasional free extremity, the meshes largely rhombic. stipe very long, slender, somewhat flexuous, bent at the apex, purplish-brown in color. spores in mass pale ochraceous, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipes - mm. in length. readily distinguished by its very small sporangium and the comparatively very long stem. i am indebted to dr. george a. rex for specimens of this species. . cribraria cuprea, morg. n. sp. sporangium very small, oval or somewhat obovoid, stipitate, cernuous; the calyculus copper-colored, finely ribbed and granulose within, occupying from one-third to one-half the sporangium; the network of slender threads, with rather large triangular or quadrilateral meshes, and with large irregular dark copper-colored nodules, each having several ( - ) radiating threads, with an occasional free extremity. stipe not very long, tapering upward, curved at the apex, of the same color as the sporangium or darker below. spores pale coppery in mass, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. see plate iii, fig. . growing on old wood. sporangium . -. x . -. mm, the stipe two to four times as long as the sporangium. a minute species, easily recognized by its almost uniform color of bright new copper. iv. dictydium, schrad. sporangium simple, depressed-globose, stipitate, cernuous; the wall regularly thickened on the inner surface by numerous convergent ribs, which extend from base to apex and are united by fine transverse fibers, thus forming a network of rectangular meshes; the basal portion of the membrane sometimes persists as a calyculus, the upper part disappears at maturity. spores globose; purplish. the ribs run from base to apex like the meridians on a globe; they are simple, or here and there they separate into two divergent branches, which sometimes again converge into one; at the apex of the sporangium there is usually a small irregular net in which all the ribs terminate. . dictydium cernuum, pers. sporangium depressed-globose, umbilicate at the apex, stipitate, cernuous, purplish-brown in color; the calyculus granulose within, occupying from one-fourth to one-third of the sporangium, the ribs united by firm, persistent fibers. stipe not very long, erect, tapering upward, bent at the apex, purplish-brown, the apex pale and pellucid, standing on a small hypothallus. spores purplish-brown in mass, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times longer than the diameter of the sporangium. this appears to be the species figured and described by rostafinski and by massee. . dictydium longipes, morg. n. sp. sporangium large, depressed-globose, the apex umbilicate, stipitate, cernuous, dark purple in color; calyculus usually wholly wanting, the ribs united by weak fibers, which are easily torn asunder, allowing the ribs to curl up inwards. stipe very long, flexuous, tapering upward, curved and twisted at the apex, dark purple in color, standing on a thin hypothallus. spores in the mass dark purple, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. see plate iii, fig. . growing on rotten wood, mosses, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe three to five times as long. this is a much larger species than the preceding; it has a uniform dark purple hue, the stipe is very long and much bent and twisted, the ribs of the sporangium are soon torn apart and rolled inward. explanation of plate iii fig. .--licea biforis, morgan, n. sp. figs. , , .--diagrammatic representation of the structure of tubulina fig. .--lycogala conicum, pers., natural size fig. .--lycogala exiguum, morgan, n. sp., natural size fig. .--lycogala epidendrum, buxb., natural size fig. .--lycogala flavofuscum, ehr., natural size fig. .--portion of tubule of lycogala flavofuscum fig. .--reticularia splendens, morgan, n. sp., natural size fig. .--cribraria cuprea, morgan, n. sp. fig. .--dictydium longipes, morgan, n. sp. [illustration: the journal of the cin. soc. natural history. vol. xv. plate iii.] * * * * * from the journal of the cincinnati society of natural history, april, . the myxomycetes of the miami valley, ohio. by a. p. morgan. second paper. (read may , .) order iii. perichÆnaceÆ. sporangia sessile or plasmodiocarp; the wall a thin membrane, with a more or less thickened outer layer of minute brownish scales and granules. capillitium of long and very slender tubules, proceeding from numerous points of the sporangial wall, loosely branched, forming no evident network, the surface minutely warted or spinulose. spores globose, oval, or somewhat irregular, yellow. the order is distinguished by the sessile sporangia, with thick brown walls, and the very slender threads of the capillitium, with irregular and indefinite markings. table of genera of perichÆnaceÆ. . perichÆna. sporangia more or less depressed, roundish or more commonly polygonal and irregular, dehiscent in a circumscissile manner. . ophiotheca. plasmodiocarp terete and more or less elongated, bent and flexuous, sometimes annular or reticulate, irregularly dehiscent. i. perichÆna, fr. sporangia more or less depressed, roundish or more commonly polygonal and irregular, the edges approximate and sometimes confluent; the wall a thin membrane, with a thick dense yellow-brown outer layer of minute scales and granules, becoming darker at the surface, dehiscent in a circumscissile manner. capillitium of very slender loosely-branched threads, with the surface minutely warted. spores globose, oval or somewhat irregular, yellow. distinguished from ophiotheca by the flattened sporangium with a regular circumscissile dehiscence. . perichÆna depressa, lib. sporangia very much depressed, polygonal, irregular, crowded, the edges contiguous, sometimes confluent; the wall thick, yellow-brown within and scarcely impressed by the spores; the outer surface smooth, brown-red to brown or blackish in color, dehiscent in a circumscissile manner. capillitium of slender loosely-branched threads, - mic. in thickness, the surface merely uneven or very minutely warted. spores globose, yellow, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing on the inside of the bark of juglans, acer, etc. sporangia variable in size, - . mm. in breadth, irregular and angular, much flattened. it is said to include _perichæna vaporaria_, schw. . perichÆna irregularis, b. & c. sporangia depressed, irregular, polygonal, crowded, the edges contiguous and sometimes confluent; the wall thick, yellow inside and faintly reticulately impressed by the spores, the outer surface smooth, purplish-brown, dehiscent in a circumscissile manner. capillitium of slender-loosely branched threads, about mic. in thickness, the surface minutely warted or spinulose. spores subglobose, yellow, - mic. in diameter. growing on the outer bark of acer, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in width, closely crowded and irregular. it is much smaller than _perichæna depressa_, and its threads are more distinctly warted and spinulose. . perichÆna corticalis, batsch. sporangia globose, the base depressed, gregarious: the wall thick, yellow within and distinctly reticulately impressed by the spores, the outer surface reddish-brown or yellow-brown in color, dehiscent in a circumscissile manner. capillitium of slender loosely-branched threads, about mic. in thickness, the surface very minutely warted. spores subglobose, yellow, - mic. in diameter. growing on the inside of the bark of elm. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, quite regular in shape, with a slightly flattened base. my specimens are from prof. mcbride, of iowa. . perichÆna marginata, schw. sporangia depressed, polygonal, approximate and sometimes confluent, the surface cinereous-pulverulent, seated on a silvery hypothallus; the wall firm, thick, the outer surface yellow-brown, covered with minute whitish scales, the inner surface yellow, deeply reticulately impressed by the spores which rest against it, dehiscent in a circumscissile manner. capillitium consisting of a few simple or somewhat branched threads or well-nigh obsolete. spores subglobose, yellow, - mic. in diameter. growing on the outer surface of the bark of acer, fagus, etc. sporangia . -. mm. in width. this is plainly _perichæna cano-flavescens_, raunkier. i do not find any threads of a capillitium in my specimens. ii. ophiotheca, currey. plasmodiocarp terete and more or less elongated, bent and flexuous, sometimes annular or reticulate, the surface not polished or shining: the wall a thin membrane, with a thin outer layer of minute scales and granules, irregularly dehiscent. capillitium of very slender loosely-branched threads, with the surface minutely warted and spinulose. spores globose, oval or somewhat irregular, yellow. distinguished from perichæna by the terete plasmodiocarp and by the more spinulose capillitium. _cornuvia_ of rostafinski. . ophiotheca chrysosperma, currey. plasmodiocarp globose or oblong to elongated, and bent or flexuous, sometimes annular or branched and reticulate, dull brown in color; the wall a thin yellowish membrane, with a thin yellow-brown outer layer, irregularly dehiscent. capillitium of slender loosely-branched threads, - mic. in thickness, the surface minutely spinulose. spores subglobose, yellow, - mic. in diameter. growing on the inner surface of old bark of quercus, etc. plasmodiocarp . -. mm. in thickness, variable in length. _cornuvia circumscissa_ of rostafinski's monograph. . ophiotheca wrightii, b. & c. plasmodiocarp more or less elongated, bent and flexuous, very commonly in small rings, from brownish-ochre to brown or blackish in color, not polished; the wall a thin yellow membrane, with a thin brown outer layer, irregularly dehiscent. capillitium of slender loosely-branched threads, - mic. in thickness, furnished with numerous straight or bent long-pointed spinules. spores subglobose, yellow, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing on the inside of bark of acer, carya, etc. plasmodiocarp about . mm. in thickness, variable in length, often in small rings - mm. in diameter. the prickly threads are quite characteristic; the spinules are - mic. in length. _hemiarcyria melanopeziza_, speg., is evidently the same thing. . ophiotheca vermicularis, schw. plasmodiocarp terete and more or less elongated, bent and flexuous, sometimes annular or reticulate, the surface not polished, brownish in color; the wall a thin yellow membrane, covered on the outside by a more or less thickened brown layer of scales and granules, irregularly dehiscent. capillitium of slender loosely branched threads, - mic. in thickness, the surface with minute warts and ridges. spores subglobose, yellow, - mic. in diameter. growing on the inside of old bark. plasmodiocarp about . mm. in thickness and various in length; in my specimens the sporangia are mostly small rings. the species looks exactly like _ophiotheca wrightii_, but the character of the threads is quite different. . ophiotheca pallida, b. & c. plasmodiocarp terete, oblong or elongated annular and flexuous, the surface dull, pale ochraceous; the wall a thin pellucid membrane, minutely granulate, with a thin pale ochraceous outer layer, irregularly dehiscent. capillitium of slender loosely-branched threads, - mic. in thickness, the surface minutely warted or spinulose. spores subglobose, pale yellow, - mic. in diameter. growing on dead stems of herbaceous plants. plasmodiocarp . -. mm. in thickness, variable in length, sometimes short and roundish or oblong, sometimes much elongated and flexuous. more delicate than _ophiotheca vermicularis_, and distinguished by its pallid color throughout. order iv. arcyriaceÆ. sporangia regular and stipitate, rarely sessile; the wall a thin membrane, minutely granulose, colored as the spores and capillitium, the upper part soon torn away in a somewhat circumscissile manner, and early disappearing. capillitium of slender tubules, repeatedly branching and anastomosing to form a complicated network of evident meshes, more or less expanded after dehiscence; the surface of the threads minutely warted or spinulose or with elevated ridges in the shape of rings, half rings or reticulations. this order is specially distinguished by the threads of the capillitium forming a complicated network of evident meshes. table of genera of arcyriaceÆ. . lachnobolus. capillitium of slender tubules, quite variable in thickness, proceeding from numerous points of the sporangial wall. . arcyria. capillitium of slender tubules, issuing from the interior of the stipe, the network without any free extremities. . heterotrichia. capillitium issuing from the interior of the stipe, the peripheral portion of the network bearing numerous short acute free branches. i. lachnobolus, fr. sporangia stipitate or sessile, the wall a thin delicate membrane, minutely granulose, rupturing irregularly. stipe short or sometimes wanting. capillitium of slender tubules quite variable in thickness, proceeding from numerous points of the sporangial wall and forming a complicated network, the surface minutely warted or spinulose. spores globose, yellowish or flesh-color. this genus differs from arcyria in the capillitium springing from numerous points of the sporangial wall. . lachnobolus globosus, schw. sporangia globose, stipitate, pale yellow, changing to clay-color; the wall thin and delicate, pellucid, minutely granulose, the upper part torn away and soon disappearing, the lower half more persistent. stipe short, tapering upward, expanding at the base into a small hypothallus. capillitium arising from the lower portion of the sporangium, forming a complicated network, the threads - mic. in thickness, the surface closely covered with minute warts. spores globose, pale yellow to clay-color in mass, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing on the spines of chestnut burs. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe shorter than the sporangium. . lachnobolus incarnatus, a. & s. sporangia globose or ellipsoidal, substipitate, closely crowded and seated on a common hypothallus; the wall thin and delicate, pellucid, minutely granulose, dehiscing irregularly. stipe very short or often obsolete. capillitium proceeding from the inner surface of the sporangial wall, forming a complicated network, the threads extremely variable in thickness, minutely warted and spinulose. spores globose, flesh-color in the mass, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. sporangia . -. mm. in height, sessile on a narrow base or with a very short stipe; the threads of the capillitium are generally - mic. in thickness, but there are broader expansions at the nodes and elsewhere. my specimens are from prof. mcbride, of iowa. the species is extremely variable, and these specimens differ much from those described elsewhere. ii. arcyria, hill. sporangia regular ovoid to cylindric, stipitate; the wall a thin delicate membrane, circumscissile or torn away near the base, the upper portion evanescent, the lower part persistent, small and cup-shaped. stipe more or less elongated, the interior containing roundish vesicles which become smaller upward, and gradually pass into the normal spores. capillitium of slender tubules, issuing from the interior of the stipe, forming a complicated network, without any free extremities, the surface minutely warted or spinulose or with annular ridges. spores globose, red, brown, yellow, cinereous. § . clathroides, mich. capillitium closely attached by a few threads which issue from the interior of the stipe, and are free from the calyculus (except in _a. punicea_), much elongated after dehiscence, weak and drooping or prostrate; the meshes open and irregular, not differing externally and internally, their threads similar throughout, the warts or ridges of the surface exhibiting a spiral arrangement. . arcyria punicea, pers. sporangium ovoid, more or less elongated; the calyculus small, plicate-sulcate. stipe long, erect, brownish-red in color, expanded at the base into a small hypothallus. capillitium firmly attached by numerous threads which are connate with the wall of the calyculus, much elongated after dehiscence, ovoid-oblong to cylindric, bright red in color, fading to red-brown or brownish-ochre; the threads uniform in thickness, about mic., the surface with a series of prominent half-rings, which wind around the thread in a long spiral. spores globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old bark, wood, mosses, etc. the stipe - mm. in length, the capillitium elongated - mm. the commonest of the species, conspicuous by reason of its bright red color. . arcyria minor, schw. sporangium ovoid-oblong; the calyculus small, sulcate and ribbed, granulose. stipe short, erect, brownish-red in color, standing on a thin hypothallus. capillitium much elongated after dehiscence, oblong to cylindric, lax and prostrate, bright red to brownish in color; the threads uniform in thickness, . - mic., the surface with a series of prominent half-rings, which wind around the thread in a long spiral. spores globose, even, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing on old wood, bark, polyporus, etc. the stipe . -. mm. in length, the capillitium elongated . - mm. not uncommon, but it is usually referred to _a. adnata_. . arcyria adnata, batsch. sporangium ovoid; the calyculus very small, finely ribbed and granulose. stipe very short or entirely wanting. capillitium much expanded after dehiscence, globose or obovoid, pale red to brownish in color; the threads uniform in thickness, about mic., the surface with a series of prominent half-rings with mingled warts and spines, which wind around the thread in a long spiral. spores globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing in small clusters on old wood. a small species, the capillitium expanded - mm., the stipe extremely short, or altogether absent. . arcyria nutans, bull. sporangium cylindric; the calyculus small, granulose, ribbed and sulcate. stipe very short, arising from a common hypothallus. capillitium greatly elongated after dehiscence, cylindric, drooping and pendulous, pale yellow or pale ochraceous; the threads - mic. in thickness, the surface covered with spinules, among which are rings and half-rings, with an indistinct spiral arrangement. spores globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. the capillitium elongated - mm., the stipe very short. a very conspicuous species by reason of its long pale yellow capillitium. § . plectanella. capillitium erect, firmly attached by numerous threads, which issue from the interior of the stipe, but are connate with the wall of the calyculus, after dehiscence not much expanded: the meshes at the surface of the network much smaller than those within, folded back and forth, narrow and irregular, their threads densely warted or spinulose; the meshes of the interior much larger, open and expanded, their threads with minute scattered warts or perfectly smooth. . arcyria cinerea, bull. sporangium ovoid or oblong-ovoid; the calyculus very small. stipe long, erect, cinereous, becoming blackish, standing on a thin hypothallus. capillitium not much expanded after dehiscence, ovoid-oblong, erect, pale cinereous, sometimes pale yellowish; the external threads densely spinulose, - mic. in thickness; the threads of the interior thicker, - mic., and very minutely warted or quite smooth. spores globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. capillitium - mm. long, the stipe about the same length. . arcyria cookei, mass. sporangium ovoid-cylindric, the calyculus very small. stipe long, erect, gray to mouse-color, darker below, arising from a thin hypothallus. capillitium not much expanded after dehiscence, ovoid-cylindric, erect, gray to mouse-color; the superficial threads densely and uniformly covered with minute warts, - mic. in thickness; the threads of the interior thinner, about mic. and smooth, or with very minute scattered warts. spores globose, even, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing on old wood, mosses, etc. capillitium - mm. long, the stipe about the same length. it seems as common as _arcyria cinerea_, and has heretofore been included in it. see massee's monograph, p. . . arcyria digitata, schw. sporangium cylindric, the calyculus very small. stipe long, ascending, brownish in color, usually several fasciculate or to some extent connate, the sporangia divergent at the apex. capillitium not much expanded after dehiscence, cylindric, pale cinereous, or pale yellowish; the threads variable in thickness. - mic., those at the surface densely and minutely warted, those of the interior nearly smooth. spores globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. capillitium - mm. long, the stipe about the same length. _arcyria bicolor_, b. & c. iii. heterotrichia, massee. sporangia regular, oblong-ovoid, stipitate; the wall a thin delicate membrane, the upper part disappearing at maturity, leaving the basal portion as a small calyculus. stipe filled with large thick-walled vesicles, which are sub-angular from mutual pressure; these become smaller upward, and pass gradually into normal spores. capillitium issuing from the interior of the stipe, the central and superficial threads dissimilar, forming a complicated network, with numerous free extremities, the surface minutely warted, or with annular ridges. spores globose, brownish. distinguished from arcyria by the numerous free extremities of the peripheral portion of the network. . heterotrichia gabriellÆ, massee. sporangium oblong-ovoid, stipitate; the calyculus small, thin, smooth. stipe very short, erect, yellowish-brown in color. capillitium much elongated after dehiscence, cylindric-ovoid, sub-erect; the threads of the central portion about . mic. thick, with slightly elevated ridges partly encircling the tube, nearly colorless; threads of the peripheral portion bright yellow, - mic. thick, with numerous short acute free branches, the surface densely and minutely warted. spores in mass, yellowish-brown, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing on wood; s. carolina, _h. w. ravenel_. the sporangia densely crowded, becoming scattered toward the margin of the cluster. massee's monograph of the myxogasters. order v. trichiaceÆ. sporangium regular and stipitate or sessile, rarely plasmodiocarp; the wall a thin membrane, usually granular or venulose on the inner surface, colored as the spores and capillitium, irregularly dehiscent. capillitium of slender tubules, simple or branched, scarcely forming an evident network; the surface of the threads furnished with continuous ridges, which wind around the tube in a spiral manner. spores globose, red, brown, yellow, olivaceous. this order is readily recognized by the spiral ridges which wind around the tubules of the capillitium. table of genera of trichiaceÆ. . hemiarcyria. capillitium of long slender tubules, arising from the base of the sporangium, or issuing from the interior of the stipe; the spiral ridges parallel and conspicuous. . calonema. capillitium of slender tubules, arising from the base of the sporangium; the surface traversed by a system of branching veins. . trichia. capillitium consisting of numerous short slender tubules, called elaters, which are wholly free; the spiral ridges parallel and conspicuous. . oligonema. capillitium scanty, composed of elaters habitually irregular and abnormal; the surface variously marked. i. hemiarcyria, fr. sporangia regular and stipitate, rarely plasmodiocarp, the wall at maturity breaking away from above downward, leaving more or less of the lower portion persistent. stipe more or less elongated, rarely wanting, resting on a thin hypothallus. capillitium of long slender tubules, more or less branched, arising from the base of the sporangium, or issuing from the interior of the stipe; the spiral ridges parallel and conspicuous, - , rarely more in number, smooth or spinulose. spores globose, red, yellow. the genus is related on the one hand to arcyria by the mode of attachment of the threads, on the other hand to trichia, by the parallel spiral ridges which wind around them. by the mode of branching of the threads, the species fall readily into two sections. § . arcyrioides. capillitium of slender threads, branching and anastomosing, thus forming a more or less evident network. in some of the species the large irregular meshes of the network are scarcely to be discerned, but are rather to be inferred from the abundant branching of the threads and the paucity of the free extremities. . hemiarcyria plumosa, morgan, n. sp. sporangium obovoid to turbinate, olive-yellow to olive-brown in color, stipitate; the wall densely granulose within, externally smooth and shining, the upper part soon disappearing, leaving a funnel-shaped persistent base. stipe long, erect, reddish-brown, arising from a thin hypothallus. capillitium of threads - mic. in thickness, repeatedly branched and anastomosing, to form a dense network without any free extremities, olive-yellow to olive-brown in color; the spiral ridges five or six, close, smooth. spores in mass, lemon-yellow, globose, very minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing gregariously on old damp logs; very common in this region. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, the stipe usually much longer than the sporangium; the capillitium expands considerably after the disappearance of the upper part of the sporangium. this species is an arcyria in every respect, except the spiral ridges, which wind about the thread of the capillitium. . hemiarcyria varneyi, rex. sporangium elongated ovoid, pale yellow, stipitate; the upper part of the wall disappearing at maturity, leaving a small cup-shaped persistent base. stipe very short, dull brown. capillitium of very slender threads . - . mic. in thickness, dull ochre in color, forming a network of small meshes, with numerous short slightly clavate free extremities, which proceed from the peripheral meshes; the spiral ridges seven or eight, winding unevenly, those of the superficial threads minutely spinulose. spores in mass pale yellow, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood; kansas, may varney. sporangium with the stipe about mm. in height, the stipe very short. dr. rex, in proceedings of the academy of natural sciences, philadelphia, . . hemiarcyria ablata, morgan n. sp. sporangium obovoid to turbinate, yellow or olive-yellow, stipitate; the wall rather firm, smooth and shining, breaking away about the apex, leaving the greater portion persistent. stipe short, erect, yellow-brown to blackish in color, arising from a thin hypothallus. capillitium of threads, - mic. in thickness, yellowish-ochre in color, more or less branched; the free extremities very scarce, obtuse or slightly swollen; the spiral ridges four or five, close, smooth or very minutely warted. spores in mass, yellow, globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood of elm, etc. sporangium with the stipe . - . mm. in height, the stipe variable in length, but not longer than the sporangium, diameter of the sporangium . -. mm. a half dozen threads proceed from the inner wall of the stipe branch twenty-five or thirty times, and afford scarcely half a dozen free ends. . hemiarcyria stipata, schw. sporangia terete, elongated and flexuous, closely packed together and lying upon one another, stipitate, from bright incarnate to brick red or bay in color, smooth and shining; the wall thin and fragile, soon disappearing, except a small cup-shaped portion at the base. the stipes very short, often entirely concealed by the dense mass of sporangia, arising from a common hypothallus. capillitium of threads somewhat variable in thickness, - mic., repeatedly branched and forming a network of very unequal meshes, with occasional clavate free extremities, pale to dark red in color; the spiral ridges three or four, often irregular, thickened or interrupted by minute warts and spinules. spores in mass incarnate to brownish-red, globose, even, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood of liriodendron. sporangia usually in small patches, each - mic. in length, the stipe very thin and short. § . hemitrichia. capillitium of very long slender threads, simple or remotely branched, and not forming a network, their further extremities all free. the threads of the capillitium in these species are usually much coiled and entangled, but when straightened out they are seen to be very long, but few in number, fixed at one end and free at the other. . hemiarcyria longifila, rex. sporangium obovoid or pyriform, yellow, stipitate; the wall a thin pellucid membrane, smooth and shining, beautifully iridescent, breaking away above the middle, the lower cup-shaped portion persistent. stipe very short, reddish-brown to blackish, arising from a common hypothallus. capillitium of slender threads, . - mic. in thickness, golden yellow in color, simple or very rarely branched; the free extremities obtuse or slightly swollen, sometimes minutely apiculate; the spiral ridges, three or four, rather distant, with very minute scattered spinules or nearly smooth. spores in mass, golden-yellow, globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood of oak, etc. sporangium with the stipe . - . mm. in height, the stipe very short, not exceeding the diameter of the sporangium. a small species, distinguished by its golden-yellow spores and capillitium. . hemiarcyria funalis, morgan n. sp. sporangium obovoid to turbinate, yellow or olive yellow, polished stipitate; the wall firm, thickened on the inner surface by an olivaceous layer, breaking away from above downward, leaving an irregular cup-shaped base. stipe short, reddish-brown to blackish, arising from a thin hypothallus. capillitium of threads - mic. in thickness, yellowish-ochre or dull ochre in color, simple or remotely branched; the free extremities obtuse or swollen; the spiral ridges four or five, minutely warted. spores in mass yellow, globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing on old wood. sporangium . - . mm. in height, the stipe variable, but usually much shorter than the sporangium. scarcely to be distinguished from _hemiarcyria ablata_, except by the threads of the capillitium. . hemiarcyria rubiformis, pers. sporangium obovoid or turbinate to cylindric, usually few to many fasciculate upon the united stipes, sometimes sessile, brown-red to brown or blackish in color, smooth and often shining with a metallic luster; the wall much thickened by a dense brownish-red layer of minute granules, at maturity the apex torn away, leaving much the greater part persistent. capillitium of slender threads, - mic. in thickness, brownish-red in color, very rarely branched; the free extremities usually terminated by a stout spine; the spiral ridges three or four, furnished with numerous spinules. spores in mass, brownish-red, globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood; one of the commonest of the myxomycetes. the fascicle - mm. in height, the individual sporangia . -. mm. in diameter. . hemiarcyria serpula, scop. plasmodiocarp terete, flexuous, usually branching and anastomosing to form an extensive network, from tawny to golden-yellow in color; the wall thin above and yellow, breaking open irregularly and falling away down to the brownish thicker adherent base. capillitium consisting of a few long slender threads with numerous scattered short branches, the threads - mic. in thickness, golden-yellow; the free ends of the branches terminating in a slender spine; the spiral ridges three or four, covered with numerous slender spinules. spores in the mass golden-yellow, globose, the surface reticulate, - mic. in diameter. growing on and inside of rotten wood. plasmodiocarp an irregular patch, one to several centimeters in extent, the strands of the net about . mm. in thickness. a single reticulate plasmodium is usually converted without change of form into an individual plasmodiocarp. ii. calonema, morgan, gen. nov. sporangia subglobose, irregular, sessile, without a hypothallus; the wall thin, marked with branching veins, irregularly dehiscent. capillitium of slender tubules, arising from the base of the sporangium, repeatedly branched and with numerous free extremities; the surface traversed by a system of branching veins, ending in minute veinlets, which appear as irregular rings and spirals. spores subglobose, yellow. the habit of the single species is that of an oligonema, and it has spores similar to those of most species of this genus, but the threads are long and branched, and they are fastened below to the base of the sporangium. . calonema aureum, morgan n. sp. sporangia subglobose to turbinate, sessile, closely crowded and from mutual pressure quite irregular; the wall thin, marked with branching veins, golden-yellow in color, smooth and shining. capillitium of threads more or less branched, - mic. in thickness, golden-yellow; the surface minutely venulose, and with larger rings and spirals, and sometimes with scattered spinules; the free extremities obtuse. spores subglobose, yellow, the surface with elevated ridges combined into a network, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing on and within rotten wood. sporangia quite irregular and variable in size, . -. mm. in diameter. the beautiful venation of the wall of the sporangium is continued upon the surface of the threads of the capillitium. iii. trichia, haller. sporangia regular and stipitate or sessile and somewhat irregular; the wall, at maturity, irregularly ruptured. the stipe more or less elongated or often wanting, usually resting on a hypothallus. capillitium consisting of numerous short slender tubules, called _elaters_, intermingled with the spores and wholly free; elaters simple or rarely branched a time or two, each extremity terminating in a smooth tapering point; the spiral ridges parallel and conspicuous, - in number, smooth or spinulose. spores globose, yellow, ochraceous, olivaceous. the genus trichia is unique among the myxomycetes in having its capillitium composed of tubules, which are entirely free from the wall of the sporangium. the length of these free tubes varies usually between . mm. and . mm., being sometimes shorter, but seldom longer; they are typically cylindric, or equally thickened from end to end, or quite rarely they are thickened in the middle, and taper gradually to each extremity; the extremities terminate in a smooth tapering point, straight or sometimes a little curved or flexuous, which maintains an average length in each species. the spiral ridges wind around the thread almost invariably to the left, or with the hands of a watch; they are always more or less prominent and conspicuous, and usually maintain a regular curve and uniform interval between each other in the same species; their surface is either smooth, or sometimes it is invested with minute warts or spinules. in all the species of this genus, however, irregular and abnormal elaters are occasionally met with among the typical ones. as these abnormal forms always arrest attention, and have been conceived to possess specific value, it may be well to note the principal of them. . the elater is sometimes branched. in two or three species the branching appears to be quite regular and not abnormal; still, even in these species, most of the elaters in the sporangia are not branched. in some cases the branching arises from confluence of two or more elaters. . ellipsoidal swellings, or enlargements of the elater, sometimes occur, at one or both extremities, or at points intermediate between them; these always occur irregularly, and are essentially abnormal. . the smooth tapering point is rarely wanting, in which case the extremity presents a blunt end, the spiral ridges running to the end. more frequently the tapering points are multiplied, the elaters bearing two or three spines at the extremities; this often occurs in the species of trichia, and also of hemiarcyria with spinulose elaters. . the spiral ridges are sometimes defective, there being less than the typical number; sometimes they are merely displaced, there being a much wider interval between them than usual; rarely do they habitually wind about the thread in an irregular manner. . under high magnifying power, fine ridges are sometimes seen running lengthwise of the elaters, bridging the intervals between the spirals. these were first observed by debary, in _trichia chrysosperma_, but they have since been seen in the elaters of nearly every other species of trichia, and also in species of hemiarcyria. the few species with elaters, so far as yet known, habitually irregular, defective and abnormal, are referred to the genus oligonema. the normal species of trichia arrange themselves quite naturally into three sections. § . a nactium. sporangia varying from globose to pyriform or turbinate, supported on a more or less elongated stipe. spores globose, the surface minutely warted. _a. elaters with very long tapering extremities._ . trichia fragilis, sow. sporangia obovoid to pyriform or clavate, often fasciculate, stipitate; the wall a thin membrane, with a thick dense outer layer of brown-red granules. stipes long, erect or curved, simple or usually fasciculate and often connate, arising from a thin hypothallus. mass of spores and capillitium from reddish-brown to yellow and ochraceous; elaters simple, rarely branched, - mic. thick, with very long tapering extremities, ending in smooth points - mic. long; spirals, three or four, perfectly smooth. spores globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. sporangia with the stipe - mm. in height, the sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe usually longer than the sporangium. the color quite variable, mostly dull red-brown or blackish-brown, more rarely yellow or coffee-brown, usually opaque, rarely shining. . trichia fallax, pers. sporangium obovoid to pyriform or turbinate, rarely clavate, stipitate; the wall thin, smooth and shining, colored as the spores and capillitium. stipe more or less elongated, simple, erect, brownish below, filled with roundish vesicles. mass of capillitium and spores yellowish, ochraceous or olivaceous; elaters simple or sometimes with several branches, - mic. thick in the middle, tapering gradually to each extremity, ending in smooth tapering points, - mic. in length; spirals, three, perfectly smooth. spores globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing on old wood. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe usually longer than the sporangium. under high magnifying power the spores are seen to be minutely reticulated. _b. elaters cylindric, ending in a smooth tapering point._ . trichia subfusca, rex. sporangium globose, rarely globose-turbinate, stipitate; the wall thickish, dull tawny-brown above, shading to dark brown at the base. stipe simple, erect, brown or blackish in color. mass of capillitium and spores bright yellow; elaters simple, rarely branched, cylindric, . - mic. in thickness, ending in smooth tapering points, - mic. in length; spirals, four in number, perfectly smooth. spores globose, minutely warted, . - . mic. in diameter. on old wood and bark, adirondack mountains, new york. dr. george a. rex. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe equal in height to the diameter of the sporangium. . trichia erecta, rex. sporangium globose to globose-turbinate, stipitate; the wall of both sporangium and stipe with a rough outer layer of brown scales and granules, which, on the upper surface of the sporangium, soon breaks up into irregular patches. stipes long, erect, usually simple, rarely fasciculate and connate. mass of capillitium and spores, bright yellow; elaters simple, cylindric, mic. in thickness, ending in smooth points, - mic. long; spirals four, often united by intervening branches, covered with numerous irregular spinules. spores globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood and bark, adirondack mountains, new york, dr. geo. a. rex. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about mm. in height. this trichia is conspicuous by the checkering or areolation of the upper surface in the mature sporangia, affording a sharp contrast between the brown patches and the yellow bands. § . chrysophidia. sporangia globose, obovoid or somewhat irregular, sessile, rarely with a short stipe, usually closely crowded. spores globose, the surface minutely warted. _a. elaters perfectly smooth._ . trichia varia, pers. sporangia globose, obovoid or somewhat irregular, gregarious and scattered or crowded, yellowish, ochraceous or olivaceous, sessile, or with a very short brown or blackish stipe. mass of capillitium and spores yellow; elaters long, simple or sometimes branched a time or two, - mic. in thickness, ending in a smooth tapering point, - mic. long; spirals only two, smooth, very prominent in places, causing the elater to appear notched. spores globose, oval or somewhat irregular, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing in patches on old wood; a very common species. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, or when irregular sometimes elongated to mm. or more. extremely variable as to the form of the sporangium, but readily recognized by its elaters. . trichia andersoni, rex. sporangia globose or obovoid, sessile, gregarious, closely crowded, or sometimes scattered, the wall thickened with minute scales, in color brownish-ochre or olivaceous. mass of capillitium and spores yellow; elaters long, simple, - mic. in thickness, ending in a very long flexuous point, - mic. in length; spirals three or four, winding evenly and closely, perfectly smooth. spores globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on the inside of bark of acer. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter. the capillitium is deep orange and the spores olivaceous, but this difference in shade of color between spores and capillitium occurs in other species. _trichia advenula_, mass., is a closely related species, the swellings in the elaters having no specific value. . trichia inconspicua, rost. sporangia very small, subglobose, sessile, collected together in clusters, or scattered, without any hypothallus; the wall brown, smooth and shining. mass of capillitium and spores yellow; elaters long, simple, cylindric, - mic. in thickness, ending in smooth tapering points, - mic. in length; spirals three or four, close, not prominent, perfectly smooth. spores globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on bark of platanus, etc. new york, _peck_; iowa, _mcbride_. the sporangia spherical or reniform and very small. _b. elaters spinulose._ . trichia iowensis, mcbride. sporangia subglobose, sessile, gregarious, scattered, or sometimes close and confluent; the wall thickened with minute scales, reddish-brown in color. mass of capillitium and spores yellow; elaters quite variable, usually very long, but sometimes very short, simple, rarely branched, the thickness unequal, - mic. in the same elater, with occasional thicker swellings, bearing numerous scattered spines, usually about as long as the thickness of the elater, but sometimes much longer, those at the ends being similar; spirals three or four, fine and close, in places nearly obsolete. spores globose, or more or less irregular, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old bark of populus; iowa, mcbride. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter. this is a very curious species of trichia; it suggests _ophiotheca wrightii_, but the elaters are short and simple, and there is no question as to the spirals upon them. i could find no branched elaters in my specimen. . trichia scabra, rost. sporangia globose or somewhat irregular, sessile and closely crowded on a well-developed hypothallus; the wall thin, gold-yellow or orange to yellow-brown in color, smooth and shining. mass of capillitium and spores orange or golden-yellow; elaters long, simple, - mic. in thickness, ending in a smooth tapering point, - mic. in length; spirals three or four, covered with numerous short acute spinules. spores globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing on old wood in patches, sometimes several centimeters in extent. sporangia . - mm. in diameter. "the papillæ, which cover the spore, show, when highly magnified, a distinct net-like pattern," _mcbride_. the elaters of this species are subject to much irregularity in the way of abnormal swellings, duplicating the spines at the apex, etc.; the spinules are sometimes quite obsolete on some or all of the elaters of a sporangium. § . goniospora, fr. sporangia obovoid to oblong, sessile and closely crowded on a well-developed common hypothallus. spores with thick ridges upon the surface, which are combined into a more or less incomplete network of polygonal meshes. the ridges of the epispore are - mic. in height, and do not present to the view more than two or three perfect polygons on a hemisphere of the spores; more often the reticulation is imperfect, the ridges being interrupted and defective. when highly magnified these ridges are seen to be "perforated through their thickness with one, two or three rows, or with clusters of cylindrical openings or pits, or are sculptured into intricate plexuses of minute reticulations with quadrilateral interspaces." . trichia affinis, deb. sporangia obovoid to oblong, sessile and closely crowded on a common hypothallus; the wall thin, golden-yellow to tawny or brownish-yellow, smooth and shining. mass of capillitium and spores golden to tawny-yellow; elaters long, simple, - mic. in thickness, ending in a smooth tapering point, - mic. in length; spirals four, usually spinulose, rarely smooth. spores angularly or irregularly globose, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood and bark in small patches of a few millimeters to a centimeter or more in extent. sporangia . -. mm. in height by . -. mm. in diameter. _trichia jackii_, rost., is included in this species. . trichia chrysosperma, bull. sporangia oblong-obovoid to cylindric, sessile and closely crowded on a well-developed hypothallus; the wall thin, pale citron to olive-yellow, smooth and shining. mass of capillitium and spores, golden to ochre-yellow; elaters long, simple, - mic. in thickness, ending in a smooth tapering point, - mic. in length; spirals four or five, usually smooth, rarely spinulose. spores angularly or irregularly globose, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, in small patches, one to several centimeters in extent. sporangia - mm. in height and . -. mm. in diameter. this is readily distinguished from _trichia affinis_ by the larger and differently colored sporangia. iv. oligonema, rost. sporangia subglobose, more or less irregular, sessile and closely crowded, often in heaps, one upon another, the wall thin, smooth and shining; hypothallus none. capillitium scanty, composed of elaters habitually irregular and abnormal, intermingled with the spores; elaters simple or sometimes branched, commonly very short, but varying greatly in length, even in the same sporangium; the surface marked with faint spirals, with a few annular ridges, minutely punctulate or altogether smooth. spores globose, yellow. the species of this genus are to be regarded as degenerate trichias. of course, the abnormality is exhibited most markedly by the elaters; nevertheless, the sporangia of some of the species have a peculiar habit of heaping themselves upon each other. _a. surface of the spores reticulate._ _a. elaters with projecting rings._ . oligonema nitens, lib. sporangia subglobose, irregular, sessile, closely crowded and heaped upon each other, the wall thin, yellow, smooth and shining. mass of capillitium and spores yellow; elaters simple or sometimes branched, - mic. in thickness, with a few distant projecting rings, the surface smooth between, or with very faint spirals, the extremities obtuse, or sometimes with a minute apiculus. spores angularly or irregularly globose, the surface reticulate, - mic. in diameter. growing in small patches on and within rotten wood. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter; the elaters variable, some with as many as a dozen projecting rings, some with but a few or nearly smooth. _trichia nitens_, libert. . oligonema pusilla, schr. sporangia subglobose, irregular, sessile, scattered or collected together in heaps; the wall thin, yellow, smooth and shining. mass of capillitium and spores yellow; elaters simple or sometimes branched, mic. in thickness, sometimes with thicker inflated portions, the surface marked with low faint spirals or perfectly smooth; the extremities rounded and usually terminating in a smooth point, - mic. in length--this point either curved, bent to one side or turned back, and twisted around the extremity as a ring. spores angularly or irregularly globose, the surface reticulate, - mic. in diameter. growing in small clusters in rotten wood. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter; the elaters variable in length, scarcely exceeding mic. and often much shorter. _trichia pusilla_, schroeter. _b. elaters with no projecting rings._ . oligonema flavidum, peck. sporangia obovoid to oblong, sessile, closely crowded and irregular from mutual pressure; the wall thin, yellow, shining, punctulate or minutely granulose. mass of spores and capillitium yellow; elaters simple or sometimes branched, - mic. in thickness, sometimes with thicker inflated portions; the surface punctulate or minutely warted, occasionally marked with very faint spirals; the extremities usually rounded and obtuse, sometimes acute, and rarely with a minute apiculus. spores angularly or irregularly globose, the surface reticulate, - mic. in diameter. see plate i, fig. . growing in dense patches on old wood and mosses. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, and reaching mm. in height, the elaters usually rather long, sometimes quite long and branched. . oligonema brevifila, peck. sporangia subglobose, irregular, sessile, crowded, forming clusters or effused patches; the wall thin, yellow, densely granulose and venulose. mass of capillitium and spores ochre-yellow; elaters simple or sometimes branched, often very short and fusiform, when elongated having long tapering extremities, sometimes with irregular swollen portions; the surface minutely granulose and rugulose, here and there a few spinules, occasionally with indistinct spirals. spores angularly or irregularly globose, the surface reticulate, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood and mosses. sporangia . -. mic. in diameter, the elaters varying greatly in length, some not more than or mic. long, others more than mic. in length. _b. spores minutely warted._ . oligonema fulvum, morgan n. sp. sporangia rather large, subglobose, sessile, closely crowded and more or less irregular; the wall tawny yellow, very thin and fragile, smooth, shining and iridescent. mass of capillitium and spores tawny yellow; elaters simple or sometimes branched, mostly very short, mic. in thickness, sometimes with thicker swollen portions; the surface marked with low smooth spirals, in places faint and obsolete; the extremities rounded and obtuse, usually with a very minute apiculus, - mic. in length. spores globose, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on an old effused sphæria. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, the elaters mostly - mic. in length, rarely much longer and sometimes shorter; the longer elaters and those that are branched often arise from confluence of the shorter ones. explanation of plate i. fig. .--perichæna depressa, lib. fig. .--ophiotheca wrightii, b. & c. fig. .--lachnobolus globosus, schw. fig. .--arcyria cookei, massee. fig. .--arcyria minor, schw. fig. .--heterotrichia gabriellæ, massee. (after massee.) fig. .--hemiarcyria plumosa, morgan. fig. .--hemiarcyria funalis, morgan. fig. .--calonema aureum, morgan. fig. .--trichia fallax, pers. fig. .--trichia scabra, rost. fig. .--oligonema flavidum, peck. note.--each figure exhibits the sporangium as it appears magnified about diameters, and the capillitium and spores magnified about diameters. [illustration: the journal of the cin. soc. natural history. vol. xvi. plate i.] * * * * * the myxomycetes of the miami valley, ohio. by a. p. morgan. third paper. (read february , .) order vi. stemonitaceÆ. sporangia globose or ovoid to oblong and cylindrical, stipitate; the wall very thin and fragile, soon disappearing. stipe tapering upward and continued within the sporangium as a more or less elongated columella. capillitium of slender brown threads, arising from numerous points of the columella, repeatedly branching and usually anastomosing to form a network, persistent and rigidly preserving the outline of the sporangium. spores globose, brown or violaceous. this order is readily distinguished by the brown persistent capillitium, arising from a lengthened columella, and rigidly maintaining the form of the sporangium. table of genera of stemonitaceæ. _a. stipe and columella brown or black._ _a. the columella scarcely reaching the center of the sporangium._ . clastoderma. threads of the capillitium forking several times, but not combined into a network. . lamproderma. threads of the capillitium branching and anastomosing to form a network. _b. the columella extending beyond the center of the sporangium._ . comatricha. threads of the capillitium forming only an interior network, attaining the wall by numerous more or less elongated free extremities. . stemonitis. threads of the capillitium forming an interior network of large meshes and a superficial network of smaller meshes. . enerthenema. threads of the capillitium pendent from a discoid membrane at the apex of the columella. _b. stipe and columella white or yellowish._ . diachaea. threads of the capillitium branching and anastomosing to form a network. i. clastoderma, blytt. sporangium regular, globose, stipitate; the wall very thin and fragile. stipe elongated, tapering upward, entering the sporangium as a very short or nearly obsolete columella. capillitium arising by a few branches from the apex of the columella, these branches forking several times at a sharp angle, but not combined into a network, the ultimate branchlets long and free, or only connected together at their tips by persistent fragments of the sporangial wall. spores globose, violaceous. the claim of this genus to be distinguished from lamproderma must rest upon the fact that the branchlets of the capillitium do not anastomose and form a network. it is the same as the genus orthotricha of wingate. . clastoderma de baryanum, blytt. sporangium very small, globose; the wall early disappearing, except the minute fragments which persist at the extremities of the capillitium, and a narrow collar at the base of the columella. stipe very long, thick and brown below, tapering upward to a pellucid oblong swelling, thence abruptly narrowed to the apex; the columella extremely short, capillitium of very slender pale-brown semi-pellucid threads, divergently forking, the ultimate branchlets often joined - together at their tips by fragments of the sporangial wall. spores globose, even, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing in rather a scattered way on old rotten wood. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe . - . mm. long. _orthotricha microcephala_, wingate. blytt's species was found in norway, wingate's in pennsylvania; i have met with it several times in this locality. it is possibly more common than it appears, as by reason of the difficulty of seeing the minute sporangium it is passed by as some mold. blytt's spore measurements are . - mic.; in some specimens i have seen a few spores of this size, but they are abnormal. ii. lamproderma, rost. sporangia regular, globose, stipitate; the wall thin and fragile, rugulose, shining with metallic tints, breaking up irregularly and gradually falling away. stipe more or less elongated, smooth, brown or black in color, arising from a hypothallus, tapering upward and entering the sporangium as a short columella scarcely reaching the center. capillitium of numerous threads radiating from the columella, usually forking several times and combined into a net by lateral anastomosing branchlets. spores globose, brown or violaceous. lamproderma is distinguished by the shining metallic tints of the sporangial wall, and by the short columella scarcely reaching half the height of the sporangium. . lamproderma physaroides, a. & s. sporangium globose; the wall with a silvery metallic luster, at length breaking up and falling away. stipe long, slender, brown or blackish, arising from a small circular hypothallus; columella clavate, obtuse, not reaching the center of the sporangium. capillitium of brownish-violet threads, arising from the upper part of the columella; these branch repeatedly at a sharp angle, form an intricate network of elongated meshes, terminating at the wall in numerous short free branchlets. spores globose, minutely warted, bright brown, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, moss, etc., new york, _chas. h. peck_. distinguished by the pale silvery sporangial wall and the clear brown spores. . lamproderma arcyrionema, rost. sporangium small, globose; the wall dark bronze, with a silvery sheen when loosened from the spores, soon breaking into scales and falling away. stipe long and slender, smooth, shining and black, rising from a thin hypothallus; the columella short cylindric, variable in length, but not attaining the center of the sporangium. capillitium arising by division of the apex of the columella into several primary branches; these immediately separate into numerous slender flexuous brown threads, which unite and form a dense network of small arcuate meshes, the ultimate branchlets not free. spores globose, even, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing on old wood of juglans and carya. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe three or four times as long. the columella is somewhat variable, it sometimes forks or divides immediately on entering the sporangium, at other times it is longer and cylindric, with more slender primary branches. the meshes of the capillitium resemble those of arcyria, whence the name. this is the _stemonitis physaroides_, a. & s. var. _suboeneus_ of lea's catalogue. . lamproderma violaceum, fr. sporangium depressed-globose, convex above and more or less flattened and umbilicate beneath; the wall shining with steel or violet, blue and purple tints, deciduous. stipe short, stout, brown or blackish in color, arising from a thin, brown, common hypothallus; columella cylindric, or tapering slightly to an obtuse apex, attaining the center of the sporangium. capillitium of numerous slender threads, radiating from the upper part of the columella; these threads are brown below, with a variable outer portion colorless; they branch a few times and form an interior network of elongated meshes, outwardly arching and freely anastomosing they give rise to an external network of small irregular meshes, they then attain the wall by innumerable short, simple, or forked free branchlets. spores globose, minutely spinulose, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig . growing on old wood, mosses, etc., late in autumn. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about the same length. the capillitium is sometimes most of it colorless and flaccid; sometimes it is all brown and rigid except the minute free extremities. . lamproderma arcyrioides, somm. sporangium globose or ellipsoid, and somewhat elongated; the wall with tints of violet, purple, and blue, deciduous. stipe usually short, or sometimes nearly obsolete, brown or blackish in color, arising from a strongly-developed hypothallus; the columella cylindric or slightly tapering upward, and obtuse, reaching nearly to the center of the sporangium. capillitium of numerous pale-brown threads, radiating from the apex of the columella; these fork directly from the base, are bent and flexuous, and are combined into a dense, intricate net, with abundant free extremities. spores globose, spinulose, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, wood, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe variable in length from very short to mm. long or beyond. _lamproderma columbinum_, pers. is a doubtful species, the forms of that name being easily distributed between the present species and _l. physaroides_. . lamproderma scintillans, b. & br. sporangium globose; the wall shining with colors of blue, purple, and bronze, deciduous. stipe long, slender, smooth, and shining, brown or blackish, rising from a thin, brown, common hypothallus; columella cylindric or slightly tapering to the obtuse apex, not reaching the center of the sporangium. capillitium of numerous brown threads, originating about the apex of the columella; these fork several times, with few anastomosing branchlets, and terminate at the wall in long, free extremities. spores globose, minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing on old leaves, moss, etc., in early spring. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe from once to twice as long. this is _lamproderma irideum_ of massee's monograph. i am indebted to arthur lister, esq., of london, for the identification of my specimens with _stemonitis scintillans_, b. & br., and with _lamproderma irideum_, cke. iii. comatricha, preuss. sporangia various in shape, from globose or ovoid to oblong and cylindric, stipitate; the wall very thin and fugacious. stipe more or less elongated, smooth and black, arising from a common hypothallus, tapering upward, entering the sporangium and prolonged nearly or quite to the apex as a columella. capillitium arising from numerous points of the columella throughout its entire length; the threads immediately branching and anastomosing to form an interior network, attaining the wall by numerous more or less elongated free extremities. spores globose, brown or violaceous. this genus is not sharply limited from stemonitis. the species with very short free ends, and consequently with superficial meshes approximate to the wall, are near the form of stemonitis. but it may be observed that in these species, the meshes of the capillitium become smaller gradually outward, the sides of the superficial meshes are arched away from the wall, and they are in contact with it only by the free extremities. § . typhoides. threads of the capillitium repeatedly branching and anastomosing, to form a dense network of small meshes, with innumerable short, free extremities. . comatricha typhina, roth. sporangia short, erect or a little curved, cylindric or usually narrowing slightly upward, the base quite blunt, the apex more rounded, growing together on a thin hypothallus. stipe and columella brown or blackish, tapering upward and vanishing near the apex of the sporangium, the stipe much shorter than the columella. capillitium of slender flexuous tawny-brown threads; these branch repeatedly, forming an intricate network of small irregular meshes, ending in very short free extremities. spores globose, violaceous, very minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, mosses, etc. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, the stipe much the shorter, the sporangium . -. mm. in thickness. _stemonitis typhoides_, fries, s. m. . comatricha Æqualis, pk. sporangia usually more or less inclined or curved and nodding, cylindric, obtuse at each end, growing together on a thin hypothallus. stipe and columella slender, smooth, black, extending nearly or quite to the apex of the sporangium, the stipe longer than the columella. capillitium of very slender flexuous tawny-brown threads; these branch repeatedly, forming an intricate network of small irregular meshes, ending in very short free extremities. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. sporangium . - mm. in height by . -. mm. in thickness, the stipe usually about the same length as the sporangium, but sometimes nearly twice as long. the capillitium is rather looser than in _c. typhina_, whence the drooping habit. peck, thirty-first report, p. . . comatricha nigra, pers. sporangia globose or ovoid to ellipsoid or oblong, erect or sometimes inclined or even nodding. the stipe very long, smooth and black, tapering upward, expanding at the base into a small circular hypothallus; the columella short, reaching from one-half to three-fourths the height of the sporangium. capillitium of slender flexuous brown threads, which branch repeatedly, forming a dense intricate network of small meshes, ending in very short free extremities. spores globose, even, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, leaves, etc. sporangium . - . mm. in height, . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe . - mm. long or sometimes considerably longer. this species seems to be rare in this country. i have preferred the name adopted by schroeter to rostafinski's _comatricha friesiana_. . comatricha ellisii, morgan, n. sp. sporangia short, erect, oval or ovoid to oblong. stipe and columella erect, brown and smooth, rising from a thin pallid hypothallus, tapering upward and vanishing into the capillitium toward the apex of the sporangium, the stipe usually longer than the columella. capillitium of slender pale brown threads; these branch several times with lateral anastomosing branchlets, forming a rather open network of small meshes, ending with very short free extremities. spores globose, even, pale ochraceous, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing on old pine wood. sporangium . -. mm. in height by . -. mm. in width, the stipe usually a little longer than the sporangium. this elegant little species i have from mr. j. b. ellis, of newfield, n. j. it is said to be mingled in some of the specimens with _lamproderma ellisiana_, cke. § . larvella. threads of the capillitium branching a few times and anastomosing to form a network of large meshes, attaining the wall by numerous long, free extremities. . comatricha crypta, schw. sporangia cylindric, bent or flexuous and more or less inclined, growing close together on a conspicuous purplish-brown hypothallus. stipe and columella smooth and black, tapering upward and reaching the apex of the sporangium, the columella bent and flexuous or spirally twisted, about as long as the stipe. capillitium composed of irregular, bent and uneven threads, which are brown below, becoming colorless outwardly; the threads branch a few times, forming a network of large irregular meshes, sometimes much defective; the free extremities irregular and unequal, simple or branched. spores globose, brown, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing out of fissures of the bark and wood of hickory, acer, etc. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, the stipe a little shorter, or sometimes much longer than the sporangium, the latter . -. mm. in thickness. the exterior colorless portion of the capillitium is exceedingly delicate, easily breaking away and leaving the capillitium quite irregular and defective. _stemonitis crypta_, schweinitz's n. a. fungi, . _comatricha irregularis_, rex, is the same thing. . comatricha cÆspitosa, sturgis. sporangia short, clavate, densely crowded or cæspitose upon a delicate hypothallus; the wall subpersistent, silvery, shining with tints of purple and blue. stipe very short or nearly obsolete, the columella rising to two-thirds or three-fourths the height of the sporangium. capillitium of slender dark-brown threads, which branch and anastomose quite irregularly, forming a network of intermingled large and small meshes, ending in long, tapering, free extremities. spores globose, minutely spinulose, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on moss and lichens, at wood's holl, massachusetts. sporangium - . mm. in height, the stipe very short or sometimes apparently wanting. i am indebted to dr. w. c. sturgis, of new haven, conn., for a specimen of this unique species. . comatricha longa, peck. sporangia very slender and much elongated, tapering gradually upward, weak and prostrate or pendulous, growing close together on a well-developed purplish-black hypothallus. stipe and columella capillary, smooth and black, reaching to the apex of the sporangium or often vanishing in the network far below it, the stipe very short, the columella long and flexible. capillitium of long, slender, dark-brown threads; these are reticulately connected near the base, forming a network of large irregular meshes in a series along the columella; outwardly they are terminated by very long free branchlets, which vary from simple to two or three times forked or branched. spores globose, minutely warted, dark brown, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing on old wood and bark of elm, willow, etc., in autumn. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in length, the stipe - mm. long, the sporangium . -. mm. in thickness. this is the most characteristic species of the genus, being farthest removed from stemonitis. . comatricha flaccida, lister. sporangia growing closely crowded together and more or less confluent, on a purplish-brown hypothallus, the walls fugacious. columellas rising simply from the common hypothallus, or sometimes grown together below and then apparently branching, running through to the apex, and there often confluent with each other, or joined together by portions of membrane. capillitium of slender brown threads, which branch and anastomose very irregularly, forming a ragged network with large irregular meshes, and long free extremities; the capillitium of adjoining columellas being much entangled, and often confluent or grown together. spores globose, very minutely warted, brown, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood and bark of oak, willow, etc. the component sporangia - mm. in length. the early appearance is much like that of species of stemonitis, but the mature stage is a great mass of spores with scanty capillitium, as in reticularia; the columellas, however, are genuine and not adjacent portions of wall grown together. arthur lister calls this _stemonitis splendens_, var. _flaccida_. iv. stemonitis, gled. sporangia subcylindric, elongated, stipitate, standing close together on a well-developed common hypothallus, the wall very thin and evanescent. stipe brown or black, smooth and shining, tapering upward, entering the sporangium and prolonged nearly to the apex as a slender columella, the stipe shorter than the columella. capillitium arising from numerous points of the columella throughout its entire length; the threads immediately branch and anastomose to form an interior network of large meshes, they then spread out next the wall of the sporangium into a superficial network of smaller meshes. spores globose, brown or violaceous. in this genus there are two distinctly differentiated series in the capillitium, the one an interior supporting network of large meshes, the other a superficial network of smaller meshes; sometimes the superficial network disappears or is wanting toward the upper part of the capillitium, there is then an approach to comatricha. very minute scattered branchlets usually connect the superficial network with the wall of the sporangium. § . dictynna. threads of the capillitium arising from numerous points of the columella, immediately branching several times and anastomosing to form the interior network of large meshes; the superficial network consisting of small irregular and unequal meshes, varying from smaller than the spores to two or three times their diameter. . stemonitis fusca, roth. sporangia elongated, subcylindric, tapering and obtuse at the apex, tapering gradually downward, growing closely crowded together on a strongly-developed brown hypothallus. stipe and columella smooth and black, tapering gradually upward and disappearing near the apex of the sporangium, the stipe shorter than the columella. capillitium of slender brown or blackish threads, which immediately branch and anastomose, forming a dense interior network of large irregular meshes, the ultimate branchlets of which support a superficial network of small polygonal meshes. spores globose, dark violaceous, the surface minutely warted, the warts with a reticulate arrangement, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, leaves, etc.; common everywhere. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, the sporangium . -. mm. in thickness, the stipe variable in length, but always shorter than the sporangium. the meshes of the superficial net vary in size in the same sporangium, being usually - mic. in width, but sometimes they are larger, ranging from - mic. in extent. the name _stemonitis maxima_ was given by schweinitz to some unusually large specimens which grew on a polyporus. _stemonitis dictyospora_ of rostafinski's monograph, with spores mic. in diameter, is said to occur in south carolina; i have seen no specimens. . stemonitis tenerrima, b. & c. sporangia small, subcylindric, tapering and obtuse at the apex, tapering gradually downward, growing close together on a thin brown hypothallus. stipe and columella black and smooth, tapering gradually upward and vanishing toward the apex of the sporangium, the stipe shorter than the columella. capillitium of very slender pale violet threads, which branch and anastomose to form a dense interior network of large irregular meshes, and then spread out into a superficial network of small polygonal meshes. spores globose, even, pale brownish-violet, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing on old wood, mosses, etc. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, the sporangium . -. mm. in thickness, the stipe variable in length, but always shorter than the sporangium. the meshes of the superficial network varying usually from - mic. in width, but sometimes larger from - mic. the species grows scantily in this region, but i have elegant specimens from alabama, sent me by prof. geo. f. atkinson. . stemonitis microspora, lister. plasmodium white. sporangia elongated, subcylindric, tapering and obtuse at the apex, tapering gradually downward, growing closely crowded together on a strongly-developed brown hypothallus. stipe and columella brown and smooth, tapering gradually upward and reaching nearly to the apex of the sporangium, the stipe shorter than the columella. capillitium of slender tawny-brown threads; the primary branches simple or only branched above, or with a few lateral anastomosing branchlets, forming a rather loose network of large irregular meshes; these support a superficial network of very small polygonal meshes. spores globose, even, tawny-brown, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, leaves, etc.; very common in this region. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, the sporangium . -. mm. in thickness, the stipe shorter than the sporangium. meshes of the superficial network - mic. in width. i am indebted to arthur lister, esq., of london, for pointing out to me the difference between this species and the _stemonitis ferruginea_ of fries and rostafinski. . stemonitis ferruginea, ehr. plasmodium lemon-yellow. sporangia subcylindric, the apex obtuse, growing closely crowded together on a thin, brown hypothallus. stipe and columella brown and smooth, tapering gradually upward and vanishing beneath the apex of the sporangium, the stipe much shorter than the columella. capillitium of slender, tawny-brown threads, which immediately branch and anastomose, forming a dense interior network of large irregular meshes, supporting a superficial network of small polygonal meshes. spores globose, very minutely warted, tawny-brown in color, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, leaves, grasses, etc. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, the sporangium . -. mm. in thickness, the stipe much shorter than the sporangium. the meshes of the superficial network varying from - mic. or sometimes from - mic. in width, according to the specimen. the species is certainly rare in this country, and my description is drawn up from british specimens. but i am unable to distinguish authentic specimens of _stemonitis herbatica_, peck, from these british specimens. § . megalodictys. threads of the capillitium arising from rather distant points of the columella, branching and anastomosing but a few times, thus forming an interior network of very large meshes; the superficial network consisting of large irregular meshes, varying from three or four to many times the diameter of the spores. . stemonitis webberi, rex. sporangia subcylindric, the apex obtuse, tapering gradually downward, growing close together on a common hypothallus. stipe and columella black and smooth, the stipe very short, the columella extending nearly or quite to the apex of the sporangium, the upper part usually flexuous. capillitium composed of slender, flexuous brown threads; these immediately branch and anastomose several times, forming an interior network of very large meshes; the superficial network consisting of large irregular meshes, sometimes much elongated. spores globose, very minutely warted, brown, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing on old wood, bark, etc. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, the stipe - mm. in length, the sporangium . -. mm. in thickness; meshes of the superficial net of the capillitium - - mic. in extent. this is a much smaller species than _stemonitis splendens_, and the structure of the interior network of the capillitium is entirely different. . stemonitis splendens, rost. sporangia linear-cylindric, obtuse at the apex, growing close together on a conspicuous hypothallus. stipe and columella black and shining, the stipe very short, the columella reaching nearly or quite to the apex of the sporangium, often flexuous above. capillitium composed of brown threads, variable in thickness, often with membranaceous expansions; the primary branches some of them simple or only branched above, others with a few anastomosing branchlets, forming an interior network of extremely large meshes; the superficial network consisting of large, irregular, roundish or polygonal meshes. spores globose, very minutely warted, brown, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing on old wood. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, the stipe - mm. in length, the sporangium about . mm. in thickness; the meshes of the superficial network of the capillitium - - mic. or sometimes as much as mic. in extent. this is _stemonitis morgani_, peck. v. enerthenema, bowm. sporangium regular, globose, stipitate; the wall thin and fragile, fugacious. stipe stout, thick, tapering upward, entering the sporangium and prolonged to its apex, there expanding into a discoid membrane. capillitium originating from the lower surface of the apical disk of the columella; the threads branched a few times and hanging downward, their extremities free. spores globose, violaceous. a well-marked genus, by reason of the peculiar origin of the capillitium. . enerthenema papillatum, pers. sporangium globose, stipitate; the wall brown or blackish, soon disappearing. stipe black, rugulose, thick below, tapering above into the slender columella, which, at its apex, expands into a thin membranaceous disk. capillitium of long brown threads suspended from the apical disk, the threads branched a few times, occasionally anastomosing by a short, transverse branchlet, the free ends often forked. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing on old wood. stipe and columella . - . mm. in height. the species seems to be rare in this country, as i have met with it but once myself, and have received only a few specimens from elsewhere. vi. diachÆa, fr. sporangia globose to oblong, stipitate, arising from a common hypothallus; the wall thin, rugulose, iridescent with metallic tints, breaking up irregularly and gradually falling away. stipe and columella thick, erect, rigid, tapering upward, filled with minute, roundish granules of lime, white or yellowish in color. capillitium arising from numerous points of the columella, the threads repeatedly branching and anastomosing to form an intricate network, attaining the wall by numerous short free extremities. spores globose, violaceous. this genus is scarcely to be distinguished from lamproderma, except by the white mass of lime which fills the tube of the stipe and columella. . diachÆa leucopoda, bull. sporangia ovoid-oblong to short cylindric, the base obtuse or slightly umbilicate, the apex more rounded; the wall with bronze, blue, purple, and violet tints, gradually falling away. stipe short, thick, white, arising from a white, venulose, hypothallus, tapering upward; the columella cylindric or slightly tapering, obtuse, terminating below the apex of the sporangium. capillitium of slender, flexuous brown threads forming a dense network of rather small meshes. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, sticks, etc., and sometimes running over living plants. sporangium with the stipe - mm. in height, the stipe usually much shorter than the sporangium, the latter . -. mm. in thickness. _diachæa elegans_, fr. . diachÆa splendens, peck. sporangia globose, sometimes a little depressed, with the base umbilicate; the wall steel-blue with tints of purple and violet, quite persistent, rupturing irregularly. stipe short, thick, white, arising from a white, reticulate hypothallus, tapering upward; the columella oblong or short cylindric, extending beyond the center of the sporangium. capillitium of slender, brown threads, which branch several times and form a loose network of rather large meshes. spores subglobose, with very large warts, dark violet, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves and twigs. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about the same length. this is a beautiful species. . diachÆa thomasii, rex. sporangia globose, or sometimes a little depressed; the wall gold-bronze, with tints of purple and blue, subpersistent, rupturing irregularly. stipe thick, dull ochre-yellow in color, variable in length, usually very short and sometimes quite obsolete, arising from an ochre-yellow hypothallus; the columella varying from bluntly-conical to cylindric-clavate, attaining the center of the sporangium. capillitium of slender, brown threads, radiating from all points of the columella, branching several times and forming a loose network of elongated meshes. spores globose, minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. see plate xi, fig. . growing on sticks, leaves, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe usually shorter or sometimes wanting. this species has been found only in the mountains of north carolina. i am indebted to dr. george a. rex for my example. in its structure the species is essentially a lamproderma, but the stipe and columella are stuffed with granules of lime. explanation of plate xi. fig. .--sectional view of the capillitium and stipe of clastoderma de baryanum, blytt. fig. .--section through the capillitium, columella and stipe of lamproderma arcyrionema, rost. fig. .--perpendicular section through lamproderma violaceum, fr. fig. .--perpendicular section through lamproderma scintillans, berk. fig. .--section through the capillitium, columella and stipe of comatricha ellisii, morgan. fig. .--sectional view through the capillitium and columella of a portion of comatricha crypta, schw. fig. .--sectional view through the columella and capillitium of a portion of comatricha longa, peck. fig. .--a portion of the capillitium of stemonitis tenerrima, b. & c.--a sectional view through the columella above and below a view of the superficial network. fig. .--a portion of the capillitium of stemonitis splendens, rost.--a sectional view through the columella above and below a view of the superficial network. fig. .--the capillitium of a very short sporangium of stemonitis webberi, rex; the breadth, however, somewhat exaggerated. fig. .--showing the stipe, columella, apical disk and pendent capillitium of enerthenema papillatum, pers. fig. .--perpendicular section through the capillitium, columella, and stipe of diachæa thomasii, rex. note.--the figures of the objects are drawn as they appear under a magnifying power of about diameters. [illustration: the journal of the cin. soc. natural history. vol. xvi. plate xi.] order vii.--didymiaceÆ. sporangia simple and subglobose, or plasmodiocarp, rarely combined into an æthalium. wall of the sporangium a thin membrane with an outer layer composed of minute stellate crystals, or of minute roundish granules of lime; these either lie singly upon the surface, or are compacted into a crustaceous coat. stipe present or often wanting; the columella usually conspicuous and well-developed. capillitium consisting of very slender, often sinuous threads, which extend from the base of the sporangium or from the columella to the walls, either simple or outwardly branching a few times at a sharp angle, combined into a loose irregular net by a few transverse branchlets, which are situated chiefly at the extremities. spores globose, violaceous. this order is readily distinguished from the physaraceæ by the absence of lime from the threads of the capillitium. table of genera of didymiaceÆ. _a. the lime on the wall of the sporangium in the form of minute stellate crystals._ . didymium. sporangium simple, subglobose and stipitate, the base commonly umbilicate, or sometimes sessile and plasmodiocarp. . spumaria. Æthalium composed of numerous elongated irregularly-branched sporangia, closely compacted together and confluent. _b. the lime on the wall of the sporangium consisting of minute roundish granules._ . diderma. wall of the sporangium with the outer calcareous layer usually compacted into a smooth continuous crust. . lepidoderma. wall of the sporangium with an outer layer of large scales, consisting of bicarbonate of lime. i. didymium, schrad. sporangium simple, subglobose and stipitate, the base commonly umbilicate, or sometimes sessile and plasmodiocarp; the wall a thin membrane with an outer layer of minute stellate crystals of lime. stipe present or sometimes wanting; the columella mostly conspicuous, sometimes thin or obsolete. capillitium of very slender threads, straight or often sinuous, stretching from the columella to the wall of the sporangium, simple or outwardly sparingly branched at a sharp angle. spores globose, violaceous. didymium, together with spumaria, is to be distinguished from all other genera of the myxomycetes by the covering of stellate crystals, like hoar-frost, upon the outer surface of the sporangium. § . cionium. columella prominent, subcentral, globose, obovoid, or turbinate; the threads of the capillitium radiating in all directions to the wall of the sporangium. _a. sporangium stipitate._ . didymium squamulosum, a. & s. sporangium variable in form and size, small and globose, or large and much depressed, the base usually umbilicate, stipitate, or sometimes sessile, and even plasmodiocarp; the wall very thin and pellucid, with a thin, gray-white layer of stellate crystals of lime, breaking up into subpersistent scales. stipe short, erect, snow-white, longitudinally furrowed or plicate; the columella central, snow-white, various in shape, globose, obovoid, turbinate, and stipitate or sessile. capillitium of numerous colorless threads, radiating from the columella and separating outwardly into several branches. spores globose, very minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, leaves, herbaceous stems, etc. sporangium . -. -. mm. in diameter, the stipe scarcely longer than the diameter, often much shorter or nearly wanting. . didymium proximum, b. & c. sporangium globose or depressed-globose, the base more or less umbilicate, stipitate; the wall very thin and pellucid, with a loose white covering of stellate crystals of lime, the upper part breaking up and falling away. stipe long, erect, tapering upward, yellow-brown to reddish-brown, expanding at the base into a small hypothallus; the columella central, white, turbinate, or discoid turbinate. capillitium of slender, colorless threads, radiating from the columella, branching and often anastomosing. spores globose, even, pale violaceous, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . growing on old leaves, sticks, culms, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times the diameter. . didymium eximium, peck. sporangium depressed-globose, the base umbilicate, sometimes very much depressed and also umbilicate above, stipitate; the wall pale ocher or pale yellow, with a thin layer of minute white crystals of lime, the upper part gradually breaking away. stipe long, erect, tapering upward, pale yellow-brown, darker below, expanding into a small brown hypothallus; the columella central, large, discoid, or sometimes rough and irregular, pale ochre or yellowish. capillitium of much-branched colorless threads, radiating upward and downward from the columella. spores globose, very minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . growing on old leaves, sticks, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about twice the diameter. . didymium microcarpum, fr. sporangium small, globose, the base slightly umbilicate, stipitate; the wall a dark-colored membrane, covered with abundant snow-white crystals of lime. stipe long, slender, erect, delicately striate, yellow-brown to blackish in color, expanded at the base into a small hypothallus; the columella small, globose, sessile or substipitate, pale yellow-brown. capillitium of pale brown threads, somewhat branched and forming a loose net. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, leaves, mosses, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times as long. the species is more particularly distinguished by its small spores. . didymium minus, lister. sporangium depressed-globose, the base umbilicate, stipitate, rarely sessile and plasmodiocarp; the wall a dark-colored membrane with a thin layer of stellate crystals of lime, breaking up gradually and falling away. stipe erect or sometimes bent at the apex, variable in length, rarely wanting, from pale brown to blackish in color, rising from a small hypothallus; the columella reaching the center, brown or blackish, rough, convex, subglobose or pulvinate, substipitate. capillitium of slender colorless threads, radiating from the columella and more or less branched outwardly. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . growing in vast abundance in spring on old leaves, bark, wood, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe scarcely longer but usually shorter than the diameter of the sporangium rarely absent. it is considered by lister to be a variety of _d. farinaceum_; it differs from this species in its smaller and less-depressed sporangium and in its smaller nearly smooth spores. _b. sporangia sessile._ . didymium effusum, link. sporangia gregarious or scattered, sessile on a flattened base, convex above, various in shape, subrotund or by confluence effused and venosely creeping; the wall very thin and pellucid, invested with a thin flocculose layer of minute crystals of lime. the columella hemispheric, rugulose, usually snow-white. capillitium of very slender colorless threads, furnished with numerous minute protuberances, much branched and combined into a dense net. spores globose, very minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, wood, etc. sporangium about . mm. in diameter or thickness, sometimes confluent and more or less elongated as a plasmodiocarp. this species is reported from the united states, but i have seen no specimens. . didymium physaroides, pers. sporangia roundish or hemispheric, more or less irregular and deformed, sessile or with a very short stipe, and closely crowded together upon a strongly-developed common hypothallus; the wall a dark colored membrane, with a thin layer of stellate crystals of lime. the columella large and thick, divided into cells which are filled with irregular lumps of lime, common to all the sporangia. capillitium of stout threads, usually simple, only rarely branched, furnished with numerous fusiform swellings. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, moss, etc. reported from carolina by curtis. it is said superficially to resemble somewhat _physarum didermoides_. § . placentia. columella basal, much depressed, very thin or quite obsolete, connate with the base of the sporangium; the threads of the capillitium ascending to the wall of the sporangium. _a. sporangium stipitate._ . didymium farinaceum, schrad. sporangium hemispherical, more or less depressed, the base profoundly umbilicate; the wall firm, rugulose, dark-colored and nearly opaque, with a mealy coat of stellate crystals of lime, rupturing irregularly. stipe variable in length, rigid, erect, black or sometimes rusty-brown, arising from a small hypothallus; the columella broad, hemispherical or pulvinate, black, the lower side connate with the wall of the sporangium. capillitium of dark-colored sinuous threads, simple or scarcely branched. spores globose, dark violaceous, minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . growing on old wood, leaves, mosses, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about as long as the diameter of the sporangium or sometimes much longer, usually, however, much shorter than the diameter and almost concealed within the umbilicus. my specimens are from pennsylvania and alabama. it is readily distinguished from _didymium minus_ by the much larger and more distinctly warted spores. . didymium clavus, a. & s. sporangium pileate, very much depressed, convex above and concave below, stipitate; the wall a dark-colored membrane, thickly covered with minute white crystals of lime, except the brown concavity underneath, the upper part breaking away, the lower persistent. stipe short, erect, rugulose, brown or blackish, expanding at the base into a small hypothallus; the columella reduced to a thin layer of minute brown scales upon the base of the sporangium. capillitium of simple or sparingly-branched threads, colorless at the extremities and dark-colored between. spores globose, even, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, sticks, herbaceous stems, etc. the sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about the same length. fries considered this to be a mere variety of _d. farinaceum_, but it is readily distinguished by its very small spores. _b. sporangia sessile._ . didymium serpula, fr. plasmodium yellow. plasmodiocarp much depressed, subrotund or usually more or less elongated, bent, flexuous and reticulate; the wall dark-colored, with a thin layer of stellate crystals of lime. columella entirely wanting. capillitium of very slender threads, extending from base to upper surface, much branched, the branches combined into a dense network; to these threads adhere numerous roundish vesicles, composed of a brownish membrane, inclosing a yellow coloring matter, the vesicles - mic. in diameter. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, bark, etc. the plasmodiocarp . -. mm. in thickness and extending from one to several millimeters in length. this species is reported from the united states by massee. it ought to be readily recognized by its yellow plasmodium and the peculiar vesicles adherent to the capillitium. . didymium anellus, morgan, n. sp. plasmodiocarp in small rings or links, then confluent and elongated, irregularly connected together, bent and flexuous, resting on a thin venulose hypothallus; the wall firm, dark-colored, with a thin layer of stellate crystals of lime, irregularly ruptured. columella merely a thin layer of brown scales. capillitium of slender dark-colored threads, which extend from base to wall, more or less branched, and combined into a loose net. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . growing on old leaves in woods in spring. plasmodiocarp in rings . -. mm. in diameter, or often more or less elongated into links and chains, which are bent and flexed in quite an irregular manner, the thread or vein composing them about . mm. in thickness. a more minute species than _didymium serpula_, without characteristic thickenings upon the threads of the capillitium, and wanting the peculiar large cells of this species. ii. spumaria, pers. Æthalium composed of numerous elongated, irregularly-branched sporangia, more or less closely compacted together and confluent, seated upon a well-developed common hypothallus; the walls of the sporangia a thin membrane with an outer layer of minute, stellate crystals of lime. each sporangium traversed by a central subcylindric hollow columella, which extends also to the branches, but does not reach to their apices. capillitium of slender threads, more or less branched, and combined into a network. spores globose, violaceous. spumaria is essentially related to didymium by the crystals of lime upon the walls of the sporangia. rostafinski's figure can only be regarded as ideal or diagrammatic. i am disposed to question the existence of the central columella altogether; if it does exist, it must be extremely defective. . spumaria alba, bull. plasmodium white, amplectant. Æthalium variable in form and size, resting upon a white, membranaceous hypothallus, and usually covered by a white, friable, common cortex composed of minute crystals of lime. the component sporangia elongated, irregular, more or less branched, the branches rude, deformed, compressed, laterally confluent, obtuse or pointed at the apex; the walls of the sporangia thin and delicate, rugulose, pellucid, with a tinge of violet, iridescent when divested of the crystals of lime. capillitium of slender threads, more or less branched and combined into a net; the threads dark colored, with pellucid extremities, and furnished with occasional rings or roundish swellings throughout their length. spores globose, densely spinulose, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . climbing up and surrounding the stems of small shrubs, herbaceous plants, culms of grasses, etc., especially those of living plants, rarely effused upon old wood, bark, leaves, etc. the æthalium from two or three to several centimeters in length, and with a radial thickness of two or three to several millimeters. the following forms or varieties have been distinguished as species at different times: var. . didymium. sporangia irregular, simple or lobed and branched, lifted up on narrow, flat extensions of the hypothallus, as if furnished with short white stipes; the common cortex wanting. this is _didymium spumarioides_, fr.; it is probably a dwarf form of the next variety. plate xii, fig. . var. . cornuta. Æthalium large and rugged in outline, cinerous from the scanty cortex; the sporangia loosely compacted, the branches running out into numerous free-pointed extremities. capillitium of rather thick threads, forming a dense net, with broad expansions at the angles. spores - mic. in diameter. this is _spumaria cornuta_, schum. it is evidently the form so elaborately figured by rostafinski, and which fries says abounds in northern europe. var. . mucilago. Æthalium large, even and uniform in outline, covered by a thick, white, common cortex; the sporangia laterally confluent and densely compacted together throughout. capillitium of rather slender threads, forming a loose net, scarcely expanded at the angles. spores - mic. in diameter. this is _spumaria mucilago_, nees, as figured by greville in the scottish cryptogamic flora. the capillitium is figured by mcbride in the myxomycetes of iowa. this is the only form i have met with in this country. iii. diderma, pers. sporangia subglobose and stipitate or more often sessile, sometimes plasmodiocarp; the wall a thin membrane, with an outer layer composed of minute roundish granules of lime, which are usually compacted into a smooth continuous crust. stipe present or mostly absent; the columella usually well developed. capillitium of very slender threads, stretching from the columella to the wall of the sporangium, more or less branched, and combined into a loose net by short lateral branchlets. spores globose, violaceous. this genus is easily recognized by the smooth crustaceous layer of lime on the outer surface of the sporangium; in many cases this easily shells off or breaks away. such a coating occurs in a few species of physarum, but here the vesicles of lime attached to the threads distinguish them. this is chondrioderma of rostafinski's monograph; the reason for coining a new name and entirely discarding the old one is not apparent. § . leangium. sporangium usually stipitate; the wall at maturity separating from the inner mass of spores and capillitium and splitting in a stellate manner, the segments becoming reflexed. . diderma radiatum, linn. sporangium depressed-globose, the base flattened or umbilicate, stipitate or nearly sessile; the wall smooth, whitish or pale brown, splitting from the apex downward into a few reflexed irregular segments. stipe short, thick, erect, tapering downward, standing on a thin membranaceous hypothallus; the columella large, convex, globose or obovoid, roughened. capillitium of slender dark-colored threads, radiating from the columella, simple or branching outwardly. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old bark and wood. sporangium . - . mm. in diameter, the stipe shorter than the diameter, sometimes nearly obsolete. apparently rare in this country. . diderma floriforme, bull. sporangium globose or obovoid, stipitate, growing closely crowded together on a thin brown membranaceous hypothallus; the wall smooth, varying in color from whitish or yellowish to bright brown, splitting into irregular segments, which become reflexed and revolute. stipe long, erect, white or yellowish to brown; the columella elongated, obovoid to clavate, roughened, colored as the stipe. capillitium of dark-colored threads, radiating from the columella and sparingly branched. spores globose, with minute scattered warts, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . growing on old wood of oak, hickory, etc., late in autumn. sporangium . - . mm. in diameter before dehiscence, the stipe usually longer than the sporangium. the color of stipe, columella and sporangium varies from white through yellowish to brown; the spores are quite peculiar by reason of their prominent scattered warts. i do not think _chondrioderma lyallii_, massee, can be maintained as a separate species. § . stromnidium. sporangia growing closely crowded together upon a thick highly-developed calcareous common hypothallus, either seated upon it or partially imbedded in its substance; the wall rupturing irregularly. . diderma spumarioides, fr. sporangia rather small, irregularly subglobose, sessile, seated close together on a strongly-developed whitish or yellowish common hypothallus; the wall white, rugulose, covered by a dense farinaceous layer of lime. columella convex, roughened, white or yellowish, sometimes scarcely developed. capillitium rather scanty, of slender colorless threads, sparingly branched, ascending from the columella. spores globose, minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, bark, moss, etc. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, irregular and rugulose. on account of the pulverulent coat of lime on the sporangium, massee refers the species back to didymium, where it was placed by fries. . diderma stromateum, link. sporangia large, subglobose, depressed, irregular and angular from mutual pressure, closely crowded together on a thick yellowish or pinkish common hypothallus; the wall smooth and even, grayish-white or cinereous, with a thin closely connate outer layer of minute granules of lime. columella considerably elevated or much depressed, convex, subglobose or quite irregular, white or colored, as the hypothallus, especially at the base. capillitium of abundant colored threads, more or less branched and combined into a loose net. spores globose, minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on hickory bark. the sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, the surface smooth. rostafinski, in his monograph, places this species as a variety of _d. spumarioides_, but in the appendix it is separated as a species. the sporangia are quite different from those of _d. spumarioides_, but i can see no difference in the spores. . diderma globosum, pers. sporangia subglobose, more or less irregular from mutual pressure, closely crowded together on a thick, white hypothallus, seated upon it or usually sunk into its substance at the base; the wall with a white, smooth, and polished crustaceous outer layer of lime, distinct and separable from the inner membrane, easily breaking into fragments, and falling away: the inner membrane very thin, rugulose, cinereous with granules of lime or free from them and iridescent. columella white, small, irregular, subglobose or ellipsoidal, rarely wanting. capillitium of slender, dark colored threads, more or less branched and combined into a loose net. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, the surface smooth and polished. . diderma crustaceum, peck. sporangia subglobose, irregular from mutual pressure, closely crowded together on a thick, yellowish-white common hypothallus, and at the base confluent with its substance; the wall with a creamy white, smooth, crustaceous outer layer of lime, distinct and separable from the inner membrane, and easily breaking up and falling away; the inner membrane very thin, rugulose, cinereous and iridescent. columella whitish or cream colored, small, irregular, subglobose or ellipsoidal, often wanting. capillitium of slender, uneven, dark colored threads, branched and combined into a loose net. spores globose, minutely warted, violet-black, opaque, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . growing on old leaves, sticks, etc. a common species in this country. sporangia . - . mm. in diameter, the surface even but finely pulverulent rather than polished. _chondrioderma affine_, rost., is said to be the same species. it is readily distinguished from _d. globosum_, by the much larger spores. § . astrotium. sporangia gregarious, scattered, or sometimes crowded and confluent, often much depressed, sessile, rarely stipitate; the hypothallus none or very scanty. . diderma michelii, lib. sporangia orbicular, very much depressed, often umbilicate above and concave underneath, stipitate or sessile, gregarious, with the margins of the sporangia sometimes confluent. the wall with a white crustaceous layer of lime, which soon ruptures around the edges, allowing the upper part to break in pieces and fall away; the inner membrane cinereous, rupturing irregularly. stipe short, stout, erect, arising from a small, circular hypothallus, whitish or alutaceous, longitudinally rugulose, expanding at the apex, the wrinkles running out as veins on the under side of the sporangium; the columella much flattened, lenticular or discoid, alutaceous or pinkish. capillitium of very slender, colorless threads, simple or forking a time or two, and connected by short branchlets at the extremities. spores globose, even, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on sticks, leaves, herbaceous stems, etc. sporangium . - . mm. in diameter, the stipe shorter than the diameter, sometimes very short or quite obsolete. . diderma testaceum, schr. sporangia circular or oval, much depressed, sessile, without any hypothallus, gregarious, irregularly scattered, sometimes close and even confluent. the outer calcareous layer of the wall thick, smooth, crustaceous, separate and distinct from the inner membrane, white or pinkish-white to rose-red in color, gradually breaking up in pieces and falling away; the inner membrane thin, pellucid, cinereous from the adherent granules of lime, irregularly dehiscent from the apex downward. columella hemispheric or depressed, granulose-roughened, white, pinkish, or fleshy-red. capillitium of very slender, nearly colorless threads, more or less branched. spores globose, very minutely warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, wood, mosses, etc. very common in this country. sporangium . - . mm. in diameter, sometimes a little irregular, especially the form growing on mosses, and occasionally confluent. . diderma cinereum, morgan, n. sp. sporangia subglobose, more or less irregular, somewhat depressed, sessile, usually close or crowded, sometimes confluent; the hypothallus a thin membrane, pellucid or with occasional patches of lime granules, sometimes not apparent. the wall very thin, even or rugulose, cinereous, the thin membrane covered by a single layer of closely-adherent granules of lime, rupturing irregularly. columella white, hemispheric or depressed and irregular, the surface granulose. capillitium of very slender, colored threads, the extremities pellucid, more or less branched. spores globose, minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . growing on old wood, leaves, etc. the sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, thin and smooth or rugulose. the species superficially greatly resembles _physarum cinereum_. . diderma difforme, pers. plasmodiocarp roundish, oblong, or more or less elongated and flexuous, scattered or seriately disposed; the hypothallus a thin brownish membrane, or commonly not apparent. the outer calcareous layer of the wall snow-white, thin, smooth, distinct from the inner membrane, breaking into pieces and falling away; the inner membrane thin, opaque and bluish or pellucid and iridescent. columella reduced to a thin layer of scales and granules upon the brownish basal membrane. capillitium scanty, consisting of short nearly colorless threads, which are simple, or fork a time or two. spores globose, even, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on bark, leaves, twigs, herbaceous stems, etc. plasmodiocarp . -. mm. in thickness and variable in length, sometimes elongated several millimeters. . diderma reticulatum, rost. plasmodiocarp very much depressed, roundish, oblong, much elongated and flexuous, closely crowded together and confluent; the hypothallus a thin white granulose layer of lime, scarcely broader than the plasmodiocarp. the outer calcareous layer of the wall white, distinct, very fragile and easily shelling off; the inner membrane much shrunken and withdrawn from the outer coat, rugulose, cinereous, with a dense closely-adherent layer of granules of lime. the columella a thin alutaceous, granulose-roughened layer, extending along the base of the plasmodiocarp. capillitium of threads short and very slender, colorless, somewhat branched. spores globose, even, pale violaceous, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . growing on old wood, leaves, twigs, etc. plasmodiocarp . -. mm. in width, much flattened and usually closely crowded. the rough calcareous base of the plasmodiocarp might be considered as either all columella or all hypothallus, with the upper surface leather-colored. i am indebted to arthur lister, of london, for the determination of my specimens. . diderma effusum, schw. plasmodiocarp very much flattened, longitudinally creeping and reticulate or altogether widely effused; hypothallus none. the wall very thin, smooth, white or cinereous, the thin membrane covered by a single layer of closely-adherent granules of lime, rupturing irregularly. the columella reduced to a thin alutaceous layer of granules of lime, forming the base of the plasmodiocarp. capillitium of short colorless threads, extending from base to wall, the extremities branched and connected together. spores globose, even, pale violaceous, - mic. in diameter. plate xii, fig. . growing on old leaves. the plasmodiocarp forms very much flattened irregular patches from a few to several millimeters in length or extent. i am indebted to dr. geo. a. rex, of philadelphia, for the identification of my specimens, with those in the herbarium of schweinitz, under the name of _physarum effusum_. iv. lepidoderma, deb. sporangium stipitate or sessile, sometimes plasmodiocarp; the wall a thin, firm, colorless membrane, with an outer layer of large scales consisting of bicarbonate of lime, the scales either lying upon the wall or inclosed in lenticular cavities of the membrane. stipe present or absent; the columella usually conspicuous. capillitium of very slender threads, simple or outwardly branching at a sharp angle, connected at the extremities. spores globose, violaceous. "in the present genus the carbonate of lime is present in the form of very minute amorphous lumps until near to maturity, when it is dissolved and reappears as bicarbonate of lime deposited in comparatively large flakes."--_massee._ . lepidoderma tigrinum, schr. sporangium large, much depressed, hemispheric or lenticular, the base umbilicate, stipitate; the wall a firm, dark colored membrane, variegated with large and small irregular shining scales, greenish-yellow or straw color, rupturing irregularly. stipe stout, thick, erect, rugulose, ochraceous or ferruginous, variable in length, expanding at the base into a thin hypothallus; the columella brown, convex or hemispheric. capillitium of slender, dark colored threads, simple or sparingly branched, radiating from the columella to the wall. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, moss, etc. sporangium - . mm. in diameter, the stipe mm. or less in length. this appears to be the only species of the genus thus far discovered in this country. explanation of plate xii. fig. .--didymium proximum, b. & c. _a._ sporangium and stipe × . _b._ section through the columella. fig. .--didymium eximium, peck. _a._ showing the rough columella of one form. _b._ section through the discoid columella of the very much depressed form. magnified by . fig. .--didymium minus, lister. _a._ sporangium and stipe × . _b._ _c._ _d._ sections through the columella showing different forms. fig. .--didymium farinaceum, schr. section through the columella. after rostafinski. fig. .--didymium anellus, morgan, _a._ growing upon a leaf × . _b._ plasmodiocarp × . fig. .--spumaria alba, bull. var. . didymium, sporangia × . drawn from a foreign specimen. fig. .--spumaria alba, bull. _a._ Æthalium natural size. _b._ capillitium and spores as seen by a magnifying power of diameters. fig. .--diderma floriforme, bull. stipe and columella × . fig. .--diderma crustaceum, peck. _a._ sporangia crowded on the thick hypothallus, natural size. _b._ sporangia × . _c._ section through outer coat, inner membrane, and columella. fig. .--diderma cinereum, morgan, _a._ sporangia growing on a leaf × . _b._ sporangia × . _c._ section through the wall and columella. fig. .--diderma reticulatum, rost. plasmodiocarp growing on leaf × . fig. .--diderma effusum, schw. plasmodiocarp effused on a leaf × . [illustration: the journal of the cin. soc. natural history. vol. xvi. plate xii.] * * * * * reprint from the journal of the cincinnati society of natural history, august, . the myxomycetes of the miami valley, ohio. by a. p. morgan. fourth paper. (read may , .) order viii. physaraceÆ. sporangia simple and stipitate or sessile, sometimes plasmodiocarp, rarely combined into an aethalium; the wall a thin membrane, usually with an outer layer of minute roundish granules of lime. stipe present or often wanting, seldom prolonged within the sporangium as a columella. capillitium consisting of slender tubules, which branch repeatedly in every direction and anastomose to form an intricate network, the extremities attached on all sides to the wall of the sporangium; the tubules more or less expanded at the angles of the network and inclosing minute roundish granules of lime, these granules either aggregated into nodules with intervening empty spaces or more rarely distributed throughout their entire length. spores globose, very rarely ellipsoidal, violaceous. this order is at once distinguished from the didymiaceæ by the presence of the granules of lime in the capillitium. table of genera of physaraceÆ. i. tubules of the capillitium having the granules of lime in them aggregated into roundish or angular nodules, with intervening empty spaces. _a. outer surface of the sporangium destitute of lime._ . angioridium. plasmodiocarp laterally compressed, splitting regularly into two valves. . cienkowskia. plasmodiocarp terete, elongated, irregularly dehiscent. . leocarpus. sporangia subglobose or obovoid, stipitate or sessile. _b. outer surface of the sporangium invested with granules of lime._ _a. stipe prolonged within the sporangium as a columella._ . physarella. sporangium oblong, stipitate, the apex re-entrant. . cytidium. sporangium globose, stipitate, the apex convex. _b. stipe never entering the sporangium._ . craterium. sporangium obovoid to cylindric, stipitate. . physarum. sporangium globose, depressed globose or irregular, stipitate or sessile. . fuligo. aethalium a compound plasmodiocarp. ii. tubules of the capillitium with the granules of lime in them distributed throughout their entire length. . badhamia. stipe not prolonged within the sporangium as a columella. . scyphium. stipe entering the sporangium and prolonged within it as a columella. i. angioridium, grev. plasmodiocarp laterally compressed, more or less elongated and flexuous, attached by the lower margin to the substratum, and, at maturity, regularly dehiscent along the upper margin by a longitudinal fissure; the wall a firm membrane, with the granules of lime forming a reticulate layer on the inner surface. capillitium a loose, irregular net-work of tubules, extending from side to side, and containing large, irregular nodules of lime. spores globose, violaceous. a genus readily distinguished by its laterally compressed plasmodiocarp, splitting lengthwise by a regular fissure. the wall is a single membrane, and there is but a single reticulate layer of lime upon it, which is plainly on the inner surface. . angioridium sinuosum, bull. plasmodiocarp laterally compressed and very much flattened, more or less elongated and flexuous, sometimes confluent and branched or reticulate, without any hypothallus; the wall a more or less thickened and brownish membrane, the inner surface coated with a dense reticulately thickened white layer of lime, and often studded with the white nodules. capillitium of hyaline tubules, forming a loose irregular net-work, with numerous broad vesicular expansions filled with lime; the nodules white, very large, irregularly lobed, and branched. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, sticks, mosses, etc. plasmodiocarp commonly about mm. in height and - mm. in length, but the size is variable. the color appears to depend upon the thickening of the membrane; when it is thin and pellucid, the color is white or cinereous from the inner layer of lime and the contained spores; with a more thickened membrane, the color becomes ochraceous or brownish. _physarum bivalve_ pers. _physarum sinuosum_ of rostafinski's monograph. ii. cienkowskia, rost. plasmodiocarp terete, elongated, flexuous, creeping, and reticulate, irregularly dehiscent; the wall a more or less thickened membrane, externally naked, with the granules of lime on the inner surface. capillitium of slender tubules, combined into an irregular network, attached on all sides to the wall of the sporangium, and bearing everywhere short pointed or uncinate free branchlets; the lime in thin transverse plates and irregular nodules. spores globose, violaceous. the peculiar characteristic of this genus is the short free hooked and pointed branchlets of the capillitium. . cienkowskia reticulata, a. & s. plasmodiocarp more or less elongated, curved and flexuous, simple or branched, sometimes confluent and reticulate, breaking away first along the upper surface, leaving an irregular margin. the wall a firm yellow membrane, with thinner hyaline areas and with thicker yellow-brown or red-brown spots; the outer surface without any lime, smooth, and shining; the inner surface with a dense layer of yellow granules raised at intervals into transverse ridges, these are connected with broad thin flat plates of lime which traverse the capillitium, forming imperfect septa to the sporangium. capillitium consisting of slender yellow tubules, forming a network of irregular meshes, with slight expansions at the angles and bearing along the sides short pointed or uncinate free branchlets; the tubules containing a few scattered yellow nodules of lime various in size and shape. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, leaves, etc. plasmodiocarp in veins . -. mm. in thickness, sometimes forming a net-work a centimeter or more in extent. this curious myxomyces seems very rare in america. i have met with it but once. the specimen in the herbarium of schweinitz, marked _physarum reticulatum_, is not this species, though it answers well enough to the original description. iii. leocarpus, link. sporangia subglobose or obovoid, stipitate or sessile; the wall a more or less thickened membrane, the external surface destitute of lime, polished and shining, irregularly dehiscent. stipe short, poorly developed or sometimes wanting. capillitium of slender tubules, forming an irregular net-work more or less expanded at the angles; the tubules enlarging at intervals into vesicles, which usually contain nodules of lime. spores globose, violaceous. a genus characterized by the form of the sporangia and the smooth and glossy surface of the wall. . leocarpus psittacinus, ditm. sporangium small globose or somewhat depressed, stipitate or subsessile; the wall a thin membrane, rugulose and iridescent, with thicker red or yellow spots and patches, destitute of lime. stipe weak, erect or inclined, variable in length, the base expanded, orange to red in color. capillitium a dense net-work of tubules, widely expanded at the angles and bearing numerous irregular vesicles, various in size and form, yellow or orange to red in color. spores globose, even, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, leaves, etc. the sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about the same length or sometimes very short. the sporangia are dull brownish to the naked eye, but when magnified the green, purple, and blue metallic tints of the wall become apparent. there does not appear to be any granules of lime either on the wall or in the capillitium. _physarum psittacinum_ ditm. . leocarpus cÆspitosus, schw. sporangium small subglobose or obovoid to turbinate, somewhat irregular, stipitate or subsessile; the wall a reticulately thickened and fragile membrane, yellow-brown to greenish-yellow or olivaceous in color, externally rugulose and glossy, the inner surface with scales and patches of lime. stipe short and thick, sometimes nearly obsolete, yellowish or reddish brown, darker below, the base expanded into a small hypothallus. capillitium a loose irregular net-work of tubules with wide expansions at the angles; the nodules of lime large, numerous, white or yellowish, irregular, with acute angles and pointed lobes. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing cæspitosely or scattered on old wood and mosses. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, variable in shape, the stipe usually very short. _physarum cæspitosum_ schw., _north american fungi_. my specimens, some of them, have been referred to _physarum citrinellum_ peck; others to _physarum variabile_ rex. . leocarpus brunneolus, phillips. sporangium large, globose or somewhat depressed, sessile; the wall a thick yellow-brown membrane, the outer surface naked, smooth, and polished, with a dense white inner layer of granules of lime, dehiscing in a stellate manner, the segments becoming reflexed. capillitium of tubules forming a dense net-work, with wide expansions at the angles; the nodules of lime very large, numerous, white, angular and irregular. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on bark of oak, california (_harkness._) sporangium nearly mm. in diameter. _diderma brunneolum_ phillips. i have taken the description from massee's monograph. . leocarpus fragilis, dicks. sporangium very large, obovoid-oblong, stipitate or subsessile; the wall a greatly thickened membrane, polished and shining within and without, from alutaceous or pale umber to dark-brown in color, destitute of lime. stipe short, weak, and slender, arising from a thin hypothallus. capillitium of slender tubules forming a loose network of large irregular meshes, with slight expansions at the angles; the lime white, variable in amount, sometimes quite scanty, then again filling large portions of the net-work with long-branched and reticulate masses. spores subglobose, dark violaceous, opaque, - mic. in diameter. growing gregariously on old wood, leaves, mosses, etc. sporangium . - mm. in length by mm. in thickness, the stipe variable in length, but usually much shorter than the sporangium. _diderma vernicosum_ pers. iv. physarella, peck. sporangium oblong, stipitate; the apex re-entrant and confluent with the hollow columella; the wall a thin membrane covered with small scales and minute granules of lime, at maturity torn away at the apex and stellately splitting into a few segments. stipe elongated, tapering upward, entering the sporangium and prolonged to the apex as a tubaeform columella. capillitium distinguished by two distinct sets of tubules; the first consisting of long, thick tubules filled with lime, rising at regular intervals from the wall of the sporangium and extending to the columella; the second, of very slender threads, scarcely branched, and nearly destitute of lime, stretching between the wall and the columella. spores globose, violaceous. a genus founded upon the one remarkable species, and more distinct than any other from the typical genus of the physaraceae. in fact, the structure of the sporangium is unique among the myxomycetes. . physarella oblonga, b. & c. sporangium oblong, the apex re-entrant and confluent with the summit of the columella, the base obtuse or slightly umbilicate, stipitate, cernuous. the wall of the sporangium a firm, yellowish membrane, covered with minute granules and with scattered, small, yellow scales of lime; after maturity the apex is torn away more or less irregularly from the summit of the columella and the wall splits into a few segments, which become reflexed and are subpersistent about the base of the sporangium. stipe long, erect or flexuous, the apex bent or curved, red-brown, rising from a small hypothallus, entering the sporangium and prolonged to the apex as a hollow tubaeform columella. capillitium of thick, spiniform tubules filled with lime and slender, violet threads, extending between the wall and the columella. the tubules elongated, terete, tapering gradually from wall to columella, containing yellow granules of lime; the threads very slender, outwardly branched a time or two, the further extremities connected by short, lateral branches, often furnished with minute, free branchlets, and containing a few small, fusiform nodules of lime. spores globose, nearly smooth, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, leaves, etc. sporangium commonly . - . mm. in length by . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe - mm. long; the spiniform tubules measure - × - mic. the abnormal forms of this species which sometimes manifest themselves are very singular; the sporangium has a tendency to dilate, becoming funnel-form or even salver-shaped, the stipe shortening and even disappearing. i have a large specimen which superficially resembles some lichen, a _physcia_, for example; the sporangia are pressed down, flattened out, extremely irregular, and in many places confluent; the rudimentary stipes are hidden beneath the leafy expansions. in all the forms, however, may be uncovered the spiniform tubules mingled with the slender threads. this is _trichamphora oblonga_ b. & c. _tilmadoche oblonga_ of rostafinski's monograph, and _physarella mirabilis_ peck. v. cytidium, morgan. gen. nov. sporangium globose or rarely ellipsoidal, stipitate; the wall a thin membrane, with an external layer of minute granules of lime, rupturing irregularly. stipe more or less elongated, tapering upward and entering the sporangium as a columella. capillitium of slender tubules, arising from the columella, repeatedly branching and anastomosing to form a regular net-work, the extremities attached on all sides to the wall of the sporangium, the tubules containing at intervals nodules of lime. spores globose, violaceous. this genus is readily distinguished from _physarum_ by the columella, which gives origin to the capillitium; this feature indicates a relationship to _didymium_ and to _lamproderma_. § . eucytis. sporangium globose, the columella not reaching its center. . cytidium pulcherrimum, b. & r. sporangium globose, stipitate; the wall a thin lilac-tinted membrane, with a dense closely adherent layer of granules of lime, dark purple or wine-colored. stipe long, erect, dark purple to purplish black, tapering upward and entering the sporangium as a slight obtuse columella. capillitium of slender lilac tinted threads, forming a dense net-work of very small meshes, with slight expansion at the angles; the nodules of lime very small, numerous, dark purplish or vinose in color, ellipsoidal or obtusely angular. spores globose, even, lilac, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times as long; the lime-nodules about the size of the spores. the purple stain, which the sporangia leave on white paper, is made by the granules of lime; the spores color the paper violet. _physarum pulcherrimum_ b. & rav., and _p. atrorubrum_ peck. . cytidium citrinum, schum. sporangium globose, the base slightly flattened or umbilicate, stipitate; the wall a thin membrane, covered with small scales of lime, yellow or greenish-yellow, breaking up and falling away at maturity. stipe stout, erect, yellow, longitudinally rugulose, expanded at the base, tapering upward and entering the sporangium as a short obtusely conical columella. capillitium of slender tubules, forming a dense net-work, with slight expansions at the angles; the lime-nodules numerous, roundish or ellipsoidal, variable in size, yellow. spores globose, nearly smooth, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on bark, leaves, mosses, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe from once to twice this length. this, the typical species, i have not seen in this country, but forms with the sporangium lemon-yellow and grayish-yellow, with the stipe golden-yellow, connect it with _c. rufipes_. it is _physarum citrinum_ schum. _diderma citrinum_ of fries., s. m. . cytidium rufipes, a. & s. sporangium globose, sometimes a little depressed and the base umbilicate, stipitate; the wall a thin membrane, covered with small scales of lime, golden-yellow to orange in color, breaking up at maturity and falling away. stipe variable in length, slender, from orange or orange-red to dark red in color, sometimes blackish below, rising from a thin hypothallus, tapering upward and entering the sporangium as a short obtuse columella. capillitium of slender tubules, forming a dense net-work of very small meshes, slightly expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime small, numerous, ellipsoidal or obtusely angular, orange to red in color. spores globose, nearly smooth, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, mosses, etc. a very abundant species. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe from once to twice as long. as here defined, the species includes _physarum aurantium_ var. _rufipes_ a. & s., and _physarum aureum_ var. _chrysopus_ lev, which i am unable to keep separate; the variation in size of the spores is not in correspondence with the variations in color of the sporangia. _physarum pulchripes_ peck, and _physarum petersii_ b. & c., mostly belong here. the bright orange colors become dull or tawny with age and exposure to the weather. . cytidium ravenelii, b. & c. sporangium globose, stipitate; the wall a thin pellucid membrane, covered with small scales of lime, from gray or drab to pale umber in color, breaking up at maturity and falling away. stipe variable in length, concolorous with the sporangium or darker below, tapering upward and entering the sporangium as a short obtusely conical columella. capillitium of tubules, forming a dense net-work of very small meshes, with slight expansions at the angles; the lime-nodules small, numerous, ellipsoidal or obtusely angular, gray or drab to pale umber in color. spores globose, nearly even, pale violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, mosses, etc. sporangium about . mm. in diameter, the stipe once to twice this length. the species as here described includes _didymium ravenelii_ b. & c., _physarum simile_ rost., and _physarum murinum_ lister. . cytidium globuliferum, bull. sporangium globose, the base sometimes flattened or slightly umbilicate, stipitate; the wall a thin, pellucid membrane, covered with small scales of lime, white, cream-colored, or sometimes pinkish, breaking up and falling away at maturity. stipe variable in length, white or smoky-white, usually darker below, rising from a thin hypothallus, tapering upward and entering the sporangium as a short obtuse or conical columella. capillitium of slender tubules, forming a dense, persistent net-work of very small meshes, more or less expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime variable in size, numerous, white, roundish, ellipsoidal or obtusely angular. spores globose, nearly even, pale violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, mosses, etc. a very common and abundant species. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe from once to two or three times this length. the lime nodules in the capillitium are sometimes round and quite minute, then again they are large and obtusely angular; the columella varies from very short and conical to longer and more cylindric. _diderma globuliferum_ of fries s. m., _physarum albicans_ peck. the specimens with the columella well nigh obsolete, may be _tilmadoche columbina_ rost. . cytidium melleum, b. & br. sporangium globose, stipitate or subsessile; the wall a thin yellowish membrane, rugulose, covered by large irregular scales of lime, honey-color to golden-yellow, breaking up irregularly. stipe short, sometimes very short or nearly obsolete, snow-white, expanding at the base into a small white hypothallus, tapering upward and entering the sporangium as a short obtusely conical columella. capillitium a loose net-work of delicate tubules with broad vesicular expansions containing much lime; the nodules numerous, white or sometimes yellow, large, irregular, lobed, and branched. spores globose, nearly even, pale violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, sticks, herbaceous stems, etc.; not uncommon in this region. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about the same length or much shorter. _didymium melleum_ b. & br. _didymium chrysopeplum_ b. & c. also belongs here and not with _c. citrinum_. § . rexiella. sporangium ellipsoidal or pyriform, the columella prolonged nearly to the apex of the sporangium. . cytidium penetrale, rex. sporangium ellipsoidal or pyriform, stipitate; the wall a thin pellucid membrane, covered with small scales of lime, yellow-gray to greenish-yellow, rupturing at maturity into two to four segments. stipe long, slender, translucent, pale red to dark red in color, tapering upward, entering the sporangium and prolonged nearly to the apex as a slender columella. capillitium of very slender tubules, radiating from numerous points of the columella, forming a delicate net-work of very small meshes, scarcely expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime small, not numerous, roundish or obtusely angled, white or yellowish. spores globose, very minutely warted, pale violaceous, . - . mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. a rare and singular species. sporangium . -. mm. in height by . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times the height of the sporangium. there is an affinity between this species and the _physarella_. the obscure _tilmadoche hians_ rost., may be the same as the present species. explanation of plate xiii. fig. .--angioridium sinuosum, bull. _a._ plasmodiocarp × _b._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--cienkowskia reticulata, a. & s. _a._ plasmodiocarp × . _b._ piece of plasmodiocarp × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. . leocarpus fragilis, dicks, _a._ sporangia × . _b._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--leocarpus caespitosus, schw. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--physarella oblonga, b. & c. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangia × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig --cytidium penetrale, rex. _a._ sporangia × _b._ sporangia and columella × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--cytidium globuliferum, bull. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangia × . _c_. columella × _d._ capillitium and spores × . [illustration: the journal of the cin. soc. natural history. vol. xix. plate xiii. morgan on myxomycetes] vi. craterium, trent. sporangium obovoid to cylindric, stipitate; the upper and usually greater part of the wall covered with granules of lime, the basal portion naked and more persistent. stipe short or sometimes elongated, arising from a small circular hypothallus, longitudinally plicate, confluent above and similarly colored with the base of the sporangium. capillitium of tubules, forming a loose network, bearing numerous large angular and irregular nodules of lime, which are often confluent along the axis of the sporangium into a pseudo-columella. spores globose, minutely warted, violaceous. in this genus the sporangium is commonly obovoid, with a naked base which is confluent with the stipe and similarly colored; after dehiscence there is left behind the more persistent cyathiform portion standing on the substratum. § . eu-craterium. sporangium at maturity dehiscent in a regular circumscissile manner, the apex falling away as a lid, leaving behind the more persistent cup-shaped portion. . craterium minutum, leers. sporangium cyathiform, stipitate; the lid slightly convex, discrete from the first, usually depressed below the rim of the cup, falling away at maturity, and leaving a smooth, circular margin to the lower cyathiform portion. the wall a thick, firm, yellow-brown membrane, the outer surface of the cup entirely naked, smooth and shining, varying greatly in color from alutaceous or ochraceous to various shades of brown; the lid usually whitened by a thin layer of granules of lime. stipe short, erect or bent, and slightly curved at the apex, varying in color from rusty yellow to reddish brown, longitudinally plicate, arising from a small, circular hypothallus. capillitium of tubules forming a loose net-work, bearing large, irregular, white nodules of lime, which are sometimes confluent in the axis of the sporangium. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, sticks, leaves, etc. sporangium, together with the stipe, . - . mm. in height and . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe usually shorter than the sporangium, sometimes equal to it in length, rarely longer. the latest authorities include the three species _craterium vulgare_, _c. pyriforme_, and _c. minutum_ of rostafinski's monograph all in one species. . craterium concinnum, rex. sporangium usually minute, broadly funnel-shaped, stipitate; operculum always more or less convex, rarely approaching a hemispherical shape, dehiscent in a regular circumscissile manner. the wall a thick, brownish membrane, externally smooth and variously colored, sometimes uniformly light or dark umber, sometimes dark brown below and brownish white above; the operculum brownish white, darkest in the center. stipe short, dark brown, longitudinally ridged. capillitium of tubules forming a close-meshed net-work, bearing small rounded or slightly angular nodules of lime, ochre-brown in color. spores globose, very minutely warted, brown, - mic. in diameter. growing usually upon chestnut-burs, and frequently associated with _lachnobulus globosus_. sporangium . -. mm. in height including the stipe and . -. mm. in diameter at the top, the stipe equaling the sporangium in length. it is readily distinguished by its small nodules in the capillitium, which are invariably of a dull, brownish-ochre color. . craterium rubescens, rex. sporangium subcylindric or elongated cyathiform, stipitate; the apex convex, at maturity separating by an irregular line in a circumscissile manner. the wall dark violet-red, smooth, except at the upper portion, which is slightly roughened by an external deposit of scattered lime-granules of a pale, lilac color. stipe short, violet-black, wrinkled longitudinally. capillitium of tubules forming a loose, irregular net-work, bearing large, violet-red nodules of lime which are often confluent in the axis of the sporangium. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, leaves, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in height including the stipe and . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe one-half the height of the sporangium. the species is distinguished by the color, which exhibits some shade of red or violet-red in every part of its structure. . craterium minimum, b. & c. sporangium cylindric or turbinate cylindric, stipitate; the apex convex, separating in a regular circumscissile manner by a lid. the wall a thick, yellow-brown membrane, most of the outer surface covered with minute, white granules of lime, the basal portion naked. stipe very short, plicate, red-brown, arising from a small hypothallus. capillitium of tubules forming a loose net-work bearing large, irregular, white nodules of lime, sometimes confluent in the axis of the sporangium. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, herbaceous stems, etc. sporangium together with the stipe - . mm. in height and . -. mm. in thickness, the stipe . -. mm. in length. this is a common species everywhere in the united states, and perfectly distinct from _craterium convivale_. it is _craterium cylindricum_ of massee's monograph, according to lister. § . cupularia, link. sporangium irregularly dehiscent, breaking up and gradually falling away from the apex downward. _a. stipe shorter than the sporangium._ . craterium convivale, batsch. sporangium obovoid or oblong-obovoid, stipitate; the wall hyaline, thin and fragile above, the lower portion a thickened and brownish membrane, the surface, usually most of it, covered with minute white granules of lime, the base naked and brown. stipe very short, erect, red-brown, plicate, arising from a small hypothallus. capillitium of tubules forming a dense net-work, bearing numerous large irregular white nodules of lime, which are often confluent in the axis of the sporangium. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, herbaceous stems, etc. sporangium . - . mm. in height including the stipe and . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe much shorter than the sporangium. the thin apex breaks up into pieces and falls away, leaving sometimes a regular cyathiform portion, at other times the margin is broken and irregular. this is _craterium leucocephalum_ of rostafinski's monograph. the specimens of _physarum scyphoides_ c. & b. which i have seen appear to be a small form of this species. . craterium aureum, schum. sporangium obovoid to oblong obovoid, stipitate, the wall a thin and delicate membrane above, thicker and firmer below, hyaline or yellowish, almost entirely covered by a dense layer of granules of lime, varying from lemon-yellow to orange in color. stipe short, erect, yellow to orange, brownish toward the base, longitudinally plicate, rising from a small hypothallus. capillitium of slender tubules, forming a dense net-work, bearing numerous rather small irregular nodules of lime, yellow or sometimes white in color, and often confluent along the axis of the sporangium. spores globose, very minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, sticks, herbaceous stems, etc. sporangium and stipe . - . mm. in height and . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe . -. mm. long. the elongated form is the common one in this region. _craterium mutabile_ fr. _b. stipe longer than the sporangium._ . craterium nodulosum, c. & b. sporangium globose or obovoid, stipitate; the greater part of the wall a thin hyaline membrane, easily breaking away, covered externally with large white scales and nodules of lime; the basal portion naked, thickened, and more persistent, red-brown and plicate. stipe long, erect or inclined, plicate, red-brown, rising from a small hypothallus. capillitium of tubules forming a loose net-work, containing a variable quantity of lime in the shape of long irregular white nodules, sometimes confluent, with pointed lobes and branchlets. spores globose, very minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, leaves, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times as long. it is _badhamia nodulosa_ c. & b., _journal of mycology_, vol. v, p. . ravenel's specimens are on _acacia_ bark. mr. webber sent me elegant specimens from florida where, he says, it grows commonly on the leaves and bark of the orange trees. . craterium maydis, morgan, n. sp. sporangium globose or obovoid, stipitate; the upper part of the wall a yellowish membrane, thin and fragile, covered with large thick scales and nodules of lime, amber-colored to golden-yellow; the basal portion thicker and more persistent, naked and plicate, red-brown. stipe red-brown, long, slender, plicate, rising from a small hypothallus. capillitium of thick tubules, forming a net-work with wide expansions at the angles; the nodules of lime large, numerous, yellow, angularly lobed and branched. spores globose, very minutely warted, pale violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old stalks of _zea mays_. sporangium with the stipe - . mm. in height and . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe always longer than the sporangium. i find it in abundance on old stalks of indian corn, but never on anything else. vii. physarum, pers. sporangium globose, depressed globose or irregular, stipitate or sessile; the wall a thin membrane, with an outer layer of minute roundish granules of lime, irregularly dehiscent. stipe present or often wanting, never prolonged within the sporangium as a columella. capillitium of slender tubules, forming an intricate net-work, the extremities attached on all sides to the wall of the sporangium; the tubules more or less expanded at the angles of the net-work, and containing at varying intervals nodules of lime. spores globose, violaceous. _physarum_ is the central genus of the _physaraceæ_ from which all the others are detached by characters which for the most part are unimportant. § . lapidium. lime in the capillitium scanty; the nodules small, roundish, ellipsoidal or fusiform. _a. sporangium stipitate._ _a. sporangia regular._ . physarum nutans, pers. sporangium orbicular, very much depressed, the base concave or umbilicate, stipitate, cernuous; the wall a thin pellucid membrane, thickly covered with minute white or yellow roundish scales of lime, breaking up into irregular fragments, which often remain attached to the capillitium. stipe long, slender, tapering upward, bent or curved at the apex, longitudinally rugulose, brown or blackish at the base, becoming paler upward and cinereous or whitish at the apex. capillitium of very slender threads, rising from the base of the sporangium, forming a net-work with much elongated meshes, scarcely expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime white or yellow, ellipsoidal or fusiform, often very small and few in number, sometimes rather large and numerous. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on wood, bark, mosses, etc. a very common species. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe - mm. in length, the lime-nodules commonly not thicker than the spores, but sometimes from once to twice their diameter. under this name i have included all the lenticular species of persoon's synopsis, _physarum nutans_, _p. luteum_, _p. viride_ and _p. aureum_. there is no difference in these species, except in the color of the granules of lime; the form of the sporangium and the shape and color of the stipe are the same in all of them. no two authorities agree in the presentation of this species. . physarum cupripes, b. & r. sporangium orbicular, much depressed, the base umbilicate, stipitate, cernuous; the greater part of the wall thin and delicate, with a scanty covering of yellow granules of lime, becoming naked and then brassy and iridescent, after maturity soon disappearing; the lower basal portion thicker and more persistent, with a layer of small yellow scales of lime. stipe long, flexuous, bent at the apex, plicate, pale brown to yellow-brown, darker toward the base. capillitium of slender tubules, forming a dense persistent net-work, more or less expanded at the angles; the lime-nodules small, numerous, yellow, angular and fusiform, below often confluent. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood; rare. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times this length. the lime nodules are found both on the sides and at the angles of the meshes, and are fusiform or angular accordingly; the lime is scanty above, but in the lower part of the capillitium the nodules sometimes run together into lobed and branched forms. this is _physarum berkeleyi_ of rostafinski's monograph. . physarum obrusseum, b. &. c. sporangium globose, the base usually slightly flattened or umbilicate, stipitate and cernuous; the wall a thin, violaceous membrane, covered by small, roundish, white or yellow scales of lime, or sometimes naked, splitting irregularly from the apex downward. stipe long, slender, tapering upward, flexuous, bent or curved at the apex, yellow, yellow-brown, or pale brown. capillitium of very slender tubules, forming a loose net-work, scarcely expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime small, white or yellow, roundish or obtusely angular, few to numerous, rarely wanting. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, mosses, etc sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe - mm. in length, the lime nodules when abundant once to twice the diameter of the spores, when scanty very small. this, as i find it growing, is an extremely variable species; i think its various forms and appearances cover such species as _didymium obrusseum_ b. & c.; _d. tenerrimum_ b. & c.; _physarum tenerum_ rex, etc., etc. . physarum nucleatum, rex. sporangium globose, stipitate, erect or slightly nodding; the wall a thin, pellucid membrane, thickly covered with minute, white, roundish scales of lime, which are exceptionally sparse or absent, rupturing irregularly. stipe long, slender, yellowish-white, longitudinally rugulose, tapering upward, expanded at the base into a small hypothallus. capillitium of very slender tubules, forming a delicate net-work of small meshes, scarcely expanded at the angles; nodules of lime small, not numerous, roundish, white, usually concentrated into a large lump in the center of the sporangium. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, etc.; rare. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times as long, the lime-nodules about the size of the spores. the species much resembles some of the forms of _p. obrusseum_, but is to be distinguished by its central mass of lime and the small spores. . physarum compactum, wingate. sporangium depressed-globose, the base slightly umbilicate, stipitate, cernuous; the wall a thin, violaceous membrane, rugulose and iridescent, studded with large and thick, snow-white, roundish or elliptic scales of lime, at maturity splitting from the apex downward into several segments. stipe long, rather weak, bent and flexuous, tapering upward, longitudinally rugulose, from snow-white to whitish-ochre and smoky-white, usually brownish at the base, and arising from a thin hypothallus. capillitium a delicate net-work of very slender threads, with no expansions at the angles; the lime mostly concentrated in one large, snow-white nodule at the center, a few very small, roundish nodules scattered through the net-work. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, mosses, etc.; a common species. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe two or three times this length. _tilmadoche compacta_ wingate. it is doubtful if _tilmadoche columbina_ rost. belongs to this species. according to lister, _lepidoderma stellatum_ massee, is the same as this species, and if it be objected to the name that there is already a _physarum compactum_ ehrenberg, it may have to be called _physarum stellatum_. _b. sporangium more or less irregular_. . physarum leucophÆum, fr. sporangium globose or depressed-globose, more or less irregular, the base never umbilicate, stipitate or subsessile; the wall a thin violaceous membrane, rugulose and iridescent, with a thin coat of small white scales and granules of lime, or sometimes nearly naked. stipe variable in length, sometimes very short or quite obsolete, occasionally a few of them confluent, wrinkled, and sulcate, brown below, paler or whitish above. capillitium a dense irregular net-work of slender tubules, more or less expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime white, small, roundish, or angular, few and scattered. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, leaves, etc. the sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about the same length, or shorter, and sometimes wanting. the lime on the wall and in the capillitium is never abundant and sometimes extremely scanty. rostafinski's presentation of this species applies well to our specimens. . physarum connexum, link. sporangia subglobose, depressed, more or less irregular, sometimes confluent, stipitate, or subsessile; the wall a thin violaceous, or brownish membrane, rugulose, thickly covered with small white roundish scales of lime, which sometimes accumulate so as to make the surface rough and uneven. stipe short, thick, rugulose, from snow white to smoky or sooty, especially toward the base, sometimes with a scanty calcareous hypothallus. capillitium a loose net-work of tubules, much expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime small, white, rather numerous, ellipsoidal or fusiform, sometimes confluent and elongated. spores irregularly globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood and bark. sporangium . - . mm. in diameter, the stipe usually shorter than the diameter, sometimes very short; the lime-nodules about the thickness of the spores. this is a larger and rougher species than _p. leucophæum_, the sporangium is more often irregular and the spores darker colored. _p. confluens_ and _p. connexum_ of link. . physarum compressum, a. & s. sporangium laterally compressed and much flattened, subreniform, stipitate or subsessile; the wall a thin violaceous or brownish membrane, rugulose, thickly covered with small white roundish nodules of lime, similar to those in the capillitium. stipe short, brown or blackish at least below, sometimes pallid or grayish above, longitudinally rugulose. capillitium of slender tubules, forming a loose net-work; the nodules of lime small, white, very numerous, roundish or ellipsoidal, often confluent end to end. spores irregularly globose or angular, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old stalks and leaves of _zea mays_. sporangium variable, . - . mm. in breadth, the stipe mm. or less in length; the lime nodules about the thickness of the spores. according to saccardo this species is the same as _physarum nephroedium_ rost. . physarum polycephalum, schw. sporangia confluent into a subspheric gyrose-complicate head, composed of several to many laterally compressed, irregular, simple sporangia; the wall a thin, pellucid membrane, covered by a thin layer of minute scales of lime, white to yellow or greenish-yellow stripes thin, flat, weak, and often prostrate, pale yellow, more or less connate, arising from a thin hypothallus. capillitium of slender tubules forming a loose, irregular network, more or less expanded at the angles: the lime-nodules white or yellow, small, fusiform or by confluence elongated and sometimes branched. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old bark, wood, leaves, etc. the sporangia rarely simple, usually confluent into a head of from four or five to fifteen or twenty, and sometimes more, simple sporangia; the stipes variable in length, long or short, rarely wanting. the gray form is _didymium polymorphum_ mont., the yellow-green form _d. gyrocephalum_ mont. sprengel considered this species the same as _physarum compactum_ ehr., and it appears under this name in schweinitz's _north american fungi_; but fries, who had seen specimens of both, disposed of them differently. . physarum didermoides, pers. sporangia obovoid-oblong, stipitate, growing close together on a white membranaceous common hypothallus; the wall with a thick, white, outer layer of lime, easily crumbling and falling away, leaving the sporangium dark gray; the inner membrane rather thick and firm, violaceous, with a closely adherent layer of granules of lime. stipes very short, white, thin, and weak, each formed by a bit of membrane arising from the hypothallus. capillitium a loose net-work of slender threads, bearing numerous roundish or irregular white nodules of lime. spores irregularly or angularly globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on wood, leaves, grass, etc. sporangia . - . mm. in length by . -. mm. in thickness, the stipe shorter than the sporangia. _spumaria licheniformis_ schw., belongs here. this is a truly abnormal species of _physarum_, so much so that fries, in the _summa veg. scand._ placed it by itself in a separate genus, _claustria_. _b. sporangia sessile._ . physarum confluens, pers. plasmodiocarp roundish, oblong or elongated, and by confluence branched and reticulate; the wall a thin, violaceous membrane, rugulose, with a thin, closely adherent layer of minute granules of lime, over which are scattered small, white, roundish nodules, which sometimes accumulate into a thick, pulverulent coat. capillitium a loose net-work of tubules, widely expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime small, white, very numerous, roundish or ellipsoidal, by confluence elongated and irregular. spores irregularly globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, leaves, etc. plasmodiocarp . -. mm. in thickness, varying from roundish to much elongated, creeping and reticulate. the sporangium before dehiscence is gray, whence link's name, _physarum griseum_; the loose pulverulent coating of lime easily falls away, leaving the sporangium dark colored, whence rostafinski's name, _physarum lividum_. the amount of lime on the wall and in the capillitium is variable. . physarum luteolum, peck. sporangia small, subglobose, sessile, closely gregarious; the wall a thin membrane, covered by a layer of small scales of lime, yellowish, inclining to tawny, in color, rupturing irregularly. capillitium of slender tubules, forming a dense net-work of small meshes, scarcely expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime small, numerous, yellowish, roundish, or ellipsoidal. spores globose, nearly smooth, violaceous, about mic. in diameter. growing on living leaves of _cornus canadensis_, adirondack mountains, new york. i have not seen a specimen of this _physarum_, but from professor peck's description and figure it seems to be a unique species. . physarum thejoteum, fr. sporangia very small, sessile, on a thin membranaceous hypothallus, closely crowded together and more or less connate, subobovoid or oblong, irregular from mutual pressure; the wall a thin violaceous membrane, closely covered with a thin layer of small irregular scales of lime, tawny or yellowish tawny in color, breaking up irregularly about the apex. capillitium a loose irregular net-work of slender threads, more or less expanded at the angles; the lime nodules small, tawny or yellowish, not numerous, ellipsoidal or fusiform, by confluence elongated and irregular. spores globose, even, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, mosses, etc. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter at the apex, densely packed and their walls grown together, approaching the aethalioid structure; the lime-nodules from one to two or three times the diameter of the spores in thickness. i have described my specimens, which are abundant, very carefully, and judge them to be referable to this species; if so, they show that the species should be kept apart from _physarum virescens_. _didymium nectriæforme_ b. & c., is evidently this same species. . physarum lateritium, b. & r. sporangia sessile, irregularly globose and gregarious, or by confluence more or less elongated and plasmodiocarp; the wall a thin violaceous membrane, rugulose and iridescent, closely covered with small irregular scales of lime, from testaceous or brick-red to bright red in color. capillitium a dense irregular net-work of tubules, much expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime small, very numerous, roundish or angular, whitish or yellowish, sometimes tinged with red granules. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, sticks, leaves, etc. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, by confluence sometimes much elongated; the lime-nodules two or three times the diameter of the spores in thickness. _didymium lateritium_ b. & r. _physarum inequale_ peck, is the same species. § . saxella. lime in the capillitium abundant, the nodules large, angular or irregular, with pointed lobes and branchlets. _a. sporangia stipitate._ . physarum imitans, racib. sporangium depressed-globose, the base flattened or umbilicate, stipitate, erect or cernuous; the wall a thin violaceous membrane, with a closely adherent layer of minute granules, over which are scattered rather large, roundish or irregular white scales of lime, splitting from the apex downward into a few irregular segments. stipe short, thick at the base and tapering upward, longitudinally rugulose, from gray to brown or blackish, especially below. capillitium a loose irregular network of tubules, widely expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime white, numerous, large, irregular, with pointed angles and lobes. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, mosses, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about the same length or a little longer. the species superficially resembles the gray form of _physarum nutans_, and quite likely is constantly overlooked on this account. although i am not able to verify my reference, yet my specimens answer so well to the description of raciborski that i am unwilling to invent a new name. . physarum ornatum, peck. sporangium globose or depressed-globose, stipitate; the wall a thin yellowish membrane, covered with minute granules and small irregular scales of lime, yellow to orange in color. stipe short, erect, blackish-brown, black at the base, longitudinally plicate, rising from a small hypothallus. capillitium of tubules forming a rather dense net-work, with wide expansions at the angles; the nodules of lime large, numerous, yellow, irregular, sometimes confluently branched and reticulate. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, mosses, etc. sporangium about . mm. in diameter, the stipe about the same length or shorter. _physarum oblatum_ mcbride, can not be distinguished from this. specimens of this species in the herbarium of schweinitz are labeled _physarum sulphureum_; this is without doubt a mistake. . physarum gravidum, morgan, n. sp. sporangium depressed-globose, the base umbilicate, stipitate; the wall a thin, violaceous membrane, brownish at the base, with a thin coat of small, white scales and minute granules of lime. stipe long, erect, brown or reddish-brown, darker below, tapering upward, expanding at the base into a small hypothallus. capillitium of slender tubules forming a loose net-work, more or less expanded at the angles and for the most part filled with lime; the nodules white, slender, much elongated and branched, with pointed lobes and branchlets. spores globose, very minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old stalks of _zea mays_. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about twice this length. the lower part of the capillitium is sometimes entirely filled with lime, so that the species approaches badhamia in the structure of its capillitium. . physarum leucopus, link. sporangium globose, the base slightly flattened, stipitate; the wall a thin, violaceous membrane, with a white, pulverulent outer coat of minute granules of lime. stipe short, thick, erect, snow-white, longitudinally rugulose, tapering upward, expanding at the base into small, white hypothallus. capillitium a loose net-work of tubules, with wide expansions at the angles; the nodules of lime large, white, numerous, irregularly lobed and branched. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, leaves, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about the same length as the diameter. our specimens are a smaller form than the european, with smaller and smoother spores. superficially the species resembles _didymium squamulosum_, and it is _didymium leucopus_ of fries, s. m. . physarum glaucum, phillips. sporangium globose, or the base slightly depressed, stipitate; the wall a thin, violaceous membrane, covered with minute, white granules and small roundish or irregular scales of lime. stipe short, stout, erect, black, longitudinally wrinkled, expanding at the base into a small hypothallus. capillitium of much-flattened tubules, forming a loose net-work, widely expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime numerous, large, white, irregular, with pointed angles and lobes. spores globose, very minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves: california. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe not longer than the diameter. this is quite a robust species, both externally and in the broad, flat tubules of the capillitium. . physarum relatum, morgan, n. sp. sporangium globose, the base umbilicate, stipitate, often cernuous; the wall a thin, violaceous membrane, rugulose and iridescent, covered with small, roundish or irregular white scales of lime. stipe long, erect or inclined, rising from a thin hypothallus, tapering upward, white or cream color to ochraceous. capillitium a dense net-work of tubules, more or less expanded at the angles, and almost entirely filled with white granules of lime, leaving only here and there short, slender empty spaces. spores globose, nearly smooth, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe about twice this length. the capillitium is rigid, with the abundance of lime almost as in the genus _badhamia_. superficially the species much resembles _cytidium globuliferum_ or _physarum compactum_, but the disposition of the lime on the wall and in the capillitium is altogether different. . physarum auriscalpium, cke. sporangia subglobose, depressed, substipitate; the wall a hyaline membrane with a thin, closely adherent layer of minute granules of lime, over which are scattered large, irregular, orange-red scales of lime. stipe very short, sometimes almost obsolete. capillitium of tubules forming a loose net-work, with widely expanded angles, and mostly filled with orange granules of lime, only here and there short, slender, empty spaces. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on rotten wood; south carolina, ravenel. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe very short. described in _annals of the lyceum of natural history of new york_, june, . so fine a species ought to be found again. cooke's specimen was examined by lister, _mycetozoa_, p. . explanation of plate xiv. fig. .--craterium minimum, b. & c. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangium with lid × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--craterium maydis, morgan. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangium × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--physarum obrusseum, b. & c. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangium × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--physarum connexum, link. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangium × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--physarum polycephalum, schw. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangia × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--physarum lateritium, b. & c. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangia × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--physarum imitans, racib. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangium × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--physarum relatum, morgan. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangia × . one divested of the wall and showing the rigid capillitium. _c._ capillitium and spores × . [illustration: the journal of the cin. soc. natural history. vol. xix. plate xiv. morgan on myxomycetes.] _b. sporangia sessile._ . physarum plumbeum, fr. sporangia small, globose or obovoid, sessile, on a narrow base, gregarious, sometimes close but seldom confluent; the wall a thin violaceous membrane, with a very thin layer of small white scales and minute granules of lime, sometimes naked. capillitium a loose net-work of slender tubules, with slight expansions at the angles; the nodules of lime white, numerous, more or less elongated, irregularly lobed and branched. spores globose, even, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, sticks, etc. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, quite regular in shape, attached by a narrow base, sometimes by a mere point, rarely confluent. the lime on the wall of the sporangium is rather scanty, sometimes altogether absent, and the nodules of lime in the capillitium are rather small. the species is figured by micheli n. p. g. tab. , fig. . it is named by fries s. m., iii, p. . it is figured again by de bary, _die mycetozoen_, tafel i. . physarum atrum, schw. sporangia sessile, subglobose or oblong, by confluence, more or less elongated, bent or flexuous and branched; the wall a thin violaceous membrane, rugulose, covered by a wrinkled and reticulate layer of white granules of lime, which sometimes become thin or disappear. capillitium a loose net-work of tubules, more or less expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime white, numerous, large, irregularly lobed and branched. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, bark, grasses, etc.; apparently the most common of these three cinereous species. sporangia . -. mm. in thickness, some of them roundish or oblong, others elongated to several millimeters. the sporangium is often elegantly reticulate as observed by schweinitz even when the lime is quite scanty. in saccardo's _sylloge_ berlese changed the name to _physarum reticulatum_, but this is unnecessary, as the _physarum atrum_ of fries is not a myxomyces. . physarum cinereum, batsch. sporangia large, subglobose, sessile, gregarious, sometimes close and confluent; the wall a thin violaceous membrane, with a closely adherent layer of minute granules, over which are scattered irregular white scales of lime. capillitium of tubules forming a loose net-work, with wide expansions at the angles; the nodules of lime numerous, white, very large, with pointed angles and lobes, by confluence often branched and reticulate, and occasionally forming a pseudo-columella in the center of the sporangium. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, leaves, etc. the sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, more or less irregular. the great abundance of lime in the capillitium and the large distinctly warted spores distinguish this species. _physarum cinereum_ of persoon's synopsis, _didymium cinereum_ of fries' _systema_. the only american specimens i have of this species are from iowa (_mcbride_) and from nebraska (_webber_). . physarum virescens ditm. sporangia large, subglobose, irregular and unequal, sessile, gregarious, sometimes crowded, but not often confluent; the wall a thin membrane, violaceous, or in places yellowish, with a dense layer of yellow or greenish-yellow scales and granules of lime. capillitium a loose net-work of tubules, with wide expansions at the angles; the nodules of lime large, numerous, yellow or greenish-yellow, more or less elongated, lobed, and branched. spores globose or somewhat irregular, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old leaves, mosses, etc. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, occasionally by confluence more elongated. though found in all parts of the country, the species seems rare. this is not the _physarum virescens_ described by rostafinski. . physarum rubiginosum, fr. sporangia subglobose, sessile, gregarious; the wall a thin hyaline membrane, thickly covered with large irregular scales of lime, orange to red or dark red in color, breaking up irregularly. capillitium of hyaline tubules, forming a loose irregular net-work, more or less expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime large, angular, and irregular, sometimes confluent, orange to dark red in color. spores globose, very minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, leaves, mosses, etc. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter. _physarum fulvum_ fries s. m., iii, p. . a rare species. it should not be confounded with _physarum lateritium_. . physarum serpula morgan, _n. nom._ plasmodiocarp roundish or oblong to much elongated, bent, annular and flexuous, sometimes by confluence branched and reticulate; the wall a firm yellowish membrane, with a thin, rough, closely adherent coat of granules of lime, dull ochre to lemon-yellow and orange in color. capillitium a dense net-work of tubules, for the most part filled with lime, only here and there short, slender, empty spaces; the nodules large, numerous, white or yellow, angular and with pointed lobes and branchlets. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on leaves, bark, lichens, etc. plasmodiocarp . -. mm. in thickness and of varying length. this species is in the herbarium of schweinitz, at philadelphia, with the name _physarum reticulatum_; it is described by george massee as _physarum gyrosum_; by lister it is incorporated with several other species under _badhamia decipiens_. . physarum contextum, pers. sporangia sessile and closely crowded together, roundish or more or less elongated, flexuous and complicate, the apex plane or impressed; the wall a firm yellowish membrane, covered by a thick pulveraceous layer of lime, white, ochraceous or yellow, easily crumbling and breaking up. capillitium a loose net-work of tubules, much expanded at the angles; the nodules of lime very large, white or yellow, numerous, angular, and irregular, by confluence lobed and branched, sometimes massed together in the center of the sporangium. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on bark, leaves, mosses, etc. sporangia with a width of . -. mm. and varying in length from . mm. to or mm. the sporangia are often so much crowded as to appear to be grown together. _diderma ochroleucum_ b. & c. belongs to this species. _physarum conglomeratum_ fr. is a closely related species, with smaller and smoother spores. i have not met with this. . physarum diderma, rost. sporangia large, irregularly globose or oblong, sessile, but without a hypothallus, closely crowded together and sometimes confluent. the wall composed of two distinct and separate layers; the outer a thick, uneven, crustaceous, snow-white layer of lime; the inner a thin, violaceous membrane, cinereous from the adherent granules of lime, or free from them, and iridescent. capillitium of tubules forming a loose net-work, with wide expansions at the angles; the nodules of lime numerous, snow-white, large, irregular, with pointed angles and lobes, sometimes confluent in the center of the sporangium. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on wood, bark, and mosses. sporangia . - . mm. in diameter, more or less irregular. the wall of the sporangium is exactly like that of certain species of _diderma_. this species must be rare, as i have met with it but twice in ten years, and i am not aware that it has ever been found by any one else. viii. fuligo, haller. aethalium a compound plasmodiocarp; the component sporangia branching and anastomosing in every direction, complicate and grown together; the walls of the sporangia a thin membrane, coated with minute, roundish granules of lime. capillitium of tubules forming a net-work of irregular meshes, more or less expanded at the angles, the tubules containing in greater or less abundance irregular nodules of lime. spores globose or sometimes ellipsoidal, violaceous. the genus is readily distinguished from _spumaria_ by the round granules of lime upon the walls of the sporangia. § . aethalium, link. aethalia large; the lime in the capillitium scanty, the nodules small, ellipsoidal, or fusiform. _a. aethalium with a thick fragile common cortex._ . fuligo rufa, pers. plasmodium a large soft mass with a peculiar odor and golden yellow in color. aethalium very large, pulvinate, orbicular, elongated, or quite irregular, extremely friable, the surface tawny or ferruginous to ochraceous and whitish. the long narrow, sinuous sporangia closely compacted, entirely grown together and inseparable, covered by a thick common cortex, and seated on a much thickened hypothallus; walls of the sporangia a thin pellucid membrane, coated by a thin layer of white granules of lime. capillitium of very slender tubules, extending across from wall to wall, sparingly branched and scarcely forming a network, not at all or only slightly expanded at the angles; the tubules for the most part empty, here and there with slight fusiform or elongated swellings containing granules of lime, occasionally bearing roundish or ellipsoidal nodules of larger size. spores globose, nearly smooth, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old trunks in woods in great abundance from early spring to winter. aethalium - or sometimes many centimeters in extent and - cm. in thickness. the common cortex and the hypothallus are a millimeter or more in thickness; they are composed of successive layers of thin plates of membrane coated with granules of lime. _b. aethalium naked, i. e., without a common cortex._ . fuligo violacea, pers. plasmodium a soft effused mass, dark red or wine-colored. aethalium large, pulvinate or effused, orbicular or more or less elongated and irregular, the surface minutely pitted and perforate, furnished with a scanty layer of lime, whitish or yellowish to brick-red in color, leaving naked purple and violet spots and patches, seated on a thin membranaceous brick-red hypothallus. sporangia long, narrow, and sinuous, closely packed together; the walls a thin violaceous membrane, rugulose and iridescent, with scattered granules, or nearly destitute of lime. capillitium of slender violet tubules, forming a loose net-work, with slight expansions at the angles; the tubules with numerous rather large vesicular expansions, ellipsoid or fusiform in shape, and scantily furnished with lime. spores globose, nearly smooth, pale vinous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old trunks in woods; not uncommon in this region. aethalium - or more centimeters in extent, and - mm. in thickness. the vesicles of the capillitium vary from - or sometimes to mic. in diameter, their inner surface is usually coated by a single layer of granules of lime, they are rarely filled with lime and sometimes are naked entirely; when dry many of them are to be found collapsed. . fuligo flava, pers. plasmodium effused lemon-yellow. aethalium mostly effused, irregular, the surface reticulate, pitted and perforate, entirely naked, pale yellow to lemon-yellow and greenish-yellow, the hypothallus thin or scarcely evident. sporangia laterally much compressed, flexuous, and gyrose, not everywhere grown together, but forming a dense reticulum; the walls a thin, pellucid membrane, with a dense layer of lemon-yellow granules of lime. capillitium of short and very slender tubules, sparingly branched and scarcely forming a net-work, not expanded at the angles; the tubules very scantily furnished with lime, in scattered, small, fusiform nodules, white or lemon-yellow. spores globose, very minutely warted, violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on mosses, old leaves, sticks, etc.; not common. aethalia in irregular patches - cm. or more in extent, sometimes almost reduced to a simple plasmodiocarp. this species furnishes a clear notion of the structure of the aethalium in the other species, on account of the sporangia being but loosely compacted and not entirely grown together. the _fuligo vaporaria_ pers., of the green-houses and gardens i have never seen; the _mucor septicus_ linn., was thought to be the plasmodium of this. linnæus's description is simply "_mucor unctuosus flavus._" § . aethaliopsis, zopf. aethalium small; lime abundant in the capillitium, the nodules numerous and large, angular and irregular. . fuligo muscorum, a. & s. plasmodium effused, golden yellow. aethalium small, subpulvinate, irregular, the surface furnished with scattered, irregular scales of lime, whitish or ochraceous to golden yellow in color, arising from a thin, white, membranaceous hypothallus. sporangia closely packed and grown together; the walls a thin, violaceous membrane, rugulose, with a thin, closely adherent layer of granules of lime. capillitium a loose net-work of tubules, widely expanded at the angles; the tubules for the most part filled with lime, the nodules white or yellowish, numerous, very large, angular and irregular, sometimes confluent with pointed lobes and branchlets. spores irregularly globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on leaves, twigs, mosses, etc. aethalium from or mm. to a centimeter or more in extent. i have a specimen of _fuligo simulans_ karsten, from karsten himself; it is identical with my specimens of _fuligo ochracea_ peck. there could be no better representation of these specimens made at that time than the description and figure of _fuligo muscorum_ a. & s., in the _conspectus_. . fuligo cinerea, schw. plasmodium milk-white, changing to cinereous. aethalium effused, variable in extent, the surface rugulose and perforate, white, the hypothallus thin or scarcely evident. sporangia variously contracted and grown together, forming a dense reticulum; the walls a thin pellucid membrane, with a thick white outer layer of granules of lime. capillitium a loose net-work of tubules, widely expanded at the angles, the tubules for the most part filled, with lime, the nodules white, numerous, very large, angular, and irregular, lobed and branched. spores globose or oval, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - × - mic. growing on old leaves, herbaceous stems, etc. i find it most abundantly about the horse barn, upon the old straw and manure, sometimes running out onto the green herbage. aethalium from a few millimeters to several centimeters in extent. upon the testimony of dr. geo. a. rex this is both _enteridium cinereum_ and _lachnobolus cinereus_ of schweinitz's _north american fungi_ as represented in his herbarium. it is _physarum ellipsosporum_ of rostafinski. it is no doubt also _aethaliopsis stercoriformis_ zopf. ix. badhamia, berk. sporangia large, subglobose or obovoid, sometimes depressed, substipitate or sessile; the wall a thin membrane, with an outer layer of minute roundish granules of lime, irregularly dehiscent. stipe poorly developed, sometimes a mere strip of the hypothallus, often wanting. capillitium of thick tubules, attached on all sides to the wall of the sporangium, combined into a net-work of large meshes, more or less expanded at the angles; the tubules containing minute roundish granules of lime throughout their whole extent. spores large, subglobose, dark violaceous. the peculiar character of this genus is that the granules of lime are distributed along the whole interior of the tubules of the capillitium; this makes the net-work rigid, and on this account a firmer support for the wall of the sporangium. . badhamia capsulifera, bull. sporangia subglobose or obovoid, sessile, on a thin pallid or yellowish hypothallus, which sometimes sends out narrow bands or strings of membrane of variable length, bearing sporangia singly or in clusters. wall of the sporangium a thin pellucid membrane, mostly even or somewhat rugulose and iridescent, coated by a very thin layer of white granules of lime. capillitium of rather slender tubules, forming an open net-work of very large meshes, only slightly expanded at the angles; the tubules coated within by a very thin layer of white granules of lime. spores subglobose or obovoid, adhering together in clusters of six to twenty or more, distinctly warted on the outer exposed surface, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old bark, leaves, etc. sporangia . - . mm. in diameter. _badhamia hyalina_ and _b. capsulifera_ of rostafinski's monograph are here included together; he distinguished the former by the "sporangia in clusters always exactly globose," a distinction first made by chevallier; otherwise the characters are the same in both. . badhamia utricularis, bull. sporangia subglobose or obovoid, sessile, on a thin pallid or yellowish hypothallus, which often separates into narrow strips and strings of membrane of variable length, bearing the sporangia singly or in clusters. wall of the sporangium a thin violaceous membrane, rugulose and iridescent, shining with purple, blue, and violet tints, with a thin layer of white granules of lime. capillitium of thick tubules, forming an open net-work of large meshes, more or less expanded at the angles, the tubules coated within by a thin layer of granules of lime. spores subglobose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, herbaceous stems, etc. sporangia . - . mm. in diameter, usually growing in clusters, sometimes suspended by the strings of membrane. rostafinski's distinction between this and the preceding species in regard to the spores holds good so far as my specimens are concerned. _badhamia magna_ peck, i have never seen. george massee includes all four of these species in one composite species, which he names _badhamia varia_. . badhamia papaveracea, b. & rav. sporangia subglobose or obovoid, substipitate or sessile, growing close together; the wall a thin violaceous membrane, rugulose and iridescent, with a very thin coat of white granules of lime. stipe very short, brown or blackish, sometimes reduced to merely a thickened blackish base to the sporangium. capillitium of thick tubules, forming an open net-work of large meshes, more or less expanded at the angles; the tubules with an inner lining of very minute white granules of lime. spores adhering together in clusters of six to twenty, each spore subobovoid, the free portion more distinctly warted, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, etc. sporangia . - . mm. in diameter. readily distinguished by its black base or black stipe and the elegant clusters of its spores, which stick together most persistently. . badhamia orbiculata, rex. sporangia much depressed, orbicular or somewhat irregular, umbilicate often both above and below, gregarious, sometimes growing close together and confluent, stipitate or sessile. the wall a thin pellucid membrane, with a thin layer of minute granules of lime, which are sometimes raised into small scales and fine ridges. stipe very short, black, sometimes reduced to merely a blackish base to the sporangium. capillitium of thick tubules, forming a scanty irregular net-work, with wide expansions at the angles; the tubules filled with white granules of lime. spores subglobose, very minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old bark, herbaceous stems, etc. sporangia . -. mm. in diameter, sometimes by confluence larger. this species seems near _badhamia verna_ smfdt, but the latter everywhere is described as sessile, while in the former the short black stipe is nearly always distinguishable. . badhamia affinis, rost. sporangium hemispherical, or much depressed, the base flattened or umbilicate, stipitate, erect or often cernuous; the wall a thin pellucid membrane, coated with minute white granules of lime, which are frequently raised into scales and ridges. stipe short, erect or bent at the apex, black, expanding at the base into a small hypothallus. capillitium of thick tubules, forming an open net-work of large meshes, more or less expanded at the angles; the tubules filled with white granules of lime. spores subglobose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on mosses and upon the bark of maple trunks. sporangium . - . mm. in diameter, the stipe about the same length. rostafinski's description is based upon a specimen found in chili, south america, by bertero; it is recorded in this country by peck. i find it in some seasons quite abundant. the spores are very large, in some specimens averaging mic. . badhamia decipiens, curtis. sporangia gregarious, sessile, globose, oval or oblong, by confluence sometimes more elongated; the wall a somewhat thickened and firm yellow or yellow-brown membrane, covered with large, thick scales of lime, tawny to golden yellow or orange in color. capillitium of thick tubules, forming an open network, more or less expanded at the angles; the tubules filled throughout with yellow granules of lime. spores globose, very minutely warted, lilac, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood and bark. sporangia . - . mm. in length by . -. mm. in thickness. my specimens were determined by dr. george a. rex by comparison with a specimen from curtis in the herbarium of the philadelphia academy of sciences. this species should not be confused with what we have described as _physarum serpula_. _physarum chrysotrichum_, b. & c., is no doubt the same thing. _badhamia nitens_ berk., which is also golden yellow, has not yet been found in this country; it will readily be distinguished from the present species by its clustered spores. . badhamia panicea, fr. sporangia sessile, subglobose or oblong, more or less irregular, gregarious; the wall a thin, pellucid membrane, covered with large, irregular, very thick, white scales of lime. capillitium of thick tubules, forming a loose net-work of rather small meshes, with wide expansions at the angles; the tubules filled with white granules of lime, sometimes confluent toward the base of the sporangium. spores subglobose, very minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, bark, leaves, etc. sporangia . - . mm. in length, with a thickness of . - . mm. this species appears to be rare; the only specimens known to me in this country i have from professor thos. a. williams, of south dakota; they are identical with european specimens received from lister. _physarum paniceum_ fries, s. m., iii, p. ; it approaches _physarum cinereum_ batsch. . badhamia lilacina, fr. sporangia globose or obovoid, sessile or rarely substipitate, closely crowded together on a thin, brownish hypothallus; the wall a firm, hyaline membrane, with a thick, smooth, continuous outer-layer of lime, varying in color from gray-white or drab to lilac and flesh color. capillitium of very thick tubules, forming a dense net-work of small meshes; the tubules stuffed with granules of lime, which are white or colored somewhat as those in the wall, often confluent in the center of the sporangium. spores globose, minutely warted, dark violaceous, - mic. in diameter. growing on wood, leaves, mosses, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in diameter. the outer crustaceous layer of lime on the wall crumbles and falls away, as in some species of _diderma_. the white form is _diderma concinnum_ b. & c.; the lilac or flesh-colored form is _physarum lilacinum_ of fries, s. m., p. . i have seen it colored only white and drab. under a high magnifying power the sculpturing of the spores is seen to be peculiar. x. scyphium, rost. sporangium obovoid to oblong-obovoid, stipitate or subsessile; the wall a thickened, brownish membrane, the surface entirely naked or only the upper portion covered with granules of lime, breaking up irregularly about the apex. stipe variable in length, arising from a common hypothallus and prolonged within the sporangium as a columella. capillitium of thick tubules, proceeding from numerous points of the columella and forming a dense network; the tubules filled with lime throughout their whole extent. spores large, subglobose, dark reddish-brown. this genus differs from _badhamia_ by the columella which gives origin to the capillitium. the sporangia in the species composing it, resemble those of _craterium_, and to this genus they are referred by massee, but the capillitium is that of _badhamia_. . scyphium rubiginosum, chev. sporangia gregarious, obovoid, stipitate; the wall a thickened reddish-brown membrane, the upper part covered by a thin layer of white granules of lime, the lower basal portion naked, strongly venulose and more persistent. stipe long, erect, reddish-brown, expanding at the base into a brown hypothallus, prolonged within the sporangium to more than half its height as a columella. capillitium of thick tubules, forming a dense net-work of small meshes; the tubules stuffed with white granules of lime. spores irregularly globose, minutely warted, dark reddish-brown, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, mosses, etc. sporangia . -. mm. in height by . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe from once to twice the height of the sporangium. this is _physarum rubiginosum_ chevallier, _flor de paris_. it is also _craterium obovatum_ peck. . scyphium curtisii, berk. sporangia oblong-obovoid, stipitate or subsessile, usually growing in clusters; the wall a thick, firm, reddish-brown membrane, venulose and reticulate, nearly destitute of lime. stipes variable, commonly very short, sometimes confluent, arising from a brown hypothallus, prolonged within the sporangium to about half its height. capillitium of thick tubules, forming a dense network of small meshes; the tubules stuffed with white granules of lime. spores irregularly globose, minutely warted, dark reddish-brown, - mic. in diameter. growing on old wood, leaves, grass, etc. sporangium . -. mm. in height by . -. mm. in diameter, the stipe often reduced to a mere point or cushion on the hypothallus, and varying thence to nearly the length of the sporangium. the sporangium is narrower than in the preceding species, and the brown wall is usually without granules of lime. it is _didymium curtisii_, berk. rostafinski and massee both preserve it distinct from _s. rubiginosum_. see plate xv. fig. . explanation of plate xv. fig. .--physarum glaucum, phillips, _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangium × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--physarum serpula, morgan, _a._ plasmodiocarp × . _b._ piece of plasmodiocarp × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--fuligo violacea, pers. _a._ aethalium natural size. _b._ capillitium and spores × . fig .--fuligo flava, pers. _a._ portion of an aethalium × . _b._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--fuligo cinerea, schw. _a._ portion of aethalium × . _b._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--badhamia papaveracea, b. & rav. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangium together with transverse section × . _c._ capillitium and spores × . _d._ portion of capillitium with clustered spores × . fig. .--badhamia affinis, rost. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangia × , one with section showing capillitium. _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--badhamia decipiens, curtis, _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangia × . _c._ section of sporangium showing capillitium. _d._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--scyphium rubiginosum, chev. _a._ sporangia × . _b._ sporangia × , with section showing capillitium. _c._ capillitium and spores × . fig. .--scyphium curtisii, berk. sporangia × . [illustration: the journal of the cin. soc. natural history. vol. xix. plate xv. morgan on myxomycetes.] transcriber's notes the table of contents and list of illustrations was added; not part of the original papers. page & vol. xv, plate iii: 'lycogola' changed to 'lycogala'. page : 'exigum' changed to 'exiguum'. page : 'stiptiate' changed to 'stipitate'. page : 'fasiculate' changed to 'fasciculate'. page : 'a nactium' unknown word. unchanged. vol. xvi, plate i: 'cookii' changed to 'cookei'. page : 'stermonitis scintillans' changed to 'stemonitis scintillans'. page , ( ): 'circumcissile' changed to 'circumscissile'. 'network' and 'net-work' are used interchangeably throughout. use of accents is inconsistent, especially in illustrations. links to plates xiii, xiv and xv added in html version. plates moved closer to referencing text. cleveland education survey health work in the public schools leonard p. ayres and may ayres [illustration: cfs] the survey committee of the cleveland foundation cleveland · ohio copyright, , by the survey committee of the cleveland foundation wm·f. fell co·printers philadelphia the survey committee of the cleveland foundation charles e. adams, chairman thomas g. fitzsimons myrta l. jones bascom little victor w. sincere arthur d. baldwin, secretary james r. garfield, counsel allen t. burns, director the educational survey leonard p. ayres, director [illustration: team work between physician and nurse in cleveland.] foreword this report on "health work in the public schools" is one of the sections of the report of the educational survey of cleveland conducted by the survey committee of the cleveland foundation in . twenty-three of these sections will be published as separate monographs. in addition there will be a larger volume giving a summary of the findings and recommendations relating to the regular work of the public schools, and a second similar volume giving the summary of those sections relating to industrial education. copies of all these publications may be obtained from the cleveland foundation. they may also be obtained from the division of education of the russell sage foundation, new york city. a complete list will be found in the back of this volume, together with prices. table of contents page foreword list of illustrations and diagrams the argument for medical inspection health and school progress examinations for physical defects objections to medical inspection how the work started the present system the school nurse cleveland's dispensaries dental clinics eye clinics co-operation of college for barbers the medical inspection staff the plan of concentrating interests uniform procedure vaccination future development ten types of health work health and education and business summary list of illustrations facing page team work between physician and nurse in cleveland. _frontispiece_ tony's tonsils need attention either doctor or nurse visits every school every day cleveland's dispensaries are well equipped the equipment of the marion school dental clinic cost about $ the eye clinic is advertised by its loving friends vaccinated children at hodge school-- , more are unvaccinated shower baths installed in an old building in a crowded section diagrams number of children given physical examinations each year for five school years and number found to have physical defects per cent of physical defects corrected each year for five school years health work in the public schools cleveland employs physicians, one oculist, and nurses to take charge of the health of her school children. the city spends $ , a year on salaries and supplies for these people. there are school dispensaries and clinics. cleveland is making this heavy investment because she finds it pays. the argument for medical inspection medical inspection is an extension of the activities of the school in which the educator and the physician join hands to insure for each child such conditions of health and vitality as will best enable him to take full advantage of the free education offered by the state. its object is to better health conditions among school children, safeguard them from disease, and render them healthier, happier, and more vigorous. it is founded upon a recognition of the intimate relationship between the physical and mental conditions of the children, and the consequent dependence of education on health conditions. in cleveland, the value of medical inspection was recognized while the movement was still in its infancy in america. here, as elsewhere, this sudden recognition of the imperative necessity for safeguarding the physical welfare of school children grew out of the discovery that compulsory education under modern city conditions meant compulsory disease. the state, to provide for its own protection, has decreed that all children must attend school, and has put in motion the all-powerful but indiscriminating agency of compulsory education, which gathers in the rich and the poor, the bright and the dull, the healthy and the sick. the object was to insure that these children should have sound minds. one of the unforeseen results was to insure that they should have unsound bodies. medical inspection is the device created to remedy this condition. its object is prevention and cure. ever since its establishment the good results of medical inspection have been evident. epidemics have been checked or avoided. improvements have been noted in the cleanliness and neatness of the children. teachers and parents have come to know that under the new system it is safe for children to continue in school in times of threatened or actual epidemic. health and school progress but medical inspection does not confine itself to dealing with contagious disease. its aid has been invoked to help the child who is backward in his school studies. with the recent extensions in the length of the school term and the increase in the number of years of schooling demanded of the child, has come a great advance in the standards of the work required. when the standards were low, the work was not beyond the capacity of even the weaker children; but with close grading, fuller courses, higher standards, and constantly more insistent demands for intellectual attainment, conditions have changed. pupils have been unable to keep up with their classes. the terms "backward," "retarded," and "exceptional," as applied to school children, have been added to the vocabularies of educators. school men discovered that the drag-net of compulsory education was bringing into school hundreds of children who were unable to keep step with their companions, and because this interfered with the orderly administration of the school system, they began to ask why the children were backward. the school physicians helped to find the answer when they showed that hundreds of these children were backward simply because of removable physical defects. and then came the next great forward step, the realization that children are not dullards through the will of an inscrutable providence, but rather through the law of cause and effect. examinations for physical defects this led to an extension of the scope of medical inspection to include the physical examination of school children with the aim of discovering whether or not they were suffering from such defects as would handicap their educational progress and prevent them from receiving the full benefit of the free education furnished by the state. this work was in its infancy five years ago, but today cleveland has a thorough and comprehensive system of physical examination of its school children. surprising numbers of children have been found who, through defective eyesight, have been seriously handicapped in their school work. many are found to have defective hearing. other conditions are found which have a great and formerly unrecognized influence on the welfare, happiness, and mental vigor of the child. attention has been directed to the real significance of adenoids and enlarged tonsils, of swollen glands and carious teeth. teachers and parents have come to realize that the problem of the pupil with defective eyesight may be quite as important to the community as that of the pupil who has some contagious disease. if a child who is unable to see distinctly is placed in a school where physical defects are unrecognized and disregarded, headaches, eyestrain, and failure follow all his efforts at study. he cannot see the blackboards and charts; printed books are indistinct or are seen only with much effort, everything is blurred. neither he nor his teacher knows what is the matter, but he soon finds it impossible to keep pace with his companions, and, becoming discouraged, he falls behind in the unequal race. in no better plight is the child suffering from enlarged tonsils and adenoids, which prevent proper nasal breathing and compel him to keep his mouth open in order to breathe. perhaps one of his troubles is deafness. he is soon considered stupid. this impression is strengthened by his poor progress in school. through no fault of his own he is doomed to failure. he neglects his studies, hates his school, leaves long before he has completed the course, and is well started on the road to an inefficient and despondent life. public schools are a public trust. when the parent delivers his child to their care he has a right to insist that the child under the supervision of the school authorities shall be safe from harm and shall be handed back to him in at least as good condition as when it entered school. even if the parent does not insist upon it, the child himself has a right to claim protection. the child has a claim upon the state and the state a claim upon the child which demands recognition. education without health is useless. it would be better to sacrifice the education if, in order to attain it, the child must lay down his good health as a price. education must comprehend the whole man and the whole man is built fundamentally on what he is physically. objections to medical inspection the objection that the school has no right to permit or require medical inspection of the children will not bear close scrutiny or logical analysis. the authority which has the right to compel attendance at school has the added duty of insisting that no harm shall come to those who go there. the exercise of the power to enforce school attendance is dangerous if it is not accompanied by an appreciation of the duty of seeing to it that the assembling of pupils brings to the individual no physical detriment. [illustration: tony's tonsils need attention.] nor are the schools, in assuming the medical oversight of the pupils, trespassing upon the domain of private rights and initiative. under medical inspection, what is done for the parent is to tell him of the needs of his child, of which he might otherwise have been in ignorance. it leaves to the parent the duty of meeting those needs. it leaves him with a larger responsibility than before. it is difficult to find a logical basis for the argument that the school has not the right to inform the parents of defects present in the child, and to advise as to remedial measures which should be taken to remove them. the justification of the state in assuming the function of education and in making that education compulsory is to insure its own preservation and efficiency. whether or not it is successful will depend on the degree to which its individual members are spiritually prepared for modern co-operation. but the well-being of a state is as much dependent upon the strength, health, and productive capacity of its members as it is upon their knowledge and intelligence. in order that it may insure the efficiency of its citizens, the state, through its compulsory education enactments, requires its youth to pursue certain studies which experience has proved necessary to secure that efficiency. individual efficiency, however, rests not alone on education or intelligence, but is equally dependent on physical health and vigor. hence, if the state may make mandatory training in intelligence, it may also command training to secure physical soundness and capacity. health is the foundation on which rests the happiness of a people and the power of a nation. how the work started the first work of this kind in cleveland is described in superintendent jones' report for . in that year the schools became greatly interested in the question of defective vision. tests were made by teachers in different grades, and as a result over , children were given treatment. in , an agreement was reached with the board of health, so that each alternate day a health inspector communicated with the principal of every school. teachers were warned to be on the alert for symptoms of illness, and children showing signs of measles, whooping cough, scarlet fever, or other common diseases of childhood, were reported to the principal, and through her to the board of health. contagious cases were excluded from school as soon as detected, and a systematic campaign started against the waves of disease which were sweeping one after another through the schools. in the same year drs. l. w. childs, j. h. mchenry, h. l. sanford, and other members of the medical profession volunteered their services as school physicians, to detect not only cases of possible contagion, but also the existence of physical defects. what was probably the first school dispensary in the united states was opened at the request of dr. childs by the board of education in at the murray hill school. the value of school dispensaries was so immediately evident that by seven others were established for the use of these three physicians. coincident with the dispensaries came the school nurse. when the first nurse was appointed at the murray hill school, a remarkable change was observed among the children. absences became less frequent. skin diseases were rare. children began to take an interest in health matters, and there was a marked rise in standards of neatness and cleanliness. teachers and principals united in their demand for more nurses, until within a year after the movement started there were six nurses appointed by the board of education and regularly employed in school work. in the same year, december, , the board of education formally voted to establish a division of health supervision and inspection as part of the regular school system. the present system as it is at present organized, the division handles inspection for contagious disease, inspection for physical and mental defects, follow-up work for the remedying of defects, health instruction, recommendation of children to schools for the physically and mentally handicapped, school lunches, gardens, and playgrounds. either the nurse or physician reports at each school every day of the year. once during the year each child is given a careful physical examination, and further examinations are made when they are needed. all serious defects are reported to parents, and in cases where treatment is important, parents are urged to consult with the school doctor concerning the nature of the difficulty and the best means of curing it. to supplement these interviews, the school nurse spends a large part of her time in visiting homes, talking with parents, noting conditions under which children live, and making suggestions as to home care. [illustration: either doctor or nurse visits every school every day.] some idea of the complexity of this work may be gained from the division records for - . from the beginning of september to the end of june--a period of school weeks--doctors and nurses examined , children; gave private interviews to , parents; made , visits to dispensaries; , visits to homes; and gave , treatments and dressings. in addition, they gave toothbrush drills, and , individual or class health talks to the pupils of the public schools during the year. the school nurse the value of the school nurse is one feature of medical inspection of schools about which there is no division of opinion. her services have abundantly demonstrated their utility, and her employment has quite passed the experimental stage. the introduction of the trained nurse into the service of education has been rapid, and few school innovations have met with such widespread support and enthusiastic approval. the reason for this is that the school nurse supplies the motive force which makes medical inspection effective. the school physician's discovery of defects and diseases is of little use if the result is only the entering of the fact on the record card or the exclusion of the child from school. the notice sent to parents telling of the child's condition and advising that the family physician be consulted, represents wasted effort if the parents fail to realize the import of the notification or if there be no family physician to consult. if the physical examination has for its only result the entering of words upon record cards, then pediculosis and tuberculosis are of precisely equal importance. the nurse avoids such ineffective lost motions by converting them into efficient functioning through assisting the physician in his examinations, personally following up the cases to insure remedial action, and educating teachers, children, and parents in practical applied hygiene. some idea of the work of the school nurses in cleveland may be gained from the following record of what one nurse did during one day while the survey was in progress. it represents a typical day's work for a typical nurse and is not especially unusual. : a. m. home call to get permission to take child to school headquarters for mental examination. called at case-woodland school to examine child with sore throat. took a child home to have mother clean her up. called at harmon school. treated cases of impetigo, three of toothache, two of ringworm. took two children home to be cleaned up. inspected children. gave health talk. tried to locate a boy who is to attend partial blind class at harmon school. found boy was transferred from harmon school to marion school last year. called at marion school but found no trace of boy. called at address to which child was supposed to have moved; no such number. called at kennard school to see if miss o'neill remembered him at marion school; found no trace of him. called at two homes in regard to enlarged tonsils and defective vision. : p. m. mayflower school: boy with sprained ankle, soaked in hot water, strapped with adhesive. treated four cases of impetigo, one cut finger, opened two boils. conference with mother at school. instructed her in case of child's discharging ear. inspected children. called at two homes to secure treatment for defective teeth. advised mother to send children to marion dental clinic. to sum up the case for the school nurse: she is the teacher of the parents, the pupils, the teachers, and the family in applied practical hygiene. her work prevents loss of time on the part of the pupils and vastly reduces the number of exclusions for contagious diseases. she cures minor ailments in the school and clinic and furnishes efficient aid in emergencies. she gives practical demonstrations in the home of required treatments, often discovering there the source of the trouble, which, if undiscovered, would render useless the work of the medical inspector in the school. the school nurse is the most efficient possible link between the school and the home. her work is immensely important in its direct results and far-reaching in its indirect influences. among foreign populations she is a very potent force for americanization. cleveland's dispensaries cleveland has school dispensaries, or what are usually termed "physicians' offices." these are rooms about feet long by feet wide, located in the basement or on the first floor of the school building, well lighted, and painted in white or light colors. usually they contain one or two small white enamel tables, several chairs, a wash basin with running water, a white enamel pail for waste materials, wooden tongue depressors, eye charts, a medical cabinet filled with instruments and supplies, filing boxes, and printed forms. in of the elementary schools, shower baths are provided as part of the equipment of the building. [illustration: cleveland's dispensaries are well equipped.] cleveland's dispensaries are of exceptionally high grade. in every case lighting, ventilation, and equipment are good. many of the rooms are large enough for conferences and hygiene talks, and in at least one school--east madison--the dispensary is used with desirable psychological effect for the regular meetings of the mothers' club. the excellence of cleveland's school dispensaries has contributed in no small measure to the efficiency of the medical service, and money spent in this way has been a wise investment. it is probably true that cleveland's dispensaries are of better grade than those of any other large city in the united states. [illustration: columns are proportionate in height to the number of children given physical examinations each year for five school years. portion in black indicates number having physical defects. the figures above the columns show how many thousands of children were examined and how many found defective in each year.] these dispensaries have proved of the greatest value in rendering the physical examinations of the children more effective and efficient. this work is very different from that which relates to the detection of contagious diseases. the latter is primarily a protective measure and looks mainly to the immediate safeguarding of the health of the community. the former aims at securing physical soundness and vitality and looks far into the future. the physical examinations conducted in these dispensaries have shown conclusively that a large percentage of the cleveland children--like those of all other cities--suffer from defective vision to the extent of requiring an oculist's care if they are to do their work properly, and if permanent injury to their eyes is to be avoided. more than this, a considerable proportion of the children are so seriously defective in hearing that their school work suffers severely. most important of all, only a small minority of these defects of sight and hearing are discovered by teachers or known to them, to the parents, or to the children themselves. when the children attempt to do their school work while suffering from these defects, among the results may be counted permanent injury to the eyes, severe injury to the nervous system due to eyestrain, and depression and discouragement, owing to inability to see and hear clearly. moreover, there are other defects, in particular those of nose, throat, and teeth, which are common among children and which have an important bearing upon their present health and future development. the importance of these defects is emphasized by the fact that, if discovered early enough, they may easily be remedied or modified, whereas neglect leads, almost invariably, to permanent impairment of physical condition. these are the reasons why cleveland's heavy investment in school dispensaries is yielding a return in enhanced health, happiness, and vigor probably unexcelled by the dividends from any other sort of educational expenditure. dental clinics dental work for school children was introduced about a year ago by the cleveland auxiliary of the national mouth hygiene association. building space is provided by the board of education in four schools, stanard, lawn, fowler, and marion. the association furnishes equipment, dentists, and assistants. clinics are open three forenoons a week and are crowded to capacity. [illustration: the equipment of the marion school dental clinic cost about $ .] when this work started, it was frankly an experiment. through wise and thoughtful management the mouth hygiene association has shown that dental clinics for school children are both practical and necessary. this having been demonstrated, the time has come when the city should take over their direction. cleveland should no longer rely upon the activity of a private organization, but at an early date should assume full financial and administrative responsibility for dental clinics in the public schools. dr. william osler, the distinguished english physician, is credited with saying, "if i were asked to say whether more physical deterioration was produced by alcohol or by defective teeth, i should say unhesitatingly, defective teeth." the development of the movement for dental inspection of school children in cleveland shows that the educational system has been awakening to a realization of the truth and significance of dr. osler's statement. the most salient fact in the situation is that the commonest of all physical defects among school children is decayed teeth. cases of dental defectiveness are frequently greater in number than are all other sorts of physical defects combined. moreover, it is probably true that there is no single ailment of school children which is directly or indirectly responsible for so great an amount of misery, disease, and mental and physical handicap. these are reasons why cleveland should steadfastly continue in the maintenance and development of the dental clinics. eye clinics an eye clinic is maintained by the department of medical inspection at the brownell school. this clinic is open every afternoon during the school year. the method of procedure is as follows: during the routine physical examinations of children by the doctors in the different schools, the vision is tested and, if found defective, the parents are advised of it by note. the nurse then follows up the case and if she finds that the parents are unable to pay for an examination by an oculist, she takes the child to the school clinic, after having obtained the written consent of the parent. there the child is given a thorough and accurate examination, the eyes being first dilated with homatropin and the error of refraction determined by means of the retinoscope. the proper glasses are ordered for the child and in a few days he is brought back to the clinic and the frames carefully adjusted. the nurse then keeps in touch with the case, seeing to it that the child wears the glasses, that the frames are straight, and that the symptoms of which the child complained are relieved. [illustration: the eye clinic is advertised by its loving friends.] many parents are unable to pay an oculist's fee but are able and willing to pay a small amount for glasses and in these cases a nominal charge is made for them. experience has shown that if a charge, no matter how small, is made for the glasses better care is taken of them and better results are obtained. in some cases there has been opposition on the part of the parents to the child's wearing glasses, but usually the nurse has been able to prove to them the necessity and has obtained their consent. during the school year - , the total number of dispensary visits was , . in cases the eyes were refracted and in cases glasses were furnished. in about per cent of the cases the children's symptoms are relieved and their scholarship is improved. in about per cent of the cases the symptoms are not relieved. about five per cent of the children refuse to wear the glasses. the remaining per cent of the children cannot be located because they have moved from the city or been transferred to private schools. the value of the work of the eye clinic is beyond question. there are no other clinics in connection with the cleveland public school system. mental examinations are made by a special teacher appointed for that purpose. all surgical cases are referred to family physicians or local hospitals for treatment. co-operation of college for barbers rather an unusual form of clinical work is found in service rendered by students of the cleveland college for barbers. in several districts an arrangement between the school physician and the college provides that free hair cuts be furnished pupils at intervals during the school year. the coming of the barber is an event eagerly greeted, and principals report that as a result children show increased pride in personal appearance. the medical inspection staff the organization of the staff deserves special comment. the physicians employed are mature men, graduates of well-known medical schools. the youngest medical inspector on the staff is , the oldest , and the average age of all the doctors is . they are picked men, selected for the work because of their skill, intelligence, and social viewpoint. they are splendidly representative of the medical profession in cleveland. they have fairly wide private practices and in many cases are carrying on the school work at real financial sacrifice because of their interest in the problems it involves. their assistants are all registered nurses from the visiting nurses association and distinctly high grade women. medical inspectors receive $ a month during the school year. they are required to give three and one-half hours a day, five days a week, to work in the schools, inclusive of traveling time between buildings. nurses are paid on the schedule of the visiting nurses association and salaries range from $ to $ depending upon length of service. the upper limit will probably be raised to $ in the near future. nurses are on duty from : to : every weekday except saturday, when work ends at noon. nurses are regularly employed only during the school year, but two are retained longer for service in summer schools. the efficiency of doctors and nurses is in no small measure due to the frequent informal conferences of the staff. in addition to many smaller conferences, once each month the entire staff meets--nurses as well as physicians--to discuss problems which have arisen during the preceding weeks, and makes plans for the future. these meetings are very informal; nurses are urged to take part in the discussion, and the result is the enthusiastic co-operation of the entire staff. the plan of concentrating interests an interesting feature of organization is the plan whereby each year a different series of problems is attacked, and the energies of the entire staff directed along this line. thus, - shows special emphasis laid upon eye defects, and nearly , children were found in need of glasses. in - , although the number of defects discovered increased, the number of children examined strikingly decreased. extra study was made of adenoids, glands, nutrition, and goitre. the following year less emphasis was laid on discovering defects and the entire staff united in an effort toward correcting those already noted. practically every child in the system was examined. at the same time one member specialized on hunting for tuberculosis cases and another on mental examinations of backward children. in - , the force was especially interested in the question of communicable disease and the proportion of conjunctivitis, ring worm, impetigo, scabies, and pediculosis discovered and treated was very large. as a natural accompaniment of this activity, the number of home visits and school treatments decidedly increased. in addition, there was a notable rise in the frequency with which parents came to the dispensary for conferences with the doctor about their children. the record for - shows a decrease in the number of home visits, which is partly accounted for by the fact that the number of dispensary visits made by nurses has practically doubled. the number of parent consultations with doctors has increased by one-half the record for , and in contrast with health talks given to classes by nurses last year, we have , talks by physicians and , by nurses to classes in - . this method of varied problems is unquestionably effective in promoting growth and maintaining interest on the part of the staff. care should be taken, however, to provide that within each four-year period--twice during the eight years of school life--special emphasis be laid upon the discovery and cure of each of the more important defects. how this emphasis should be distributed is a matter best decided by the staff in conference. it might be found advisable to adopt a plan whereby special attention is given to teeth, adenoids, tonsils, and glands in the lower grades; posture and heart in the upper grades; and eyes, hearing, lungs, and nutrition straight through the grades. whatever plan is adopted must be the result of study, consultation, and experiment, in an endeavor to find the most economical investment of effort on the part of nurses and doctors in terms of results gained. [illustration: columns are proportionate in height to the per cent of physical defects corrected each year for five school years.] speech defects are very common among children. at first they yield readily to treatment, but if allowed to continue through the adolescent period the habit becomes fixed so that trying to cure it is a difficult and often fruitless task. judging from the experience of other cities, about boys and girls in the cleveland public school system are suffering from some form of speech defect. there are few fields in which the medical inspection department has such an opportunity for effective work and in which so little has been done. effort should be made to locate these children, and form them into groups for daily training, under the direction of a teacher specially prepared to handle speech cases. uniform procedure in the fall of , the medical staff conducted a survey of its own efficiency. a committee prepared questions concerning procedure, and secured answers from each member of the staff. these answers were compared and discussed in staff meetings and uniform rules were finally adopted for examinations and recording. in line with this, the staff somewhat earlier prepared rules for reporting defects so that all records may be compiled on the same basis. this standardization of work is an especially noteworthy feature of the cleveland system, and should furnish valuable suggestions to medical inspection departments of other cities. a few of the rules adopted by the staff will serve to indicate the nature of their work: _teeth_--report decayed first or second teeth, and reddened and inflamed gums. do not report loose first teeth. _tonsils_--report cases with histories of recurrent tonsilitis, and where the size of the tonsils causes difficulty of swallowing or thick speech. do not report moderately enlarged tonsils with no history of tonsilitis nor evidence of mechanical obstruction. _adenoids_--report mouth breathers with characteristic adenoid faces, convincing yourself as to diagnosis by having the pupil say "l, m, n, o, p." do not try to confirm the diagnosis of adenoids by a digital examination of the nasopharynx. _glands_--report general glandular enlargement and cervical enlargement of the lymphatic glands accompanied by malnutrition and anemia. do not report submaxillary enlargement in recurrent tonsilitis or carious teeth or post-cervical enlargement in pediculosis capitis, or in impetigo or eczema of the scalp. as a result of rules such as these, a given report means the same thing to every member of the staff; only important defects are stressed; and the effort to remedy them is concentrated where it will be most effective. statistics based on records such as these will be reliable and may be used for scientific study. vaccination thirteen years ago smallpox visited cleveland. twelve hundred and forty-eight cases were reported. there were cases of black smallpox. many of the patients were blinded or disfigured for life; died. we find in the annual report of the board of health for that year: "it was the smallpox we read about, that terrible scourge which struck terror into the former generations. its contagious nature showed itself everywhere. one case, if not promptly reported to the health office and removed to the hospital, would invariably infect the whole neighborhood. its severity manifested itself even in the milder cases, while confluent cases, almost without exception, developed hemorrhages during the pustular state.... at the mayor's request, a meeting of physicians was held ... to consider the smallpox situation.... vaccination was recommended on all sides, but the people were not prone to get vaccinated.... wholesale vaccination was finally effected by the action of the school council and the help of the chamber of commerce. the school council amended the vaccination clause, making vaccination a conditio sine qua non for attending school and giving the health officer the whole control of the matter. without this amendment the schools could not have opened last fall. the situation was too critical. with it, the opening of the schools helped greatly to exterminate smallpox. every school, public and private, was put in the charge of a physician.... the doctors worked with a will, and if anything was done thoroughly and conscientiously in this city, it was the vaccination of all teachers and pupils last fall.... through the influence of the chamber of commerce the employers prevailed on their employees to get vaccinated. also to have everyone of their family vaccinated. the consequence was that the people got vaccinated by tens of thousands. men who formerly spurned the vaccinator from their door came now to his office.... the city paid for , vaccinations." in smallpox again broke out, this time in the southeastern part of the city, and threatened to spread over the entire community. with vivid memories of earlier horrors, the disease was met at the outset with vigorous measures. it was discovered that in spite of the experience of the board of education eight years before, and without regard to the rule which provided that "no teacher or pupil shall attend any school without furnishing satisfactory certificate that he or she has been successfully vaccinated or otherwise protected from smallpox," unvaccinated children had been admitted to the public schools literally by thousands. by the time that cases of smallpox had been reported the board of health again took matters into its own hands, entered the schools, and vaccinated , school children. equally vigorous measures were taken among adults and the epidemic was checked. every year since there have been cases of smallpox in cleveland. the board of health no longer relies upon the board of education to protect the lives of the community against the scourge. where , children are gathered together daily for hours at a stretch, the possibilities of spreading disease throughout the city at large constitute a grave menace. therefore, immediately upon the report of a case of smallpox, the board of health officials exercise their right of entry into the schools of that district, and either vaccinate or exclude from attendance every child who could himself become a carrier of the disease. during the present year over , children were vaccinated in this way. that vaccination prevents smallpox no intelligent person acquainted with the facts can doubt. an overwhelming mass of incontrovertible evidence can be found in every medical library. the mortality statistics of different countries tell the same story. a single example shows the general experience: in seven provinces of the philippine islands there were , deaths annually from smallpox alone. in his report, dr. victor g. heiser, director of health in the islands, describes how drastic measures were taken to stamp out the disease. under his direction practically three million one hundred thousand persons were vaccinated. the following year, instead of , deaths from smallpox, there was not one. for years the board of education has had upon its books a rule requiring vaccination as a prerequisite to admission to the schools. that rule has never been adequately enforced. in july, , city ordinance -b was passed, one section of which reads: "no superintendent, principal, or teacher of any public, parochial, private school, or other institution, nor any parent, guardian, or other person, shall permit any child not having been successfully vaccinated, nor having had smallpox, to attend school." although passed a year ago, that ordinance has not yet been enforced. exact figures cannot be secured, but it is probable that there are in the cleveland schools today more than , unvaccinated children. for each of these the superintendent, principal, teacher, and parent may be held liable to a $ fine, days imprisonment, or both. future development compared with other large cities, cleveland has an unusually good system of medical inspection. where other cities are still struggling with details of organization, record keeping, and the like, cleveland is ready to lead the way into new and immensely important fields. medical inspection includes four fields of endeavor: prevention of epidemics, discovery and cure of physical defects, provision of healthful surroundings, and formation of correct habits of thought and action in regard to health. the first two are concerned with remedying present conditions, and here cleveland is doing excellent work. the latter two provide health insurance for the future. in these, cleveland has made a beginning but should carry her efforts far in advance of anything now attempted. thirteen years ago a crusade was started against the common drinking cup. today there is not a school in the city which is not supplied with sanitary drinking fountains, and the common cup is a thing of the past. nine years ago individual towels were supplied to children in certain schools. at the present time individual towels, soap, and hot water are available in every building. in the first shower bath was installed in an elementary school. now there are buildings so equipped. the windows in some of the classes for the blind are made of amber tinted glass. for years there has been agitation in favor of adjustable seats and desks, and although conditions in certain schools are still very bad, these are exceptions, and the general seating provision is in accordance with the laws of hygiene. [illustration: shower baths installed in an old building in a crowded section.] but the division of medical inspection must go farther than this. the physician must join with the psychologist and the educator in scientific research to determine the conditions best suited to the education of the child. shall blackboards be of slate, composition board, or glass? shall they be colored black, green, or ivory white? is light chalk on a dark ground better or worse than dark chalk on a light ground? is prismatic window glass superior to plain? to what extent is glare from polished desks detrimental to eyesight? how large must be the type in textbooks in order that young children may easily read it? what variations from the present school program are necessary in order to make adequate provision for change in the use of different sets of muscles, and relief from nerve strain? these questions and hundreds of others are facing educational authorities. the method of answering them affects not only the children of one city but the children of all cities throughout the country. everywhere schoolmen are on the alert to gain information which will help in solving these problems. in addition to regular work of inspection and examination, the doctors and nurses of cleveland spend a great deal of time in conferences with parents, talks with teachers, lessons and talks to children, toothbrush drills, and the like. the importance of work of this kind can hardly be overestimated, but it must be far more than "talks at people." it should be the aim of the department of medical inspection to establish right habits in regard to health. for this reason, although both methods are helpful, drill in the use of the toothbrush is more effective than lectures on the need of using it. as a result of the work of doctors and nurses, cleveland's children,--and her teachers as well,--should not only believe in plenty of sleep, but should go to bed early; not only disapprove of too much tea and coffee, but have strength to refuse when it is offered. through classes for the anemic and pre-tubercular, the public schools help each year between two and three hundred children. this is worth doing, but they will render a far greater service to cleveland if, in addition, they succeed in giving to , children, so firmly that it will never be broken, the habit of sleeping winter and summer with wide open windows. the dentist, the oculist, the physician, should come to be regarded, not as dispensers of cures nor sympathetic listeners to hypochondriacs, but as leaders to whom intelligent people go in order to forestall trouble,--specialists in health rather than disease. leading its future citizens to form right habits of thinking and acting in regard to health is one of the greatest educational services which the public school can render. ten types of health work as the work in cleveland develops, it should aim to include all those types of activity which extended and varied experience has shown to better the health of school children, safeguard them from disease, and render them healthier, happier, and more vigorous. among such activities the following are of special importance: . medical inspection for preventing the spread of contagious disease and for the discovery and cure of remediable physical defects. . dental inspection for the purpose of securing sound teeth among these school children. . the steady development of the work of the school nurses to the end that their co-operation with doctors, teachers, and parents may progressively contribute toward improving the health of the children. . open-air schools for giving to the physically weak such advantages of pure air, good food, and warm sunshine as may enable them to pursue their studies while regaining their physical vigor. . special classes and schools for the physically handicapped and mentally exceptional in which children may receive the care and instruction fitted to their needs. . school gardens, which serve as nature study laboratories, where education and recreation go hand in hand, and increased knowledge is accompanied by increased bodily efficiency. . school playgrounds, which afford space, facilities, opportunity, and incentive for the expression of play instincts and impulses. . organized athletics, which aid in physical development, and afford training in alertness, intense application, vigorous exertion, loyalty, obedience to law and order, self-control, self-sacrifice, and respect for the rights of others. . systematic instruction and practice in personal and community hygiene and sanitation. . the progressive improvement of all adjuncts of better sanitation in school houses, such as sanitary drinking cups and fountains, systems of vacuum cleaning, improved systems of lighting, heating, and ventilation. health and education and business there is one condition in the cleveland school system which rises like a mighty barrier against the possibility of completely fulfilling any such program of health education as that outlined in the planks of the preceding platform. this is the fundamental fact that the cleveland school authorities have not yet conceived of health work as being an integral part of education. in this city the work of the board of education is divided into three main departments. these are the executive department, the educational department, and the department of the clerk. the executive department is under the leadership of the director of schools and it deals with the business activities of the board. the educational department is under the superintendent of schools and deals with teaching. under this organization the activities carried on by the board of education must be assigned to one or another of the departments and this entails in most cases arriving at a decision as to whether the work in question is predominantly of an educational nature or of a business nature. in dealing with health work in the public schools, the board of education rendered its decision both ways. it decided that provision for health in education was a series of business transactions and so it placed medical inspection in the executive department under the leadership of the director. it also decided that provision for education in health was a teaching problem and so it placed physical education and training in physiology and hygiene under the direction of the superintendent of schools. despite its decision that provision for health in education is a business matter, while provision for education in health is a teaching matter, the board realized that some sort of unity was essential if the different sides of the work were carried forward efficiently. they met this situation by employing a competent director of health work and giving him an official dual personality. as the official held responsible for health in education, he is the director of medical inspection and is subordinate to the director of schools. as the official responsible for education in health, he is an assistant superintendent and is responsible to the superintendent of schools. in one capacity he is appointed by the superintendent and receives a portion of his salary from educational funds. in his other capacity he is appointed by the director of schools and paid from business appropriations. as an employee of the educational department, he is appointed for a term of one year, but as an employee of the business department, he is on the civil service list with an indeterminate period of employment. in his educational capacity, he may arrange for the organization of basketball teams for this is held to be a matter of physical education, but in order to have a basketball game actually played at any time outside of regular school hours, he must get the permission of the director, for this is held to be a business transaction. instruction in infant hygiene is given to the girls in the upper grades. part of the teaching is done by the regular teachers, the rest by the nurses of the medical inspection department. when the instruction is given by the teachers, it is considered an educational activity and is under the supervision of the superintendent; when the same class is taught by the nurse, it is considered a business transaction and is under the authority of the director. as chief medical inspector, representing the business department, this official discovers a feeble-minded child whom he wishes to transfer to a special class. since the transfer of this child is an educational problem, he reports the matter to the assistant superintendent in charge of the district. since the medical inspector is also an assistant superintendent, these two men are co-ordinate educational officials. the assistant superintendent of the district reports the requested transfer to the city superintendent who deals with the matter as an educational problem and issues an order to the chief medical inspector in his capacity as assistant superintendent in charge of physical education to make the transfer. this whole situation, which arises from assigning some phases of the health work to the business department and other phases to the educational department, has not given rise to as many or as serious difficulties as might well be expected. this relative freedom from trouble and friction is an impressive tribute to the unremitting tactfulness of the officials most directly concerned. the chief medical inspector is a conspicuous example of a man defying holy writ by successfully serving two masters. health work in cleveland public schools is on a higher plane than in most other cities. its present accomplishments have carried it further than similar work has gone elsewhere. its future possibilities are unusually bright because the early stages of development have been successfully passed. the one thing that we may be sure of is that this future development will tend toward an ever closer relationship and more intimate intermingling of the activities which make for health in education and those which are directed toward education in health. each new development and each forward step renders a separation of the work into educational and business activities progressively difficult. to discover decayed teeth and to teach children to care for their teeth are intimately related matters and their separation is bound to be theoretical and not real. to attempt to separate the testing of vision from teaching concerning the conservation of vision is to lose an opportunity for the most effective sort of instruction. similarly, if one scrutinizes all of the items that have been suggested as indicating the health activities which cleveland should continue to develop in its public schools, he can hardly fail to appreciate the utter impossibility of successfully dividing the work into certain activities which shall be educational and certain other activities which shall be business. sooner or later the theory that this can be done will be destroyed by the logic of events, for health work in our public schools is constantly becoming a more intimate and integral part of the every-day education of all the children. sooner or later serious difficulties are bound to arise from an administratively unsound arrangement in which a school official in charge of a most important division of work is responsible to two entirely independent chiefs. the opportunities for honest but irreconcilable conflict of views are so numerous that they will surely arise in time. one chief may favor vaccination and the other be opposed to it on principle. one may deem it the duty of the schools to have the doctors and nurses give instruction in sex hygiene while the other may be utterly against anything of the sort. one may hold that the only useful physical exercise is that gained through games and athletics, while the other may favor formal gymnastics. one may believe in school gardens, and the other deem them a waste of time and money. one may believe that courses in infant hygiene should be provided for the girls in the upper grammar grades, while the other may hold that such instruction should be reserved for continuation classes for young women. all of these are matters on which educational authorities are sharply divided in opinion and there are many more of the same nature. the present director of schools, the present superintendent of schools, and the present chief medical inspector have so far worked successfully under the present arrangement of divided duties and responsibilities, but a reorganization along sounder administrative lines should be made before, instead of after, serious trouble arises. eventually, if not now, cleveland must realize that health work in education must be placed under the direction of the city's highest educational official who is the city superintendent of schools. summary . cleveland employs school physicians, one oculist, and nurses. it spends $ , a year on salaries and supplies for these people, and maintains school dispensaries and clinics. . through medical inspection, the educator and the physician join hands to insure for each child such conditions of health and vitality as will best enable him to take full advantage of the free education offered by the state. it recognizes the intimate relationship between the physical and mental conditions of children. it realizes that education is dependent upon health. it betters health conditions among school children, safeguards them from disease, and renders them healthier, happier, and more vigorous. . the first work of this kind in cleveland started in when tests were made of defective vision. in the health department provided inspectors for contagious diseases in the schools. in the same year inspection for physical defects was undertaken; the first dispensary in the united states was established at the murray hill school, and school nurses were appointed. in the division of health supervision and inspection became part of the regular school system. . the division handles inspection for contagious disease, inspection for physical and mental defects, follow-up work for the remedying of defects, health instruction, recommendations of children to special classes, school lunches, gardens, and playgrounds. every child is examined every year. . cleveland has dispensaries. in every case lighting, ventilation, and equipment are good. it is probably true that these dispensaries are of better grade than those of any other large city in the united states. . dental clinics are now conducted in four public schools by the cleveland auxiliary of the national mouth hygiene association. this work has now reached a point where it should be taken over and administered as a part of the public school system. the function of a private organization is to experiment and demonstrate. it cannot eventuate on a large scale, and it should not if it could. the function of a public organization is to eventuate on a large scale. it can seldom experiment, and it lacks freedom and flexibility in demonstration. the mouth hygiene association has experimented and demonstrated successfully. its work should now be assumed, continued, and extended by the division of medical inspection. . the eye clinic conducted by the division at the brownell school is doing excellent work. as the system grows, this clinic should be supplied with more workers. the cleveland college for barbers gives an excellent free service in many of the schools. there are no other clinics. mental examinations are made by a special teacher appointed for that purpose. all surgical cases are referred to family physicians or local hospitals for treatment. . medical inspectors are mature men, graduates of well-known medical schools, with a fairly wide private practice. the school nurses are all registered nurses. . the number of school nurses should be increased as rapidly as possible until one nurse is provided on full time for every children enrolled in school. this would mean the employment of additional nurses, increasing the staff from to . as the population increases, more nurses should be added. . office consultations between parents and physicians are among the most important activities of the division and should be systematically encouraged. to this end arrangements should be made whereby definite hours for parent consultations are assigned to each school. . the division of medical inspection has so organized its work that the attention of the staff is concentrated upon a different set of problems each year. this method is unquestionably effective in promoting growth and maintaining the interest of the staff. care should be taken, however, to provide that within each four-year period special emphasis be laid upon the discovery and cure of each of the more important defects. some plan should be adopted by the staff whereby effort may be concentrated on discovering and remedying defects at those ages where such expenditure of time and energy will secure the largest returns. . adequate provision should be made for the correction of speech defects. classes in speech training should be established under the direction of a teacher specially trained in this work. . standardization of work is an especially noteworthy feature of the cleveland system, and should furnish valuable suggestions to medical inspection departments of other cities. through this standardization the same terms have uniform meanings when used by different members of the staff, and constant standards are employed in detecting and recording defects. . there are probably more than , unvaccinated children now in the cleveland schools. immediate steps should be taken to see to it that every child now in school is vaccinated, and that no child is admitted to school hereafter without similar protection. principals, teachers, and parents should be held responsible for violation of the vaccination ordinance. . the division of medical inspection should plan steadily to enlarge its field of activity in order to provide in constantly increasing measure better working conditions in the schools and to train the children into habits of health that shall be life-long. it is probable that the health work in the cleveland public schools is unsurpassed by that of any other city in the country. the city now has an opportunity to lead the way into vastly important forward extensions looking toward the provision of health insurance for future generations. . under the present organization, the official in charge of health work is responsible to the director of schools in part of his activities and to the superintendent in the rest of them. he should be responsible to the city superintendent alone, for health work in the public schools is education and not business. cleveland education survey sectional reports these reports can be secured from the survey committee of the cleveland foundation, cleveland, ohio. they will be sent postpaid for cents per volume with the exception of "measuring the work of the public schools" by judd, "the cleveland school survey" by ayres, and "wage earning and education" by lutz. these three volumes will be sent for cents each. all of these reports may be secured at the same rates from the division of education of the russell sage foundation, new york city. child accounting in the public schools--ayres. educational extension--perry. education through recreation--johnson. financing the public schools--clark. health work in the public schools--ayres. household arts and school lunches--boughton. measuring the work of the public schools--judd. overcrowded schools and the platoon plan--hartwell. school buildings and equipment--ayres. schools and classes for exceptional children--mitchell. school organization and administration--ayres. the public library and the public schools. the school and the immigrant. the teaching staff--jessup. what the schools teach and might teach--bobbitt. the cleveland school survey (summary volume)--ayres. * * * * * boys and girls in commercial work--stevens. department store occupations--o'leary. dressmaking and millinery--bryner. railroad and street transportation--fleming. the building trades--shaw. the garment trades--bryner. the metal trades--lutz. the printing trades--shaw. wage earning and education (summary volume)--lutz. [transcriber's note: the following type-written material was attached inside the front cover of this book and is included here for its historical interest. division of medical inspection and physical education cleveland dr. e. a. peterson director mr. h. p. kimmel secretary henry w. luther supervisor of physical training louise klein miller curator of school gardens anna l. stanley supervisor of school nurses charlotte steinbach examiner of atypical children lola barnard ass't. " mabel j. winsworth supervisor of school feeding hannah spero stenographer the cleveland foundation survey room . st. clair ave, n. e. cleveland, ohio november , . the next meeting of the advisory committee of the education survey will be in the assembly room of the hollenden, monday, nov. nd, at . the section of the survey to be considered will describe a feature of school work in which cleveland equals any and excells most cities of the country. subject: health work in the public schools speaker: leonard p. ayres, director education survey. you are invited to bring any interested friends and are urged to be prompt so as to give full time for both the luncheon and the discussion. please reply on enclosed card. yours truly, f. f. prentiss, chairman. allen t. burns, director. end of transcriber's note] the ranger or the fugitives of the border by edward s. ellis author of "oonomoo," "set jones," "irona," etc. new york hurst & company publishers copyright, , by hurst & company. [illustration: "hold! you strike the white man's friend!"] contents. i. zeb and his master ii. the night of terror iii. kent and leslie iv. the captives v. the meeting on the river vi. the raft vii. lost and found viii. the companion in captivity ix. zeb's revenge x. the brief reprieve xi. a friend xii. escape xiii. the captive xiv. the rescue xv. the fugitives flying no longer list of illustrations. "hold! you strike the white man's friend!" george and rosalind "them varmints," said he, "are playing particular devil in these parts" there were two horses in the party, and upon one of these rosalind had been placed "ready," whispered leslie, "you take the nearest one." "you shoot indian, eh?" said one, brandishing his knife at the same time the savages were amusing themselves by ascertaining who could send his tomahawk nearest the body of their captive without touching him "does the maiden remember pequanon?" two savages were left on shore "yonder is something approaching." kent, the ranger. chapter i. zeb and his master. at the southern part of ohio, where the river of that name swerves from its south-western course, and makes a sweeping bend toward the north-west, many years ago stood a large and imposing dwelling. its character, so different and superior to others found here and there along the ohio, showed that its owner must have been a man both of superior taste and abundant means. it had been built by sir william leland, who had emigrated from europe with his young wife, and erected a home in the western wilderness. here they lived a goodly number of days; and when, at last, they took their departure within a year of each other, they left behind them a son and daughter to cherish and inherit their home. george leland, at the time of which we speak, was but twenty, while his sister rosalind was three years his junior. yet both, with the assistance of a faithful negro servant, managed to live quite comfortably. the soil was exceedingly rich, and, with a little pains, yielded abundantly every thing that could be wished, while the river and wood were unfailing resources. three years had elapsed since the elder leland's death, and during that time, although living in a country swarming with indians, nothing had occurred to alarm the fears of our friends, or even to give them the slightest suspicion that danger threatened them. [illustration: george and rosalind.] when sir william settled in this section, he followed the example of the great founder of pennsylvania, and purchased every foot of his land from those who claimed it; and, in addition to the liberal remuneration which each received, they were given some charming present by their pale-faced brother. this secured their friendship; and, although many miles intervened between the whites and their nearest kindred, yet they had nothing to fear from the savages who surrounded them. thus matters stood when george and rosalind were left orphans, some years before the opening of our story. it was a pleasant day in early summer that george and his sister were seated in front of their house. the sun was just setting, and they had remained thus a long time. zeb, the negro, was absent for the time, and they were thus undisturbed. "do you really think," pursued the sister, "it can be true that the indians have perpetrated the outrages which have been reported?" "i should be glad to think differently, could i have reason for doing so; but these reports certainly have foundation; and what is more alarming, the suspicion that we are _not_ safe, which was awakened some time ago, is now confirmed. for two or three days i have detected suspicious appearances, and zeb informed me that he discovered a couple of savages lurking around the edge of the forest. i fear there is strong reason to apprehend danger." "but, brother, will not the kindness which our parents showed them while living be a guaranty of our protection?" "it may, to some extent; but you must remember that there are hundreds of indians who have never seen or heard of them, who would not hesitate to kill or take us prisoners at the first opportunity." "can it be possible?" "it is not only possible but true. you remember roland leslie, who was here last summer? yesterday i saw him up the river, and he gave me the information that i have repeated. at first i deferred mentioning it to you, for the reason that i did not wish to alarm you until it could not be avoided." "why did he not come here?" asked the sister. "he said that he should shortly visit us. he had heard rumors of another massacre some miles up the river, and wished to satisfy himself in regard to it before calling here. leslie, although young, is an experienced hunter and backwoodsman, and i have not much fear for his personal safety. he assured me that, should he find the indians above ravaging the country as fearfully as reported, he would immediately return to us." "i hope so," earnestly replied rosalind. "still," continued george, "what can we do, even then? he intends to bring a hunter back with him, and that will make only three of us against perhaps a thousand savages." "but have we not the house to protect us?" "and have they not the forest? can they not lurk around until we die of hunger, or until they fire the building? there are a hundred contingencies that will bar an escape, while i confess no prospect of getting safely away presents itself." "we have arms and ammunition," said rosalind. "of course leslie and his friend are good marksmen, and why can we not do enough to deter and intimidate the savages? finding us well prepared, they will doubtless retreat and not disturb us again. i hope the trouble will soon be over." "i _hope_ so too; but it is hoping against hope. this war will be a long and bloody one, and when it is over the country will present a different appearance. many lives must be lost ere it is done, and perhaps ours are among that number." "perhaps so, brother; but do not be so depressed. let us hope and pray for the best. it is not such a sad thing to die, and the country which has given us birth has certainly a strong claim upon us." "noble girl," exclaimed george, "it is so, and we have no cause for murmuring." at this moment zeb appeared. he was a short, dumpy, thick-set negro, with a most luxuriant head of wool, a portion of which hung around his head in small, close braids, resembling bits of decayed rope. his eyes were large and protruding, and his face glistened like a mirror. he was a genuine african. some of their qualities in him were carried to the extreme. instead of being a coward, as is often the case with his nation, he seemed never to know when there really was danger. he always was reckless and careless, and seemed to escape by accident. "heigh! massa george, what's up?" he exclaimed, observing the solemn appearance of the two before him. "nothing but what is known to you, zeb. we were just speaking of the danger which you are aware is threatening us. have you seen anything lately to excite suspicion?" "nothin' worth speakin' of," replied he, seating himself in front of george and rosalind. "what was it, zeb?" asked the latter. "when i's out tendin' to things, i t'ought as how i'd sit down and rest, and 'cordin'ly i squats on a big stone. purty soon de stone begin to move, and come to look, 'twas a big injin. "'heigh!' says i, 'what you doin' here?' "'ugh!' he grunted. "'yes, i'll "ugh!" you,' says i, 'if i cotches you here ag'in.' with dat i pitches him two, free rods off, and tells him to make tracks fur home." "heavens! if you would only tell the truth, zeb. did you really see an indian, though?" "'deed i did, and he run when he see'd me in arnist." "and you saw others yesterday, did you?" remarked rosalind. "two or free, down toward de woods. i spied 'em crawlin' and smellin' down dar, and axes dem dar business. dey said as how dey's lookin' for a jack-knife dat dey lost dar last summer. i told 'em dat dey oughter be 'shamed demselves to be smellin' round dat way; and to provide against dar doin's in future, i give dem each a good kick and sent dem away." "do not exaggerate your story so much," said rosalind. "give the truth and nothing else." "qua'r, folks won't believe all dis pusson observes," said he, with an offended air. "tell the truth and they will in all cases; but should you deceive once, you will always be suspected afterward." "dat's it," commenced the negro, spreading out his broad hand like an orator to illustrate the point. "if i tells de truf dey're sure to t'ink i's lyin', and what's de use?" "zeb," commenced george, not regarding the last remark, "you, as well as we, are aware that we are encompassed by peril. you have seen that the indians are constantly prowling around, and evidently for no good purpose. what would you advise us to do under the circumstances?" "give 'em all a good floggin' and set 'em to work," he replied. "come, come, zeb, we want no jesting," interrupted rosalind. "dar 'tis ag'in. who war jestin'? dat's what i t'ink is de best. give 'em a good lickin', and set 'em to work clearin' off de wood till dar spunk is gone." "fudge!" said george, impatiently, turning his back toward zeb, whose head ducked down with a chuckle. "rosalind," said george, "the best plan is certainly to wait until leslie returns, which will be either to-morrow or the next day. we will then determine upon what course to pursue. perhaps we shall be undisturbed until that time. if not, it cannot be helped." "wished dis pusson warn't so hungry," remarked zeb, picking up a stick and whittling it. rosalind smiled as she arose and remarked: "it is getting late, george, and it perhaps is best to have supper." he made no answer and turned toward the negro. "zeb," said he, "in all probability we shall be obliged to leave this place in a few days for a safer location. of course you will accompany us, and i wish it to be understood that you are to lay aside this levity and carelessness. remember that you are in danger, as much as ourselves. your scalp may be the first taken." "what, dis yere wool of mine? yah! yah! yah! lord bless you, dey'd have a handful!" "how would you relish being roasted at the stake?" asked george, hoping to terrify him. "yah! yah! dey'd be some sizzlin', i guess." "you will think soberly about the matter, perhaps sooner than you suspect." "yas," said zeb, and his face straightened out in an instant, while he slowly and thoughtfully continued whittling. "zeb," continued george, leaning toward him and speaking in an undertone, "i think we shall be attacked in two days at the latest." "jest keep de whip in good order, and i'll put it into 'em and teach 'em manners." "i fear you will learn wisdom only by experience, even if you do then," returned george. "it would be a good thing for you, should you meet with something that would impress you with a sense of your peril. i can only wonder at your stupidity." "gorra mighty! do you s'pose dere's anything that'd make _me_ afeard of dem injins? why, bless you, forty of 'em wouldn't dare to frow a stone at me. i've licked free, four dozen of 'em, and dey all respect me awful." "i suppose so," rejoined young leland, with mock seriousness. "last summer," pursued zeb, "when you's down de river fishin', dere's thirteen of 'em come up one day to borrer de wood-box. i s'pose dey wanted to keep dar dogs and pappooses in it, and i 'cluded as how dey warn't gwine to get it. so i told 'em i's very sorry dat i couldn't 'commodate 'em, but de fact war we wanted to put de wood in it ourselves. when i said dat, one of de niggers begin to got sassy. i just informed 'em dat dey'd better make demselves scarce mighty quick, if dey didn't want dis pusson in dar wool. dey didn't mind what was said, howsumever, and purty soon i cotched 'em runnin' off wid de wood-box. dat raised my dander, and i grabbed de box and frowed it right over dar heads and cotched 'em fast. den i put a big stone on it, and kept 'em dere free weeks, and afore i let 'em out i made 'em promise to behave 'emselves. now i considers dat we'd better serve 'em some sich trick. tie two, free hundred to de fence, and leave 'em dere for a few months." "you are welcome to try it," returned george, rather disgusted at the negro's propensity for big story telling. he arose and passed within, where the ample table was laid. yet he could not eat the plain, sweet food which rosalind's own hands had prepared. the dreadful sense of danger was too real a guest for any rest or peace of mind. chapter ii. the night of terror. few words were interchanged during the evening. george and rosalind had enough to occupy their minds, and zeb, finding them taciturn, relapsed into a sullen silence. at an early hour each retired. rosalind now felt more than george that unaccountable presentiment which sometimes comes over one in cases of danger. during the last few hours it had increased until it nearly resolved itself into a certainty. the view from the front of the house was clear and unobstructed to the river, a quarter of a mile distant. along this lay the cultivated clearing, while the forest, stretching miles away, approached to within a few yards of the rear of the house. rosalind's room overlooked this wilderness. instead of retiring, she seated herself by the window to gaze out upon it. there was a faint moon, and the tree-tops for a considerable distance could be seen swaying in the gentle night-wind. the silence was so profound that it seemed to make itself _felt_ and, in that vast solitude, few indeed could remain without being impressed with the solemn grandeur of nature around. hour after hour wore away; still rosalind remained at the window. as there was no inclination to sleep, she determined to remain in her position until morning. she knew that it must be far beyond midnight, and at the thought there sprung up a faint hope within her breast. but she was startled by the dismal hoot of an owl. she sprang up, with a beating heart, listening intently and painfully; but no other sound was heard. trying to smile at her trepidation, she again seated herself and listened; in a moment that cry was repeated, now in an opposite direction from which the first note was heard. rosalind wondered that the simple circumstance should so affect her; but try as much as she might, she could not shake it off. again, for a few minutes, she remained trembling with an undefinable fear, when there came another hoot, followed instantly by another, in an opposite direction. she began now to entertain a fearful suspicion. her first impulse was to awaken her brother, but, after a moment's thought, she concluded to wait a short time. a few more sounds were heard, when they entirely ceased. during this time, rosalind, although suffering an intense fear, had been gazing vacantly toward the point or clearing nearest the house. as her eyes rested upon the spot, she caught the shadowy outlines of a dark body moving stealthily and noiselessly along upon the ground. without waiting a moment, she darted to george's room. he had not slept, and in an instant was by her side. "call zeb," she exclaimed. "we are surrounded by indians." leland disappeared, and in a moment came back with the negro. "gorra mighty!" said the latter, in a hurried, husky whisper, "where am de cussed niggers? heigh, miss rosa?" "keep quiet," she replied, "or you will be heard." "dat's just what i wants to be, and i calkilates i'll be _felt_ too, if dar are any of 'em 'bout." "stay here a moment," said george, "while i look out. rosalind, what did you see?" "a body approaching the house from the woods. be careful and do not expose yourself, george." he made no answer and entered her room, followed by herself and the negro, who remained at a safe distance, while he cautiously approached the window. he had no more than reached it, when zeb asked: "see noffin'?" this question was repeated perhaps a dozen times without an answer, when the patience of zeb becoming exhausted, he shuffled to the window and pressed his head forward, exclaiming: "gorra mighty, whar am dey?" "hist! there is one now--yes, two of them!" "whar--whar?" "keep your mouth shut," interrupted the young man, his vexation causing him to speak louder than he intended. "heigh! dat's him! look out!" and before young leland suspected his intentions or could prevent it, zeb had taken aim and fired. this was so sudden and unexpected that, for a moment, nothing was heard but the dull echo, rolling off over the forest and up the river. then arose a piercing, agonized yell, that told how effectual was the shot of the negro. rosalind's face blanched with terror as she heard the fearful chorus of enraged voices, and thought of the fearful scene that must follow. "are the doors secured?" she asked, laying her hand upon george's shoulder. "yes, i barricaded them all," he answered. "if they do not fire the building, we may be able to keep them off until morning. i don't know but what zeb's shot was the best, after all--god save us!" this last exclamation was caused by a bullet whizzing past, within an inch of his face. for a while leland was uncertain of the proper course to pursue. should he expose his person at the window, he was almost certain to be struck; yet this or some other one equally exposed, was the only place where he could exchange shots, and the savages must be kept in check. zeb had reloaded his gun, and peering around the edge of the window, caught a glimpse of an indian. as reckless of danger as usual, he raised his rifle and discharged it. he was a good marksman, and the shot was as effective as the other. "gorra mighty!" he exclaimed, "i can dodge dar lead. didn't i pick dat darkey off awful nice? just wait till i load ag'n." chuckling over his achievements, he proceeded to prime his rifle. george leland withdrew to the window of another room, from which he succeeded in slaying a savage, and by being careful and cautious, he was able to make his few shots tell with effect. when zeb shot the first savage, the red-skins sprung to their feet and commenced yelling and leaping, feeling that those within were already at their mercy; but the succeeding shots convinced them of their mistake, and retreating to cover, they were more careful in exposing themselves. several stole around to the front of the house, but george had anticipated them, and there being no means of concealing their appearance, they were easily kept at a distance. rosalind followed and assisted him as far as lay in her power, while zeb was left alone in his delight and glory. "be careful," said leland; "don't come too near. just have the powder and wadding ready and hand it to me when i need it." "i will," she replied, in a calm, unexcited voice, as she reached him his rod. "just see what zeb is at, while i watch my chance." she disappeared, and in a moment returned. "he seems frantic with delight, and is yet unharmed." "god preserve him," said george, "for his assistance is needed." "be careful," said rosalind, as george approached the window. "i shall--whew! that's a close rub!" he muttered, as a bullet pierced his cap. "there, _you're_ past harm," he added, as he discharged his gun. thus the contest was kept up for over an hour. but few shots were interchanged on either side, each party becoming more careful in their action. young leland remained at his window, and kept a close watch upon his field; but no human being was seen. zeb laughed, ducked his head, and made numerous threats toward his enemies, but seemed to attract no notice from them. now and then rosalind spoke a word to her brother, but the suspense which the silence of their enemies had put them in, sealed their lips, and, for a long while, the silence was unbroken by either. they were startled at length by the report of zeb's rifle, and the next minute he appeared among them, exclaiming: "gorra mighty! i shot out my ramrod. i seen a good chance, and blazed away 'fore i thought to take it out. it went through six of 'em, and stuck into a tree and hung 'em fast. heigh! it's fun to see 'em." "here, take mine, and for god's sake, cease your jesting!" said leland, handing his rod to him. "wish i could string some more up," added zeb, as he rammed home his charge. "yer oughter seen it, miss rosa. it went right frough de fust feller's eye, and den frough de oder one's foot, den frough de oder's gizzard, and half way frough de tree. gorra, how dey wriggled! looked just like a lot of mackerel hung up to dry. heigh!" at this point leland discharged his gun, and said, without changing his position: "they are trying to approach the house. go, zeb, and attend to your side. be very sharp!" "yes, i's dar, stringing 'em up," he rejoined, as he turned away. "hark!" exclaimed rosalind, when he had gone. "what noise is that?" leland listened awhile, and his heart died within him as he answered: "merciful heaven! the house is on fire! all hope is now gone!" "shall we give ourselves up?" hurriedly asked rosalind. "no; come with me." "hurry up, massa, dey's gwine to roast us. de grease begins to siss in my face a'ready," said zeb, as he joined them. the fugitives retreated to the lower story, and leland led the way to a door which opened upon the kitchen, at the end of the house. his hope was that from this they might have a chance of escaping to the wood, but a short distance off, ere they were discovered. cautiously opening the door, he saw with anxious, hopeful joy, that no indians were visible. "now, rosalind," he whispered, "be quick. make for the nearest trees, and if you succeed in reaching them, pass to the river-bank and wait for me. move softly and rapidly." rosalind stepped quickly out. the yells of the infuriated savages deafened her; but, although fearfully near, she saw none, and started rapidly forward. leland watched each step with an agony of fear and anxiety which cannot be described. the trees were within twenty yards, and half the distance was passed, when leland knew that her flight was discovered. a number of savages darted forward, but a shot from him stopped the course of the foremost. taking advantage of the confusion which this had occasioned, rosalind sprung away and succeeded in reaching the cover; but here, upon the very threshold of escape, she was reached and captured. "gorra mighty!" shouted zeb, as he saw her seized and borne away. "ef i don't cowhide ebery nigger of 'em for dat trick." and clenching his hands he stalked boldly forward and demanded: "whar's dat lady? ef you doesn't want to git into trouble, i calkilate you'd better bring her back in double-quick time." several savages sprung toward him, and zeb prepared himself for the struggle. his huge fist felled the first and the second; but ere he could do further damage he found himself thrown down and bound. "well, dar, if dat ain't de meanest trick yet, servin' a decent prisoner dis way. i'll cowhide ebery one ob you. oh, dear, i wish i had de whip!" he muttered, writhing and rolling in helpless rage upon the ground. leland had seen this occurrence and taken advantage of it. it had served to divert the action of the savages, and the attention of all being occupied with their two prisoners, he managed with considerable difficulty to reach the wood without being discovered. here, at a safe distance, he watched the progress of things. the building was now one mass of flame, which lit up the sky with a lurid, unearthly glare. the border of the forest was visible and the trunks and limbs of the trees appeared as if scorched and reddened by the consuming heat. the savages resembled demons dancing and yelling around the ruin which they had caused. it was with difficulty that leland restrained himself from firing upon them. with a sad heart he saw the house which had sheltered him from infancy fall inward with a crash. the splinters and ashes of fire were hurled in the air and fell at his feet, and the thick volume of smoke reached him. yet he thought more of the captives which were in the hands of their merciless enemies. their safety demanded his attention. thoughtfully and despondingly he turned upon his heel and disappeared in the shadows of the great forest. chapter iii. kent and leslie. when roland leslie reached his destination some miles up the ohio, his fears and suspicions were confirmed. there had been a massacre, a week previous, of a number of settlers, and the indians were scouring the country for more victims. this information was given by kent whiteman, the person for whom he was searching. this personage was a strange character, some forty years of age, who led a wandering hunter's life, and was known by every white man for a great distance along the ohio. roland leslie had made his acquaintance when but a mere lad, and they often spent weeks together hunting and roaming through the great wilderness, which was the home of both. he cherished an implacable hatred to every red-man, and they in turn often sought his life, for they had no enemy so dangerous as he. "yes, sir, them varmints," said he, as he leaned upon his long rifle and gazed at leslie, "are playing particular devil in these parts, and i calkelate it's a game that two can play at." [illustration: "them varmints," said he, "are playing particular devil in these parts."] "jump in the boat, kent," said leslie, "and ride down with me; i promised george leland that if he needed assistance i would bring it to him." "he needs it, that's a p'inted fact, and as soon as it can conveniently reach him too." "well, let us be off." leslie dipped his oars in the water and pulled out into the stream. it was the morning after the burning of the lelands' home, which of course was unknown to them. for a few moments the boat glided rapidly down the stream, when whiteman spoke: "where'd you put up last night, leslie?" "about ten miles down the river. i ran in under the bank and had an undisturbed night's rest?" "didn't hear nothin' of the red-skins?" "no." "wal, it's a wonder; they're as thick as flies in august, and i calkelate i'll have rich times with 'em." "i cannot understand how it is, kent, that you cherish such a deadly hatred for these indians." "i have good reason," returned the hunter, compressing his lips. "how long is it that you have felt thus?" "ever since i's a boy. ever since _that_ time." "what time, kent?" "i have never told you, i believe, why the sight of a red-skin throws me into such a fit, have i?" "no; i should certainly be glad to hear." "wal, it doesn't take long to tell. yet how few persons know it except myself. it is nigh thirty years ago," commenced kent, "that i lived about a dozen miles above the place that we left this morning. there i was born and lived with my old father and mother until i was ten or eleven years old. "one dark, stormy night we war attacked by them red devils, and that father and mother were butchered before my eyes. during the confusion of the attack, i escaped to the woods and secreted m'self until it was over. it was a hard matter to lie there, scorched by the flames of your own home, and see your parents, while begging for mercy, tomahawked and slain before your eyes. but in such a position i was placed, and remained until the savages, satisfied with their bloody work, took their departure. "when the rain, which fell in torrents, had extinguished the smoking ruins, i crawled from my hiding-place. i felt around until i come upon the cold bodies of my father and mother lyin' side by side, and then kneelin' over them, i took a fearful oath--an oath to which i have devoted my life. i swore that as long as life was given me, it should be used for revengin' the slaughter of my parents. that night these savages contracted a debt of which they little dreamed. before they left the place, i had marked each of the dozen, and i never forgot them. for ten years i follered and tracked them, and at the end of that time i had sent the last one to his final account. yet that did not satisfy me. i swore _eternal_ enmity against the whole people, and as i said, it shall be carried out. while kent is alive, he is the mortal enemy of every red-skin." the hunter looked up in the face of leslie, and his gleaming eyes and gnashing teeth told his earnestness. his manner and recital had impressed the latter, and he forbore speaking to him for some time. "i should think," observed leslie, after a short silence, "that you had nearly paid that debt, kent." "it is a debt which will be balanced," rejoined the hunter, "when i am unable to make any more payments." "well, i shouldn't want you for an enemy," added leslie, glancing over his shoulder at the stream in front of him. both banks of the river at this point, and, in fact, for many miles, were lined with overhanging trees and bushes, which might afford shelter to any enemy. kent sat in the stern and glanced suspiciously at each bank, as the boat was impelled swiftly yet silently forward, and there was not even a falling leaf that escaped his keen eye. "strikes me," said leslie, leaning on his oars, "that we are in rather a dangerous vicinity. those thick bushes along the shore, over there, might easily contain a few red gentlemen." "don't be alarmed," returned the hunter, "i'll keep a good watch. they've got to make some movement before they can harm us, and i'll be sure to see them. the river's wide, too, and there ain't so much to fear, after all." leslie again dipped his oars, and the boat shot forward in silence. nothing but the suppressed dip of the slender ashen blades, or the dull sighing of the wind through the tree-tops, broke the silence of the great solitude. suddenly, as leslie bent forward and gazed into the hunter's face, he saw him start and gaze anxiously at the right shore, some distance ahead. "what's the matter?" asked leslie. "just wait a minute," returned the hunter, rising and gazing in the same direction. "stop the boat. back water!" he added, in a hurried tone. leslie did as he was bidden, and again spoke: "what is it, kent?" "do you see them bushes hangin' a little further out in the stream than the others?" "yes; what of them?" "watch them a minute. there--look quick!" said kent. "i can see a fluttering among the branches, as if a bird had flown from it," answered leslie. "wal, them birds is indians, that's all," remarked the hunter, dropping composedly back into the boat. "go ahead!" "they will fire into us, no doubt. had i not better run in to the other shore?" "no; there may be a host of 'em there. keep in the middle of the stream, and we'll give 'em the slip yet." it must be confessed that leslie experienced rather strange sensations as he neared the locality which had excited their suspicion, especially when he knew that he was exposed to any shot that they might feel inclined to give. a shudder ran through his frame, when, directly opposite the spot, he distinctly heard a groan of agony. kent made a motion for him to cease rowing. bending their heads down and listening, they again heard that now loud, agonizing expression of mortal pain. as soon as leslie was certain that the sound proceeded from some being in distress, he headed the boat toward the shore. "stop!" commanded kent; "you should have more sense than that." "but will you not assist a person in distress?" asked he, gazing reproachfully into his face. "who's in distress?" "oh, gorra mighty! i's been dyin'," now came from the shore. "hallo there! what's wantin'?" called whiteman. "help, help, 'fore dis indian gentleman--'fore i dies from de wounds dat dey's given me." "i've heard that voice before," remarked kent to leslie, in an undertone. "so have i," replied the latter. "why, it is george leland's negro; _he_ wouldn't decoy us into danger. let us go in." "wait until i speak further with him." (then, to the person upon shore): "what might be your name?" "zeb langdon. isn't dat old kent?" "yes; how came you in this scrape, zeb?" "gorra mighty! i didn't come into it. dem red dogs--dese here nice fellers--brought me here 'bout two months ago, and den dey all fired at me fur two or free days, and den dey hung me up and left me to starve to death. boo-hoo-oo!" "but," said leslie, "you were at home yesterday when i came up the river." "yes; dey burned down de house last night, and cooked us all and eat us up. i's come to live ag'in, and crawled down here to get you fellers to take me home; but, lord bless you, don't come ashore--blast you, quit a hittin' me over de head," added the negro, evidently to some one near him. leslie and whiteman exchanged significant glances, and silently worked the boat further from the land. "who is that you spoke to?" asked the former, when they were at a safe distance. "dis yere blasted limb reached down and pulled my wool," replied the negro, with perfect _nonchalance_. "where is george leland?" asked leslie. "dunno; slipped away from dese yere nice fellers what's pulled all de wool out of me head, and is tellin' me a lot o' yarns to tell you. gorra mighty! can't you let a feller 'lone, when he's yarnin' as good as he can?" "where is miss leland?" "how does i know? a lot of 'em run off wid her last night." "oh god! what i expected," said leslie, dropping his voice, and gazing with an agonizing look at whiteman. the latter, regardless of his emotion, continued his conversation with zeb. "are you hurt any?" "considerable." "now, zeb, tell the truth. did they capture george leland?" "bless you, no. he got away during de trouble." "did they get miss leland?" "'deed they did." "is she with you?" "no. it took forty of 'em to watch me and de rest." here the negro's words were cut short with a jerk, and he gave vent to a loud groan. "gorra mighty!" he ejaculated, in fury. "come ashore, mr. whiteman and mr. leslie. come quick, and let dese yer fellers got you. dey wants yer too." "are there any of the imps with you?" asked kent, more for amusement than anything else. "what shall i tell him?" the negro asked, in a husky whisper, loud enough to be plainly heard by the two in the boat. "dey say dar ain't any of 'em. talk yourself, if dat doesn't suit you," he added, in great wrath. "three cheers for you," shouted whiteman. "are there any of 'em upon the other side?" "dese fellers say dey am all dar. gorra, don't kill me." "good; you're the best nigger 'long the 'hio. i guess we'll go over to the other side and visit them." so saying, kent seized the oars and pulled for the opposite shore. he had not taken more than a couple of strokes when a dozen rifles cracked simultaneously from the bushes, and as many bullets struck the boat and glanced over the water. "drop down," he whispered to leslie. instead of doing the same himself, he bent the more vigorously to his oars. a few minutes sufficed to carry them so far down that little danger was to be apprehended from the indians, who uttered their loudest shouts and discharged their rifles, as they passed beyond their reach. "that's too good a chance to be lost," muttered the ranger, bringing his long rifle to his shoulder. leslie followed the direction of his aim, and saw a daring savage standing boldly out to view, and making furious gesticulations toward them. the next instant kent's rifle uttered its sharp report, and the indian, with a yell, sprung several feet in the air, and fell to the ground. "that was a good shot," remarked leslie, gazing at the fallen body. "yes, and it's done just what i wanted it to," replied kent, heading the boat toward shore. "they are going to pursue us, are they not?" asked leslie. "yes, and we'll have fun," added the ranger, as the boat touched the shore, and he sprung out. "come along and make up yer mind for a long run," said he, glancing furtively toward the savages. leslie sprung after him, and they darted away into the forest. when whiteman had fired his fatal shot the indians were so infuriated, that, setting up their demoniac yells, they plunged down the banks of the stream, determined to revenge their fallen companion. this was what kent desired. he exulted as he saw that he was being gratified. "if there isn't fun pretty shortly it won't be my fault," said he, as he plunged onward into the forest. in a short time the pursuers gained the opposite shore, and followed with renewed ardor into the wilderness. kent and leslie, however, had gained a good start. both being rapid runners, they had not much to fear. had nothing unusual occurred, they would easily have distanced their pursuers. but leslie, following kent in a leap across a rocky gorge, struck in his comrade's footsteps in the earth upon its edge. the earth had become loosened and started by the shock, and ere leslie could recover his footing, he fell some fifteen or twenty feet to the bottom. the fall bruised him so much that he was unable to rise, or in fact hardly to stir. "hurt?" asked the ranger, gazing over at him. "yes," groaned leslie. "i can't get up. don't wait for me, for it's no use. go on and save yourself." "i hate to leave you, but it's got to be done. lay down there; crawl in under that rock. perhaps they won't see you. quick, for i hear 'em comin'." with these words the hunter turned and disappeared, and succeeded in getting beyond the gorge without being seen by his pursuers; but this delay had given them time to gain a great deal upon him, and when he started their hurried tramp could be distinctly heard. his words had roused leslie to a sense of his peril. by struggling and laboring for a few minutes he succeeded in disengaging himself and managed to crawl beneath a projecting ridge of rock. this effectually concealed him from sight, and had his pursuers no suspicion of his fall, he yet stood a chance of escaping. in a few moments he heard them overhead, and the pain of his wounds was forgotten in the anxiety which he now felt for his safety. he knew that they had hesitated, but whether it was on account of the leap which they were required to make, or on account of any suspicion that they might entertain, he could not divine. the place in which he had fallen had probably once been swept by a torrent, but now a tiny stream only warbled through it. the murmur of this, by leslie's side, prevented his understanding the words of those above. the hum of their voices could be heard but not their words. presently, however, he distinguished a well-known voice evidently in expostulation with some one. "gorra mighty! does yer s'pects i can jump dat? it's bad 'nough to make me git drownded in dat river without broken my neck down dar!" leslie could not help wondering why zeb was brought along, nor how he managed to keep pace with the rest. but as he had not heard his voice before, he concluded that the negro must have been brought by several indians who remained behind for that purpose. this conclusion was confirmed by the words which he heard the next minute. "whar's de use ob jumpin'? dem yere fellers'll soon be back, coz dey ain't agwine to cotch dat man nohow. he can run like a streak o' sunshine, and likes as not dey'll all get shot. you'd better go on and coax 'em to come back while i stay here and waits fur ye." in answer to this, leslie heard some angry muttering and mumbling, but could distinguish no words. in a moment, however, zeb's voice was audible. "bless yer, you're de all-firedest fools i eber see'd. how does you s'pects i's gwine to light on toder side. ef one of you'll take me on your back, i won't mind lettin' you try to carry me over; but i tells you i ain't agwine to try it. so you can shut up yer rat-traps." hardly a second elapsed before he again spoke: "hold on dar; you kickin' all my brains out! i'll try it!" the next moment leslie heard a dull thump, and zeb came rolling down directly beside him. "i's killed! ebery bone is broken. i can't live anoder second." "zeb! zeb!" whispered leslie, in a hurried whisper. the negro suddenly ceased his groaning and exclamations, and rolling his head over toward him, asked, in a whisper. "who's dat?" "it's i, zeb. get up quick, for god's sake, before they come down, or i'm lost!" the negro clambered to his feet without difficulty, and disappeared, shouting to those above: "i isn't hurt. it war de rock dat was broke by my head striking it! how de pieces flewed!" chapter iv. the captives. when rosalind leland felt herself seized by the savage, she fainted in the arms of her swarthy captor, and so remained for a long space of time. when she recovered, she found that she was a secure prisoner in the hands of her enemies. she was grieved to see that zeb was a companion in captivity. she felt that, could she alone suffer, she would willingly bear it. although acquainted with many indians, she was unable to recognize any of those around. this, of course, was a gratification. it showed that the kindness of her parents and herself had not been lost upon them. although the recipients of her kindness might not strive to prevent violence being done her, yet they refused to participate in it themselves. the whole indian force numbered about thirty. as soon as they had done all in their power, and were convinced that there were no more captives to be secured, they took up the line of march. in the course of their journey, rosalind found that she was near enough to hold a conversation with zeb, and after a few minutes' silence, she ventured: "how do you feel, zeb?" "bless you, missus, if dese niggers doesn't get the all-firedest walloping when i gets de chance, dey may feel glad." "yes, but i'm afraid that you will not get the chance very soon." "oh, dey daresn't kill me; fur if dey did, i'd hang ebery one ob dem." despite rosalind's painful situation, she could not but smile at the earnestness of tone in which zeb delivered himself of this. she resumed: "are you bound, zeb?" "not much; only a dozen ropes tied around one leg, and as many round de rest ob me body." "oh, zeb, don't tell such stories." "fact, missus leland. i counted 'em when dey's puttin' 'em on, and dey cut like forty, too." "forty-two what?" asked a gruff voice by zeb's side, in very good english. "gorra mighty, _who's dat_?" no answer was given. "who de debbil was dat?" asked zeb, speaking to rosalind. she made no answer and appeared to be lost in a reverie. zeb repeated his question but failed to elicit any reply. muttering something to himself, he permitted her silence to remain undisturbed. there were two horses in the party, and upon one of these rosalind had been placed. the other was bestrode by a savage, who appeared to be the leader of the band. zeb's hands were pinioned behind his back, and he was compelled to walk behind the horse of rosalind, with a guard that kept a close eye upon his movements. [illustration: there were two horses in the party, and upon one of these rosalind had been placed.] silently yet rapidly the body moved along through the forest of impenetrable darkness, where a perfect knowledge was required in order to make the least progress. rosalind's horse was a powerful creature, and carried her with comparative comfort. now and then the cold leaves brushed her face, or her body grazed some tree, yet the animal carried her safely and unharmed. several times the thought of escape flashed upon her. it seemed easy to turn her horse's head and gallop beyond the reach of her enemies. but one of them was mounted, and she believed she could elude him. she could ride down those immediately around her, and what was there to prevent her making good her escape? and yet, after a few more minutes of thought, she abandoned all hopes of liberty for the present. her brother was free, and would leave no means untried until she was again restored to him; and there was _another one_, who, she knew in her heart, would exert himself to the utmost to save her. this thought caused her heart to beat faster and faster. there was a slight tremor in her voice as she spoke: "zeb, come a little nearer to me." he made a movement, but was unable to approach much nearer. "are you listening?" she asked, in a subdued tone. "yes, missus; mouth, ears and eyes is open." "then," said she, bending toward him and lowering her voice still more, "i wish to ask you, zeb, whether you would do me a favor?" "lord bless you, missus, you knows i'd die a hundred times for you." "i believe you would," returned rosalind, touched by his tone and words; "but it is no hardship that i ask of you." "well, out with it quick, fur dese fellers don't like to see yer horse's side rubbin' all de wool off ob my head." "you are acquainted with roland leslie, zeb?" asked rosalind, bending lower and speaking in a whisper which she scarcely heard herself. "yes," answered zeb, breathing hurriedly. "well, should you see him, tell him of my situation; and--and--tell him not to run into danger for my sake." "i will," rejoined zeb, fervently. here a savage, judging that matters had gone far enough, jerked the negro rudely back. "you needn't be so spiteful," retorted zeb; "she's told me all she's agwine to." rosalind had done so; nothing further passed between them. toward morning they reached the banks of a stream, where the savages divided into two parties. the one which retained the negro started down the ohio, while those who held rosalind continued their journey in a southerly direction. the course of the former has already been given, and also a part of their doings. the latter, which numbered twenty, experienced nothing worthy of record for a considerable time. they moved forward rapidly, as they had some fears of pursuit. this was their reason for retaining rosalind with them. they were cunning enough to know that what efforts might be made would be for her sake, while probably the negro would be left to himself. their progress south continued until rosalind knew that she was many miles in kentucky. they had kept along the banks of a river during the whole time, which she also knew to be the big sandy. from this she judged that her captors were a tribe, or at least a part of one, which belonged many miles distant from where her home had been. throughout all her trials, rosalind relied upon providence with a firm, unshaken faith. although hope dawned but faintly upon her, she murmured not. her fears were great for others beside herself. she was young, and her youthful blood coursed through her veins, bearing with it the pleasures and hopes of life just commenced. it was hard to die, hard to give up the hopes which had only begun to dawn in her bosom; yet, if it was his will, she felt that she could go without a murmur. "thy will be done," was the prayer which but herself and heaven heard. chapter v. the meeting on the river. for some minutes after zeb's disappearance, leslie remained without moving, scarcely breathing for fear there might still be some indians overhead; but as minute after minute wore by, and no sound above warned him that his enemies were in the vicinity, he managed to creep from his hiding-place and seat himself upon a rock near by. now that he was safe for the present, he began to examine his wounds. there being no strong emotion to occupy his mind, the pain again came upon him, and he feared that he might be dangerously hurt; but, upon examination he was gratified to see that he was only bruised in two or three places. in falling, he had first struck upon his feet; his side, from the force of the concussion, came rather violently in contact with the jagged, projecting rocks. this gave a few severe flesh-cuts, which, for the time being, were more painful and distressing than would have been a wound of a more serious character. still, he found that he was unable to walk without great labor and pain, and concluded to remain in his present position until morning. he crawled back into the hiding-place, and disposed of himself for the night. little sleep, however, was gained, and the night seemed the longest that he had ever spent. when morning dawned, he emerged from his hard resting-place, and, with great difficulty, made his way to the top. then, shaping his course toward the river, he reached it in the course of an hour or so. here, to his great joy, he found the boat that he and kent had left. it was pulled high and dry upon the bank, yet he succeeded in getting it in the water, and, with a light heart, pushed out from the shore. it was so much easier to propel the boat than to walk, that he had no difficulty in making good headway. he had determined upon no course to pursue, but continued moving forward with a sort of instinct, hardly caring in what direction he went. he was moving toward the spot where once the house of the lelands stood; some impulse seemed drawing him thitherward. the truth was, roland leslie was thinking of rosalind and her situation. although he had spoken to her but comparatively a few times, yet those occasions had awakened a feeling in his breast which he found could not be subdued; his love was growing day by day. he knew not whether she was aware of his passion, but his fluttering heart told him, at least, that she had not frowned upon him. young love rests upon the slightest foundation; thus leslie was encouraged and made hopeful by the remembrance of the friendly meeting which he had with rosalind. then, as he awoke from this pleasant reverie into which he had fallen, the consciousness that she was now a captive among the indians, the thought maddened him. he dipped his oars deep in the water, and moved swiftly along. it occurred to him that perhaps it would be best to keep a watch of the shores ahead, to prevent running carelessly into danger. there might be indians concealed or lurking in the vicinity, and he would be easily drawn into a decoy, should he be careless and thoughtless. he turned around and scanned the shore more closely and searchingly. seeing nothing suspicious, he was about to resume rowing again, when, from an overhanging cluster of bushes came the sharp crack of a rifle, and a bullet split one of the oars, a few inches below his hand. seizing his rifle, he turned toward the point from which the shot had come, but could see no person. the thin wreath of smoke curling slowly up from the bushes showed the point from which it had been given; but whoever the person might be, he kept himself well concealed. in a moment another shot was given, which glanced over the water a few feet from the stern. leslie began to think that he was in rather a close situation, and clutching his rifle nervously, endeavored to ascertain the point from which the shot had come, determined to return one at all hazards. he did not dare to pass over to the opposite side, for he had a suspicion that they were intended for that purpose. he believed that his person had not been aimed at, but the balls had been intended to pass closely enough to alarm him and cause him to seek safety by pulling for the other shore, where, probably, a foe was waiting. while he sat undetermined what course to pursue, a form stepped out in full view upon the bank, and accosted him. "frightened any?" "well, i should think i ought to be. why, is that you, george?" "i believe so. come in and take me aboard." "what reason had you for firing upon me?" asked leslie, approaching him. "well, not any. i saw you coming down-stream, and an idea seized me to learn if you were easily frightened." "i felt rather nervous when that shot came," returned leslie, pointing at the hole in his oar. "it was a close rub; but, of course, i took good care not to make it too close." "what is the news? what reason have you for being here?" asked leslie, interrupting him. "news enough," returned leland, gloomily. "step in the boat and let me hear it." as they passed down-stream, leland narrated his story, and when he had finished, remarked: "roland, i have sought you for advice and assistance, and i trust both will be given." "gladly! do you think, george, that i could rest as long as your sister is in the hands of those savages?" "pardon me," returned leland, "if i at all doubted. this affliction weighs heavily upon me." "i suspected this state of things," continued leslie, "and it is the reason that i hurried down-stream. yet the uncertainty of seeing you or any friend, deterred me from making haste to your place." here leslie gave the circumstances of his encountering zeb, and his subsequent misfortune, or, as he termed it, his fortune, of falling in the gorge. "then kent is gone, is he?" asked george, when he had finished. "that is too bad, for we need his assistance greatly." "in fact, i do not understand what we shall be able to do without him," added leslie. "nor i; and here we are as helpless as if we were already in the hands of the indians, so far as regards any assistance that we can give rosalind," continued leland. "oh, don't despair so soon. i trust that kent will soon turn up, and we shall then have a good chance to recover her." "where do you suppose that kent can be?" "i can only guess." "what reason have you then for thinking that we shall meet him?" "this reason. he saw me fall, and was obliged to leave me for a time, as the pursuers were close at hand. i am certain that, as soon as he eluded and escaped them, he would return to the place for me." "and find you gone and give you up." "no; he would search the place, and seeing my trail, would follow it. i left a pretty plain one, and he will meet with no difficulty." "but suppose the ranger is captured himself?" "there is no supposition in the case," rejoined leslie, with an air of assurance. "well, admitting what you say," continued leland, "did you leave a trail after getting in the boat, that will be easy for him to follow?" "easy enough. he knows what course i would take, and, consequently, he knows what one to pursue." "but, even then, can he overtake you?" "i have not come very rapidly, and i think that he can. i believe that at this moment he is on the way." "well, roland, we have probably speculated enough upon our chances of meeting him. in the meantime, what do you propose that we do with ourselves?" "as to that, i am hardly decided. there is great danger in our remaining on the river, and yet i see no means which will be so apt to bring us in communication with kent." "this gliding down the ohio in broad daylight, when we know the woods on both sides are full of our enemies, is rather dangerous business, although it may possess some advantages for us." "i leave the matter with you," said leslie. "the stream is very broad for a considerable distance, and both of us ought to understand enough of woodcraft to prevent running into danger." "we _ought_ to understand enough," said leland, significantly, "but the fact is, we do _not_. there are so many contrivances these cunning rascals devise for a white man's destruction, that one needs to have a schooling of years in their ways to understand them. however," he added, in a whisper, "i understand _that_ contrivance yonder." "what is that?" inquired his companion, in some excitement. "take a careful look down-stream and tell me whether you see anything unusual." "no--i don't know as i do," slowly repeated leslie. "hold on--yes, i do--yonder is a log, or more likely two or three of them--a raft. i suppose, leland, it is for our benefit." "undoubtedly. it was constructed for the benefit of the white race generally; and, as we come first we are to be served first." "let us cut in to shore and give them the slip." "it may be the very thing they wish us to do. the action of the savages, so far, shows that they are more anxious to take prisoners than to slay men. so keep quiet and don't allow yourself to become nervous." chapter vi. the raft. slowly, silently and gently the boat glided onward--both leslie and leland as motionless as death, yet with hearts throbbing wildly and fearfully. the former stooped and whispered: "there are three indians on it, upon the opposite side from us. we must pass beyond the log before they will be in range of our guns. they will not fire until we begin to pass them. take a quick but sure aim, and drop down in the bottom of the boat the instant your gun is discharged." nearer and nearer came the canoe to the log, until but a few rods separated them, but not a breath or fluttering of a leaf disturbed the profound silence. when at the nearest point, scarcely more than two rods would separate them. still onward the boat swept until its prow was even with the log. "ready," whispered leslie, "you take the nearest one." [illustration: "ready," whispered leslie, "you take the nearest one."] the next instant the enemies were in full view of each other. simultaneously the two rifles in the boat broke the solemn stillness. but not a sound showed whether their shots had produced any effect at all! not a savage's head, however, could be seen! they either had been slain or else had quietly drawn out of sight when they became aware of the danger that menaced them. the latter was most probably the case, although neither of the whites could satisfy himself upon that point. as the thin haze from the guns diffused itself over the spot, the same oppressive silence settled upon the water, and the same absence of life was manifest in everything around. so sudden had been the interruption, that, a few minutes afterward, it was almost impossible to realize that it had actually occurred. more than once both leslie and leland caught themselves debating this very point in their minds. for a few moments the two remained concealed within the boat, for they well knew that danger yet threatened; but, nervously excited over the event, leland, with a sad want of discretion, peered over the gunwale of the canoe. "down, instantly," admonished his companion, catching his shoulder. the report of another gun came at that very instant, and george dropped so suddenly and awkwardly out of sight, that leslie inquired with much concern: "are you hurt?" "pretty near it, at any rate," returned leland, putting his hand to his face. he was not struck, however, although the ball had grazed and marked his cheek. the instant leland saw that he was not injured, he raised himself and aimed toward the log. no sign of an enemy was visible, and not knowing but what there might be more loaded rifles behind the contrivance, he dropped his head again. peering cautiously over the gunwale, the young man saw the raft gradually approaching the kentucky shore. the indians possessing no means of reloading their pieces without running great risk, probably deemed it best to make a safe retreat. the distance between the whites and the savages slowly but surely increased, and when the former judged they were comparatively safe, they arose and plied their paddles. "now if we can only come across kent, i shall be pretty hopeful of getting out of the woods," remarked leslie. "but how is that to be done? there is just the trouble." "i think he will find _us_ if we only wait for him." "i agree with you, that it is all that we can do. we will row down-stream a short distance further, where we will be sheltered more from the observation of our enemies, and wait until he comes, or until it is pretty certain that he will not." leslie bent to his oars, and the boat again shot forward. each now felt a stronger hope. the depression of spirits under which leland was laboring began to undergo a reaction. leslie was naturally of a more buoyant disposition than leland, and seldom suffered those spells of melancholy which are so apt to affect those of a temperament less sanguine. the latter at seasons was more light-hearted than the former, yet adverse circumstances easily affected and depressed him. the locality to which leslie had referred was a place in the river where the overhanging boughs and underwood were so thick and luxuriant that it was an easy matter to send a small boat beneath them and remain effectually hidden from any enemy passing up or down the river. their plan was to conceal themselves, and thus, while affording themselves comparative security, to keep an unremitting watch for the appearance of kent. they expected, and in fact were certain, that he would descend the opposite side, which, from their hiding-place, could be easily seen. leslie, with a vigorous pull, sent the boat under the sweeping branches, and, coming to rest, remarked: "there, george, we are safe for the present. an indian might pass within twenty feet of us, and not dream of our proximity." "true, leland, i feel glad that we are thus fortunate." "see," continued leslie, "what a nice arrangement. from my seat i can keep a good view of the opposite side." "how long do you intend to remain here?" asked leland, whose fears were ever on the alert. "can't say precisely." "remember that food will be necessary, and soon necessary, too." "i am aware of that, yet we can do without it for some time. if kent is going to pass us, it will be during to-morrow." "leslie," said leland, earnestly, "i have been thinking deeply upon our chances of meeting him, and i must confess that they seem few indeed." "i do not doubt it. they would have the same appearance to me, were it not for one thing. i have been calculating, and though, of course, a great deal of guess-work has been employed, yet i think that i have come to a very nearly correct conclusion. i'm pretty positive that if kent reaches us, it will be in the neighborhood of to-morrow at mid-day. not seeing him, i shall fire my rifle. kent knows the sound of it, and will search for us." "perhaps he may not be upon the opposite shore." "which will be as well, yet i can think of no reason that would induce him to cross." "in the meantime, how do you propose that we pass away time and keep off _ennui_." "in sleep, if that is possible." "i think it is with myself," returned leland, with a light laugh. "and the same with me," added leslie. "well, the circumstances being favorable, i propose that we commence operations at once." "a good suggestion." both disposed themselves as best they could in the boat, and being tired and fatigued, were soon asleep. chapter vii. lost and found. the two young men slept soundly through the night. when leslie awoke it was broad day, and his companion was still asleep. he suffered him to remain so until the day was well advanced. then each felt the pangs of hunger. leland proposed that one should land and go in quest of food, but leslie answered: "if kent appears, it will be in the course of a few hours. we had better wait and see what comes of patience." another hour of silence wore away. leland was about to speak when leslie exclaimed, in a whisper: "hush!" they listened intently. in a moment the steady measured dip of paddles could be heard. whoever was approaching had little fear or apprehension of danger; for they came fearlessly along, and were moving with considerable noise and swiftness. leland and leslie held their breath as the sound came steadily nearer. not a whisper was exchanged. the former, from his position, could not discern any object that might be passing, but the latter had a full view of the river. in a moment the whole force passed before leslie's eyes. two canoes loaded with indians glided past, unconscious of their proximity. each drew a long breath of relief; but for a considerable time neither ventured a whisper. "it appears to me that indians are plenty in these parts," remarked leland. "rather more than i could wish," returned his companion. "confound it, it will soon be time to fire your gun, and of course the savages will hear it." "but for all that i shall risk it. it will not do to let kent escape us." "how soon do you intend discharging your piece?" "in an hour or so." "well, see here, roland, if kent comes, it can not be expected that he will have any food. the report of your gun will doubtless reach the ears of enemies as well as friends." "i expect it will." "and still further: if such be the case, we shall not dare to land for fear of an encounter. we may be obliged to remain concealed for a few days, and no means will be left to procure food during that time. now, what i am coming at is this: while we have an opportunity to get it, let us do it." "how do you propose obtaining it?" "easily enough. just let me land, and i will insure you success in a short time." "but you have overlooked one thing." "what is it?" "the report of your gun will be heard as well as mine, and will be as likely to attract the attention of any enemies in the neighborhood." "that is true, but i can reach the boat in time." "and although kent is within a short distance, i shall not dare to apprise him of our situation." "such appears to be the case; but you must see that it is absolutely necessary that _some_ means should be taken to secure food." "i admit it, and am willing that you should try." "hold!" exclaimed leland, brightening up. "i have a plan. you say that kent, in the course of an hour or so, will probably be near enough for you to fire. i will try and not bring down any game until that time, and the minute you hear the report of my gun you must discharge yours. this will have the effect that you wish, and i shall have time to reach you before any one can come up." "a capital idea," said leslie. "hearing two guns, the indians will have a little more fear in approaching us, than they would did they hear but one. you deserve credit, george, for the thought." "remember, and wait until you hear my gun, before you fire yours," replied he. "i will wait an hour, george; and then, whether i hear yours or not, i shall discharge mine. as i said a while ago, it won't do to let kent escape us, and i must be sure to warn him." "i trust that i shall encounter game before that time; but should i not, you must do as you said. i will return upon hearing you." "and return instantly," said leslie, impressively. "don't wait until the danger is increased. although it may seem that a few minutes will enable you to procure abundant food, don't wait a single minute. it may cost you your life, if you do." "i will remember your advice. now shove in a little nearer shore and i will be off." leslie brought the boat to the bank, and leland stepped off. "try and not be gone long; do not wander too far, for it will be an easy thing to get lost in this forest. remember that it will take you considerable time to reach me, and if the distance be too great, an enemy may be ahead of you. be careful in all your movements, and be sure to return the instant that my gun is heard." "i will try and obey you," returned leland. and george disappeared in the mazes of the woods. leslie returned to his former position, and more to occupy his mind than anything else, gazed out upon the broad bosom of the ohio, as it glided majestically along, through the dark shadows of the forest. it then presented a far different appearance from what it does at this day. no crowded cities then lined its banks. the flaming steamboat had not broken its surface; the canoe, gliding noiselessly over it, was all that gave token of the presence of man. a rude cabin erected in some lone spot in the wilderness, like a green spot in the desert, showed the feeble footing which he had upon the soil. solemnly and silently the old ohio rolled along through its hundreds of miles until it as solemnly and silently united with the great father of waters. when one has recently passed through an exciting and momentous occurrence, and is then left completely alone, it is difficult to keep from falling into a reverie; the subject which interests the mind most will finally occupy it to the exclusion of everything else. thus it was with roland leslie. at first he began speculating upon the probable success of leland's enterprise; then upon the probability of his arresting the attention of kent, should he chance to be in the vicinity. having considered this for some time, he reflected upon the dangers through which he had passed, and upon the likelihood of further deliverance from them. this thought called to mind his mishap among the rocks, and he proceeded to examine his wounds, of which, for some time, he had entirely ceased to think. these being not very severe, as we have shown, had failed to trouble him, and he was glad to see that they needed no more attention. again left to his thoughts, they shortly wandered to rosalind leland. where was she? was she alive, or already slain? was there any hope of meeting her again? could _he_ do anything toward rescuing her from bondage? he felt certain that she was alive, although a close prisoner, and was confident that recovery was possible. that he determined she _should be_ rescued, and that he should be the one that would do it, was not strange. love will upset the mind of any person, and at times play the _wild_ with him. leslie was naturally clear-headed, far-sighted and sagacious; yet, when he permitted his ideas to dwell upon the object of his love, they sadly misused him. at such times he was another person. he lost sight of the obstacles and dangers which would have been apparent to any one gifted with ordinary shrewdness; and he formed plans which, in his sober moments, would have only excited his ridicule. strange as it may seem for such a person to have been guilty of such an idea, leslie had not pondered upon the absorbing topic for any length of time before he deliberately came to the conclusion to rescue rosalind in the course of three days, to rebuild her old home, and settle down with her for the rest of his life! of course the savages would never disturb him, and he should be, without doubt, the happiest mortal in existence! he was suddenly awakened from his reverie by the faint report of leland's rifle. it sounded fully a mile distant, and the certainty of his danger made him tremble with apprehension. george, as he feared, had forgotten the warning given him, and, in the excitement, had unconsciously wandered to a greater distance than he supposed. in all probability he was lost, and would be obliged to seek the river and follow it in order to find leslie. this would require time, and he had already exposed himself to danger by firing his gun. although roland had promised to fire upon hearing leland, yet he forebore to do it. the difference which a half-hour would make in the probability of kent's hearing his own gun, would be in his favor. he supposed that leland, upon discharging his piece, had instantly set out to return, and he wished to give him almost sufficient time to reach him. anxiously and painfully roland listened, with his finger upon the trigger of his gun; and, as minute after minute wore away without a sound reaching him, he began to hope that leland could be at no great distance. a few more minutes were passed, when roland concluded that the time for firing his signal had arrived. it would serve to guide leland, and, had he not deceived himself, would reach the ears of kent. standing up in the boat, he raised the gun above his head, and was already pressing the trigger, when he paused, as he heard the sharp crack of leland's rifle at no great distance. he waited a few seconds, until the echo had died away, and then discharged his own. he remained stationary a moment, as though to permit the sound to escape entirely from his rifle. then, reseating himself, proceeded to reload it. this done, he impatiently listened for a returning signal. he had placed a great deal of reliance and hope upon that shot, and, as he now was so soon to learn whether it had accomplished what he wished, he could not keep down his fearful anxiety. he was nervous, and listened with painful interest for the slightest sound. the falling of a leaf startled him; and, at last, unable to restrain himself, he determined again to fire his gun. at that instant there came a crash of leland's rifle, followed by the maddened shouts of infuriated savages, so near that leslie sprung to his feet and gazed about him. recovering himself, he stooped, and, seizing a paddle, began shoving the boat toward shore, fully determined to afford his friend all the assistance that lay in his power. the boat had hardly touched, when there was a rustling in the bushes directly before him, and the next instant kent stood beside him. "quick--shove out! they are after me!" he exclaimed, springing into the boat and grasping the oars. "where is george?" asked leslie. "they've got him, and came nigh getting me. cuss the infernal devils!" in a moment the two had freed themselves from the bushes. as the yells of their enemies were heard upon the shore, they had reached the center of the stream, and were passing swiftly downward. chapter viii. the companion in captivity. when leland left the boat, he wandered forward for a considerable distance, not noticing the direction in which he was going, only intent upon securing game of some sort or other. still, he exercised considerable caution in his movements, and determined not to risk a shot unless he was certain of his success. birds and quadrupeds were plenty, and he did not entertain any doubts of his ability to secure all that he wished. he permitted several good shots to pass, for the reason that he did not wish to fire until the hour was up. by this means he unconsciously increased the distance between himself and leslie, until it occurred to him that the hour had nearly expired. a few minutes after, having a good opportunity, he improved it, and, securing his prize, turned to retrace his steps. then it flashed upon him, for the first time, that he was lost. as we said, he had failed to notice the direction, and had no idea of the course to pursue in order to reach the river. the only means left was to proceed by guess; contrary to what might be expected, he took the right course. his anxiety caused him to be somewhat heedless; and after proceeding a short distance, he again discharged his rifle. then hearing the report of leslie's rifle but a short distance away, he set joyously forward, confident of soon coming up to him. he had not gone far when he heard a suppressed, significant whistle. hardly conscious of its meaning, he paused and listened. it was repeated, and becoming suspicious, he sprung behind a tree. while listening, the subdued voice of kent reached him: "make for the river, george; the imps are on your trail." he turned to obey this injunction, but had not taken a dozen steps when a rifle flamed from some concealment, and a twinge in his side told him that he was wounded. at the same instant several savages sprung toward him, setting up their demoniac howls. the pain of his wound maddened him, and, regardless of consequences, he raised his rifle and shot the foremost through the breast, when scarcely the length of his gun from him. this act, though rash, and one which he would not have done in his cooler moments, was the means eventually of saving his life. the intention of the savages was to kill him on the spot; but the death of one of their number increased their fury and thirst for vengeance, and the chief or leader deterred the others from further violence, determined that his death should be at the stake. "you shoot indian, eh?" said one, through his closed teeth, brandishing his knife at the same time in the face of the young man. [illustration: "you shoot indian, eh?" said one, brandishing his knife at the same time.] he made no reply; but weakened by the loss of blood, sunk fainting to the ground. he was jerked to his feet, and although barely able to stand, was forced forward, and compelled to keep pace with the others. the indians who had thus captured leland were the same band who had pursued him and kent. the latter had taken a circuitous course, and, after placing a considerable distance between himself and his enemies, took the back track and reached the gorge where leslie had fallen, hoping to find him there; but being disappointed, followed his trail to the river where he saw that he had embarked in the boat. kent knew that his own trail would be followed. in order to mislead the savages, he took to the water and swam about a half-mile down-stream before he landed upon the opposite side. but it seemed that fate was against him. the savages in pursuing him had separated somewhat. kent's ruse one of them accidentally discovered, and apprised his companions. they collected and immediately took the right trail. the first intimation the ranger had of his danger was the whistling of a bullet a few inches from his head, as he was nearing the bank; and when his feet rested upon land, his unwearied and tenacious enemies were in the river, boldly crossing toward him. when the indians reached the bank, kent was already at a great distance, yet they continued their pursuit, and had gone some distance, when the first report of leland's rifle reached their ears. this they mistook for kent's, and abandoning the trail, made directly toward it. the second discharge of the young man's gun occurred when he was but a short distance from them. kent endeavored to warn him of his danger, but as we have seen, it was too late. he himself was discovered and hotly pursued to the boat, where he barely succeeded in making his escape. leland's captors took up their march toward the ohio. here, although their captive was suffering intense agony, they forced him into the water, and compelled him to swim across. every stroke he thought would be his last, yet he reached the shore in safety. the band set forward at once. there were six savages, upon two of whom the duty of attending leland devolved. yet he required little watching or attention. the thought of escape was far from his mind; he was in a sad situation to rebel or offer resistance. both hands were firmly secured behind him, and his strength was taxed to the utmost to keep up with his captors. in the course of a couple of hours they came upon two of their companions, seated around and amusing themselves with a negro. each appeared to enjoy himself prodigiously at the expense of the poor african, who was boiling over with furious rage. "get out, niggers!" he shouted, "my head's split wide open now, sure!" here one of the savages amused himself by letting the end of a weighty stick fall upon the head of the negro. the luxuriant wool caused it to re-bound again, to the infinite delight of the tormentors, who smiled horribly at it. leland recognized zeb as he came up. it gave him a sort of pleasure, or rather served to lighten his pain, to know that they were to be companions in captivity. he could probably obtain information of rosalind, while the conversation of the slave might assist to keep off the gloom which was settling over him. "gorra, ef dar ain't massa leland," exclaimed the negro, turning toward the approaching indians. "high! whar'd _you_ come from, george? what did you let 'em cotch _you_ fur?" "because i could not prevent it," returned he, with a faint smile. "well, now, if't had been dis pusson, you see, dey'd 've had some trouble." "how is it that you are here, then?" "well, dat question requires considerable explanation. i know'd as how dey's agoin' to git _you_, and so i just come along to help you out de scrape." here the conversation ceased for the present. leland had stretched himself upon the ground, and the pain of his wound increased. a savage noticing this, prepared a sort of poultice of pounded leaves and herbs, and placed it upon his side. had this been done with a view to alleviate his suffering and not to preserve him for a great and awful torture, as it really was, leland might have felt disposed to thank him for it. it had now begun to grow dark. a fire was started, and in a short time a large quantity of meat was roasted. a piece of this was offered to leland, but, though a short time before he had felt keenly the pangs of hunger, the sight of food now filled him with loathing. "s'posen you offer dis pusson a few pounds, just to see if he'll take it," suggested zeb, gazing wistfully toward the indian who held it. several pieces were given him, all of which he devoured voraciously and demanded more. an indian approached him, and holding a piece within a few inches of his mouth, jerked it away as he was about to seize it. this was repeated several times, until zeb, losing all patience, became morose and sullen and refused to snap at it. the savage seemed disposed to humor him and held it still closer. zeb, watching his opportunity, made a quick motion, and nearly severed the finger of his tormentor's hand, between his teeth. the savage dropped the meat with a howl, and furiously shaking his wounded member, fairly danced with pain. he would have undoubtedly killed the negro had not his companions prevented. they enjoyed the sport and encouraged zeb, who devoured his food for some time in dignified silence. "wouldn't mind tryin' some more. s'posen you hold out yer other hand!" no one noticed this remark, and the negro was obliged to rest satisfied with what he had obtained. as night came on, the savages stretched themselves upon the earth and left the prisoners to themselves. each was securely fastened. leland was within a few feet of zeb, yet he concluded to wait until all were asleep before he ventured to hold converse with him. at length when the night had considerably advanced, and the heavy breathing of the savages showed that slumber had at last settled upon them, george turned his head so that he faced the negro, and abruptly asked: "zeb, what do you know of my sister?" "noffin'!" returned the negro, earnestly. "were you not taken off together?" "at fust we was; but dey took her one way and me anoder." he then proceeded to narrate all the circumstances which had occurred to him, since the burning of the house, in his own characteristic way. "i am afraid you will soon have your last adventure," said leland. "gorra! does you s'pose dat dey'd dare to shake a stick at me when i's mad." "i think they were engaged at that when i came up." "well, dat you see is a mistake." "have you heard anything hinted of the manner in which they intend to dispose of you?" "not much, but i consates dat i knows. dey'll just make me dar chief, if i'll stay wid 'em, and i's bout 'cluded dat i would, just so dat i can pay 'em for dis trick." "have they made the proposition yet?" asked george, feeling a strange impulse to amuse himself. "well, 'bout as good. dey axed me not to hurt 'em, and said somefin' 'bout tying somebody to a tree and roastin' 'em. s'pose dey's 'fraid i'll do it to all ob 'em one dese days, if dey isn't careful." "why do they misuse you, if they intend to elevate you?" "well, dat's hard to tell. they've gone and went and cut all my curls off." "never mind such things," said leland, again feeling depressed. "in all probability neither you nor i will see many more days. unless we are rescued pretty soon, we shall be past all human help. i advise you, zeb, to let serious thoughts enter your mind. think of the world which you are soon to enter, and try and make some preparation for it." the negro gazed wonderingly at leland, then turned his head without speaking. the words probably had some effect upon him, for he made no further observations. his silence seemed occasioned by the doom pending over him. that night was one never to be forgotten by leland. the pain of his wound, and the still greater pain of his thoughts, prevented a moment's sleep. hour after hour he gazed into the smoldering embers before him, buried in deep meditation, and conjuring up fantastic figures in the glowing coals. then he watched the few stars which were twinkling through the branches overhead, and the sighing of the solemn night-wind made music that chorded with the feelings of his soul. far in the small hours of the night, he lay still awake, sending up his prayer to the only eye that saw him, and to the only one that could assist him. chapter ix. zeb's revenge. when the king of terrors shakes his sword at his victim, unwonted yearnings come over the human heart. to die alone, removed from home and friends, when strange faces are beside us, is a fate which we all fervently pray may not be ours. yet, when these strangers are enemies, and our death is at their hands--when every shriek or moan elicits only jeers and laughter, how unspeakably dreadful is the fate! he who has lost a dear friend in war, that has languished and died in the hands of strangers, and perhaps received no burial at their hands--he who mourns such a loss, may be able to appreciate, in some degree, the mournful situation of young leland, in the hands of the malignant shawnees. it is at such times as these, if at no other, that the stricken and bowed heart turns to the one who alone can cheer and sustain. when shut out from all prospect of human help, and conscious that there is but one arm which is not shortened, we do not draw back from calling upon that arm to sustain us in the dark hour of trial. with the dull glow of the slumbering camp-fire, the grotesque groups of almost unconscious sleepers, the solemn sighing of the night-wind, and the twinkle of the stars through the branches overhead--with such mournful surroundings as these, george leland sent up his prayer of agony to god. he prayed, not for life, but for the preparation to meet the death impending. the soft wailing of the night-zephyr seemed to warn him that the death-angel was approaching every moment. he prayed for his beloved sister in the hands of ruthless enemies--prayed only as he could pray when he realized her peril. and he sent up his petition for the safety of leslie, who might still be awaiting his return--for the rough ranger with him, and for the rude, untutored negro, now his brother-prisoner. a short distance away, he could discern the shadowy form of zeb, bound against a tree, while scattered around him were stretched the savage sentinels, whether asleep or not he was unable to tell. as for that matter, however, they might as well have been unconscious as awake, for the slumber of the north american indian is so delicate that a falling leaf is sufficient to disturb it. the heart of leland bled for the poor ignorant colored man. his prolonged silence showed that he had begun to realize, in some measure, his appalling situation. his natural thoughtlessness and recklessness could not last forever. it might carry him into many a danger, but not _beyond_ it. the shawnees seemed to imagine that the bonds of the prisoners were secure, and that there was no possibility of their escape. in fact, leland had no hopes of release. had his hands been free, he might have ventured to do something; but at present they were as useless as if he were deprived altogether of those members. it was fully an hour beyond midnight, when, in spite of his situation, leland began to yield to the fatigue of the day. his head drooped upon his breast, and he started fitfully. it is at such times as these that the nervous system seems to be most fully alive to what is passing. the prisoner was just in this state of mind when his attention was arrested by a sound no louder than the murmuring wind above him--so low, indeed, that it would have escaped his attention altogether, had it not been of a character different from that monotonous moaning. with the consciousness of this sound, came also the knowledge that it was a continuous one, and had been in progress some time. at first it seemed to be in the tree above him, but a moment's listening proved that it came from the direction of the negro, zeb. the darkness had deepened somewhat during the last hour, so that he could barely make the outline of the fellow, but could not discern any motion upon his part, unless it was an absolute change of position. all doubt as to zeb being the author of the disturbing sound was removed as soon as leland became fully awake. it came directly from toward him, and was of such a nature that it could not have been caused by one of the sleeping shawnees. with his eyes intently fixed upon the shadowy outlines of the negro, leland saw the upper part of his body move forward, and then suddenly straighten itself again. this singular movement was repeated several times, and then, to his amazement, he saw the african step clear away from the tree and approach him! as zeb deposited his foot upon the ground, it was slowly and cautiously, and at each time he threw his outstretched arms upward, like a bird when flying, distorting his face also, as if the effort caused him extreme pain. but he passed the sleepers safely, and was soon beside his master. "how did you succeed in freeing yourself?" he asked. "golly, i chawed 'em off!" he replied, with a suppressed chuckle. "had a great notion of chawin' de tree off, so dat it mought fall on dem and broke dar necks." "'sh! you are making too much noise," admonished leland, in a guarded whisper. "shall i eat up your cords?" "loosen them around my wrists and arms, and then i will help myself." "yere's de instruments dat will do dat same t'ing," said zeb, applying himself to the task at once. he progressed with such celerity and success that in a few moments, to leland's unspeakable delight, he found his arms at liberty. it need scarcely be said that these were immediately used to assist the negro in his further efforts. the excitement and nervousness of the young man were so great, that when his limbs were freed of the fetters he was scarcely able to stand, and, for a few moments, was on the very verge of fainting. the sudden renewal of hope overcame him for the time. by a powerful effort he regained his self-possession, and strove, in the few hurried seconds that were his, to decide upon some means of action. it may be said that the two prisoners were literally surrounded by savages. they were stretched on every side of them, and before either dare hope to escape, it was necessary (if the expression be allowable) to scale the dreaded prisonwall. leland had good cause to fear success for himself and his sable companion in this attempt. he found, to his chagrin and dismay, that scarcely any reliance at all could be placed upon his own limbs. his legs especially, from their long confinement in one position, were so cramped and spasmodic, that, when he stepped out from the tree to join the negro, one of them doubled like a reed beneath him and let him fall to the ground. he believed it was all over with him; but his fall was so gentle as not to disturb the sleepers, and he once more raised himself to his feet. "shan't i carry dat sick leg while you walk wid de oder one?" inquired zeb, in a sympathetic tone. "it is almost useless to me at present," replied leland. "let me lean upon you while we walk, and for the love of heaven, zeb, be cautious. a single mismove, and it will be all up with us." "strikes dis chile dat it was ober wid you jes' now, de way you cawalloped onto de ground jes' now." "my leg is asleep and numb." "let's wake it up, den." leland paused a few moments until the circulation was somewhat restored; but, as every moment seemed so fraught with peril to him, he whispered to the negro to move ahead, repeating his petition for him to exercise the most extreme caution in all his movements. after all, the young man knew that the peril of both lay in the habitual recklessness of the ignorant fellow. at first zeb entirely overdid the matter. the trained elephant that steps over the prostrate and pompous form of van amburgh, was not more careful and tardy in the performance of his feat than was the negro in passing the unconscious form of a shawnee. although leland deemed this circumspection unnecessary, he did not protest, as he feared, in case he did so, the negro would run into the opposite extreme. the foot of zeb was lifted in the very act of stepping over the third and last savage, when a smoldering ember parted, and a twist of flame flared up. at that instant, he looked down and recognized in the features of the indian, the one who had taken such especial delight in tormenting him through the day. the negro paused while he was yet astride of him. "look dar!" he whispered, "dat's him; tired himself out so much pullin' at my wool, dat he is sleepin' like a chicken in de egg." leland made no reply, but motioned for him to proceed; but zeb stubbornly maintained his position. "look what a mouf he has!" he added; "tremenjus! if 'twas only two, free inches wider on each side, he mought outshine me; but it's no use de way de affair is got up jes' now." "go on! go on!" repeated leland, shoving him impatiently with his hand. "in jes' one minit. dat's him dat bothered me so much to-day. i'd like to smoke him for it! gorra! if he hain't woke. dar--take dat!" the savage, who had been awakened and alarmed by the voice of the negro, received a smashing blow in his face, that straightened him out completely. realizing his imminent peril, leland at once leaped away in the woods at the top of his speed, the negro taking a direction almost opposite. every shawnee was aroused; the critical moment for the fugitives was upon them. chapter x. the brief reprieve. leland succeeded in getting outside the circle of savages when, feeling himself in the open woods, he dashed away at the top of his speed. he ran with astonishing swiftness for a few moments, when, as might naturally be expected, he so exhausted himself that he was scarcely able to stand. from the moment of starting, the shawnees seemed to understand the identity of the fugitives; and while they did not neglect to send in pursuit of the flying negro, four of their fleetest runners instantly dashed after the white man. were it in the daylight, the latter would not have stood a moment's chance against them; but he hoped to elude them in the darkness and gloom of the woods. the obscuration being only partial, his pursuers close in his rear, and the noise of the rustling leaves beneath his feet betraying every step, it will be seen at once that he was in the most constant and imminent danger. pausing but a few seconds--barely sufficient to catch his "second breath," he again leaped away. there is no telling how long he would have run, had he not stepped into a hole, deep and narrow--the mouth of a fox's burrow evidently, for it was quite hidden by overgrowth--he fell into the hole with a sudden violence which confused and stunned him. panting and exhausted, he lay still and awaited his pursuers. they were far closer than he imagined. he seemed scarcely to have disappeared, when the whole four passed within a few feet of him. how fearfully his heart throbbed as the foot of one threw several leaves upon his person! leland had lain here less than five minutes, when a second footstep startled him. it came from an entirely different direction; and approaching to within about a dozen feet, it halted. rising to his hands and feet so that his head was brought upon a level with the ground, he peered through the darkness at the object. one long, earnest, scrutinizing look, revealed the dress of a large indian. his position was so favorable that he could even make out the rifle he held in his hand. he stood as motionless as a statue for a moment, and then gave utterance to a cry that resembled exactly that of the whippoorwill. receiving no response, he repeated it again, but with no better success than before. the cowering fugitive was listening for the slightest movement upon his part, when to his unfeigned amazement, the indian in a suppressed whisper called out, "_leland!_" the young man, however, was not thrown off his guard. he knew that every one of his captors spoke the english language, some of them quite fluently. it need scarcely be said that he made no response to the call, even when it was iterated again and again. the savage during these utterances did not stir a hand or foot, but seemed to bend all his faculties into the one of listening. he had stood but a few moments, when leland caught the rustle of approaching feet. the indian detected them at the same moment, and instantly moved off, but with such a catlike tread that the young man scarcely heard him at all. ah! had he but known the identity of that strange indian, and responded to his call, he would have been saved. it was scarcely a moment later when the whole four indians came back at a leisurely gait, and halted not more than a rod from where leland imagined he lay concealed. they commenced conversing at once in broken english: "white man got legs of deer--run fast," said one. "yeh!--git away from four shummumdewumrum--run much fast," added another. "go back to camp--stay dere--won't come among shawnee ag'in--don't like him, t'ink." "he run much fast--mebbe fast as black man." at this point the whole four laughed immoderately, as if in remembrance of the ludicrous figure of zeb. their mirth continued for several moments, when they sobered down and renewed their conversation. "wait till daylight--den foller trail t'rough woods--shummumdewumrum git eye on it--soon cotch him." this leland felt was now his great danger. should his pursuers return to their camp, he hoped the distance that he thus gained upon them would be sufficient to carry him entirely beyond their reach; but if they decided to remain where they were, his only chance was to steal away before the morning came. judging such to be their intention, he determined to make the attempt at once. on his hands and knees he commenced crawling forward, listening to every word that was uttered. "white man try hard to git away--don't like shawnee great much." "he run much fast, _den fall down in woods_!" "_den try to crawl away like snake!_" leland saw that it was all over with him and gave up at once. the indians had been aware of his hiding-place from the moment he fell, and their passage beyond it, their return and their conversation, were all made on purpose to toy with his fears, as a cat would play with a mouse before destroying it. as one of the savages uttered the last words, he walked directly to the prostrate man, and ordered him to arise. leland judged it best to resist no further. he accordingly obeyed; and, saddened and despairing, was led back a prisoner to the indian camp. * * * * * we have heard of a fish, known in the humble fisherman's parlance as the _ink-fish_, which, when pursued by an enemy, has the power of tinging the water in its immediate vicinity with such a dark color, that its pursuer is completely befogged and gives up the hopeless chase in disgust. a realizing sense of his recklessness and his imminent peril came over zeb when he felled the rising shawnee to the earth. it was his intention, in the first place, to serve every one in the same manner; but as they came to their feet far more rapidly than he anticipated, he gave over the idea, and, with a "ki! yi!" plunged headlong into the woods. at this very juncture, the attention of the indians was taken up with leland, as the more important captive of the two, and for a moment the negro escaped notice; but the instant the four started after him, two others gave zeb their undivided attention. the sable fugitive, with all his recklessness, did the very best thing that could have been done under the circumstances. instead of fleeing, as did leland, he ran less than a hundred yards, when he halted abruptly and took a position behind a sapling. here he stood as motionless as death, while his enemies came on. whether his intensely black countenance had the power of diffusing deeper darkness into the surrounding gloom, or whether it was the unexpected manner of his flight that deluded his pursuers, we are unable to say. certain it is that although the two savages passed very closely to him, neither saw nor suspected his presence. "gorra, but dat's soothin'," chuckled zeb. "dey've missed me dis time, shuah! wonder whether dey'll outlive dar disapp'intment, when dey finds out dat when dey finds me, dey hain't found me! ki! yi!" he maintained his motionless position for several moments longer, all the while listening for his enemies. as their footsteps finally died out in the distance, and he realized that he was left alone indeed, his former characteristic returned to him. "what's to be done, dat _am_ de question!" said he, speaking in an incautiously loud voice, as he spread out his left hand at the same time, and rested the forefinger of his right upon it. "in de _fust_ place, i don't know what has become of master leland. if he's done got away, how am i to find him? if i sets up a yell to cotch his ear, like 'nuff de oders will hear it also likewise. den if he hasn't got away what _am_ de use ob bawlin' to him. guess i won't bawl." so much was settled at least. the fact that it would not only be a useless but an extremely dangerous undertaking to make an outcry at that particular time, worked itself through his head, and the intention was accordingly given over for the present. "one thing _am_ sartin, howsumever," he added. "i'm hungry, and i know dar am some meat left by dat camp-fire, dat would relish high jus' now. but had i oughter to go dar or not? dey mought found me, but den i'm hungry." when our own personal feelings are put into the balance, they are apt to outweigh the dictates of prudence and sense. the experiences of the night, although fraught in their teachings to the ignorant black man, had not as yet attained sufficient dignity to stand before the animal feelings of his nature. although he comprehended in a degree the risk he run, he decided it was worth his while to do it, rather than suffer for a few hours longer the cravings of what was only a moderate degree of hunger. "de stummich am de most importantest part ob man, and consequently am de fust thing dat should receive his undiwided attention." with this philosophical conclusion, he turned his footsteps toward the camp-fire. despite its proximity, he experienced considerable difficulty in finding it. the few smoldering embers, gleaming like a demon's eye, guided him, however, to the spot. "dar _am_ anoder matter sartin," thought he, as he came up. "mr. zebenezer langdon is not agwine to be able to s'arch here for de meat onless he has some more light--ki! dat coal am warm!" he exclaimed, as he hopped off from the fiery end of a fagot. it required but a few moments to gather sufficient fuel to replenish the fire. the hot coals set the wood almost immediately into a roaring blaze, which threw a warm, rich light through the surrounding woods for many yards around. zeb was radiant with smiles. the cool night and the constrained position had chilled him considerably, and he gave the fire a few moments to infuse the comfortable warmth into his person. "now i'll jes' warm up my hands like," said he, after a few minutes, "and den i'll go to work;" and forthwith he held them toward the blaze, rubbing and turning them into each other with great zest and enjoyment. "_dar_, i guess dat'll do. now i'll make a s'arch--gorra! whar did _you_ come from?" as the negro turned, he found himself standing face to face with the two shawnees who had started in his pursuit but a short time before! he realized that he was recaptured, and made no resistance. he was instantly re-bound to the very tree from which he had escaped, while the indians sat upon the ground very near him, firmly resolved that he should not again have so favorable an opportunity to leave them. the negro was hardly secured, when the other savages made their appearance with leland. he was also fastened to the identical tree from which he had been loosened; and there, sad, gloomy and despairing, he was left until morning. chapter xi. a friend. in a short time the whole body of indians were awake and astir. the morning meal was soon prepared and hastily eaten, and they set forward. leland found that his wound was much better, and he traveled without difficulty. the savages took a southerly direction, and appeared to be journeying toward the destination of those who held rosalind. their march continued without interruption until noon, when they halted for a couple of hours for rest and food. for the first time, george partook of some, and felt in a more hopeful frame of mind. zeb was as usual, and continued quarreling and abusing and threatening every one within his reach. "if dis isn't shameful, treating a pusson like me in dis way. i's sorry dat i ever come wid you. i 'spects ebery bone in my body is broke in pieces." "you said last night that they dare not touch you," interrupted leland. "well, dat's a subject dat you can't understand, and i haven't time to 'splain it. dey're perwoken, anyhow, and dey's agwine to cotch dar pay some ob dese days." consoled with this reflection, zeb kept steadily upon his way, seemingly as happy as a person could be when laboring under a slight provocation. no further words passed between him and leland for a considerable time. the latter was busy with his own thoughts, and began to feel the fatigues of their long-continued journey. they had set out at an early hour, and had halted only at noon. the traveling was very difficult at times, often leading through tangled underwood and swamps, where a person's weight bore him deep into the mire; and now and then some sluggish, poisonous serpent crawled from beneath their feet, or hissed at them from some decayed tree. about the middle of the afternoon they paused upon the banks of a stream of considerable size, which was a tributary to the big sandy. though broad, it was not deep, and could be easily forded. the water flowed quite swiftly, and being perfectly translucent, the bottom could be seen from either shore. here the indians exhibited their usual cunning and foresight. during their journey, they had proceeded in "indian file," permitting their prisoners, however, to walk after their usual manner. the reason for their adopting the caution mentioned with themselves, was more from habit than anything else. although suspecting they might be pursued, yet they had little fear of an enemy, and omitted, as we have seen, to employ a sentinel at night. one of the savages stepped into the water, and, taking a few steps, was followed by another, who placed his feet upon the stones, in the tracks that he had used and made. thus each one did until leland and zeb were driven in and warned to do likewise. the former had no difficulty in obeying, but the latter, either through mistake or design, made several provoking blunders. he seemed to use his utmost endeavors to step into the tracks of those before him, but instead of succeeding, was sure to place his foot a good distance from it; and losing his foothold when about in the center of the stream, came down with an awkward splash into the water. "gorra!" he exclaimed, regaining his position, "dat fish pulled awful." the savages nearest cast threatening looks toward him, and he reached the shore without further mishap. at about sundown the party came to a halt, and a fire was started. leland and zeb found themselves in the same condition as upon the preceding night, with the exception that a closer surveillance was kept upon their actions. george partook sparingly of supper, while zeb's appetite was as insatiate as ever. a guard was stationed as soon as it was fully dark, and the indians appeared disposed to amuse and enjoy themselves until a late hour. one of their number, with a hoarse, guttural "ugh!" approached the negro. "you needn't come here," ejaculated zeb, divining his intention. the savage paid no attention to him, but continued approaching. had the negro been free, he might have offered resistance and occasioned considerable trouble; but besides having his arms bound; his legs were joined at the ankles and he was thus rendered helpless. "plenty wool," said the savage, placing his hand upon his head. he made no answer, but glanced furtively and suspiciously at him. "nice, good," he added; then closing his hand, gave a vigorous jerk. "lord help me!" screamed zeb, rolling over in helpless agony. "poor fellow," repeated the indian, approaching him and rubbing his back, after the manner which a celebrated horse-tamer advises. then, watching his opportunity, he seized another quantity and pulled it forth. to his surprise, this elicited no remark from his victim, and he repeated it. this time he succeeded no better than before. zeb was lying upon his back and staring at his tormentor in unspeakable fury. the indian, still determined upon amusement, again approached. zeb remained motionless until he stooped over him; then bending his knees to his chin, he gathered all his strength, and planted both feet in his chest, throwing him a dozen feet. the savage groaned and doubled up in his agony, and gasped spasmodically for breath. "dar, how does dat set on your stummich? yah! yah! dat's fun!" although this for the moment amused the others, yet it likewise excited their anger, and there is no telling what the end would have been, had not their attention been suddenly called in another direction. this was occasioned by the arrival of a stranger among them. leland gazed at the new-comer, and saw a tall, powerfully-built and well-shaped savage stalk boldly forward toward the fire, and exchange salutations with those seated around. all regarded him suspiciously at first, yet his boldness and assurance seemed to disarm them, and room was made for him. the pipe was passed to him, and taking it, he smoked several minutes in silence, during which time he seemed unconscious that the eye of every one was bent upon him. having finished, he turned and passed it to the one nearest him, then gazing thoughtfully for a few moments in the fire, commenced a conversation with the chief. he spoke their tongue as correctly and fluently as any of them, which served to disarm them still more. he stated that he had been out with a couple of indians, scouring the country for prey, when they were set upon and pursued by two hunters, who at the first shot killed his companion. he succeeded in effecting his escape after a hot pursuit of nearly a day, and encountering a trail which he supposed to be his friends', he followed it up and found that he was not mistaken. on hearing this recital, several of the savages appeared to suspect that kent and leland were the two to whom he referred, and directed his attention toward their captives. the savage stared wonderingly toward them for a moment, and slowly shook his head. he had never seen either before. although none of the indians could show any reason for suspecting their visitor, except his strange arrival among them, still they were not reckless and foolish enough to leave him to himself, or to permit him to depart. besides the two who were stationed at a distance as sentinels, one remained awake to keep an eye upon his movements. yet this precaution was useless; for to all appearances, he slept as deeply as any of them, and was among the latest who awoke in the morning. leland fell asleep about midnight, and gained a few hours of undisturbed rest. in the morning he was considerably refreshed, and had it not been for the awful doom that threatened him, would have possessed a joyous fund of spirits. his wound, which had been only an ugly flesh one, had ceased to trouble him, and he experienced no pain except from the ligaments that bound him. as he increased in strength, these were increased in number and tightness, until his limbs swelled and pained him more than his hurt. it is the same with the body as with the mind. the sorest affliction that can visit us will not occasion half the murmuring and discontent that the petty annoyances and grievances of every-day life do. could the pain which harassed leland, and in the end nearly drove him frantic, have been concentrated into a few moments, or even into a half-hour, he could have borne it without a murmur; but it was the continual, never-ceasing, monotonous length of it that troubled him. several times in the course of their journey, leland was upon the point of beseeching his enemies to kill him at once, and end his misery; and had he reason to believe that they would have gratified him, he would not have hesitated a moment; but such a request would have been useless. at noon, as usual, the party came to a halt, and a couple proceeded to bind leland to a tree. during the proceeding he broke the cords that pained him so much, and they were replaced by others. the latter, however, were much more lax, and he felt greatly relieved when they were placed upon him. as soon as he was secured to the body of the tree, the savage left him and joined his companions. leland closed his eyes as if to shut out the terrible reality, and the dancing lights that flickered before him, together with the hum that filled his ears, told him that for a moment he had succeeded. but he was soon recalled to a sense of his situation by the _zip_ of a tomahawk within a few inches of his head. opening his eyes, he soon comprehended the state of things. the savages were amusing themselves by ascertaining who could send his tomahawk nearest the body of their captive without touching him. the first weapon that had been sent had missed his head, as we have said, by a few inches; but the next was still closer, and leland felt the wind of it, as it buried itself in the solid oak by his cheek. he again closed his eyes, and fervently prayed that one of their hatchets might sink into his skull instead of the tree; yet there was not much danger of such an occurrence; for the savages exercised perfect skill, and rarely failed of sending their weapons to the very point intended. [illustration: the savages were amusing themselves by ascertaining who could send his tomahawk nearest the body of their captive without touching him.] leland opened his eyes as a tomahawk came fearfully close to his forehead. he wished to see who had hurled it. he soon saw that it was the strange indian, who was approaching to withdraw it. it was buried deeper than the others; and as the savage placed his hand upon it, it required considerable of an effort to extricate it. while doing so, leland heard the following words whispered by the stranger: "don't be scart, george; it's kent whiteman that has got his eye upon you." these words came near proving fatal to both. they so startled leland that he could not prevent himself from betraying somewhat his emotion and excitement. this was observed by a savage near at hand, who approached to satisfy himself of the cause. leland, suspecting his motive, repeated the action and accompanied it by a shudder, as though the scene which was being enacted had overcome him. this satisfied the wily indian, who retreated and joined the others. hope was again awakened in leland's breast--painful hope, that increased his doubts and fears--hope that drowned the torture that beset him--hope that sent the life-blood coursing rapidly and hotly through his veins, and increased the charms which life had held out to him. leland was shortly released from his unenviable situation, and zeb put in his place. the negro made no threats or declaration, but submitted to the trying ordeal without a word. the scenes through which he had passed had evidently had some effect upon him. he seemed to possess a faint realization of the danger in which he and his companion were placed. and yet it could not be said that he was really frightened, for he evinced no fear of any of his enemies, and his silence had the appearance of being occasioned by sullenness and apathy. he did not tremble in the least, but gazed unflinchingly at the tomahawks, as they came revolving and seemingly directed toward his head, and struck beside him. finding that they had about lost their power over their captives, the indians released zeb, and permitted him and his master to lie down upon the ground. leland could not prevent his gaze from wandering toward kent now and then, yet their eyes did not meet. the latter betrayed no interest whatever in either of the captives, and seemed as indifferent to their fate as any of the others. the negro had no suspicion of the true state of things, and perhaps it was best that he had not. he might have unwittingly betrayed it, and kent did not choose to warn him. the fact was, it could have done him but little good at any rate; for kent had determined to rescue leland, if possible, and leave zeb for the present to shift for himself. the white _man_ was the first upon whom they would wreak their vengeance, and aside from the greater estimation in which his life was held, from the very nature of the case, he required the first attention. chapter xii. escape. the hunter in the course of the day had gained a full knowledge of the intentions of the indians in regard to their captives. leland was to suffer death at the stake at an early period, while the negro was to be reserved until some indefinite time in the future, to be tortured. the hunter had completely succeeded in disarming his enemies of every suspicion. he had employed himself, as we have seen, in throwing his tomahawk at leland; and learning through a casual remark that he was to be put to the torture, he expressed his opinion strongly in favor of it, urging them at the same time to do it as soon as possible. he made himself perfectly at home, and was so free among them, that a stranger would have considered him one of the leading characters. so perfectly had kent dissembled, that at night, unexpectedly to himself, he was chosen as one to watch leland. the negro was firmly fastened to a tree and left to himself, while george was to sleep between two savages. at supper-time kent brought him a good-sized piece of well-cooked meat, and gave him to understand that he was to eat it at all events. leland took it without daring to meet his benefactor's eye, and ate all that was possible. the negro received his meal from the same hand without the remotest suspicion that a friend was so near him, and even went so far as to insult him as much as was in his power, for not bringing him a larger quantity of food. to carry out still further the appearance of things, kent tore a small tuft from the negro's head, as if to revenge himself. "blast you," he shouted, "if i doesn't flog you till you can't stand. just hold out your paw a minute." zeb used his utmost powers of persuasion to induce kent to reach his hand toward him, hoping to revenge himself as he had upon a former occasion; but the hunter was too shrewd for him, and with a threatening gesture, left him to himself, and joined his companions. "gorra!" said zeb to leland, "if i doesn't believe dat dat's de nigger i sawed up in de barn toder day." "you mean cut up?" "all de same; leastways ef 'tis him, he's cotched his pay afore he come sneakin' about here." now that leland knew assistance was at hand, he experienced a desire to converse with the negro, and thus help to pass away time, which had grown intolerably monotonous. turning to the old slave, he resumed: "he is a savage-looking individual." this was said in order to quell any suspicion or doubt that might have entered his head. "dat he is; but he'd better keep away from me, if he doesn't want his picter sp'iled," returned the negro. "what were you abusing him for, a few minutes ago, when he brought your food?" "well, you see, he's afraid i's agwine to hurt him, and begun to beg off. it makes me _so_ mad to see any feller afraid dat i let out on him, and he took himself off in a mighty big hurry." "have you lost much of your wool?" "two or free hands full; dat's all. 'bout all growed in ag'in; but i ca'culate dat de next dat gits his hand in my head'll get it in a steel-trap. if i gits my grinder on 'im he'll see," said zeb, with a meaning shake of his head. "i guess that they will not trouble you further for the present," added leland, with that air of assurance which one feels for the safety of another when his own case is free from danger. "don't know 'bout dat, but i'd like to have 'em try." "well, your wish is about to be gratified," said leland, as he noticed a savage approaching him. "gorra, don't come here!" said zeb, staring at him. the savage did not heed his warning, however, but continued to advance, and made a motion as if to strike him. the black man closed his eyes, bent his head toward him and drew his face in all manner of furious contortions. the savage, however, left him without provoking him further. leland was allowed to remain in his position until the savages stretched themselves out to rest. they remained up later than usual, smoking and recounting their deeds and boasting of the exploits they intended to accomplish. kent narrated some marvelous stories, which greatly excited their wonder and admiration of him. the time thus occupied seemed interminable to leland, who was in a fever of excitement and anxiety; but at last kent stretched himself beside him, while the other watch did the same upon the opposite side. still it would probably be hours before anything could be done, and leland was compelled to suffer the most intense and anxious impatience for a long time. his thoughts prevented him from feeling the least desire to sleep, and he could only worry and writhe in his helpless position. kent, in arranging a place for himself beside him, bent his head to his ear and breathed: "pretend to sleep." although this was said in less than a whisper, leland heard the words distinctly and prepared to follow the warning. to prevent the slightest suspicion, he continued to groan and move for some minutes; but he gradually ceased, and after a while settled down into a state of rest. soon his heavy, regular breathing would have led any one into the belief that a heavy sleep was upon him. not the slightest voluntary motion was made, and kent remarked to his brother sentinel that their captive must be unconscious of the doom that awaited him. a cord was fastened to leland's wrist and then to kent's arm, so that the slightest movement upon the part of the former would disturb and awake the latter should he fall asleep. the other watch, noticing this, failed to adopt the same precaution. for a few more minutes the savage held a conversation with kent; but in the course of a half-hour the answers of the latter began to grow brief and indistinct, and finally ceased altogether; then he began to breathe more slowly and heavily, and the savage at last believed that both guard and prisoner were sound asleep. when lying upon the earth at night, with no one with whom a conversation can be held, and with nothing but the will to combat the approach of sleep, the person is almost sure to succumb sooner or later. at any rate, such was the case with the savage in question, and scarce an hour had elapsed since he had ceased speaking when he was as unconscious of the state of things around as though he had never been born. now was the time to commence operations; the critical moment had arrived, and kent commenced the work upon which probably more than one life depended. first he withdrew his knife from his belt, and severed the cord that bound him to leland. then as cautiously, silently and quickly, cut the thong that held his feet. this was the first intimation leland had that his friend was at work. leland's hands, as we have said, were bound behind; consequently it was necessary that he should turn upon his side in order that kent might reach them. he knew this and made the movement; but his excitement and agitation were so great that he turned too far, and in recovering himself, awoke the savage. his presence of mind and kent's cunning saved him. he groaned deeply and muttered to himself, while the hunter started up as though he had just awoke, and gazed wonderingly at him. "i wish he'd keep still," said he, in the indian tongue, lying down again. this satisfied the other, who fell back and closed his eyes. for an hour neither stirred. at the end of that time, kent raised his head and gazed cautiously around upon the circle of sleeping savages. zeb was at a short distance, resting as calmly as an infant upon its mother's breast. the one beside leland had again passed off to the land of dreams; yet an indian never sleeps soundly, and the slightest mishap upon the part of those who were awake and expecting to move, might arouse the whole body and bring certain and instant death upon them. it would not do to awaken the sleeping sentinel again. life now hung upon a thread. kent reached beneath leland and cut the cord. he was now free and at liberty to move. "be careful!" whispered the hunter, as he assisted him to his feet. leland could not suppress his agitation, yet he used all the caution in his power. but cautious as they both were, the savage nearest them awoke. kent had his eye upon him, and the instant he stirred, sprung like a panther toward him. one hand clutched his mouth, his knee pressed heavily upon his breast, and whipping out his knife, he forced it to the hilt in his body. nothing but the dull, fleshy sound, as it sunk into the seat of life, was heard. the bloody stream silently followed its withdrawal, there were several spasmodic struggles, and the savage straightened out in death. kent arose from the body and motioned to leland to follow him. not another being was awake, and tremblingly he followed over their prostrate, sleeping forms. they were just passing into the thick surrounding darkness, when the negro, through some means, awoke. "gorra," he shouted, "isn't you gwine to help dis pusson too?" "cuss that nigger," muttered the hunter. "keep close to me and use your pegs, fur a long run's before us." both darted away together, as the wild yells told them that their escape was discovered. those horrid, unearthly whoops, of which no idea can be had unless they be heard, set leland's blood on fire. in a moment the whole forest seemed swarming with their enemies, and the yells of many were fearfully near. kent could distance any of them when alone, yet the presence of leland retarded him somewhat. however, by taking the latter's hand, they both passed over the ground with great swiftness, and neither had much fear of being overtaken. on, on plunged the pursued, until many a mile had been passed; still they halted not. the voices and answering shouts of the savages could be heard upon every side, and they had yet by no means reached a place of safety. now some limb brushed in leland's face, or he stumbled over some fallen tree, and then, without a murmur, arose and pursued his way. on, on they hurried, until the dispersing darkness told them that the day was not far distant. "i can travel no further," said leland, sinking to the earth. "give out?" queried kent. "i believe i have. this is a terrible chase; but the prospect of a recapture and death cannot goad me further, until i have rested." "wal, no mistake we have tramped some; but lord save you, this is just fun for me." "do you not think that they will abandon pursuit?" "no danger of that. as soon as 'tis light they'll pounce upon our trail, and foller it until it's lost or we are cotched." "which must not be." "wal, p'raps if they get their claws on you you wouldn't feel very comfortable." but they had passed through the most trying ordeals, and had now only to make their way as best they could. kent had some idea of the nature of the ground, and they progressed with greater ease and rapidity, after a short rest. "here we are," said the hunter, coming to a halt. leland gazed ahead, and saw a broad sheet of water which he knew must be the ohio. "and now," added kent, "we've got to hunt up leslie. he can't be far off, and i'm in hopes we'll stumble upon him afore day. just squat and make yourself miserable while i take a run up and down the bank." leland obeyed him, and in a moment was left alone, shivering in the chilly night-air, and feeling miserable indeed in his lonely situation. but he was not disposed to murmur; he had escaped death--that was enough. in the course of an hour kent returned with the information that he had found the boat about half a mile up, but that leslie was not in it. both started, and, after stumbling over bushes loaded with water, and sinking into the miry shore, and wading in the river by turns, they came upon it, pulled high up on the bank. it was becoming lighter every moment, and as kent knew that as soon as possible their trail would be followed, he was unwilling to brook the slightest delay. "as soon as one is out the scrape another gets in. here you have got clear, and now _he_ must go and make a fool of himself. if he's got taken, that's the meanest trick yet." "perhaps he is not far off," said leland, stepping in the boat and searching it. "he is not here, certainly," he added, after looking over it. "i'll wait a while, and then we must look out for ourselves. no use of losing our own hair in tryin' to help him," rejoined kent. both took the boat, and turning it over so as to free it from water, shoved it out from the beach. "halloa, leslie! if you're about just say so, and if you ain't let us know," shouted kent, in a loud voice. a silence of a few moments followed, when he repeated the call. to the surprise of both it was answered. "that you, kent?" came a voice as if its owner had just waked. "wal, i rather guess so; and it's my private opinion that you'd better tumble yourself in here in short order," returned kent. a dark form arose to all appearance from the ground, and pitching awkwardly forward, exclaimed: "you don't suppose a fellow would be in the boat through all that rain, do you? oh! is leland there?" he asked, pausing and collecting his senses. "no! poor fellow's scalped and burned at the stake. had to kill nine of them to save my own hair." leslie made no reply, but stepped silently into the boat. making his way toward the stern, he encountered the very person of whom he had been speaking. "hey! who is this?" he exclaimed, starting back. "a dead red-skin that i cotched," answered kent. "leland, sure as i live!" said leslie, joyously catching his hand. for a few moments they heeded not the mirth of kent at his joke, in their mutual congratulations. then they turned and heard him say: "what a couple of fools." they appreciated his rough kindness too well to make any reply. the boat was out in the river, and under the long, powerful impulses that the hunter gave it, was moving rapidly downward. chapter xiii. the captive. leland and leslie conversed and recounted to each other their adventures until those were exhausted, when they endeavored to keep off the chill by taking turns at the oars. morning at length began to appear. in a short time darkness lifted from the water, and the bright rays of the morning sun pierced the foliage of the forest and rested upon the stream. about the middle of the forenoon, kent ran in under the bank and sprung ashore. the day was quite warm, and it was a pleasure for the three to step upon the land and stretch themselves in the genial sunshine. they had, however, halted for consultation, and to determine upon the plan to pursue in order to rescue rosalind. "one more job finished and we'll rest a while," said kent. "and as we have depended upon and been guided and saved by your wisdom," said leslie, "of course, in this most important case your advice must be followed." "let's hear what you chaps have got to say first, 'cause p'raps you might accidentally say somethin' smart without knowin' it. i'll decide it after we all get through." "what seems to me the most feasible is this," commenced leland. "let all three of us follow the savages which have taken my sister, and after reaching their vicinity, by stratagem recover her. if it be impossible to do it in this way, make a bold dash and venture among them, and take her at all events." "killin' first 'bout one hundred injins, just to get 'em out the way, you know," said kent, with mock gravity. "come, leslie, it's your turn; and bein' you're so much interested, i 'spects to hear somethin' awful grand." leslie, to save his life, could not prevent a blush at this allusion. as might be expected, he had thought of more than one plan, long before asked for it, and replied without hesitation: "what i say is, _rescue_ her at all events, as george has said. of course, it's out of the question to do it by force, and we must outwit the savages. this i think possible, for the good reason that it has so often been done. all three of us, or perhaps, what would be better, you and myself can follow them up and retake her. george, in his present state, could do but little to aid us, and in all probability, will endanger the safety of all concerned." "i agrees with you there; and a little further. mr. leslie, 'in his present state,' _would_ do but little to aid us, and in all probability, endanger the safety of all concerned." "there is no need of jesting, kent. you know that it would be the best for you to have a companion, and who can you take but me?" "don't know but what it would. now, s'posen an old feller that don't know nothin' says somethin'?" said kent, good-humoredly; for he, as is generally the case with those of his class, had a habit of depreciating his own sagacity and foresight, when he really knew how much superior it was to his companion's. "don't know but what it would," he repeated. "s'pose if i's in your case, i'd feel the same; but you see, there's somethin' else to think of. s'posen we gets her, we hain't got any place to stick our heads in, and may be hunted forever after by the skunks. now as soon as convenient, we'll paddle down to the place where leland's house was burned, and drop him there; fur it won't do to take _you_ 'long, george. leslie understands the injins better than you, and it would just git us all into a muss, and like enough, make 'em knock her on the head, to save trouble. we'll take you up to your farm 'cause that'll be a place we can't miss very well; and if there's a shed or anything left, you can stow yourself away till we gets back. keep a good lookout, and don't get into any trouble. i'll take leslie along, for i s'pose he won't stay, and i've thought of a plan that'll take him to work with. there, you have my plan." "which you must admit, is the one that must be followed," said leslie, turning toward leland. "i suppose," he returned, "that your advice should be taken, although i confess that i had hoped to accompany you; but as i said, kent knows best, and the only proper course is to obey him." "well, let us not wait, now that we have decided what to do," said leslie, rising to his feet. "no; we ought to be movin', fur i opine we've a good tramp afore us." again the boat was shoved out, and shot onward. nothing worthy of mention occurred on the way. the next day, at noon, they reached their destination. leland's heart sunk within him, as he gazed up from the river and saw, where once his home had been, nothing but black and charred ruins. a portion of what had once been used as the barn remained entire, having escaped the flames. "this is just the thing," said kent, approaching it. "we'll fix it up a little and i'd advise you to go to sleep, and stay so until we get back." the three set vigorously to work, and in a short time they had made it quite comfortable. it consisted of logs placed firmly and compactly together, and secured so that a single person well armed could offer effectual resistance to a formidable enemy. being in a sort of clearing, it had the additional advantage of affording its inhabitant such a view that he could not be approached by any person without their being observed and thus giving him time to prepare for them. "there!" said the hunter, retreating a short distance and gazing at it. "i wouldn't ax a better place. you might bring down a hundred injins, and give me plenty powder and ball, i'd have the best fun in creation." "suppose they come upon all sides?" suggested leland. "all you got to do is to take the stock off your gun and shoot out of both ends of the barrel." "you can go now as soon as you please; but first tell me what time to expect you back." kent folded both arms over the muzzle of his gun, and shutting one eye, remained for a few moments buried in earnest thought. then he replied: "between five and eight days; probably on the sixth." "all ready?" queried leslie. "all ready," returned kent. both bade leland good-by, and after a few unimportant words, started upon their journey. leslie felt a wild, joyous thrill as he realized that he was really nearing rosalind; that in a short time, as he firmly believed, he should see and be able to assist her to procure her liberty. he could hardly restrain his impatience, but vainly urged kent to quicken his thoughtful, lagging steps. the sun had set, and darkness was slowly spreading over the great forest, when the two plunged into its depths and ventured upon their perilous, doubtful undertaking. for a considerable time we have left rosalind to herself, and with the reader's permission we will now return to her. the indians which held her, as was stated, journeyed far into the interior of kentucky before making a final halt. here they reached the village or headquarters of their tribe, and gave her to understand that her journey was at an end. the village numbered several hundred, and considering her defenseless position, the savages allowed her considerable liberty. from the first, however, she was made a slave and a drudge, and compelled to toil with the hardy squaws of their tribe, bearing their insults and sometimes even their blows. the hope and prospect of a speedy relief and deliverance enabled her to bear this without murmuring. she had not much fear of death, as she judged by their actions that their intention was to make her a prisoner for life. there is nothing in the animal creation but which is affected by kindness and obedience, and there is no race upon which it makes a more ready impression than the american. rosalind's continual gentleness and pleasing manner melted the hearts of many of the warriors, and more than one rude epithet was restrained by the meek loveliness of her face. yet she was sometimes in greater danger than she ever dreamed. all did not act and feel thus toward her; more than one voice demanded her blood, and while she lay quietly dreaming of some loved one, there was many an angry discussion over her life. deadly, baleful glances were given her, when in her musings she was unconscious of the notice of any one; and among the entire female portion there was not a squaw but what regarded her with feelings of jealousy and hatred. had she remained a month, at the end of that time her life would no doubt have been sacrificed. to quiet the continual broiling and angry feelings, the indians would have acted as they did in nearly a similar case some years before; she would have been tomahawked, as was the young miss mccrea. rosalind often wondered who the person could be that had interrupted her conversation with zeb upon the first night of her captivity. one day she was gratified with the knowledge. a savage approached her and commenced a conversation: "how is the pale-faced maiden?" she started at hearing her tongue spoken so well, and looking up recognized a middle-aged indian, that had frequently visited her house during her father's life. she replied: "very well." the savage was uneasy, and waited a few moments for her to speak further, but as she evinced no disposition to do so, he at length added: "does the maiden remember pequanon?" [illustration: "does the maiden remember pequanon?"] "she does," she returned, looking him steadily in the face. "she remembers him as one who received kindness both from her father's hand and her own, and as one who shows his gratitude by treacherously burning her home, and carrying her into captivity. yes, pequanon," she continued, bursting into tears at the remembrance of the event, "she remembers you and can never forget your conduct." "pequanon saved your life," he returned, feelingly. "and gave me a fate that is worse." "he went with his brothers when they burned your home, but he did not help. he went to save your life, and did do it. when the tomahawk was lifted over your head, he caught the arm and turned it aside. when your blood was called for, pequanon swore that it should not be had, and he has kept his word. pequanon never forgets kindness, and will die for the maiden that clothed and fed him." rosalind felt her heart moved with pity toward the poor, untutored savage who had thus really been grateful, and no doubt had done all in his power for her good. she recalled many instances where she believed that he was the cause of the lenity upon the part of the captors, and where it seemed that some one had shown an interest in her welfare. she informed him that she believed he had done her all the good that was in his power, and expressed her heartfelt thanks for it. the indian seemed gratified beyond measure, and after further conversation took his departure, promising eternal fidelity to her. this circumstance, though trivial in itself, had a great influence upon rosalind. it gave her a knowledge of the true position in which she stood. although she doubted not but that she had friends among the savage beings around her, yet she well knew that there were many deadly enemies, who, when an opportunity offered, would not hesitate to take her life. every night when she lay down, it was with the prayer that her life might be preserved until morning, and that, were it in the power of her friends to rescue her, they would do it speedily. the lodge in which she slept was that of the chief. besides his own wife, several squaws remained in it during the night. a young woman, her most bitter and hateful enemy, slept beside rosalind most of the time, and the slightest movement on the part of the latter was sure to occasion some insulting word or command from her. she bore this without a word, hoping each night that it was the last she was to spend in this manner. one night she suddenly awoke to a full state of consciousness--so suddenly that it startled and alarmed her. it seemed as though something had awakened her, and yet she could recall nothing. she turned her head and gazed at her companion, but she, to all appearances, was sound asleep, and could not have been the cause. she experienced no more of drowsiness or inclination to sleep, but concluded to feign it in the hope of satisfying herself of any danger that might be lurking near her. she half closed her eyes, yet kept a close watch of everything around her. in a moment there was a rustling upon the outside; the next instant the point of a knife protruded through a gap in the skin of the lodge, and two eyes were seen gleaming like a tiger's; then the hand that held the knife was thrust forward, and it was held over her. rosalind tried to scream, but could not utter a sound. she seemed frozen with terror, and only made a spasmodic movement that awoke her companion. as soon as the latter moved, the hand was withdrawn and the rent closed of its own accord. "oh!" she murmured, "did you see it?" her companion, more angered on account of being awakened from her sleep, struck her a blow and commanded silence; but rosalind could not remain in her position, and arising and stepping softly over the sleeping form beside her, seated herself in the center of the lodge. here she remained until morning, when she made the inmates understand the nature of her nocturnal fright. all treated it lightly, and she began to entertain a suspicion that they knew more of it than she did herself. in the course of the day she narrated the circumstance to pequanon, showing him also the aperture that had been made in the lodge. he examined it carefully, and appeared troubled about it. the marks of a person's knee and moccasin could be seen upon the soft earth, and there was no doubt that her life had been sought. pequanon informed her of something that surprised and alarmed her as much as this. several of the warriors, since her first appearance among them, had shown a desire to obtain rosalind for a wife; and although it may seem strange that she herself was not aware of the fact, pequanon had noticed it from the commencement, and now for the first time warned her of it. one who suspected that he should be disappointed, had taken the means to procure the revenge that we have mentioned. ever after this pequanon remained in the lodge during the night, and rosalind was careful to keep at a safe distance from the sides of it. she saw in the fact that he had given her, the cause of the hatred upon the part of the females toward her. they had seen the favor with which she was regarded by numbers of the warriors, and were filled with jealousy at it. from them she had as much to fear as from the indians who wished to obtain her. chapter xiv. the rescue. rosalind was a good distance from the ohio, and consequently a long way was to be traveled by kent and leslie. during the first night of their journey, a bright moon favored them, and they continued on without halting until morning. the hunter struck the trail at an early hour in the day, and the two continued their pursuit with renewed ardor until the sun was high in the heavens, when they halted for rest. when they finally halted, it was on the banks of big sandy, at the point where the west fork unites with it. here they discovered signs of the encampment of a large body of indians. leslie felt hope increase, and was impatient to pursue their way. they judged it best--or rather kent judged it best--to remain in their present position, and follow the trail only during the day. the hunter left leslie in order to search for game, as they both were exceedingly hungry. he returned in a short time, to the surprise of leslie, who had not heard the report of his gun. kent informed him that he had slain it without firing a shot, as he dared not to risk one. a fire was started, it being concealed by the river-bank as much as possible, and their food was cooked. this finished, the fire was extinguished, and they partook of the repast. a moon as bright as that of the preceding night arose, and the clear river, glistening in the moonlight like liquid silver, was visible for a great distance. leslie was soon asleep, but kent lay awake the greater part of the night, revolving in his mind the best course to pursue in regard to capturing rosalind. at last he hit upon the plan, and having fully determined what to do, he fell into a peaceful slumber. "now to the rescue," said leslie, springing to his feet as soon as it was fairly light. "i'd advise you to put a stopper on that jaw of yourn, if you don't want the whole pack down here in a twinklin'," quickly retorted the hunter, slowly coming to the sitting posture. "why, what's the matter, kent?" "oh, nothin'; only there's a few injins squatted over on t'other shore." "ah! well, they can't see us, at any rate, for a thick fog has gathered during the night and is resting upon the river." "wal, they can hear you easy 'nough, 'specially if you go on that way." "come, come, kent, don't be cross. i'll wager that they haven't heard me, and i promise that they shall not." the two shouldered their rifles, and, as the mist was slowly rising from the river, again commenced their journey. the trail was now easily discovered, and followed without difficulty. it led most of the time along the bank of the river, and its distinctness showed that the savages had no fear or cared little for pursuit. instead of proceeding in indian file, as they had at first, they traveled promiscuously and carelessly, and their number could be easily made out by their footsteps. during the course of the day kent gave the exact number to leslie, and the precise time that they had journeyed over the ground. leslie, in the ardor of his hopes, still had a fear that they might not really be upon the track of rosalind. might not some other party be misleading them? was it not possible that the party had subdivided, and the one that held her taken an entirely different course? the probability of error prevented him from experiencing the joyous hopefulness that he might have otherwise felt. this worried and caused him so much anxiety, that he expressed his fears to kent. "don't know but what we are," returned the hunter, composedly. "do you _think_ that we are?" asked leslie, earnestly. "can't say; i'll go back if you want to." "heigh! what's that?" he sprung forward and caught a shred fluttering from a bush. "that's it! that's it!" he shouted, fairly leaping with joy. "that's what?" asked the hunter, seemingly disgusted at this display of childlike emotion. "why, a piece of her dress, sure enough," responded leslie. here the corners of kent's mouth gave a downward twitch, and turning his head so as to glance at leslie, a deprecating grunt escaped him. "she did it on purpose to guide us," added leslie, not heeding him. kent's mouth jerked forward, and a loud guffaw was given. "let us hurry," said leslie, starting forward. "i allow," commenced the hunter, unable to restrain himself further, "that if you play many more such capers you'll go alone. if the sight of her dress sets you in such fits, what do you s'pose'll 'come of you when you set your eyes on her? and i daresn't think of the consequences of once gettin' your arm around her. whew!" "you must pardon my feeling, kent; but the sudden assurance that we were not mistaken or proceeding by guess, completely overcame me." "somethin' queer come over you, no mistake." "well, if you don't like to see it, i will try and repress it in future." "i hope you will when i'm about." the two hurried on without further conversation for some time. at noon they made a shorter halt than usual, as kent informed leslie that, by pressing forward, they could gain the region of the savages by nightfall. as the afternoon advanced, the experienced eye of the hunter began to detect unmistakable signs of the presence of indians. leslie could not repress his agitation as he realized that every minute was bringing him nearer and nearer to the object of his desires. fear and hope filled him, and he was alternately gladdened by the one and tormented by the other. he did not notice that kent had changed his direction, and was proceeding more cautiously than before; he only knew that he was following closely in his footsteps, and relying entirely upon his guidance. all at once the hunter came to a stop, and laid his hand upon leslie's arm. he looked up, and there, before him, was the indian village. kent had conducted him to a sort of rising ground, which afforded them a complete view of it, while the forest gave them an effectual concealment. "is this the place?" asked he, in astonishment. "this is the place," answered the ranger. leslie feasted his eyes a long time upon the scene before he withdrew his gaze. every wigwam was visible, and the squaws and children could be seen passing to and fro through the sort of street or highway. many of the warriors were gathered in groups, and reclined upon the ground, lazily chatting; while their far better halves were patiently toiling and drudging at the most difficult kinds of work. leslie scanned each form that came under his eye, in the hope of distinguishing _one_; but he was disappointed, and compelled to see the night closely settle over the village without obtaining a glimpse of her. "after all," he thought, "she may not be there, and i am doomed to be frustrated, at last." but again hope whispered in his ear, and rendered him impatient for the hour when his fate must be decided. the moon arose at about midnight, consequently, all that was to be done must be done before that time. as soon as it had become fairly dark, so that leslie was unable to distinguish anything in the village, he seated himself beside kent to ascertain his intentions. "the time," said he, "has arrove when we must commence business, and i allow that we must be at it soon. here's your part. you are to stay here till i come back. i am goin' down into their nest to hunt her up, and when i come back you'll know whether she's to be got or not. keep quiet, and don't stir from this spot till i give you the order. remember, if we're goin' to do anythin', you must do as i tell you. take care of yourself." with these words the hunter departed--departed so silently and stealthily, that leslie hardly comprehended that he was gone. kent, while it was yet light, had taken a survey of the village, and viewed it, too, with a scout's eye. he had distinguished the chief's lodge from the others, and rightly conjectured that this would be the most likely to contain rosalind. accordingly, he determined to direct his footsteps toward it, before looking in any other direction. this was situated in the center. he was, consequently, exposed to greater danger in reaching it; yet he placed great reliance upon his disguise, which he yet assumed, and determined to venture within the village in a short time. he stood at the extreme end, and now and then could discern a shadowy form passing silently before him, or, perhaps, the voice of some warrior or squaw; but soon these sights and sounds ceased, and he commenced moving forward. not a savage was encountered until he stood before the lodge for which he was seeking. he had now reached the point where his most subtle powers of cunning were called into requisition, yet thought not of hesitating. standing a second in front of the lodge, he glanced about him, but not a form was to be seen. had he been observed he must have been taken for an indian, and attracted no further notice. kent being certain that his way was clear, sunk to the earth, and lying upon his face, worked himself slowly and cautiously toward the lodge. he seemed to glide precisely like a serpent, so easy and silent were his motions. in a moment he was beside it, and, as he believed, within ten feet of the object of his search. a dim light was burning. by its light he hoped to satisfy himself shortly of the truth of his conjectures. running the keen point of his knife along the skin that formed the lodge, he had pierced it enough to admit his gaze, when the light was suddenly extinguished. for a moment the hunter's calculations were at fault. he had not counted upon this, but had hoped to gain a view of the interior while the light was burning. he felt barely able to repress his disappointment, as he was again compelled to devise some other plan. for once he had been frustrated in his design, and he felt it keenly. but he determined to risk a look at all hazards. the aperture was completed; kent raised his head and peered in--and betrayed himself. pequanon was at his place in the inside as usual, watching, in the nobleness of his soul, the life of rosalind. his quick ear detected the noise, slight as it was, occasioned by kent's labor. the latter supposing the inmates of the lodge would be slumbering, hoped for an opportunity to do what he wished. but pequanon was on the alert, and detected him at work. when his face was placed at the opening, it was brought between the sky and the darkness of the lodge, and the indian plainly observed the outlines of his face. his first impulse was to seize a rifle and shoot the intruder instantly, for he believed that it was the one who sought the life of rosalind; but checking himself, he arose and passed out noiselessly, determined to satisfy himself before action. two consummate hunters were now maneuvering against each other. the movements of both with respect to themselves were as much at fault as though they were inexperienced youngsters. the noise of pequanon was so slight that it failed to awake either rosalind or any of the inmates; yet kent heard it distinctly, and crouched down upon the ground and listened. in an instant he caught the step upon the outside. he knew that he could spring to his feet and easily make his escape; but in doing so, he would raise an alarm, and thus effectually prevent anything of use being done by himself. he therefore withdrew some ten or fifteen feet, and trusted that the indian would not search further; but he was mistaken. pequanon was determined to satisfy himself in regard to rosalind's secret enemy; and espying the shadowy form gliding along from him, he sprung toward it, hoping and expecting that it might leap to its feet. the form leaped to its feet in a manner that he little suspected. kent saw that an encounter was unavoidable, when, concentrating his strength, he bounded like a panther toward the savage, bearing him to the earth, with his iron hand clutching his throat. pequanon struggled, but was powerless, and could not make a sound above a painful gurgle. kent whipped out his knife, and had just aimed at his breast, when the savage found voice to speak a few words. "hold! you strike the white man's friend!" the excellent english startled kent, and he relaxed his hold. "who are you?" he demanded. "pequanon, the white man's friend." "what did you come nosin' out here fur then?" kent's knees were upon the arms of the indian, while he was seated upon his breast. the hunter loosed his grasp. "the pale-faced maiden. pequanon wished to save her." "wal, see here, old red-skin, i'm after her. you's sayin' as how you's her friend. mind to help?" the indian answered in the affirmative. "wal, i'll let you up, pervidin' you'll go and bring her out. what you say?" "is it her friends that wish her?" "you've hit it there. goin' to help?" "pequanon will lay his life down for the captive." "i'll let you up then, and give you two minutes to trot her out. if you undertake to come any of your tricks over me, i'll blow your brains out." kent permitted pequanon to arise, who departed silently for the lodge without giving a reply to his remark. the hunter was not to be deceived by any artifice of the savage, and to guard against treachery, withdrew still further from the lodge. he doubted very much whether the indian would endeavor to assist him at all, but he had done the best he could under the circumstances. in a moment his doubts were put to flight by the reappearance of the noble indian, with rosalind. as cool and collected as was the hunter, he could not repress a joyous start as he gazed upon her form. "that's the fust injin, accordin' to my opine," he muttered to himself, "that ever _was_ a man." rosalind, all trembling eagerness and anxiety, on coming up to kent, seemed unable to speak. the hunter noticed her action and forbore speaking, making a motion, as an apology, for silence. for a second the trio remained motionless and undetermined what course to pursue. pequanon noticed this and started toward the river. "hold on, cap'n!" said kent; "there's another chap that come with me." the hunter now took the lead; and leaving them hopefully pursuing their way, let us glance at leslie until they arrive. chafing, fretting, hoping, fearing and doubting sat leslie, impatiently awaiting the appearance of kent. the falling of a leaf, or rustling of the branches under some light breeze startled him; and when a night-bird, that had been resting above him gave utterance to its unearthly hoot, and swooped past, its voice he mistook for the yell of his savage foes, and the flap of its wings for their approaching tread. now he pictured the bliss that he hoped to feel; then again he was the prey of most poignant doubts and fears. would he see her, and clasp her to his bosom, or was she a hopeless captive? was she living or dead? would kent come back without information or hope? suddenly there arose a wild, prolonged yell, that fairly froze him with terror. kent was discovered, and all hope was gone! oh, the agony of that moment! hardly comprehending the state of things, he formed a dozen different plans at once. now he was going to rush madly forward and rescue rosalind during the confusion, and then was about shouting for kent. all at once he heard a footstep. the pursuers were then at hand! resolved to lay one savage low, he rushed forward toward the approaching figure. could it be possible? was it not a dream? there she stood before his eyes. his limbs trembled, and he felt upon the point of falling. "is this mr. leslie?" asked a sweet voice that had thrilled him more than once before. "i guess it's him or his spook," answered kent, for him. "if there's goin' to be any huggin' done, hurry up with it, fur they're follerin' us." this threw off all reserve. leslie folded rosalind to his breast. she spoke not--resisted not--her trembling limbs and sobs told more than words could have done. "that'll do for the present," interrupted kent, in a kind tone. "we must be off now, fur the red-skins have smelt the rat, and i should judge by the noise they're makin' that they're in a confounded muss. never mind, don't cry. when we get down home out of danger, i'll let you hug and cry as much as you please. which way, mr. red-skin?" pequanon turned to the left and took long, impatient strides. kent followed closely in his footsteps, while leslie led the trembling rosalind. often, regardless of the danger which threatened, he pressed her to him and whispered words of which we can only guess the meaning. on they hurried, half running, over the tangled underwood and fallen trees until they paused upon the brink of the river. here, to the surprise and joy of all, pequanon running to a clump of bushes pulled forth a large canoe and shoved it into the stream. the others needed no admonition to use it. "here," said their guide, "we part. may the great spirit guide you." "say, you, you'll get into trouble, won't you, if you go back?" queried kent. "the great spirit will protect me. farewell." "wait, pequanon," said rosalind, rising from her seat. "pequanon has only paid his debt to the pale-faced maiden." the indian was gone. rosalind sunk back upon her seat in tears. "he's the first injin that i ever got my clutches on that has got away after it, and the first one that i ever felt like lettin' go. somehow or other my old gun didn't burn and wriggle when i sot my eyes on him, as it is used to doin' in such cases; and if it wasn't fur that red hide of hisn' i wouldn't believe he was one of them." all this time the shouts and yells of the savages could be heard, and now and then it seemed to the fugitives that they must have been discovered. kent pulled the boat to the opposite shore, and as he expressed it, "hugged the bank mighty close." he had little fear of being discovered, but the utmost caution was to be used, for, in their rage, the savages would use every means in their power to recapture them. kent knew that by keeping on, he would in time reach the banks of the ohio. their enemies would probably suspect the true nature of their escape and take to the river in pursuit; and, as the indians, in case of discovery, could easily overtake and recapture them, they must necessarily be saved by fortune and stratagem. though scarce a ripple was heard, the shadowy form of the boat shot swiftly under the hanging trees and round the projecting points of the bank, like some serpent gliding noiselessly over the surface. soon the edge of the great moon slowly rose above the dark line of the forest, and its long rays streamed over wood and river; when it had finally risen high up in the heavens, the stream shone as brightly as at noonday. its winding course could be discerned ahead until it was lost in the forest, and for miles behind, its banks were as clearly defined as it could have been under the sun's rays. now that the river and its objects were so plainly depicted, kent kept closer yet under the shadows of the friendly bank. now and then he hurried through some opening in the trees of the shore, where, for a minute, he was exposed to any gaze that might chance to be given; then, when the water was shallow, he struck the muddy bottom, and patiently worked himself on again. being engaged in rowing, his face was turned toward the stern, and thus had a full sweep of the river which he had passed over, the only point from which he had reason to apprehend danger. he was upon the point of speaking, when his quick eye detected a speck in view around a bend in the river, some distance back. he halted, for he knew its character. "we're follered!" said he, guiding the boat in to shore. a few minutes more and the boat could be plainly seen by all three. it was in the center of the stream, and approaching rapidly. the heads of four or five indians could be discerned. their object was plain to all. kent had run his boat against the shore, and the three were now waiting breathlessly for their enemies to pass. the indians plainly had no suspicion that the fugitives were so close at hand, and kept steadily onward. hardly daring to breathe, our three friends saw the long, sharp canoe, with five of their mortal enemies, shoot past, and disappear. "did you see how my gun kept twitchin' and jumpin'? why, i had all i could do to hold him. thunder! it's too bad to see them fellers give you such a nice shot and then miss it," said the ranger, again taking the oars. kent now guided the boat with greater caution, ever and anon turning and looking ahead, not daring to leave the sole watch to leslie, who had other things far more interesting to himself with which to occupy his mind. chapter xv. the fugitives flying no longer. the fugitives continued moving forward until morning, when, to guard against needless exposure, kent again ran the canoe under the bank, and remained at rest the entire day. all suffered so much from hunger, that the hunter left the boat during the afternoon, and, after a few hours' absence, obtained a sufficient quantity of meat for them all. this was cooked after his usual cautious and expert fashion, and was thankfully partaken of by his companions. roland and the maid were resting on the sheltered bank of the river; none but kent ventured out of sight of the spot during the day. for aught they knew there might be hordes of savages within hearing of their voices, scouring the woods in every direction in their search; it needed but the slightest inadvertency upon their part to insure their own destruction. leslie sat conversing with rosalind, when kent started up, and, glancing behind, stepped down the river-bank and peered out upon the stream. leslie was beside him in an instant, and, as the two gazed out, the boat which they had seen pursuing them during the night came into view. it was coming up-stream, evidently returning from the chase. it now contained but three savages. although leslie had but little to fear, nevertheless he watched the boat with intense interest. pausing a second, he glanced around, and exclaimed, in terror: "as sure as heaven, they are heading toward this point." kent commanded, in a whisper: "get your shootin'-iron ready, and be ready yourself. they're comin' in below us." the savages had landed a few hundred yards down-stream, and seemed to suspect the presence of no one. suddenly one of them uttered a loud whoop. in a moment it was repeated, and an answer came, apparently from a distance. ere long two savages approached the canoe, and, entering, the five again shoved out, and commenced paddling up-stream. leslie asked kent the meaning of these proceedings. "plain enough," he answered; "they left them two fellers on the shore last night, so that, if they passed us, they would see us when we came along, and they've been watching there ever since. if we'd gone a half a mile further, they'd have shot us; but as we happened to stop afore they got eyes on us, they've missed us, that's all." [illustration: two savages were left on shore.] at night they again set out, proceeding fearlessly. when morning again dawned, many miles were placed between rosalind and her captors. it is needless to dwell upon the further particulars of their homeward journey. every day occupied was like its predecessor: pressing boldly forward when the shade of night favored them; proceeding more cautiously through the day; resting sometimes in the center of the stream, and then again approaching the shore for food; now a prey to some imaginary fear, and then thrilling with hope, when they finally glided into the fair ohio. safely they reached their destination unpursued, and fearing no enemy. "wonder who's in them pile of logs up thar," remarked kent, glancing suspiciously at leslie, when they were approaching the ruins of the house. "why, who would be there?" returned he, with well-feigned ignorance. "looks as though somebody had fitted it up. hallo, here!" demanded kent, battering against the structure. at this summons george leland stepped forth. the meeting was such as can be easily imagined; joy complete filled the hearts of all; friend, brother, sister and lover were reunited; nothing was wanting to fill their cup of bliss. the old hunter, as soon as his brief salutation was over, withdrew to the background. leaning on his rifle, he remarked that he was "goin' to look on and see the fun." as soon as the emotion of all had subsided, they turned toward the hunter. they were without shelter and home, and something must be done at once. kent at once divined their thoughts and said: "wal, sit down and i'll tell you what's to be done." the three did as required, and kent unfolded his plan. "there's too much trouble for you in these parts; you must leave. up the river some distance is quite a settlement, and there's the only place you can stay, what i propose is this: we must leave here as soon as possible, and let us do it _now_." "more than once have i thought of the plan which kent has given," said leslie, "and i hope that it will be carried out at the earliest moment. every hour passed here is an hour of peril." "the matter is then settled," said george. "let us prepare to pass our last night here; then to seek another home." the shelter in which leland had spent his time during the absence of the others was found to be commodious enough to accommodate all, and into it they went. the old hunter kept watch during the night, while the rest slept, and we doubt very much whether four happier, more hopeful beings ever were congregated. at the earliest streak of morn, the hunter aroused the others, and they prepared to take their final departure. the canoe in which the three had come was found to be sufficiently capacious for the entire party. with a tear of regret for the old home, the fair rosalind entered the canoe, and soon it was cutting the waters on its upward course. it is not necessary in this place to dwell upon the particulars of their journey. they encountered nothing unusual or alarming until, in rounding a bend in the river, they were startled by the sight of an unusual object far up the stream. with the exception of kent, all manifested considerable surprise and apprehension. "what are we to encounter now?" asked leslie, as he earnestly scrutinized the approaching object. "are we never to be rid of these brutes?" "it is undoubtedly one of their contrivances," added leland, "and i'm afraid we shall have to take to the woods again to give it a go-by. how is it, kent?" the face of the hunter wore a quizzical look, and his only reply was a quiet smile. as he observed the looks of wonder his companions cast upon him, he became more thoughtful. "this is bad business," said he, shaking his head; "_that_ is something i didn't expect to see." the progress of the canoe by this time was checked, and it was drifting with the current. the two young men had no desire for a nearer approach to the apparently formidable contrivance. "can't either one of you two chaps make out what sort of ship that is coming down-stream?" both leland and leslie were considerably puzzled, when they saw rosalind smile, as if enjoying their stupidity. "if you can't tell, just ask the gal," added the hunter, bursting into a loud laugh. "why, george i thought you had lived long enough in the western country to recognize a _flat-boat_!" "what dunces we both are. how could any one imagine that to be anything else than a genuine flat-boat? let us approach it and make the acquaintance of those on board." "sart'in, boys," said the hunter, dipping his paddles deep into the water and impelling the canoe rapidly forward. "a cheer for them!" exclaimed leslie, rising in the boat and swinging his hat over his head. how unspeakably thankful were the hearts of the fugitives, as their salutation was returned by more than one voice! friends indeed were near, and their dangers were over. a few moments later the canoe was beside the flat-boat. "thank god! thank god!" fervently uttered leland, as he clasped his sister in his arms and realized that they were now safe, safe! for the first time in weeks he felt the sweet consciousness of safety. "it is almost worth the sufferings we have undergone!" said he. "this sweet consciousness that we are really beyond the reach of our foes is an enjoyment that we have not experienced for a long time." "do not forget the all-sustaining hand that has brought us out of the very jaws of death." "forget it? may he forget me when i fail to remember him. great father," said leland, meekly uncovering and bowing his head, while the tears fell like rain down his face, "great father, for this and all other mercies i thank thee!" "i join in thanksgiving with theirs," said leslie, in the same reverent manner, as he approached brother and sister. the flat-boat was no other than the celebrated expedition under major taylor, which established such a firm and prosperous settlement upon the northern bank of the ohio. he had about thirty souls on board, a dozen of whom were men. the true cause of the astonishing success of this company was that both the leader and his comrades fully understood the perils they encountered in venturing into the great western wilderness. they were not men who could be decoyed into the simplest or most cunning contrivances that indian ingenuity could suggest, nor were they those who expected to spend a life of ease and enjoyment in the woods. they simply understood and prepared for what was before them. major taylor was a man rather inclined to corpulency, with a red face, roman nose and eagle eye that seemed to penetrate everything at which it glanced. he was very affable and social, a great favorite among all his acquaintances, especially the female portion, who always felt safe in his presence. his men, nearly all of whom had served under him in the revolution, trusted implicitly in him. "friends, you are welcome, doubly welcome to this boat," said he, raising his hat and saluting rosalind with all the stately politeness of a gentleman of the old school. "i trust your stay upon it will be as prolonged as our own, who, in all probability, will be the last passengers it will ever carry." leslie related in a few words the main facts concerning the burning of leland's home, the capture and subsequent escape of himself and sister, and finally of their desire to reach the upper settlements. the commiserations of all were given them. for rosalind especially they seemed unable to do enough. she was taken within their cabin, where everything that was possible was done for her comfort. "i must now insist that you remain with us," said major taylor. "now that you have no home to which to return, you must accompany us and build a new one. if the red-skins take _our_ homes from us they are welcome to do so; but when they undertake it, i suspect they will find they are troubling a set of men that know a trick or two as well as themselves. we've all seen service among the dogs." "do you think, cap'n, there's likely to be a scrimmage where you drive your stakes?" inquired kent, with a considerable degree of curiosity. "i am sure i cannot tell," replied major taylor. "it certainly seems probable, but why do you ask?" "'cause if there's any likelibility of it, i'll agree to accept your invite and go with you." "well, well, my good man, you will go with us anyway, and take the chances of a brush with them. you strike me as a man who has seen considerable of the woods." "he has indeed," said leslie. "under heaven, our safety is owing to his experience and sagacity. he has spent a lifetime in the woods, and i can honestly say he will be a valuable acquisition to your party." "come, none of that now, or i'll leave you!" said the hunter, in a warning tone to his young friend. "i have no doubt of it--no doubt of it in the least. we need him, and if he will only go with us, i think i can promise that he will occasionally see the service for which his soul longs. but, you have not given us your decision." "we are very grateful for your offer," said leland; "we have indeed no other refuge to which we can go. the house which has sheltered my sister and myself since infancy is swept away by those whom we had learned to look upon as our friends and protectors. i think when we see men at your age beginning life again, we can afford to do it ourselves." "of course you can--of course you can," replied the officer, in his hearty manner. "we'll start a settlement on a grand scale. one of our men once took orders, and is licensed to marry, so that if either of you gentlemen should need his services at _any_ time, you will always find him at hand." "there is a servant--a negro, who was taken at the same time with my sister. i feel as though some effort should be made to recover him," added leland, a few minutes later. "we shall be in a situation to do that by accompanying you, or, at least, we shall be more likely to find some means of doing so, than if we followed out the idea, entertained some time ago, of leaving the country altogether." "i am decidedly of the opinion----" the officer was interrupted by a man at the front of the boat, calling out his name. he instantly hastened beside him, and demanded what he wanted. "yonder is something approaching, and i cannot satisfy myself as to what it is. what do you make of it?" he asked. [illustration: "yonder is something approaching."] major taylor bent his sharp gaze upon the object in question for a moment, and then replied: "it looks like the head of a person, and yet it is certainly an odd-looking head. we will call this hunter that has just come on board. undoubtedly he can assist us." in answer to the summons, kent approached the bow of the boat, rifle in hand. he peered across the water, but for a time, failed to identify the thing. "stand back a little, and i'll give it a shot. i'll graze it at first, so as to be sure of what i am going to hit when i shoot next time." the hunter raised his rifle, and holding it a second, fired. at the same instant the unknown object disappeared. "i think you struck it!" remarked leland. "i didn't aim _at_ it, and consequently it ain't been hit," returned kent, with an air of assurance. "yonder it is this moment!" as these words were uttered, it again appeared, and to the amazement of all, called out to them: "gorra! what you wastin' your bullets on dis nigger's head for? reckoned kent knowed better." the hunter seemed on the point of falling from laughter. "who'd a thought it was zeb! where has he come from? he beats all niggers in kentuck for adventures and walloping lies." a few minutes later the negro was received upon the flat-boat. it is scarcely necessary to say that his friends all experienced unfeigned joy at his return. he was as jubilant and reckless of the truth as ever, and it was a long time before they got at the truth regarding his escape from the shawnees. the flight of leland, under providence, was really the means of liberating the negro. the confusion occasioned by the escape of the former was so great, that the savages imagined he also had fled with him. understanding that it was "do or die" with him, he tugged and struggled at his bonds with the strength of desperation. being secured to a tree as usual, at some distance from the center of confusion, he escaped observation for a few moments. it is doubtful, however, whether he would have succeeded in freeing himself, had he not been covertly assisted by some unknown friend. who this personage could be, was never known; perhaps some indian who had been befriended by the leland family, and who experienced some compunctions of honor (not of conscience) at the situation of the poor negro. zeb had learned enough by this time to exercise a little common sense. accordingly, when he found himself free, he made the best use of his feet and wits, and used every effort to reach the ohio river. according to his own narration, he overcame all manner of perils before succeeding. undoubtedly he incurred great risk in the undertaking, and finally succeeded. he was trudging wearily along the river margin, listening for some sound of his relentless enemies, who, he doubted not, were upon his trail, when he caught sight of the flat-boat. although he did not identify it at once, he understood from its size and formation that the hand of the white man alone was concerned in its structure. he immediately plunged into the river, reaching it in due time, as we have already shown. at last the pioneers reached their destination, and began a settlement which, at this day, is not a town merely but a flourishing city. as we have hinted in another place, their experience of frontier life and the sagacity and foresight of their nominal head, saved them from the misfortunes and sufferings that often befall settlers in the new country. it is true the red wave of the dreadful war in the west surged to their very doors; but they saw far away in the heavens the portentous signs, and so prepared that they passed through it unscathed. * * * * * the passing years touched lightly the heads of roland and rosalind leslie. as the palmy days of peace settled upon them, an old hunter frequently spent days and weeks at their house. at such times, he took the children upon his knees, and told them of the hardships and suffering their parents had endured, and recounted many of his own adventures to them. old kent was a universal favorite in the settlement. as he became too old to spend his time entirely in the woods, he joined the boys in their hunts, and there was not one who would not have braved death in his defense. he died peacefully and happily, under the roof of those whom he had served so well, and was given a burial, at his own request, in the grand old woods which had ever been his delight and enjoyment. the wife of leland survived all of those who have figured in these pages; but she too has been laid in the valley. their descendants are now a numerous and influential family, proud of their ancestry, and enthusiastic over the deeds of the ranger. the end. * * * * * boy inventors series stories of skill and ingenuity by richard bonner the boy inventors' wireless telegraph. blest with natural curiosity,--sometimes called the instinct of investigation,--favored with golden opportunity, and gifted with creative ability, the boy inventors meet emergencies and contrive mechanical wonders that interest and convince the reader because they always "work" when put to the test. the boy inventors' vanishing gun. a thought, a belief, an experiment; discouragement, hope, effort and final success--this is the history of many an invention; a history in which excitement, competition, danger, despair and persistence figure. this merely suggests the circumstances which draw the daring boy inventors into strange experiences and startling adventures, and which demonstrate the practical use of their vanishing gun. the boy inventors' diving torpedo boat. as in the previous stories of the boy inventors, new and interesting triumphs of mechanism are produced which become immediately valuable, and the stage for their proving and testing is again the water. on the surface and below it, the boys have jolly, contagious fun, and the story of their serious, purposeful inventions challenge the reader's deepest attention. any volume sent postpaid upon receipt of price. * * * * * bungalow boys series live stories of outdoor life by dexter j. forrester. the bungalow boys. how the bungalow boys received their title and how they retained the right to it in spite of much opposition makes a lively narrative for lively boys. the bungalow boys marooned in the tropics. a real treasure hunt of the most thrilling kind, with a sunken spanish galleon as its object, makes a subject of intense interest at any time, but add to that a band of desperate men, a dark plot and a devil fish, and you have the combination that brings strange adventures into the lives of the bungalow boys. the bungalow boys in the great north west. the clever assistance of a young detective saves the boys from the clutches of chinese smugglers, of whose nefarious trade they know too much. how the professor's invention relieves a critical situation is also an exciting incident of this book. the bungalow boys on the great lakes. the bungalow boys start out for a quiet cruise on the great lakes and a visit to an island. a storm and a band of wreckers interfere with the serenity of their trip, and a submarine adds zest and adventure to it. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) oonomoo the huron by edward s. ellis author of "the trail-hunter," "hunter's cabin," etc. new york hurst & company publishers copyright, , by hurst & company. contents. chapter i. hans vanderbum ii. other characters iii. oonomoo and the shawnees iv. the young lieutenant and cato v. the home of the huron vi. adventures on the way vii. the plan for the rescue viii. the exploit of hans vanderbum ix. a new danger x. conclusion list of illustrations. "keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, ain't you got dat cooked?" a girl, fifteen or sixteen years of age, seated on the ground, beside a squaw. mary prescott. "if you don't want to be killed, get up," said the young officer. "niniotan, my son, is late." "you have saved me, and i want to grasp your hand for it." but oonomoo and the miami had whipped out their knives. so terrible did the exasperated huron appear, that the entire party of shawnees paused out of sheer horror. niniotan stood like a statue, his arms folded and his stony gaze fixed upon the senseless forms of his parents. oonomoo, the huron. chapter i. hans vanderbum. the mountain's sides are flecked with gleams of light and spots of shade; here, golden sunshine spreads in mellow rays, and there, stretching across its hoary breast, deep shadows lurk. a stream, with many a turn, now lost to sight, and then, again revealed, winds through the vale, shimmering in the early morning sun. a few white clouds float in the blue expanse, their forms revealed in the clear lake beneath, which bears upon its breast a bark canoe, cautiously guided by a sinewy arm. high in the heavens, three eagles proudly poise, keeping their mountain eyrie still in view, although their flight has borne them far away. upon the cliff which beetles o'er the pool, two indians, peering from the brink, appear, clad in the gaudy dress their nature craves-- robes of bright blue and scarlet, but which blend in happy union with the landscape round. near by a wigwam stands--a fire within sends out a ruddy glow--and from its roof, cone-shaped, a spiral wreath of smoke ascends. not far away, though deeper in the woods, another hut, with red-men grouped about, attracts the eye, and wakens saddened thoughts of that brave race who once were masters here, but now, like autumn leaves, are dying out.--barry gray. "shtop dat noise! shtop dat noise!" vociferated hans vanderbum, growing red in the face with fury, because his repeated commands had received so little attention. the scene was deep in the forests of ohio, a short distance from the miami river. an indian town of twenty-five or thirty lodges here stood, resembling a giant apiary, with its inhabitants flitting in and out, darting hither and thither, like so many bees. the time was early in the morning of a radiant spring, when the atmosphere was still and charming; the dew lingered upon the grass and undergrowth; birds were singing in every tree; the sky glowed with the pure blue of italy; and the whole wilderness in its bloom looked like a sea of emerald. everything was life and exhilaration, one personage alone excepted--hans vanderbum was unhappy! the indian lodges differed very little from each other, being of a rough, substantial character, built with an eye to comfort rather than beauty. one at the extreme northern edge of the village is that with which our story deals. a brief description of it will serve as a general daguerreotype of all those wild abodes. the wigwam was composed of skins and bark, the latter greatly predominating. the shape was that of a cone. the framework was of poles, the lower ends of which were placed in a sort of circle, while the tops were intersected, leaving a small opening, through which the smoke reached the clear air above. unsightly and repulsive as this might seem from the outside view, the dwelling, nevertheless, was water-proof and comfortable, and abundantly answered the end for which it was built. a thin vapor was ascending in a bluish spiral at the top of the lodge indicated. a shawnee squaw was occupied in preparing the morning meal, while her liege lord still reclined in one corner, in the vain effort to secure a few minutes more of slumber. this latter personage was hans vanderbum--our friend hans--a huge, plethoric, stolid, lazy dutchman, who had "married" an indian widow several years before. at the time of her marriage this squaw had a boy some three or four years of age, while a second one, the son of the dutchman, was now just large enough to be as mischievous as a kitten. they were a couple of greasy, copper-hued little rascals, with eyes as black as midnight, and long, wiry hair, like that of a horse's mane. brimful of animal spirits, they were just the reverse of hans vanderbum, whose laziness and stupidity were only excelled by his indifference to the dignity and rights of human nature. hans vanderbum lay fiat upon his back, for the atmosphere of the wigwam was too warm for covering, his ponderous belly rising and falling like a wave of the sea, and his throat giving forth that peculiar rattling of the glottis, which might be mistaken for suffocation. the boys certainly would have been outside, basking in the genial sunshine, had not their mother, keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, positively denied them that coveted privilege. the commands of the father might be trampled upon with impunity, but the young half-breeds knew better than to disobey their mother. "shtop dat noise! shtop dat noise!" repeated hans, raising his head without stirring his body or limbs. his broad face seemed all ablaze from its fiery red color, and the threatening fury throned upon his lowering forehead would almost have annihilated him who encountered it for the first time. as it was, the two boys suddenly straightened their faces, and assumed an air of meek penitence, as if suffering the most harrowing remorse for what they had done; and the father, after glaring at them a moment, as if to drive in and clinch the impression he had made, let his head drop back with a dull thump upon the ground, and again closed his eyes. the black, snaky orbs of the boys twinkled like stars through their overhanging hair. glancing first at their mother, who did not deign to notice them, the eldest picked up his younger brother, who was grinning from ear to ear with delight, and, summoning all his strength, he poised him over the prostrate form of his father for a moment, and then dropped him! the prolonged snore which was steadily issuing from the throat of the sleeping parent, terminated in a sharp, explosive grunt. as his eyes opened, the boys scrambled away like frogs to the opposite side of the lodge, under the protecting care of their mother. "dunder and blixen! you dunderin' dutch indians, dishturbin' your poor old dad dat is wearing his life out for you! i'll pound both of you till you're dead!" hans vanderbum's system had suffered too great a shock for further slumber. he rose to the sitting position, and, digging both hands into his head, glared at his offspring a moment, and then began his regular lecture. "quanonshet, you little dutchman, and madokawandock, you little bigger dutchman, vot does you t'ink of yourselves? vot does you t'ink will become of you, disgracing your parents in this manner? you oughter be pounded to death to treat your poor old fader in this manner, who is working of himself away to bring you up in the way you ought for to go. eh? vot do you t'ink of yourself, eh? vot do you t'ink of yourself?" demanded hans, furiously shaking his head toward the boys at each word. quanonshet and madokawandock were too confounded for reply. "shposing your poor old fader should go crazy!! here he is working himself to skin and bone--keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, ain't you got dat cooked?" [illustration: "keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, ain't you got dat cooked?"] "no!" screamed the wife. "you big, lazy man, get up and stir yourself! you don't do anything but sleep and smoke, while _i'm_ working all the flesh off _my_ bones for you!" these forcible remarks were made in the pure shawnee tongue, and were accompanied by gesticulation too pointed and significant for hans to mistake the spirit in which they were given. although it is the invariable custom among the north american indians for the husband to rule the wife, and impose all burdens upon her, except those of the hunt, and fight, such, by no means, was the case with the present couple. hans vanderbum's body was too unwieldy for him to accompany the young men (or even the old men) upon their hunting expeditions; in short, he contributed nothing toward the support of his interesting family. the first husband of keewaygooshturkumkankangewock had been an indian, with all the characteristics of his race--indolent, selfish and savage; and her life with him had been that of the usual servitude and drudgery. accordingly, when she ventured a second time upon the sea of matrimony, she naturally fell into the same routine of labor, planting and cultivating what little corn, beans and vegetables were raised for the family, and doing all the really hard work. hans vanderbum sometimes gathered firewood, and frequently, when the weather was pleasant, spent hours in fishing. he was an inveterate smoker and sleeper; and, beyond doubt, was perfectly content in his situation. having been taken a prisoner some years before, and adopted into this branch of the shawnee tribe, he was offered the hand of keewaygooshturkumkankangewock in marriage, and accepted it at once, totally forgetful of his first love, which had been the beautiful inmate of the hunter's cabin. hans vanderbum sat and gazed at his wife with an admiring eye, as she busied herself with the preparations of the morning meal. hoping to mollify her, he commenced flattering her, speaking in a low tone as if it were not his wish that she should hear him, but taking good care, at the same time, that nothing should escape her ears. "shplendid figger, keewaygooshturkumkankangewock has got. no wonder all te braves of te shawnee tribe should love her, and dat hans vanderbum gots her at last. jis' look at _dat_ foot! long and flat like a board, and she's de same shape all de way down from her head to her heels. ishn't dat breakfast ready, my dear wife?" the wife gave a spiteful nod, and hans vanderbum shambled up beside her, where the food, consisting of meat and a few simple vegetables, was spread upon a rude table which had no legs. quanonshet and madokawandock were not behind-hand in their movements, and the whole four fell to with such voracity, that, in a very short time, their hunger was satisfied. "now, you two fellers come out doors and learn your lessons," said the father, lighting his pipe, and putting on a very stern and dignified look. the boys tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get into the open air. hans followed them, while keewaygooshturkumkankangewock busied herself about her household duties. quanonshet and madokawandock rollicked and frisked awhile before they were "called to order." after repeated commands, they approached their father, and standing side by side, awaited his instructions. hans vanderbum had provided himself with a long pole, and stood by a sandy portion of ground, upon which he had no difficulty in tracing what letters and characters he wished. with due preparation and importance he marked out the first letter of the german alphabet, and then, straightening himself up, demanded in a thundering tone "vot dat was." his two sons looked mute and dumbfounded. they had not the remotest idea in the world of its name and significance. for over three months the patient father had instructed them daily in regard to this character, and the two together must have repeated it several thousand times. but, it mattered not; neither had any conception now of it, and their looks showed such unmistakably to their instructor. "dunder and blixen, vot dutch indians!" he exclaimed, impatiently. repeating its name, he again demanded "vot dat was." this time they answered readily, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure. "shmart boys," said he, approvingly. "you learns well, now. one dese days--" hans vanderbum's words were cut short by the sudden sharp explosion of his pipe, the bowl being shattered in a hundred pieces, while nothing but the stem remained in his mouth. "where's mine pipe?" he asked, looking around in the vain hope of descrying it somewhere upon the ground. quanonshet and madokawandock indulged in one short scream of laughter, then instantly straightened their faces and looked as meek and innocent as lambs. gradually the truth began to work its way into the head of hans. looking sternly at the two, he asked, in a threatening voice: "which of you put dat powder in mine meerschaum, eh? which of you done dat, eh?" neither answered, except by hanging their heads and looking at their bare feet. "i axes you once more, and dis is de last time." each now protested that it was not himself but the other, so that if there really were but one culprit, hans had no means of determining. under the circumstances, he concluded the safest plan was to believe both guilty. accordingly he made a sudden dash and commenced whacking them soundly with the stick he held in his hand. they yelled, kicked, and screamed; and squirming themselves loose, scampered quickly away from their irate instructor. "dat meerschaum can't be fixed," he soliloquized, taking the bare stem out of his mouth and looking sorrowfully at it. "'cause dere ishn't anything to fix it mit. it ish wonderful what mischief gets into dem boys; dere ain't no time when dey ain't doin' notting what dey hadn't not ought to--all de times just de same way, while i toils myself to death to educate dem and bring 'em up in de way apout which dey ought to go." keewaygooshturkumkankangewock being in the habit of frequently indulging in the use of tobacco, her husband was not deprived entirely of his solace. going into the wigwam, he unbosomed his griefs to her, and she kindly loaned him her own pipe. "i hopes dere ain't no powder in dat," he remarked, glancing uneasily into the bowl. "nothing but tobac," replied his spouse, in her native tongue, "unless you've put the powder in yourself." "dunderation, i don't does dat, and blow mine eyes out my head. dem little dutchmen is up to all kinds of such tricks, and some dese days dey will blow deir poor fader's brains out of his head, and den what will become of dem?" feelingly inquired hans vanderbum. "what will become of them?" repeated keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, her voice rising higher and higher at each word. "who is it that supports them now and takes care of them? who is it that does that? who is it--" "it's you--it's you," replied her husband, seeing the mistake he had made. "i doesn't do nottings--i doesn't do nottings; it's my wife, my good keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, dat does it all. she's a very nice squaw, de same shape all de way down." these concessions and compliments greatly soothed the feelings of the incensed spouse. she scolded her husband no more. "what you going to do, my dear frau?" he asked, in a voice as cooing and winning as a dove's. "going to work, to plant the corn, to get food for you and quanonshet and madokawandock when the snow falls." "very kind, clever woman; good frau is mine keewaygooshturkumkankangewock." "what are _you_ going to do?" asked the wife, as the two passed out the wigwam. "going to shmoke and _meditate_--meditate _hard_," replied hans vanderbum, impressively. "can't you think as well while you're _fishing_?" "i shpose i can; if my keewaygooshturkumkankangewock t'inks so, i can." "well, she thinks so." the fact that his wife "thought so" was equivalent to a command with hans. he manifested no unwillingness or reluctance in obeying. accordingly, he furnished himself with a hook, line and bait, and set out for the river. it was now getting well along in the forenoon, the sun being above the tree-tops. the shawnee indians had left their wigwams to engage in their daily avocations. the women were mostly toiling in the field, their pappooses hanging from the trees or leaning against their trunks. the older children were frolicking through the woods, or fishing or hunting. a few warriors and old men still lounged about the wigwams, but the majority either were engaged in the hunt, or were upon the war-trail. stolid and indifferent as was the nature of hans, it struck him that there was something unusual in the appearance and actions of the indians. it seemed as though some startling event had occurred from which they had not fully recovered. they were uneasy and restless in their movements, constantly passing to and from the river. upon reaching the banks of the latter, the dutchman found a considerable number already there. they were not engaged in fishing, but lay close to the edge of the water, as if they expected the appearance of something upon its surface. had he been a little more observant, there was something else which would have attracted his attention, on his passage through the woods. fully a dozen times a peculiar sound, like the whistle of a bird, reached his ears, and he supposed it to be nothing more, although it did seem odd to him that the bird should follow him almost to the river bank. besides this, he caught a flitting glimpse of an indian now and then, some distance in the woods, that appeared to be watching him; but hans did not care, even if such were the case, and he paid no further heed to him. reaching the river, he made his preparations with great care and elaboration. he had several hooks pendent from his line, upon each of which he shoved the wriggling worms, spitting upon them during the operation, as if to make them more tractable. to the line also was fastened a pebble, to make it sink. swinging this several times around his head, he let go, when it spun far out in the river, and he commenced cautiously following it by means of a projecting tree-trunk. this latter extended a dozen feet out over the surface of the water, and had been used as a seat a great many times by him. passing out to the extremity, he was afforded a comfortable resting-place where he could sit hour after hour smoking his pipe and engage in fishing. had he noticed the large branch of the tree upon which he seated himself, he would have hesitated before trusting the weight of his body upon it, but his nature was too unsuspicious to be attracted by anything trivial in its appearance, and he made his way out upon it, as he had done scores of times before. ensconcing himself in his seat, he gave his whole attention to his line and his pipe, not noticing the interested glances which the shawnees along the bank bestowed upon his operations. after the space of a few minutes, he felt something pull at his line, and doing the same, he hauled a fine plump fish out of the water, casting it upon the land. "dat is purty goot," he mused, "and i will soon got a lot more, and my keewaygooshturkumkankangewock will feel goot too, when i takes 'em home. she won't-- dunder and blixen!" the limb upon which he was seated suddenly broke short off, and hans dropped into the river out of sight. but such a ponderous body as his could not sink, and upon coming to the surface, he paddled hurriedly to the shore. "dem little dutchmen, quanonshet and madokawandock, will be de death of deir old fader afore long. dat is deir work. i knows it, i knows it, and i will pound 'em all up when i gits home." looking about his person, he found that one of the hooks, catching in his clothes, had brought the line to shore; and, as his involuntary bath had not really been unpleasant, he was able to continue his labor. but, before going out upon the tree he examined the roots to satisfy himself that no further mischief had been perpetrated by his hopeful sons. feeling assured upon this point, he again passed out on the tree, and was soon engaged in fishing as before, totally unmindful of the broad grins of the delighted shawnees who had witnessed his discomfiture. the fish bit readily. in a short time he had taken enough to insure him a welcome reception in his own wigwam. he was debating with himself whether it would not be better to return, especially as his pipe had been extinguished by his immersion, when a piece of bark floated down toward him and caught against his line. there certainly was nothing remarkable in this. after freeing it of the obstruction, he continued fishing. but, scarcely a minute had elapsed before a second and a third piece of bark, precisely like the first, lodged against his line, and remained there with such persistency that it required considerable effort upon his part to remove them. "where in dunderation did dey come from?" he asked, looking inquiringly about him. his first impression was that the shawnees along the banks were throwing these pieces out into the river for the purpose of annoying him; but, on looking toward them, he could discover nothing in their appearance to warrant such a supposition. he turned elsewhere for the cause. resuming his attention to his line, he found several other pieces passing beneath him, and he began now to feel really provoked at this repeated annoyance. he was about to break out into some exclamation, when the appearance of these floating objects arrested his attention. a glance showed him there was something meant more than mere mischief. the pieces of bark were of a peculiar construction, roughly cut into the shape of an indian canoe, showing unmistakably that they were sent down the stream for the purpose of arresting his notice. "dat means something," exclaimed hans, decidedly, "and i must find out what it is." by simply looking up-stream, he could discern this fleet of miniature boats coming down toward him in a straight line. in the clear sunlight they were visible for a great distance, and it was no difficult matter to determine their starting point. some two hundred yards above, another tree projected out over the water very much the same as that upon which hans was seated, so similar in fact that he had often used it for the same purpose. as the line of the pieces of bark pointed directly toward these, there was but little doubt that here they were launched upon the water. "it can't be dat quanonshet and madokawandock is dere," mused hans vanderbum, "for to try to worry deir poor old fader. dey're too big dutchmen to build such boats, and dey wouldn't know how to make 'em float under me if dey did. no; dere's somebody out on dat tree, and he's doing it to make me look up at him. i'm looking but i can't see notting." he shaded his eyes as he spoke, and looked long and searchingly at the tree, but for a considerable time could discover nothing unusual about it. at length, however, he fancied that he saw one of the limbs sway gently backward and forward in a manner that could hardly be caused by the wind. gradually it began to dawn upon him that if there was any person upon the tree, he meant that his presence should not be suspected by the shawnees along the bank. accordingly hans vanderbum was more circumspect in his observations. still watching the tree, he soon discovered something else that he thought was meant to attract his eye. the water directly beneath it flashed and sparkled as if it was disturbed by some object. straining his gaze, he finally discerned what appeared to be a human hand swaying backward and forward. "dat is enough!" thought hans vanderbum. "dere's somebody dere dat wants to see me, and is afeard of dese oder chaps about, so i goes to him." working his way cautiously backward, he reached the land and started apparently to return to his wigwam. as he did so, he looked at the shawnees and was gratified to see that their suspicions had not been aroused by his movements. proceeding some distance, he hid his fish and line and made his way up the river, escaping the shawnees by means of a long _détour_. reaching the stream and tree, he was somewhat taken aback by not finding any one at all. considerably perplexed, he looked about him. "can't be dat quanonshet and madokawandock have been fooling deir poor old fader again," said he. "i'm purty sure i seen some one on the tree, when dem pieces of bark come swimming downstream." a subdued whistle reached his ear. looking behind him, he saw a huron indian standing a few yards away. the eyes of both lit up as they encountered the gaze of each other, for they were both friends and old acquaintances. "ish dat you, oonomoo?" inquired hans vanderbum. "yeh--me--oonomoo," replied the indian, pronouncing his name somewhat differently from the dutchman, (and from that by which we have before referred to him). "was dat you on de tree out dere?" "yeh, me--oonomoo out dere on log." "and did you make dem pieces of bark to come swimming down by me?" "yeh, me made 'em." "and shtirred de water wid yer hand and moved de limb?" "yeh, oonomoo do all dat." "i shpose you wanted to see me?" "yeh, wanted to see you--want talk wid you," said the huron, motioning for hans to follow him. the latter did not hesitate to do so, as he had perfect faith in his honesty, knowing much of his history. the savage led the way some distance into the woods, where they were not likely to be seen or overheard, and then stopped and confronted his companion. "where'd you come from, oonomoo?" asked the latter. "from fightin' de shawnees," replied the savage, proudly. "yaw, i sees yer am in de war-paint. did you get many?" "the lodge of oonomoo is full of the scalps of the cowardly shawnees, taken many moons ago," answered the huron, his eyes flashing fire and his breast heaving at the remembrance of his exploits. this reply was made in the shawnee language, as he spoke it as well as one of their warriors; and, as hans also understood it, the conversation was now carried on in that tongue. "when did you see annie stanton last?" inquired the dutchman, showing considerable interest. "several moons ago, when the sun was in the woods and the waters were asleep." "is her husband, that rascally ferrington, living?" oonomoo replied that he was. "and is their baby, too?" "yes, they have two pappooses." "dunder and blixen!" exclaimed hans vanderbum, and then resuming the english language, or rather his version of it, he added: "dat gal wanted to marry mit me once." "why no marry den?" inquired oonomoo, also coming back to the more difficult language. "she wan't te right kind of a gal--she wan't like my keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, dat is de same shape all de way down from her head to her heels. so i let dat ferrington have her." the huron, who understood all about that matter, indulged in a broad smile at this remark. whatever his business was, it was manifest he was in no hurry, else he would not have indulged in this by-play of words with his friend. "you doesn't t'ink de baby will dies, does you?" "no--in de settlement--shawnee can't git her now--don't live off in de woods like as dey did afore." "dat's lucky for her; don't t'ink dey will get her there, 'cause dey tried it once--dat time, you remember, when we was all in de hunter's cabin in de woods, and you came down de chimney, and i watched and kept de shawnee off." the huron signified that he remembered the circumstance well. "dem was great times," added hans vanderbum, calling up the recollection of them. "i left de village one hot afternoon, and walked all de way t'rough de woods to get to de cabin to help dem poor folks. we had mighty hard times. i catched a cold and couldn't shtop my dunderin' nose one night when it wanted to shneeze, and dat's de way de shawnee catched me. twan't so bad arter all," added hans vanderbum, musingly, "'cause if it wasn't for dat i wouldn't got my keewaygooshturkumkankangewock." "how soon go back?" asked oonomoo. "to de village, do you mean?" "yeh." "any time afore noon will does, so keewaygooshturkumkankangewock gits de fish for our dinner." "one, two hours," said the huron, looking up at the sky, "den sun git dere," pointing to the zenith. "shawnees know here?" "know me here? guesses not; don't care if dey does, nor dey doesn't care neider." "shawnees won't come here?" "no, no, oonomoo, you needn't be afraid--" "afraid who?" demanded the huron, with quick fierceness. "oonomoo never run afore one--two--t'ree--dozen shawnees. he only runs when dey comes like de leaves in de woods." "dey won't come like de leaves. if dey does, why you can leave too, and i t'inks you know how to use dem legs dat you've got tacked onto you. i t'inks you run as fast as me." "so i t'inks," replied the indian, with a grin. "dere's no mistake but dem shawnees would like to get your scalp, oonomoo." "two--t'ree--hundreds--all shawnees like to git oonomoo's scalp--nebber git him--oonomee die in his lodge--scalp on his head," said the huron, proudly. "i hopes so; hopes i will, too." the expression of the indian's face was changed. it assumed a dark, earnest appearance. he was done trifling, and wished to commence business. "see her dis mornin'?" he asked, in short, quick tones. "see who?" asked hans vanderbum, in turn, completely at a loss to understand him. "de gal." "de gal? who you talking about--keewaygooshturkumkankangewock?" "de gal shawnees got in de village." the dutchman's blank expression showed that he did not comprehend what the huron was referring to; so he added, by way of explanation: "shawnees kill women and children--deir warriors squaws--don't fight men--burn houses toder day--run off wid gal--got her now in de village--she gal of oonomoo's friend--oonomoo want to get her." from these rather disconnected expressions, hans vanderbum understood that a war-party of shawnees had brought in a prisoner who was a friend of the huron's. it was for the purpose of learning something regarding her that he had signaled the fisherman to leave his hook and line and come to him. the captive having reached the village quite recently, he had failed to be apprised of it, so that oonomoo learned no more than he already knew regarding her. "when did dey took her?" asked hans vanderbum. "when sun dere, yisterday," replied the indian, pointing off in the western horizon. "do you want to know 'bout her?" "yeh." "den i goes find out." so saying, hans vanderbum strode away through the forest in the direction of the shawnee village. chapter ii. other characters. "he joys to scour the prairies wide, upon the bison's trail; to pierce his dark and shaggy hide with darts that never fail. "his is the lion's strength in war, in peace, the lion's rest; and the eagle hath not flown so far as his fame throughout the west." upon leaving the huron, hans vanderbum hurried toward the village, as rapidly as the peculiar structure of his body would allow. as has been remarked, he was well acquainted with oonomoo, knowing him to be a faithful ally of his race. he was anxious, therefore, to show his friendship to the savage. down, too, somewhere in the huge heart of the plethoric dutchman, was a kindly feeling for the distress of a human being, and he felt willing and anxious to befriend any hapless captive that had fallen into the hands of the relentless shawnees. so absorbed was he in meditating, that he took no heed of his footsteps until he was suddenly confronted by his spouse, keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, who, flourishing a sort of hoe over his head, demanded, or rather screeched: "where's your fish?" hans vanderbum winked very rapidly, and putting his hands up over his head, as if to protect it, "i forgots all about dem. i goes right back and gots dem." he wheeled around as he spoke, receiving a resounding whack from the hoe, by way of a reminder, and went lumbering through the woods in search of his basket of fish. he experienced little difficulty in finding it, and in a few moments was back again to his affectionate partner. "how did you get wet?" she asked, looking at his flapping garments. "dem little dutchmen done it; dey fixed de limb and made it proke and let me down in de water and almost drownded. quanonshet and madokawandock will be de death of deir poor dad." the wife vouchsafed no reply, but jerking the fish from his hand, entered the wigwam for the purpose of cooking them, while hans vanderbum himself went lounging on through the village, it being his purpose not to seem too anxious and hurried in his effort to gain his news regarding the captive. he was, despite his stupidity, not devoid of sagacity at times. he had not long to search. in the very center of the town, his eyes fell upon a promiscuous crowd collected around a wigwam, gazing at something within. "vot you got dere?" he demanded, in a tone of great indignation, as he shoved his way through the bystanders. those addressed made no reply, waiting for him to satisfy his curiosity by seeing the object for himself. in the interior, he descried a young woman, or rather a girl, for she could scarcely have been more than fifteen or sixteen years of age, seated upon the ground, beside a squaw, with whom it was apparent she had been endeavoring to hold a conversation; but, finding it impossible in the ignorance of each other's language, they had ceased their efforts by common consent and were now sitting motionless. [illustration: a girl, fifteen or sixteen years of age, seated upon the ground, beside a squaw.] as hans vanderbum gazed curiously at her, his big heart filled with pity. she was attired in the plain, homespun dress common among the settlers at that period, her head totally uncovered, and her long, dark hair falling in luxuriant masses around her shoulders. her hands were clasped and her head bowed with a meek, resigned air that reached more than one shawnee heart. her complexion was rather light, her features not dazzlingly beautiful, but prepossessing, the expression which instantly struck the beholder being that of refinement; speaking a nature elevated and holy, as much above that of the beings who surrounded her, as would have been that of an angel had he alighted amid a group of mortals. the great exertion made by hans vanderbum in reaching the wigwam, caused him to breathe so heavily as to attract the attention of the captive. catching sight of a white man, she arose quickly, and approaching him, said, eagerly: "oh! i'm so glad to meet one of my own color and race, for i am sure you must be a friend." "yaw, i's your friend," replied hans vanderbum, hardly knowing what he said; "and i's sorry as nobody to see you here. how did you got here?" "they brought me, the shawnee warriors did. they attacked the house in the night, when i was alone with the servants. they murdered them all except me. they have brought myself here to perish in captivity." "yaw, de shawnees ish great on _dat_ business. 'cause i shneezed dey cotched me once and brought me here to perish in captivity mit yourself," said hans vanderbum, in a feeling voice. "are you a prisoner, also?" asked the captive, in considerable surprise. "yaw, but i _likes_ it! i's got a wife, keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, dat is de same shape all de way down, and a little dutchman, madokawandock; so dey hasn't to watch, like i shpose dey will have to you." "can any of these around me understand english?" asked the girl, in a low tone. "no; de women don't know notting about it, except my wife, and she ain't here; and de men know notink. you needn't be afraid to say anything you pleases to me." "you could not betray me," added the girl, turning her dark, soulful eyes anxiously full upon him. "no, no," he replied, energetically. "voot's your name?" "mary prescott." "how fur does you live from here--dat is, how fur did you live?" "it must be over thirty miles, in an eastern direction, i think." "does you know oonomoo?" hans vanderbum asked the question in a lower tone, for the name was well known to all present. "a huron indian? oh, yes; i know him well," replied the captive; her countenance lighting up. "he was well remembered in our neighborhood, and was a true friend to us all. do you know him too? though i suppose of course you do, from your asking me the question." "yaw, i knows him, and he knows me too, and we both knows each oder, so dat we are acquainted. well, dat shentleman is hid off in de woods near here, and he has sent me in to l'arn what i cans about you." the prisoner kept back the joyful exclamation that came to her lips, and said: "tell him that i am unharmed and hopeful, and trust that while he interests himself in me, he will not run into danger." "not run into danger!" repeated hans vanderbum; "dat is what oonomoo lives on. he'd die in a week if he wan't into danger, out of grief. he don't do notting else; it's what he was made for," he added, growing enthusiastic in speaking of the huron. "i know he is a brave and true-hearted indian, and is greatly esteemed by the moravian missionaries. he hesitates at no risk when his friends are in danger." "ef he does run risk dey don't catch him, 'cause he knows how to run and fight, and ish shmarter dan de shawnees. where ish your parents?" "my mother and sister happened to be absent on a visit to falsington, which is fifteen or twenty miles distant from our place, while father, who is a captain, is doing service somewhere on the frontier, in the american army. how thankful indeed i am that dear mother and helen were away, for they have escaped this terrible captivity." "you washn't left all alone?" "oh, no; there were several servants, and i saw them tomahawked, and heard their piercing cries." the captive covered her face, and her frame shook like an aspen at the remembrance of the dreadful scenes through which she had so recently passed. it was several minutes before she recovered her self-command. when she did, hans vanderbum proceeded with his questions. "dey burnt de place, i shpose?" "yes, yes; they destroyed everything." "i shpose your folks will feel bad when dey finds dese shawnees have got you, won't dey?" "oh, yes, yes; do not speak of it." at this point hans vanderbum began to get a sort of dim, vague idea that his style of conversation was not exactly calculated to soothe the feelings of the unfortunate prisoner; so he determined, if possible, to make amends for it. patting her on the head, he said, gently: "don't feel bad, my darling; i ish shorry for you, but i wants to ax you anoder question." "what is it?" queried the maid, with a wondering look. "will you answer it?" asked hans vanderbum, endeavoring to put on an arch, quizzical expression. "if it is in my power i instantly will. pray, do not hesitate to ask me anything you choose." "well, den, gits ready for it. i would shust like to know if dere ishn't some feller dat is in love mit you, and you is in love mit, and dat both ish in love mit each oder, eh?" the crimson that suffused the cheeks and mounted to the very forehead of the captive, answered the question of hans vanderbum more plainly than words. still, he insisted upon a verbal reply. "there is no need of concealing the truth from you," she answered. "i have a dear young friend--" "who ish he?" "lieutenant canfield, who is in service with my father," she replied. "oh, den he don't know notting about it?" "i am not sure of that. oonomoo has acted as a runner or bearer of messages between many of the men in the american army and their families, upon the frontier, and the last time i saw him he brought me word that lieutenant canfield intended shortly to visit me on furlough. he may have arrived immediately after the indians burnt our place." "a good t'ing; a good t'ing if he only has." "why would it be a good thing?" "does he know oonomoo?" "certainly; he has known him for several years." "well, den, dey will come together, and dey'll fix up fings so dat dey will got you out of dis place afore long." "i hope so; i hope so. death would not be more terrible than the suffering i undergo here, especially at night. oh! will you not stay by me?" asked the prisoner, the tears starting to her eyes. hans vanderbum gouged his fists into his own visual organs, and muttered something about "de dunderin' shmoke," before he could reply. "yesh, yesh, i 'tends to you. you needn't be 'fraid. dey won't hurt you, i doesn't t'ink. dey jist keeps you. may be dey burns you, but dat ain't sartain. i must go to oonomoo now, for i've been away from him a good long while." "tell him i am hopeful." "ain't dere notting else to tell him?" asked hans vanderbum, still lingering. "i know of nothing else. he certainly needs no advice from me." "notting to send to lieutenant canfield, eh?" again queried hans. "tell oonomoo," said the girl, looking down to the earth, "that if he meets lieutenant canfield to say the same thing to him for me, that i am waiting and hopeful, and have a good friend constantly by me, which lightens, in a great measure, the gloom of my captivity." "who ish dat friend?" "you." "yaw, i tells him. good-by; be a good gal till i comes back. i bees back burty soon." so saying, hans passed out of the wigwam on his way to return to oonomoo. his prolonged conversation with miss prescott had attracted the attention of the indians who were lingering outside, and several asked him its purport. to these he invariably replied, "she didn't know wheder it was going for to rain or not, but she fought it would do one or toder." from his long residence among the shawnees and his family connection with them, hans vanderbum was not suspected of disaffection. indeed, it could not properly be said that he felt thus toward them. he would not willingly do anything to injure them any more than he would have fought against his own race. had he been dwelling among the whites, he would have befriended any hapless prisoner that might be in their power as he intended to befriend the poor girl with whom he had just been conversing. it was about noon when he reached his own wigwam. he looked in, and seeing that the fish had been cooked and was ready, told his wife that he didn't feel very hungry and he guessed he would take a short walk for his health. she, however, ordered him at once to take his place inside and eat his dinner. the henpecked husband dared not refuse, and he was accordingly compelled to take part in the meal, while constantly occupied in thinking that the huron was waiting for him; but, as patience is one of the cardinal virtues of the north american indian, hans was sure of finding him at the rendezvous upon his return. some twenty minutes later, hans vanderbum was at the tree, where he had first caught sight of oonomoo. it was not long before the latter came from his concealment, and, after exchanging words upon unimportant subjects, for the purpose of concealing his curiosity, he inquired in regard to miss prescott. "she tells me to tell you dat she's dere, and is hopeful, and ain't hurt, and hopes you won't hurt yourself to git her away." "oonomoo won't hurt his self--shawnee won't hurt oonomoo--he git gal away too." "oh, i like for to forgot. she tells me 'bout lieutenant canfield de same as she tells you. will you see him?" "see him dis mornin'--waitin' in woods fur me--see him 'gin--tell what gal said." "i'm glad for to hear it, oonomoo. i shpose you'll be back this way ag'in one dese days." "be back soon--have somebody with me--tell gal so--look out fur whistle--keep ears open--hear _dis_ time." "yaw, i will. i heerd you dis oder time, too; but didn't t'ink 'twas you. i'll know de next time. you going now?" the huron signified that he was, and took his departure as quietly as he had come. hans watched as the dusky figure flitted in and out among the trees and finally disappeared in the distance. then, muttering to himself, he returned to the village. the day was unusually warm for the season; there was little activity in the indian town. hans noticed that many of the shawnees were still lingering along the miami, although what object other than that of mere languor could induce them to remain, he could not possibly conceive. reaching his own wigwam, he was confounded with joy to learn that the captive, miss prescott, was to be domiciled in it. he could scarce believe it until keewaygooshturkumkankangewock told him that she was to be strictly guarded, used as her slave and never to be out of her sight for one minute. in case of her escape, hans vanderbum was to be held responsible for it, his life paying the forfeit. "dat is quare," he muttered. "i guess oonomoo can fix it, if dey _does_ do it." it perhaps is well to remark here, by way of explanation, that the time in which the incidents occurred, which we intend to relate, was a few years subsequent to the great victory of anthony wayne over the combined forces of the various indian tribes in the west. as a consequence of this splendid achievement and the no less splendid victory gained in the renowned treaty of greenville, a long and almost undisturbed peace along the frontier was inaugurated, where, for years before, all had been strife of the most revolting kind. but, profound peace and security never existed on the border until the final removal of the indians beyond the mississippi. isolated families, small bodies of men, and the lonely traveler through the forest, never were secure from the stealthy attacks of the red-men. deep in the gloom of the solemn wilderness, many a deadly conflict occurred between the hunter and the indian. often the victim sunk noiselessly to the turf, and his bones bleached for years in these wilds, while none but his slayer knew of his fate. captain prescott, placing great faith in the treaty of greenville, had erected a fine mansion upon a tract of land received from government. his residence was upon the extreme frontier. he had misgivings when he removed his wife and two daughters to that wilderness home. he provided a number of trusty servants for their protection in his absence with the army. circumstances transpired which prevented his fulfilling his promise to return home to remain, and he continued absent nearly three years, occasionally making a short visit, and returning to his duties again before he had fairly greeted his family. on one of these visits, captain prescott took, as his companion, a young lieutenant named canfield. it so happened that this visit lasted several days, and a period of greater happiness to the young lieutenant probably never occurred. mary prescott, at that time, could not properly be called a woman, except in the grace and dignity of her character. she inherited the rich fancy, the nervous sensibility, and stern will of her father, and what may seem like a contradiction, the gentleness and modesty of her mother. she was the youngest child, and, naturally enough, the pet of the others; but, the parents were too sensible to spoil her by flattery or foolish indulgence. she was of that age when the female mind is most susceptible to the great passion of our nature in its most romantic phase, when lieutenant canfield visited their house. his frank bearing, his gentlemanly deportment, and, above all, the favorable reports which her father gave of his gallant conduct, conspired to enlist young mary in his favor. [illustration: mary prescott.] they were scarcely thrown into each other's society before the natural, though sometimes tardy, results of the virtues we have mentioned were seen. the tell-tale blush--the voice unconsciously lowered to the most thrilling softness--the timid glance--the deep-drawn sigh--the absent, vacant appearance when separated for a short time from each other--the supreme happiness when together--all were signs which escaped not the eyes of the sister and mother, although the matter-of-fact father failed to notice such trifles. his days of courtship had become a fable, if they were not forgotten. if there were any displeasure at this state of affairs upon the part of her mother, it was only because she believed her daughter too young to entertain thoughts of marriage. like a wise and prudent parent, however, she did not seek to accomplish an impossibility--that of preventing what no parent yet succeeded in preventing. having great confidence in the young lieutenant, from the representations of her husband, she merely resolved to be discreet with him. accordingly, when, on the day of his departure, he found courage to mention his love of mary to her parents, the mother took it upon her to reply that she entertained no objection to his suit, but, from the youth of her daughter, he must not expect their consent to a union for several years. at the same time she gracefully hinted that the suddenness of his passion might well excite suspicion that it was hardly genuine. delighted beyond measure at this answer, lieutenant canfield added that he would not claim her hand until both father and mother were fully satisfied, and until he had proven to them that he was worthy of their daughter. thus matters stood when captain prescott and the lieutenant took their departure. matters were somehow or other so arranged that the lieutenant found opportunity to visit the family of captain prescott oftener than the captain himself. on these occasions, the mother was pleased to observe that while the attachment between him and her daughter became more and more marked, the lieutenant always manifested the most scrupulous respect for the wishes of her parents, and never breathed a word to her that he believed could occasion the slightest objection upon their part. besides these visits, the lovers found ready means for exchanging their expressions of affection through the faithful huron, oonomoo, who made stated journeys from captain prescott's mansion to his post. on these occasions, he went loaded with missives from one party to another, carrying back as many as he brought. he was a great favorite with the whites, who appreciated his chivalrous faithfulness and fidelity, and loaded him with many expressions of their esteem. he had the reputation of being the fleetest runner, the most successful scout and best hunter in the west. volumes would be required to record all the exploits told of him--of the marvelous number of scalps which hung in his lodge, and of the many hair-breadth escapes he had had. it was said he had a wife and child hid somewhere in the recesses of the forest, to whom he made stated visits, and whom his deadly enemies, the shawnees, had sought in vain for years. he was now about thirty-five years of age, and had been known as a scout and friend of the whites for full a dozen years. somewhat less than two years after the first meeting of lieutenant canfield with the daughter of captain prescott, the wife and eldest daughter of the latter made a journey of pleasure to a neighboring settlement. mary would have accompanied them, had she not received an intimation from oonomoo that her lover proposed to make her a visit about that time. she accordingly remained at home with the servants. two nights afterwards, when the darkness was almost impenetrable, a large war-party of shawnees suddenly attacked the place. the negroes had no time for defense, and only sought their own safety in flight. but one, however, escaped, the rest falling beneath the merciless tomahawk. mary prescott was carried off a prisoner. chapter iii. oonomoo and the shawnees. through forty foes his path he made, and safely reached the forest-glade.--scott. after parting from hans vanderbum, the huron sped noiselessly through the woods, taking a direction that would lead him to a point on the river fully three hundred yards below where he had signaled the german. the stream making a bend there, he would thus escape the observation of the shawnees along the bank, at the point where the fisherman had been engaged in his labors. so silent, yet rapid, was the motion of oonomoo, that his figure flitted through the rifts in the wood like a shadow. his head projected slightly forward, in the attitude of acute attention, and his black, restless eyes constantly flitted from one point to the other, scarcely resting for a second upon any single object. in his left hand he trailed his long rifle, while his right rested upon the buckhorn handle of the knife in his belt. he had progressed a considerable distance thus, when the huron's gait decreased very rapidly. he was now in the vicinity of the river, where he had left his canoe drawn up on the bank. it was necessary to reconnoiter thoroughly before venturing to approach it. accordingly, he halted. the movement of the panther in approaching his foe was not more stealthy and cautious than was his. at length, reaching the shelter of a tree, and cautiously peering around, the huron caught sight of the stern of his canoe. one glance and his dark eyes flashed fire! the shawnees had been there! what sign caught the notice of oonomoo? what kindled the fire in his dark eye? what caused one hand to close over his knife, and the other to grasp his rifle? it was a sign of his enemy. too well the sagacious huron knew that the shawnee was lying in wait for him. the canoe, which oonomoo left behind him, during his interview with hans vanderbum, lay precisely as it was first deposited. not a surrounding limb, shrub or leaf had, so far as he could see, been disturbed since he left the spot. and yet the evidence which presented itself to the eyes of the indian was as palpable and unmistakable as would have been the appearance of enemies themselves. oonomoo had carefully drawn his bark canoe up the river-bank and concealed it as well as the circumstances would admit. he had then deposited his long indian paddle in it, leaving the blade projecting over the stern. the paddle _was now several inches further to one side than it had been left by him_! this was the entire evidence. it was abundantly sufficient to satisfy the huron. he did not doubt for an instant. his only uncertainty was in regard to the precise location of his foes. a few minutes' observation satisfied him that they were not between the canoe and the river. his course of action was accordingly determined. it would have been the easiest matter in the world for him to have escaped by swimming the river; but as an opportunity for a contest of skill with his enemies was offered, he was too proud not to embrace it at once. retreating several rods, he continued his way upstream in his usual cautious manner, until he had gone perhaps a furlong above his canoe, when he approached and entered the stream. the miami, at this point, was so heavily wooded, that it was impossible to pass close under its shore without entering the water. once within this and in a stooping position, a person would be invisible to any one on the same bank, although he could be plainly seen from the opposite shore. oonomoo now commenced his descent of the river with the intention of recovering his canoe. this was necessarily a tedious and prolonged operation, as a single misstep, a slip or splash of the water might betray him to his enemies. but, he was equal to the task, and never hesitated for a moment except to listen for some sign of his enemies. the shawnees, by the merest accident, had discovered the huron's canoe and examined it. satisfied that it belonged to none of their tribe, and most probably had been left there by some hostile scout, they carefully allowed it to remain as they had found it, and endeavored to restore everything around to its natural position, so as not to arouse the suspicion of the owner upon his return. this done, they withdrew and awaited with loaded rifles for his reappearance. we have shown how a most trifling error in regard to the paddle placed the huron on his guard. it was perhaps a half-hour after oonomoo had commenced his descent of the river, that the canoe, without any perceptible jar, slid an inch or two down the bank. so quietly and cautiously was this effected, that, had the shawnees been looking directly at it, their suspicion would not have been aroused. some ten or fifteen minutes later, the boat moved about the same distance further. the expectant shawnees, clutching their rifles, were listening anxiously for some sound that might indicate the approach of their foe, and paid little heed to the canoe itself. ever and anon, it retreated an inch or two down the bank in the same mysterious manner--going short distances and so very slowly that no one but a thoroughly suspicious indian would have believed there was any human agency connected with it. the canoe was fully an hour and a half in moving a single foot, during which time the huron managed, by the most consummate skill, to sustain it in such a manner that the shrubbery and undergrowth around appeared to occupy relatively the same position that they did before it had been disturbed. the river shore was only some twenty or thirty feet distant, and from where oonomoo lay, the way was almost entirely clear to it, so that when he chose to make any sudden dash or movement, no hindering cause could possibly offer itself. one of the shawnees chanced to glance at the canoe. at the same instant, his keen eye detected its changed position, imperceptible almost as it was. with a guttural exclamation he arose and moved toward it, followed by his two companions. they had taken scarcely a step, when they saw the boat slide swiftly forward several feet, and then suddenly rising to the perpendicular position, whisk off through the bush at a still more rapid rate. two twinkling moccasins, that looked as if they were its support, as they doubled over each other, fully explained to the shawnees the cause of this singular scene. with a loud yell, the three dashed forward, while the huron ran at the top of his speed over the slight distance that lay between him and the river. reaching the shore, he changed the canoe from his rear to his front, and holding it like a shield above and before him. with one foot in the edge of the water, he concentrated all his strength for the effort and leaped far out in the stream--the canoe falling with a loud splash perfectly flat upon the surface. the impetus thus given caused it to shoot like an arrow for a long distance, when the huron, inclining his body to the left, careened it so much, that his own person was concealed from any who might be upon the shore, while, by reaching his hand over into the current, he was enabled to use it as a paddle, and continue his onward motion. oonomoo was fully aware that the delicate structure of the canoe was no obstruction at all against a rifle-shot. accordingly, while descending the river, he had taken precaution to insure his safety, in case of such an occurrence as had now transpired. a large, rotten limb, hardly the length of his own body, was carried with him. at the moment of lifting the canoe from the ground, the limb was placed within it, and thus was carried back to the edge of the river. lying flat upon his face, this limb was about the thickness of the huron's waist, and by skillfully balancing the boat, it was interposed directly between him and his foes. the only parts of his person which possibly could be struck were his feet and the arm stretched over the side of the canoe. the former necessarily being in the stern, it was hardly probable that they would be wounded. there was such risk of the arm that oonomoo drew it within the boat for a few moments. he had scarcely done so, when the reports of two rifles, and the peculiar zip of the bullets as they cut through the side of the canoe and buried themselves in the rotten wood, proved how wise was the precaution he had taken. quick as thought, the hand of the huron was in the water again, where, as he vigorously used it, it flashed like some fish at play. the shawnees, who plainly discerned the two holes their bullets had made, could scarcely believe their daring foe had escaped injury. but they were forced to believe he was still living from the fact that the canoe steadily progressed across and was not carried down-stream by the current. the whoop of the shawnees had been heard by their comrades further down the bank. as the canoe reached the middle of the river, they caught a sight of it, and readily conjectured the true state of the case. in a twinkling, two of their own were launched in pursuit. discovering this, oonomoo arose to the upright position, and dipping his paddle deep in the water, sent his boat forward with astonishing swiftness. as it lightly touched the bank, he leaped ashore and pulled it up after him. then uttering a defiant yell, he turned, and to show the scorn in which he held the shawnees, walked slowly and deliberately into the forest. once fairly beyond their sight, however, his pace quickened, and when the sun sunk low in the western horizon, he was many a mile from the miami. chapter iv. the young lieutenant and cato. suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon, titan-like, stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and meadow, seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together. --longfellow. from a long distance the conflagration had been visible, its light throwing a red glare far up in the sky, and revealing the huge clouds that swept forward like crimson avalanches, while the surrounding trees glowed as if their branches were burning hot. those nearest had their bark blistered and their leaves curled and scorched from the intense heat. a conflagration at night, when viewed from a distance, always seems awful in its sublimity. there is something calculated to inspire terror in the illuminated dome of the heavens and the onward sweep of this fearful element, when viewed in a civilized country; but it is only in the wilderness, away from the abode of man, that such an exhibition partakes of all the elements of grandeur and terror. the solitary hunter, as he stood upon the banks of some lonely stream, leaned on his rifle and gazed with a beating heart at the brilliant redness that lit up so much of the sky. the beasts in their lair turned their glowing eyeballs toward the dreadful illumination, and stood transfixed with fear until its light died away; while the dark face of the vengeful shawnee grew darker and more terrible as he gazed upon this work of his own hands. a silence, deep and profound, rested like a pall upon the wilderness and remained there until darkness again held undisputed reign. lieutenant canfield had seen the glowing light from a great distance, when its appearance was much like that of the moon as it comes up in the horizon. little did he suspect its true nature. it was not until the next morning that he encountered oonomoo, the huron, who related the particulars of the attack of the shawnee party upon the house of captain prescott and the capture of his daughter. had not the impulsive lieutenant thus learned of his beloved's safety from massacre, had he not received the assurance of an immediate attempt for her recapture, there is no telling to what imprudent lengths he might have gone in his blind devotion to the young captive. oonomoo remained with him but a short time, when he departed on his mission to the shawnee village, and the lover continued on toward the estate of captain prescott. it was nearly noon when lieutenant canfield reached the place--now nothing but a mass of charred and blackened ruins. leaving his horse in the woods, he dismounted and examined the remains of the mansion and smaller buildings. the ghastly corpses of the negroes still lay upon the ground, having been undisturbed, and with a feeling of heart-sickness the young soldier passed them by. in his profession, he had witnessed many revolting sights, but none that affected him more than this. he shuddered, as he reflected that the very barbarians who had wantonly inflicted his woe were the captors of the adored daughter of captain prescott, and that they had inflicted as shocking outrages even upon such defenseless captives as she. walking thus moodily forward, he was suddenly brought to a standstill by coming in front of an awkward, odd-looking structure, which excited his wonder in no small degree. the charred remains of the logs of one of the buildings had been collected together and piled one above the other, so that they bore some resemblance to a rudely-fashioned oven. from the circumstances of the case, these must have been arranged in this manner subsequently to the visit of the shawnees, and it was this fact which awakened the curiosity of the lieutenant. his first supposition was that it was the doings of the huron. but what reason could he have had for rearing such a structure? what possible purpose could it serve him? all at once it flashed upon the lieutenant that it was the work of the shawnees themselves, and he began to view the contrivance with some apprehension. this feeling was considerably strengthened when he either heard or fancied he heard the movement of some one within it. prudence dictated that he should place a little more distance between it and himself. accordingly he began to retreat, walking backward and keeping his gaze fixed upon it, ready for any demonstration from his concealed enemies. suddenly something within the hollow of the structure fell with a dull thump that nearly lifted the lieutenant from his feet. at the same moment he heard a suppressed growl, as if made by a caged bear. he now began to feel more wonder than fear. "what in the name of creation is the meaning of that concern, and what sort of animal is caged in it?" he muttered, staying his retreat. the lieutenant debated whether or not to approach and examine the interior of the odd-looking hut. it seemed hardly possible that any human being could be within, although it was certain there was some living object there. "at any rate i'll stir him up," he concluded, resolutely approaching. the growls were now redoubled, and he really believed some four-footed animal was the cause of all the uproar. "it may be the shawnees have attempted a little pleasantry after their bloody work, and caged up some poor creature within those logs," thought he. "i'll let him loose if such be the case." he placed his hand upon the stump of a log nearest to him, when a thunderbolt appeared to have exploded before him. he started back as though he had received an electric shock. a perfect battery of howls was leveled against him, and for a moment his ears were stunned with the deafening uproar. he determined, however, to solve the mystery. giving the structure a push that brought it tumbling to the ground, he sprung back and held his rifle prepared for any foe, were he a four-footed or a two-footed one. instead of either, what was his amazement to see a negro, as black as midnight, emerge from the ruins, and cringe at his feet. "oh, mr. injine, please don't shoot! please don't kill me! nice, good mr. injine, don't hurt me! please don't tomahawk poor cato! he never hurt an injine in all his life. please don't! oh, don't! don't! don't! boo-hoo! oo!-oo-oo!" "get up, get up, cato, and don't make a fool of yourself," said the lieutenant, recognizing in the frightened negro the favorite servant of captain prescott's family. "oh, please don't hurt me! please don't kill poor cato! he never hurt good injine in all his life! please, good, nice mr. injine, let me go, and i'll do anyt'ing you wants me to, and lubs you as long as i lib. please, don't hurt poor nigger cato," repeated the servant, fairly beside himself with terror. "if you don't want to be killed, get up," said the young officer, sternly enough to bring cato to his senses; but only after he had been assisted by what he supposed to be a ferocious indian, ready to brain him, was he enabled to rise and to keep his feet. [illustration: "if you don't want to be killed, get up," said the young officer.] "don't you know me, cato?" asked the lieutenant, laughing heartily at the woe-begone appearance of the negro. "hebens, golly! ain't you an injine, massa canfield?" he asked, his knees still shaking with terror. "do i look like one?" "guess you isn't, arter all," added the negro, with more assurance. "hebens, golly! _i ain't afeard_!" he suddenly exclaimed, straightening up proudly. "didn't t'ink cato was afeard, massa canfield?" "i must say that the circumstantial evidence of your cowardice is hard to resist." the negro's eyes enlarged as he heard the large words of the soldier, and his looks showed that he had no idea of their meaning. "doesn't t'ink i's _afeard_?" "why did you build such a looking concern as that?" "why i build dat? to keep de rain off of me." "it hasn't rained at all for several days." "know dat, but, den, expect maybe 'twill. bes' to be ready for it when _does_ come." "but, as there were no evidences of a storm coming very soon, why should you get in there just now?" "storms out in dese parts bust berry suddent sometimes. oughter know dat, massa canfield." "yes, i do; but, why in the name of common sense did you set up such a growling when i came near your old cabin?" "did i growl at you?" "yes: made as much noise as a grizzly bear could have done." "done it jist for fun, massa. hebens, golly! wanted to see if you was afeard, too." "but," said the soldier, assuming a more serious air, "let the jesting cease. when did you put those logs together, cato?" "dis morning, arter _dey_ went away," he replied, with a shudder, casting a look of terror around him. "and when did they--the shawnees--go away?" "didn't stay long, massa; come in de night, berry late--bust on de house all at once." lieutenant canfield felt a painful interest in all that related to mary prescott. although the huron had given him the principal incidents of the attack and massacre, he could not restrain himself from questioning the negro still further. "had you no warning of their approach?" "nothing; didn't know dey war about till dey war among us." "what was the first thing you heard, cato? give me the particulars so far as you can remember." "hebens, golly! i'll neber forgit _dat_ night if i lib a fousand years. wal, you see i and big mose had just gwane to bed and blowed de candle out----" "had miss mary retired?" "yes--she'd been gone a good while. you see, me and big mose am generally de last niggers dat am up, specially myself. i goes around for to see if de t'ings am all right about de house. wal, me and mose had been around to see if eberyt'ing was right, and was coming back from de barn and got purty near de house, when mose whispers, 'cato, i see'd a man crawling on de ground back dar. i didn't say nuffin' for fear ob scaring ob _you_.' 'oh! git out,' says i, 'you's _skeart_.' but i felt a little oneasy myself, 'cause i kind ob fought i heern somefin' when we was a little furder off. i commenced for to walk fast, and big mose commenced for to walk fast, and afore we knowed it, we bofe was a canterin', and when we come aginst de door, we'd like to 've busted it in, we was tearing along so fast. we tumbled in ober each oder, and fastened dat door in a hurry you'd better beliebe." "wal, we went to our room, and blowed out de candle and said our prayers and went to bed. we hadn't been laying dar long, when big mose turned ober toward me, and whispers, 'i tell you, cato, dar am inj'ines about de house. 'cause why i see'd one, and i had a dream last night dat a whole lot ob dem comes here in de night and killed all of us niggers and burnt missis mary!' hebens, golly! massa canfield, i begun to turn white about de gills when i heerd him say _dat_. i'd been shibering and shaking, and now i shook like de ager. i told big mose to be still and go to sleep, 'cause it seemed to me if i went to sleep when t'ings looked bad, dey would be all right agin in de mornin'. but, he wouldn't be still and says, 'i tell you, cato, dar _am_ injines crawlin' around ob dis house dis very minute, 'cause i can hear dar knees and hands on de ground.' i couldn't make big mose keep quiet. bimeby, he says, 'cato, let's git up and be ready for 'em, for dey're comin'. i _knows_ it, i ken _feel_ it in my bones. let's wake up missis mary and de niggers and fight 'em, for dey'll be here afore morning, sure.' wal, dat nigger worrid me awful. i told him i wouldn't git up, but was going to sleep, and turned ober in bed, but i couldn't keep my eyes shet. "bimeby, i heard big mose crawling soft-like out de bed. he was trying to make no noise, so he wouldn't wake me, finking i was asleep. he stepped like a cat on de floor, and i listened to see what he was going to do. i heerd him move around and den all was still. 'what you doing, mose?' i axed. 'i'm going to say my prayers,' he said, 'and it's de last time too, 'cause de injines will soon be here.' i didn't try to stop him, for i felt so bad, i commenced saying mine in de bed. "big mose kept mumbling and crying for a long time, and i shaking more and more, when all at once, hebens, golly! i see'd somefin' bright-like shine trough de winder, and i looked out and de barn was all afire. den dar come a yell dat nearly blowed de roof off de house. big mose gib a screech and run, and _bang-bang_ went a lot ob guns all around us. de injines was dar, burnin', tomahawkin', screechin', shoutin', and killin' de poor niggers as fast as dey showed demselves. i see'd miss mary----" "did they harm her?" "no! she didn't 'pear _skeart_ a bit. she tried to keep de injines from killing de poor niggers, not t'inking anyt'ing about herself." "how was it that _you_ escaped?" "i stayed where i was till i was nearly burnt up, when i sneaked out and none of 'em didn't 'pear to notice me. i hid in de woods and stayed dar till mornin'." "did you see anything more of miss mary?" "yes, i see'd de injines go away purty soon, and take her along. dey didn't take any ob de niggers, 'cause dey had killed 'em all but me, and i was already dead, but i comed to agin." "none of captain prescott's family were in the house besides mary, were they?" asked the lieutenant, asking a question of which he well knew the answer. "nobody else wan't dar--bress de lord! missis prescott and helen went off on a visit to de settlement, t'ree, four days ago." "how was it miss mary remained behind?" "ki-yi! you doesn't know, eh?" said cato, grinning vastly, in total forgetfulness, for the moment, of his dreadful surroundings. "how should i know? of course, i do not." "wal, den, oonymoo, dat red injine, told her as how maybe you'd be 'long dese parts 'bout dis time, and _she_ 'cluded she'd be't home when _you_ called. _dat's_ how she was heah!" a thrill went through the gallant lieutenant at this evidence of the affection of the fair maiden he had journeyed so far to see. despite the heart-sickness which had come over him at sight of the revolting scenes around, he experienced a sort of pleasure from the words of the negro, and felt anxious for him to say more. "how do you know, cato, that this was the reason she remained behind?" "hebens, golly! didn't i hear her tell missis so?" "her mother? and what did she say?" "oh! she and missis helen kinder laughed, and showed all dar white teef, and dey didn't try to persuade her to go, 'cause dey _knowed_ dar wan't no use ob tryin' to do nuffin' like _dat_. she lubs the leftenant altogeder too much. yah! yah!" and cato kicked up his heels, hugely delighted. "have you told me when you built this house of yours?" "t'ought i hahd. done dat ar workmanship dis mornin', arter all de injines had gone. t'ought dar'd be somebody 'long dis way afore long." "there has been nothing saved," said the lieutenant, looking around and speaking apparently to himself. "noffin' but dis poor nigger, and i don't know what will become of him now dat he's all alone," said cato, with a woe-begone demeanor. "have no anxiety upon that account. you shall be attended to. captain prescott and all his family are living, and, depend upon it, you will not suffer if he can prevent it." "but de house am gone--de horses--de corns--eberyt'ing but me." the young soldier continued musing for a moment and then asked: "how far from here is the settlement to which mrs. prescott has gone?" "ten, fifteen or forty miles." "can't you tell me more precisely than that?" "somewhere atween ten and forty or fifty--dat's all i can tell." "have you ever been there yourself?" "offin--horseback." "you know the way?" "jes' as well as did from de house to de barn." "how would you like to go there?" "what! alone?" asked cato, the old look of terror coming back to his countenance. "certainly--you have been there and back you said, didn't you?" "yes, but bress your soul! de injines wan't about den." "i guess there were as many as there are this minute." "oh! gracious! i don't want to go alone. what made ye ax me dat queshun?" "why, i thought this, cato. you see i expect oonomoo to return to this place by nightfall, when i intend to accompany him to the shawnee village where miss mary is held captive----" "goin' to git her?" "we hope to. i was going to propose that you should make your way to the settlement and carry the news of this sad affair to mrs. prescott and her daughter, assuring her that the huron and myself will do all we can to rescue mary. they must have seen the light, last night, and no doubt are dreadfully anxious to learn whether it was their mansion or not. besides, i doubt whether the huron will be willing that you should accompany us." "why won't he? i guess cato knows enough to take care of his self. allus has done it. done it last night." "we will let the matter rest until his return. it shall be as he says." "what time 'spect him?" "in the course of a few hours. in the meantime, there is another matter that must be attended to. do you know whether there is a spade or shovel lying about?" "dunno; guess dar is dough. i'll see in a minute." cato ran some distance to where the charred remains of another building were heaped together, and searching among the ruins, brought forth a spade with a portion of the handle still left. "what ye want to do dat ar?" he asked, as he brought it to the lieutenant. "we must bury those bodies, cato. it would be wrong to deny them a decent burial when we possess the time and means." cato had a mortal horror of touching any creature that was dead, but more than once he had wished that the corpses were placed in the ground, although he had not the courage to put them there. he showed no reluctance now to the performance of his portion of the task. "you know how to dig, i presume?" asked the lieutenant. "yis, i offin dug wid dis berry same spade. whar'd you want thar graves?" "one grave will answer for the four, and this spot will do as well as any other." the soldier gave the proper directions, and the negro commenced his labor at once. in an hour or two, he had hollowed out a grave, ready for the reception of the dead bodies. he could not conceal his repugnance to touching them, although he did not refuse to do so. "dat ar is poor big mose," said he, as they took hold of a herculean negro, who had been brained by the keen tomahawk. "and he knowed the injines war a-comin' a long time afore dey did. poor mose," he added, as the big tears trickled down his cheek, "he neber will eat any more big suppers or come de double-shuffle or de back-action-spring by moonlight. poor feller! he had a big heel and knowed how to handle it." the body was carefully lowered into the grave, and the others, one by one, were placed beside it. it was a sight which haunted lieutenant canfield for many a night--those black, upturned corpses--awful evidences of the terrible passions of the shawnees. the earth was carefully deposited over them and the last sad rites performed. the sun was now past the meridian, and the young soldier began to look momentarily for the appearance of the huron. an hour or two had passed, when cato spoke: "massa canfield, 'tain't noways likely dat ar injine will be along afore dark. _dat's_ de time dem critters likes to travel, so what's de use ob our waitin' here so long. oder injines _mought_ be around dese parts and wouldn't it be a good idee to git in de woods whar dey wouldn't be so apt to see us?" it struck the lieutenant that there was some sense in the advice of the negro; so he concluded to act upon it. moving away toward the wood, his foot struck and scattered a pile of black cinders lying near the ruins of the house. looking down, he saw something glitter. what was his surprise to discover in the ashes a gold watch and chain which he had often seen upon the neck of mary prescott. a portion of the chain had been melted by the intense heat, but by some singular means, the watch had been so well preserved that there was scarcely a blemish upon it. as he picked it up, cato exclaimed, with rolling eyes: "dat is miss mary's! dat is miss mary's!" "it couldn't have been around her neck, certainly, when it was lost." "no, she allers laid it on de stand aside her bed, and dat's de way it got dar. see, dar's de legs ob de stand." it was as the negro said, and in the hope of finding some more of the valuables of the family, the soldier kicked the ashes and cinders hither and thither and searched among them for a considerable time. nothing further rewarded him, however. placing the watch upon his own person, he went on, across the edge of the clearing, into the woods beyond. he led his horse further into their protection, and then beckoned the negro to his side. "do you feel sleepy, cato?" "no! what'd you ax that fur?" "well i do, and i am going to try to get a little sleep. i wish you to keep watch of the clearing while i do." "don't 'spect none of dem injines will be back here?" "no, but oonomoo will probably soon be. i want you to see him the minute he comes, and awaken me so that there shall be no unnecessary delay." cato promised to obey, and took his station nearer the clearing, while the fatigued soldier stretched himself upon the ground and was soon wrapped in a dreamless slumber. lieutenant canfield slept until nearly sunset, and would have slept even longer had he not been aroused by cato roughly shaking his shoulder. "why, what's the matter?" he asked, looking up in the terror-stricken countenance of the negro. "hebens, golly! _dey've come_!" "who has come? what are you talking about?" "de injines. dar's forty fousand of 'em out dar in de clearing!" considerably flurried by the husky words of his sable friend, lieutenant canfield arose and walked stealthily toward the clearing to satisfy himself in regard to the cause of the negro's excessive fear. "be keerful, or dey'll see you," admonished the latter, following several yards behind. approaching as near the edge of the wood as he deemed prudent, he was rewarded by the sight of some six or eight indians--undoubtedly shawnees--who were examining the ruins that lay around them with considerable curiosity. they were ugly-looking customers in their revolting war-paint and fantastic costumes, and the lieutenant felt that the wisest plan he could adopt was to give them a wide berth. withdrawing further into the wood, he asked the negro when he had first seen them. "massa canfield, i stood and watched out dar for two, free hours till i fell asleep myself and come down kerwollup on de ground. i laid dar a good while afore i woke, and de fust t'ing i see'd when i looked out dar, war dem injines walking round, kickin' up t'ings and makin' darselves at home ginerally. you'd better beliebe i trabeled fast to tell you ob it." "from which direction do you think they come?" "dunno, but i finks de way dey looks dat dey come purty near from dis way, mighty clus to whar we's standin'; and i t'inks dey'll take de same route to git back agin." somehow or other, the lieutenant had the same impression as the negro. it was so strong upon him that he resolved to change their position at once. accordingly, he proceeded to where his horse was tied, and unfastening, led him into the wood. making a _détour_, he came back nearly upon the opposite side of the clearing, where, if possible, the wood was still thicker. here they carefully screened themselves from observation and watched the shawnees. hither and thither they passed, searching among the ruins for plunder, occasionally turning up some trifle upon which they pounced with the avidity of children, and examining the half-burnt remnants of chairs, tables and stands, etc. here and there they pulled the black, twisted nails forth, that looked like worms burnt to a cinder, and carefully preserved them for future use. every metallic substance was seized as a prize, and some of the wooden portions of instruments were also appropriated. thin twists of smoke still ascended from different spots in the clearing, and the ashes when stirred showed the red live coals beneath them. "yah! yah! dat feller's got sumkin' nice," said cato, laughing heartily and silently at one of the indians, who had pulled forth a long board with evident delight. turning it over, he balanced it on his shoulder and was walking rapidly away, when suddenly he sprung several feet in the air with a yell of agony, and jumped from beneath it, rubbing his shoulder very violently as if suffering acute pain. "yah! yah! knowed 'twould do dat. lower part all afire, and reckoned it burnt him a little." the indian continued dancing around for several moments, not ashamed to show to his companions how much he suffered. he by no means was the only one who was caught in this manner. very often, a savage would spring from the ground, with a sharp exclamation, as some coal pierced through his moccasin, and now and then another could be seen, slapping his fingers against his person, after he had hastily dropped some object. one eager shawnee attempted to draw a red-hot nail from a slab with his thumb and finger, and roasted the ends of both by the operation, while a second seated himself upon a board which set fire to the fringe of his hunting-shirt. he did not become aware of it until a few minutes later, when, in walking around, the fire reached his hide. placing his hand behind him, he received unmistakable evidence of its presence, when he set up a loud whoop and started at full speed for the spring, reaching which, he seated himself in it, before he felt entirely safe. these, and many other incidents, amused the lieutenant for the time being, while the delight of cato was almost uncontrollable. he seemed in danger of apoplexy several times from the efforts he made to subdue his laughter. but, all at once there was a sudden cessation in his mirth, and a visible lengthening of his visage. grasping the shoulder of the soldier, he exclaimed: "look dar! look dar! see dem!" "i see nothing to alarm us." "look dar whar we went into the clearin'. don't you see dem injines dar?" lieutenant canfield did see something that alarmed him. the whole eight indians had followed the track of himself and the negro to the edge of the wood, where they had halted and were consulting together. they certainly must have noticed it before, but had probably been too busy to examine it particularly. it had never once occurred to the white man that this evidence of his presence would tell against him, but he now saw the imminent peril in which he and the negro were placed. "we must flee, cato," said he. "fortunately it will soon be dark, when they cannot follow us." "will we bofe git on de hoss?" asked the frightened negro. "no; it will do no good. let us take to the woods. hush! what's that?" just as they were about moving, the sharp report of a rifle came upon their ears, and with a loud whoop the shawnees rushed off in a body, taking an easterly direction, which was different from that followed by the soldier and negro. now that all immediate danger was gone, the two remained behind, to learn, if possible, the cause of the mysterious shot and subsequent action of the shawnees. it was not until night, when oonomoo, the huron, returned, that the cause was made known. he had approached several hours before, and seen the savages in consultation, and divined the cause of it. to divert them from pursuing his two friends, whom they would most certainly have captured, he discharged his piece among them, and then purposely showed himself to draw them after him. the stratagem succeeded as well as he could have wished. he easily eluded them, until they had followed him some distance in the woods, when he made his way back again to the clearing, where he rejoined the lieutenant and the negro. chapter v. the home of the huron. tis nature's worship--felt--confessed, far as the life which warms the breast! the sturdy savage midst his clan, the rudest portraiture of man, in trackless woods and boundless plains, where everlasting wildness reigns, owns the still throb--the secret start-- the hidden impulse of the heart.--byron. the huron, after his escape from the shawnees, quickened his pace, as we have stated, and went many a mile before he changed his long, sidling trot into the less rapid walk. when he did this, it was upon the shore of a large creek, which ran through one of the wildest and most desolate regions of ohio. in some portions the banks were nothing more than a continuous swamp, the creek spreading out like a lake among the reeds and undergrowth, through which glided the enormous water-snake, frightened at the apparition of a man in this lonely spot. the bright fish darted hither and thither, their sides flashing up in the sunlight like burnished silver. the agile indian sprung lightly from one turf of earth to another, now balancing himself on a rotten stump or root, now walking the length of some fallen tree, so decayed and water-eaten that it mashed to a pulp beneath his feet, and then leaping to some other precarious foothold, progressing rapidly all the time and with such skill that he hardly wetted his moccasin. while treading a log thus, which gave back a hollow sound, the head of an immense rattlesnake protruded from a hole in the tree, its tail giving the deadly alarm, as it continued issuing forth, as if determined to dispute the passage of man in this desolate place. the fearless huron scarcely halted. while picking his way through the swamp he had carried his rifle lightly balanced in his left hand, and he now simply changed it to his right, grasping it by the muzzle, so that the stock was before him. he saw the cavernous mouth of the snake opened to an amazing width; the thin tongue, that resembled a tiny stream of blood; the small, glittering eyes; the horn-like fangs, at the roots of which he well knew were the sacks filled almost to bursting with the most deadly of all poisons; the thin neck, swelling out until the scaly belly of the loathsome reptile was visible. the huron continued steadily approaching the revolting thing. he was scarcely a yard distant when the neck of the snake arched like a swan's, and the head was drawn far back to strike. in an instant the stock of his rifle swept over the top of the log with the quickness of lightning. there followed a sharp, cracking noise, like the explosion of a percussion-cap, and the head of the rattlesnake spun twenty feet or more out over the swamp. it struck the branch of a tree, and, dropping to the water, sunk out of sight. the headless body of the reptile now writhed and doubled over itself, and smote the tree in the most horrible agony. oonomoo walked quietly forward, and with his feet shoved it from the log. still twisting and interlocking, it sunk down, down, down into the clear spring-like waters until it could be seen on the gravelly bottom, where its struggles continued as he passed on. not affected by this occurrence, the huron walked on as quietly as before, his dark, restless eye seemingly flitting over every object within his range of vision. the character of the swamp continued much the same. a broad sheet of water, from nearly every portion of which rose numerous trees, like thin, dark columns, here and there twisted round and round, and, seemingly, smothered by some luxuriant vine; others prostrate, the roots sunk out of sight, and the trunk protruding upward, as if a giant had used them for spears and hurled them into the swamp; shallow portions, where the water was but a few inches deep, and then others, where you could gaze down for twenty feet, as if you were looking through liquid air. these were the peculiarities of this singular spot in the wilderness, through which the huron was journeying. he must have proceeded fully a half-mile into this water wilderness, when he reached what might properly be termed the edge of the swamp; that is, the one through which he had been making his way, for there was still another a short distance from him. the growth of trees terminated almost in a mathematical line, and a lake of water, something less than a quarter of a mile in width, stretched out before him, perfectly clear of every obstruction. the indian stood a long time, looking about in every direction. what was unusual, there was an expression of the most intense anxiety upon his countenance. well might there be; for, sooner than to have a human eye (whether it was that of the white or red man) to witness the movements he was now about to make, he would have suffered death at the stake a thousand times! apparently satisfied, he laid his rifle on the tree upon which he had been standing, and then sprung out into the deeper water, sinking like a stone from sight. when he came to the surface, he brought something with him, which proved to be a canoe. with this he swam to the tree, where he righted and turned the water from it. a paddle was secured in it. taking his seat, the canoe went skimming like a swallow over the water toward the opposite swamp. reaching this, he shot in among the trees, avoiding them with as much ease and dexterity as would a bird on the wing. going a hundred yards in this manner, he arose in his canoe and looked around. a shade of displeasure crossed his face, apparently of disappointment at not discovering some person or object for whom he was looking. waiting a moment, he placed his thumb on his mouth, and gave utterance to a low, tremulous whistle, an exact imitation of a bird often found in the american swamps. a moment later, there came a response exactly the same, except that it sounded fainter and a considerable distance away. the moment it caught the ear of the huron, he reseated himself and folded his arms in the attitude of patient waiting. scarce five minutes had elapsed, when the plash of another paddle was heard, and a second canoe made its appearance, carefully approaching that of the huron. in it was seated an indian boy, not more than twelve years of age, who handled it with a skill scarcely second to that of his father, oonomoo. "niniotan, my son, is late," said the latter, sternly, as the boy came alongside. [illustration: "niniotan, my son, is late."] "i was chasing a deer this morning, and was carried further in the woods than i thought," meekly replied the boy. "has the moravian missionary given niniotan two tongues that he should think oonomoo speaks idle words?" "niniotan does not think so," said the son, in a humble voice of thrilling sweetness. "oonomoo said when the sun was over yonder tree-top he would be waiting for his boy niniotan. he waited, but niniotan was not here." the son of the huron warrior bowed his head as if he had nothing to say to the merited rebuke. the father took his seat in the canoe of his son, who carried him rapidly forward through the swamp, for perhaps a quarter of a mile further, when the ground became so solid that they landed and walked upon it. the grass was green and luxuriant, the trees stood close together, and in some places the shrubbery seemed almost impenetrable. but niniotan never hesitated. the way was perfectly familiar. a rabbit could scarcely have glided through the wood with more dexterity than did he and his father. finally the two reached what appeared to be a large mound of earth, covered over with rank grass and brilliant flowers. on one side was a perfect bank of bushes, so that the mound could not be seen until it was closely approached. a shawnee indian might have encamped beside it, without once having his suspicion awakened in regard to its nature. this was the retreat and home of oonomoo, the friendly huron, where his wife, fluellina, and son, niniotan, dwelt, which was regularly visited by him, and where he frequently spent days, enjoying the sweets of home. no living person besides these three knew of its existence. it stood upon this vast island in the midst of this swamp, almost inaccessible to approach, and where no one would have dreamed of looking for the dwelling place of a human being. the surrounding waters were as cold and clear as crystal, and were swarming with the choicest fish. abundance of game was upon the land, and, what might seem curious, considering the location of the island, its air possessed an extraordinary degree of salubrity. the mound was but a mere shell, the interior of which was lined with luxurious furs and skins, and furnished with every convenience and comfort that the fancy of a warrior's wife might covet. within, too, were numerous presents, such as rifles, knives, pistols, beads and picture-books which had been given oonomoo by his numerous white friends. in addition there was a magnificent gold watch--a gift from a wealthy lady, whose life the huron had saved several years before. hearing that he had a young wife, she sent the present to her, and it had hung within their "wigwam" ever since. its use was understood, and it was regularly wound and attended to with great care. fluellina, the wife of oonomoo, was also a huron, who had been educated at one of the moravian missionary stations in the west, and was a professing christian. she was a mild, dove-eyed creature, a number of years younger than her husband, whom she loved almost to adoration, and for whom she would not have hesitated to lay down her life at any moment. she had had another child--a boy, born two years before niniotan, but he had died when but six years of age, and was buried in the clear depths of the water which surrounded his home. regularly every month, fluellina, accompanied by her son, visited a moravian missionary who dwelt with his family on the site of the once flourishing station of gnadenhutten, where, in , was enacted one of the darkest episodes in american history. it was here the infamous monster, colonel williamson, murdered the one hundred moravian indians--a crime for which it seems a just god would have smitten him and his followers to the earth. here this faithful huron woman and her son received instruction in holy things from the aged missionary--a white man who alone knew the relation which she bore to the famous huron, oonomoo, and who never betrayed it to his dying day. by this means, her regular visits were rendered safe and free from the annoyance of being watched--an exemption she never could have had, had any one else suspected the truth. fluellina succeeded in inducing her husband to visit this missionary on several occasions, when he proved an attentive listener to the aged disciple of god. he took in every doctrine and subscribed to every truth except one--that of loving his enemies. he believed he never could love the shawnees--they who had first caused his father to be broken of his chiefdom, and then had murdered his mother. he had sworn eternal hatred against them, and in the interior of his lodge hung such an incredible number of their scalps that we decline to name it--knowing that we should be suspected of trifling with the credulity of our readers. he had never taken the scalp of a white man, and would promise never to harm any being except the shawnees; but, toward them his feelings must be those of the deadliest enmity. the sublime truths of the great book of books, its glorious promises, and its awful mysteries, thrilled the soul of the huron to its center, and many a time when wandering alone through the great, solemn forests, he felt his spirit expanding within him, until his eyes overflowed, and he, the mighty, scarred warrior, wept like a child. the sweet instruction, too, of the gentle fluellina had not been lost entirely upon him. it was owing to these that for a year he had not taken the scalp of a shawnee, though he had been sorely tempted and had slain more than one. he could not yet bring himself to the point of letting them go free altogether. with this somewhat lengthy parenthesis, we will now return to the present visit of the huron to his island home. oonomoo was about to pass into the interior of the lodge, when a light exclamation caught his ear. as he turned his head, fluellina came bounding to his arms. however stoical and indifferent the north american indian may appear in the presence of his companions or of white men, it is a mistake to suppose that he is wanting either in the ordinary affections of humanity, or in those little demonstrations of love so peculiar to our own race. deep in the woods, when alone with their families, they throw off restraint and are warriors no more--but _men_. the little child is dandled on the knee, or sported with upon the grass, and the proud mother receives her share of her husband's caresses. great as may be the glory of the savage in the hunt and chase, his happiness in the bosom of his own family is unsurpassed by any other enjoyment which ever falls to his lot. fluellina received the embrace of her husband with a radiant countenance, and she seemed overflowing with joy as she looked up in his own glowing face. taking her fondly by the hand, he led her a few yards away, where he seated her upon a half-imbedded rock and placed himself beside her. a glance at the two would have shown that there was no considerable difference in their ages. the wife could not have been over thirty at the most, and she looked much younger, while the husband was perhaps thirty-five. his square, massive chest was covered with scars--eloquent evidences of his bravery, for he had never received a wound in the back. his face, usually so stern and dignified, was now softened, and the bright, metallic glitter of eye was changed to the sparkle of gladness. the handsome, symmetrical arms of fluellina were bare to the shoulder, and oonomoo held one in his broad palm, closing and opening upon the plump flesh and delicate muscle, with as much admiration as though he were still her young and ardent lover. they sat thus, gazing into each other's face for several moments without speaking, so full seemed their hearts. finally oonomoo seated himself upon the ground at the feet of fluellina and leaned his head over upon her lap. this was what she wished, and she had maneuvered in that delicate manner peculiar to her sex, by which the desire of the lover is awakened without his suspecting the true cause. unfastening the bindings of his hair, she parted it carefully and drew her fingers slowly through and through it until it glistened like satin. she did not speak, for she had no desire to disturb the languor which she knew it cast over her husband. as his head drooped, she sustained it and gradually ceased, until he slept. oonomoo awoke in a short time, and reseated himself by the side of his wife. "where is niniotan?" he asked, looking around him. "he is dressing the meat of the deer which he slew this morning. shall i call him?" "no, i am not yet tired of my fluellina." the happy wife replied by placing her warm cheek against his, and holding it there a moment. "oonomoo has no wounds upon him," said she, raising her head and looking at his breast and shoulders. "but he has been in danger." "no scalps hang at his girdle." "_and none shall ever hang there again._" "not the scalp of the shawnee?" "no," replied the huron, in a voice as deep and solemn as a distant peal of thunder. fluellina looked at her husband a moment, with her face lit up by a strange expression. then, as she read the determination impressed upon his countenance, and knew the sacredness with which he regarded his pledged word, she sunk down on her knees, and clasping her hands, turned her dark, soulful eyes to heaven and uttered the one exclamation: "great spirit, i thank thee!" the kneeling indian woman, her face radiant with a holy happiness, the stern warrior, his dark countenance lighted up as he gazed down upon her as if the long obscured sun had once more struggled from behind the clouds--these two silent figures in the green wood of their island home formed a picture touchingly beautiful and sublime. who can picture the glory that illuminated the soul of the huron warrior, the divine bliss that went thrilling through his very being, as he uttered this vow, and felt within him the consciousness that never, never again would he be overcome by the temptation to tear the scalp from the head of his enemy, the vengeful shawnee. "when has fluellina seen the moravian missionary?" he asked, as she reseated herself beside him. "but a short time since. he inquired of oonomoo." "oonomoo will visit him soon." "can he not go with fluellina to-day?" "when the sun is yonder," replied the huron, pointing to a place which it would reach in about half an hour, "he must go, and when the sun sinks in the west, he must be many miles from here." "when will he return again?" "he cannot tell. he goes to befriend the white man and maid who is in the hands of the shawnees." "fluellina will wait and will pray for oonomoo and for them." "oonomoo will pray for himself, and his arm will be strong, for he fights none but warriors." "and niniotan will grow up like him; he will be a brave warrior who, i pray, will take no scalp from the head of his foe." "what think the missionary of niniotan?" "he finds that the blood of oonomoo flows strong in his veins. his eye burns, and his breast pants when he hears of the great deeds his father has performed, and he prays that he may go with him upon the war-path." "he shall accompany him shortly. he can aim the rifle, and his feet are like those of the deer. he shall be a man whose name shall make the shawnee warriors tremble in their lodges." "shall he be a merciful warrior?" asked fluellina, looking up in the face of the huron. "like his father, shall he be. he shall slay none but men in rightful combat, and no scalp shall ever adorn his lodge. he must drink in the words of the moravian missionary." "he does, but his heart is young. he will be valiant and merciful, but he longs to emulate the deeds of oonomoo--his father." "i will teach him to emulate what oonomoo will do, not what he has done." "he counts the scalps that hang in our lodge, and wonders why they do not increase. he gazes long and often upon those which you tore years ago from the heads of the two chiefs, and i know he burns to gain a trophy for himself." "has fluellina the choicest food these forests can afford?" "the eye of niniotan is sure, and his mother never wants." "he must not wander from the island, else his young arm may be overpowered by the shawnees or miamis. they would know he was the son of oonomoo, and through the son murder the father and mother." "fluellina loves but three--oonomoo, niniotan, and," she added, reverentially raising her eyes to heaven, "the great spirit who is so kind to her." "and oonomoo loves him," added the huron, in his deep, bass voice. "in the hunting-grounds beyond the sun, he and fluellina and niniotan will again live together on some green island in the forest, where the buffalo and deer wander in bands of thousands." "and where delaware, mingo, chippewa, miami, ottawa, pottawatomie, shawnee, huron, and the white man shall be brothers, and war against each other no more." the huron made no reply, for the words of his wife had awakened a train of reflection to which he had been a stranger. the thought that all the indians, every tribe that had lived since the foundation of the world--those who were now the most implacable enemies to each other, the french, english and americans--the thought of these living together in the spirit land in perfect brotherhood and good-will, was too startling for him to accept until fluellina again spoke: "it is only the _good_ delaware, mingo, chippewa, miami, ottawa, pottawatomie, shawnee, huron, and white man that shall live there." it was all plain now to the simple-minded indian, and he understood and believed. he sat a few moments, as if ruminating upon this new theme, and then said gently to his wife: "read out of good book to oonomoo." fluellina drew a small bible from her bosom, one that she always carried with her, and opening at the revelations, commenced to read in a clear, sweet and distinct voice. the inspired grandeur, sublime truths and glorious descriptions of that most wonderful of all books thrilled her soul to its center with emotions unutterable; and she knew that the same effect, though perhaps in a lesser degree, was produced upon her husband. the particular portion was the twenty-first chapter, whose meaning the moravian missionary had frequently explained to her, and it was these verses in particular upon which she frequently dwelt with such awed rapture: "'and he carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain, and showed me the great city, the holy jerusalem, descending out of heaven from god, "'having the glory of god; and her light was like unto a stone most precious, even like a jasper stone, clear as crystal; "'and had a wall, great and high, and had twelve gates, and at the gates twelve angels, and names written thereon, which are the names of the twelve tribes of israel. "'and the building of the wall of it was of jasper; and the city was pure gold, like unto clear glass. "'and the foundations of the wall of the city were garnished with all manner of precious stones. the first foundation was jasper; the second, sapphire; the third, a chalcedony; the fourth, an emerald; "'the fifth, sardonyx; the sixth, sardius; the seventh, chrysolite; the eighth, beryl; the ninth, a topaz; the tenth, a chrysoprasus; the eleventh, a jacinth; the twelfth, an amethyst. "'and the twelve gates were twelve pearls; every several gate was of one pearl; and the street of the city was pure gold, as it were transparent glass. "'and i saw no temple therein; for the lord god almighty and the lamb are the temple of it. "'and the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day; for there shall be no night there.'" the dim, vague glimpses afforded him from this and other portions of the book of the awful mysteries of the last day, the new jerusalem, and the great white throne, threw a spell over him which remained long after the words of the reader had ceased. full ten minutes, he sat, after the volume had been closed; then raising his head, said: "the sun is getting in the western sky, and oonomoo must depart." the wife did not seek to detain her husband. the wife of an indian warrior never does. she merely walked beside him, while he signaled for his son to approach. he had scarce uttered the call, when niniotan came bounding from the wood eager to obey the slightest wish of his father. seeing from his actions that he was about to depart, he lingered behind until his mother had bidden him good-by, and paused; then he leaped ahead, leading the way as before. the canoe reached, oonomoo stepped within it, and niniotan paddled him out among the trees until he came to where his own canoe was moored, into which the huron stepped. as he was about to dip the paddle, he said: "let niniotan wait until oonomoo returns, and he shall go with him upon the next war-path." no pen can picture the glowing happiness that lit up the features of the boy at hearing these words. his dark eyes fairly danced, and he seemed unable to control his joy. his whole frame quivered, and he dipped his own paddle into the water, he bent it almost to breaking. without noticing him further, oonomoo sent his canoe spinning among the trees, and was soon in the broad sheet of water, crossing which, he reached the spot where he had brought up his boat. stepping out upon the log, he secured the paddle to it, and then turning it over, filled it with water. it slowly sunk until it could be seen resting upon the bottom, when he sprung from the tree and commenced his departure from the swamp in the same manner that he had entered it. once again in the grand old forest, with the mossy carpet beneath his feet, and the magnificent arches over his head, through which the breezes came like the cool breath of the ocean, the huron struck into his peculiar rapid trot, which was continued until sunset, by which time he reached the clearing. approaching it in his usual cautious manner, he saw the shawnees consulting together, and at the first glance understood the peril of his friends. we have related the measures which he took to save them, and shown how successful they were. chapter vi. adventures on the way. the paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees, the streams whose bright lips kissed the flowers, the winds that swelled their harmonies, through these sun-hiding bowers, the temple vast, the green arcade, the nestling vale, the grassy glade, dark cave and swampy lair; these scenes and sounds majestic, made his world, his pleasures, there.--a. b. street. "you have saved our lives," exclaimed lieutenant canfield, as the dusky form of the huron appeared beside him. "ain't hurt, eh? den we go," said he, not noticing the remark. "no, neither of us is hurt." "i beliebes a bullet struck me aside de head," said cato, removing his cap, and scratching his black poll. "a bullet struck you?" repeated the lieutenant, in astonishment. "where did it hit you?" "when dat gun went off, sunkin' struck me slap right above my ear, and i fought i felt it flatten dar." "fudge! you are not hurt. but i say, oonomoo," resumed the soldier, with a more determined air, "you have saved me, and i want to grasp your hand for it." [illustration: "you have saved me, and i want to grasp your hand for it."] the huron extended his hand, but it hung limp in that of the ardent young man. it was easy to see that the iterated thanks were distasteful to him. he said nothing until the jubilant cato also made a spring at it as soon as it was released. "nebber mind--nottin'--oonomoo do nottin'." "hebens, golly! yes, you did. if you hadn't come jes' as you did, i'd had to fout de injines all alone, single-handed, widout any feller to help me, and, like as not, would've got hurt." "can't hurt cato's head--hard," said the huron, dropping his hand upon the superabundant wool of the negro, and allowing it to bound up as if an elastic cushion were beneath it. "make nice scalp--shawnee like it," added the indian, still toying with it. "de lord bless me! i hopes he nebber will get it, and he nebber will if i can hender dem." it was now quite dark, and, to the surprise of the lieutenant, a round, full, bright moon appeared above the forest. the preceding night had been without a moon to light up the cloudy heavens; but there was scarcely a cloud visible now in the sky. here and there a small fleck floated overhead, like a handful of snow cast there by some giant, while not a breath of wind disturbed the tree-tops. all was silent and gloomy as the tomb. "when are we to go to the shawnee village?" asked the lieutenant. "now!" replied the huron. "then why do you linger?" "cato go with us?" "that is just as you say, oonomoo. if you think it imprudent to take him along, he must remain behind." "you ain't agoin' to leab me here, be you?" "know de way to settlement?" asked the huron. "no, no; i (recollecting what he had told the lieutenant) did know de way once, but, i's afraid i've forgot it. my mem'ry is gittin' poor." "you find de way--must go--can't stay wid us." "oh, gorry! don't leab me among de injines; dey will eat me up alive!" replied the negro, bellowing like a bull. canfield saw the glitter of the huron's eyes, and taking cato by the arm, said: "let us hear no more of this, cato, or you will arouse the anger of oonomoo, and there is no telling what he may do." "but, i's afraid to go t'rough de dark woods, dat am full of de shawnees," said the negro, in pitiful accents. "it will be no more dangerous than to go with us. we shall probably find ourselves right among them before long; while, if you are cautious, there is little probability of your encountering them. go, cato, and tell mrs. prescott and helen what has happened, but do not exaggerate it. tell them, for me, that they can hope for the best, and that they shall soon hear from oonomoo and myself." the words of the lieutenant had the desired effect upon the negro. when he saw that he had but a choice between two dangers, he prudently took that which seemed to be the least, replying that, "all t'ings 'sidered, 'twould be 'bout as well to tote off to de settlement, and guv de news to de folks dar." he added that he was not influenced by "pussonal fear, but was simply actin' on de advice ob de leftenant." accordingly, cato took his departure. our two friends watched him as he shuffled across the clearing, and finally disappeared in the shadowy wood beyond. then the huron turned to the duty before him. taking a northerly direction, he proceeded at such a rapid walk that the young soldier was compelled every now and then to run a few steps to maintain his place beside him. he kept up his pace for a half-hour or so, when he suddenly halted. "fast walk--make breathe fast," said he, his black eye sparkling. "it is rather rapid walking, oonomoo, but i can stand it. don't stop on my account." "plenty time--git dar mornin'--soon enough." "how far are we from the shawnee village?" "two--eight--dozen miles--go in canoe part way." "when will we rescue her from the dogs--the shawnees?" asked the young lieutenant, scarcely able to restrain his curiosity. "dunno--may be can't get her 't all." "won't get her?" he repeated, his heart throbbing painfully. "my god, oonomoo, why do you say that?" "'cause true--hain't got her yit--may be won't--shawnee watch close--t'ink oonomoo 'bout." "but you _expect_ to rescue her, do you not?" "yeh, 'spect to--do all can--ain't sartin--mustn't t'ink i am--be ready for her dead." "i will try to be prepared for the worst, oonomoo, but i place great hopes on you." "place hopes on him--he do it, may be." never, to his dying day, did lieutenant canfield forget the rebuke of that huron indian. as he uttered these words he pointed upward--a flood of moonlight, streaming down through the trees upon his upturned face, rested like a halo of glory upon his bronzed brow. years afterward, when oonomoo had been gathered to his fathers, and lieutenant canfield was an old man, he asserted that he could hear those words as distinctly, and see that reverential expression as plainly as upon that memorable night. "you are right, oonomoo." said the lieutenant, "and i feel the reproof you have given me. the merciful god is the only one upon whom we can rely, and under him it is upon your sagacity and skill that i depend." "dat so--we go purty soon." after resting a half-hour, the two moved forward at a much slower rate than before. as the moon ascended, its light was so clear and unobstructed that in the open spots in the woods he could easily have read a printed page. for a night of reconnoitering and action it possessed all the advantages and disadvantages of a clear day. the huron almost invariably held his peace when walking, and the young soldier did not attempt to disturb him upon the present occasion. from his remarks, he gathered that it was his wish to reach the neighborhood of the shawnee village in a few hours, and wait until daylight before attempting to accomplish anything. to carry out his intentions, it was necessary, in the first place, to see hans vanderbum, and secure his cooperation. fully aware of his astonishing sleeping qualities, the huron knew he might as well try to wake a dead man as to secure an interview with him during the night. an hour later the bank of the miami was reached. as they stood on the shore and looked down-stream, its clear surface, glistening brightly in the moonlight, could be seen as plainly as at noonday, until it disappeared from sight in a sweeping bend. from their stand-point it resembled a lake more than a river, the woods, apparently, shutting down in such a manner as to hide it entirely. not a ripple was heard along the shore, and only once a zephyr hurried over its bosom, crinkling the surface as it passed, and rustling the tops of a few trees along the bank as it went on and was lost in the wood beyond. the great wilderness, on every hand, stretched miles and miles away, until it was lost afar, like a sea of gloom, in the sky. once a night-bird rushed whirring past, so startlingly close, that the lieutenant felt a cold chill run over him as its wings fanned his face. it shot off like a bullet directly across the river, and could be distinguished for several minutes, its body resembling a black ball, until it faded out from view. nothing else disturbed the solemn stillness that held reign. everything wore the spirit of quietness and repose. the soldier was the first to speak. "isn't this an impressive sight, oonomoo?" "yeh--make think of great spirit." "that is true. you seem to be more than usually solemn in your reflections, my good friend, and i am glad to see it. this calm moonlight night, the clear sky and the deep, silent wood, is enough to make any person thoughtful; but it must have required something more than ordinary to impress you thus." "saw fluellina to-day, oonomoo's wife." lieutenant canfield was considerably puzzled to understand how this could account for the peculiar frame of the huron's mind, but he had too much consideration to question him further. it was not until he spoke again, that he gained a clear idea of his meaning. "fluellina christian--got bible--tell 'bout god--great spirit up dere--read out of it--tell oonomoo 'bout t'ings in it--oonomoo nebber take anodder scalp." "a wise determination; such a brave man as you needs no _proof_ of your bravery, and that good being which your fluellina has told you about will smile upon your noble conduct." "know dat--_feel_ it," added the huron, eagerly. he stood a moment longer, and then added, "time dat we go." "you spoke of going part way in a canoe, but i do not see any for us." "down yonder, by dat rock." the indian pointed down the river as he spoke, and, following the direction of his finger, lieutenant canfield distinguished a large rock projecting some distance from the shore, but could distinguish nothing of the canoe of which he spoke. knowing, however, that it must be concealed somewhere in the vicinity, he remarked, as they withdrew again into the wood: "how is it, oonomoo, that you have your canoe in every part of the country? you must be the owner of quite a fleet." "got two--free--twenty--more'n dat--all ober--in big miami--little miami--all 'long ohio--soty (sciota)--hocking--mussygum (muskingum)--'way out 'long de wabash--hid all ober--got 'em eberywhere." "and i suppose you find occasion to use them all?" "use 'em all. out on wabash last winter--snow deep--two days in de snow--paddlin' on de ribber--hab 'em hid 'long de shore--sometime lose 'em." "how did you get them in these different places? carry them there yourself?" "made 'em--knowed want use 'em--made 'em and hid 'em." the young soldier was about to speak, when the huron motioned for him to maintain his peace. the conversation had been carried on in so low tones that a third party, a rod distant, could not have overheard their words. before the indian spoke, he had glanced around to satisfy himself that it was impossible for a human being to be concealed within that area. now, however, he was about to change his position, and the strictest silence was necessary. the two passed down through the woods, and were just emerging again upon the bank, when the huron, who was in front, suddenly started back, so quickly and lightly that the lieutenant did not understand his movement till he saw their relative change of position. "what is the matter?" he asked, in a whisper. "'sh! shawnees dere." "where? on the rock?" the huron pointed across the river. "dere! on dat shore--may be come over." the soldier, was much puzzled to know how his companion had made such a sudden discovery, when they were so far away. as there could be no danger of their words being overheard, he made the inquiry. "see'd water splash," replied oonomoo. "got canoe." "not yours?" "no--deir own--come ober here, putty soon." his words were true. he had hardly spoken, when a noise, as of the dipping of a paddle, was heard, and the next moment a canoe shot out from the bank and headed directly toward them. this being the case, it was impossible to determine the number of savages in it, although there must have been several. "would it not be best to move to prevent discovery?" asked the lieutenant, as he watched the approaching shawnees with considerable anxiety. "won't land here--go 'low us." a moment later the head of the canoe turned down-stream. it was then seen to be of considerable size. five savages were seated within it. oonomoo bent his head, took one earnest glance at them, and then said: "ain't shawnees--miamis." "friends or foes?" "jes' as bad--take scalp--kill white people--take your scalp--see you." lieutenant canfield by no means felt at ease at the indifference with which his friend uttered these words. it certainly was no pleasant prospect--that of having these bloodthirsty miamis for such near neighbors, and he expressed as much to oonomoo. "won't come here--keep quiet--won't git hurt," replied the imperturbable huron. considerably relieved at this assurance, he said no more, but watched the canoe. to his astonishment and dismay it again changed its course, and headed directly toward the rock in front of them. he looked at his companion, but his face was as immovable as a statue's and, determined not to show any childish fear, he maintained his place and said no more. reaching the outer end of the rock, the miamis halted for a moment or two, when they turned down the river again, and landed about a hundred yards below where our two friends were standing. the latter waited for full half an hour, when, seeing and hearing nothing more of them, the huron resolved to obtain his canoe, and continue their journey down the river. "but where is it?" asked the soldier, when he announced his intention. "fastened out end of rock." "may be the miamis discovered it and have destroyed it." "dunno--meb' so--didn't take him 'way, dough." "is the water very deep?" "two--t'ree--twenty feet--swim dere." as it seemed impossible to run even the most ordinary risk, the lieutenant felt no apprehension at all when he saw him walk down to the water without his rifle, and wade out and commence swimming. the moon, as we have said, was unusually bright, and not only the dark, ball-like head of the huron could be seen, floating on the surface, but, when his face was turned in the right direction, his black eyes and aquiline nose and high cheek-bones were plainly distinguishable, while his long, black hair, simply closed in one clasp (years before it was always gathered in the defiant scalp-lock), floated like a veil behind him. the soldier watched him until he disappeared around the corner of the rock, and then patiently awaited his return. the huron was a most consummate swimmer, and moved, while in the water, as silently as a fish. more from habit than anything else, as he found himself in the eddy made by the twisting of the river around the upper edge of the stone, he "backed water," and, for a moment, remained perfectly motionless. the moon was in such a quarter of the sky that a long line of shadow was thrown out from the rock, far enough to envelop both oonomoo and his canoe, lying several yards below him. as he caught sight of the latter, he saw a miami indian seated in it, apparently waiting and watching for some one. as quick as lightning the meaning of the singular action of the other canoe flashed upon his mind. by some means which he could only conjecture, the miamis had gained a knowledge of his movements. perhaps the discovery of his boat was what first awakened their suspicions. at any rate, they had learned enough to satisfy themselves that a rich prize was within their grasp. leaving one of their number in the strange canoe, they had passed on down-stream, concealing the absence of their comrade with such skill, that the watchful eye of the huron failed to detect it. beyond a doubt they were lingering in the vicinity, ready to come to his assistance at the first signal. the instructions of the warrior who remained behind were to shoot the savage at the moment of his appearance, and, in case he had a companion, to put out in the stream at once and call to his friends, who would immediately come to him. a brief glance at the situation of the miami will show that his task was one of no ordinary peril, especially if the returning indian should have any apprehension of danger. if he chose, the latter could swim out to the rock, and walk over its surface to its outer edge, when he would be directly above the miami, and could brain him with his tomahawk in an instant. as the physical exertion thus incurred would be greater than the simple act of swimming out to the canoe, it was not likely such a thing would take place, unless, as we have said, the suspicions of the approaching savage be aroused. the probability was that the latter would take precisely the same course that we have seen the huron take, that is, if he believed the coast clear; but as there was no certainty of this, the miami was compelled to keep watch both up-stream and down-stream, and it was thus it happened that his back was turned to oonomoo at the very moment he came around the edge of the rock. the different methods by which the miami could be disposed of occurred to the huron with electric quickness. to the first--that of passing over the rock and tomahawking him, there was one objection so important as to make it a fatal one. in the bright moonlight, he would offer too fine a target to the other miamis concealed along the bank. without the responsibility of his white friend's safety, oonomoo felt it would be hardly short of suicide, for it would be affording his deadliest enemies the opportunity of capturing or killing him as they preferred. he had but the choice of two plans: that of pressing forward and engaging the miami, or of instantly returning to the shore, and proceeding to the shawnee village by land. he chose the former. everything depended now upon the quickness of the huron's movements. the miami being compelled to watch both directions, it was certain he would turn his head in a moment, when, if oonomoo was still in the water, his fate would be pretty certain. accordingly he shot rapidly forward, and was so close when he halted, that, do his utmost, he could not prevent his head from striking the prow of the canoe. slight as was the shock, it did not escape the notice of the miami, who instantly turned his head, and approaching the prow, leaned over and looked in the water. the huron had been expecting this movement, and to guard against its consequences, sunk quietly beneath the surface, and allowed the current to carry him just the length of the canoe, when he again rose, with his head beneath its stem. resting here a moment, with his nose and eyes just in sight, he commenced drifting down-stream, inch by inch, until he caught a glimpse of the miami's head over the edge of the canoe when he returned to his former position under the stern and gathered his energies for the struggle. sustaining himself by his feet alone, he reached his hands upward, grasped the canoe in such a manner that it was firmly held on each side. holding it thus only long enough to make his hold sure, he pressed the stern quickly downward, and then by a sudden wrench threw the miami upon his back in the water. letting go his hold, the huron made a dash at him, and closing in the deadly embrace, the two went down--down--down--till their feet struck the soft bottom, when they shot up again like two corks. imminent as was the peril of oonomoo, his greatest fear was that their struggles would carry them below the rock, where the moonlight would discover them to the miamis on the bank. with a skill as wonderful as it was rare even among his own people, he _regulated_ his movements while submerged, in such a manner that they operated to carry both combatants _up_-stream, had there been no current, so that when they came to the surface, it was very nearly in the same spot that they had gone down. but oonomoo and the miami had whipped out their knives, and they raised them aloft at the same instant. but neither descended. they were still in the air, when the one spoke the simple word. "heigon!" and the other simultaneously with him uttered the name of "oonomoo," and the hands of both dropped beside them. without speaking, the miami grasped the edge of the rock and clambered to the surface, and beckoned for the huron to follow; but the latter held back, and whispered, in the tongue of his companion: "miamis on shore wait to make oonomoo a prisoner." "oonomoo is the friend of heigon, and the miamis will not injure him." [illustration: but oonomoo and the miami had whipped out their knives.] the huron hesitated no longer, but the next moment stood beside the miami on the broad mass of stone. heigon gave a short peculiar whoop, which was instantly followed by the appearance of the other canoe with its four inmates, who impelled it forward with great rapidity, and in almost a twinkling were also upon the rock. each held a glittering knife in hand, and they gazed upon their victim with exulting eyes, who stood firm, unmoved, and returned their glances with as proud and defiant an air as a king would have looked upon the vassals beneath him. they were about to proceed to violence, when heigon simply said: "he is my friend." instantly every knife was sheathed, and the gloating expression of the miamis changed to one of interest and pleasure. they gathered more closely around the huron, and looked to their companion for some further explanation. "when the snow was upon the ground," said he, "heigon was hunting, and he became weak and feeble, like an old man, or the child that cannot walk.[ ] the snow came down till it covered the rocks like this, and heigon grew weaker and feebler until he could walk no further, and lay down in the snow to die. when he was covered over, and the great spirit was about to take him to himself, another indian came that way. he was heigon's enemy, but he lifted him to his feet and brushed the snow from his face and limbs and poured his fire-water down his throat. he dug the snow away until he came to the dry leaves, and then he kindled a fire to warm heigon by. he stayed by him all night, and in the morning heigon was strong and a man again. when he went away, he asked the indian his name. it was oonomoo, the huron. he stands by us, and is now in our power." the eyes of the miamis fairly sparkled as they listened to this narration of their comrade, and they looked upon the far-famed huron with feelings only of friendship and admiration. he had been considered for years as one of the deadliest enemies of the miamis, and his capture or death by them would have been an exploit that would have descended through tradition to the last remnant of their people. fully sensible of this, this same huron had come upon one of their most distinguished warriors when he was as helpless as an infant, and could have been scalped by a mere child. but the magnanimous savage had acted the part of a good samaritan, feeding and warming him and sending him on his way in the morning, refreshed and strengthened. such a deed as this could never be forgotten, either by the recipient or those of his tribe to whom it became known. during the narrative the huron stood with arms folded, and as insensible to the praises of heigon as if he had not uttered a syllable since the advent of his companions. he who appeared to be the leading warrior now asked: "whither does my brother huron wish to go?" "to the shawnee village on the shore of the miami." "we journey thither, and will take our brother with us." "oonomoo goes as the enemy of the shawnees. he goes to save a pale-faced maiden who has fallen into their hands. my miami brothers go as the friends of the shawnees." "they go as the friends of oonomoo, who saved one of their warriors, and they will carry him in their canoe." "the feet of oonomoo are like the deer's, and his eyes are as the eagle's. he can see his path at night in the wood, and can journey from the rising until the setting sun without becoming weary." "we know our brother is brave and fleet of foot. his miami friends will carry him far upon his journey, and when he wishes to go through the woods, they will leave him upon the shore." oonomoo could not decline this kind offer. simply to show in a small degree their friendship for him, the miamis insisted upon carrying him in their canoe as far as he wished, landing him upon the bank whenever it was his desire that they should do so. the miamis being allies of the shawnees, and on their way to join one of their war-parties, they could not (even on account of their peculiar relations with the huron) act as their enemies in any way; consequently the huron did not expect or ask their assistance. but while they were prevented from aiding him in the least, in his attempt to rescue the captive, the claims which he had upon their gratitude were such, that he well knew they would carefully avoid throwing any obstacle in his way, and would act as neutrals throughout the affair, believing, however, that it was not inconsistent with such a profession to carry him even in sight of the shawnee village itself. beyond that it would be as if these five miamis were a thousand miles distant. all this time, it may well be supposed, that lieutenant canfield was no uninterested spectator of the interview between his huron friend and the miamis. when they made their appearance upon the rock, he believed that oonomoo had been captured. he was about to seek his own safety in flight, but he was struck by the apparently good feeling of the conference. their words being in the miami tongue, he could not distinguish their meaning, but from their sound, judged them to be friendly in their nature. still, there could be no certainty, and he was in a torment of doubt, when he was startled by hearing the huron call his name. at first he determined not to answer, thinking his friend had been compelled to betray him by his captors. a moment's reflection, however, convinced him that such could not be the case. "canfiel'! canfiel'!" "what do you want, oonomoo?" "go down bank--wait for us--miami won't hurt." the young soldier did as he requested, and the next moment saw the two canoes put out from the rock. in the first were the four miamis, and in the second oonomoo and heigon, the latter using the paddle. they touched a point on the shore about a hundred yards down-stream, almost at the same moment that it was reached by the lieutenant. "how-de-do, brudder?" asked the foremost, extending his hand. the soldier exchanged similar greetings with the others, when at a signal the five seated themselves upon the ground, and he followed suit. a pipe, the "calumet of peace," was produced and passed from mouth to mouth, each one smoking slowly and solemnly a few whiffs. this tedious ceremony occupied fully a half-hour, during which it was nearly impossible for the young lieutenant to conceal his impatience. it seemed to him nothing but a sheer waste of time, and he wondered how oonomoo could take it so composedly. at length the last smoker had taken what he evidently believed the proper number of whiffs, and they arose and embarked again in their canoes. in the boat, which really belonged to the huron, were seated himself, lieutenant canfield, and heigon, who insisted upon using the paddle himself. for a moment they glided along under the shadow of the wooded bank, and then, coming out on the clear, moonlit surface of the river, they shot downstream like swallows upon the wing. it was not quite ten miles to the shawnee town, and, as it was now in the neighborhood of midnight, their destination would be easily reached in time. all went well for some four or five miles, when an exclamation from the canoe in advance attracted the attention of oonomoo and the soldier. "what is it?" inquired the latter. "ugh! nudder canoe comin'--shawnees." such proved to be the case. a large war-canoe, containing over a score of painted warriors, was coming up the river, nearly in the center of the stream, while the miamis were nearer the right bank. when nearly opposite each other, the war-canoe paused while that which contained the four miamis went over to it, somewhat after the manner that two friendly ships come to anchor in the midst of the ocean, and exchange congratulations and news. during the interview, heigon prudently kept at a safe distance, but from the gesticulations and words of the shawnees it was evident they were making inquiries in regard to the inmates of his boat. the replies proved satisfactory, for a moment later, the canoes separated, and each party proceeded on his way. little did the shawnees dream that the very foe for whom they were searching--he whose scalp was worth that of a hundred warriors, whose death they would have nearly given their own life to secure--little did they dream, we say, that this very man was within a few rods of them--so close that he recognized the features of every one of their number! several miles further, and oonomoo spoke to heigon. they were now in the vicinity of the shawnee village, and he wished to land. heigon instantly turned the prow of his canoe toward shore, and the others, understanding the cause, followed. a moment later, lieutenant canfield and the huron stood upon _terra firma_. they were compelled again to shake hands all around with their curiously-made friends, when they separated--the latter to go down the river as brothers to the warlike shawnees, and the former to go to the same destination as their deadly enemies! [ ] meaning he became sick from some cause or other. chapter vii. the plan for the rescue. oft did he stoop a listening ear, sweep round an anxious eye, no bark or ax-blow could he hear, no human trace descry. his sinuous path, by blazes, wound among trunks grouped in myriads round; through naked boughs, between whose tangled architecture fraught with many a shape grotesquely wrought, the hemlock's spire was seen.--a. b. street. by this time, daylight was at hand. a thin mist, rising from the river, was passing off through the woods; for the half-hour preceding the appearance of the sun, the darkness was more palpable than it had been at any time through the night. the air, too, had a disagreeable chilliness in it, which, however little it affected the huron, made the soldier, for the time being, exceedingly uncomfortable and impatient for the full light of day. the shawnee village was about a mile distant, on the same bank of the stream with that upon which our friends found themselves. as there was not the least probability of hans vanderbum being astir for several hours yet, they proceeded at a moderate walk through the wood. one of the peculiar effects of this chilly morning air was to keep lieutenant canfield constantly gaping; his movements were so languid and his mind listless even to antipathy for conversation. he maintained his place in silence beside oonomoo. the indian was as watchful and keen as ever. as the young lieutenant was yawning, and gazing around listlessly, he caught a glimpse of some body, as it threw itself prostrate behind a clump of bushes. he looked at the huron and was startled to observe upon his countenance no indication of having noticed this singular occurrence. "oonomoo," he whispered, placing his hand upon his arm, "there's a person behind the bush, and we are in danger. i saw him this very minute." "me see'd 'em," said the indian, walking straight toward the spot where he was concealed. this was too much for the young man. when he reflected that, in all probability a rifle-barrel was leveled through those bushes, ready to do its deadly work, he was not ashamed to halt and allow the huron to proceed alone. but, no fear seemed to enter the head of the indian. he strode straight forward, as if he had discovered something which he was about to pick, and, reaching the bushes, he parted and stepped among them. the astonished soldier saw him stoop and lift some dark object, and then throw it down upon the ground again. lieutenant canfield now came forward. great was his amazement to recognize, in this dark object, the negro, cato! he lay upon his face, as lax and motionless as a piece of inanimate matter. "what is the matter with him?" asked the soldier. "is he dead?" "scart near to def'--make b'lieve dead." such undoubtedly was the case. the negro, frightened at the appearance of two strangers, the foremost of whom he recognized as an indian, had prostrated himself behind the bushes and feigned death in the hope that they would pass him by unnoticed. the lieutenant, now that they were so close to the shawnees, where so much caution and skill were required, felt provoked to see the negro, and had little patience with his fooleries. "get up, cato," said he, rolling him over with his foot. "you are not hurt, and we don't want to see any of your nonsense." one of the negro's eyes partially opened, and then he commenced yawning, stretching and shoving his feet over the leaves, as though he was just awaking. "hebens, golly! but dis nigger is sleepy," said he. "hello! dat you, oonomoo? and bress my soul, if dar ain't massa canfield," he added, rising to his feet. "how came you here?" asked canfield. "come here my pussonal self--walked and runn'd most ob de way." "but, we sent you to the settlement. why did you not go?" "bress your soul, massa canfield, i'll bet dar's ten fousand million injines in de wood, atween us and de settlement. i tried to butt my way trough dem, but dar was a few too many, and i had to gub it up." "how came you to wander so far out of your way as to get here?" "dunno; t'ought i'd take a near cut home, and s'pose i got here widout knowing anyt'ing about it.". "well, oonomoo, what's to be done with him?" "take him 'long--kill him if don't do what want to." "you understand, cato? we don't want you with us, but, there seems no help for it now; so we shall have to take you. you must follow in our steps, and in no case make any outcry." the negro promised obedience, and, taking his position behind, they continued their journey, the huron leading the way. he proceeded some distance until he reached a dense portion of the wood, when he halted and turned around. "plenty time--sleep some." these were pleasant words to the lieutenant, who, in spite of his impatience, felt the need of sleep and rest before proceeding further. all stretched themselves upon the ground, where, in a few minutes, they were wrapped in slumber. the negro, cato, lay some distance from the other two, and was the first to awake. carefully raising his head and discovering that the dreaded huron was still unconscious, he silently arose to his feet, and, retreating some distance with great care and caution, he suddenly turned and ran at the top of his speed. his motive for so doing will soon appear. while our two friends are thus preparing themselves for the perilous duty before them, we will return to our old acquaintance, hans vanderbum, and his fair charge, in whom the reader, doubtless, feels a lively interest. * * * * * * it will be remembered that miss prescott was consigned to the care of the amiable keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, wife of hans vanderbum. the reasons for this were several. in the first place, the shawnees were actuated in a small degree by their desire to lessen the sufferings of their captive. this squaw had learned enough of the english language from her husband to hold almost an intelligible conversation in it; and; as quite an acquaintance had already been established between him and the maiden, she would certainly feel more at home in their company than among the others, who could not speak a word of her tongue. what might be done with miss prescott in case she remained among the shawnees for several years, of course it would be impossible to say; but it was certain they meditated no violence for the present, only wishing to hold her simply as a prisoner. was there danger of her escape they would not have hesitated to kill her, it being considered one of the greatest reproaches that can be cast in a shawnee face to accuse him of having lost a prisoner. keewaygooshturkumkankangewock was too thoroughly loyal for her to be suspected of any disposition to aid the prisoner in escape; and whatever might be the wishes of hans vanderbum, he was too stupid and lazy to be taken into account. miss prescott, accordingly, was installed in their lodge, where the first day was passed without anything of note occurring, save the discovery, on her part, of the total hopelessness of escape, without the assistance of friends. there was but one entrance to the lodge, of barely sufficient width to afford the passage of hans vanderbum's body, and the sides of the wigwam were too strong and firm for her to think either of piercing or breaking them. added to this, keewaygooshturkumkankangewock at night laid herself directly before this entrance, compelling hans vanderbum to lie down beside her, so that their united width was some four or five feet--rather too long a step to be taken by the girl without danger of awaking her jailers. when we add that keewaygooshturkumkankangewock's slumbers were so light that the least noise awakened her, and that miss prescott never lay down to sleep without having her ankles bound together, no more need be said to convince the reader that the ingenuity of her captors could not have made her situation more secure. nevertheless, hans vanderbum managed to convey enough to her to keep hope alive in her breast, and to convince her that it would not be long before some enterprise for her freedom would be attempted by her friends. on the second morning of her captivity, hans vanderbum awoke at an unusually early hour, and the first thought that entered his mind was that he had an appointment with oonomoo, the huron; for it is a fact, to which all will bear witness, that, by fixing our thoughts upon any particular time in the night, with a determined intensity, we are sure to awaken at that moment. thus it was that he arose before his spouse; but his step awakened her. "what's the matter, hans? are you sick?" she asked, with considerable solicitude. "no, my dear, good keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, i feels so goot as, ever, but i t'inks te mornin' air does me goot, so i goes out to got a little." no objection being interposed, he sauntered carelessly forth, taking a direction that would lead him to the spot where he had held the interview with the huron upon the previous day. he walked slowly, for it lacked considerable of the hour which had been fixed upon for the meeting, and, knowing the mathematical exactitude with which his friend kept his appointments, he had no desire to reach the spot in advance. "i doeshn't wish to hurry, so i t'inks i will rest myself here, and den when----" hans was prevented any further utterance, by some heavy body striking his shoulders with such force that he was thrown forward upon his face, and his hat smashed over his eyes. "mine gott! vot made tat tree fall on me?" he exclaimed, endeavoring to crawl from beneath what he supposed to be the trunk of an immense oak which he had noticed towering above him. this belief was further strengthened by a glimpse which he caught of a heavy branch upon the ground. "hebens, golly! dat you, ole swill-barrel?" greeted his ears; and he picked his hat and himself up at the same time, to see the negro, cato, lying on the ground, with his heels high up in the air. "dunder and blixen! who are you?" inquired hans, more astonished than ever. "did you drop down out te clouds?" "yah! yah! yah! what makes you fink so, old hogsit, eh? no, sir-ee! i's mr. cato, a nigger gentleman of mr. capting prescott." the large eyes of the dutchman grew larger as he proceeded. "vot makes you falls on mine head, eh?" "i's up in de tree a-takin' ob obserwashuns, when jis' as you got down hyar, de limb broke, and down i comes. much obleege fur yer bein' so kind fur to stand under and breaks my fall." "and breaks mine own neck, too, eh?" "who might be you wid your big bread-basket?" inquired cato, still lying upon his back and kicking up his heels. "me? i's hans vanderbum, dat pelongs to keewaygooshturkumkankangewock." cato grew sober in an instant. he had heard lieutenant canfield mention this man's name in conversation with the huron, and suspected at once that he was to perform a part in the day's work. "you're hans vanderbum, eh? i've heerd massa canfield and mister oonymoo speak of you." "yaw, i'm him. where am dey?" "ain't fur off. i lef 'em sleepin'; and come out for to see whedder dar war any injines crawlin' round in de woods, and i didn't see none but you, and you ain't an injine." the appointed hour for the meeting between hans vanderbum and oonomoo having arrived, the dutchman added: "he ish to meet me 'bout dis time or leetles sooner, and, so we both goes togedder mit each oder, so dat we won't bees alone." "all right; go ahead, mr. hansderbumvan; i'm behind you," said cato, taking his favorite position in the rear. several hundred yards further and hans recognized the wished-for spot. he had hardly reached it, when a light step was heard, and the next moment lieutenant canfield and the huron stood in his presence. "brudder comes in good time," said the latter, extending his hand. "yaw; keewaygooshturkumkankangewock showed me de way to do dat," replied hans, shaking hands with the young lieutenant also. the latter expressed some surprise at seeing cato present, saying that he had congratulated himself upon being well rid of him. the negro explained his departure upon the grounds of his extreme solicitude for the safety of his friends. the conversation between hans and the huron was now carried on in the shawnee tongue. "how does matters progress with my brother?" "very good; the gal is in my wigwam." "what does she there?" "keewaygooshturkumkankangewock has charge of her." "that is good." "i don't know about that, oonomoo; i think it couldn't be much worse; for keewaygooshturkumkankangewock has got a bad temper, if she is the same shape all the way down." "it is good, my brother. we will have the captive when the sun comes up again in the sky." "how are you going to get her?" "give keewaygooshturkumkankangewock this drug," said the huron, handing him a dark, waxy substance. "dunder! ish it pizen?" asked hans, in english. "keewaygooshturkumkankangewock will kill me deat if i pizen her." "it will not kill her; it will only put her in a sleep from which she will awake after a few hours." "quanonshet and madokawandock will have to take it too, for they don't sleep any more than she does." "there is enough for all. to-day mix this with that which the squaw and quanonshet and madokawandock shall eat, and when it grows dark they will sleep and not awaken till the morrow's sun." "and what of the gal?" "when the moon rises above that tree-top yonder, cut the bonds that bind her, and lead her through the woods to this place. here oonomoo will take her and conduct her to her friends in the settlement." from this point the indian dialect was dropped for intelligible english. "and vot will become of me?" asked hans vanderbum, in considerable alarm. "when keewaygooshturkumkankangewock wakes up and finds te gal gone, she will t'inks i done it, and den--den--den--" the awful expression of his countenance spoke more eloquently than any words, of the consequences of such a discovery and suspicion upon the part of his spouse. "take some self when git back--go to sleep--squaw wake up first." hans' eyes sparkled as he took in the beauty of the scheme prepared by the huron. the arrangement was now explained to lieutenant canfield, who could but admire the sagacity and foresight of his indian friend, that seemed to understand and provide against every emergency. it was further explained to hans that he was to manage to give the drug to his wife and children several hours before sunset, as its effects would not be perceptible for fully four hours, and that he was to take a small quantity himself about dusk, to avert the consequences of his philanthrophy. lieutenant canfield admonished him to be cautious in his movements, and to take especial pains with his charge after leaving his lodge, in order to avoid discovery from the sleepless shawnees. the situation of hans' wigwam was fortunate indeed, as he ran little risk of discovery if he used ordinary discretion after leaving it. everything being arranged, hans vanderbum took his departure, and oonomoo, the soldier and negro commenced the long, weary hours of waiting. chapter viii. the exploit of hans vanderbum. god forgive me, (marry and amen!) how sound is she asleep! --romeo and juliet. hans vanderbum loitered on his way back to the village, to avoid giving the impression to any who might chance to see him that there was anything unusual upon his mind. the precious substance handed to him by the huron--a sort of gum--he wrapped in a leaf and stowed away in his bosom, guarding it with the most jealous care. upon it depended his hopes for the success of his cherished scheme. after several hours' intense thought, he decided upon his programme of action. he would go fishing about the middle of the forenoon, giving his wife to understand that he would be back with what he had caught in time for dinner, so that she would rely upon him for that meal; but, instead of doing so, he would keep out of sight until toward night, by which time he rightly concluded his spouse and children would be so ravenously hungry that they would devour the fish without noticing any peculiar taste about them. it was also necessary to place miss prescott on her guard against eating them, as it would seriously inconvenience him if she should fall into a deadly stupor at the very time when she would most need her senses. all this was not definitively provided for until a long time after his return to his wigwam. the more fully to carry out his plans, hans feigned sickness shortly after his return, so that keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, who really had a sort of affection for him, allowed him to remain inside, while she busied herself with the corn-planting. this was the very opportunity for which hans longed, and he lost no time in improving it. "i've see'd oonomoo," said he, by way of introduction. "have you, indeed?" and the countenance of miss prescott became radiant with hope. "yaw; see'd somebody else, too." the deep crimson that suffused the beautiful captive's face, even to the very temples, showed the stolid dutchman that it was not necessary for him to mention the other person's name. "yaw; see'd him, too." "and what did he say?" "didn't say much, only grin and laughed. de dunderin' nigger liked to kill me." miss prescott was dumbfounded to hear her lover spoken of in this manner. "why, what do you mean, my friend? why do you speak of him in that manner?" "he jumped down out of a tree on top of mine head, and nearly mashed it down lower dan my shoulders. den he rolled round, kicked up his heels and laughed at me." "of whom are you speaking? lieutenant can--" "a big nigger dat called himself cato." "oh, i thought--" and the embarrassed girl covered her face to hide her confusion and disappointment. "see'd him too," said hans, pleasantly. "who?" "lieutenant canfield," he whispered. "where is he? what did he say? when shall i see him? oh! do not keep me in suspense." "de huron injin, him and anoder nigger am out in de woods waitin' for de night to come, when i'm goin' for to take you out to dem." "but keeway--your wife?" "keewaygooshturkumkankangewock? yaw, she mine frow; been married six--seven years. nice name dat. know what keewaygooshturkumkankangewock means?" "no, i have never heard," replied miss prescott, thinking it best to humor the whims of her friend. "it means de 'lily dat am de same shape all de way down,' which am her. what you ax?" "but will your lily allow me to depart?" "dat am what i'm going for to tell you. i'm going fishing purty soon, and won't be back till de arternoon. when i come back we'll have fish for supper. de huron injin give me something for to put in de fish, dat will put mine frow and de little ones to sleep, so dat dey won't wake up when we go out de wigwam." "and i suppose you do not wish me to eat of them?" "no, for you'd get to sleep too, den i shall have to carry you." "there is no danger of my having much appetite after what you have told me." "den you won't forget. remembers dat--i t'inks i feels better." hans vanderbum caught a glimpse of his amiable wife in the door of his lodge at this moment, which was the cause of the sudden change in his conversation. suiting his action to his words, he arose and said: "i t'inks i feels better, keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, and guesses i go fishing." "i guess you might as well." "mine dear frow, shust gits te line and bait, while i lights mine pipe." his wife complied, and a few minutes later hans vanderbum sallied forth fully equipped for duty. he did not forget to tell his partner several times not to prepare dinner until his return, and she also promised this, from some cause or other, she being in a far better humor than usual. the demon of mischief seemed to possess quanonshet and madokawandock that day. in making his way to the "fishing-grounds," he was tripped so often that he began to wonder what could possibly be the reason for it. he stooped down to examine his path. "dat ish funny de way dat grass grows. dat bunch on dat side has growed over and met dat bunch on de oder side, and den dey've growed togedder in one big knot, and den i catches mine foot under and tumbles down. dat ish funny for te grass to grow dat way." the innocent man did not once suspect that his boys had anything to do with this peculiar growth of the grass, although, had he looked behind him, he would have seen their dirty, grinning faces as they rolled upon the grass in ecstasies at his perplexity. after several more tumbles, hans vanderbum reached his favorite log, and crawled out like a huge turtle to the further extremity. the exciting adventure which was before him occupied his thoughts so constantly that the mischievous propensities of his children never once entered his head, until the log suddenly snapped off at its trunk, and left him struggling in the water. reaching the land with considerable difficulty after this second mishap, he concluded that quanonshet and madokawandock were still living, and had lately visited that neighborhood. by noon, he had collected a goodly quantity of fish, and fearful that if he delayed his return much longer, his wife would come in search of him, he proceeded some distance down the bank, and concealed himself beneath a large clump of bushes, continuing his piscatorial labors as heretofore. his precaution proved timely and prudent, for he had hardly ensconsed himself in his new position, when he caught a glimpse of keewaygooshturkumkankangewock through the branches, and shrunk further out of sight. from his secure hiding-place, the valorous husband watched her proceedings. he saw her brow "throned with thunder," as she strode hastily forward, the blank, dismayed expression, as she witnessed the destruction of his favorite perch, the anxious haste with which she examined the shore to discover whether he had emerged or not, the relief that lit up her countenance as she learned the truth, and, at length, the first expression, so boding and potent in its meaning, that he lay down on the ground and dare not look at her again. when he cautiously raised his head, she had disappeared, and with a sigh of relief, he resumed his line. the slow, weary hours wore on, and finally the sun was half-way down the horizon. hans vanderbum's heart gave a big throb as he started on his return to the village. in spite of the exciting drama that was now commencing, and in which he was to play such a prominent part, the most vivid picture that presented itself to him was his irate wife, waiting at the wigwam to pounce upon him, and he could not force the dire consequences of his temerity from his mind. slowly and tremblingly he approached the lodge, but saw none of its inmates. the profound silence filled him with an ominous misgiving. he paused and listened. not a breath was audible. he stepped softly forward and cautiously peered in. he saw miss prescott apparently asleep in one corner, and his wife trimming the fire. hans hesitated a moment, and no pen can describe or artist depict the shivering horror with which he stepped within the lodge. his heart beat like a trip-hammer, and when his wife lifted her dark eyes upon him, he nearly fainted from excess of terror. great was his amazement, therefore, when, instead of rebukes and blows, she came smilingly forward and asked: "has my husband been sick?" that question explained everything. believing him to be sick, her feelings were not of wrath, but of solicitude. hans wiped the perspiration from his forehead and, hardly conscious of what he was doing, replied: "b'lieves i didn't feel very much well--kinder empty in de stomach as dough i'd like to have dinner." "you shall have it at once." now, to insure the success of hans vanderbum's plans, it was necessary that he should cook the fish, in order that he might find opportunity to mix the gum with it; but the wife, out of pure kindness refused to allow this. he was taken all aback at this unfortunate slip in his programme. by resorting again to intense thought, he hit upon an ingenious plan to outwit her, even at this disadvantage. the children needed no commands to remain out doors. the food was nicely cooking, when hans started up as if alarmed. "what's the matter?" inquired his wife. "i t'inks i hears some noise outside. hadn't you better goes out, my dear, good, kind keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, and see vot it is?" the obliging woman instantly darted forward, and hans proceeded to his task with such trembling eagerness that there was danger of its failure. first flattening the gum between his thumb and finger, he dropped it upon one of the fish, where it instantly dissolved like butter. he was busy stirring this, when his partner entered. "good man," said she; "kind to keewaygooshturkumkankangewock." hans vanderbum felt as if he were the greatest monster upon earth thus to deceive his trusting wife, and there was a perceptible tremor in his voice, as he replied: "i will tends to de fish." he saw that the gum had united thoroughly with the food, and then with a flushed face, he resigned his place to his wife. the dinner, or more properly the supper, was soon completed, when hans concluded that he was too unwell to eat anything. the squaw was somewhat surprised when miss prescott, after being awakened from a feigned sleep, turned her head away from the tempting food in disgust. "you sick too?" she asked. "no--no--no," shutting her eyes and turning her back upon her. "i wouldn't coax her to eat, my good, dear frow," said hans. "let de little dutchmen eat it; dey're hungry enough." in answer to a shrill call, quanonshet and madokawandock came tumbling in, and fell upon the food like a couple of wolves. after two or three mouthfuls they stopped and smacked their lips as if there was something peculiar in the taste of their fish, and hans' heart thumped as he saw the mother do the same. to forestall any inquiries, he remarked that he had caught the fish in another portion of the stream, and perhaps they might taste bitter, but he guessed "dey was all right." this satisfied them, and in a few minutes more there was nothing left but a few bones. thus far all went well. as the sun descended in the western sky, and the magnificent american twilight gathered upon the forest and river, the excited hans vanderbum could scarcely conceal his impatience and anxiety. never before, since his marriage, had he been in such a predicament, and never again, he hoped, would he feel the misery that was now torturing him. time always passes wearily to the watcher. it seemed an age to him ere the sun slipped down behind the wilderness out of sight. at length, however, the dusk of early evening enveloped the lodge, and shortly after quanonshet and madokawandock came in, and dropping down fell almost immediately asleep. to expedite matters, hans vanderbum feigned slumber, but he kept one eye upon the movements of his wife. he marked her listless, absent air, and he could scarcely conceal his joy when she stretched herself in front of the door, without speaking or ordering him to lie beside her, as was her usual custom. five minutes later, she was as unconscious as though she were never to wake again. to make "assurance doubly sure," he waited full half an hour without moving. then he raised his head, and called in a whisper to miss prescott: "i say dere." "well! what is it?" she responded, rising. "you ishn't ashleep bees you?" "no, i am ready." "well, i guesses it bees purty near times." "are they all sound asleep--your lily and children?" "yaw, dey's won't wake if you pound 'em." "would it not be best to take a look outside and see whether there is any danger of our being discovered?" "yaw--i finks so." in passing out, hans trod upon the outstretched arm of his wife, but her sleep was so sound that she did not awaken. the situation of the lodge was such that all the shawnees visible were upon one side of it, so that the chances of discovery were comparatively slight, if the least precaution was used. appearing at the entrance of the wigwam, without entering, he motioned for the captive to come out. she arose, stepping cautiously and carefully, and when she found herself in the open air once more, with the cool night-wind blowing upon her fevered cheek, she almost fainted from excessive emotion. "come, now, walks right behind me, and if you sees--dunder and blixen! dere comes an injin!" the girl had caught a glimpse of two shadowy figures, and without thought, she did the wisest possible thing for her to do under the circumstances. springing back within the lodge, she reseated herself beyond the form of her prostrate sentinel, and waited for them to pass. "how do you do, brother?" asked one of them, in the shawnee tongue, as they halted. "how gets along our prisoner?" "pretty good; she is in de lodge." "she is safe in the hands of keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, but i will look in." the savage stepped to the entrance and merely glanced inside. the darkness was so great that he saw nothing but the figure of the squaw before him, and he and his companion passed on. the captive waited until she was sure they were beyond sight and hearing, and then she stepped forth again. "let us hurry," said she, eagerly. "there may be others near." "yaw, but don't push me over on mine nose." "oh! if she awakes, or we are seen!" "she won't do dat. she shleeps till morning, and bimeby i shleeps too, and won't wake up afore she does." "be careful, be careful, my good friend, and do not linger so," said the girl, nearly beside herself with excitement, "and let us stop talking." "yaw, i bees careful! i ain't talking. it bees you all de time dat is making de noise. i knows better dan for to make noise, when dey might hear. doesn't you fink i does?" "yes, yes, yes." "i'm glad dat you t'inks so. i knowed a gal once; she was a good 'eal like you; annie stanton was her name; she had a feller dat was a good 'eal like de lieutenant, and dey didn't t'ink i knowed much, but dey found dey was mistaken. don't you b'lieve dey did?" "yes, yes--but you are talking all the while." "dat ish so--i doesn't talk no more." finally, the impression reached the brain of hans vanderbum that he was making rather more noise than was prudent, and he resolutely sealed his lips--so resolutely that, being compelled to breathe through his nostrils, miss prescott feared that the noise thus made was more dangerous than had been his indulgence in conversation. she endeavored to warn him, but he firmly refused to hear, waddling ahead, his huge form stumbling and lumbering forward like a young elephant just learning to walk. the moon being directly before them, his massive shoulders were clearly outlined against the sky, when the woods were open enough to permit an unobstructed entrance to its light. a dozen yards from the wigwam, and the two were clear of the shawnee village, their only danger being from any wandering indian whom they might chance to meet. they had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile, when the captive's heart nearly stopped beating as she saw the hand of a savage outlined against the sky. as she observed that he was steadily approaching, she halted and was debating whether or not to dart off in the woods, and depend upon herself for safety, when hans spoke: "dat you, oonomoo?" "yeh--'tis me." the quick eye of the huron had caught a glimpse of the girl behind the dutchman, and he now came up and addressed her: "is my friend 'fraid?" "no, no; thank heaven! is that you, my good, kind oonomoo?" asked the girl, reeling forward, until sustained by the gentle grasp of the indian. "yeh--me take care of you. here somebody else--t'ink he know how better--guess like him, too." she caught a glimpse of another form as the savage spoke in his jesting manner. she needed nothing more to assure her of its identity. lieutenant canfield came forward, and placing one arm around her waist, and drawing her fervently to him, he said: "oh! my _dear_ mary, i am so glad to see you again. are you unharmed?" "not a hair of my head has been injured. and how is my dear father and mother and sister helen?" "your father was perfectly well and in good spirits when i left him a few days since, and as he knows nothing of this calamity, there is no reason for believing it is any different with him. your mother and sister i think know nothing of this, although i fear their apprehensions must be excited." "i trust i shall soon be with them, and oh! i pray----" "i's gettin' shleepy," suddenly exclaimed hans vanderbum. "take gum?" "yaw; took much as keewaygooshturkumkankangewock." "git sleep soon--go back--don't wake up." "yaw, i will." and before any one could speak, hans was lumbering through the bushes and woods on his way back to his lodge, fearful that if he delayed he would fall asleep. it was the wish of lieutenant canfield to thank him for his kindness to his betrothed, and the latter, very grateful for his honest friendship, intended to assure him of it, but his hasty exit prevented. the gum of which hans vanderbum had partaken, began soon to have a perceptible effect. he stumbled forward against the bushes and trees, blinking and careless of what he did, until he reached the door of his wigwam. here he summoned all his energies, and, stepping carefully over his wife, lay down beside her, and almost immediately was asleep. as might be expected, the wife was the first to awaken. so profound had been her sleep that the forenoon of the next day was fully half gone before she opened her eyes, and then it required a few minutes to regain entire possession of her faculties. looking around, she saw the inanimate forms of her children, and close beside her the unconscious hans vanderbum, and, horror of horrors, the captive was gone! she was now thoroughly awakened. with a shrill scream she sprung to her feet. giving her husband several violent kicks, and shouting his name, she ran outside to arouse the shawnees, and set them upon the track, if it was not already too late. hans opened one eye, and, seeing how matters stood, he shut it again, to ruminate upon the story he should tell to the pressing inquiries of his friends, and, in a few minutes, he had prepared everything to his satisfaction. five minutes later he heard a dull thumping upon the ground, and the next minute the lodge was filled with shawnees. sharp yells--the signals of alarm--could be heard in every quarter, even as far distant as the river. all seemed centering toward one spot. in answer to repeated shoutings, and kicks, and twitches of the hair, hans opened his big, blue eyes, and stared around him with an innocent, wondering look. "where's the girl? where's the pale-faced captive?" demanded several, including his wife. "ober dere; (pointing to her usual resting-place; and then, discovering her absence) no, dunder and blixen, she isn't." "you helped her away in the night. we saw you when the moon was up standing in the lodge." his accuser was the indian who had peered into the lodge the night before. "mine gott! dat huron, oonomoo, has got her!" the name of the famous scout was familiar to all, and called forth a general howl of fury. understanding that it was expected he should give some explanation, he said: "i see'd de injin last night, and he gived me something dat he said i musht eat and mix wid my fish. i done so, and it made me, and keewaygooshturkumkankangewock, and quanonshet and madokawandock go to shleep, and shust now we wakes up and de gal ain't here!" this brief, concise statement was generally believed, all knowing the trustful, verdant nature of the dutchman, and there was a general clearing of the wigwam, for the purpose of ascertaining which direction the huron had taken; but they met with no success, as the woods were so thoroughly trodden by numerous feet, that it was impossible to distinguish any particular trail. one or two shawnees, however, were not satisfied with what hans had said, and, after making several more inquiries, they remarked: "oonomoo, the huron, is a brave indian, but could not enter the shawnee lodges unless the door was opened from within. our white brother----" hans' wife sprung up like a catamount, whose young were attacked. "you say my brave hans let her go, eh? my brave warriors, i will show you," she exclaimed, springing at them in such a perfect fury that they tore out of the wigwam and were seen no more. "my _dear_ hans." "my _dear, good_ keewaygooshturkumkankangewock! de same shape all de way down." and the loving wife and husband embraced with all the fervor of youthful lovers. and locked thus together, trusting, contented and happy, we take our final leave of them. chapter ix. a new danger. tis too late to crush the hordes who have the power and will to rob thee of thy hunting-grounds and fountains, and drive thee backward to the rocky mountains.--edward sanford. the moon was now well up in the sky, although it was still comparatively early in the night. it was hardly possible that the escape of miss prescott could be discovered before morning, yet the huron was too prudent not to guard against the most remote probability, by taking up their march at once in a direct line for the settlement. the eight or ten hours of unmolested travel that were before them, were amply sufficient to place all beyond danger, at least from the shawnees who had just been left behind. taking the lead, as usual, he proceeded at a moderate walk, timing his progress to the endurance of the maiden with him, still keeping the impatient cato behind. "i say, oonomoo," called out lieutenant canfield, in a suppressed voice, "suppose miss prescott and myself should indulge in conversation, would you have any objection?" "no--don't care--talk sweet--talk love--so no one hear but gal--gal talk low, sweet, so no one but him hear," returned the indian, pleasantly. falling a rod or so in the rear, the lieutenant took the willing hand of his betrothed, and said: "tell me, dear mary, of your captivity--of all that happened to you since they took you from your home." the girl proceeded to relate what is already known to the reader, adding that but for the friendship of hans vanderbum and oonomoo, she never would have hoped to escape from her captivity. "the dutchman is a stupid, honest-hearted fellow, whose heart is in the right place, and the huron has endeared himself to hundreds of hearts by his self-sacrificing devotion in their hour of affliction." "what possible motive could influence him to risk his life in my rescue?" "his own nature. he has been with those holy men, the moravians, and he is, what is so rarely seen, a christian indian. but, he has been thus friendly to the whites for many years. the shawnees inflicted some great injury upon him. what it was i do not know. i have heard that his father was a chief, and, while oonomoo was still a boy, he was broken of his chiefdom, and both he and his wife inhumanly massacred. this is the secret of his deadly hostility to that tribe, and, i am told, that among the _scores and scores_ of scalps which grace his lodge, there is not one which has not been torn from the head of a shawnee. but for a year or two, he has refrained from scalping his foes, and he has killed none except in honorable warfare." "has he a wife and family?" "he has a wife and son, and his lodge is deep in the forest, no one knows where. its location is so skillfully chosen that it has baffled all search for years. his wife, i have been told, has been a sincere christian from childhood, and her piety and faithfulness have had a good influence on him." "he is a noble man, and my dear father will reward him for this." "no, he will not. oonomoo has never accepted a reward for his services and never will. presents and mementoes have been showered upon him, but his proud soul scorns anything like payment for his services. do you suppose that _i_ could ever remunerate him for the happiness he has brought _me_?" asked the lieutenant, pressing the hand of his beloved. "i am sure my joy is very great, too. oh! how my dear mother and sister must have agonized over this calamity." "they probably have known nothing of it." "but you say you saw the light of the fire, and you were fully as far off as they." "it is true, but i had not the remotest suspicion of its being your home. it seems unlikely that your mother should have suspected the truth, as she had every reason to believe the indians were friendly to your family." "they must have seen the illumination in the sky, and, knowing the location of our home so well, they could but have their worst apprehensions aroused." "if such indeed be the case, let us congratulate ourselves that we are so soon to undeceive them." "i am glad that father cannot possibly hear of this until he is assured of our safety." "i am not so sure of that. when i left, the chances were that he might follow me almost immediately on a visit to the block-house at the settlement, and from what i heard i am pretty certain that if he has not already been, he soon will be appointed to the command of the garrison at that place. it is not at all impossible that he may be in charge of it this very minute." "we will reach there to-morrow, when, as you said, their anxiety will be relieved, although it will be no trifling loss to father when he finds his house and all his possessions destroyed by the savages." "but, as nothing when weighed in the balance with his loved child." "and then the poor servants! oh! what an awful sight to see them tomahawked when praying for mercy." "and, i am told, by their only survivor, cato there, that none implored so earnestly for them as did you yourself, never once asking for your own life, which was in such peril." "i thought that i might accomplish something for them, but it was useless. cato only escaped, and it was providence, alone, that saved him." "what ye 'scussin' ob my name for?" called out the negro, who had caught a word or two of the last remark. "stop noise," commanded oonomoo, peremptorily. "hebens, golly! ain't dem two talkin', and can't i frow in an obserwashun once in a while, eh?" "dey love--talk sweet--you nigger and don't love!" "oh, dat's de difference, am it? well, den, i forefwif proceeds all for to cease making remarks. but before ceasing altogever, i will obsarve that you are a pretty smart feller, oonymoo, and i hain't see'd de shawnee injine yet dat knows as much as your big toe. hencefofe i doesn't say noffin more;" and the negro held strict silence for a considerable time. lieutenant canfield and miss prescott conversed an hour or so longer, in tones so low that they were but a mere murmur to the huron, and then as the forest grew more tangled and gloomy, their words became fewer in number, until the conversation gradually ceased altogether. the party were walking thus silently, when they reached a portion of the wood where, for a short distance, it was perfectly open, as if it had been totally swept over by a tornado. in this they were about entering, when, brought in relief against the moon-lit sky beyond, the form of an indian was seen standing as motionless as a statue. at first sight, the form appeared gigantic in its proportions, but a second glance showed that instead of being a man it was a mere boy. he stood in the attitude of listening, as if he had just caught the sound of the approaching company. the huron, disdaining to draw his rifle upon such a foe, halted and looked steadily at him, while those in the rear, who had all discovered the savage, did the same, the negro's teeth chattering like a dice-box, as he fully believed him to be the advance-guard of an overwhelming force. the boy standing thus a moment, sprung with the quickness of lightning to the cover of the trees. as he did so, there was something about the movement which awakened the suspicion of oonomoo, and without stirring, he gave utterance to a low, trilling whistle. instantly there came a similar response, and the boy appeared again to view, bounding forward quickly toward oonomoo. "niniotan." "oonomoo." "what brings you thus far in the woods?" "_the shawnees have discovered the home of oonomoo!_" "and where is fluellina?" demanded the huron, starting as if stricken by a thunderbolt. "she is hid in the woods, waiting for oonomoo." "did she send niniotan for him?" "she sent him this morning, and he searched the woods until now, when he found him in this opening." "when did fluellina and my son leave their home on the island in the water?" "last night, shortly after the moon had come above the tree-tops, they left in the canoe, and they went far before the morning light had appeared, when they dared not return." "and when saw you the shawnees?" "yesterday, after you had gone, a canoe-full of their warriors passed by the island in their canoe. we saw them through the trees, and hid in the bushes until they had passed, and they searched until night for us." "where is fluellina hid?" "close by the side of the stream which floats by the island, but many miles from it." "how long will it take niniotan to guide oonomoo there?" "four or five hours. the wood is open and clear from briers." "and are the shawnees upon fluellina's trail?" "if the eye of the shawnee can follow the trail of the canoe, he has tracked us to the hiding-place." this conversation being carried on in the huron tongue, of course the others failed to catch its meaning; but lieutenant canfield suspected, from the singularly hurried and excited manner of oonomoo, that something unusual had occurred with him. never before had he seen him give way to his feelings, or speak in such loud, almost fierce tones. the soldier remained at a respectful distance, until the huron turned his head and told him to approach. "dis my son niniotan," said he. "he go wid us." "i am glad of his company i am sure. did you expect to meet him in this place?" "no--fluellina, his mother, send him in big hurry to oonomoo--been huntin' all day--jes' found us." "no trouble, i trust?" "tell in de mornin'--mus' walk fas' now--don't talk much--git to settlement quick as can. take gal's hand--lead her fast." the soldier knew there must be cause for this haste of his friend, and acting upon the hint which he had given him to ask no further questions, he took the hand of miss prescott, and the party moved forward at a rapid walk. little did he suspect the true cause of the huron's silence. knowing the solicitations that would be made by the soldier and the girl for him to leave them at once and attend to the safety of his wife, the noble indian refrained from imparting the truth. it was his intention to conduct his friends as far as possible during the night, that they might be beyond all danger, when, accompanied by his son, he would make all haste to his fluellina, and carry her to some place beyond the reach of his inhuman foes. for fully eight hours, the little party hurried through the woods. miss prescott bore the fatigue much better than she expected. being strong, healthy, and accustomed to long rambles and sports in the open air, and having been so long inactive in the shawnee village, the rapid walk for a long time was pleasant and exhilarating to her. it sent the blood bounding through her glowing frame, and there being withal the spice of an unseen and unknown danger to spur her on, she was fully able to go twice the distance, when the huron gave the order to halt. it was broad daylight and the sun was just rising. they were several miles beyond the ruins of captain prescott's mansion, so that the settlement could be easily reached in a few hours more. oonomoo brought down a turkey with his rifle, dressed it, and had a fire burning with which to cook it. this was accomplished in a short time under his skillful manipulations, and a hearty meal afforded to every one of the little company. lieutenant canfield noticed that neither the huron nor his son ate more than a mouthful or two, and he was now satisfied that the news brought by the latter was bad and disheartening. he refrained, however, from referring to the subject again, well knowing that the indian would tell him all that he thought proper, when the time arrived. they had just completed their meal, when niniotan and oonomoo started, raising their heads, as if something had caught their ears. listening a moment, the latter said: "somebody comin'." "hebens, golly! am it injines?" asked cato, looking around for some good place to hide. the eyes of the soldier and miss prescott asked the same question, and the huron replied: "ain't injins--walk too heavy--white men." "they must be friends then," exclaimed the girl, springing up and clapping her hands. "dey're comin'--hear 'em." the dull tramp, tramp of men walking in regular file was distinctly audible to all, and while they listened, a clear, musical voice called out: "this way, boys, we've a long tramp before we reach that infernal indian town." "your father, as i live!" whispered the soldier to the girl beside him. the next moment, the blue uniform of an officer of the federal army was distinguished through the trees, and the manly form of captain prescott, at the head of a file of a dozen men, came into full view. "hello! what have we here?" he asked, suddenly stopping and looking at the company before him. "why there's lieutenant canfield as sure as i am alive, and if that ain't my dear little daughter yonder, i hope i may never lift my sword for mad anthony again. and there's oonomoo, the best red-man that ever pulled the trigger of a rifle, with a little pocket edition of himself, and grinning cato too! why don't you come to the arms of your father, sis, and let him hug you?" this unexpected meeting with his loved daughter, when his worst fears were aroused for her safety, caused the revulsion of feeling in captain prescott, and his pleasantry is perhaps excusable when all the circumstances are considered. the tears of joy coursed down the gray-headed soldier's cheeks as he pressed his cherished daughter to his bosom, and murmured, "god bless you! god bless you!" while the hardy soldiers ranged behind him smiled, and several rubbed their eyes as if dust had gotten in them. "is mother and sister well?" asked the daughter, looking up in her father's face. "yes, well, but anxious enough about you." "our house and place is destroyed forever." "who cares, sis? who cares? haven't i you left? don't mention it." "but the servants! all were killed except poor cato there." "ah! that is bad! that is bad! i mourn them, poor fellows! poor fellows! but i have my own darling child left! my own darling child!" and the overjoyed father again pressed his daughter to him. "but what am i about?" he suddenly asked, with a surprised look. "i haven't spoken to the others here. lieutenant, allow me to congratulate you, sir, on this happy state of affairs. i congratulate you, sir." captain prescott had a way of repeating his remarks, while his radiant face was all aglow with his hearty good-humor, that was irresistibly contagious in itself. his jovial kindness won every heart, and he was almost idolized by his men. "a happy turn, indeed; but, captain, i am somewhat surprised to see you here," said lieutenant canfield as he grasped the offered hand. "ah! yes, i haven't explained that yet; but the fact is, lieutenant, you hadn't been gone two hours--not two hours--when the general told me i was to take charge of the garrison at the settlement, where my wife and daughter now are. i wasn't sorry to hear that--not sorry to hear that, and as you were to be lieutenant, i didn't think it would be unpleasant to you either to be located so near our family--not unpleasant at all, eh, lieutenant?" "nothing, certainly, could be more agreeable to me," replied the gallant young fellow, blushing deeply at the looks which were turned upon him. "glad to hear it! glad to hear it! well, sir, i started right off--right straight off, and tried my best to overtake you, but, bless me, i might as well have tried to run away from my own shadow, as to catch up with a young chap when he is in love. i got to the settlement yesterday, toward night, and the first thing i heard was that my house had been burned, and my sweet little darling mary there, either killed or carried off a prisoner. i felt bad about that," added the captain, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, but smiling all the while, "yes, i won't deny i felt a little bad about that. they had all seen the light from the settlement, and knowing the direction of my house, were pretty sure it was that. but, to be certain, one of the men came out here yesterday, and found there was no mistake about it. but the queerest part of the matter was, that all the people, the garrison especially, appeared to feel bad about it too--actually felt bad about it. and when i asked for volunteers, they all sprung forward and insisted that they would go--insisted that they would go. i picked out those twelve there--because they had all been in indian fights and understood the country through which we would be compelled to go. they are all good fellows, and perfect phenomena, if you may believe all they say--perfect phenomena. you see that chap there, with the big mouth and crossed eyes. well, sir, he informs me that he has dined off a live indian every morning for the last seventeen years, and is certain that he should pine away and die, if he should be deprived of his usual meal. you see he is pretty nearly an indian himself. his hair is black as a savage's, and if he goes a few months longer without washing, he will have the war-paint all over his face. that one standing beside him, with a nose like a hickory knot and with feet like flat-boats, calls himself 'half horse, half alligator, tipped with a wild-cat and touched with a painter.' the rest are about the same, so that i have a good mind to march right into the indian country on a campaign against the whole set that have been in this business--the whole set that have been in this business." the pleasant humor with which this sarcasm was uttered, made every man laugh and respect their commander the more. they saw that while he rather disliked the extravagant boasting in which several of them had indulged, he still had great confidence in their skill and courage, as was shown by his selection of them for this perilous enterprise. "they are the right stuff," added the captain. "they ain't used to the drill, but they will soon understand that. i had some trouble to keep them in line in the woods, as they couldn't exactly see the use, but they were doing first rate, when we came upon you--doing first rate. but, i declare, i haven't spoken to oonomoo, there, i dare say he is at the bottom of this rescue. he generally is--generally is." stepping forward in front of the huron, who with his son had stood silent and gloomy, he said, as he grasped his hand: "oonomoo, receive the thanks of a delighted father for your kindness to his daughter. your repeated services have won you the gratitude of hundreds----" "cap'n," said the huron, speaking quickly and earnestly, "the shawnees have found de lodge ob oonomoo--his wife runnin' trough de woods--de shawnees chasin' her--oonomoo must go." "god bless me! god bless me!" exclaimed captain prescott; "and here the noble-hearted fellow has been waiting a half-hour without saying a word, while my infernal tongue has been going all the time; that tongue will be the death of me yet. your wife is in danger, eh? the ---- shawnees at their deviltry again here. see here, men," said he, turning around, "oonomoo's wife is in danger, and are we going to help her out or not, eh? i want to know that. are we going to stand by and let him do it alone, when for twenty years he has worked night and day for us?" "no!" responded every voice, in thunder tones. "i say, captain, if i ain't counted in this muss, i'll never smile agin. freeze me to death on a stump, if i won't walk into their meat-houses in style, then my name ain't tom lannoch." "jes' place me whar tha'll be some heads to crack, with gougin' and punchin' thrown in, and then count me in." "and hyer's dick smaddock, what----" "order!" roared the captain; "i'll arrange matters without any gabbing from you. we are losing time. as we are pretty near the settlement, and as there can be no danger between us and that, we will let the lieutenant take my daughter home, while we go with oonomoo to shoot shawnees." "i must protest against that," said lieutenant canfield. "if i thought there could possibly be any danger to miss mary, i would not think of deserting her; but surely there cannot be. i, therefore, propose that cato act as her guide, while all of us go to assist oonomoo. i could never forgive myself if i failed to requite the faithful huron, in such a small degree, when the opportunity is given." the suggestion of the young soldier received the enthusiastic support of all; but, captain prescott, who could not bear the thought that his daughter should be placed in the least peril, selected one of his men, a bronzed border-ranger, who, accompanied by cato, started at once for the settlement with her, which (we may as well remark here) was safely reached by them a few hours later. "the matter is all arranged then," said captain prescott, when he had selected the man who was to take charge of his daughter. "we are now ready to follow you, oonomoo." "come quick, den--oonomoo can't wait--leave his trail--all see it." as the huron spoke, his son bounded off in the woods and dashed away like an arrow, while he followed him with such astonishing speed, that he almost instantly disappeared from sight. "god bless me! that's an original way of guiding us!" exclaimed the captain, taken aback by the unexpected disappearance of the indian. "the danger that threatens his wife is so imminent that he dare not wait for our tardy movements," said lieutenant canfield. "he will leave a trail that your men can follow without the least difficulty, and, i trust, we may come up in time to prevent anything serious occurring to him and her. his son joined him last night and brought the news of his misfortune to him, but the noble fellow, although his heart must have nearly burst within him, would not leave us until he was assured of your daughter's safety." "noble chap! noble chap! he must be paid for such devotion. come, my boys, let us lose no time. as you all understand the woods better than i do, i must select one of you to walk beside me and keep the trail in sight, while the rest of you must remember and not fall out of line. if a tree should stand in the way, just step around it, but don't lose the step. there's nothing like discipline--nothing like discipline." the guide was selected, who took his station beside captain prescott, and the word was given and away they started in the wake of the flying huron. chapter x. conclusion. i leave the huron shore for emptier groves below! ye charming solitudes, ye tall ascending woods, ye glassy lakes and prattling streams. whose aspect still was sweet, whether the sun did greet, or the pale moon embrace you with her beams-- adieu to all! adieu, the mountain's lofty swell, adieu, thou little verdant hill, and seas, and stars, and skies, farewell!--p. frenau. away started niniotan like a fawn, his father following at a rate that kept both within a few feet of each other. the densest portions of the wood seemed to offer them no impediments, as they glided like rabbits through them. the boy trailed a rifle in his right hand with as much ease and grace as a full-grown warrior, and the speed which he kept up, mile after mile, seemed to have as little effect upon him as upon the indurated frame of his father. the step of neither lagged, and their respiration was hardly quickened. the dark eyes of niniotan appeared larger, as if expanded with terror, and looked as if they were fixed upon some point, many leagues away in the horizon. the habitual gloomy expression rested upon the face of oonomoo, and it needed no skillful physiognomist to read the signs of an unusual emotion upon his swarthy countenance. it was seen in the dark scowl, the glittering eye, and the compressed lip, although he spoke not a word until they had penetrated far into the forest. in something less than an hour, the swamp, in the interior of which was the huron's lodge, was reached; but instead of taking the usual route to it, niniotan diverged to the left, until they reached a portion of the creek that was less swampy in its character. running along its bank a few moments, the boy came upon a canoe, which he shoved into the water, and, springing into it, took his seat in front. oonomoo was scarce a second behind him. the son pointed down-stream, and, dipping deep the paddle, the huron sent the frail vessel forward at a velocity that was truly wonderful. a half-mile at this rate, and a tributary of the creek--a brook, merely--was reached, up which the canoe shot with such speed, that a few minutes later it ran almost its entire length where the water was no more than an inch in depth. springing ashore, niniotan darted off, closely followed by his father, until they reached a portion of the wood so dense that they paused. "here was left fluellina," said the boy, looking around at oonomoo. the latter uttered his usual signal, a tremulous, thrilling whistle, similar to that by which he had made himself known to his child before, but he received no response. three times it was repeated with a considerable rest, when, like the faint echo far in the distance, came back the response. the huron was about to plunge into the thicket, when a sound caught his ear, and the next moment his wife was before him. neither spoke a word, until they had stood a few seconds in a fervent embrace, when fluellina stepped back, and looking up in her husband's face, said: "the shawnees have found our home and are now following me." the husband became the warrior on the instant. his woodcraft told him that if his foes were searching for him and his, they would be in such force that he could not hope to combat with them; and the only plan, therefore, that offered him any safety was to fall back and meet his white friends at the earliest possible moment. in reaching the creek, he had bent down the bushes, and broken the branches on the way so that his trail could be followed without difficulty. he now sped back to his canoe, which, when reached, he shoved into deep water, and ran a considerable distance before he deemed it best to enter. lifting fluellina in his arms, he deposited her carefully in it. niniotan leaped after her, and the next moment they were going down the stream at a speed that seemed would tear the boat asunder every moment. debouching into the creek, the canoe rounded gracefully and went upward with undiminished velocity, until, in almost an incredible space, the point of embarkation was reached, when oonomoo ran in and sprung ashore, followed instantly by his wife and son. the huron had scarcely landed, when his quick ear detected a suspicious sound. he glanced furtively around. nothing, however, was seen, although his apprehensions of the proximity of his foes had assumed a certainty. without pausing in the least, he instantly took the back trail, fluellina being close behind him, and niniotan bringing up the rear. they had gone scarce a dozen steps when the shawnee war-whoop was heard, and full a score of the red demons sprung up seemingly from the very ground, and plunged toward the fugitives. simultaneously several rifles were discharged, and oonomoo, who had thrown himself in the rear of fluellina upon the appearance of danger, knew by the sharp, needle-like twinges in different parts of his body, that he was severely wounded. flight was useless, and as he and his wife took shelter behind separate trees, he called to his son: "niniotan, prove yourself a warrior, the son of oonomoo, the huron!" as quick as lightning, the youth was also sheltered, and his gun discharged. a death-shriek from a howling shawnee showed that the training of oonomoo had not been thrown away. the boy reloaded and waited his opportunity. the shawnees, seeing they had driven their foe to the wall at last, prudently halted, as they were in no hurry to engage such a terrible being in a hand-to-hand contest, overwhelming as were their own odds. the huron wisely held his fire, believing he could keep his enemies at bay much better by such means than by discharging it. the great point with him was to defer the attack until the arrival of assistance, and he had strong hopes that he could succeed in doing it. not oonomoo's personal fear, but his excessive anxiety for the safety of fluellina, induced him now to adopt a resort that was fatal in its consequences. knowing that captain prescott and his men could be at no great distance, he gave utterance to a loud, prolonged whoop, which he knew some of the rangers would recognize as a call for assistance, and consequently hasten to his aid. unfortunately, the shawnees also understood the meaning of the signal, and satisfied that not a moment was to be lost, they boldly left their cover and advanced to the attack. the foremost of the approaching savages fell, shot through the heart by the rifle of young niniotan, and almost at the same instant the one by his side had the ball of oonomoo's rifle sent crashing through his brain. the huron now sprung to the side of his wife, and drawing his knife in his left, and his tomahawk in his right hand, he stood at bay! it was a scene worthy the inspired pencil of the artist. the malignant, scowling shawnees, steadily advancing upon the dauntless huron, who, though his moccasins were soaked with the blood from his own wounds, stood as firm and immovable as the adamantine rock. his left leg was thrown somewhat in advance of his right, as if he were about to spring, but in such a manner that his weight was perfectly balanced. the knife was held firmly, but not as it would have been were he about to strike. the tomahawk, however, was drawn back, as if he were only holding it a second, while he selected his victim. his eyes! no imagination can conceive their fierce electric glitter as their burning gaze was fixed upon his merciless enemies. black as midnight, they seemed to emit palpable rays, that shot through the air with an irresistibly penetrating power, and not once was their awful power eclipsed for an instant by the closing of the eyelid. onward came the exultant shawnees. there was no checking them, and throwing all his mighty strength in his right arm, oonomoo hurled his tomahawk like a thunderbolt among them. striking an indian fair between the eyes, it clove his skull as if it had been wax; and striking another on the shoulder, cut through the flesh and bone as if they were but the green leaves of the trees above, fluellina sunk down by the feet of her husband in prayer, while he, changing his knife to his right hand, waited the shock of the coming avalanche! so terrible did the exasperated huron appear, that the entire party of shawnees paused out of sheer horror of closing in with him. wounded and bleeding as he was, they knew that he would carry many of their number to the earth, before his defiant spirit could be driven out of him. and at scarcely a dozen feet distant, the craven, cowardly wretches poured a volley from their rifles upon both him and the kneeling woman beside him. [illustration: so terrible did the exasperated huron appear, that the entire party of shawnees paused out of sheer horror.] oonomoo did not leap or yell; but with his eyes still fixed upon his enemies, and his knife still firmly clutched in his hand, commenced slowly sinking backward to the earth. the shawnees saw it, and one of them sprung forward, as if to claim his scalp, but he fell howling to the ground, prostrated by a ball from the undaunted niniotan who still maintained his place behind his tree. his companions were in the act of moving forward, to avenge the deaths of hundreds of their comrades, when the tramp of approaching men was heard, and a clear voice rung out: "this way, boys! i see the infernal copper-heads through the trees. make ready, take aim--god bless me! you fired before the orders were given." at the first glimpse of the shawnees, huddled together in a rushing body, every one of the border men discharged his piece, without waiting for the command, right in among them. the destruction was fearful and the panic complete. numbers came to the ground, writhing, dying and dead, while the survivors scattered howling to the woods, and were seen no more. shortly after captain prescott and lieutenant canfield had started with their men on the trail of oonomoo, they came upon an elderly man in the forest who was hunting. he proved to be eckman, the moravian missionary, who had brought up and educated fluellina, the wife of oonomoo, and to whom she made her stated visits for religious counsel and encouragement. upon learning the object of the party, he at once joined them, as he felt a fatherly affection for the huron warrior. being a skillful backwoodsman, he acted as guide to the men, proceeding, in spite of his years, at a rate which cost them considerable effort to equal. they had not gone a great distance, when the shout of oonomoo was heard, and the missionary understood its significance. bounding forward, the men came upon the shawnees at a full run, captain prescott panting and still at their head, vainly endeavoring to keep them in line and to make them aim and fire together. the missionary and lieutenant canfield took in the state of affairs at once. niniotan was unhurt, and now came forward, his face as rigid as marble. swelled to nearly bursting as was his heart, he endeavored to obey the instructions of his father, and show himself a warrior, by concealing his emotion to those around him. the man of god instantly ran to the prostrate huron and his wife, the latter managing to maintain a sitting position with great difficulty. he saw both were mortally wounded and would soon die. oonomoo lay flat upon his back, breathing heavily, while the copious pools of blood around him showed how numerous and severe were his wounds. lieutenant canfield lifted his head, while the missionary supported fluellina. the latter opened her languid eyes, which instantly brightened as she recognized her noble friend, and said in a low, sweet voice, speaking english perfectly: "i am glad you have come, father. oonomoo and fluellina are dying. we want you to smooth the way for us to the bright land." "the way is already smoothed, my child, so that your feet can tread it. can i do anything to relieve your pain?" "no; my body suffers, but my heart is on fire with joy. please attend to oonomoo," said fluellina, looking toward him. the huron was so close to his wife, that by taking a position between them, the missionary was enabled to support both. raising their heads with the assistance of lieutenant canfield and captain prescott, he laid them upon his lap in close proximity to each other. the men stood silent and affected witnesses of the scene. brushing the luxuriant hair from the face of the dying indian, the preacher said: "oonomoo, is there anything i can do for you?" "where be niniotan?" "here," responded the boy, approaching him. "stand where you be, and see a christian warrior die," he commanded, in his native tongue. "where is fluellina's hand?" the affectionate wife heard the inquiry, and instantly closed her hand in his. he held it, in loving embrace. the missionary spread a blanket over the body and limbs of the huron, so as to hide his frightful wounds from sight. a single stream, tiny, crimson and glistening, wound down from the shoulder of fluellina, over her bare arm, to her waist, where it fell in rapid drops to the leaves below. no one of her wounds were visible, although it was evident that dissolution was proceeding rapidly with her. the minister, at this point, noticed that the lips of oonomoo were moving. thinking he had some request to make, he leaned forward and listened. his soul was thrilled with holy joy when he heard unmistakably the words of supplication. oonomoo was addressing the great spirit of the world, not as a craven does, at the last moment, when overtaken by death, but as he had often done before, with the assurance that his prayer was heard. with a simplicity as touching as it was earnest, he spoke aloud his forgiveness of the shawnees, saying that he wished not their scalps, and had not taken any for several years, not since the great spirit had sent a wonderful light in his soul. for a moment more he was silent, and then opening his eyes, uttered the name of niniotan. "i am here before you!" replied the boy. "niniotan, be a huron warrior; be as oonomoo has been; never take the scalp of a foe, and kill none except in honorable warfare; live and die a christian." as was his custom, when addressing his wife or boy, this exhortation was given in his own tongue, so that the missionary was the only one beside them who understood it. languidly shutting his eyes again, oonomoo said: "read out of good book." the good man was pained beyond description to find that the pocket-bible, which he always carried with him, had been lost during his hurried approach to this spot. but fluellina, who had caught the words, said: "it is in my bosom." the missionary reached down and drew it forth, and, as he did so, all the men noticed the red stains upon it, while he himself felt the warm, fresh blood upon his hand. instinctively he opened the volume at the fifteenth chapter of corinthians, that beautiful letter of the apostle's, in which the triumphant and glorious resurrection of the body at the last day is pictured in the sublime language of inspiration: "'as is the earthy, such are they also that are earthy; and as is the heavenly, such are they also that are heavenly. "'and as we have borne the image of the earthy, we shall also bear the image of the heavenly. "'now this i say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of god; neither doth corruption inherit incorruption. "'behold, i shew you a mystery; we shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. "'in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. "'for this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. "'so when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, death is swallowed up in victory. "'oh death, where is thy sting? oh grave, where is thy victory?--'" the hands of oonomoo and fluellina, which had still remained clasped upon the lap of the missionary, suddenly closed with incredible force, and rising to the sitting position, as if assisted by an invisible arm, they both opened their eyes to their widest extent, and fixing them for a moment upon the clear sky above, sunk slowly and quietly back, dead! a profound stillness reigned for several minutes after it was certain the spirits of oonomoo and fluellina had departed. gently removing their heads from his lap to the ground, the missionary arose, and in so doing, broke the spell that was resting upon all. niniotan stood like a statue, his arms folded and his stony gaze fixed upon the senseless forms of his parents. placing his hand upon his head, the man of god addressed him in the tones of a father: "let niniotan heed the words of oonomoo; let him grow up a christian warrior, and when his spirit leaves this world, it will join his and fluellina's in the happy hunting-grounds in the sky. niniotan, i offer you a home at our mission-house so long as you choose to remain. your mother was brought to me when an infant, and i have educated her in the fear of god. will you go with me?" the boy replied in his native dialect: "niniotan will never forget the words of oonomoo. his heart is warm toward the kind father of fluellina, and he will never forget him. the woods are the home of niniotan, the green earth is his bed and the blue sky is his blanket. niniotan goes to them." [illustration: niniotan stood like a statue, his arms folded and his stony gaze fixed upon the senseless forms of his parents.] turning his back upon his white friends, the young warrior walked away and soon disappeared from sight in the arches of the forest. [he kept his word, living a life of usefulness as had oonomoo, being the unswerving friend of the whites all through tecumseh's war, and dying less than ten years since in the indian territory beyond the mississippi, loved and respected by the whites as well as by all of his own kindred.] "friends," said the missionary, "you have witnessed a scene which i trust will not be lost upon you. live and die in the simple faith of this untutored indian and all will be well." "captain," added the speaker, addressing captain prescott, "he has been a true friend to our race for years, and we must do him what kindness we can. if we leave these bodies here, the shawnees will return and mutilate them--" "god bless me! it shan't be done! it shan't be done! form a litter, boys, form a litter, and place them on it. we'll bury them at the settlement, and build them a monument a thousand feet high--yes, sir--every inch of it." a few minutes later, the party, bearing among them the bodies of oonomoo and fluellina, set out for the settlement, which was reached just as the sun was disappearing in the west. the lifeless forms were placed in the block-house for the night. the next morning a large and deep grave was dug in a cool grove just back of the village, into which the two bodies, suitably inclosed, were lowered. the last rites were performed by the good missionary, and as the sods fell upon the coffins, there was not a dry eye in the numerous assembly. the avowal of captain prescott that the faithful huron should have a monument erected to his memory, was something more than the impulse of the moment. knowing the affection with which he was regarded by the settlers all along the frontier, he took pains to spread the particulars of his death, and to invite contributions for the purpose mentioned. the response was far more liberal than he had, dared to hope, and showed the vast services of oonomoo during his life--services of which none but the recipients knew anything. at this time, there was a band of border rangers in existence, known as the _riflemen of the miami_. oonomoo had often acted as their guide, and these were the first that were heard from. lewis dernor, their leader, visited the settlement on purpose to learn the facts regarding his death, and to bring the gifts of himself and companions. then there was stanton and ferrington, and scores of others, who continued to pour in their contributions through the summer, until captain prescott possessed the means of erecting as magnificent a monument as his heart could wish. in the autumn, affairs on the frontier became so quiet and settled that the captain was able to visit the east, where he gave orders for the marble monument, which it was promised should be sent down the river the next spring. upon the return of captain prescott, the wedding of his daughter and lieutenant canfield took place, and they settled down in the village. the captain did not venture again to erect his house in so exposed a situation, until the advancing tide of civilization made it a matter of safety. a handsome edifice then rose from the ruins of his first residence. general peace dawning upon the border, he removed his family to it, and turned farmer. his possessions continually increased in value until a few years after the commencement of the present century, and when he died, there were few wealthier men in the west. during the war of , lieutenant canfield was promoted to a captaincy, and served under general harrison until all hostilities had ceased. he then retired with his family to private life, taking his abode upon the farm which had been left him by his father-in-law, where he resided until , when he followed the partner of his joys and sorrows--the once captive of the shawnees--to his last, long home. as the traveler passes down the ohio river on one of its many steamers, his attention perhaps is attracted to a beautiful grove of oaks, willows and sycamores a short distance from the shore, beneath whose arches a tall, white marble obelisk may be discerned with some inscription and design upon it. approaching it more closely, there is seen engraved on the front, the figure of the holy bible, open, with a hand beneath pointing upward. below this, are cut the simple words: oonomoo, the friend of the white man. +------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: some very obvious typos | | were corrected in this text. for a list please | | see the bottom of the document. | +------------------------------------------------+ wage earning and education the survey committee of the cleveland foundation charles e. adams, chairman thomas g. fitzsimons myrta l. jones bascom little victor w. sincere arthur d. baldwin, secretary james r. garfield, counsel allen t. burns, director the education survey leonard p. ayres, director cleveland education survey wage earning and education by r.r. lutz the survey committee of the cleveland foundation cleveland · ohio copyright, , by the survey committee of the cleveland foundation wm. f. fell co. printers philadelphia foreword this summary volume, entitled "wage earning and education," is one of the sections of the report of the education survey of cleveland conducted by the survey committee of the cleveland foundation in and . copies of all the publications may be obtained from the cleveland foundation. they may also be obtained from the division of education of the russell sage foundation, new york city. a complete list will be found in the back of this volume, together with prices. table of contents page foreword list of tables list of diagrams chapter i. the industrial education survey types of occupations studied the survey staff and methods of work ii. forecasting future probabilities the popular concept of industrial education the importance of relative numbers a constructive program must fit the facts an actuarial basis for industrial education iii. the wage earners of cleveland iv. the future wage earners of cleveland the public schools ages of pupils education at the time of leaving school v. industrial training for boys in elementary schools what the boys in school will do organization and costs what the elementary schools can do vi. the junior high school specialized training not practicable a general industrial course industrial mathematics mechanical drawing industrial science shop work vocational information vii. trade training during the last years in school the technical high schools a two-year trade course viii. trade-preparatory and trade-extension training for boys and men at work continuation training from to the technical night schools a combined program of continuation and trade-extension training ix. vocational training for girls differentiation in the junior high school specialized training for the sewing trades other occupations x. vocational guidance the work of the vocational counselor the girls' vocation bureau xi. conclusions and recommendations summaries of special reports xii. boys and girls in commercial work a general view of commercial work bookkeeping stenography clerks' positions wages and regularity of employment the problem of training xiii. department store occupations department stores neighborhood stores five and ten cent stores wages regularity of employment opportunities for advancement the problem of training character of the instruction xiv. the garment trades characteristics of the working force earnings regularity of employment training and promotion educational needs sewing courses in the public schools elective sewing courses in the junior high school a one year trade course for girls trade extension training xv. dressmaking and millinery dressmaking millinery the problem of training xvi. the metal trades foundry and machine shop products automobile manufacturing steel works, rolling mills, and related industries xvii. the building trades sources of labor supply apprenticeship union organization earnings hours regularity of employment health conditions opportunities for advancement the problem of training xviii. railroad and street transportation railroad transportation motor and wagon transportation street railroad transportation xix. the printing trades the composing room the pressroom the bindery other occupations the problem of training list of tables table page . occupational distribution of the working population of cleveland . nativity of the working population in cleveland . pupils enrolled in the different grades of the public day schools in june, . enrollment of high school pupils, second semester, - . ages of pupils enrolled in public elementary, high, and normal schools in june, . educational equipment of the children who drop out of the public schools each year, as indicated by the grades from which they leave . per cent of total male working population engaged in specified occupations, and . distribution of native born men between the ages of and in the principal occupational groups . distribution of third and fourth year students in trade courses in the cleveland technical high schools, first semester, - . distribution by occupations of cleveland's technical school graduates . time allotment in the apprentice course given by the warner and swasey company, cleveland . course and number enrolled in the technical night schools, january, . per cent of total population engaged in gainful occupations during three different age periods . number employed in the principal wage earning occupations among each , women from to years of age . per cent of women employees over years of age earning $ a week and over . wages for full-time working week, women's clothing, cleveland, . average wages for full-time working week for similar workers, in men's and women's clothing, cleveland, . proportions and estimated numbers employed in machine tool occupations, . average, highest, and lowest earnings, in cents per hour, and per cent employed on piece work and day work, . estimated time required to learn machine tool work . average earnings per hour in pattern making, molding, core making, blacksmithing, and boiler making . estimated number of men engaged in building trades, . union regulations as to entering age of apprentice . union regulations as to length of apprenticeship period . union scale of wages in cents per hour, may , . usual weekly wages of apprentices in three building trades . average daily earnings of job and newspaper composing room workers, . average daily earnings of pressroom workers, . average daily earnings of bindery workers, . average daily earnings in photoengraving, stereotyping, electrotyping, and lithographing occupations, list of diagrams diagram page . boys and girls under years of age in office work . men and women years of age and over in clerical and administrative work in offices . per cent of women earning each class of weekly wages in each of six occupations . per cent of salesmen and of men clerical workers in stores, receiving each class of weekly wage . per cent of male workers in non-clerical positions in six industries earning $ per week and over . per cent that the average number of women employed during the year is of the highest number employed in each of six industries . distribution of , clothing workers by sex in the principal occupations in the garment industry . percentage of women in men's and women's clothing and seven other important women employing industries receiving under $ , $ to $ , and $ and over per week . percentage of men in men's and women's clothing and seven other manufacturing industries receiving under $ , $ to $ , and $ and over per week . average number of unemployed among each workers, men's clothing, women's clothing, and fifteen other specified industries . percentages of unemployment in each of nine building industries . number of men in each in printing and five other industries earning each class of weekly wage . number of women in each in printing and six other industries earning each class of weekly wage wage earning and education chapter i the industrial education survey the education survey of cleveland was undertaken in april, , at the invitation of the cleveland board of education and the survey committee of the cleveland foundation, and continued until june, . as a part of the work detailed studies were made of the leading industries of the city for the purpose of determining what measures should be taken by the public school system to prepare young people for wage-earning occupations and to provide supplementary trade instruction for those already in employment. the studies also dealt with all forms of vocational education conducted at that time under public school auspices. types of occupations studied separate studies were made of the metal industry, building and construction, printing and publishing, railroad and street transportation, clothing manufacture, department store work, and clerical occupations. the wage-earners in these fields of employment constitute nearly per cent of the total number of persons engaged in gainful occupations and include per cent of the skilled workmen in the city. the survey also gave considerable attention to the various types of semi-skilled work found in the principal industries. each separate study was assigned to a particular member of the survey staff who personally carried on the field investigations and later submitted a report to the director of the survey. each report was also subjected to careful analysis and criticism from other members of the survey staff before it was finally passed upon by the survey committee. mimeographed copies were sent to representatives of the industry and to the superintendent of schools and members of the school board and their criticisms and suggestions were given careful consideration before the committee and the director of the survey gave their final approval to the publication of the report. the value of the work was greatly enhanced through the ample discussion of the different studies from widely diverse points of view secured in this way. the industrial studies were carried through under the direction of the author of this summary volume. the survey staff and methods of work the reports of the studies relating to vocational education were published in a series of eight separate monograph volumes. the names of the reports and the previous experience in educational and investigational work of each member of the survey staff are as follows: "boys and girls in commercial work"--bertha m. stevens; teacher in elementary and secondary schools; agent of associated charities; secretary of consumers' league of ohio; director of girls' bureau of cleveland; author of "women's work in cleveland"; co-author of "commercial work and training for girls." "department store occupations"--iris p. o'leary; head of manual training department, first pennsylvania normal school; head of vocational work for girls and women, new bedford industrial school; head of girls' department, boardman apprentice shops, new haven, conn.; special investigator of department stores for new york state factory investigating commission; three years' trade experience as employer and employee; author of books on household arts and department stores; special assistant for vocational education, state department of public instruction, new jersey. "the garment trades" and "dressmaking and millinery"--edna bryner; teacher in grades, high school, and state normal college; eugenic research worker new jersey state hospital; statistical expert in united states bureau of labor investigation of women and child labor; statistical agent united states post office department; special agent russell sage foundation. "the building trades," and "the printing trades"--frank l. shaw; teacher in grades and high school; principal of high school; assistant superintendent of schools; superintendent of schools; special agent united states immigration commission; special agent united states census; industrial secretary north american civic league for immigrants; author of reports on immigration legislation. "the metal trades"--r.r. lutz; teacher in rural and graded schools; superintendent of schools; secretary of department of education of porto rico; took part in school surveys of greenwich, conn., bridgeport, conn., springfield, ill., richmond, va.; special agent division of education, russell sage foundation. "railroad and street transportation"--ralph d. fleming; special agent and investigator for united states immigration commission, the federal census of manufacturers, the united states tariff board, the minimum wage commission of massachusetts, the national civic federation, and the united states commission on industrial relations. the work began in april, , and ended in the same month of the following year. two members of the staff, with one stenographer and a clerk, were employed during the entire period. one member of the staff was employed months, one nine months, one approximately five months, and one two months. the field investigations consisted largely of visits to industrial establishments for the purpose of securing first-hand information as to industrial conditions and the nature and educational content of particular occupations. over visits of this kind were made by members of the survey staff. many conferences were held with employers and employees with the object of securing their views as to the needs and possibilities of industrial training. the task of tabulating and classifying the data obtained by the individual investigators in their visits to the local industrial establishments involved much time and labor. although it was not found practicable to maintain complete uniformity in the different inquiries, the members of the staff kept in close touch with each other, so that with respect to the points of principal importance, the results of their investigations are comparable. practically every recommendation made in the reports was discussed in conferences with school principals and with other members of the teaching force engaged in the teaching of vocational subjects. throughout the survey the objective held constantly in mind was the formulation of a constructive program of vocational training in the public schools. in outlining the field of inquiry a clear distinction was drawn between those kinds of general education which have a more or less indirect vocational significance, and vocational training for specific occupations in which the controlling purpose is direct preparation for wage-earning. the studies were purposely limited to this latter type of vocational training. the survey did not concern itself with manual training conducted for general educational ends, with the art work of the schools, or with courses in domestic science and household arts. these subjects in the curriculum were dealt with in different sections of the education survey, but were considered as being outside the legitimate field of the vocational survey. chapter ii forecasting future probabilities the industrial education survey of cleveland differs from other studies conducted elsewhere in that it bases its educational program on a careful study of the probable future occupational distribution of the young people now in school. it does not claim to foretell the specific positions that individual boys and girls will hold when they are adults but it does claim very definitely that our safest guide in foretelling their future vocational distribution is to be found in the official figures of the present occupational census of the city. one of the most familiar and time-worn platitudes of educational speakers and writers is that "the children of today are the citizens of tomorrow." in the field of industrial education it is quite as true that the school children of today are the workers of tomorrow. moreover, since occupational distributions change but slowly even in these modern times, it is unquestionably true that the boys and girls now studying in the public schools will soon be scattered among the different gainful occupations of cleveland's industrial, commercial, and professional life in just about the same proportions as their fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters are now distributed. the plan of the survey in advocating types of present preparation based on studies of future prospects seems at first sight so obvious a mode of procedure as hardly to warrant extended explanation. this is far from being the case. the reader who proposes to follow the working-out of the principle and to scrutinize the evidence underlying it must be prepared to scan many a detailed table of statistics and to arrive at most unforeseen conclusions. the popular concept of industrial education for many years past the public has given respectful attention to the arguments of the champions of industrial education. there has been general assent to the proposition that the schools should train for and not away from the industrial age in which we live. we have come to think of the carpenter shop, the machine shop, the forge shop, and the cooking room as necessary and desirable adjuncts of the modern school and to our minds these shops have typified industrial education. all of these have come to be almost synonymous with progressive thought and action in public education. very generally it has been felt that the problems of industrial education were to be solved through the wider extension of these shop facilities in our public schools. when these familiar generalizations are submitted to careful analysis their whole structure begins to totter. in cleveland about , boys leave school each year and go to work. they represent various stages of advancement from the th grade of the elementary school to the th year of the high school. they are scattered through more than school buildings. the problem of industrial education is to give these boys with their differing ages, their widely varied school preparation, and their scattered geographical distribution, the best possible preparation for taking their places in the work-a-day world. they represent every grade of intelligence, every stratum of social and economic life, and it is extremely difficult to bring them together for instructional purposes. they are scattered in little groups through more than a thousand classrooms. the importance of relative numbers now it is possible to foretell with some certainty what these young people will be doing a few years from now. almost all of them are of american birth and it is certain that in a few years they will be engaged in doing just about the same sorts of work as are now done in the city of cleveland by adults of american birth. the data of the united states census of occupations show us that among every american born men in cleveland there are eight who are clerks, seven who are machinists, four who are salesmen, and so on through the list of hundreds of occupations. the number of american born men in each engaged in each of the leading sorts of occupations is approximately as follows: clerks machinists salesmen laborers and porters retail dealers draymen, teamsters, etc. bookkeepers carpenters commercial travelers manufacturers ---- this simple list at once calls into question all the standard assumptions about the extension of industrial education depending on greatly increasing the number of carpenter shops and machine shops in the public schools. the figures show that among each american born men in cleveland only seven are machinists and only three are carpenters. clearly we should not be justified in training all the boys in our public schools to enter the machinist's trade or the carpenter's trade when nine out of each will in all probability engage in entirely different sorts of future work. the more the figures of the little table given above are studied, the clearer it appears that our conventional ideas about industrial education need critical scrutiny and careful challenge. these leading occupations include only out of each american born men. moreover, more than half of these are engaged in mental work rather than in manual work. from these considerations one definite conclusion inevitably emerges. it is that the safest guide for thinking and planning for industrial education is to be found in a study of the occupational distribution of the present adults. from the very outset such a study indicates that the most difficult and important problems which must be met and coped with are not those relating to methods of instruction but rather those of organization and administration. the future carpenters and machinists cannot be taught until we can get them together in fair sized classes. they represent the most numerous of the industrial groups and yet their numbers are relatively so few that the average cleveland school sends out into the world each year only two or three future machinists and perhaps one future carpenter. the trouble with present thinking about this matter has been that we have noted the very large numbers of machinists and carpenters in the population and have failed to realize that while these groups are numerous in the aggregate they are after all quite small when relatively considered and compared with the total number of workers. another important fact that has been almost invariably overlooked is that many of the present carpenters and machinists are foreigners by birth and that there is every prospect that this same condition will maintain in the future. hence these trades and most other industrial occupations are not recruited from our public schools to anything like the degree that has been assumed. a constructive program must fit the facts the simple principle which underlies the method employed by the survey is the same on which all large business undertakings are conducted. the results of its application in the field of industrial education are, however, fundamentally different from those commonly arrived at on the assumption that nine-tenths of the rising generation will earn their living in industrial pursuits. the fact is that no such proportion of the children in school will become industrial workers. all the native born labor now employed in manufacturing and mechanical industries constitutes only per cent of the total number of native born workers in the city. moreover, nearly half of the industrial workers are employed in unskilled and semi-skilled occupations for which no training is required beyond a few days' or weeks' practice on the job. such training calls for a mechanical equipment far more extensive than the resources of the school system can provide, and can be given by the factory more effectively and much more cheaply than by the schools. in the final analysis, the problem of industrial training narrows down to the skilled industrial trades. approximately per cent of the total number of american workers in the city are employed in skilled manual occupations. this does not mean that a constructive program of industrial education would affect per cent of the present school enrollment. all the weight of educational opinion and experience is on the side of excluding the children of the lower and middle age groups as too young to profit by any sort of industrial training, while the evidence collected by the survey goes to show that of the remainder less than one-fifth of the girls and one-fourth of the boys are likely to become skilled industrial workers. an actuarial basis for industrial education considerations like the foregoing have determined the fundamental method of the cleveland industrial survey. plans for the present generation have been formulated on the basis of future prospects as foretold by state and federal census data. the methods used were characterized by a member of the cleveland foundation survey committee as "the actuarial basis of vocational education." this is accurately descriptive, because the method of forecasting the number of men the community will need for each wage-earning occupation closely resembles that employed by life insurance actuaries in foretelling how long men of different ages are likely to live. such methods are similar to those commonly used in commerce and industry. they deal with mass data rather than with individual figures, and with relative values rather than with absolute ones. chapter iii the wage earners of cleveland in cleveland ranked sixth among the cities of the united states as to number of inhabitants, with a population of approximately , . the city is growing rapidly. from to the increase in the total number of inhabitants was over per cent. the census bureau estimate of the population in is approximately , . of the largest cities in the country only one--detroit--had in a greater proportion of its wage earners engaged in industrial employment than cleveland. relatively cleveland has one and one-fourth times as many industrial workers as new york, chicago, st. louis, or baltimore, and one and two-fifths times as many as boston. on the other hand a smaller proportion of the adult workers of the city earn their living in professional, clerical, and commercial work, or in domestic and personal service employments than in most large cities. table shows by large occupational groups the distribution in of the working population in cleveland. the classification is that adopted by the federal census. more than per cent of the male workers of the city and about per cent of the women workers were engaged in manufacturing and mechanical occupations. the trade group ranks next, about per cent of the men and approximately per cent of the women being engaged in commercial occupations. of each women in employment are servants, laundresses, housekeepers, or are engaged in some other form of personal service, while only five men of each earn their living in this kind of work. railroad and street transportation, with the telegraph and telephone and mail systems of communication, requires the services of per cent of the male working population, but uses very few women. about seven per cent of the men and per cent of the women are employed in clerical work. a slightly larger ratio of women to men is found in the professional occupations, due mainly to the large number of women in the teaching profession. the whole professional group constitutes less than five per cent of the total working population. table .--occupational distribution of the working population of cleveland, census of occupations, ----------------------------------------+---------+--------+--------- occupational group | men | women | total ----------------------------------------+---------+--------+--------- manufacturing and mechanical industries | , | , | , trade | , | , | , domestic and personal service | , | , | , transportation | , | , | , clerical occupations | , | , | , professional service | , | , | , public service | , | | , agricultural and extraction of minerals | , | | , ----------------------------------------+---------+--------+--------- total | , | , | , ----------------------------------------+---------+--------+--------- from the standpoint of vocational training one of the most striking facts about cleveland wage-earners is that a large majority of them are not clevelanders. almost exactly half of the men in gainful employment were born outside the united states and, due to the rapid growth of the city, there has been a considerable influx of workers from the surrounding country in recent years, so that a large proportion even of the american working population was born, brought up, and educated in some other place. the number and per cent of foreign born, of foreign or mixed parentage but born in this country, and of native parentage is shown in table . table .--nativity of the working population in cleveland. u.s. census, ----------------------------+-------------------+----------------- | men | women +--------+----------+--------+-------- nativity | number | per cent | number |per cent ----------------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------- foreign born | , | | , | foreign or mixed parentage | , | | , | native parentage | , | | , | ----------------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------- total | , | | , | ----------------------------+--------+----------+--------+-------- more than three-fourths are foreign or of foreign or mixed parentage. the proportion of those born in this country of american parentage is approximately the same for both sexes, but the number of women workers of mixed parentage is relatively much larger than among the men. roughly, of each men employed in gainful occupations, five, and of each working women, three, were born abroad. the large proportion of foreigners in the trades has an important bearing on the problem of vocational training. some of the skilled occupations are monopolized by foreign labor to such an extent that they offer a very limited field of employment for native workmen. cabinet making, tailoring, molding, blacksmithing, baking, and shoe making, are examples. some of these trades have practically ceased to recruit from american labor. this condition has to be constantly borne in mind in planning training courses to prepare boys for the skilled trades, because of the marked disparity which often exists between the size of a trade and the field of opportunity it presents for boys of native birth. chapter iv the future wage-earners of cleveland in there were in cleveland approximately , boys between the ages of six and , and , girls between the ages of six and , the age period during which school attendance is required by law. of these , children approximately , boys and , girls were enrolled in the public schools. exact data as to those attending private and parochial schools are not available. the total enrollment in such schools has been variously estimated as between , and , . the public schools the public school system in enrolled approximately , children of all ages, of whom about half were boys and half girls. they are taught in elementary schools and high schools. the elementary course comprises eight grades. at the beginning of the school year - two junior high schools were opened for pupils of the seventh and eighth grades. it is to be expected that this plan will soon be extended throughout the city, so that the enrollment in elementary schools will be made up of pupils of the first six grades only. the distribution by grade is given in table . the kindergarten grades and the special ungraded classes are omitted. table .--pupils enrolled in the different grades of the public day schools in june, -------------------+-------------------- grade | pupils -------------------+-------------------- | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | i | , ii | , iii | , iv | , -------------------+-------------------- about per cent of the children are enrolled in the grades below the seventh, about per cent in the seventh and eighth grades, a little over six per cent in the first two years of the high school, and less than three and one-half per cent in the third and fourth. there are eight academic high schools, two technical high schools, and two commercial high schools. the technical high schools are steadily growing in favor. the registration of boys in these schools increased about per cent from to , and of girls about per cent. during the same period the registration of boys in the academic high schools decreased slightly, while the increase of girl students was only eight per cent; in the commercial high schools the number of girl students increased per cent, while the enrollment of boys fell off more than per cent. the enrollment by individual schools is shown in table . table .--enrollment of high school pupils, second semester, - ----------------------------------+-----------------------------+ | enrollment | schools +---------+---------+---------+ | boys | girls | total | ----------------------------------+---------+---------+---------+ | | | | academic high schools | | | | central | | | , | east | | | , | glenville | | | , | west | | | | lincoln | | | | south | | | | | | | | total | , | , | , | ----------------------------------+---------+---------+---------+ | | | | technical high schools | | | | east technical | , | | , | west technical | | | | | | | | total | , | | , | ----------------------------------+---------+---------+---------+ | | | | commercial high schools | | | | west commercial | | | | east commercial | | | | | | | | total | | | | ----------------------------------+---------+---------+---------+ | | | | all high schools | , | , | , | | | | | ----------------------------------+---------+---------+---------+ about three-eighths of the high school pupils of the city are in the technical and commercial schools. of the boys per cent are enrolled in the academic high schools, per cent in the technical schools, and seven per cent in the commercial schools. of the girls per cent attend the academic high schools, per cent the technical schools, and per cent the commercial schools. in the commercial high school approximately two-thirds of the enrollment is made up of girls. in the technical high schools the opposite condition prevails, the girls constituting less than one-third of the total enrollment, while in the academic high schools the girls outnumber the boys by nearly one-sixth. ages of pupils the distribution as to ages is shown in table . the largest group is made up of children seven years old. between and over per cent leave school. the loss from to is approximately per cent, from to about per cent, and from to nearly per cent. the compulsory attendance law requires boys to attend school until they are and girls until they are . that the law is not adequately enforced is demonstrated by the heavy loss between the ages of and , and the fact that the loss between and is approximately the same for both boys and girls, although girls are required to attend one year longer than boys. additional evidence as to the laxity in the enforcement of the compulsory law is found in the results of an inquiry conducted by the consumers' league of cleveland in the spring of , in cooperation with the survey. table .--ages of pupils enrolled in public elementary, high, and normal schools in june, ------------------------------------------------- age | boys | girls | total -------------+-----------+-----------+----------- | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | | | | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | , | | | | , | , | , | | | , | | | | | | | | | | | | over | ... | | -------------+-----------+-----------+----------- total | , | , | , ------------------------------------------------- an attempt was made to follow up the cases of all the children who had left one public elementary school during the period of one year preceding the study. the work was done by the case method and the homes of the children were visited. the total number of cases studied was , of whom were girls. it was found that one-third of these children had graduated and gone on to high school. another third had gone to work, and of these, per cent had done so without graduating. the children constituting the remaining third were staying at home, and among these a majority had dropped out without graduating. of the eighth grade graduates one-half were found to be illegally employed, as they were less than years of age. among those who dropped out and went to work before completing the course per cent were illegally employed. the fact that many girls drop out without graduating and before the end of the legal attendance period and remain at home indicates that most of them do not leave on account of financial necessity. this conclusion is substantiated by the testimony of the girls and their parents, many of whom say that the girls left simply because they grew tired of attending and did not see the value of remaining. these facts point to the necessity for much more effective work in enforcing the compulsory attendance laws, for far better inspection of shops and factories to detect violations of the child labor laws, and above all to such a reform of the schooling opportunities provided for older girls as will make them and their parents see the value of securing the advantages of the training provided. education at the time of leaving school about , boys and an approximately equal number of girls drop out of the public schools each year. most of the boys and a considerable number of the girls enter wage-earning at once. their educational equipment at the time of leaving school is indicated in table . table .--educational equipment of the children who drop out of the public schools each year, as indicated by the grades from which they leave --------------+--------------------- grade | number leaving --------------+--------------------- | | | | | | i | ii | iii | iv | --------------+--------------------- total | --------------+--------------------- slightly less than one-fifth finish the high school course. nearly three-fifths drop out before entering the high school, and approximately three-eighths before reaching the eighth grade. under the present compulsory attendance law a boy who enters school at the age of six and afterwards advances at the rate of one grade per year until the end of the compulsory attendance period should cover nine grades--eight in the elementary school and one in high school--by the time he is years old. in actual fact, however, only about two-fifths get any high school training. nearly all of the rest take the eight to nine years' attendance required by law to complete eight, seven, six, or even a smaller number of grades. it is from this body of pupils that most of the wage-earners are recruited. in the course of the survey several investigations were made for the purpose of finding out what educational preparation workers in various industries had received. one of the most extensive of these was conducted in connection with the study of the printing industry. educationally the printing trades rank higher than most other factory occupations, yet the average journeyman printer possesses less than a complete elementary education. composing-room employees, such as compositors, linotypers, stonemen, proof-readers, etc., undoubtedly stand at the head of the skilled trades as to educational training, but it was found that only eight per cent were high school graduates. six per cent had left school before reaching the seventh grade, and per cent before reaching the eighth grade. the other departments of the printing industry made a much less favorable showing. an investigation conducted by the survey in the spring of , covering , young people at work under years of age, indicated that only about per cent of these young workers had received any high school training and that less than four per cent had completed a high school course. over one-fifth reported the sixth grade as the last completed before leaving school, and nearly half had dropped out before completing the elementary course. less than seven per cent of the boys engaged in industrial pursuits had received any high school training and only per cent had got beyond the seventh grade. the educational preparation of the boys engaged in commercial and clerical occupations was somewhat better, nearly per cent having attended high school one year or more; about one-half had left school after completing the eighth grade and nearly one-third had not completed the elementary course. these facts have a vital relation to the problem of vocational training. if the great majority of the children who will later enter wage-earning occupations do not remain in school beyond the end of the compulsory attendance period, and in addition over half fail to complete even the elementary course, vocational training, to reach them at all, must begin not later than the seventh grade, and if possible, before the pupils reach the age of . chapter v industrial training for boys in elementary schools in chapter iii the distribution of the wage-earners of the city was outlined, mainly for the purpose of establishing a basis on which to make a forecast of the future occupations of the children in the public schools. such a forecast is essential as the preliminary step in any plan of vocational training to be carried out during the school period, for the reason that without it a clear understanding of the principal factors of the problem is impossible. the kinds of vocational training needed by children in school, and how and where such training should be given, must always depend in the first instance on what they are going to do when they grow up. the average elementary school in cleveland enrolls between and boys. when they leave school these boys will scatter into many different kinds of work. with respect to the future vocations of the pupils, the average school represents in a sense a cross section of the occupational activities of the city. it contains a certain number of recruits for each of the principal types of wage-earning pursuits. a few of the boys will later enter professional life; many will take up some sort of clerical work; a still larger number will be employed in commercial occupations; and the largest group of all will become wage-earners in manufacturing and mechanical pursuits. the future occupation cannot be foretold accurately with respect to any particular boy, but we do know that, whatever their individual tastes and abilities, the boys must finally engage in activities similar to those in which the adult born native male population is engaged, and in approximately the same proportions. we do not know, for example, whether johnny jones will become a doctor or a carpenter, but we do know that of each , boys in the public schools about seven will become doctors and about will become carpenters, because for many years about those proportions of the boys of native birth in cleveland have become doctors and carpenters. one of the most impressive facts which comes to light in the study of occupational statistics is the constancy in these proportions. the business of any community requires certain kinds of work to be performed and the relative amount of work required and consequently the relative number of workers vary but slightly over a long period of time. this principle is illustrated in a striking way by the list of occupations selected at random presented in table , showing the number of persons engaged in the occupations specified among each male workers at two successive census years. table --per cent of total male working population engaged in specified occupations, and ----------------------------+--------------------- | per cent of total occupation | working population +----------+---------- | | ----------------------------+----------+---------- machinists | . | . saloon keepers | . | . tailors | . | . commercial travelers | . | . lawyers | . | . barbers | . | . bakers | . | . physicians | . | . carpenters | . | . cabinet makers | . | . plumbers | . | . stenographers and typists | . | . ----------------------------+----------+---------- with the exception of plumbers and stenographers there was either an increase or a decrease from to in the relative number employed in each of these occupations. in only one occupation, however, that of machinist, did the change amount to as much as one per cent. in all the others the shift during the decade was less than one-half of one per cent, and in more than three-fifths of them it did not exceed one-tenth of one per cent of the total number of male workers. what the boys in school will do the figures in this table, presented for illustrative purposes, do not accurately represent the proportions of boys now attending the public schools who are likely to enter the occupations named, because they do not take into account the fact that a considerable number of the workers in cleveland came to this country after they reached adult manhood and that a disproportionate number of these foreign born workers enter the industrial occupations. for this reason the total adult working population is not strictly comparable with the school enrollment, which is approximately nine-tenths native born. when the boys in the public schools grow up they will be distributed among the different trades, professions, and industries in about the same proportions as are the american born men in the city at the present time. this distribution is shown for the different occupational groups in table . table .--distribution of native born men between the ages of and in the principal occupational groups approximate occupational group per cent manufacturing and mechanical occupations commercial occupations clerical occupations transportation occupations domestic and personal service occupations professional occupations public service occupations ---- total the figures in the column at the right of the table represent the number of native born men between the ages of and among each hundred native born male inhabitants engaged in the occupations comprehended in the various groups. in the case of the industrial group the figure is too high, as the census data relative to the distribution of foreign and native born include all ages, and there is a smaller proportion of american born adult men employed in industry than is found in the lower age groups. extensive computations have shown, however, that the inaccuracies due to this cause are not serious enough to affect the use of the figures for our purpose. let us now consider what these proportions mean in establishing vocational courses to prepare boys for wage-earning pursuits. the future expectations of the boys in a large elementary school enrolling say , pupils of both sexes would be about as follows: _number of boys who will enter_ manufacturing and mechanical occupations commercial occupations clerical occupations transportation occupations domestic and personal service occupations professional occupations public service occupations ---- total this distribution includes all pupils, from the beginners in the first grade to the older boys in the seventh and eighth grades. it is certain, however, that differentiated instruction for vocational purposes is not possible or advisable for the younger children. according to the commonly accepted view among educators, vocational training should not be undertaken before the age of years, and many believe that this is too early. in an elementary school of , pupils there would be about boys years old and over. applying to this number the ratios given in the previous table we obtain the following: _number of boys who will enter_ manufacturing and mechanical occupations commercial occupations clerical occupations transportation occupations domestic and personal service occupations professional occupations public service occupations --- total the industrial group includes all of the skilled trades and most of the semi-skilled and unskilled manual occupations. the skilled trades are usually grouped in four main classifications: metal trades, building trades, printing trades, and "other" trades, these last comprising a number of small trades in each of which relatively few men are employed. with respect to their future occupations the boys in the industrial group are likely to be distributed about as follows: _number of boys who will enter_ metal trades building trades printing trades other trades semi-skilled and unskilled industrial occupations --- the analysis can be carried still further, for these trade groups are by no means homogeneous. the building trades, for example, include over distinct trades, a number of which have little in common with the others as to methods of work and technical content. organization and costs at this point it becomes necessary to take cognizance of certain administrative factors which have a marked bearing on the problem. they relate to the organization of classes in elementary schools and the cost of teaching. in a school of , pupils there would be at least five separate classes for the seventh and eighth grades. the boys who need industrial training are not all found in a single class, but are distributed more or less evenly throughout the five classrooms, that is, there are approximately seven in each class. a differentiated course under these conditions is difficult if not impossible. in a few of the cleveland elementary schools the departmental system of teaching is in use. under this plan something might be done, were it not that the total number of pupils requiring instruction relating specifically to the industrial trades is too small to justify the expense necessary for equipment, material, and special instruction required for such training. this is true as regards even an industrial course of the most general kind, while provision for particular trades is entirely out of the question. the machinist's trade employs more men than any other occupation in the city, yet the number of seventh and eighth grade boys in the average elementary school who will probably become machinists does not exceed five or six. not over two boys are likely to enter employment in the printing industry. the smaller trades, such as pattern making, cabinet making, molding, and blacksmithing are represented by not more than one boy each. a possible alternative is the plan now followed in the teaching of manual training whereby the boys of the upper grades in various elementary schools are sent to one centrally located for a short period of instruction each week. the principal objection to this plan is that the amount of time now given is insufficient to accomplish much in an industrial course, nor can it be materially increased without seriously interfering with the work in other subjects. the first condition for successful industrial training is the concentration of a large number of pupils old enough to benefit by such training in a single school plant. only in this way is it possible to bring the cost of teaching, equipment, and material within reasonable limits and provide facilities for differentiating the work on the basis of the vocational needs of the pupils. the fact that this condition cannot be met in elementary schools is one of the strongest arguments in favor of conducting the seventh and eighth grade work under the junior high school form of organization. what the elementary schools can do the most important contribution to vocational education the elementary school can make consists in getting the children through the lower grades fast enough so that they will reach the junior high school by the time they are years old, in order that before the end of the compulsory attendance period they may spend at least two years in a school where some kind of industrial training is possible. that this is not being done at the present time the data presented in chapter iv amply demonstrate. in recent years there has been a tendency to regard vocational training as a remedy for retardation. the fact is that the cure of retardation is not a subsequent but a preliminary condition to successful training for wage-earning. vocational training is not a means for the prevention of retardation, but retardation is a most effective means for the prevention of vocational training. chapter vi the junior high school in the board of education authorized the establishment of a system of junior high schools in the city, and at the beginning of the school year of - the new plan was inaugurated in two schools. the empire junior high school, situated in the eastern part of the city, had an enrollment of about children made up of seventh and eighth grade pupils formerly accommodated in the elementary schools of that section. the detroit junior high school on the west side had an enrollment of about pupils. no decision has yet been reached as to whether the course shall include only two years' work, or three years, as in other cities of the country where the junior high school plan has been adopted. a comparison of the course with that for corresponding grades of the elementary schools shows some marked differences. less time is devoted to english in the junior high school and considerably more to arithmetic, geography, and history. mechanical drawing, not taught in the elementary schools except incidentally in the manual training classes, is given an hour each week. all boys receive one hour of manual training a week against slightly less than one and one-half hours in the seventh and eighth elementary grades, but they may elect an additional two and one-half hours a week in this subject, together with applied arithmetic during the first year, or with bookkeeping during the second. girls may elect an additional two and one-half hours a week of domestic science, with bookkeeping. the manual training for boys comprises woodwork and bookbinding. specialized training not practicable in the junior high school, as in the elementary school, the greatest difficulty in the way of trade training for specific occupations lies in the small number of pupils who can be expected, within the bounds of reasonable probability, to enter a single trade. hand and machine composition, the largest of the printing trades, will serve as an example. in a junior high school of , pupils, boys and girls, the number of boys who are likely to become compositors is about five. but to teach this trade printing equipment occupying considerable space is necessary, together with a teacher who has had some experience or training as a printer. the expense per pupil for equipment, for the space it occupies, and for instruction renders special training for such small classes impracticable. all of the skilled occupations, with the exception perhaps of the machinist's trade, are in the same case. an attempt to form separate classes for each of the eight largest trades in the city would result in two classes of not over five pupils, three classes of not over pupils, and only one of over pupils. the following table shows the number of boys, in a school of this size, who are likely to enter each of these trades. _number of boys who will probably become:_ machinists carpenters steam engineers painters electricians plumbers compositors molders a general industrial course the members of the survey staff were, however, of the opinion that through the system of electives in the junior high school, industrial training of a more general type, made up chiefly of instruction in the applications of mathematics, drawing, physics, and chemistry to the commoner industrial processes, would be of considerable benefit to those boys who, on the basis of their own selection or that of their parents, are likely to enter industrial pursuits. a course of this kind is outlined in following sections of this chapter. the objections which may be brought against this plan are frankly recognized. it takes into account only the interests of the industrial group, comprising less than one-half of the boys in the school. unquestionably it would tend to vitalize the teaching of mathematics, drawing, and science for the boys who enroll in the industrial course, but it leaves unsolved the question of method and content of instruction in these subjects for the boys in the non-industrial or so-called academic course. very possibly future experience may demonstrate that the plan recommended for the general industrial course affords the best medium for teaching science and mathematics at this period to all pupils, in which case a differentiated course would be unnecessary. the organization of vocational training in junior high school grades presents many difficulties which cannot be solved by a more or less abstract study of educational and industrial needs. experimentation on an extensive scale, covering a considerable period of time, is necessary before definite conclusions can be drawn as to the limitations and possibilities of such work. it is with a full appreciation of this fact that the following suggestive outline is presented. the purpose of the general industrial course is to afford to boys who wish to enter industrial occupations the opportunity to secure knowledge and training that will be of direct or indirect value to them in industrial employment. it is not expected that by this means they can be given much practical training in hand work for any particular trade. the most the school can do for the boy at this period is to bridge over for him the gap that exists between the knowledge he obtains from books and the rôle which this knowledge plays in the working world. it must not be assumed that the transition can be effected merely by the introduction of shop work, even if it were possible to provide the wide variety of manual training necessary to make up a fair representation of the principal occupations into which the boys will enter when they leave school. it is doubtful whether, so far as its vocational value is concerned, shop work isolated from other subjects of the curriculum is worth any more per unit of time devoted to it than several of the so-called academic subjects. this is particularly true of the two most common types of manual training--cabinet making and forge work. both represent dying trades. during the decade - the increase in the number of cabinet makers in cleveland fell far below the general increase in population. the blacksmiths made a still poorer showing. both trades are recruited mainly from abroad and the relative number of americans employed in them is steadily declining. in the opinion of the survey staff a general industrial course should cover instruction in at least the following five subjects: industrial mathematics, mechanical drawing, industrial science, shop work, and the study of economic and working conditions in wage earning pursuits. these may be offered as independent electives or they may be required of all pupils who elect the industrial course. the details of organization must, of course, be worked out by trial and experiment. they will probably vary in different schools and from year to year. industrial mathematics of the hundreds of employers who were interviewed by members of the survey staff as to the technical equipment needed by beginners in the various trades, nearly all emphasized the ability to apply the principles of simple arithmetic quickly, correctly, and accurately to industrial problems. many employers criticized the present methods of teaching this subject in the public schools. in the main their criticisms were to the effect that the teaching was not "practical." "the boys i get may know arithmetic," said one, "but they haven't any mathematical sense." another cited his experience with an apprentice who was told to cut a bar eight and one-half feet long into five pieces of equal length. he was not told the length of the bar, but was given the direct order: "cut that bar into five pieces all of the same size." the boy was unable to lay out the work, although when asked by the foreman, "don't you know how to divide / by ?", he performed the arithmetical operation without difficulty. the employer gave this instance as an illustration of what to his mind constituted one of the principal defects of public school teaching. "mere knowledge of mathematical principles and the ability to solve abstract problems is not enough," he said. "what the boys get in the schools is mathematical skill, but what they need in their work is mathematical intelligence. the first does not necessarily imply the second." this mathematical intelligence can be developed only through practice in the solution of practical problems, that is, problems which are stated in the every day terms of the working world and which require the student to go through the successive mental steps in the same way that he would if he were working in a shop. the problem referred to above is one of division of fractions. if we state it thus: " / ÷ ," the pupil takes pencil and paper, performs the operation and announces the result. if we say, "a bar / feet long is to be cut into five pieces of equal length; how long should each piece be?", the problem calls for the exercise of greater intelligence, as the pupil must determine which process to use in order to obtain the correct result. it becomes still more difficult if we merely show him the bar and say: "this bar must be cut into five pieces of equal length; how long will each piece be?" several additional preliminary steps are required, none of which was involved in the problem in its original form. before the length of the pieces can be computed he must find out the length of the bar. he must know what to measure it with, and in what terms, whether feet or inches, the problem should be stated. again, if we say: "lay this bar out to be cut in five equal lengths," another step--the measurement and marking for each cut--is added. many variations might be introduced, each involving additional opportunities for the exercise of thought. it is through practice in solving problems of this kind that the pupil acquires what the employer called mathematical intelligence. it consists in the ability to note what elements are involved in the problems and to decide which process of arithmetic should be used in dealing with them. once these decisions are made the succeeding arithmetical calculations are simple and easy. in technical terms the ability that is needed is the ability to generalize one's experiences. in every-day terms it is the ability to use what one knows. the work in applied mathematics should cover a wide range of problems worded in the language of the trades and constantly varied in order to establish as many points of contact as possible between the pupil's knowledge of mathematics and the use of mathematics in industrial life. practical shop work is one of the best means to this end. the trouble with much of the shop work given in the schools is that it runs to hand craftmanship in which the object is to "make something" by methods long ago discarded in the industrial world, rather than to give the pupil exercise in the sort of thinking he will need to do after he goes to work. successful teaching does not depend so much on the use of tools and materials as on the teacher's knowledge of the conditions surrounding industrial work and his ability to originate methods for vitalizing the instruction in its relation to industrial needs. mechanical drawing at the present time the junior high school course provides for one hour a week of mechanical drawing. all the boys who may be expected to elect the industrial course can well afford to devote more time to drawing. for such boys no other subject in the curriculum, except perhaps applied mathematics, is of greater importance. in many of the trades the ability to work from drawings is indispensable and the man who does not possess it is not likely to rise above purely routine work. in a drawing course for future industrial workers the emphasis should be placed on giving the pupil an understanding of the uses of drawing for industrial purposes, rather than on fine workmanship in making drawings. seventh grade boys can't be made into draftsmen in three years and if they leave school at they are not likely to become draftsmen. the ordinary skilled workman seldom has any need to make drawings or designs, beyond an occasional rough sketch, but he often has to work from drawings. to put it in another way, drawing to the average workman is like an additional language of which he needs a reading but not a writing knowledge. no doubt it would be well to teach him to write and read with equal skill, but in the two or three years most of these boys will remain in school there is not time enough to do both. industrial science in many of the trades an introductory knowledge of physics and chemistry is of considerable advantage. boys in the junior high school cannot be expected to take formal courses in these subjects, but they should not leave school without some acquaintance with them and a knowledge of their relations to industrial processes. a fair equipment should be provided for demonstrational and illustrative purposes. the subject matter should be correlated as closely as possible with the shop work, and the principal mechanical and chemical laws explained as the shop problems furnish examples of their application. in addition the boys should be taught the common technical terms used in trade hand books. the man who expects to advance in his trade will have to keep on learning after he leaves school. there are many avenues of information open to him, and the school can perform no more valuable service than to point the way to the sources of knowledge represented by reference books, trade journals, and other technical literature. some of the popular magazines, such as "the scientific american," "the illustrated world," and "popular mechanics" can be used most effectively to bring home to the pupils the close connection existing between the class work and the outside world of science and invention. shop work it is difficult to determine the exact function of the manual training shop work in cabinet making and bookbinding which figures in the curriculum at present. that the work was not planned with vocational training in mind seems clear from the action of the school board in adding bookbinding to the course about the middle of the year. the bookbinding trade is one of the smallest in the city, and there is little probability that more than one boy among the total number enrolled in both junior high schools will enter it after leaving school. fully three-fourths of the industrial group will later be employed in occupations where most of the work is done with machines or machine tools. even in the hand tool trades, such as carpentry, sheet metal work, cabinet making, and blacksmithing, the use of machines is constantly increasing. it would seem, therefore, that some acquaintance with different types of machines would be of considerable value to the pupils who may later enter industrial employment. the number of boys who are likely to become machinists is large enough to warrant the installation of a small machine shop. repairing, assembling, and taking apart machines should occupy an important place in the shop course. most boys are intensely interested in getting at the "insides" of a machine, and the processes of assembling, with their attendant problems of adjustment and co-ordination of mechanical movements, afford opportunities for the best kind of practical instruction. one of the great advantages of this type of shop work lies in the fact that it consumes little or no material and is therefore inexpensive; another is that a fairly extensive equipment can be easily obtained, as any machine, old or new, will serve the purpose and may be used over and over again. the extent and variety of shop equipment will depend largely on the resources of the school system. the more the better, so long as the money is expended on the principle of the greatest good to the greatest number, which means that the kinds of tools and equipment used in the large trades should be preferred to those used only in the smaller trades. in order that the time devoted to shop work may yield its greatest results, it is necessary that every lesson center around knowledge and ability that will be of real subsequent use to the pupils. it must not run to "art" and it must not be mere tinkering. its principal value as vocational training, in the last analysis, lies in its use as an objective medium for the teaching of industrial mathematics and science. vocational information during the second and third years all the boys who elect the industrial course or who expect to leave school at the end of the compulsory attendance period should be required to devote some time each week to the study of economic and working conditions in wage earning industrial and commercial occupations. a clear understanding of the comparative advantages of different kinds of employment is of the highest importance at this period of the boy's life. it seems to be generally assumed that an adequate basis of knowledge for the selection of an industrial vocation is an acquaintance with materials and processes. such knowledge is valuable, but making a living is mainly an economic problem. what an occupation means in terms of income is more significant than what it means in terms of materials. the most important facts about the cabinet making trade, for example, are that it offers very few opportunities for employment to public school boys, and that it is one of the lowest paid skilled trades. the primary considerations in the intelligent selection of a vocation relate to wages, steadiness of employment, health risks, opportunities for advancement, apprenticeship conditions, union regulations, and the number of chances there are for getting into it. these things are fundamental, and any one of them may well take precedence over the matter of whether the tastes of the future wage-earner run to wood, brick, stone, or steel. chapter vii trade training during the last years in school between the end of the compulsory attendance period and the entering age in most of the trades there exists a gap of from one to two years which is not adequately covered by any of the present educational agencies of the school system. two years ago the ohio state legislature extended the compulsory attendance period from to for boys and from to for girls. the result has been to force into the first years of the high school course a considerable number of pupils who have no intention of taking the complete four year course, and who will leave as soon as they reach the end of the compulsory period. that these pupils are probably not getting all that they might out of the time they attend high school is no argument against the present compulsory attendance age limit, which should be raised rather than lowered. the study of industrial conditions conducted during the survey left every member of the survey staff firmly convinced that the industries of cleveland have little or nothing worth while to offer to boys under . very few of the skilled trades will accept an apprentice below this age. the general opinion among manufacturers was unfavorable to the employment of boys under . "they are more of a nuisance than a help," said one; "they are not old enough to understand the responsibilities of work." "they break more machinery and spoil more material than they are worth," said another. in several of the building trades apprentices must be years old, as the law forbids boys under this age to work on scaffoldings. the new workmen's compensation law exerts a strong influence in favor of a higher working age limit, owing to the greater risk of accident among young workers. the fact is that the law is still about one year behind the requirements of industrial life. if a vote were taken among employers who can offer boys the opportunity to learn a trade it would be found that a large majority favor raising the working age to . employment before this time usually leads nowhere, and the pittance the boy earns cannot be compared with the economic advantage he could derive from an additional year in a good vocational school. the average boy who leaves school at spends a year or two loafing or working at odd jobs before he can obtain employment that offers any promise of future advancement. these years are often more than wasted, as he not only learns nothing of value from such casual jobs, but misses the healthy discipline of steady, orderly work, which is of so great importance during these formative years of his life. the technical high schools the two technical high schools, the east technical and west technical, occupy an important place among the secondary schools of the city. at the present time the two schools enroll nearly two-fifths of the boys attending high school. the course comprises four years' work. in the east technical the shopwork includes joinery and wood-turning during the first year, and pattern making and foundry work during the second year. in the west technical the first year course includes pattern making and either forging or sheet metal work; and that of the second year, forging, pipe-fitting, brazing, riveting, and cabinet making. during the remaining two years of the course the student may elect a particular trade, devoting about hours a week to practice in the shop during the last half of the third year, and from to hours during the fourth year. the proportion of pupils who graduate is small and the mortality during the first two years is very heavy. this is due in part to the fact that the type of pupil who leaves school early is more likely to elect a technical course than an academic course. about per cent of each entering class drops out after attending one year, and per cent of the remainder by the end of the second year. by the time the third year is reached the classes are greatly depleted and the survivors as a rule are of the more intelligent and prosperous type. only a small proportion of them expect to enter skilled manual occupations. table shows the distribution of the third and fourth year students among the different trade courses during the first semester of - . table .--distribution of third and fourth year students in trade courses in the cleveland technical high schools, first semester, - trade courses students electrical construction machine work printing cabinet making pattern making foundry work ---- total that relatively few of these students will ultimately become journeymen workmen is shown by the records of the boys graduated in the past. the principal of the east technical high school recently sent a questionnaire to all the students graduated up to , asking for information as to their present occupations and their earnings during the first four years after graduation. of those who replied, over per cent either were attending college, or employed as draftsmen or chemists. about per cent were employed in the skilled trades. the distribution in detail is shown in table . the data furnished by graduates as to their earnings during successive years after leaving school supply still more convincing evidence to the effect that the technical school graduate seldom remains in manual work more than two or three years. the complete course gives them an equipment of practical and theoretical knowledge that speedily takes them out of the handwork class. the technical high schools are primarily training schools for future civil, electrical, and mechanical engineers. to the student who cannot afford a college course they offer excellent preparation for rapid advancement to supervisory and executive industrial positions, and for drafting and office work in manufacturing plants. table .--distribution by occupation of cleveland technical high school graduates occupation number attending college draftsmen electricians machinists chemists pattern makers cabinet makers printers foundrymen unclassified ---- total the output of the schools falls into two main divisions: those who leave at the end of the second year or earlier, and those who graduate. the records show that most of the pupils who reach the third year complete the course, but nearly half drop out during the first and second years. the benefit they obtain from these two years' attendance is problematical. the course was designed on the basis of four years' attendance, and the work of the first two years is to a considerable degree a preparation for that of the last two. the principals of both schools are fully alive to the disadvantages of the course for the large number of pupils who drop out within a year or two, and admit that such students would derive greater benefit from more practical instruction aimed directly toward preparation for the industrial trades. both believe that the only practicable solution is a two-year trade course in a separate school, covering a much wider range of shop activities than the present high school course. to the only alternative--the institution of a short course within the technical schools to be conducted either as a part of or simultaneously with the four year course--they present objections of considerable weight. they point out that a preparatory course for the trades and a preparatory course with college as the goal differ not only in length but in kind. the work in mathematics for the future civil engineer, for example, must conform to college entrance standards and involves an amount of study that is quite unnecessary for the boy whose aim is to become a carpenter or machinist. the first needs a thorough course in algebra, geometry, and trigonometry; the second needs industrial arithmetic, with only such applications of higher mathematics as may be of use to him in his trade. the same principle holds with respect to other subjects. what boys who expect to enter industrial occupations most need at this period is instruction that will be of practical value to them for future wage earning. it is doubtful whether high school courses which have been formulated in the first instance to prepare pupils for a college course can furnish such instruction and it is still more doubtful whether the trade training required by the future mechanic and the broader preparation required for the professions can be given effectively in the same school. a two-year trade course it is the opinion of the survey staff that a separate school in which direct training for the industrial trades is emphasized would result in more profitable use of the pupils' time and probably induce many of them to remain in school up to the apprentice entering age. such a school, with a curriculum embracing vocational training for all the principal trades, would easily command an enrollment sufficient to justify the installation of a good shop equipment and the employment of a corps of teachers qualified by special training and experience for this kind of work. even if only one-half the number who enter the skilled trades each year attended the school, the enrollment would reach at least boys. a trade school of this kind would relieve the first and second year classes of many pupils that the technical high schools do not want and cannot adequately provide for. the minimum entering age should be not less than , and no requirement other than age should be imposed. this would draw part of the over-age pupils from the grades and take from the junior high school a certain number of boys who could profit by the greater amount of time given to shop work in the trade school. a good many will stay only one year, and every effort should be made at the time of entrance to learn the intentions of the pupil. if it seems fairly certain that he will not remain longer than a year he may well omit such studies as have no direct bearing on the trade he wishes to learn. the courses should follow the lines laid down in the general industrial course recommended for the junior high school, but with a greater proportion of the time devoted to practical shopwork. as the number of pupils for each trade class would be relatively large, a closer correlation could be effected between the academic subjects and the work in the shops than is possible in the junior high school. both general and special courses should be provided. many of the pupils will wish to specialize on a particular trade. others who have not yet reached a decision need a general course that will give them a wide range of experience with materials and processes. the organization of classes should be planned so as to permit transfers, whenever desirable, from the general to the special courses, or vice-versa. by the time the pupil has reached the second year he usually will settle down to steady work on the trade he selects, although here again the organization should be sufficiently elastic to allow transfers when there seems to be good reason for making them. it is to be expected, however, that nearly all the pupils will devote their time during the second year to practice and study limited to single trades. the success of the school in holding boys to the age of or will depend on its ability to convince them that the extra time in school is a paying investment, and this cannot be done unless they stick to one line of work. chapter viii trade-preparatory and trade-extension training for boys and men at work several forms of trade-preparatory and trade-extension training for apprentices and journeymen workmen are carried on in the city. probably the most effective work done in the teaching of boys after they have entered employment is found in manufacturing establishments which maintain apprentice schools in connection with their shops. there are two excellent examples of this type of instruction in cleveland--the apprentice schools conducted by the new york central railroad and by the warner and swasey company, manufacturers of astronomical instruments and machine tools. the warner and swasey company school was established in . the course covers a total of hours, extending over a period of four years. the apprentices attend the school four hours a week for weeks each year. the time allotment for the various subjects included in the course is shown in table . in there were apprentices enrolled in the school, most of them from the machinist's trade. the sessions are held during working hours in a room in the factory fitted up with drawing tables and blackboards. no shop equipment is used. the purpose of the course is to develop a body of trained workmen competent to take positions in the factory as foremen or heads of departments. less than one-tenth of the total time of the course is devoted to the study of shop practice. standard textbooks are used in the teaching of mathematics. table .--time allotment in the apprentice course given by the warner and swasey company, cleveland subject hours arithmetic english mechanical drawing shop practice algebra geometry trigonometry physics materials industrial history mechanics, strength of materials, and mechanical design --- total the enrollment in the school conducted by the new york central railroad is about boys, nearly all of whom are machinists' apprentices. they are divided into three classes, the members of each class attending the school four hours a week. about two-thirds of the time is devoted to mechanical drawing and one-third to mathematics and shop practice. the instruction in these two latter subjects is based on a series of graded mimeographed or blue print lesson sheets, containing a wide variety of shop problems, with a condensed and simplified explanation of the mathematical principles involved. in the main the work is limited to the application of simple arithmetic to problems of shop practice. no textbooks are used, but the booklets on machine shop practice published by the international correspondence schools are studied in connection with the course. in addition to the required classroom work in mechanical drawing, each apprentice serves four or five months of his term in the regular drafting rooms of the company. the classroom is equipped with models of railway appliances and machinery, together with laboratory apparatus for teaching the laws of mechanics. no machine tools or other shop equipment are used in the classes. the course covers about hours of instruction exclusive of the time spent in regular drafting room work. about apprentices finished the course in . several of the building and printing trades' labor unions take an active interest in the training of apprentices, and in at least two instances the unions maintain evening classes for teaching trade theory. the electrical workers' union, made up principally of inside wiremen, conducts apprentice classes taught by journeymen. the international typographical union course for compositors and compositors' apprentices is undoubtedly the best yet devised for giving supplementary training in hand composition. it is taught by journeymen in evening classes, under the supervision of the central office of the typographical union commission, to which all the work must be submitted. in february, , about students were enrolled, of whom approximately one-third were apprentices and two-thirds journeymen. the course consists of lessons in english, lettering, design, color harmony, job composition, and imposition for machine and hand folding. the classes are held at the headquarters of the union. as the students' daily practice in the shop provides plenty of opportunity for the acquisition of manual skill, no apparatus or shop equipment is used in connection with the course. the apprentice school conducted by the y.m.c.a. represents another type of apprentice training. the instruction is given during the day. the apprentices are sent to the school by various firms in the city under an arrangement whereby the boys attend four and one-half hours each week during regular shop time. in february, , the enrollment consisted of apprentices, practically all from the metal trades. the employers pay the tuition fee, which amounts to $ a year. the course requires four years' work of weeks each, a total of hours. it comprises instruction in shop mathematics, drawing, english, physics, and industrial hygiene. no shop equipment is used. fifteen boys were graduated from the course this year. the factory apprentice school of the warner and swasey company and new york central railroad type possesses many advantages over any kind of continuation instruction carried on outside of the plants where the boys are employed. a better correlation between the class and shop work is possible together with a more personal relation between teacher and pupils than is usually found when the pupils are drawn from a number of different establishments. it must be admitted, however, that this method of training apprentices is not feasible except in very large plants, as in small classes the teaching cost becomes prohibitive. there is little probability that it will ever be adopted by enough employers to take care of more than an insignificant proportion of the boys who enter the skilled trades. the results obtained, here and in other cities, through coöperative schemes, such as the y.m.c.a. continuation school, are in the main disappointing. their failure to reach more than a few of the boys who need trade-extension training is due partly to the fact that they operate under a condition that is fundamentally unjust. one employer interviewed during the survey stated the case very clearly: "i can see no good reason why i should make pecuniary sacrifices for the benefit of my competitors. very few of my apprentices remain until the end of their term, because by the time they have completed their second year other firms which make no effort to train their quota of skilled workmen for the trade steal them away from me. any plan for the training of apprentices which does not apportion the burden among the different establishments in direct proportion to the number of men they have, simply penalizes those public-spirited employers who participate in it." continuation training from to the years between and are among the most important in the life of the young worker. if left to his own devices during this period, he is very likely to lose much of vocational value of his earlier education, because he does not grasp the relation which the knowledge he acquired in school bears to his daily work. as a result the problem of supplementary instruction at a later age, when he wakes up to his need for it, becomes much more difficult than if trade-extension training had been taken up at once when he entered employment. the vocational interests of young workers and the social interests of the community are both opposed to the current practice of "graduating" boys from the public schools at the ages of or and then losing sight of them. the fact that the large number who go into industrial occupations will not or cannot remain in school beyond these ages does not absolve the school system from further responsibility for their educational future. there should not be a complete severance between the boy and the school until he has reached a relatively mature age. in other words, the school system should maintain, as long as possible, such a relation with him as will help to round out his education and lead him to continue it after reaching manhood. it is the opinion of the survey staff that the only practicable solution of this problem lies in the day continuation school, backed by a compulsory law which will bring every boy and girl at work under the age of into school for a certain number of hours per week. only through a comprehensive plan that will reach large numbers of young workers can the difficulties inherent in the administration of small classes be overcome. the night schools have never been successful in holding boys long enough to make more than a beginning in trade-extension training. it is certain that growing boys should not be expected to add two hours of study to their nine or hours of unaccustomed labor in the shop. both individual and community interests demand that this problem be taken up in such a way as to obviate the sharp cleavage between the boy's school life and his working life. from every point of view it is unwise to permit him to lose all contact with the educational agencies of the city during his first years at work. the compulsory continuation school avoids the difficulties which are responsible for the common failure of those schemes which depend for their success on the initiative of individuals or the voluntary coöperation of employers and trade unions. one of its great advantages is that the principle on which it is based makes for equal justice to all. there can be no doubt that the decline of apprentice training in the shops is due partly to the fact that employers find that much of the time and money it costs goes toward providing a skilled labor force for competitors who make no effort to train young workers. the cooperation of employers on a comprehensive scale will be secured only when the burden is equally shared. the technical night schools night classes are conducted in both of the technical high schools for two terms a year of weeks each, the pupils attending four hours a week. a tuition fee of $ a term is collected, of which $ . is refunded to those who maintain an average attendance of per cent. no special provision is made for apprentices as distinct from journeymen, and the trade classes are attended by a considerable number of wage-earners employed in occupations unrelated to industrial work. the list of courses offered during the past year, with the number enrolled in each course at the beginning of the second term, is shown in table . a glance at the list of courses shows at once that while the vocational motive is given first importance, the schools also aim to provide instruction in cultural subjects which have only an indirect vocational application. less than one-third of the students are pursuing courses which are directly related to their daily work. the remainder are enrolled in courses which have little or no connection with their daily occupations. in but four of the courses--machine shop, architectural drawing, printing, and sheet metal work--are more than half of the students employed in directly related occupations. table .--courses and number enrolled in the technical night schools, january, number course enrolled mechanical drawing machine shop electrical construction sewing mathematics architectural drawing pattern making woodworking chemistry sheet metal drawing cooking foundry work agriculture printing sheet metal shop business english electric motors arts and crafts millinery electricity and magnetism ------ total , the policy of the schools is to form a class in any subject for which a sufficient number of students make application. only a small proportion of the pupils attend more than one year, and the mortality from term to term is very high, although the tuition fee plan insures fairly good attendance during the term. the data collected by the survey indicate that the average length of attendance is approximately two terms--the equivalent in student hours of less than three weeks in the ordinary day school. most of the men who enroll in night school classes need a course of at least two or three years. all but a few, however, insist on having their supplementary training in small doses. frequently they want only specific instruction about a specific thing, such as how to lay out a certain piece of work or how to set up a particular machine tool. they want to secure this knowledge in the shortest possible time, and very few want the same thing. a course of two or three years does not appeal to them. another difficulty is that their previous educational equipment varies widely, and some are not capable of assimilating even the specialized bit of trade knowledge they need without a preliminary course in arithmetic. as the personnel of the classes changes to a marked degree from term to term, the courses undergo frequent modifications. apparently the teachers and principals have made a sincere effort to adapt the instruction to the demands of the men who attend the schools, but the fact is that the difficulties inherent in such work make it impossible to organize the classes on any basis except that of subject matter, which means fitting students into courses, rather than adapting courses to the needs of particular groups of workers. the enrollment is far below what should be expected in a city of nearly three-quarters of a million inhabitants. the total number of journeymen, apprentices, and helpers from the skilled manual occupations, receiving trade instruction in the night schools, is considerably less than one per cent of the total number in the city. a large enrollment is necessary for efficient administration. success in specializing courses in night schools, as in day schools, requires a large administrative unit. the possible variety of courses is in direct ratio to the number enrolled. in a class of carpenters there would probably be, for example, or men who need specialized instruction in stair-building. on the basis of the present enrollment of or carpenters the class would dwindle to three or four, with the result that the per capita teaching cost becomes prohibitive. the relatively small result now obtained is not the fault of the schools, but is due principally to the fact that the great field of evening vocational instruction is treated by the school system as a mere side line of the technical high schools. the evening classes are taught by teachers who have already given their best in the day classes. the enrollment cannot be greatly increased so long as this type of education is handled as one of the marginal activities of the school system, manned by tired teachers and directed by tired principals. it is a totally different kind of job from regular day instruction and requires a different administrative organization, with a responsible head vested with sufficient authority to meet quickly and effectively the widely varying demands of its students. this will require the speeding-up of administrative methods in the establishment of courses and the employment of teachers, a freer hand for the principals as regards both expenditures and policy, and most important of all, the organization of all forms of continuation and night school instruction under a separate department. a combined program of continuation and trade-extension training in considering the general conclusions of the survey as to what should be done in the matter of trade preparatory and trade-extension training in both day and night schools, it must be borne in mind that these two types of vocational training are still in the experimental stage. their future development will probably involve a wide departure from conventional school methods and the evolution of a special technique through trial and experiment. at the present time we can only formulate certain of the main conditions to which future advance in these fields must conform. first of all, it must be recognized that such work is a big job in itself and cannot be successfully conducted as an appendix of the day school. it is worth doing well, or it is not worth doing. it needs an organization sufficiently elastic and adaptable to quickly make adjustments to unusual and unexpected conditions. it needs the supervision of a competent director who can devote to it all his time and energy, and a corps of teachers who not only know how and what to teach, but who possess a firm conviction of the value and utility of this kind of instruction. in the hands of teachers who bring to it only the margin of interest and energy remaining after a hard day's work in the high school, or who are unable to comprehend the radical difference between teaching a boy in the day school hours a week and teaching a boy four hours a week in the continuation school or evening class, the full measure of success cannot be expected. the employment of day teachers for night school work has never been other than a makeshift, and the insignificant results attained in night schools throughout the country have been due in great measure to this cause. apart from the fact that the interests of adolescent workers imperatively demand the establishment of day continuation schools, an additional argument in favor of such schools is that they would provide a means for making the night trade-extension work effective, through the use of continuation day school teachers for night school work. such a plan would mean that teachers employed on this basis would have charge of a day continuation class during one session of four hours, and a night class of two hours, making a total of six hours' work per day. a plan of this kind would make possible the establishment of the fundamental conditions for successful trade--preparatory and trade-extension training in the night schools. the present system is unjust to both teachers and students;--to the students because the man or boy who sacrifices his recreation time to attend night school has a right to the best the schools can give; to the teachers because no teacher can work a two-hour night shift in addition to seven or eight hours in the technical high school without seriously impairing his efficiency. the development of this plan would necessitate the establishment of two centers, one located in the eastern and one in the western section of the city. in these centers should be housed the day vocational school, the day continuation classes, and the night vocational classes. this would relieve the technical high schools of a task which does not belong to them, and which by overloading the teachers seriously interferes with the work they were originally employed to do. at present a considerable number of the technical high school teachers are devoting from one-fifth to one-fourth of their total working day to elementary teaching, as most of the work in the night schools is below high school grade. by bringing together all the trade preparatory and trade-extension work under one roof, it is possible to secure the highest efficiency in the use of equipment. expensive shops can be justified only on the basis of constant use. if the suggestion for the establishment of a vocational school is acted upon, such future contingencies as the continuation school should be borne in mind in planning the buildings and equipment, so as to permit of extensions as they may be required. it is practically certain that universal continuation training for young workers up to the age of or will be made compulsory in all the progressive states of the country within the next decade. the ohio school authorities should get ready to handle the continuation school problem before the example of other states and the overwhelming pressure of public opinion forces it upon them. chapter ix vocational training for girls the discussions in the preceding chapters have been limited intentionally to a consideration of the needs and possibilities of training for wage-earning pursuits in which men predominate. the conditions which surround vocational training for girls are so fundamentally unlike those encountered in the vocational training of boys that a combined treatment leads to needless complexity and confusion. cleveland uses a relatively smaller amount of woman labor than most other large cities. in only one of the largest cities in the country--pittsburgh--is the proportion of women and girls at work smaller as compared with the total number of persons in gainful occupations than in cleveland. in , . per cent of the workers in the city were women; by the proportion of women workers had increased to per cent, a shift of less than two per cent for the decade. a consideration of the occupational future of boys and girls shows at once how widely their problems differ. the typical boy in cleveland attends school until he reaches the age of or . about this period he becomes a wage-earner and for the next or years devotes most of his time and energy to making a living. the typical girl leaves school about the same time, becomes a wage-earner for a few years, then marries and spends the rest of her life keeping house and rearing children. to the man wage-earning is the real business of life. to the woman it is a means for filling in the gap between school and marriage, a little journey into the world previous to settling down to her main job. the most radical and important difference between the two sexes with respect to wage-earning is found in the length of the working life. the transitory character of the wage-earning phase in the life of most women is clearly seen in the contrasted age distribution shown in table . table .--per cent of total population engaged in gainful occupations during three different age periods ----------------------+-------------+------------+ age period | women | men | ----------------------+-------------+------------+ to | | | to | | | and over | | | ----------------------+-------------+------------+ approximately per cent of the boys and slightly less than per cent of the girls between the ages of and are at work. in the next age group-- to --given by the census, per cent of the men are at work, but the proportion of women employed in gainful occupations drops to per cent, or about one in four; in the next age group-- and over--it falls to about per cent, as compared with per cent of the men. of the women still at work in the older age group, over one-half are engaged in domestic and personal service as servants, laundresses, housekeepers, etc. table .--number employed in the principal wage-earning occupations among each , women from to years of age manufacturing and mechanical industries: apprentices to dressmakers and milliners dressmakers and seamstresses (not in factory) milliners and millinery dealers semi-skilled operatives: candy factories cigar and tobacco factories electrical supply factories knitting mills printing and publishing woolen and worsted mills: weavers other occupations sewers and sewing machine operators (factory) tailoresses transportation: telephone operators trade: clerks in stores saleswomen (stores) professional service: musicians and teachers of music teachers (school) domestic and personal service: charwomen and cleaners laundry operatives servants waitresses clerical occupations: bookkeepers, cashiers, and accountants clerks (except clerks in stores) stenographers and typewriters the occupations in which the girls now in the public schools will later engage can be determined with a relative degree of accuracy by employing a method in general similar to that utilized in forecasting the occupations of boys. it must be taken into account, however, that the wage-earning period for women, except in the professional occupations, usually begins before the age of . for this reason the to age group probably offers the best basis for determining the future occupational distribution of girls in school. if all women at work up to the age of were included the figures would be more nearly exact, but unfortunately data for the period between and are not available. the figures at the right of table show the number engaged in each specified occupation among each thousand women in the city between the ages of and . the proportions given for the professional occupations, particularly teaching, are too small, because of the fact that few women enter the professions before the age of . applying these proportions to the average elementary school unit, it will be seen at once that the number of girls old enough to profit by special training is too small in any single occupation to form a class of workable size. in such a school there would be about girls years old and over. of the skilled occupations listed in the table stenography and typewriting offers the largest field of employment, yet the number who are likely to take up this kind of work does not exceed five or six. differentiation in the junior high school the organization of the junior high school, where the enrollment is made up entirely of older pupils, obviates this difficulty to some extent. instead of girls there are from to , with a corresponding increase in the number who will enter any given wage-earning occupation. not less than one-eighth and probably not more than one-fifth of these girls will become needleworkers of some kind. they will need a more practical and intensive training in the fundamentals of sewing than is now provided by the household arts course. the skill required in trade work cannot be obtained in the amount of time now devoted to this subject. it should be made possible for a girl who expects to make a living with her needle to elect a thoroughly practical course in sewing in which the aim is to prepare for wage earning rather than merely to teach the girl how to make and mend her own garments. as proficiency in trade sewing requires first of all ample opportunity for practice, provision should be made for extending the time now given to sewing for those girls who wish to become needle workers. this can easily be done through the system of electives now in use. the establishment of classes in power machine operating during the junior high school period appears to be impracticable, due to the immaturity of the girls and the small number who could profit by such instruction. a discussion of the present sewing courses in the public schools will be found in chapters xiv and xv, which summarize the special reports on the garment trades and dressmaking and millinery. in the present chapter the consideration of these occupations is limited to an examination of the administrative questions connected with training for the sewing trades. specialized training for the sewing trades the compulsory attendance law requires all girls to attend school until they are years old. this forces a considerable number into the high schools for one or two years before they go to work. as a rule the type of girl who is likely to enter the needle trades selects the technical high school course, not because she has any idea of finishing it, but because she believes it offers a less tiresome way of getting through her last one or two years in school than the academic course. the technical course requires three and three-quarter hours a week of sewing during the first two years. the student may elect trade dressmaking and millinery during the third and fourth years. very few girls who can afford to spend four years in high school ever become dressmakers or factory operatives. if the school system is to do anything of direct vocational value for them it will have to begin further down. most of them leave school before the age of and the years between and represent the last chance the school will have to give them any direct aid towards preparation for immediate wage-earning. for successful work in machine operating the class must be large enough to warrant the purchase and operation of sufficient equipment to give the pupils an opportunity for intensive practice. the only way this condition can be secured is by concentrating in large groups the girls who need such training. little will be accomplished in training for the sewing trades without specialization, and specialization in small administrative units is impossible. the teaching and operating cost in a school enrolling, say girls, who want the same kind of work, can be brought within reasonable bounds. in a school where the total number who need specialized training does not exceed or the cost is prohibitive. in the opinion of the survey staff a one or two year vocational course in the sewing trades should be established. the entrance age should not be less than . courses should be provided for intensive work in trade dressmaking, power machine operating, and trade millinery. a conservative estimate of the number of girls who could be expected to enroll for courses in these subjects is . a trade school might be established where only this type of vocational training would be carried on, or it might be conducted in the same building with the trade courses for boys recommended in a previous chapter. in either case the number of pupils would be sufficient to warrant up-to-date equipment and a corps of specially trained teachers. training for the sewing trades consumes more material than any other kind of vocational training. for this reason economical administration requires some arrangement for marketing the product. during the latter part of the course the school should be able to turn out first-class work. the familiarity with trade standards the pupils obtain through practice on garments which must meet the exacting demands of the buying public has a distinct educational value. the manhattan trade school for girls in new york city and other successful schools in the country operate on this basis. there is reason to believe that there would be little difficulty in making arrangements with the clothing manufacturers in cleveland to furnish a good trade school as much contract work as the classes could handle. other occupations from one-fourth to one-fifth of the girls in the school will later enter employment in commercial and clerical occupations, as stenographers, typists, clerks, cashiers, bookkeepers, saleswomen, and so on. their needs will be considered in chapters xii and xiii, in which the findings of the special reports on boys and girls in commercial work and department store occupations are summarized. a relatively small number will become semi-skilled operatives in industrial establishments, such as job printing houses, knitting mills, and factories making electrical supplies, metal products, and so on. as a rule such work requires only a small amount of manual skill or deftness. not much training is needed and it can be given quickly and effectively in the factories. about one-ninth of the girls in the school will enter paid domestic or personal service of some kind. the household arts courses probably meet the needs of girls who may be employed in such occupations as far as they can be met under present conditions. the woman domestic servant occupies about the same social level as the male common laborer, and a course which openly sets out to train girls to be servants is not likely to prosper. the load of social stigma such work carries is too heavy. at some time in the future it may be possible to ignore the traditional and universal attitude of our public toward the so-called menial occupations sufficiently to consider training servants. at present such a possibility seems remote. chapter x vocational guidance very few of the army of young people who become wage earners each year take up the occupations in which they engage as the result of any conscious selection of their own or of their parents. they drift into some job aimlessly and ignorantly, following the line of least resistance, driven or led by the accidents and exigencies of gaining a livelihood. they possess no accurate or comprehensive knowledge of the advantages and disadvantages of different types of wage earning occupations, and frequently take up work for which they are entirely unfitted or which holds little future beyond a bare livelihood. the work of the vocational counselor the plan now followed in the technical high schools of the city, by which one teacher in the school specially qualified for such work is charged with the duty of advising pupils who leave school and aiding them in securing desirable employment, could be adapted to the junior high school, where the need for service of this kind is even greater than in the technical high schools. such work requires men who have had some contact with industrial conditions, and who possess sound judgment, common sense, and a fairly comprehensive knowledge of the local industries. if the curriculum embraces the course in "industrial information" suggested in a previous chapter, the teacher of this subject might well be designated as vocational counselor for the boys in the school. a course similar in nature should be provided for the girls and a woman teacher selected to advise them when they leave school. considerable difficulty probably will be experienced in securing women teachers competent to assume this task, but any wide-awake teacher who will devote some attention to published studies of industrial conditions and get in touch with the local organizations engaged in the investigation of wage earning employments, such as the consumers' league and the girls' vocation bureau, can soon acquire a fund of information that will enable her to offer valuable suggestions and advice to girls who expect to become wage earners. the vocational counselor must guard against conventional thinking and the mass of "inspirational" nonsense which forms the main contribution to the vocational guidance of youth provided in the average schoolroom. the ideals of success usually held up before school children seem to have been drawn from a mixture of sunday school literature and the prospectuses of efficiency bureaus. boiled down the rules prescribed for their attainment are two: first, "be good;" and second, "get ahead." the pupils are told about well-known men who became famous or rich, usually rich, by practicing these rules. occasionally there is some prattle about the "dignity of labor," as a rule meaningless in the light of our current ideas of success. we do not think of a well-paid artisan as "successful." his success begins when he is promoted to office work, or becomes a foreman. the inherent difficulty with ideals of success which demand that the worker become a boss of somebody else is that the world of industry needs only a relatively small number of bosses. theoretically it is possible for any individual to reach the eminence of boss-ship. in real life less than one-tenth of the boys who enter industrial employment can rise above the level of the journeyman artisan, at least before later middle age, because only about that proportion of bosses are needed. the task of the vocational counselor will consist in putting the pupil's feet on the first steps of the ladder rather than showing him rosy pictures of the top of it. for the great majority the top means no more than decent wages. this, after all, is a worthy ambition, frequently requiring the worker's best efforts for its realization. the girls' vocation bureau the girls' vocation bureau, for the placement of girls and women in wage-earning employment, has been in operation about six years. at present it is under the general charge of the state and municipal employment bureau, although part of the funds for the support of the bureau is raised through private subscription. from july, , to july, , the bureau secured positions for nearly , girls and women. of these approximately per cent were girls under . in many instances only temporary employment is secured, although efforts are made to place the girls in permanent positions. more girls are placed in office positions than in any other line of work, but a considerable proportion take employment in factories, domestic service, restaurants, and stores. a careful record is kept of each applicant's qualifications, home conditions, the names of employers, etc. the bureau endeavors to keep in touch with the girls after they are placed through follow-up reports and visits by members of the office staff or by volunteer investigators. this spring every school in the city was visited by representatives of the bureau in the endeavor to interest principals in the work of placement, and arrangements were made for sending to the bureau lists of the girls who were expected to leave school permanently. this effort met with slight success, as only about girls were reported from all the schools in the city, although the number of girls leaving school each year from the elementary grades alone is over , . in all cases the girls were visited by a representative of the bureau and urged to return to school, or if they were determined to seek employment the advantages of registering in the bureau were brought to their attention. it is to be hoped that more effective coöperation between the bureau and the schools can be established and that plans for a placement bureau for boys similar in method and aim to the girls' bureau may be realized. the matter of placement is the most difficult part of the vocational counselor's duties, and an arrangement whereby the vocational guidance departments of the various schools might serve as feeders to a central placement bureau would probably in the long run give the best results. both guidance and placement are new things in the public schools and efficient methods of administration can be worked out only through trial and experiment. chapter xi conclusions and recommendations . the future occupations of the children in school will correspond very closely to those of the native-born adult population. the occupational distribution of the city's working population therefore constitutes the best guide as to the kinds of industrial training which can be undertaken profitably by the school system. . industrial training in school has to do chiefly with preparation for work in the skilled trades. training for semi-skilled occupations can be given more effectively and cheaply in the factories than in the schools. . as a rule, industrial training is not practicable in elementary schools, for the reason that the number of boys in the average elementary school who are likely to enter the skilled trades and who are also old enough to profit by industrial training is too small to permit the organization of classes. . the most important contribution to vocational education the elementary schools can make consists in getting the children through the course fast enough so that two or three years before the end of the compulsory attendance period they will enter an intermediate or vocational school where some kind of industrial training is possible. . the survey recommends the establishment of a general industrial course in the junior high school, made up chiefly of instruction in the applications of mathematics, drawing, physics, and chemistry to the commoner industrial processes. the course should also include the study of economic and working conditions in the principal industrial occupations. . one or two vocational schools equipped to offer specialized trade training for boys and girls between the ages of and are needed. at present a gap of from one to two years exists between the end of the compulsory attendance period and the entrance age in practically all the skilled trades, which could well be employed in direct preparation for trade work. such schools would relieve the first and second year classes of the technical high schools of many pupils these schools do not want and cannot adequately provide for. general as well as special courses should be offered, although pupils should be encouraged to select a particular occupation and devote at least one year to intensive preparation for it. . the survey favors the extension of the compulsory attendance period for boys to the age of . the industries of cleveland have little or nothing worth while to offer boys below this age. . the best form of trade-extension training is that provided in a few establishments which maintain apprentice schools in their plants. this plan is feasible only in large establishments. it will never take care of more than a small proportion of the young workers who need supplementary technical training. . plans for trade-extension training of apprentices depending on the coöperation of employers have met with slight success. the principle difficulty is that the sacrifices they involve are borne by a relatively small number of employers while the benefits are reaped by the industry in general. either the industry as a whole or the community should bear the cost of such training. . the vocational interests of young workers and the social interests of the community demand the establishment of a system of continuation training for all young people in employment, up to the age of years. the classes should be held during working hours and attendance should be compulsory. . the enrollment in the trade classes of the night schools is far below what it should be in a city as large as cleveland. the relatively small result now obtained is not the fault of the schools, but is due mainly to the fact that the field of vocational evening instruction is treated by the school system as a mere side line of the technical high schools. . the survey recommends the organization of all forms of continuation, night vocational, and day vocational training under centralized full-time leadership. only in this way can there be secured a type of organization and administration sufficiently elastic and adaptable to meet the widely varying needs of the working classes. . industrial training for girls will consist in the main of preparation for the sewing trades. practically no other industrial occupations in which large numbers of women are employed possess sufficient technical content to warrant the establishment of training courses in the schools. the survey recommends a practical course of needle instruction in the junior high school and the introduction in the vocational schools of specialized courses in dressmaking, power machine operating, and trade millinery for the older girls who wish to enter these trades. . the present experiment in vocational guidance and placement should be extended as rapidly as possible. courses in vocational information should be offered in the junior high school and vocational counsellors appointed to advise pupils in the selection of their future vocations and aid them in securing desirable employment when they leave school. the full measure of success in this work demands better coöperation with outside agencies on the part of teachers and principals than has been secured up to the present time. chapter xii summary of report on boys and girls in commercial work particular attention is given throughout this report to the differences which exist between boys and girls in commercial employment with respect to the conditions which govern success and advancement. the majority of boys begin as messengers or office boys and subsequently become clerks or do bookkeeping work. as men they remain in these latter positions or, in at least an equal number of cases, pass on into the productive or administrative end of business. the majority of girls are stenographers, or to a less extent, assistants in bookkeeping or clerical work. boys' work may be expected to take on the characteristics of the business that employs them; girls' work remains in essentials unchanged even in totally changed surroundings. boys' work within limits is progressive; girls' work in its general type--with individual exceptions--is static. boys as a rule cannot stay at the same kind of work and advance; girls as a rule stay at the same kind of work whether or not they advance. boys in any position are expected to be qualifying themselves for "the job ahead," but for girls that is not the case. boys may expect to make a readjustment with every step in advancement. each new position brings them to a new situation and into a new relation to the business. girls receive salary advancement for increasingly responsible work, but any change in work is likely to be so gradual as to be almost imperceptible if they remain in the same place of employment. if they change to another place, those who are stenographers have a slight readjustment to make in getting accustomed to new terms and to the peculiarities of the new persons who dictate to them. bookkeeping assistants may encounter different systems, but their part of the work will be so directed and planned that it cannot be said to necessitate difficult adaptation on their part. the work of clerical assistants is so simple and so nearly mechanical that the question of adjustment does not enter. these girl workers do not find that the change of position or firm brings them necessarily into a new relation to the business. even moderate success is denied to a boy if he has not adaptability and the capacity to grasp business ideas and methods; but a comparatively high degree of success could be attained by a girl who possessed neither of these qualifications. a boy, however, who has no specific training which he can apply directly and definitely at work would be far more likely to obtain a good opening and promotion than a girl without it would be. the range of a boy's possible future occupations is as wide as the field of business. he cannot at first be trained specifically as a girl can be because he does not know what business will do with him or what he wants to do with business. the girl's choice is limited by custom. she can prepare herself definitely for stenography, bookkeeping, and machine operating and be sure that she is preparing for just the opportunity--and the whole opportunity--that business offers to her. her very limitation of opportunity makes preliminary choice and training a definitely possible thing. [illustration: diagram .--boys and girls under years of age in office work in cleveland. data from report of ohio industrial commission, ] the difference between boys and girls begins at the beginning. boys are given a larger share of the positions which the youngest worker can fill. diagram illustrates this and the figures of the united states census for clearly corroborate it. boys are taken for such work and taken younger than girls, not merely because the law permits them to go to work at an earlier age, but also because business itself intends to round their training. girls, on the contrary, are expected to enter completely trained for definite positions. this fact alone would in most cases compel them to be older. furthermore, because boys in first positions are looked upon as potential clerks, miscellaneous jobs about the office have for them a two-fold value. they give the employer a chance to weed out unpromising material; and they give boys an opportunity to find themselves and to gather ideas about the business and methods which they may be able to make use of in later adjustments. [illustration: diagram .--men and women years of age and over in clerical and administrative work in offices in cleveland. u.s. census, ] diagram shows that girls' training, if it is to meet the present situation, must prepare for a future in specialized clerical work; boys' future must apparently be thought of as in mostly the clerical and administrative fields. the term "clerical" as here used, covers bookkeepers, cashiers and accountants, stenographers and typists, clerks and a miscellaneous group of younger workers such as messengers, office boys, etc. "administrative" covers proprietors, officials, managers, supervisors, and agents, but it does not include salespeople. the usual commercial course gives impartially to boys and girls two traditional "subjects" which they are to apply in wage earning whatever part of the wage earning field they may enter. these are stenography and bookkeeping. the evidence collected during the survey shows that these are rarely found in combination except in small offices. of the men employed who are stenographers, the majority are of two kinds: ( ) those who use stenography incidentally with their other and more important work as clerks, and ( ) those for whom stenography is but a stepping-stone to another kind of position. the only firms which make a practice of offering ordinary stenographic positions for boys are those which restrict themselves to male employees for every kind of work. independent stenographic work of various kinds is of course open to the sexes alike. in cleveland there are a few women in court stenography. the public stenographers' offices were found upon inquiry to include two men and women. no figures regarding convention reporters were obtainable. in the positions of the bookkeeping group also there was some sex difference. the accountants, bookkeepers, cashiers, pay-masters and other persons of responsibility are, in large offices where both sexes work together, much more likely to be men than women; the assistants who work with these may be of either sex, but girls and women are likely to make up the greater portion. of the small office this is less generally true. boys who do machine operating are usually clerks whose machine work, as in the case of stenography, is merely an adjunct to other work; with girls machine operating is either the whole of the position or the most important part of it. the essential difference between the clerkship which boys for the most part hold and the general clerical work which girls do is that the boys' work is unified and is a definite, separate responsible part of the business, usually in line for promotion to some other clerkship; the girls' is a miscellany of more or less unrelated jobs and is not a preparation for specific promotion. a general view of commercial work all commercial occupations may be roughly divided into two classes: those which have to do with administrative, merchandising, or productive work, and those which carry on the clerical routine which the others necessitate. the first class of occupations may be designated by the term "administrative work" and the second by "clerical work." a varying relation exists between the two which depends chiefly upon the kind of business represented. in some kinds clerical work is the stepping stone by which administrative work is reached; in others employment in clerical work side-tracks away from the administrative work. there is, of course, a future of promotion within the limits of clerical work without reference to its relation to administrative work. the practical aspect of it is, in most kinds of business, that the subordinate clerical positions far outnumber the chief ones. promotion of any sort depends largely upon individual capacity; but this general distinction may be made between promotion in clerical work and in administrative work; in the clerical field it tends to be automatic but limited; in administrative work it comes more often through a worker's initiative or individuality than through automatic progression and it has no arbitrary limits. obviously one kind of person will be adapted to an administrative career; another to a clerical one. even a beginner in wage earning might be able to classify himself on a basis like this; yet it is not essential, for in many cases it is possible that his first positions recognize this choice. he needs fundamental experience in business methods whatever he is going to do; and for most administrative positions he needs maturity. he can achieve both by serving an apprenticeship in some form of clerical work. the important things for him in the early part of his career are to understand the distinction between the two classes of occupations; to sense the relation he holds to the business as a whole; and to act intelligently in the matter of making a change. bookkeeping the bookkeeping which modern business, except in the small establishment, demands of young workers is certainly not the journal and ledger bookkeeping of the commercial schools. a modern office organization may have in its bookkeeping department of persons only one "bookkeeper." this person is responsible for the system and he supervises the keeping of records and the preparation of statements. a minority of his assistants will need to be able to distinguish debits from credits; the rest will be occupied in making simple entries or in posting, in verifying and checking, or in finding totals with the aid of machines. the bookkeeping systems employed show wide variation, not only in different kinds of business, but in different establishments in the same kinds of business. many firms are using a loose-leaf system; some use ledgers; and others have a system of record keeping which calls for neither of these devices. bookkeeping work, especially in the positions held by girls, is frequently combined with comptometer or adding machine work, with typing, billing, filing, or statistical work; but rarely, except in the small office, are bookkeeping and stenography--the siamese twins of traditional and commercial training--found linked together. stenography stenography is used throughout business chiefly in correspondence; to a less extent for report and statement work, for legal work, and for printer's copy. the stenographer in any business office, more than other clerical workers, is supposed to look after a variety of unorganized details including the use of office appliances, the filing of letters, and sometimes dealing with patrons or visitors in the absence of the employer. she is more important to the employer in his personal business relations than any other employee, except in the case of those few employers who have private secretaries. clerks' positions in the case of large corporations, which are by far the largest employers of clerks, this work has been standardized to a marked degree. the organization of the office work of the telegraph, telephone, and express companies, the railroads, and the occasional large wholesale company in cleveland is a nearly exact duplication of that of other district or division offices controlled by these companies in other cities. the same is true of the civil service. whatever effects standardization may have upon opportunity, it obviously makes for definiteness in regard to training requirements. all the positions are graded on the basis of experience and responsibility and a logical line of promotion from one to another has been worked out. the report contains detailed studies of different kinds of clerical work in the offices of transportation and public utility corporations, retail and wholesale stores, manufacturing establishments, banks, the civil service, and small offices employing relatively few people. in each of these such matters as character of the work, opportunities for advancement, kind of training needed and special qualifications are taken up. wages and regularity of employment stated briefly the conclusions of the report with respect to wages and regularity of employment in office positions are as follows: the wage opportunities for clerical workers, especially men, lie in business positions outside the limits of clerical work. men clerical workers average about the same pay as salesmen and more pay than industrial workers. women clerical workers receive more than either saleswomen or industrial workers. employment is much more regular in clerical work than it is in salesmanship or industrial work. for men clerical workers the wage opportunity is better in manufacturing and trade than in some kinds of transportation business. for women it is better in manufacturing and transportation than it is in trade. men's wages tend to be higher than women's in all branches of clerical work. among the clerical positions, bookkeeping shows the highest wage average for men; clerks' positions show the lowest. stenography shows the highest for women; machine work the lowest. men bookkeepers show their best wage average in the wholesale business, clerks in transportation, and stenographers in manufacturing. the small office gives better wage opportunity to women bookkeepers and men stenographers; the large office favors women stenographers and men clerks. for boys, there is some indication that advanced education and commercial training, in their present status, are less closely related to high wages than are personal qualities and experience. for girls, the combination of high school education and business training is the best preparation for wage advancement. a general high school education and usually, business training, are essential to the assurance of even a living wage. business training based upon less than high school education is almost futile. the problem of training six chapters of the report are devoted to a consideration of the needs and possibilities of training. the work now being done in the public schools of the city is discussed in detail, with suggestions for a better adaptation of the courses of study and methods and content of instruction to the needs of boys and girls who wish to prepare themselves to enter clerical occupations. the observations on training for such work may be summarized as follows: commercial training should be open to all students whom commercial subjects and methods can serve best; but graduation should depend upon a high standard of efficiency. statistics show that commercial training is not to be looked upon, in a wholesale way, as a successful means of taking care of backward academic students. commercial students' need for cultural and other supplementary education may be even greater than that of academic students. the graduation rate of commercial students in public schools has been increased since the organization of a separate commercial high school and the number of students entering has been decreased. commercial high schools receive a grade of children who are about medium in scholarship and normal in age. commercial and academic high school teachers are similar in scholastic preparation and in the salaries they are paid. the cleveland normal school does not prepare definitely for the teaching of commercial subjects. commercial teachers are nominally supervised by the district superintendents. public schools receive per cent of the city's day commercial students. the private schools receive a few more than the sum of public, parochial, and philanthropic schools. public schools receive per cent of the city's night commercial students. the private schools receive more than twice as many as the public and philanthropic schools. there are no night commercial classes in parochial schools. the length of the day course in most private schools is eight months or less; in public schools it is four years. the public school, if it believes in longer preparation for commercial work than most private schools give, should demonstrate the reason to parents and children. training for boys and girls should be different in content and in emphasis. the usual course of study in commercial schools is suitable for girls and unsuitable for boys. a girl needs, chiefly, specific training in some one line of work. she has a choice among stenography, bookkeeping, and machine operating. a boy needs, chiefly, general education putting emphasis on writing, figuring, and spelling; general information; and the development of certain qualities and standards. for students electing to go into commercial work, general education may be taught more effectively through the medium of commercial subjects than through academic ones. boys' training looks forward to both clerical work and business administration; but as clerical work is a preparation for business and is likely to occupy the first few years of wage earning, training should aim especially to meet the needs of clerical positions. clerical positions for boys cover a variety of work which cannot be definitely anticipated and cannot therefore be specifically trained for. but certain fundamental needs are common to all. most of the specialized training for boys should be given in night continuation classes. girl stenographers need a full high school course for its educational value and for maturity. girls going into other clerical positions can qualify with a year or two less of education; but immaturity in any case puts them at a disadvantage. boys' training, for those who cannot remain in school, should be compressed into fewer than four years. immaturity in the case of boys is not a great disadvantage. bookkeeping has general value in the information it gives about business methods and for its drill in accuracy. to some extent it may aid in the development of reasoning. much of the bookkeeping in actual use in business consists in making entries of one kind only and in checking and verifying. understanding of debit and credit, posting, and trial balance, is the maximum practical need of the younger workers. penmanship demands compactness, legibility, neatness, and ease in writing; also, the correct writing and placing of figures. the chief demand of business in arithmetic is for fundamental operations--adding and multiplying--also for ability to make calculations and to verify results mentally. undergraduate experience in school or business offices may be a valuable method of acquainting students with office practice and routine and with business organization and business standards. chapter xiii summary of report on department store occupations the field covered in this volume is limited to the business of retail selling as carried on in the department stores and some other stores of cleveland. the retail stores considered can all be assigned to one of the three following classes: ( ) the department store of the first rank which draws trade not only from the whole city and the suburbs but also from the towns and smaller cities of a large surrounding district; ( ) the neighborhood store which does a smaller business within narrower limits, drawing its trade, as the name indicates, from the immediate neighborhood; ( ) the five and ten cent store, well known by syndicate names, where no merchandise which must be sold above cents is carried. department stores the five largest department stores in cleveland employ about , people distributed among several mercantile departments, and in a variety of occupations that find a place in the industry. of these , people approximately seven-tenths are women and three-tenths are men; per cent are over years of age and per cent are under . the entire force of a store is sometimes arbitrarily divided by the management into "productive," and "non-productive" help. from to per cent of the employees were reported as actually taking in money, while the remainder, the "non-producers," were engaged in keeping the business going and making it possible for the "producers" to sell goods. the greatest number of opportunities either for employment or promotion are in the selling force. this is often spoken as being "on the floor." both boys and girls may find employment here, though a large majority of the sales force is made up of them. speaking in general terms, men are only employed to sell men's furnishings, sporting goods, bulky merchandise, such as rugs, furniture, blankets, etc., and yard goods which are difficult to handle, such as household linens and dress goods. positions as buyers and buyer's assistants are not restricted by sex and boys and girls may both consider them as a possible goal. neighborhood stores a neighborhood store is that type of department store which draws its trade from a comparatively limited area of which the store is the center. the kind of goods carried are practically the same as in the large department store and the variety of merchandise may be nearly as great; but the selection is more limited because of the small stock. promotion to selling positions is more rapid in the neighborhood stores than in regular department stores. one reason for this is that a larger proportion of the force is "productive," _i.e._, selling. this proportion may run as high as or even per cent, as compared with the to per cent of "productive" help in large department stores. employment in these stores is looked upon as desirable preliminary training for service in larger department stores. this is the general opinion held by those who hire the employees in the larger stores. the selling experience gained in neighborhood stores is looked upon as general, in that it gives an acquaintance with a variety of merchandise rather than an extensive knowledge of any line of stock. this experience makes the employee adaptable and resourceful. another advantage of neighborhood training for sales people is the fact that they are brought into closer human relations with the customer and thus learn the value of personality as a factor in making sales. five and ten cent stores cleveland had in the fall of six large stores where nothing costing over cents is sold. these belong to three syndicates or chains. to show the extent to which this business has developed it may be stated that the largest of these syndicates, which controls three of the six cleveland stores, has branches in different parts of the country. the number of saleswomen in a single store ranges from to . the total number in the six stores was approximately . the shift in this branch of retail trade is large, as there are continual changes in the selling force. one store reported the number of new employees hired in six months as being about equal to the average selling force. the managers of the five and ten cent stores without exception stated that they preferred to hire beginners who were without store experience. the hours of work are longer and the conditions under which the work is done are more trying than is usually the case in the larger department stores. the girl who expects her application for employment in the five and ten cent store to be accepted must be years old in order that she may legally work after six o'clock. it is better for her to be without previous selling experience (unless in other five and ten cent stores), as employers in these stores prefer to train help according to their own methods. wages and employment the wages paid beginners in the department stores are fair as compared with other industries employing the same grade of help. boys and girls when they first enter employment receive from $ . to $ , depending on the store where they get their first job. in addition to the salary most department stores give bonuses or commissions through which the members of the sales force may increase their compensation. the survey staff worked out comparisons on the basis of data supplied by the state industrial commission between the earnings of workers in department store occupations and those in other industries. diagram shows graphically a comparison of the wages of women workers in six different industries. an interesting point brought out by this graphic comparison is that retail trade constitutes a much better field for women's employment as compared with the great majority of positions open to them in other lines than is commonly assumed to be the case. this is brought out even more clearly in table , which compares, on a percentage basis, those who earn $ a week and over, in all of the industries of the city employing as many as women in . [illustration: diagram .--per cent of women earning each class of weekly wages in each of six occupations] table .--per cent of women employees over years of age earning $ a week and over office employees, in retail and wholesale stores . employees in women's clothing factories . saleswomen in retail and wholesale stores . employees in men's clothing factories . employees in hosiery and knit goods factories . employees in printing and publishing establishments . employees in telephone and telegraph offices . employees in laundries and dry cleaning establishments . employees in cigar and tobacco factories . employees in gas and electric fixtures concerns . if the data were for retail stores only and did not include wholesale stores, then office work, which now stands at the head of the list, would probably not make so good a showing, although the superiority over the selling positions is, from the wage-earning standpoint, so marked that there seems to be no escape from the conclusion that on the whole women office workers are better paid than women in the sales force. on the other hand the proportion of saleswomen earning $ and over is from nearly seven times as great to not far from twice as great as it is in the factory industries, if we except the workers in women's clothing factories, whose earnings per week are better than those of the saleswomen. with respect to the men employed on the sales force of the department stores a somewhat different situation exists. in diagram a comparison is made of the wages paid in sales positions with the wages paid in clerical positions. here it will be noted that men who sell goods in retail and wholesale stores earn more on the average than men occupying clerical positions, such as bookkeepers, stenographers, and office clerks. this comparison does not include traveling salesmen. a further comparison of the earnings of the men in stores with the earnings of male workers (omitting office clerks) in the different industries of the city employing the largest number of men is given in diagram , which shows the per cent in each industry earning $ a week and over. [illustration: diagram .--per cent of salesmen and of men clerical workers in stores receiving each class of weekly wage] in comparing wages in stores with those in the manufacturing industries it must be not forgotten that the working day and week in the larger stores is shorter than in most of the factories. hence a comparison of earnings on the basis of wage per hour would show a still greater advantage in favor of both sales persons and clerical workers. [illustration: diagram .--per cent of male workers in non-clerical positions in six industries earning $ per week and over] regularity of employment in department store work and in nearly all branches of retail selling there is a marked fluctuation in the number employed during the year. sales work in the department stores is seasonal in the sense that a large number of extra sales women are taken on during the christmas season for a period of temporary employment, usually lasting from one to two months. the proportion of the total working force for the whole year employed in such transient jobs is approximately one-fourth. how selling positions in retail and wholesale stores compare with other fields of employment in this respect is seen in diagram . [illustration: diagram .--per cent that the average number of women employed during the year is of the highest number employed in each of six industries] opportunities for advancement in regard to promotion in department stores it should be noted that as a rule the executives are made in the business and are not, as in some industries, brought in from the outside because they must have some special training which the organization itself does not provide. not only in cleveland but in other cities where studies of the same kind have been made it has been found that practically all the people holding important floor positions have come up from the ranks. the various lines of promotion through the different departments are analyzed in detail in the report. the problem of training that vocational training for department store employees is both desirable and possible is proved by the fact that most of the large stores in cleveland make some provision for the instruction of their workers. some of these classes are carefully organized and excellently taught with every promise of increasing in usefulness. others employ methods of instruction which belong to the academic school of an earlier decade and give evidence that the problem of vocational training with which they are presumably concerned is not even understood. from the standpoint of the school there are two well recognized kinds of training possible for department store employees: trade preparatory and trade extension training. eventually it may prove practicable to organize instruction of both kinds, but it is the opinion of the author of the report that under present conditions the surest results can be expected from trade extension training. in trade extension instruction the members of the group to be dealt with have already secured their foothold in the industry; and having mastered at least the rudiments of their job they have acquired a basis of experience which may be utilized for purposes of instruction. these people are responsive to teaching organized with regard to their needs, for daily experience is demonstrating to them their deficiencies. the success of the proposed training will largely depend upon the employment of simple and direct methods that shall place this knowledge in the hands and head of the person or group needing it. the application of this instruction must be immediate and practical and must not be dependent upon the working out of a complicated course or schedule. the organization must be flexible enough to admit of bringing together a group having a common need, although they may come from different departments of the business. since the unit of class organization is not previous school experience or similar employment, it will be seen that this class should be held only until the need is fully supplied and should then give place to another organized on the same basis. as in all vocational teaching, the size of the class should be limited. to make this work really effective, the instructor should come in sufficiently close contact with all pupils to enable him to obtain a personal knowledge of their needs and capabilities. a further necessity for small classes and individual instruction is found in the fact that there is a constant shift of employees in the industry as well as frequent accessions from the outside. it readily can be seen that this is not a problem of the regular school and that it cannot be met by ordinary classroom methods. part time or continuation classes, such as have already proved feasible for other kinds of trade instruction, are the most practicable methods of doing this work. classes for the instruction of employees are already maintained in the majority of large stores. the extension of this plan of separate responsibility is one way of meeting the problem. but this method has certain obvious faults. the unequal opportunity which it affords to department store employees as a body is a conspicuous drawback. the value of the instruction so given, moreover, will always depend to a large extent on the comprehension of the problem by the firm maintaining the classes. the method involves much duplication of effort, which is particularly wasteful when the instruction of small groups is involved. another possible method would be for the several department stores to get together and coöperate in providing instruction. there would seem to be no reason why stores should not unite for this purpose as well as for any other. the advantages of this method are economy of maintenance and administration, the ability to command expert service, and the possibility of securing and sharing the results of a great variety of such experiences as does not consist of exclusive trade secrets. the number of people whom it would be necessary to employ exclusively for the purpose of conducting these classes would be small as compared with the results accomplished. collectively these stores now have in their employ a body of highly paid experts in all lines of merchandise. a large amount of the most accurate technical knowledge covering the work of all departments is already available in the several stores. these are valuable resources which should be utilized by a coöperative school of this kind. for the head of such a school, it would be desirable to secure a man or woman of more than usual ability and discernment who, above all else, could sense the business and routine of each contributing store from the standpoint of the employee and of store organization. it would be the business of this person to become familiar with the available sources of knowledge in the different stores and then arrange for the presentation of this knowledge to the various classes. by coöperation with the floor men, heads of sections and departments, as well as with the employees themselves, he should come into close contact with the requirements of the workers and should gather from the different stores those who, because of their common need, can be made into a "school unit." it would also be necessary to employ assistants of practical experience who would attend to the details of routine teaching, and act as interpreters for those experts who have the knowledge but not the ability to impart it even to a small class. it is realized that a scheme of this kind would involve the overcoming of many objections and difficulties of adjustment before it could be put into actual operation. it would necessitate mutual concessions and forbearance on the part of everybody concerned, but the results would unquestionably justify the labor. a third method, already in operation in boston, new york, and buffalo, calls for the coöperation of the stores and the schools. this partnership, it is claimed, makes certain that the needs of the pupil are considered before the demands of the business. it insures equal opportunity for all employees so far as instruction is concerned and it divides the expense of maintenance between the industry and the school. it is to be regretted that this scheme frequently results in the employment of teachers who, although certificated for regular school work, have no other qualifications, instead of persons of practical experience. the employment of such teachers too often leads to the following of ordinary school practices and academic traditions rather than the methods and practice of business. in some quarters it is maintained that this instruction should be entirely taken over by the public schools, thus relieving the store of any responsibility in the matter. it is probably not now advisable for the school to assume full responsibility for such training. the heavy expense involved and the physical limitations of the schools would make it difficult, without the coöperation of the store, to reproduce the trade atmosphere necessary for real vocational training. as a result, the instruction would become abstract and theoretical, with the major portion of the effort limited to a continuation of elementary school subjects taught with reference to their application to department store work. character of the instruction the analysis of the industry shows that in each occupation or job there is a definite amount of knowledge which must be acquired by the efficient worker. a study of this analysis and of the examples of technical knowledge needed by the worker at different points in the industry will show that no such thing as a general course is possible. in every case the character of the instruction should be such that it will answer a definite need of the employee. what this instruction should be in specific cases can be settled only, on the one hand, by a thorough analysis of the occupation to determine what demands it makes upon the workers, and on the other, by a careful study of the workers themselves to ascertain how far they have been unable to meet these demands without assistance. lessons can then be organized dealing with such subject matter as individuals or groups have failed to grasp, the lack of which limits their efficiency or restricts their usefulness. it can readily be seen that this instruction will cover a wide range of subjects, from the use of fractions needed by checkers and salesgirls in yard goods sections, to the special technical knowledge of fine furs required by the salesperson who handles this merchandise. the method by which this instruction can best be given is in a series of short unit courses. in every case the length of the course is to be determined by the subject matter. for instance, two one-half hour lessons may be a "course," when this time is sufficient for the necessary teaching. the group or class to which this instruction is given might be made up of those who need the same technical knowledge, although they might expect to make a different application of this instruction. for instance, the unit course on silks might be given to a group composed of salespeople from the silk section, the waists and gowns section, and the section of men's neckwear. the report gives detailed examples of the kinds of technical knowledge needed in the different departments of the store. it maintains that such instruction cannot be successfully given by regular school teachers. as in other industries the teacher needs actual experience in the occupation for which training is given. academic training and teaching experience are desirable and valuable, but among the qualifications demanded of a teacher of this kind they are of secondary importance. the final chapter of the report contains valuable instructions for young persons who desire to secure positions in retail trade. these instructions cover such matters as work papers, methods of securing a position, and requirements for employment in various kinds of department store work. chapter xiv summary of report on the garment trades the clothing industry in cleveland has grown very rapidly in recent years. during the year period from - the number of persons employed in the industry increased approximately per cent. this increase was much greater than the increase throughout the country as a whole and was more than twice as large as the increase in the population of the city. there is every indication that this rapid growth is still continuing. it is estimated that approximately , workers are employed in the industry at the present time. the distribution of men and women in the industry is most interesting. the making of men's garments has been more fully standardized and is subject to fewer changes than the making of women's garments. in this standardized and systematized branch of the industry the women now outnumber the men. in the manufacture of women's garments, where the styles change more frequently and the work is of a more varied character, more men than women are employed. the methods of work are of three general types: the old tailoring system known as "team work," or a slight modification of it; piece operating; and section work. under the team system, used extensively in the making of women's coats, a head tailor hires his own helpers (operators and finishers), supervises them and pays them by the week out of the lump sum he receives for the garments from the clothing establishment. under the piece operating system each operator sews up all the seams on one "piece," or garment, and each finisher does all the hand sewing on one garment. each operator and each finisher is an independent worker. the whole body of finishers keeps pace with the whole body of operators. piece operating is used almost entirely in dress and skirt making, and to some extent in coat making. the section system is based on the subdivision of processes into a number of minor operations. the workers are divided into groups, each group making a certain part of the garment. the various operations are divided into as many minor operations as the number of workers and quantity and kind of materials will warrant. each of these minor operations is performed by operators who do nothing else. this specialization has been carried to a high degree in the manufacture of men's clothing, and section work is increasingly used on women's coats. characteristics of the working force one of the objects of the study was to find how many positions there are for men and women in each occupation in the industry. through the coöperation of employers data were obtained from the records of establishments employing a total of , garment workers, approximately four-fifths of the total number in the city. the distribution of workers by sex in the various occupations is shown in diagram . the apportioning of work to the two sexes seems to depend partly upon the weight of materials and partly upon previous training. the men are mostly foreign born tailors who have had the kind of training necessary for the more complicated work. the women are largely american born of foreign parentage, trained in american shops and employed chiefly upon operations that may be learned in a relatively short time. cutting and pressing are practically monopolized by men. nearly all hand sewers are women, except for a few basters on men's clothing. most designers are men, although a few women designers are found in dress and waist shops. in the largest trade,--machine operating,--about two-thirds of the workers are women. in no trade in which both sexes are employed is the difference in their work more apparent. the weight of materials decides to some extent the division of operating between men and women. some employers are of the opinion that garments made of such thick materials as plush, corduroys, and cheviots are too heavy to be manipulated under needle machinery by women and consequently employ only men operators. where light weight materials are used, as in the manufacture of dresses and waists, delicacy in handling is required, and nearly all the operators are women. [illustration: diagram .--distribution of , clothing workers by sex in the principal occupations in the garment industry] four-fifths of the men and two-fifths of the women employed in the industry are of foreign birth and the majority of the native born workers are of foreign parentage. there is an increasing demand for workers who understand english, due to the fact that they are able to follow directions more intelligently. there are relatively few workers under the age of . many firms will employ no one under this age because of various complications which arise in connection with the age and schooling certification of girls between the ages of and . of women's clothing factories visited during the survey only nine had any workers under . according to the report of the industrial commission of ohio for only eight per cent of the workers employed in making men's clothing, and less than two per cent of the workers employed in making women's clothing were under years of age. earnings in general the wages paid in garment making compare favorably with those of other manufacturing industries. this is particularly true with respect to the earnings of women workers. a considerably larger proportion of the women employed in the garment industry earn what may be considered high wages for industrial workers than in any of the larger factory industries of the city. this is clearly shown in diagram which lists nine of the principal fields of industrial employment for women. the proportions of women receiving under $ a week are lower in men's and women's clothing than in the other seven industries. in the proportion of women receiving $ and over, women's clothing ranks first and men's clothing third. [illustration: diagram .--percentage of women in men's and women's clothing and seven other important women employing industries receiving under $ , $ to $ , and $ and over per week.] the comparison of the wages paid men employees shown in diagram is somewhat less favorable. women's clothing ranks with printing and publishing as to the proportion of male workers receiving the highest specified earnings per week. men's clothing ranks sixth among the industries compared. the various kinds of work do not command fixed wage rates, as do many other types of industrial employment. quantity of output as well as quality of workmanship is an important factor in the determination of wages. men generally turn out a greater output than women on the same kind of work and piece workers usually earn more than those paid by the week. the lowest, average, and highest wages for each of the principal occupations in the two branches of the industry are shown in tables and . one reason often given for the higher earnings received by workers on women's garments is the greater irregularity of employment in this branch of the industry. this, however, does not sufficiently account for the difference. the most weighty reason is that a higher degree of adaptability is required of workers than is the case in the manufacture of men's clothing. [illustration: diagram .--percentage of men in men's and women's clothing and seven other manufacturing industries receiving under $ , $ to $ , and $ and over per week] table .--wages for full-time working week, women's clothing, cleveland, ---------------------------------------+--------+----------+---------+ workers | lowest | average | highest | ---------------------------------------+--------+----------+---------+ assorters, women | $ . | $ . | $ . | hand sewers, women | . | . | . | trimming girls | . | . | . | operators,* women | . | . | . | sample makers, women | . | . | . | examiners, women | . | . | . | models, suit and cloak | . | . | . | forewomen | . | . | . | operators,* men | . | . | . | pressers, men | . | . | . | cutters,§ men | . | . | . | pattern graders, suit and cloak, men | . | . | . | sample makers, men | . | . | . | examiners, men | . | . | . | head tailors, men | . | . | ... | foremen | . | . | . | ---------------------------------------+--------+----------+---------+ *: includes piece and section operators and helpers to head tailors §: includes all cutters except foremen, apprentices, and pattern graders table .--average wages for full-time working week for similar workers, men's and women's clothing, cleveland, ---------------------------------------+--------------+--------------+ workers | men's | women's | | clothing | clothing | ---------------------------------------+--------------+--------------+ hand sewers, women | $ . | $ . | section operators, women | . | . | examiners, women | . | . | section operators, men | . | . | pressers, under | . | . | forewomen | . | . | pressers, upper | . | . | cutters, cloth | . | . | examiners, men | . | . | foremen | . | . | ---------------------------------------+--------------+--------------+ regularity of employment the making of women's clothing is seasonal, to meet a seasonal purchasing demand. most people purchase their summer clothes in april and may, and their winter clothes in october and november. during the months previous to these purchasing seasons a large number of workers are needed, but after the height of the purchasing period employment becomes less and less steady until the first demands of the new season are felt. during the rush season a greater number of workers is employed, or the output may be augmented by increasing the speed at which the work is performed or the number of hours in the working day. a combination of these methods is frequently used. during dull periods the workers may be busy from a few hours a week to full working time; while in rush periods they may work not only the regular working hours, but in addition a good deal of over-time. compared with other manufacturing industries as regards regularity of employment men's clothing makes an excellent showing while women's clothing ranks low. in diagram the average number of unemployed among each workers is shown for men's and women's clothing and for other large manufacturing industries in the city. men's clothing leads the list, with an average unemployment of four among each workers, while women's clothing ranks th, with among each . training and promotion designers learn their work through apprenticeships to custom tailors and cutters and by taking supplementary courses in drafting and grading of patterns in a designing school. most designers in cleveland have had training in designing schools in new york or chicago. [illustration: diagram .--the black portions of the bars show the average number of unemployed among each workers in men's clothing, women's clothing and other specified industries] with but few exceptions organized training for machine operating is found only in the largest establishments. there is general agreement among employers that it takes a girl who has never operated a machine before about four weeks to learn an easy operation well enough to be taken on at regular piece rates. a much longer time is required to become a first class worker on a single operation, and to acquire skill in a group of operations takes from one to two years. girls are not usually employed as hand sewers unless they know how to do plain sewing. a girl who starts with this knowledge should be able to learn factory sewing well enough to earn fair wages within from six months to a year. in cutting, which has a so-called apprenticeship lasting from two to six years, there is no formal system of instruction. boys must pick up the trade from observation and practice. beginners start as errand boys, cloth boys, bundlers, or helpers. pressing is usually learned in cleaning and pressing shops. it takes about eight weeks for a green hand to become a good seam presser. to become a final presser on skirts and dresses requires from six months to a year, and on jackets and cloaks from two to three years. examiners have usually had considerable previous experience as machine operators or finishers. the length of experience depends on the kinds of garments and ranges from three to eight years. trimmers and assorters learn their work as helpers to experienced employees. a year or so of experience is required before they can be entrusted with responsible work. foremen are selected from the working force or, in a few cases, trained especially for their positions. although there are few opportunities each year for advancement to foremanship, employers declare they cannot get enough persons of ability to fill vacancies. a study of the previous experience of foremen and forewomen made by the survey shows that they come from nearly every department of the factory. the length of previous experience among the cases studied ranged from three months to nine years. educational needs the quality which proprietors of garment making establishments value above all others in their employees is adaptability. the reason for this is that the manufacturing of clothing differs from almost all other kinds of industrial work in the frequency with which changes take place in the size and shape of the product and in the range of materials which must be handled by the same workers. there is an annual change in the weight of cloth used for the different seasons, from light to heavy and from heavy to light. the size and shape of the pieces which compose the finished garment are determined by changes in style which vary from the minor modifications occurring yearly in men's clothing to the radical changes in the style of women's clothing. a wide variety of fabrics is employed, ranging from thick to thin, smooth to rough, closely woven to loosely woven and from plain weave to fancy weave. in one season a single establishment will make garments from as many as different fabrics, and each operator is likely to work upon or more different kinds of cloth. in view of the fact that many of the workers are foreigners or of foreign parentage, and that the frequent changes in styles and materials require the giving of detailed instructions by foremen, instruction in english is of more importance in the garment trades than in occupations where there is a larger proportion of native born and where the products and processes are more uniformly standardized. all clothing workers should have a practical knowledge of the fundamental operations of arithmetic. where the piece and section systems are in operation it is important for the worker to keep account of what she has accomplished and to know enough arithmetic to check her own record with the tally kept by the foreman or payroll girl. some of the occupations, such as cutting, involve a considerable amount of arithmetical computation. as in other trades, all workers and prospective workers need a general knowledge of industrial conditions. they would greatly benefit from a better understanding of the supply of labor, factors affecting prices, organization of workers, industrial legislation, the relative importance of the field of employment in different industries, the nature of important industrial processes, and the like. at the present time there is little opportunity for gaining such information either before entering any specific line of work or afterwards. for certain small groups within the clothing industry there are needs in the way of technical training that are important and at present unsupplied. training in applied mathematics, drafting and design would be of benefit to a considerable number of employees who are occupying or working towards advanced positions. a large proportion of the women workers need skill in hand sewing. before girls enter the industry they should have careful and systematic training in plain sewing stitches, sewing on buttons and other fasteners, and button hole making. machine operating is the most important occupation in the industry, and employs more women than any other occupation in the city, except perhaps dressmaking. after a careful study of the characteristics of this occupation and the various conditions affecting it, the survey reached the conclusion that there should be established by the school system a trade course for prospective power machine operators. sewing courses in the public schools in the elementary schools manual training sewing is given in the fifth and sixth grades. it consists of one hour a week of hand sewing taught by a regular grade teacher or sometimes by teachers of domestic science or other special subjects. the aim is to give the girls a knowledge of practical sewing which may be of use to them in the home. in five of the elementary schools hand and machine sewing is taught by special sewing teachers. about four per cent of all the seventh and eighth grade girls in the elementary schools receive this instruction. in the technical high schools the sewing course covers four years work. during the first two years all girls are required to take plain hand and machine sewing three and three-quarter hours a week. in the third and fourth years they may elect either millinery or dressmaking, and special courses in these subjects are provided for girls who wish to prepare for trade work. the aim of the sewing course as stated in the outline of the east technical high school is "( ) preparation for efficiency in the selection of the materials used in sewing and the construction of articles relating to the home and family sewing: ( ) laying the foundation for courses in college, normal school, or business school." a two year elective course in sewing is provided in the academic high school as a part of the home economic course. the aim of this sewing, which is called domestic art, is stated thus: "problem--my personal appearance is one of my chief assets. what can i do to improve it?" dressmaking and millinery classes are conducted in the night technical high schools to teach girls how to make their own clothes and hats. the manual training sewing in the fifth and sixth grades cannot be considered as furnishing any important contribution in the training of those who will make their living in the sewing trades. much the same must be said of the work in the technical high schools. it is taught not for the purpose of securing quick, accurate hand or machine stitching, but to enable the girls to make a few garments for their personal use. due to the fact that very few of the girls who become wage earners in these trades remain in school after the completion of the elementary course it is doubtful whether the technical high school offers a hopeful field for practical training. the work in the elementary schools is so hampered by lack of equipment that the results, from the standpoint of trade preparation, amount to very little. elective sewing courses in the junior high school the reduction of retardation all through the grades is of fundamental importance to any plan of vocational training. the age of is the final compulsory attendance age for girls, and those who enter at six and seven and make regular progress should be in the first or second high school year by the time they reach this age. last year there were, however, , fifteen-year-old girls in the cleveland schools who were from one to seven grades below normal. instead of being in the high school, they were scattered from the second grade to the eighth, and they constituted more than half of all the girls of that age in the school system. it is clear that unless the schools can carry them through more nearly on schedule time there is no hope of providing industrial training for a large proportion of them, because they reach the end of the compulsory period before entering the grades in which industrial training can be given effectively and economically. the report recommends that during the junior high school period girls who expect to enter the sewing trades should be given work in mechanical drawing, elementary science, industrial conditions, elementary mechanics and hand and machine sewing. the fundamentals of sewing can be thoroughly taught in two years. the work during the first year might well be limited to hand sewing. machine sewing should be taken up in the second year, and the girls given an opportunity during the third year to specialize somewhat broadly in a trade school on the kind of work in which they may wish to engage--power operating, dressmaking, or millinery. a one year trade course for girls specialized training must be conducted under conditions closely resembling those found in the industry. this involves equipment similar to that used in the factory, an ample supply of materials, and a corps of teachers who have had practical experience. it might seem that on the score of adequate equipment the factory itself would be the place for such training. but the fact is that the main object of the factory is to turn out as large a quantity as possible of saleable product. in the school the main object should be to turn out as large a quantity of saleable skill and knowledge as possible, with the saleable product as a secondary, although necessary, feature. the junior high school is not the place for specialized trade training, since it is reasonably certain that there would not be a sufficient number of girls in each junior high school desiring to enter a single trade to warrant the provision of special equipment and special teachers. for this reason the report favors a trade course in a separate school plant where girls who wish to specialize in any of the sewing trades can be taught in fairly large classes. the work done during the past few years in such institutions as the boston trade school for girls and the manhattan trade school for girls in new york city gives evidence of the practicability of this plan. trade-extension training the only instruction offered by the public school system at the present time which can be considered as trade-extension training for the garment industries is that given in the sewing classes in the technical night schools. the enrollment in these classes during the second term of - was . only a small proportion of the girls and women enrolled in the night sewing classes make their living by sewing. the students employed by day in clothing factories or in any of the sewing trades constitute somewhat less than per cent of the total number enrolled. nearly half of the enrollment is made up of workers in commercial, clerical or professional pursuits and approximately one-third are not employed in any gainful occupation. in both technical night schools the emphasis is laid on training for home sewing rather than on training for wage earning. the courses now given are not planned for workers in the garment trades, but to help women and girls who want to learn how to make, alter, and repair their own garments. if a trade school of the kind described in the previous section were established it would be possible to give at night short unit courses in machine or hand sewing to those workers who wish to extend their experience and prepare themselves for advancement, utilizing in the night classes the equipment of the day school. it is probable also that special day classes could be organized during the dull season to give beginners the opportunity to learn new processes and extend their knowledge of trade theory. chapter xv summary of report on dressmaking and millinery at the time of the last census the total number of women in cleveland employed as milliners or dressmakers was approximately , , of whom about seven-tenths were dressmakers and about three-tenths milliners. for the most part they were of native birth. the proportion of young girls engaged in these occupations was relatively small, the age distribution showing that only about one-third of the milliners and less than one-fifth of the dressmakers were under years of age. dressmaking four distinctive lines of work are done by those who are classified by the census as dressmakers and seamstresses: dressmaking proper, usually carried on in shops; alteration work in stores; general sewing done by seamstresses at home or in the homes of customers; and the work of the so-called dressmaking "school," in which the dressmaker helps her customers do their general sewing. shop dressmaking is in the main confined to the making of afternoon and evening gowns and fancy blouses. nearly uniform processes of work are maintained and the workers in the different establishments need about the same kinds of abilities and degrees of skill. there is a strong and increasing tendency towards specialization of the work. among each workers in dressmaking shops about are head girls, are finishers or makers, are helpers, eight are apprentices, and the rest are lining makers, cutters, embroiderers, errand girls, shoppers, and stock girls. alteration work constitutes a separate sewing trade and consists of the adjustment of ready-made garments to individual peculiarities. it furnishes employment to several hundred workers in cleveland. the weekly wages most commonly paid to each class of workers in dressmaking shops may be roughly stated as follows: apprentices, $ to $ ; helpers $ to $ ; finishers or makers $ to $ ; and drapers $ to $ . lining making, done in most shops by apprentices or helpers, pays from $ to $ a week. in one shop a specialist on linings received $ . women cutters, found in two shops, and doing supervisory work similar to that done by drapers, earned from $ to $ . hemstitchers earn $ to $ and a guimpe maker in one shop earned $ . errand girls were found at $ and $ ; stock girls at $ , $ , and $ ; and shoppers at from $ . to $ . beginners in alteration departments are started at from $ to $ . regular alteration hands earn from $ to $ , the average being $ or $ . fitters earn about the same as drapers in dressmaking shops, averaging from $ to $ , with a range of from $ to $ . as a rule comparatively little time is lost through irregularity of employment. workers average from to months' work out of the year. establishments usually close during the month of august and for one or two weeks in the spring. workers in alteration department average months of work. dress alteration work is steady, while suit and coat alteration is irregular. apprenticeship in dressmaking comprehends a trying-out period of from six months to a year. most shops take apprentices, the proportion in the trade being one to every workers; and an effort is made to keep these new workers if they are at all satisfactory. there is no standardized apprenticeship wage. girls may serve without pay for six months, or may start at from cents to $ a week. at the end of six months they may be earning from $ . to $ . the lack of any wage standard in apprenticeship probably accounts for the fact that it is difficult to get girls to enter this trade. millinery millinery requires the handling of small pieces of the most varied sorts of material, most of it perishable. the materials must be measured, cut, turned, twisted, and draped into innumerable designs and color combinations, and sewed with various kinds of stitching. the main processes are making, trimming, and designing. making consists in fashioning a specified shape from wire or buckram and covering it with such materials as straw or velvet. the covering may be put on plain, or may be shirred or draped. trimming consists in placing and sewing on all sorts of decorative materials. a combination of the two processes of making and trimming, known as copying, consists in making a hat from the beginning exactly like a specified model. designing is the creation of original models. the increase in the use of the factory-made hat has decreased the number of workers in custom millinery, and has also had an effect in diverting business from small retail shops to millinery departments in stores. the number of millinery workers constantly fluctuates, not only from season to season, but from year to year. according to a close estimate not more than , workers were actually engaged in millinery occupations during the busiest part of . between , and , were in retail shops; about were in millinery departments in stores; and about more were in wholesale houses. the data collected indicate that the wages of workers in retail shops are lower in general than the wages of workers in millinery departments in stores and in wholesale houses. makers in retail shops earn from $ to $ a week, the average being about $ . trimmers earn from $ to $ , with an average of about $ . out of retail shops, only paid as high as $ to any maker; paid as high as $ ; six paid as high as $ ; and only one paid over $ . in millinery departments in stores, trimmers, who are generally designers, earn from $ to $ a week or more. the rate most commonly received is $ . makers are started at from $ to $ and may advance to $ , with an average of about $ . in wholesale houses designers earn from $ to $ , or more. makers start at about $ , and the usual range is from $ to $ . those employed in straight copying may earn between $ and $ . the report of the industrial commission of ohio presents data showing that of the women years of age and over employed in wholesale houses per cent receive under $ , about per cent receive between $ and $ , while per cent receive $ and over. the girls under years of age were, with one exception, receiving less than $ per week. employment in retail shops averages about weeks during the year; in the millinery departments of stores from to weeks; and in wholesale houses about weeks. the proportion of workers employed the year round is very small. the majority of millinery workers are faced with the problem of tiding themselves over two dull seasons, aggregating from to weeks each year. the millinery apprenticeship period lasts for two seasons of weeks each. almost all retail shops take apprentices in large numbers, there being one apprentice to every three or four workers in the trade. few apprentices are found in stores and wholesale houses. the apprenticeship wage is extremely low. the usual rate is $ a week during the first season and from $ . to $ during the second. the problem of training the needs of girls who are soon to leave school and go to work can best be met by a modification of the junior high school course and by the establishment of a one-year trade school for girls. before a re-organization of the junior high school work is made to meet the needs of these girls an effort should be made to reduce retardation so that more girls will reach the junior high school before the end of the compulsory attendance period. the present courses should be reorganized so as to give basic preparation for wage earning and should be as concrete and real as a thorough understanding of the requirements of the gainful occupations can make them. thorough sewing courses planned from the standpoint of the sewing trades should be offered, extending over two years. the program suggested closely resembles that recommended for the garment trades. it is also recommended that a one-year trade school be established for preparing girls to enter employment in dressmaking and millinery. the history of trade schools for girls, both private and public, indicates that such a school, if properly conducted, would be highly successful in cleveland. the classes in sewing and millinery in the evening technical high schools do not offer trade-extension training for workers and it is not likely that they could be easily reorganized to furnish such training. it is recommended that if a trade school is established in cleveland, short unit courses in sewing and related subjects, such as design, be given in evening classes. chapter xvi summary of report on the metal trades approximately one-half of the total number of persons in cleveland engaged in manufacturing are found in the metal industries. when the last federal census was taken nearly one-seventh of the entire male population was employed in establishments engaged in the manufacture of crude or finished metal products. pittsburgh only, among the largest cities in the country, has a higher proportion of its industrial population working in such establishments. in relation to its total population, cleveland has twice as many people working in these industries as chicago, three times as many as philadelphia, and four times as many as new york. it is estimated that at the present time the number of wage earners in the city engaged in this kind of work is between , and , . the report deals with the three leading industries of the city,--foundry and machine shop products, automobile manufacturing, and steel works and rolling mills. the study of this last group also includes several related industries, such as blast furnaces, wire mills, nail mills, and bolt, nut, and rivet factories. about three-fourths of the total number of wage earners in the city engaged in the manufacture of metal products are found in these three industries. the field investigations consisted of personal visits to the manufacturing establishments for the purpose of securing first hand data as to industrial conditions, and conferences with employers, superintendents, foremen, and workmen as to the need and possibilities of training for metal working occupations. in all, establishments, employing approximately , men, were visited. the conclusions as to vocational training were based on an analysis of educational needs in the various metal industries, together with an extended study of the social and economic factors which condition the training of all workers. particular attention was given to the administrative problems involved in such training in public schools. foundry and machine shop products according to the united states census, foundries and factories making machine shop products gave employment in to nearly , cleveland wage-earners. this industrial group ranks first in the city, employing more than twice as many workers as the next largest industry,--automobile manufacturing,--and approximately two-fifths of the total working force in all metal industries. its growth during the previous five years, from the standpoint of number of workers employed, showed an increase of about per cent, and it is estimated that the total number of wage-earners in was approximately , . at the present time, due to the impetus given to this branch of manufacturing by the european war, the working force is undoubtedly in excess of this figure. the report gives extended consideration to the machinist's trade, which constitutes by far the largest body of skilled workers in the city. this trade has been affected more than any other by the progress of invention and the modern tendency towards specialization. in many establishments the all-round machinist, competent to do independent work and operate the wide variety of machine tools now used in the trade, had practically disappeared. in his place are found "specialist" machine hands who have learned the operation of a single machine tool, but have no general knowledge of the trade, and who if called on to perform work requiring the use of a machine tool different from the one on which they are employed are unable to do so. there are hundreds of drill press hands who cannot operate a milling machine, lathe hands who know nothing of planer work, and so on. the subdivision of these occupations follows closely the advance in invention, so that employers advertising for help frequently specify not only the machine tool to be used but add the name of the firm which manufactures that particular type of machine, with the result that there are about as many kinds of machinists as there are manufacturers of machine tools. table shows the estimated number of men employed, with their distribution in the various branches of the trade. table .--proportions and estimated numbers employed in machine tool occupations, --------------------------------+------------+-------------+ | | estimated | workers | per cent | number | --------------------------------+------------+-------------+ lathe hands | . | , | drill press operators | . | , | bench hands | . | , | machinists | . | , | screw machine operators | . | , | milling machine operators | . | , | tool makers | . | , | grinding machine operators | . | , | planer hands | . | | turret lathe operators | . | | gear cutter operators | . | | --------------------------------+------------+-------------+ total | . | , | --------------------------------+------------+-------------+ specialization has operated to lower standards of skill and keep down wages. the average wage of the "all-round" machinist is very nearly the lowest found among the skilled trades. the union scale is but cents an hour above that paid unskilled labor, while the average earnings of machine operators range from four to cents above laborers' wages. only among the highly skilled tool makers do the wages approach those received by skilled labor in most other industries. table shows the average, highest, and lowest rates per hour for all branches of the machine trades in the establishments from which data were collected during the survey, with the per cent employed on piece work and day work. table .--average, highest, and lowest earnings, in cents per hour, and per cent employed on piece work and day work, ---------------------------+-------+-------+-------+--------+--------+ | | | |per cent|per cent| | | | |on piece| on day | workers |lowest |average|highest| work | work | ---------------------------+-------+-------+-------+--------+--------+ tool makers | . | . | . | .. | | machinists | . | . | . | .. | | planer hands | . | . | . | .. | | grinding machine operators | . | . | . | | | bench hands | . | . | . | | | screw machine operators | . | . | . | | | lathe hands | . | . | . | | | turret lathe operators | . | . | . | | | gear cutter operators | . | . | . | | | milling machine operators | . | . | . | | | drill press operators | . | . | . | | | machinists' helpers | . | . | . | .. | | ---------------------------+-------+-------+-------+--------+--------+ on the basis of weekly or yearly earnings, the trade makes a better showing. work is steady throughout the year, and the time lost through unemployment on account of seasonal changes is slight. also, as the usual working day is from nine to hours, that is, from one to two hours longer than in the higher paid building trades, the difference in daily wages is really less marked than a comparison of hourly rates would seem to indicate. little attempt has been made to adapt the apprentice system to modern conditions. the term of service and rates of pay have changed but slightly over a long period of years. as a result only a small proportion of the boys who begin as apprentices finish the apprenticeship term of three or four years. employers attribute this to the relatively high wages paid for machine operating, and the slight advantage, from a wage standpoint, of the "all-round" man over the machine operator. after a year or two the apprentice finds that he can double his pay by taking a job as operator, and the inducement for learning the trade thoroughly is too small to hold him. the report gives a comparison of the earnings of an apprentice and a machine operator, both starting at the same age, the first becoming a journeyman machinist at the end of three years and the second specializing on a particular machine. assuming that both boys go to work at the age of their total earnings up to the age of years will be approximately equal. the lack of thoroughly trained workmen is beginning to be felt, but the efforts made by industrial establishments to meet it have small prospects of success unless the economic factors of the problem are given greater consideration. inasmuch as no regular apprenticeship period is served for machine operating, a special effort was made to secure data relating to the time usually required for the worker to learn the operation of each tool well enough to earn average wages. in this matter the individual opinions of foremen and superintendents differed widely, but when the reports from all the establishments visited were compared, a sufficient degree of uniformity was found to serve as a basis for estimating the amount of experience workers of average intelligence would need, under normal shop conditions, in order to become fairly proficient. there was practical unanimity in fixing the period at four years for tool makers and three to four years for machinists. higher estimates were received from the superintendents of plants doing a jobbing business or manufacturing high grade machine tools than from the specialized shops making a single product. the superintendents of automobile manufacturing plants, where the standard of quality in production is necessarily high, gave the lowest estimates of all. table shows the estimated time required to learn the various types of machine work. table .--estimated time required to learn machine tool work ------------------------------------+----------------------+ workers | time required | ------------------------------------+----------------------+ grinding machine operators | to months | lathe hands | to months | planer hands | months | gear cutter operators | months | turret lathe operators | to months | screw machine operators | to months | bench hands | to months | milling machine operators | to months | drilling machine operators | weeks to months | ------------------------------------+----------------------+ the weakness of specialization, with its constant tendency towards the substitution of semi-skilled operatives for trained workmen, lies in its failure to provide a body of workers from whom to recruit the large directive force needed in any scheme of production based on semi-skilled labor. this condition is regarded by many employers with grave concern, and in a few plants apprentice schools designed primarily to train future foremen have been established. practically all the foremen in the shops visited had received an all-round training as machinists, and there are few opportunities for promotion open to men who have not a general knowledge of the trade. on the other hand, such general knowledge is only one of the requisites for advancement. others are initiative, resourcefulness, tact, self-control, ability to get along with men, and a disposition to subordinate personal interests to the interests of the business. to these should be added the quality of patience, for there must be vacancies before there can be promotions, and vacancies among the better positions are not frequent. ten of the establishments visited, employing a total working force of over , men, reported but eight vacancies among foremen's positions over a period of one year. these same establishments had in their employ a total of all-round machinists and tool makers. assuming that only the machinists and tool makers were eligible for promotion, the mathematical chance per man of becoming a foreman during the year was about one in . other occupations studied in detail were pattern making, molding, core making, blacksmithing, and boiler making. pattern making offers the most interesting work and the highest wages among the metal trades, but the total number of american born pattern makers in the city does not exceed seven or eight hundred, so the field of employment is relatively limited. molding and core making, in which between , and , men are engaged, have practically become foreign trades. less than per cent of the molders in the city were born in this country. these trades offer few opportunities for employment to boys of native birth. somewhat similar conditions exist in the blacksmithing trade. changed methods of production have largely done away with the old-time blacksmith, who survives only in horse-shoeing and repair shops. the proportion of native blacksmiths is steadily declining, and it is unlikely that any considerable number of boys from the public schools will enter the trade. the boiler making trade employs relatively few men, the total number of native born boiler makers at the time of the last census being less than . the trade seems to be at a standstill. the increase during the previous decade was less than five per cent against a total population increase of per cent. the average earnings per hour for these trades in the establishments visited by members of the survey staff are shown in table . table .--average earnings per hour in pattern making, molding, core making, blacksmithing, and boiler making average earnings workers per hour pattern makers . skilled molders . semi-skilled molders . skilled core makers . semi-skilled core makers . blacksmiths . boiler makers . the findings and recommendations as to training emphasize the fact that the vast majority of boys who become workers in the metal trades leave school by the time they are with at most a common school education, so that any vocational training before they go to work must be given between the ages of and and before the end of the eighth grade. the report points out the impossibility of effective vocational instruction in elementary schools on account of the prohibitive cost per pupil for both equipment and teaching, and endorses the recently adopted junior high school plan. this form of organization has the great advantage of concentrating in large groups the boys who are old enough to make a beginning in prevocational training, and through the departmental system of teaching offers facilities for differentiation of courses to meet their varying needs. whatever their cultural value, the present manual training courses in woodwork have little relation to the requirements of any metal working trade, except pattern making, in which some of the same tools are used. no manual training work in metal is offered in the elementary and junior high schools. the course recommended for the junior high school lays especial emphasis on applied mathematics, mechanical drawings, practice in assembling and taking apart machines, and the utilization of the shop as a laboratory for teaching industrial science. the report maintains that the object of such a course should be the development of industrial intelligence through the application of mathematical and mechanical principles to the solution of concrete problems, rather than the teaching of specific operations and skill in the use of tools. in mechanical drawing the ability to understand and interpret drawings should be given more importance than the ability to make drawings. few workmen are ever called on to draw, while the ability to read plans and sketches is always in demand. it is also recommended that boys who do not expect to take a full high school course or who intend to leave at the end of the compulsory period should devote at least a period each week to the study of economic and working conditions in industrial and commercial occupations. with respect to the technical high schools the report holds that these schools are primarily training schools for the higher positions of industry. they undoubtedly offer the best instruction obtainable in the city for the ambitious boy who wishes to prepare himself for supervisory and managerial positions in industry or for a college engineering course. the establishment of a separate two-year vocational school, equipped for giving instruction in all the larger industrial trades, is recommended. the number of boys in the public schools between the ages of and who are likely to enter the metal trades is between and , of whom from to will become machinists or machine tool operators. an enrollment of much less than this number is sufficient to justify the installation of good shop equipment and the employment of a corps of teachers who have had the special training necessary for this kind of work. it should be possible to form a class in pattern making and foundry work of from to boys, and one of at least in blacksmithing. boiler making could be taught in connection with sheet metal work. various changes are recommended in the present evening school classes for machinists, molders, and pattern makers now given by the technical high schools. it is claimed that the courses as now organized are not elastic enough to meet the varying needs of the journeymen, helpers, machine operators, and apprentices employed in these trades. the great need is for short unit courses in which the instruction is limited to a particular machine or a special branch of the trade. the long course tends to discourage the student, especially when it embraces an amount of theory out of all proportion to his working needs. automobile manufacturing due to the large number and specialized character of the occupations in this industry, they are taken up in a more general way than the "foundries and machine shop" group. the productive departments of the automobile factories utilize in the main the same equipment as other machinery manufacturing plants, but specialization has been carried to a degree found in few other metal industries. the "all-round" workman is a rara avis. the machine shops are manned by machine "specialists" most of whom know how to operate a single machine tool or perform a single operation made up of relatively simple elements. from one-half to two-thirds of the working force is recruited from immigrant labor which is "broken in" under skilful foremen within a period varying from a few days to a few weeks. in the simpler assembling operations the jobs are so subdivided that any man who is not actually feebleminded can learn the work in a few days. production is on a large scale, permitting the maintenance of high-grade engineering and experimental departments, where all of the work is planned to the last detail. as a result the automobile manufacturers are turning out one of the most complicated and most efficient machines known to modern industry with a working force composed chiefly of semi-skilled labor. for the machine shop workers the training suggested is similar to that recommended for the same class of workmen in other machine shops. the necessity of short unit courses adapted for teaching parts of the trade rather than the whole trade is obvious, as most automobile workers are employed on specialized operations. short unit evening courses for motor and transmission assemblers, and testers and inspectors, are recommended. steel works, rolling mills, and related industries a somewhat similar treatment is followed with respect to the iron and steel group of industries--blast furnaces, steel mills, rolling mills, wire mills, nail mills, and bolt, nut, and rivet factories. these industries are characterized by a high proportion of common and semi-skilled labor in the working force. between and per cent of the workers are of foreign birth. in the operating department of one mill only two americans were found among a total of employees. as a rule the native born workers are mechanics employed in the power and maintenance departments. with scarcely an exception the occupations are of a nature that require the worker to learn through actual experience in the mills. theory and practice must be learned at the same time. even the supervisory and executive positions in which a technical education is of considerable value require a long and arduous apprenticeship on the job before the worker can compete with men who have started with the scantiest educational equipment, but have picked up a knowledge of the processes by experience and observation. below these positions the work rapidly grades off to various kinds of machine operating in which not even the ability to read or understand english is required. no plan of vocational training is presented, because at present the mills recruit almost exclusively from foreign labor, and only a very small number of boys from the public schools are likely to seek employment in them. the technical content of the work which might conceivably be given in evening classes, except in the case of the few directive and supervisory positions, is so small that continuation instruction offers but meager hopes of success. under present conditions the long working day and the necessity of changing from the day to the night shift, or vice-versa every two weeks, constitutes an insuperable obstacle to the organization of night classes. the principal need of the rank and file is a speaking and reading knowledge of the english language, so that the workers can be taught to avoid and prevent accidents, and give themselves the necessary care when they occur. instruction in english with possibly courses in accident prevention and personal hygiene represent about the only training possible that can be said to have any real vocational significance. chapter xvii summary of report on the building trades a careful estimate places the number of men engaged in building construction in cleveland at the present time at about , , comprising more than one-fifth of the total number employed in manufacturing and mechanical occupations. about two-thirds of these workmen are skilled artisans, distributed among some different trades. the estimated number in each trade is shown in table . sources of labor supply the building trades get their workers from four principal sources: immigration, native journeymen from outside the city, helpers, and apprentices. immigration contributes the largest proportion in both skilled and unskilled work, practically monopolizing the latter. over four-fifths of all cabinet makers, more than two-thirds of all brick and stone masons, and nearly two-thirds of all carpenters are foreign born. plumbers and steam-fitters show the smallest proportion of foreign labor. table .--estimated number of men engaged in building trades, ----------------------------------------+------------------+ workers in trade | number employed | ----------------------------------------+------------------+ carpenters | , | painters, glaziers, varnishers | , | plumbers, gas- and steam-fitters | , | bricklayers | , | machine woodworkers | , | sheet metal workers or tinsmiths | , | cabinet-makers | | inside wiremen and fixture hangers | | plasterers | | paperhangers | | structural iron workers | | roofers and slaters | | stone-cutters | | lathers | | stone masons and marble setters | | ornamental iron workers | | cement finishers | | hoisting engineers | | elevator constructors | | parquet floor layers | | tile-layer | | asbestos workers | | wood carvers | | helpers | | apprentices | | ----------------------------------------+------------------+ total | , | ----------------------------------------+------------------+ apprenticeship the general decline of the apprenticeship system which began with the invention of modern labor-saving machinery has affected the building trades least of all. here it survives in an active state and is steadily gaining ground. it is in favor with many employers and with all unions. the best apprenticeship systems are found in the strongly organized trades. it is true that in some of the trades apprenticeship is little more than a name, meaning simply that permission has been granted to learn the trade. the apprentice is left free to pick up what experience he can between the odd jobs that are given him. what meager instruction he receives comes from a journeyman worker who is none too eager to give up what he considers the secrets of his trade. the union regulations provide that boys shall not enter the trades as apprentices or helpers below the age of . the limits set by the various trades and the union regulations as to length of apprenticeship are shown in tables and . table .--union regulations as to entering age of apprentices ----------------------------------------+------------------------+ asbestos workers | enter at any age | bricklayers | between and | carpenters | between and | cement finishers | must be full grown | elevator constructors | must be full grown | lathers | must be years old | inside wiremen | between and | painters and paperhangers | before years old | plumbers and gas-fitters | must be years old | sheet metal workers | must be over years | slate and tile roofers | must enter before | steam-fitters | must be full grown | structural and ornamental iron workers | between and | ----------------------------------------+------------------------+ table .--union regulations as to length of apprenticeship period _trades in which indentures are usually signed_ bricklayer years plasterers years sheet metal workers years _trades in which indentures are seldom signed_ steam-fitters years carpenters years inside wiremen years plumbers and gas-fitter years cement finishers years asbestos workers years painters and paperhangers years slate and tile roofers years lathers years structural and ornamental iron workers / years elevator constructors varies all obtainable information points to the conclusion that the number of apprentices employed in the city is far below the maximum permitted by the unions. many large contractors have no apprentices and say they will not bother with them. others state that they have been unable to get or keep good apprentices and have therefore given up the plan. union organization the building trades are among the most strongly organized in the city. it is estimated that their unions at the present time include about per cent of all the men engaged in building work. practically all the large contracting firms employ only union labor. the few non-union workers are employed by small contractors. requirements for admission to the different unions vary to a marked degree. if the union is strong and has a good control over the labor supply, admission fees are higher and regulations as to apprentices and helpers are more stringent than if the union is fighting to gain a foothold. earnings no industrial workers in the city are paid better wages than those employed in the building trades. more than one-half of the skilled workers are in trades that pay an hourly wage of cents or over. the hourly rate in each occupation is shown in table . table .--union scale of wages in cents per hour may , _ cents_ bricklayers . hoisting engineers on boom derricks, etc. . stone masons . structural iron workers . _from to cents_ marble setters . inside wiremen . plasterers . slate and tile roofers . parquet floor layers (carpenters) . lathers, first class . plumbers . steam-fitters . stone-cutters . hoisting engineers, brick hoists . elevator constructors . _from to cents_ tile layers . lathers, second class . carpenters . cement workers, finishers . sheet metal workers . painters . paperhangers . _from to cents_ asbestos workers . composition roofers . _under cents_ cabinet-makers and bench hands . machine woodworkers . electrical fixture hangers . hod-carriers . union organization is a more powerful factor in determining wages in these trades than technical knowledge and skill. a high degree of skill in a given trade brings little advantage in the matter of wages. by establishing a minimum scale below which no journeyman shall work, the union secures practically a flat rate of pay for most of the men in the trade. when there is much building work and good men are scarce, contractors sometimes pay higher wages to highly skilled workmen in order to secure their services. as a rule, however, their reward comes in the form of steadier employment. the less skilled man is the first to be laid off when business is slack, while the first-class workman, for the reason that he is so hard to replace, is the last to be discharged. many unions, among them those of the carpenters, bricklayers, and painters, make no provision as to the wages of apprentices. table shows the wages in three of the building trades that have established a uniform scale for apprentices. sheet metal apprentices are paid a bonus of $ extra for each week served. table .--usual weekly wages of apprentices in three building trades -------------+----------------+----------------+--------------+ | | | sheet metal | year | inside wiremen | plasterers | workers | -------------+----------------+----------------+--------------+ first year | $ . | $ . to $ . | $ . | second year | . | . to . | . to . | third year | . | . to . | . to . | fourth year | . | . | . to . | -------------+----------------+----------------+--------------+ hours the usual working day is eight hours. many of the trades work only a half day on saturdays throughout the year; practically all have this half holiday during the four summer months. for holiday or over-time work the men receive either pay and a half or double pay. regularity of employment due to the seasonal character of building work, it is next to impossible for a building contractor to keep a large force employed all the year. one result of this situation is that the men change employers more than any other workers in industry. irregularity of employment is greater in building construction than in any other of the principal industries of the city. a comparison between the different branches of building work as to regularity of employment is presented in diagram . the best showing is made by electrical contracting, in which the average number employed is per cent of the maximum working force, and the poorest by plastering in which the average is only per cent of the maximum. health conditions nearly all of the building trades are open air occupations, much even of the inside work being done before the buildings are closed in. for the most part the materials used are not injurious to health if reasonable precautions are taken and ordinary habits of cleanliness observed. in general, health conditions are better than those found in the factory industries. [illustration: diagram .--sections in outline represent percentage of men employed, and sections in black percentage of men unemployed in each of nine building industries at the time when each industry showed the largest percentage of unemployment] opportunities for advancement the building trades offer many opportunities for advancement. one reason for this is the large number of supervisory positions made necessary by the wide range of building activities. a foreman in almost any of the trades must be able to read plans, as he must lay out the work. it is not necessary for him to be the most skilled mechanic in the force. employers and superintendents say that in selecting foremen they lay about equal weight on skill and on ability to handle men. as a rule, foremanship carries with it higher wages, although in some cases the pay is the same as that of the regular journeymen. the reward for the added responsibility comes in the form of steadier employment. it is not uncommon for a foreman to be hired on a salary basis and carried on the payroll throughout the entire year. small contracting offers another form of advancement. it requires but little initial investment to make a modest beginning, because individual workmen in the various building trades provide their own tools and no expensive machines are required. comparatively little working capital is necessary, as provision is made in most contracts for part payments as the work progresses. the problem of training the recommendations of the report relating to training for the building trades may be summarized under five headings: . _reduce retardation._ the first step in improving the educational preparation of workers entering the building trades is to reduce retardation or slow progress in the elementary grades. at present it is approximately true of the men entering the building trades that one-third drop out of school by the sixth grade, two-thirds by the seventh grade, and three-thirds by the eighth grade. now according to law a boy cannot go to work until he is , and if he has made normal progress he will have completed the eight grades of the elementary course before he has reached that age. in point of fact, many of these boys do not make normal progress through the grades and hence they reach the age of before completing the elementary course. as a result they fall out of school without having had those portions of the work in reading, drawing, mathematics, and elementary science which would be of most direct use to them in their future work. . _general industrial courses in seventh, eighth, and ninth grades._ if retardation could be largely reduced in the elementary grades, industrialized courses could be properly introduced in the seventh, eighth, and ninth grades for boys intending to enter the building trades. the specific changes recommended include as their most important elements: a. increased training in industrial arithmetic beginning in the seventh grade. b. courses in industrial drawing. c. courses in elementary science relating to industry. d. courses in industrial information. e. general courses in industrial shop work. these are general industrial courses and it is recommended that they be introduced as prominent features of the work of the junior high school. they are not intended to take the place of specialized courses in the building trades, but they are proposed as courses valuable for all future industrial workers and within which certain adaptations should be made for those who are intending to enter the building trades. . _a two year industrial trade school._ in addition to the general industrial courses in junior high schools that have been recommended in the previous section, there should be established a two year industrial trade school for boys. it should receive boys to years of age who desire direct trade-preparatory training. there are good reasons why the present elementary schools, the proposed junior high schools, and the existing technical high schools cannot satisfactorily take the place of a specialized two year course in giving boys direct trade-preparatory education. boys who go through the technical high schools do not remain in the building trades as artisans. this is shown by the fact that less than two per cent of the graduates of these schools are working in the building trades. the elementary schools and the junior high schools cannot conduct satisfactory trade-preparatory courses for the building industry for the reason that they do not bring together at any one point a sufficient number of these future workers to make it possible to teach them economically. this is a consideration which conditions every plan for the organization of industrial education. it is a question of the community's capacity to absorb workmen trained for any given occupation. in cleveland about , boys leave the public elementary schools each year. approximately , of them drop out of the elementary schools or leave after graduating from them, while the remaining , go on to high school. the future workers in the building trades will be largely recruited from the , boys who leave the elementary schools each year. most of them range in age from to and in school advancement from the fifth to the eighth grades. they represent a cross-section of a large part of the city's adult manhood of a few years hence. now the census figures tell us that if present conditions maintain in the future only about of the , boys leaving school each year will be carpenters. for the purposes of the present inquiry we may assume that these future carpenters are to be found among the , boys who do not go on to high school. but cleveland has elementary schools and these future carpenters are widely scattered among them. even if we knew which boys were destined to become carpenters, and even if we knew when they would leave school, and even if we should decide to give them all trade preparatory education for the last two years of their school life, we should still have an average class in carpentry of only two boys in each elementary school. this is administratively and educationally impossible. for similar reasons specialized trade preparatory classes in junior high schools would prove exceedingly difficult to organize. the whole situation is changed, however, when we gather in a central school all these future artisans who have decided that they wish to prepare for specific trades. under these conditions classes would be sufficiently large so that specialized training could be given and special equipment provided. this work would best be undertaken in a school entirely devoted to the purpose, but such courses might be organized in connection with the present technical high schools. this arrangement would be less desirable and probably give inferior results. the important point, however, is not so much the organization or curriculum for these classes, it is the fundamental fact that trade classes can be wisely organized only when a sufficiently large number of pupils can be gathered in one place so as to make the work efficient and economical. the effectiveness of the trade-preparatory training recommended would be greatly increased if the upper limit of the compulsory attendance period for boys should be placed at years instead of at as it is now. . _trade-extension classes for apprentices._ at the present time the technical high schools offer evening classes for apprentices in the building trades. about one-seventh of the apprentices of the city are enrolled in these classes. in the main they are full grown men. in general they do not want shop work related to their own trades, but prefer instead to enroll in courses in drawing. the considerations already presented bear in minor degree on the problem of providing evening instruction for trade apprentices. the essential for efficient work is that a sufficient number of pupils be brought together so as to make it possible to organize specialized classes in different kinds of work that the pupils want and need. so long as there are only apprentices enrolled in the entire city, and these represent a number of trades, many different stages of advancement, and a variety of needs, truly efficient work will be impossible. better conditions can be brought about only through the coöperation of the unions, the employers, and the school people. . _trade-extension work for journeymen._ the evening technical schools now maintain shop classes and drawing classes for workers in the building trades. less than one per cent of the workers in these trades are enrolled in these classes. there is little differentiation in the school work offered to helpers, apprentices, and journeymen. the result is that the work is much less efficient than it might well be. it cannot be rendered much more efficient than it is until the classes are increased in size and as a result the work differentiated and specialized. this type of improvement will result only from putting the night school work in the hands of skilful and well paid directors and teachers who bring to it a degree of energy, enterprise, ingenuity, and adaptability that it is unreasonable to expect and impossible to get from day school teachers who have already given the best that is in them to their regular classes and are giving a fatigued margin of work and attention to their night school pupils. chapter xviii summary of report on railroad and street transportation the report on railroad and street transportation takes up a class of wage earning occupations that give employment in cleveland to approximately , men. a much larger proportion than is found in most other industrial manual occupations are natives of the city. although some of the work is relatively unskilled, all of the different occupations have one common characteristic--the necessity for a knowledge of the english language and some acquaintance with local customs and conditions. for this reason comparatively few foreigners are employed. the report takes up separately three types of workers, those employed in railroad train service, those engaged in wagon or automobile transportation, and the car service employees of the street railroad. railroad transportation the study covered only those railroad occupations that are directly concerned with the actual operation of trains, such as those of engineers, firemen, conductors, and trainmen. these occupations have many points in common and bring into play many similar mental and physical characteristics. the requirements for entrance are strict and examinations for the higher positions are obligatory. in all of them the hazards are great. each occupation is firmly intrenched in trade unionism. differences with employers relating to such matters as promotion, hours of labor, wages, and overtime are settled by collective bargaining or, in case of failure to agree, by arbitration proceedings. the estimated number of men in cleveland employed in these occupations in is approximately , . of these about one-fourth are switchmen and flagmen, one-fourth enginemen, one-fifth brakemen, one-sixth conductors, and one-eighth firemen. the requirements for entrance call for a high degree of physical fitness. the applicant for employment must pass a severe examination as to vision and hearing, and in addition furnish certain data as to his family history, as it relates to insanity, tuberculosis, and certain other diseases. the high standard maintained insures a type of employees which for physical fitness, mental alertness, and ability to handle difficult situations is unsurpassed in any industry. frequent examinations, which are compulsory, are the stepping stones to the higher positions. in this way a brakeman qualifies for the position of freight conductor, a freight conductor for that of passenger conductor, and a fireman for a position as engineer. each of the two services, passenger and freight, has its advantages. in the passenger service the working day is short, with little overtime. freight service requires a longer working day and a considerable amount of overtime. promotions in both services and from one to the other are made on the basis of seniority. violation of the strict rules laid down for the operation of trains on the part of employees may result in reprimand, suspension, or dismissal, according to the gravity of the offense. the penalty of suspension has practically superseded the others except in extreme cases, such as drunkenness, theft, or other serious violations of the rules, for which offenders are summarily dismissed. on some railroads, a graded system of demerits is used. when an employee has received a certain number of demerits he is dismissed from the service. the railroad unions are among the strongest and most aggressive in the country. the total union membership among train operating employees alone in the country is approximately , . the unions are all modeled upon the same general plan. they are quite independent of each other, keep strictly to their agreements and oppose the sympathetic strike. they all maintain some form of life insurance. four organizations have underwritten over $ , , of insurance and one of them in a single year paid claims amounting to $ , , . the influence of these unions has been particularly effective in securing the passage of protective state and national legislation such as full crew laws, standardization of train equipment, employers' liability laws, car limit laws, etc. the hazardous nature of the work is indicated by a statement made by a prominent union official to the effect that the trainmen's brotherhood paid a claim for death or disability every seven hours. a report to the interstate commerce commission states that there is one case of injury in train or yard service every nine minutes. with the invention of safety devices the risk of accident has been greatly lessened, but railroading is still one of the most dangerous industrial occupations. there is little chance of employment for applicants under the age of years. in fact, many roads refuse to employ men below this age. physical or sense defects which often accompany advancing years, and which would not disqualify a man in other occupations do so in railroad work. the average length of the working life is a little over years. railroad employees are among the best paid workers in the country. a close estimate based on extensive wage investigations places the annual earnings of engineers at from $ , to $ , a year, with an average of $ , . conductors average about $ , , firemen a little over $ , and other trainmen about $ . the usual working day is hours, although this is often exceeded. overtime is paid on a regular scale agreed upon by the companies and the union. the educational requirements are not very exacting. a thorough grounding in the "three r's" is usually all that is necessary. a large amount of trade knowledge is obtained through contact and participation after entering employment and can be gained in no other way. the examinations for promotion are of a thorough-going character. one of the roads in cleveland requires an examination of its firemen and trainmen six months after employment, as to vision, color-sense, and hearing. they must also pass an oral examination on the characteristics of their division and a written examination on certain set questions furnished them in advance. two years later they are examined again, the fireman for engineman, and the brakeman for conductor. the scope of these examinations covers the whole range of train operating. each of the five large railroads entering cleveland has air-brake cars equipped with various forms of air brakes, air signals, pumps, valves, and injectors for the purpose of giving instruction to trainmen. a competent instructor is put in charge of these cars to explain the theory and practice of the apparatus and also to give instruction in any new type of engine or train equipment. the conclusions of the report are in the main negative with respect to specialized vocational training in the public schools. there is no doubt that the general industrial course recommended for the junior high school period in previous chapters would be of some value to boys who may enter this line of work. problems of railroad transportation might well be included as part of the work in applied mathematics. what workers in these occupations need most, however, is a thorough elementary education. motor and wagon transportation this section of the report takes up such occupations as those of teamsters, chauffeurs, and repairmen. there are no reliable data as to the number of men in the city employed in these occupations, but it is certain that it does not fall below , . notwithstanding the great increase in the use of automobiles and auto trucks in recent years the number of teamsters at the present time is in excess of , men. a very large proportion of the men employed in these occupations are of american birth. the general conditions of labor such as wages, hours of labor, and so on, are the same for teamsters and chauffeurs. they earn about the same wages, belong to the same union, and work about the same hours. the wages range from to cents an hour. earnings in the better paid jobs compare favorably with those in several of the skilled trades. automobile repairmen earn from to cents an hour, and work from nine to hours a day. the working day for teamsters and chauffeurs is somewhat longer, ranging from to hours. at the present time these occupations are only partially organized in trade unions. the report recommends the establishment of a course in automobile construction and operation in the technical high schools. in view of the constantly increasing use of automobiles such a course would be of value to many boys besides those who enter employment as chauffeurs and truck drivers. street railroad transportation there are employed in cleveland at present approximately , motormen and street car conductors. almost all of them are of american birth, and the majority are natives of the city. as in railroad work each applicant for employment must pass an examination, although the requirements are less exacting than those demanded in railroad work. the preliminary training occupies about days, during which the motorman is taught by actual car operation how to operate the controller, how to apply and release the brakes, and other duties connected with the careful running of the car through crowded streets. the conductor is taught the names of the streets, how and when to call them, where stops are to be made, when to turn lights on and off, how to act in case of accidents, and the various duties which deal with the sale, collection, and reporting of transfers and tickets. no one is admitted into the service before the age of or after . promotion usually comes in the form of better runs. the chances of promotion to positions above the grade of conductor or motorman are very slight. about per cent of the men belong to the local union. union rates of pay for motormen and conductors are higher in cleveland than in most cities in the country, in spite of the fact that this is the only large city in the country with a three cent street car fare. the wages of both motormen and conductors are cents an hour for the first year and in succeeding years. the hours of labor are very irregular. the usual working day is from to hours. the author of the report is of the opinion that no special instruction for this type of workers can be given by the public schools. chapter xix summary of report on the printing trades a smaller proportion of the industrial population in cleveland is engaged in printing than in most large cities. the number of persons employed in printing occupations in is estimated at approximately , , made up chiefly of skilled workmen. little common labor is used in any department of the industry. the business of printing is usually conducted in small establishments. there are not more than six plants in the city which employ over wage earners. data collected from local printing shops, showed an average working force of only persons. due largely to this characteristic printing affords an unusual number of opportunities for advancement to the skilled workers in the industry. the smaller the establishments are the greater is the proportion of proprietors, superintendents, managers and foremen to the total number of wage earners. ten per cent of the total working force in the printing industry is employed in supervisory and directive positions. in many of the large manufacturing industries of the city the proportion in such work is less than three per cent. [illustration: diagram .--number of men in each in printing and five other industries earning each class of weekly wage. black indicates less than $ , hatching, $ to $ , and outline $ and over] no other manufacturing industry employs so large a proportion of american born workers. in recent years many of the skilled industrial trades have been recruited to a very large extent from foreign labor, but in printing the american worker has so far held his own remarkably well. this is due in part to the relatively high wages and desirable working conditions and to the necessity in all branches of printing for a working knowledge of english. practically all of the trades are thoroughly organized. the unions are united in a body called the council of the allied printing trades. although only about half of the shops in the city employ union labor exclusively, the union regulations as to wages and hours of labor are observed in both open and closed shops. printing workers are among the best paid industrial wage earners in the city. a comparison of the weekly earnings in the various manufacturing industries is shown in diagram . this comparison is based upon the report of the ohio industrial commission. the comparison of the earnings of women in various industries, shown in diagram , is less favorable to printing. on the basis of the proportion of women that earn $ and over per week this industry takes third place. it should be noted, however, that nearly all the women employed are engaged in semi-skilled work in binderies,--a lower grade of work than that done by most women workers in clothing factories, where wages are higher. compared with other occupations that require about the same amount of experience and training, in textile, tobacco, and confectionery manufacturing establishments, the wages of women employed in the printing industry are relatively high. wage earners in printing establishments lose less time through irregularity of employment than do those in most other factory industries. the kind of work done by women is more seasonal than that done by men, although less so than in other manufacturing industries which employ large numbers of women. [illustration: diagram .--number of women in each in printing and six other industries earning each class of weekly wage. black indicates less than $ , hatching $ to $ , and outline $ and over] composing room workers nearly all the workers in this department of the industry are hand or machine compositors. until about years ago, before practical type-setting machines were invented, all type was set by hand. today the hand compositor, except in very small shops, works only on jobs requiring special type and special arrangement, such as advertisements, title covers of books, letter heads, and so on. in the city there are about , people employed in composing room occupations, or about per cent of the total number of workers in the industry. this number includes some women employed as proof-readers and copy-holders. nine-tenths of the composing room workers are members of the international typographical union, although the number of shops that employ union men exclusively, called closed shops, approximates only one-half of the total number in the city. the remainder, while employing union labor, observing union hours, and paying union wages, reserve the right to hire non-union workmen. composing room workers are the best paid in the industry. a comparison of average wages in newspaper and job establishments is shown in table . table .--average daily earnings of job and newspaper composing-room workers, -------------------------+---------------+------------+ | | newspaper | workers in trade | job offices | offices | -------------------------+---------------+------------+ foremen | $ . | $ . | linotype machinists | . | . | proof-readers | . | . | monotype operators | . | .. | linotypers | . | . | monotype casters | . | . | stonemen | . | . | hand-compositors | . | . | copy-holders | . | . | apprentices | . | . | -------------------------+---------------+------------+ compositors suffer most from the diseases that are common to indoor workers. the stooping position in which much of the work is done, together with insufficient ventilation and the presence of gases from the molten metal used in monotype and linotype machines, favors the development of lung diseases. the number of deaths from consumption among compositors is more than double that in most outdoor occupations. the apprenticeship system has held its own in the compositor's trade better than in most industrial occupations. in the establishments visited by the survey staff there were approximately apprentices to each hand and machine compositors. as a rule there is no real system or method of instruction. the points principally insisted upon by the union, which strongly favors the apprenticeship system, are that the number of apprentices employed shall not exceed that stipulated in the agreement between the employers and the union, and that each apprentice shall be required to serve the full term of five years. during the first and second years the apprentice is required to perform general work in the composing room under the direction of the foreman. in the third year he joins the union as an apprentice. the apprenticeship agreement stipulates that during this year he must be employed four hours each day at composition and distribution. in the fourth and fifth years the number of hours per day on such work is increased to six and seven respectively. during the last two years of his term he must take the evening trade course given by the international typographical union, the expense of tuition being met by the local union. the agreement contains no stipulation as to wages for the first and second years. the wage for the third year is $ a week, for the fourth year $ , and for the fifth, $ . apprentices in newspaper composing rooms are permitted to spend the last six months of their period working on type-setting machines. the pressroom the pressroom occupations include platen and cylinder pressmen, web or newspaper pressmen, platen and cylinder pressfeeders, plate printers, cutters, flyboys and apprentices. approximately per cent of the men employed are cylinder pressmen, about per cent platen pressmen, and less than three per cent web pressmen. pressfeeders comprise over per cent of the whole group. nearly nine-tenths of all pressroom workers are employed in job establishments. five occupations--those of cutters, floormen, flyboys, plate printers, and web pressmen--give employment to fewer than men each. the average daily earnings of pressroom workers in the establishments from which wage data were collected during the survey are shown in table . the hourly rates of pay are high as compared with those in other occupations requiring an equal or greater amount of skill and knowledge. cylinder pressmen earn more per hour than do tool and die makers--the most highly skilled of the metal trades--and platen pressmen in charge of five or more presses earn more than all-round machinists and boiler makers. the rate for cylinder pressfeeders is about three cents an hour higher than that received for specialized machine work in the metal trades. table .--average daily earnings of pressroom workers, _job pressroom workers_ foremen $ . cylinder pressmen . cutters . platen pressmen . floormen . cylinder pressfeeders, men . cylinder pressfeeders, women . platen pressfeeders, men . platen pressfeeders, women . flyboys . _newspaper pressroom workers_ foremen . web pressmen . web pressmen's assistants . formal apprenticeship is practically unknown. the boy begins as a pressfeeder, usually on a platen press, and in the course of time gets to be a platen pressman. a knowledge of platen presswork does not qualify a man to run a cylinder press, and as a rule the platen pressman who wants to change must serve some time as a cylinder pressfeeder and cylinder pressman's assistant. there is no organized system for training beginners. the boy who wants to become a pressman must pick up the trade through experience and practice, the length of time required depending chiefly on how frequently changes occur among the force of pressmen employed in the shop. the bindery the bindery is the only department of the industry in which any considerable number of women are employed. some of the occupations, such as gathering, sewing, and stitching, are practically monopolized by women. they are also employed extensively in hand and machine folding. about one-fifth are gatherers and one-fifth sewers and stitchers. the other three-fifths are distributed among a number of occupations usually classed as general bindery work. the occupations in which men predominate are forwarding, ruling, and finishing, and cutting. the forwarders comprise more than one-fourth of the total number of men engaged in bindery work. the other two skilled trades--ruling and finishing--give employment to about men each. the average daily earnings in the various occupations, based on returns from establishments, were as shown in table . table .--average daily earnings of bindery workers, ------------------------------+-----------+-----------+ workers in trade | men | women | ------------------------------+-----------+-----------+ foremen | $ . | $ . | rulers | . | .. | finishers | . | .. | forwarders | . | .. | cutters | . | .. | machine-folders | . | . | wire-stitchers | .. | . | apprentices | . | .. | gatherers | .. | . | sewers | .. | . | other bindery operatives | . | . | ------------------------------+-----------+-----------+ on account of the seasonal character of the work considerable time is lost through unemployment, particularly in those occupations in which women predominate. beginners in these occupations in which the majority of the women are employed, start on folding or pasting, and as opportunity presents, gradually acquire practice in the higher grades of work, such as gathering and machine operating. there are some traces of the apprenticeship system in forwarding, ruling, and finishing, but these trades are so small that all of them combined require only a very few new workers each year. other occupations other departments of the printing industry are photoengraving, stereotyping, electrotyping, and lithographing. they give employment to approximately workers, distributed among more than distinct trades, requiring the most diverse sorts of skill, knowledge, and training. there are about men in the city engaged in the different processes of photoengraving. nearly all of the stereotypers, numbering from to , are employed in newspaper offices. there are about electrotypers and lithographers. the labor conditions closely approximate those found in other departments of the industry. average wages for the different occupations are shown in table . table .--average daily earnings in photoengraving, stereotyping, electrotyping, and lithographing occupations, average workers in trade daily earnings photoengraving artists $ . photographers . etchers . routers . finishers . proofers . strippers . blockers . apprentices . art apprentices . stereotyping . electrotyping molders . finishers . casters . routers . builders . blockers . batterymen . case fillers . apprentices . lithographing lettermen . artists . pressroom foremen . grainers . engravers . pressmen . transferers and proofers . pressroom apprentices . tracers . stone polishers . pressfeeders . other apprentices . artist apprentices . flyboys . there is no well organized system for training apprentices in photoengraving, stereotyping, and electrotyping, or in any of the lithographic trades, except that of poster artist, in which an efficient and strictly regulated system of apprenticeship is maintained. the problem of training the report maintains that up to the end of the compulsory attendance period school training preparatory to entering the printing trades must be of the most general sort, due to the fact that in the average elementary school the number of boys who are likely to become printers is too small to form special classes. for example, in an elementary school of , pupils the number of boys years old and over to whom instruction in printing would be of value from the standpoint of future vocational utility, would probably not exceed two. while admitting the advantages of the junior high school for the purposes of vocational training, the report points out that even in a school where only pupils of the upper grades are admitted, the number who are likely to become printers is still too small to warrant special instruction. in a junior high school of , pupils not more than nine boys are likely to become printers. the report recommends a general industrial course during the junior high school period. what the boys need at this time is practice in the application of mathematics, drawing, and elementary science to industrial problems. shop equipment should be selected with this object in mind. it is doubtful whether it should include a printing shop, for while such a shop would be useful to the few boys who will become printers, it would be of little value in training for other industries. the report suggests as subjects which should be included in the general industrial course practice in handling and assembling machinery, the study of color harmony, and the principles of design in connection with the work in drawing, the use of printing shop problems in applied mathematics, and thorough instruction in spelling, punctuation, and the division of words. it also recommends the course of industrial information referred to in previous chapters. the establishment of a two year printing course in a separate vocational school is recommended to meet the need for specialized instruction from the end of the compulsory period to the apprentice entering age. the printing trades are relatively small and it is only by concentrating in a single school plant all the boys who may wish to enter them that specialized training can be made practicable. in this way it would be possible to secure classes of from to boys each for such trades as composition and presswork. the report emphasizes the need for instruction in trade theory as against practice on specific operations. it points out that the boys will have plenty of opportunity after they go to work to acquire speed and manual skill, while they have little chance, under modern shop conditions, to obtain an understanding of the relation of drawing, physics, chemistry, mathematics, and art to their work. the only trade extension training offered by the public schools at the present time is that given in the technical night schools. during the second term of - there were persons enrolled in the technical night school printing class. of these persons three were journeymen printers, five described themselves as "helpers," were apprentices, one was employed in the office of a printing establishment, and eight were engaged in occupations unrelated to printing. no special provision is made for the apprentices. the course, which includes hand composition, a little press work, and lectures on trade subjects, is planned "to help broaden the shop training of those working at the trade." that it does so to any considerable extent is doubtful. too much of the time is devoted to hand work and practice on operations which the boys can easily learn in the shops. it is believed that the plan followed in the evening apprentice course prescribed by the international typographical union, in which no shop equipment or apparatus is used, is better adapted to the needs of boys employed in the trade. the course consists of lessons in english, lettering, design, color harmony, job composition, and imposition for machine, and hand folding. the classes are taught by journeymen teachers. in february about students were enrolled, of whom approximately one-third were apprentices and two-thirds journeymen. cleveland education survey reports these reports can be secured from the survey committee of the cleveland foundation, cleveland, ohio. they will be sent postpaid for cents per volume with the exception of "measuring the work of the public schools" by judd, "the cleveland school survey" by ayres, and "wage earning and education" by lutz. these three volumes will be sent for cents each. all of these reports may be secured at the same rates from the division of education of the russell sage foundation, new york city. child accounting in the public schools--ayres. educational extension--perry. education through recreation--johnson. financing the public schools--clark. health work in the public schools--ayres. household arts and school lunches--boughton. measuring the work of the public schools--judd. overcrowded schools and the platoon plan--hartwell. school buildings and equipment--ayres. schools and classes for exceptional children--mitchell. school organization and administration--ayres. the public library and the public schools--ayres and mckinnie. the school and the immigrant--miller. the teaching staff--jessup. what the schools teach and might teach--bobbitt. the cleveland school survey (summary)--ayres. * * * * * boys and girls in commercial work--stevens. department store occupations--o'leary. dressmaking and millinery--bryner. railroad and street transportation--fleming. the building trades--shaw. the garment trades--bryner. the metal trades--lutz. the printing trades--shaw. wage earning and education (summary)--lutz. * * * * * transcriber's notes: typos corrected in text: table on page : establishments for estabments page : "car fare" for "car far" page : employee for employe * * * * * [illustration: paul stood by her, looking down into her eyes, bending over her, smiling, pressing, confident, masterful. (page )] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the squirrel-cage by dorothy canfield with illustrations by john alonzo williams new york henry holt and company ------------------------------------------------------------------------ copyright, , , by the ridgway company copyright, , by henry holt and company published march, ------------------------------------------------------------------------ contents book i the fairy princess chapter page i an american family ii american beauties iii picking up the threads iv the dawn v the day begins vi lydia's godfather vii outside the labyrinth viii the shadow of the coming event ix father and daughter x casus belli book ii in the locomotive cab xi what is best for lydia xii a sop to the wolves xiii lydia decides in perfect freedom xiv mid-season nerves xv a half-hour's liberty xvi engaged to be married xvii card-dealing and patent candles book iii a suitable marriage xviii two sides to the question xix lydia's new motto xx an evening's entertainment xxi an element of solidity xxii the voices in the wood xxiii for ariadne's sake xxiv "through pity and terror effecting a purification of the heart" xxv a black mile-stone xxvi a hint from childhood xxvii lydia reaches her goal and has her talk with her husband xxviii "the american man" xxix ".........in tragic life, god wot, no villain need be. passions spin the plot" xxx tribute to the minotaur book iv but it is not too late for ariadne xxxi protection from the minotaur xxxii as ariadne saw it xxxiii what is best for the children? xxxiv through the long night xxxv the swaying balance xxxvi another day begins ------------------------------------------------------------------------ illustrations paul stood by her, looking down into her eyes, bending over her, smiling, pressing, confident, masterful (page ) frontispiece page "you say beautiful things!" he replied quietly. "my rough quarters are glorified for me" "no, no; i can't--see him--i can't stand any more--" "i see everything now," she went on. "he could not stop." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the squirrel-cage book i the fairy princess chapter i an american family the house of the emery family was a singularly good example of the capacity of wood and plaster and brick to acquire personality. it was the physical symbol of its owners' position in life; it was the history of their career, written down for all to see, and as such they felt in it the most justifiable pride. when mr. and mrs. emery, directly after their wedding in a small central new york village, had gone west to ohio they had spent their tiny capital in building a small story-and-a-half cottage, ornamented with the jig-saw work and fancy turning popular in , and this had been the nucleus of their present rambling, picturesque, many-roomed home. every step in the long series of changes which had led from its first state to its last had a profound and gratifying significance for the emerys, and its final condition, prosperous, modern, sophisticated, with the right kind of woodwork in every room that showed, with the latest, most unobtrusively artistic effects in decoration, represented their culminating well-earned position in the inner circle of the best society of endbury. moreover, they felt that just as the house had been attained with effort, self-denial and careful calculations, yet still without incurring debt, so their social position had been secured by unremitting diligence and care, but with no loss of self-respect or even of dignity. they were honestly proud both of their house and of their list of acquaintances and saw no reason to regard them as less worthy achievements of an industrious life than their four creditable grown-up children or judge emery's honorable reputation at the bar. in their youth they had conceived of certain things as worth attaining. they had worked hard for these things and their unabashed pleasure in possessing them had the vivid and substantial quality which comes from a keen memory of battles with a world none too ready to grant human desires. the two older children, george and marietta, could remember those early struggling days with almost as fresh an emotion as that of their parents. indeed, marietta, now a competent, sharp-eyed matron of thirty-two, could not see the most innocuous colored lithograph without an uncontrollable wave of bitterness, so present to her mind was the period when they painfully groped their way out of chromos. the date of that epoch coincided with the date of their first acquaintance with the hollisters. the hollisters were endbury's first family; literally so, for they had come up from their farm in kentucky to settle in endbury when it was but a frontier post. it was a part of their superiority over other families that their traditions took cognizance of the time when great stumps from the primeval forest stood in what was now endbury's public square, the hub of interurban trolley traffic, whence the big, noisy cars started for their infinitely radiating journeys over the flat, fertile country about the little city. the particular mrs. hollister who, at the time the emerys began to pierce the upper crust, was the leader of endbury society, had discarded chromos as much as five years before. mrs. emery and marietta, newly admitted to the honor of her acquaintance, wondered to themselves at the cold monotony of her black and white engravings. the artlessness of this wonder struck shame to their hearts when they chanced to learn that the lady had repaid it with a worldly-wise amusement at their own highly-colored waterfalls and snow-capped mountain-peaks. marietta could recall as piercingly as if it were yesterday, in how crestfallen a chagrin she and her mother had gazed at their parlor after this incident, their disillusioned eyes open for the first time to the futility of its claim to sophistication. as for the incident that had led to the permanent retiring from their table of the monumental salt-and-pepper "caster" which had been one of their most prized wedding presents, the emerys refused to allow themselves to remember it, so intolerably did it spell humiliation. even the oldest son, prosperous, well-established manufacturer that he was, could not recall without a shudder his first dinner-party. a branch of the hollisters had moved next door to the emerys and, to mrs. emery's great satisfaction, an easy neighborly acquaintance had sprung up between the two families. secure in this familiarity, and not distinguishing the immense difference between a chance invitation to drop in to dinner and a formal invitation to dine, the young business-man had almost forgotten the date for which he had been bidden. remembering it with a start, he had gone straight from his office to the house of his hosts, supposing that he would be able, as he had done many times before, to wash his face and hands in the bath-room and brush his hair in the room of the son of the house. the sight of a black man in evening dress, who opened the door to him instead of the usual maid, sent a vague apprehension through his preoccupied mind, but it was not until he found himself in the room set apart for the masculine guests and saw everyone arrayed in "swallow-tails," as he thought of them, that he realized what he had done. the emotion of the moment was one that made a mark on his life. he had an instant's wild notion of making some excuse to go home and dress, for his plight was by no means due to necessity. he had a correct outfit of evening clothes, bought at the urgent command of his mother, which he had worn several times at public dinners given by the city board of trade and once at a dancing party at the home of the head of his firm. however, the hard sense which made him successful in his business kept him from a final absurdity now. he had been seen, and he decided grimly that he would be, on the whole, a shade more laughable if he appeared later in a changed costume. he was twenty-one years old at that time; he considered himself a man grown. he had been in business for five years and his foot was already set firmly on the ladder of commercial success on which he was to mount high, but not for nothing had he felt about him all his life the inextinguishable desire of his family to outgrow rusticity. he chided himself for unmanly pettiness, but the fact remained that throughout the interminable evening the sight of his gray striped trousers or colored cuffs affected him to a chagrin that was like a wave of physical nausea. four years later he had married a handsome young lady from among the hollister connections, and, moving away to cleveland, where no memory of his antecedents could handicap him, had begun a new social career as eminently successful as his rapid commercial expansion. he forced himself sometimes to think of that long-past evening as one presses on a scar to learn how much soreness is left in an old wound, and he smiled at the little tragedy of egotism it had been to him. but it was a wry smile. a brighter recollection to all the emerys was the justly complacent and satisfied remembrance of the house grounds during the first really successful social event they had achieved. it was a lawn-fête, given for the benefit of st. luke's church, which mrs. emery and marietta had recently joined. socially, it was the first fruits of their conversion from congregationalism. the weather was fine, the roses were out, the very best people were there, the bazaar was profitable, and the dowager of the hollister matrons had spoken warm words of admiration of the competent way in which the occasion had been managed to mrs. emery, smiling and flushed in an indomitably self-respecting pleasure. the older emerys still sometimes spoke of that afternoon and evening as parents remember the hour when their baby first walked alone, with something of the same mixture of pride in the later achievements of the child and of tenderness for its early weakness. the youngest of the emerys, many years the junior of her brothers and sister, knew nothing at all of the anxious bitter-sweet of these early endeavors for sophistication. by the time she came to conscious, individual life the summit had been virtually reached. it is not to be denied that lydia had witnessed several abrupt changes in the family ideal of household decoration or of entertaining, but since they were exactly contemporaneous with similar changes on the part of the hollisters and other people in their circle, these revolutions of taste brought with them no sense of humiliation. such, for instance, was the substitution for carpets of hardwood floors and rugs as oriental as the purse would allow. lydia could remember gorgeously flowered carpets on every emery floor, but since they also covered all the prosperous floors in town at the same time, it was not more painful to have found them attractive than to have worn immensely large sleeves or preposterously blousing shirt waists, to have ridden bicycles, or read e. p. roe, or anything else that everybody used to do and did no more. she could remember, also, when charades and book-parties were considered amusing pastimes for grown-ups, but in passing beyond these primitive tastes the emerys had been well abreast of their contemporaries. the last charade party had not been held in _their_ parlors, they congratulated themselves. a philosophic observer who had known the history of mrs. emery's life might have found something pathetic in her pleasure at lydia's light-hearted jesting at the funny old things people used to think pretty and the absurd pursuits they used to think entertaining. it was to her a symbol that her daughter had escaped what had caused her so much suffering, the uneasy, self-distrusting dread lest she might still be finding pretty things that up-to-date people thought grotesque; lest suddenly what she had toiled so painfully to obtain should somehow turn out to be not the "right thing" after all. marietta did not recall more vividly than did her mother the trying period that had elapsed between their new enlightenment on the subject of chromos and the day when an unexpected large fee from a client of mr. emery (not yet judge) enabled them to hang their protestant walls with engravings of pagan gods and roman catholic saints. for their problem had never been the simple one of merely discovering the right thing. there had always been added to it the complication of securing the right thing out of an income by no means limitless. the head of the household had enjoyed the success that might have been predicted from his whole-souled absorption in his profession, but judge emery came of old-fashioned rural stock with inelastic ideas of honesty, and though he was more than willing to toil early and late to supply funds for his family and satisfy whatever form of ambition his women-folk might decree to be the best one, he was not willing to take advantage of the perquisites of his position, and never, as the phrase in the town ran, "made on the side." of his temptations and of his stout resistance to them, his wife and children knew no more, naturally, than of any of the other details of his professional life, which, according to the custom of their circle, were as remote and hidden from them as if he had departed each morning after his hearty early breakfast into another planet; but his wife was proud of the integrity which she divined in her husband and, as she often declared roundly to marietta, would not have exchanged his good name for a much larger income. indeed, the acridity which for marietta lingered about the recollection of their efforts to make themselves over did not exist in the more amply satisfied mind of her mother. the difference showed itself visibly in the contrast between the daughter's face, stamped with a certain tired, unflagging intensity of endeavor, and the freshness of the older woman. at thirty-two, marietta looked, perhaps, no older than her age, but obviously more worn by the strain of life than her mother at fifty-six. sometimes, as she noted in her mirror the sharp lines of a fatigue that was almost bitterness, she experienced a certain unnerving uncertainty, a total lack of zest for what she so eagerly struggled to attain, and she envied her mother's single-minded satisfaction in getting what she wanted. mrs. emery had enjoyed the warfare of her life heartily; the victories for their own sake, the defeats because they had spurred her on to fresh and finally successful efforts, and the remembrance of both was sweet to her. she loved her husband for himself and for what he had been able to give her, and she loved her children ardently, although she had been sorely vexed by her second son's unfortunate marriage. he had always been a discordant note in the family concert, the veiled, unconscious, uneasy skepticism of marietta bursting out openly in henry as a careless, laughing cynicism, excessively disconcerting to his mother. she sometimes thought he had married the grocer's daughter out of "contrariness." the irritation which surrounded that event, and the play of cross-purposes and discord which had filled the period until the misguided young people had voluntarily exiled themselves to the far west, remained more of a sore spot in mrs. emery's mind than any blow given or taken in her lifelong campaign for distinction. she admitted frankly to herself that it was a relief that harry was no longer near her, although her mother's heart ached for the harry he had seemed to her before his rebellion. she fancied that she would enjoy him as of old if the litter of inconvenient persons and facts lying between them could but be cleared away; with a voluntary blindness not uncommon in parents, refusing to recognize that these superficial differences were only the outward expression of a fundamental alienation within. at all events, it was futile to speculate about the matter, since the width of the continent and her son's intense distaste for letter-writing separated them. she had come, therefore, to turn all her attention and proud affection on her youngest child. it seemed to her sometimes that lydia had been granted her by a merciful providence in order that she might make that "fresh start all over again" which is the never-realized ideal of erring humanity. marietta had been a young lady fourteen years before, and fourteen years meant much--meant everything to people who progressed as fast as the emerys. uncertain of themselves, they had not ventured to launch marietta boldly upon the waves of a society the chart of which was so new to them. she had no coming-out party. she simply put on long skirts, coiled her black hair on top of her head, and began going to evening parties with a few young men who were amused by the tart briskness of her tongue and attracted by the comeliness of her healthful youth. she had married the first man who proposed to her--a young insurance agent. since then they had lived in a very comfortable, middling state of harmony, apparently on about the same social scale as marietta's parents. that this feat was accomplished on a much smaller income was due to marietta's unrivaled instinct and trained capacity for keeping up appearances. all this history had been creditable, but nothing more; and mrs. emery often looked at her elder daughter with compunction for her own earlier ignorance and helplessness. she could have done so much more for marietta if she had only known how. mrs. mortimer was, however, a rather prickly personality with whom to attempt to sympathize, and in general her mother felt the usual -in-law conclusion about her daughter's life: that marietta could undoubtedly have done better than to marry her industrious, negligible husband, but that, on the whole, she might have done worse; and it was much to be hoped that her little boy would resemble the emerys and not the mortimers. no such philosophical calm restrained her emotions about lydia. she was in positive beauty and charm all that poor marietta had not been, and she was to have in the way of backing and management all that poor marietta had lacked. it seemed to mrs. emery that her whole life had been devoted to learning what to do and what not to do for lydia. as the time of action drew nearer she nerved herself for the campaign with a finely confident feeling that she knew every inch of the ground. her expectancy grew more and more tense as her eagerness rose. during the long year that lydia was in europe, receiving a final gloss, even higher than that imparted by the expensive and exclusive girls' school where she had spent the years between fourteen and eighteen, mrs. emery laid her plans and arranged her life with a fervent devotion to one end--the success of lydia's first season in society. every room in the house seemed to her vision to stand in a bright vacancy awaiting the arrival of the débutante. chapter ii american beauties on the morning of lydia's long-expected return, as mrs. emery moved restlessly about the large double parlors opening out on a veranda where the vines were already golden in the september sunlight, it seemed to her that the very walls were blank in hushed eagerness and that the chairs and tables turned faces like hers, tired with patience, toward the open door. she had not realized until the long separation was almost over how unendurably she had missed her baby girl, as she still thought of the tall girl of nineteen. she could not wait the few hours that were left. her fortitude had given way just too soon. she must have the dear child now, now, in her arms. she moved absently a spray of goldenrod which hid a fra angelico angel over the mantel and noted with dramatic self-pity that her hand was trembling. she sat down suddenly, and lost herself in a vain attempt to recall the well-beloved sound of lydia's fresh young voice. a knot came in her throat, and she covered her face with her large, white, carefully-manicured hands. marietta came in briskly a few moments later, bringing a bouquet of asters from her own garden. she was dressed, as always, with a severe reticence in color and line which, though due to her extreme need for economy, nevertheless gave to the rather spare outlines of her tall figure a distinction, admired by endbury under the name of stylishness. her rapid step had carried her half-way across the wide room before she saw to her surprise that her mother, usually so self-contained, was giving way to an inexplicable emotion. "good gracious, mother!" she began in the energetic fashion which was apt to make her most neutral remarks sound combative. mrs. emery dried her eyes with a gesture of protest, adjusted her gray pompadour deftly, and cut off her daughter's remonstrance, "oh, you needn't tell me i'm foolish, marietta. i know it. i just suddenly got so impatient it didn't seem as though i could wait another minute!" the younger woman accepted this explanation of the tears with a murmured sound of somewhat enigmatic intonation. her thin dark face settled into a repose that had a little grimness in it. she began putting the flowers into a vase that stood between the reproduction of a giotto madonna and a japanese devil-hunt, both results of the study of art taken up during the past winter by her mother's favorite woman's club. mrs. emery watched the process in the contemplative relief which follows an emotional outbreak, and her eyes wandered to the objects on either side the vase. the sight stirred her to speech. "oh, marietta, how _do_ you suppose the house will seem to lydia after she has seen so much? i hope she won't be disappointed. i've done so much to it this last year, perhaps she won't like it. and oh, i _was_ so tried because we weren't able to get the new sideboard put up in the dining-room yesterday!" mrs. mortimer glanced without smiling at a miniature of her sister, blooming in a shrine-like arrangement on her mother's writing-desk. she shook her dark head with a gesture like her father's, and said with his blunt decisiveness, "really, mother, you must draw the line about lydia. she's only human. i guess if the house is good enough for you and father it is good enough for her." she crossed the room toward the door with a brisk rattle of starched skirts, but as she passed her mother her hand was caught and held. "that's just it, marietta--that's just what came over me! _is_ what's good enough for us good enough for lydia? won't anything, even the best, in endbury be a come-down for her?" the slightly irritated impatience with which mrs. mortimer had listened to the first words of this speech gave way to a shrewd amusement. "you mean that you've put lydia up on such a high plane to begin with that whichever way she goes will be a step down," she asked. "yes, yes; that's just it," breathed her mother, unconscious of any irony in her daughter's accent. she fixed her eyes, which, in spite of her having long since passed the half-century mark, were still very clear and blue, anxiously upon marietta's opaque dark ones. she felt not only a need to be reassured in general by anyone, but a reluctant faith in the younger woman's judgment. marietta released herself with a laugh that was like a light, mocking tap on her mother's shoulder. "well, folks that haven't got real worries will certainly manufacture them! to worry about lydia's future in endbury! aren't you afraid the sun won't rise some day? if ever there was any girl that had a smooth road in front of her--" the door-bell rang. "they've come! they've come!" cried mrs. emery wildly. "lydia wouldn't ring the bell, and her train isn't due till ten," mrs. mortimer reminded her. "oh, yes. well, then, it's the new sideboard. i am so--" "it's a boy with a big pasteboard box," contradicted mrs. mortimer, looking down the hall to the open front door. seeing someone there to receive it, the boy set the box inside the screen door and started down the steps. "bring it here! bring it here!" called mrs. mortimer, commandingly. "it's for lydia," said mrs. emery, looking at the address. she spoke with an accent of dramatic intensity, and a flush rose to her fair cheeks. her olive-skinned daughter looked at her and laughed. "what did you expect?" "but he didn't care enough about her coming home to be in town to-day!" mrs. emery's maternal vanity flared up hotly. mrs. mortimer laughed again and began taking the layers of crumpled wax-paper out of the box. "oh, that was the trouble with you, was it? that's nothing. he had to be away to see about a new electrical plant in dayton. did you ever know paul hollister to let anything interfere with business?" this characterization was delivered with an intonation that made it the most manifest praise. her mother seconded it with unquestioning acquiescence. "no, that's a fact; i never did." mrs. mortimer in her turn had an accent of dramatic intensity as she cried out, "oh! they are american beauties! the biggest i ever saw!" the two women looked at the flowers, almost awestruck at their size. "have you a vase?" mrs. mortimer asked dubiously. mrs. emery rose to the occasion. "the japanese umbrella stand." there was a pause as they reverently arranged the great sheaf of enormous flowers. then mrs. emery began, "marietta--" she hesitated. "well," mrs. mortimer prompted her, a little impatiently. "do you really think that he--that lydia--?" marietta accepted with a somewhat pinched smile her mother's boundary lines of reticence. "of course. did you ever know paul hollister to give up anything he wanted?" her mother shook her head. mrs. mortimer rose with a "well, then!" and the air of one who has said all there is to be said on a subject, and again crossed the room toward the door. her mother drifted aimlessly in that direction also, as though swept along by the other's energy. "well, it's a pity he is not here now, anyhow," she said, adding in a spirited answer to her daughter's expression, "now, you needn't look that way, marietta. you know yourself that lydia is very romantic and fanciful. it would be a very different matter if she were like madeleine hollister. she wouldn't need any managing." mrs. mortimer smiled at the idea. "yes, i'd like to see somebody try to manage paul's sister," she commented. "they wouldn't _have_ to," her mother pointed out, "she's so levelheaded and sane. but lydia's different. it's part of her loveliness, of course, only you do have to manage her. and she'll be in a very unsettled state for the first week or two after she gets home after such a long absence. the impressions she gets then--well, i wish he were here!" mrs. mortimer waved her hand toward the roses. "of course, of course," assented her mother, subsiding peaceably down the scale from anxiety to confidence with the phrase. she looked at the monstrous flowers with the gaze of acquired admiration so usual in her eyes. "they don't look much like roses, do they?" she remarked irrelevantly. mrs. mortimer turned in the doorway, her face expressing an extreme surprise. "good gracious, no," she cried. "why, of course not. they cost a dollar and a half apiece." she did not stop to hear her mother's vaguely assenting reply. mrs. emery heard her firm, rapid tread go down the hall to the front door and then suddenly stop. something indefinable about the pause that followed made the mother's heart beat thickly. "what is it, marietta?" she called, but her voice was lost in mrs. mortimer's exclamation of surprise, "why it can't be--why, _lydia_!" as from a great distance, the mother heard a confused rush in the hall, and then, piercing through the dreamlike unreality of the moment, came the sweet, high note of a girl's voice, laughing, but with the liquid uncertainty of tears quivering through the mirth. "oh, marietta! where's mother? aren't you all slow-pokes--not a soul to meet us at the train--where's mother? where's mother? where's--" the room swam around mrs. emery as she stood up looking toward the door, and the girl who came running in, her dark eyes shining with happy tears, was not more real than the many visions of her that had haunted her mother's imagination during the lonely year of separation. at the clasp of the young arms about her face took light as from an inner source, and breath came back to her in a sudden gasp. she tried to speak, but the only word that came was "lydia! lydia! lydia!" the girl laughed, a half-sob breaking her voice as she answered whimsically, "well, who did you expect to see?" mrs. mortimer performed her usual function of relieving emotional tension by putting a strong hand on lydia's shoulder and spinning her about. "come! i want to see if it _is_ you--and how you look." for a moment the ardent young creature stood still in a glowing quiet. she drank in the dazzled gaze of admiration of the two women with an innocent delight. the tears were still in mrs. emery's eyes, but she did not raise a hand to dry them, smitten motionless by the extremity of her proud satisfaction. never again did lydia look to her as she did at that moment, like something from another sphere, like some bright, unimaginably happy being, freed from the bonds that had always weighed so heavily on all the world about her mother. before she could draw breath, lydia moved and was changed. her mother saw suddenly, with that emotion which only mothers know, reminiscences of little-girlhood, of babyhood, even of long-dead cousins and aunts, in the lovely face blooming under the wide hat. she felt the sweet momentary confusion of individuality, the satisfied sense of complete ownership which accompanies a strong belief in family ties. lydia was not only altogether entrancing, but she was of the same stuff with those who loved her so dearly. it gave a deeper note to her mother's passion of affectionate pride. the girl turned with a pretty, defiant tilt of her head. "well, and how _do_ i look?" she asked; and before she could be answered she flew at mrs. mortimer with a gentle roughness, clasping her arms around her waist until the matron gasped. "_you_ look too good to be true--both of you--if you are such lazybones that you wouldn't go to the station to meet the prodigal daughter!" "well, if you will come on an earlier train than you telegraphed--" began mrs. mortimer, "everybody's getting ready to meet you with a brass band. what did you do with father?" the girl moved away, putting her hands up to her hat uncertainly as though about to take out the hat-pins. there was between the three a moment of that constraint which accompanies the transition from emotional intensity down to an everyday level. in lydia's voice there was even a little flatness as she answered, "oh, he put me in the hack and went off to see about business. i heard him 'phoning something to somebody about a suit. we got through the customs sooner than we thought we could, you see, and caught an earlier train." mrs. emery turned her adoring gaze from lydia's slim beauty and looked inquiringly at her elder daughter. mrs. mortimer understood, and nodded. "what are you two making faces about?" lydia turned in time to catch the interchange of glances. mrs. emery hesitated. marietta spoke with a crisp straightforwardness which served as well in this case as nonchalance for keeping her remark without undue significance. "we were just wondering if now wasn't a good time to show you what paul hollister did for your welcome home. he couldn't be here himself, so he sent those." she nodded toward the bouquet. as lydia turned toward the flowers her two elders fixed her with the unscrupulously scrutinizing gaze of blood-relations; but their microscopic survey showed them nothing in the girl's face, already flushed and excited by her home-coming, beyond a sudden amused surprise at the grotesque size of the tribute. "why, for mercy's sake! did you ever see such monsters! they are as big as my head! look!" she whirled her hat from the pretty disorder of her brown hair and poised it on the topmost of the great flowers, stepping back to see the effect and laughing, "they don't look any more like roses, do they?" she added, turning to her mother. mrs. emery's answer rose so spontaneously to her lips that she was not aware that she was echoing marietta. "good gracious, no; of course not. they cost a dollar and a half apiece." lydia neither assented to nor dissented from this apothegm. it started another train of thought in her mind. "as much as all that! why, paul oughtn't to be so extravagant! he can't afford it, and i should have liked something else just as--" her sister broke in with an ample gesture of negation. "you don't know paul. if he goes on the way he's started--he's district sales manager for southern ohio already." lydia paid to this information the passing tribute of a moment's uncomprehending surprise. "think of that! the last time paul told me about himself he was working day and night in schenectady, learning the business, and getting--oh, i don't know--fifty cents an hour, or some such starvation wages." mrs. mortimer's bitterly acquired sense of values revolted at this. "what are you talking about, lydia? fifty cents an hour starvation wages!" "well, perhaps it was five cents an hour. i don't remember. and he worked with his hands and was always in danger of getting shot through with a million volts of electricity or mashed with a breaking fly-wheel or something. he said electricians were the soldiers of modern civilization. i told that to a german woman we met on the boat when she said americans have no courage because they don't fight duels. the idea!" she began pulling off her gloves, with a quick energetic gesture. mrs. mortimer went on, "well, he certainly has a brilliant future before him. everybody says that--" she stopped, struck by her rather heavy emphasis on the theme and by a curious look from lydia. the girl did not blush, she did not seem embarrassed, but for a moment the childlike clarity of her look was clouded by an expression of consciousness. mrs. emery made a rush upon her, drawing her away toward the door with a displeased look at marietta. "never mind about paul's prospects," she said. "with lydia just this minute home, to begin gossiping about the neighbors! come up to your room, darling, and see the little outdoor sitting-room we've had fixed over the porch." mrs. mortimer was not given to bearing chagrin, even a passing one, with undue self-restraint. she threw into the intonation of her next sentence her resentment at the rebuke from her mother. "i still live, you know, even if lydia has come home!" as mrs. emery turned with a look of apology, she added, "oh, i only wanted to make you turn around so that i could tell you that i am going to bring my two men-folks over here to-night, to the gathering of the clans, and that i must go home until then. dr. melton and aunt julia are coming, aren't they?" "oh, yes!" cried lydia. "it doesn't seem to me i can wait to see godfather. i sort of half hoped he might be here now." "well, _lydia_!" her mother reproached her jealously. "oh, you might as well give in, mother, lydia likes the little old doctor better than any of the rest of us." "he talks to me," said lydia defensively. "_we_ never say a word," commented mrs. mortimer. lydia broke away from her mother's close clasp and ran back to her sister. she was always running, as though to keep up with the rapidity of her swift impulses. she held her subtly-curved cheek up to the other's strongly-marked face. "you just kiss me, etta dear," she pleaded softly, "and stop teasing." mrs. mortimer looked long into the clear dark eyes with an unmoved countenance. then her face melted suddenly till she looked like her mother. she put her arms about the girl with a fervent gesture of tenderness. "dear little lydia," she murmured, with a quaver in her voice. chapter iii picking up the threads after she was alone she looked again at the miniature of lydia. the youthful radiance of the face had singularly the effect of a perfect flower. mrs. mortimer glanced at the hat still drooping its wide brim over the rose where lydia had forgotten it, and stood still in a reverie that had, from her aspect, something of sadness in it. after a moment she sighed out, "poor little lydia!" "what's the matter with lydia?" asked someone behind her. she turned and faced a dark, elderly personage, the robust dignity of whose bearing was now tempered with shamefacedness. mrs. mortimer's face sharpened in affectionate malice. "what are you doing here at this hour of the morning?" she asked with a humorously exaggerated air of amazement. "no self-respecting man is ever seen in his house during business hours!" she went on, "oh, i know well enough. you let mother have her first to make up for her being sick and not able to go to meet her ship; but you can't stay away." the judge waved her raillery away with a smile. the physical resemblance between father and daughter was remarkable. "i asked you what was the matter with lydia," he repeated. mrs. mortimer's face clouded. "oh, it's a hateful, horrid sort of world we're all so eager to push her into. it's like a can full of angleworms, everlastingly squirming and wriggling to get to the top. i was just thinking that it would be better for her, maybe, if she could always stay a little girl and travel 'round to see things." "why, etta! i tell you _i'm_ glad to have lydia get through with her traveling 'round. maybe i can see something of her if i hurry up and do it now before your mother gets things going. i won't after that, of course. i never have." to this his daughter had one of her abrupt, disconcerting responses. "you'd better hurry and do it before you get so deep in some important trial that you wouldn't know lydia from a plaster image. there are more reasons than just mother and card parties why you don't see much of her, i guess." judge emery forbore to argue the point. "where are they now?" he asked. "oh, upstairs, out of my way. mother's usual state of mind about lydia is more so than ever, i warn you. she thought i wasn't refined enough company." "now, etta, you know your mother never thought any such thing." "well, i know she was inconsistent, whatever she thought. while we were here alone she was speculating about paul hollister like anything. and yet, because i just happened to mention to lydia that he is getting on in the world, i got put down as if i'd tried to make her marry him for his prospects." there was an edge in her voice which her father deprecated, rubbing his shaven chin mildly. he deplored the appearance of a flaw in the smooth surface of harmony he loved to see in his family. "well, you know, marietta, we aim to have everything about right for lydia. she's all we've got left now the rest of you are settled." the deepening of the careworn lines in the woman's face seemed a justification for the undisguised bitterness of her answer. "i don't see why nobody must breathe a word to her about what everybody knows is so. what's the use of pretending that we'd be satisfied or she'd be comfortable a minute if paul didn't promise to be a money-maker--or at least to have a good income?" she turned away and walked rapidly down the hall, followed by her father, half apologetic, half reproachful. "why, daughter, you don't grudge your sister! we couldn't do so much for you; but we're better off since you were a young lady and we want lydia to have the benefit." mrs. mortimer paused on the veranda and stood looking in a troubled silence at the broad, well-kept lawn, stretching down to the asphalt street, shaded by vigorous young maples. her father waited for her to speak, too good a lawyer to spoil by superfluous words the effect of a well-calculated appeal. finally she turned to him contritely. "i'm hateful, dad, and i'm sorry. of course i don't grudge dear little lydia anything. only i have a pretty hard time of it scratching along, and when i'm awfully tired of contriving and calculating how to manage somehow and anyhow, it's hard to come up to the standard of saying everything's lovely that you and mother want for lydia." "anything the trouble specially?" asked her father guardedly. "oh, no; same old thing. keeping up a two-maid and a man establishment on a one-maid income, and mostly not being able to hire the one maid. there aren't _any_ girls to be had lately. it means i have to be the other maid and the man all of the time, and all three, part of the time." she was starting down the step, but paused as though she could not resist the relief that came from expression. "and the cost of living--the necessities are bad enough, but the other things--the things you have to have not to be out of everything! i lie awake nights. i think of it in church. i can't think of anything else but the way the expenses mount up. everybody's getting so reckless and extravagant and i _won't_ go into debt! i'll come to it, though. everybody else does! we're the only people that haven't oriental rugs now. why, the gilberts--and everybody knows how much they still owe dr. melton for ellen's appendicitis, and their grocer told ralph they owe him several hundred dollars--well, they have just got an oriental rug that they paid a hundred and sixty dollars for. mrs. gilbert said they 'just _had_ to have it, and you can always have what you have to have.' it makes me sick! our parlor looks so common! and the last dinner party we gave cost--" she detected a wavering in her father's attention, as though he were listening for sounds inside the house, and broke off abruptly with a hurt and impatient "oh, well, no matter!" and ran down the steps. judge emery called after with a relieved belittling of her complaints, "oh, if that's all you mean. why, that's half the fun. i remember when you were a baby your mother did the washings so that we could have a nurse to take you out with the other children and their nurses." mrs. mortimer was palpably out of earshot before he finished his exhortation, so he wasted no more breath but turned back eagerly in response to a call from lydia, who came skimming down the hall. "oh, daddy dearest, it's a jewel of a little sitting-room, the one you fixed up for me--and mother says we can serve punch there the night of my coming-out party." mrs. emery was at her heels. her husband laughed at his wife's expression, and drew her toward him. "here, mother, stop staring at lydia long enough to welcome me home, too." he bent over her and rubbed his cheek against hers. "come, tell me the news. are you feeling better?" he gave her a little playful push toward the door of the parlor. "here, let's go in and visit for a while. i'm an old fool! i can't do any work this morning. i kept lydia from telling me a thing all the way from new york, so that we could hear it together." lydia protested. "tell you! after those monstrous great letters i've written! there's nothing you don't know. there's nothing much to tell, anyhow. i've been museumed and picture-galleried, and churched, and cultured generally, till i'm full--up to there!" she drew her hand across her slim white throat and added cheerfully, "but i forgot the most of that the last three months in paris. nearly every girl in the party was going home to come out in society, and of course we just concentrated on clothes. you don't mind, do you?" as she hesitated, with raised eyebrows of doubt, her mother, heedless of what she was saying, was suddenly overcome by her appealing look and drew her close with a rush of little incoherent tender cries choked with tears. it was as though she were seeing her for the first time. judge emery twice tried to speak before his husky voice was under control. he patted his wife on the shoulder. "there, there, mother," he said vaguely. to lydia he went on, "you've been gone quite a while, you know, and--well, till you have a baby-girl of your own i guess you won't have much notion of how we feel." lydia's dark eyes filled, responsive to the emotion about her. "i'm just about distracted," she cried. "i love everybody and everything so, i can't stand it! i want to kiss you both and i can't make up my mind which to kiss first--and it's that way about everything! it's all so good i don't know what to begin on." she brought their faces together and achieved a simultaneous kiss with a shaky laugh. "now, look here! if we stand here another minute we'll all cry. come and show me the house. i want to see every single thing. all the old things, and all the new ones mother's been writing about." she seized their hands and pulled them into the parlor. "i've been in this room already, but i didn't see it. i don't believe i even touched the floor when i walked, i was so excited. oh, it's lovely--it's lovely!" she darted about the room like a humming-bird, recognizing what was familiar with fond little exclamations. "oh, that darling little wicker chair!--the picture of the dog!--oh! oh! here's my china lamb!" and crying out in admiration over new acquisitions. "oh, mother, what a perfectly lovely couch--sofa--what do you call it? why, it is so beautifully _different_! wherever did you get that?" mrs. emery turned to her husband. "there, nathaniel, what did i tell you?" she triumphed. "that's one of your mother's latest extravagances," explained judge emery. "there's a crazy fad in endbury for special handmade furniture. maybe it's all right, but i can't see it's so much better than what you buy in the department stores. grand rapids is good enough for me." "he doesn't like the man who made it," said mrs. emery accusingly. "what's the matter with him?" asked lydia, rubbing her hand luxuriously over the satin-smooth, lusterless wood of the sofa's high back. judge emery replied, with his laugh of easy, indifferent tolerance for everything outside the profession of the law, "oh, i never said i didn't like him; i only said he struck me as a crack-brained, self-willed, conceited--" lydia laughed. she thought her father's dry, ironic turns very witty. "i never saw anything conceited about him," protested mrs. emery, admitting the rest of the indictment. judge emery sat down on the sofa in question and pulled his tie into shape. "well, folks are always conceited who find the ordinary ways of doing things not good enough for them. lydia, what do you think of this tie? nobody pays a proper attention to my ties but you." "i've brought you some beauties from london," said lydia. then reverting with a momentary curiosity to the subject they had left, "whatever does this man do that's so queer?" "oh, he's just one of the back-to-all-fours faddists," said her father. "back-to-all-fours?" lydia was dim as to his meaning, but willing to be amused. "that's just your father's way," exclaimed mrs. emery, who had not her daughter's fondness for the judge's tricks of speech. "he lives as no dago ditch-digger with a particle of get-up-and-get in him would be willing to," said judge emery finally. lydia turned to her mother. "why, it's nothing that would interest you in the least, dear," said the matron, taking in admiringly lydia's french dress. "only for a little while everybody was talking about how strangely he acted. he was an insurance man, like marietta's husband, and getting on finely, when all of a sudden, for no reason on earth, he threw it all up and went to live in the woods. do you mean to say you only paid twenty dollars for that dress?" "in the woods!" repeated lydia. "yes; the real woods. his father was a farmer, and left him--why you know, you've been there ever so many times--the black rock woods, the picnic woods. he has built him a little hut there and makes his furniture out of the trees." lydia's passing curiosity had faded. "not quite twenty, even--only ninety-two francs," she at last answered her mother's question. "you never saw anything like the bargains there in summertime. well, i should think your carpenter man _was_ crazy." she glanced down with satisfaction at the hang of her skirt. "oh, not dangerous," her mother reassured her; "just socialistic, i suppose, and all that sort of thing." "well, who's crazier than a socialist?" cried her father genially. he added, "where are you going, daughter?" lydia stopped in the doorway, with a look of apology for her lack of interest in their talk. "i thought i'd just slip into the hall and see if there's anything new there. there's so much i want to see--all at once." her fond impatience brought her parents forward with a start of pleasure, and the tour of inspection began. she led them from one room to another, swooping with swallow-like motions upon them for sudden caresses, dazzling them with her changing grace. she liked it all--all--she told them, a thousand times better than she remembered. she liked the new arrangement of the butler's pantry; she loved the library for being all done over new; she adored the hall for being left exactly the way it was. the dining-room was the best of all, she declared, with so much that was familiar and so much that was new. "only no sideboard," she commented. "have they gone out of fashion while i was away?" mrs. emery, whose delight at lydia's approval had been mounting with every breath, looked vexed. "i knew you'd notice that!" she said. "we tried so hard to get the new one put in before you got back, but mr. rankin won't deliver a thing till it's just so!" "rankin!" cried lydia, stopping so short in one of her headlong rushes across the room that she gave the impression of having encountered an invisible obstacle, "who's that?" "oh, that's the crazy cabinet-maker we were talking about. the one who--" "why, i've met a mr. rankin," said lydia, with more emphasis than the statement seemed to warrant. "it's a common enough name," said her mother, struck oddly by her accent. "but here, in endbury. only it can't be the same person. he wasn't queer; he was awfully nice. i met him once when a crowd of us were out skating that last christmas i was home from school; the time when you and father were in washington and left me at dr. melton's with aunt julia. i used to see him there a lot. he used to talk to the doctor by the hour, and aunt julia and i were doing that set of doilies in hardanger work and we used to sit and sew and count threads and listen." "that's the one," said her father. "melton has one of his flighty notions that the man is something wonderful." "but he wasn't queer or anything then!" protested lydia. "he never talked to me any, of course, i was such a kid, but it was awfully interesting to hear him and godfather go on about morals, and the universe, and the future of man, and such--i never heard such talk before or after--but it can't be that one!" lydia broke off to marvel incredulously at the possibility. "he was--why, he was awfully nice!" she fell back on reiteration to help out her affirmation. "they say there's queer blood in the family, and i guess he's got his share," judge emery summed up and dismissed the case with a gesture of finality. he glanced up at a tall clock standing in the corner, compared its time with his watch, exclaimed impatiently, "slow again!" and addressed himself with a householder's seriousness to setting it right. a new aspect of the matter they had been discussing struck lydia. "but what does he--what do people do about him?" she asked. this misty inquiry was as intelligible to her mother as a cipher to the holders of a key. "oh, he's very nice about that. he has dropped out of society completely and keeps out of everybody's way. of course you see him when he comes to set up a piece of his furniture or to take an order, but that's all. and he used to be so popular!" the regret in the last clause was that of a thrifty person before waste of any kind. "i understand he still goes to dr. melton's a good deal, but that just counts him in as one of the doctor's collection of freaks; it doesn't mean anything. you know how your godfather goes on about--" she broke off to look out the window. "oh, lydia! your trunks are here. quick! where are your keys? it seems as though i couldn't wait to see your dresses!" she hurried to the door and vanished. lydia did not stir for a moment. she was looking down at the table, absorbed in watching the dim reflections of her pink finger-tips as she pressed them one after another upon the dark polished wood. her father opened the door of the clock with a little click, but she did not heed it. she drew her hand away from the table and inspected her finger-tips intently, as though to detect some change in them. when her father closed the clock-door and turned away she started, as though she had forgotten his presence. her gaze upon him gave him an odd feeling of wonder, which he took to be apologetic realization that he had spent a longer time oblivious of her than he had meant. his explanation had a little compunction in it. "i have a time with that pendulum always. i can't seem to get it the right length!" lydia continued to look at him blankly for a moment. then she drew a long breath and took an aimless step away from the table. "well, if that isn't too queer for anything!" she exclaimed. judge emery stared. "why, no; it's quite common in pendulum clocks," he told her. chapter iv the dawn the morning after her return from europe, lydia awoke with a start, as though in answer to a call. the confusion of the last days had been such that she had for a moment the not uncommon experience of an entire blankness as to her whereabouts and identity. realization of where and who she was came back to her with much more than the usual neutral relief at slipping into one's own personality as into the first protection available against the vague horror of nihility. after an instant's uncomfortable wandering in chaos, lydia found herself with a thrill of exultation. she was not negatively relieved that she was somebody; she rejoiced to find herself lydia emery. she pounced on her own personality with a positive joy which for a moment moved her to a devout thanksgiving. it all seemed, as she said to herself, too good to be true--certainly more than she deserved. among her unmerited blessings she quaintly placed being herself, but this was the less naïve in that she placed among her blessings nearly everything of which she was conscious in her world. her world at this time was not a large one, and every element in it seemed to her ideal. her loving, indulgent father, who always had a smile for her as he looked up over his newspaper at the table, and who, though she knew he was too good to be wealthy, always managed somehow to pay for dresses just a little prettier than other girls' clothes; her devoted, idolizing mother, whose one thought was for her daughter's pleasure; her rich big brother george in cleveland, whom she saw so seldom, but whose handsome presents testified to an affection that was to be numbered among the objects of her gratitude; good, sharp-tongued sister etta, who said such quick, bright things and ran her house so wonderfully; aunt julia, dear, dear aunt julia, whose warm heart was one of lydia's happiest homes, and aunt julia's brother, dr. melton--ah, how could anyone be grateful enough for such an all-comprehending, quick-helping, ever-ready ally, teacher, mentor, playmate, friend and comrade as her godfather! as she lay in her soft white bed and looked about her pretty room with an ineffable sense of well-being, it seemed to her that everything that had happened to her was lovely and that the prospect of her future could contain only a crescendo of good-fortune. it was not that she imagined for herself a future remarkably different in detail from what was the past of the people about her. even now at what she felt was the beginning of the first chapter, she knew the general events of the story before her; but this morning she was penetrated with the keenest sense of the unfathomable difference it made in those events in that they were about to happen to her. she had been passively watching the excited faces of people hurling themselves down-hill on toboggans, but now she was herself poised on the crest of the slope, tense with an excitement not only more real, but somehow more vital to the scheme of things, than that felt by other people who had made the thrilling trip before her. she lay still for a few moments, luxuriating in the innocent egotism of this view of her future, which was none the less absorbing for being so entirely unterrifying, and then sprang up, impatient to begin it. no one else in the house was awake. she saw with surprise that it was barely five o'clock. she wondered that she felt so little sleepy, since she had been up late the night before. all the family and connections had gathered, and she had talked with an eager breathlessness and had listened as eagerly to pick up all those details of home news which do not go into letters; those insignificant changes and events that make up the physiognomy of an existence, without which one cannot again become an integral part of a life once familiar. it had been a fatiguing, illuminating evening. a change of mood had come in the night. as she dressed she felt that, in some way, neither the fatigue nor the illumination had lasted on through the blankness of her sound young sleep. she felt restlessly fresh and vigorous, like a creature born anew with the morning light, and she did not feel herself as yet an integral part of the busy, absorbing life to which she had returned. the countless tendrils of endbury feelings, standards, activities, brushed against her, but had not as yet laid hold on her. europe had never been more real to her young-lady eyes than an immense world's exposition, rather overwhelmingly full of objects to be inspected, and now, here in ohio, even that impression was dim and remote. but so, also, was endbury; she had left the one, she had not yet arrived at the other. she felt herself for the moment in a neutral territory that was scarcely terrestrial. the silent house was a kingdom of delight to be rediscovered. she wandered about it, enchanted with the impressions which her solitude gave her leisure to savor and digest. she threw open a window, and was struck with the sweet freshness of the morning air, as though it were a joy new in the history of the world. she looked out on the lawn, with its dew-studded cobwebs, and felt her heart contract with pleasure. when she stepped out on the veranda, the look of the trees, the breath of the light wind across her cheek, the odor of dawn, all the indefinable personality of that early hour was like an enchantment about her. she ran out to her favorite arbor and plucked one of the heavy clusters of purple grapes, finding their cool acidity an exquisite surprise. she raised her face to the sky with wonder. she had never, it seemed to her, seen so pure yet colorful a sky. the horizon was still faintly flushed with the promise of a dawn already fulfilled in the fresh splendor of the sunbeams slanting across the fresh splendor of her own youth. never again did lydia see the things she saw that morning. never again did she have so unquestioningly the happy child's conception of the whole world as magically centered in indulgent kindness about herself. as she looked up the clean, empty street stretching away under the shade of its thrifty young trees, it seemed made only to lead her forward into the life for which she had been so long preparing herself. endbury, with its shops, its bustle of factories so unmeaning to her, the great bulk of its inexplicable "business," existed only as the theater upon the stage of which she was to play the leading rôle in the drama of life--she almost consciously thought of it in those terms--which, after some exciting and pleasurable incidents and a few thrilling situations, was to have a happy ending, none the less actual to her mind because lost in so vague a golden shimmer. her father's house, as familiar to her as her hand, took on a new and rich dignity as the background for the unfolding of that wonderful creature, herself; that unknown, future, grown-up self, which was to be all that everyone who loved her expected, and more than she in her inexperience knew how to expect. she was in a little heaven, made up of the most ingenuous aspirations, the innocence of which seemed to her a guarantee of their certain fulfillment. her fervent desire to be good was equal to and of the same quality as her desire to be a successful débutante. it would make her family so happy to have her both. these somewhat widely diverging aims were all a part of the current of her life, the impulse to be what those she loved would like to have her. it was not that she was willing to give up her own individuality to gratify the impulse, but rather that she did not for an instant conceive of the necessity for such a sacrifice. it was part of her immense happiness that she had always loved to be what it pleased everyone to have her, and that, apparently, people wished to have her only what she wished to be. she was like a child guarded by her elders from any knowledge of forbidden food. all the goodies of which she had ever heard were hers for the asking. in such a carefully arranged nursery it would be perversity to doubt the everlasting quality of the coincidence between one's desires and one's obedience. it was no more remarkable a coincidence than that both dew and sunshine were good for the grass over which she now ran lightly to another corner of the grounds about her parents' house. here, just outside the circle of deep shade cast by an exuberantly leaved maple, she stood for a moment, her hands full of grapes, her eyes wandering about the green, well-kept double acres called diversely in the family "the grounds" (mrs. emery's name) and "the yard." lydia always clung to her father's name; she had very little inborn feeling for the finer shades of her mother's vocabulary. mrs. emery rejoiced in the careless unconsciousness of the importance of such details, but she felt that lydia should be cautioned against going too far. it was one of the girl's odd ways to be fond of the few phrases left over in the emery dictionary from their simpler earlier days. she always called the two servants "the girls" or "the help" instead of "the maids," spoke of the "washwoman" instead of the "laundress," and, as did her father, called the man who took care of the grounds, ran the furnace, and drove the emery's comfortable surrey, the "hired man" instead of the "gardener" or the "coachman," or, in mrs. emery's elegantly indefinite phrase, "our man." lydia explained this whimsical reaction rather incoherently by saying that those nice old words were so much more fun than the others, and in spite of remonstrance she clung to her fancy with so lightly laughing an obstinacy that neither she nor anyone suspected it of being a surface indication of a significant tendency. she had occasionally other droll little ways of differing from the family, which were called indulgently "lydia's notions." her mother would certainly have thus named this flight out into the early morning. she would have found extravagant, and a little disconcerting, the completeness of lydia's content in so simple a thing as standing in the first sunshine of an early morning in september, and she would have been unquestionably disturbed, perhaps even a little alarmed, by the beatific expression of lydia's face as she gazed fixedly up into the sky, the tempered radiance of which was as yet not too bright for her clear gaze. all the restless joy of a few minutes before, which had driven her about from one delight to another, fused under the sun's first warmth into a trance-like quiet. she stood still in the sunshine, a slow flush, like a reflection of dawn, rising to her cheeks, her lips parted, her eyes bright and vacant. an old person coming upon her at this moment would have been painfully moved by that tragic pity which age feels for the unreasoning joy of youth. she looked a child, open-eyed and breathless before the fleeting beauties of a bubble, most iridescent when about to disappear. it was a man by no means old who swung suddenly into sight around the corner, walking swiftly and noiselessly upon the close-cut grass, and the startled expression with which he found himself close to lydia was by no means one of pity. he fell back a step, and in the instant before the girl was aware of his presence his gaze upon her was that of a man dazzled by an incredible vision. she brought her eyes down to him, and for the space of a breath the expression was hers as well. the sunlight glowing about them seemed the reflection of their faces. then, for a moment longer, though mutual recognition flashed into their eyes, they did not speak, looking at each other long and seriously. finally, with a nymph-like stir of all her slender body, lydia roused herself. "well, i can speak--can you?" she asked whimsically. "don't you remember me?" the man drew a long breath and took off his cap, showing close-cropped auburn hair gleaming, like his beard, red in the sun. "you took my breath away!" he exclaimed. "what was the matter with me?" asked lydia, prettily confident of a compliment to follow. it came in so much less direct a form than she had expected that before she recognized it she had returned it with naïve impulsiveness. "i didn't think you could be real," said the man, "you looked so exactly the way this glorious morning made me feel." "why, that's just how you looked to me!" she cried, and flushed at the significance of her words. before her confusion the other turned away his quiet gray eyes, and said lightly, "well, that's because we are the only people in all the world with sense enough to get up so early on a morning like this. i've been out tramping since dawn." lydia explained herself also. "i just couldn't sleep, it seemed so lovely. it's my first morning home, you know." "is it?" responded the man, with a vagueness he made no effort to conceal. it came over lydia with a shock that he did not know she had been away. she felt hurt. it seemed ungracious for anyone in endbury not to have missed her, not to share in the joyful excitement of her final return. "i've been in europe for a year," she told him, with a dignity that was a reproach. "oh, yes, yes; i remember now hearing dr. melton speak of it," he answered, with no shade of apology for his forgetfulness. he looked at her speculatively, as if wondering what note to strike for the continuation of their talk. apparently he decided on the note of lightness. "well, you're the most important person there is for me to-day," he told her unexpectedly. lydia arched her dark eyebrows inquiringly. she was always sensitively responsive, and now had forgotten, like a sweet-tempered child, her momentary pique. he smiled suddenly, moved, as people often were, to an apparently irrelevant tenderness for her. his voice softened into a playfulness like that of a person speaking to an imaginative little girl. "why, didn't you learn in school that all wise old nations have the belief that the first person you meet after you go out in the morning decides the fortune of the day for you? now, what kind of a day are you going to give me?" lydia laughed. "oh, you must tell first! you forget you're the first person i've seen this morning. i'll see what i can do for you after i've seen what you are going to do for me." she added, with a solemnity only half jocular, "but it's ever so much more important in my case, for you're the first person i meet as i begin my life in endbury. think what a responsibility for you! you ought to give me something extra nice beside, for not remembering me any better and never noticing that i had been away." she broke into a sunny mitigation of her own severity, "but you can have some grapes, even if you are not very flattering." the man took the cluster she held out to him, but only eyed them as he answered, "oh, i remember you very well. you're a niece of mrs. sandworth's, or of her husband's, and mrs. sandworth is dr. melton's sister. you're the big-eyed little girl who used to sit in a corner and sew while the doctor and i talked, and now," he brought it out rotundly, "you've been to europe for a year, and you're grown-up." lydia hung her head laughingly at his good-natured caricature. "well, but i _have_, really and truly," she protested, "all of that. and i just guess you haven't had two such interesting things happen to you in such a short time as--" she stopped short, struck dumb by a sudden recollection. "oh, i beg your pardon," she murmured; "i forgot about what they said you had--" her expression was so altered, she looked at him with so curious a change from familiarity to strangeness, that his steady eyes wavered a moment in startled surprise. "what's that?" he asked sharply; "i didn't catch what you said." "why, nothing--nothing--only they were telling me yesterday about how you--why, it just came over me that you _had_ had a great deal happen to you this last year, as well as i." he looked a relieved and slightly annoyed comprehension of the case. "oh, that!" he summed it up for her with a grave brevity. "i have lost my father, and i have started life on a new footing during the past year." lydia fumbled for words that would be applicable and not wounding. "i was so sorry to hear that--about your father, i mean. and about the other--it must be very--_interesting_, i'm sure." his silence and enigmatic gaze upon her moved her to a fluttered fear lest she seem ungracious. she added, with a droll little air of letting him see that she was not of the enemy, "i do hope some day you'll tell me all about it; it sounds so romantic." the young man gave an inarticulate sound, and stroked his ruddy beard to conceal a smile. "it's not," he said briefly. he put his cap back on his head and looked down the street as though his thoughts were already away. his lack of responsiveness came, lydia thought, from her having wounded his feelings. "oh, i'm sure you must have some good reason for doing such a _queer_ thing," she said hurriedly. then, appalled by the words on which the haste of her good intentions had carried her, "oh, i mean that it's very brave, heroic, of you to have the courage--perhaps something very sad happened to you, and to forget it you--" the other broke into the laugh he had been trying to suppress. his gray eyes lighted up brilliantly with his mirth. "you're very kind," he said, "you're very kind, but rather imaginative. it doesn't take any courage; quite the reverse. and it's not a picturesque way of doing a retreat from active life. i hope and pray that it's to be a way of getting into it." the girl's face of bewilderment at his tone moved him to add, a ripple of amusement still in his voice, "ah, don't try to make me out. i don't belong in your world, you know; i'm real." lydia continued to look at him blankly. the obscurity of his remarks was in no way lessened by this last addition, but he vouchsafed no further explanation. "you've given me my breakfast," he said, holding up the grapes; "i mustn't keep you any longer from yours." he waited for a moment for lydia to respond to this speech, struck by a sudden realization that it might sound like an unceremonious hint to her to retire, rather than the dismissal of himself he intended. when she made no answer, he turned away with a somewhat awkward gesture of leave-taking. lydia looked after him in silence. chapter v the day begins she watched him until he was out of sight, and although the vigorous, rhythmic swing of his broad shoulders was like another manifestation of the morning's joyous, buoyant spirit, it did not move her to a responsive alertness. after he had turned a corner, she lowered her eyes to the cluster of grapes she still held; a moment after, without any change in expression, she relaxed her grasp on them and let them fall, turning away and walking soberly back to the house. the dew had already disappeared from the grass. there was now no hint of the dawn's coolness; the day had begun. her father met her at the door with an exclamation about her early hours. he would really see something of her, he said, if she kept up this sort of thing. it would be too good to be true if he could breakfast with her every morning. whereupon he rang for the coffee and unfolded his newspaper. lydia did not notice his absorption in the news of the day, partly because she was trained from childhood up to consider reading the newspaper as the main occupation of a man at home, but more because on this occasion she was herself preoccupied. when mrs. mortimer came in on an errand and was prevailed upon to sit down for some breakfast with her father and sister, there was a little more conversation. mrs. emery had not come down stairs. a slight indisposition which she had felt for several days seemed to have been augmented by the excitement of lydia's return. she had slept badly, and was quite uncomfortable, she told her husband, and thought she would stay in bed and send for dr. melton. it seemed foolish, she apologized, but now that lydia was back, she wanted to be on the safe side and lose no time. after these facts had been communicated to her older daughter, mrs. mortimer asked, "how in the world does it happen that you're up at this hour?" lydia answered that she had been inspecting the yard, which she had not seen the day before. she described quite elaborately her tour of investigation, without any mention of her encounter with her early caller, and only after a pause added carelessly, "who do you suppose came along but that mr. rankin you were all talking about yesterday?" judge emery laid down his paper. "what under the sun was he prowling about for at that hour?" "he wasn't prowling," said lydia. "he was fairly tearing along past the house so fast that he 'most ran over me before i saw him. i'd forgotten he is so handsome." "handsome!" mrs. mortimer cried out at the idea. "with that beard!" "i like beards, sometimes," said lydia. "it makes a man look like a barbarian. i'd as soon wear a nose-ring as have ralph wear a beard." "why, everybody who is anybody in europe wears a beard, or a mustache, anyhow," opposed lydia. "i got to liking to see them." "oh, of course if they do it in europe, we provincial stay-at-homes haven't a word to say." mrs. mortimer had invented a peculiar tone which she reserved for speeches like this, the neutrality of which gave a sharper edge to the words. "now, marietta, that's mean!" lydia defended herself very energetically; "you know i didn't say it for that." there was a moment's pause, of which marietta did not avail herself for a retraction, and then lydia went on pensively, "well, he may be handsome or not, but he's certainly not very polite." "he didn't say anything to you, did he?" asked her father in surprise, laying down the paper he had raised again during the passage between the sisters. lydia hastily proffered an explanation. "he couldn't help speaking; he almost ran into me, you know. i was standing under the maple tree in the corner as he came around from garfield avenue. he just took off his cap and said good morning, and what a fine day it was, and a few words like that." "i don't see anything so impolite in that. perhaps he wasn't european in his manners," suggested mrs. mortimer dryly. she had evidently arisen in the grasp of a mood, not uncommon with her, when an apparently causeless irritability drove her to say things for which she afterward suffered an honest but fruitless remorse. dr. melton had recently evolved for this characteristic of hers one of the explanations which the emerys found so enigmatic. "marietta," he said critically, "is in a perpetual state of nervous irritation from eye-strain. she has naturally excellent and normal eyesight, but she has always been trained to wear other people's spectacles. it puts her out of focus all the time, and that makes her snappy." she had answered explicitly to this vague diagnosis, "nonsense! the thing that makes me snappy is the lack of an oriental rug in our parlor." "you're looking at that through mrs. gilbert's magnifying glasses," suggested the doctor. "i'm not looking at it at all, and that's the trouble," marietta had assured him. "absence makes the heart--" the doctor had the last word. lydia tried this morning at breakfast to obtain the same advantage over her sister. she flushed with a mixture of emotions and tried in a resentful silence to think of some definable cause for her accusation against rankin's manners. finally, "well, i gave him a bunch of grapes, and he never so much as said thank you. he just took them and marched off." "perhaps he doesn't like grapes," suggested mrs. mortimer, grim to the last. after breakfast, when mrs. mortimer and her father disappeared, lydia found herself with a long morning before her. the doctor telephoned that he could not come before noon. judge emery, after his proprietary good-by kiss, advised her to be quiet and rest. she looked a little pale, he thought, and he was afraid that, after her cool ocean voyage, she would find the heat of an ohio september rather trying. indeed, as lydia idled for a moment over the dismantled breakfast table she was by no means moved to activity. dark shades were everywhere drawn down and the house was like a dimly-lighted cave, but through this attempt at protection the sun was making itself felt in a slowly rising, breathless, moist heat. lydia climbed the stairs to her mother's room. she was looking forward to a long visit, but finding the invalid asleep she turned away from the door rather blankly. she was as yet too much a stranger in her own home to have at hand the universal trivial half-dozen unfinished tasks that save idle women from the perils of uninterrupted thought. the ribbons were all run in her pretty underwear; she owed no notes to anyone, because she had been at home too short a time to have received any letters; her hair had been washed the last day on the steamer, and her new dresses needed no mending. her trunks had been unpacked the day before by her mother's competent hands, which had also arranged every detail of her tasteful room until to touch it would disturb the effect. lydia began to experience that uneasy, unsettling discomfort that comes to modern people in ordinary modern life if some unusual circumstance throws them temporarily on their own resources. she lingered aimlessly for some time at the head of the stairs, and then, leaning heavily against the rail, began to descend slowly, one step at a time, to prolong the transit. where the stairs turned she noticed a stain on the crisp sleeve of her white dress. it came, evidently, from one of the grapes she had eaten that morning under the maple tree. a current of cool air blew past her. it was the first relief from the stagnation of the sultry day and, sitting down on the landing, she lost herself in prolonged meditation. in the obscurity of the darkened hall she was scarcely visible save as a spot of light showing dimly through the balustrade, and she sat so still that the maid, stepping about below, did not see her. on her part, lydia noticed but absently this slight stir of domestic activity, nor, after a time, louder but muffled noises from the dining-room. even when the door to the dining-room opened and quick, light steps came to the foot of the stairs, she did not heed them. a confused, hushed sound of someone busy about various small operations did not rouse her, and it was not until the fall of a large object, clattering noisily on the floor, that she became conscious that someone beside the maid was in the hall. she leaned forward, and saw that the object which had fallen was the newel-post of the stairs. it had evidently been detached from its fastenings by the workman who, with his back to her, now knelt over a tool-box, fumbling among the tools with resultant little metallic clicks. lydia ran down the stairs, finger on lip. "hush! don't make any more noise than you can help. mother's still asleep." at his gaze of stupefaction she broke into her charming light laugh, "why, i always seem to strike you speechless. what's the matter with me now?" the other emerged from his surprise with a ready, smiling acceptance of her tone, "i was wondering if i oughtn't to apologize to you--if i should ever see you again--for being so curt this morning. and then you spring up out of the ground before me. well, so i will apologize. i do. i'm very sorry." they adopted, as in the first part of their earlier talk, the half-humorous familiarity of people surprised in an unconventional situation, but, in spite of this, the young man's apology was not without the accent of serious sincerity. lydia responded heartily in kind. "oh, it was i who was horrid. and--wasn't it funny--i was just thinking--wondering if i should ever have a chance to try to make you see that i didn't mean to be so--" she hesitated, and fell back on iteration again--"so horrid." the fashionable endbury boarding-school had not provided its graduate with any embarrassment of riches in the way of expression for various shades of meaning. he answered, lowering his voice as she did, "oh, you were all right, but i was most objectionable with my impertinent laugh. i'm sorry." she challenged his sincerity, "are you really, really?" "oh, really, really," he assured her. "and you want to do something nice to make it up to me?" "anything," he promised, smiling at her as at a child. "you've promised! you've promised!" she indulged herself in a noiseless hand-clasp. "well, then, the forfeit is to tell me all about it." "all about what?" "goodness gracious! don't you remember? that's what we were both horrid about. i asked you to tell me about it, and you--" he remembered, evidently with an amusement not entirely free from annoyance. "oh, i'm safe. i'll never see you to tell you." she sat down on the bottom step and drew her white skirts about her. "what's the matter with right now?" she asked, smiling. "i've got to earn my living right now," he objected, beginning with a swift deftness to bore a tiny hole. she was diverted for an instant. "what are you doing to our nice old newel-post?" she asked. "i thought they said you were going to set up the new sideboard." "oh, that's no job at all; it's done. didn't you hear me pushing and banging things around? now i've the job before me of fitting the very latest thing in newel-posts in place of your old one." the girl returned to her first attack. "well, anyhow, if it's a long job, it's all the better. go ahead and talk at the same time. you won't feel you're wasting time." their low-toned talk and the glimmering light of the hall made them seem oddly intimate. lydia expressed this feeling while rankin stood looking doubtfully at her, a little daunted by the pretty relentlessness of her insistence. "you see, you're not nearly so much a stranger to me as i am to you. remember how i sewed and listened. i'm a grown-up little pitcher, and my ears are still large. i was remembering just now, before you came in, how strangely you used to talk to dr. melton, and i thought it wasn't so surprising, after all, your doing 'most anything queer." rankin laughed as he bent over his tools. "little pitchers have tongues, too, i see." either lydia felt herself more familiar with her interlocutor than before, or one result of her meditation had been the loss of her excessive fear of wounding his feelings. she spoke now quite confidently, "but, honestly, what in the world did you do it for?" "it?" he made her define herself. "oh, you know! give up everything--lose your chance in society, and poke off into the woods to be a common--" in spite of her new boldness she faltered here. he supplied the word, with a flash of mirth. "don't be afraid to say it right out--even such an awful term as workman, or carpenter. i can bear it." "i knew it!" lydia exclaimed. "as i was thinking it over on the stairs just now, i said to myself that probably you weren't a bit apologetic about it; probably you had some queer reason for being proud of yourself for doing it." he cast a startled look at her. "you're the only person in endbury with imagination enough to guess that." "but why? why? why?" she urged him, her flexible eyebrows raised in the eagerness of her inquiry. "i feel just as though i were going to hear the answer to a perfectly maddeningly unanswerable riddle." he had another turn in his attempt at evasion. "it wouldn't be polite to tell you the answer, for what i'm trying to do is to get out of being what everybody you know thinks is the only way to be--except dr. melton, of course." "what's the matter with 'all the people i know,'" she challenged him explicitly. he laughed and shook his head. "oh, i've nothing new to say about them. everybody has said it, from ecclesiastes to tolstoi." "they never say anything about just ordinary folks in endbury that i know." rankin looked at her whimsically. "oh, _don't_ they?" "_do_ they?" lydia wondered at the possibility. presently she brought out, as a patently absurd supposition, "you don't mean to say that endbury people are wicked?" "do you think that none but wicked people are written about in serious books? no; lord, no! i don't think they are wicked--just mistaken." "what about? now we're getting warm. i'll guess in a minute." he looked a little sadly down at her bright, eager face. "i'm afraid you would never guess. it's all gone into your blood. you breathe it in and out as you live, every minute." "what? what? what? you can't say it, you see, when it comes right down to the matter." "oh, yes, i can; i can ask you if it wouldn't be a tragedy if they should all be killing themselves to get what they really don't want and don't need, and starving for things they could easily have by just putting out their hands." lydia's blankness was immense. he said, with ironic triumph: "you see, when i do say it you can't make anything out of it." after this he turned for a time all his attention to his work. he had evidently reached a critical point in his undertaking. lydia watched in silence the deft manipulations of his strong, brown fingers, wondering at the eager, almost sparkling, alertness with which he went from one step to another of the process that seemed unaccountably complicated to her. after he had finally lifted the heavy piece of wood into place, handling its great weight with assurance, and had submitted the joint to the closest inspection, he gave a low whistle of satisfaction with himself, and stepped back to get the general effect. as he did so he happened to glance at the girl, drooping rather listlessly on the stair. he paused instantly, with an exclamation of dismay. "no; i'm not going to cry," lydia told him with a very small smile, "but it would serve you right if i did." the workman wiped his forehead and surveyed her in perplexity. "what, can i do for you?" he asked. "if you're really serious in asking that," said lydia with dignity, "i'll tell you. you can take for granted that i am not an idiot or a child and talk to me sensibly. dr. melton does. and you can tell me what you started out to--the real reason why you are a common carpenter instead of in the insurance business. of course if you think it is none of my concern, that's another matter. but you said you would." rankin looked a little abashed by the grave seriousness of this appeal, although he smiled at its form. "you speak as though i had my reason tied up in a package about me, ready to hand, out." lydia said nothing, but did not drop her earnest eyes. he thrust his hands into his pockets and returned this intent gaze, a new expression on his face. then picking up a tool, and drawing a long breath, he said, with the accent of a man who takes an unexpected resolution: "well, i _will_ tell you." he returned to his work, tightening various small screws under the railing, speaking, as he did so, in a reasonable, quiet tone, with none of the touch of badinage which had thus far underlain his manner to the girl. "it's very simple--nothing romantic or sudden about it all. i did not like the insurance business as i saw it from the inside, and the more i saw of it, the less i liked it. i couldn't see how i could earn my living at it and arrive at the age of forty with an honest scruple left. not that the insurance business is, probably, any worse than any other--only i knew about it from the inside. so far as i could guess the businesses my friends were in weren't very different. at least, i didn't think i could improve things by changing to them. also, it was going to grow more and more absorbing--or, at least, that was the way it affected the older men i knew--so that at forty i shouldn't have any other interests than getting ahead of other people in the line of insurance. "now, what was i to do about it? i can't make speeches, and nobody but crack-brained soreheads like me would listen to them if i did. i'm not a great philosopher, with a cure for things. but i didn't want to fight so hard to get unnecessary things for myself that i kept other people from having the necessaries, and didn't give myself time to enjoy things that are best worth enjoying. what could i do? i bothered the life out of dr. melton and myself for ages before it occurred to me that the thing to do, if i didn't like the life i was in, was to get out of it and do something harmless, at least, if i didn't have gumption enough to think of something worth while, that might make things better. "i like the cabinet-maker's trade, and i couldn't see that practicing it would interfere with my growing all the honest scruples that were in me. oh, i know that it's the easiest thing in the world for a carpenter to turn out bad work for the sake of making a little more money every day; i haven't any illusions about the sanctity of the hand-crafts. but, anyhow, i saw that as a maverick cabinet-maker i could be pretty much my own master. if i had strength of mind enough i could be honest without endless friction with partners, employers, banks, creditors, employés, and all the rest of the spider web of business life. at any rate, it looked as though there were a chance for me to lead the life i wanted, and i had an idea that if i started myself in square and straight, maybe after a little while i could see clearer about how to help other people to occupations that would let them live a little as well as make money, and let them grow a few scruples into the bargain. "you see, there's nothing mysterious about it--nor interesting. just ordinary. i'm living the way i do because i'm not smart enough to think of a better way. but one advantage of it is that i have a good deal of time to think about things. maybe i'll think of a way to help, later. and, anyway, just to look at me is proof that you don't _have_ to get ground up in the hopper like everybody else or shut the door of the industrial squirrel-cage on yourself in order not to starve. perhaps that'll give some cleverer person the courage to start out on his own tangent." lydia drew a long breath at the conclusion of this statement. "well--" she said, inconclusively; "_well!_" after a pause she advanced, "my sister's husband is in the insurance business." "you see," said the workman, drilling a hole with great rapidity, "you see i ought not to talk to you. i can't without being impolite." lydia seemed in no haste to assure him that he had not been. she pulled absently a loose lock of hair--a little-girl trick that came back to her in moments of abstraction--and looked down at her feet. when she looked up, it was to say with a bewildered air, "but a man has to earn his living." rankin made a gesture of impatience, and stopped working to answer this remark. "a living isn't hard to earn. any healthy man can do that. it's earning food for his vanity, or his wife's, that kills the average man. it's coddling his moral cowardice that takes the heart out of him. don't you remember what emerson says--melton's always quoting it--'most of our expense is for conformity to other men's ideas? it's for cake that the average man runs in debt.' he must have everything that anyone else has, whether he wants it or not. a house ever so much bigger and finer than he needs, with ever so many more things in it than belong there. he must keep his wife idle and card-playing because other men's wives are. he must have his children do what everyone else's children do, whether it's bad for their characters or not. ah! the children! that's the worst of it all! to bring them up so that these futile complications will be essentials of life to them! to teach them that health and peace of mind are not too high a price for a woman to pay for what is called social distinction, and that a man must--if he can get it in no other way--pay his self-respect and the life of his individuality for what is called success--" lydia broke in with a sophisticated amusement at his heat. "why, you're talking about newport, or the four hundred of new york--if there is any such thing! the rest of america--why, any european would say we're as primitive as aztecs! they do say so! endbury's not complicated. good gracious! a little, plain, middle-western town, where everybody that is anybody knows everybody else!" "no; it's not complicated compared with european standards, but it's more so than it was. why, in heaven's name, should it strain every nerve to make itself as complicated as possible as fast as it can? we're free yet--we're not europeans so shaken down into a social rut that only a red revolution can get us out of it. why can't we decide on a rational--" he broke off to say, gloomily: "the devil of it is that we don't decide anything. we just slide along thinking of something else. if people would only give, just once in their lives, the same amount of serious reflection to what they want to get out of life that they give to the question of what they want to get out of a two-weeks' vacation, there aren't many folks--yes, even here in endbury that seems so harmless to you because it's so familiar--who wouldn't be horrified at the aimless procession of their busy days and the trivial false standards they subscribe to with their blood and sweat." "my goodness!" broke in lydia. the exclamation came from her extreme surprise, not only at the extraordinary doctrine enunciated, but at the experience, new to her, of hearing convictions spoken of in ordinary conversation. the workman took it, however, for a mocking comment on his sudden fluency. he gave a whimsical grimace, and said, as he began picking up his tools, "ah, i shouldn't have given in to you. when i get started i never can stop." his expression altered darkly. "but i hate all that sort of thing so! i _hate_ it!" lydia shrank back from him, startled, but aroused. "well, i hate hate!" she cried with energy. "it's horrid to hate anything at all, but most of all what's wrong and doesn't know it's wrong. that needs help, not hate." he had slung his tool-box on his shoulder before she began speaking, and now stood, ready for departure, looking at her intently. even in the dim light of the hall she was aware of a wonderful change in his face. she was startled and thrilled by the expression of his eyes in the moment of silence that followed. finally, "you've given me something to remember," he said, his voice vibrating, and turned away. chapter vi lydia's godfather lydia stood where he left her, listening to the sound of his footsteps die down the walk outside. she was still standing there when, some time later, the door to the dining-room behind her opened and a tiny elderly man trotted across the hall to the stairs. lydia recognized him before he saw that she was there, so that he exclaimed in surprise and pleasure as she came running toward him, her face quivering like a child's about to weep. "oh, dear godfather!" she cried, as she flung herself on him; "i'm so glad you've come! i never wanted so much to see you!" he was startled to feel that she was trembling and that her cheek against his forehead, for she was taller than he, was burning hot. "good gracious, my dear!" he said, in the shrill voice his size indicated, "anybody'd think you were the patient i came to see." his voice, though high, was very sweet--a quality that made it always sound odd, almost foreign, in the midst of the neutral, colorless middle-western tones about him. he spoke with a southern accent, dropping his _r's_, clipping some vowels and broadening others, but there was no southern drawl in the clicking, telegraphic speed of his speech. he now looked up at his tall godchild and said without a smile: "if you'll kindly come down here where i can get at you, i'll shake you for being so foolish. you needn't be alarmed about your mother." lydia recoiled from the little man as impulsively as she had rushed upon him. "why, how _awful_!" she accused herself, horrified. "i'd _forgotten_ mother!" dr. melton took off his hat and laid it on the hall shelf. "i will climb up on a chair to shake you," he continued cheerfully, "if already, in less than twenty-four hours, you're indulging in nerves, as these broken and meaningless ejaculations seem to indicate." he picked up a palm-leaf fan, lost himself in a big hall-chair, and began to fan himself vigorously. he looked very hot and breathless, but he flowed steadily on. "i can't diagnose you yet, you know, without looking at you, the way i do your mother, so you'll have to give me some notion of what's the occasion of these alternate seizures and releases of a defenseless lilliputian godfather." he made a confident gesture toward the upper part of the house with his fan. "about your mother--i know without going upstairs that she is floored with one or another manifestation of the great disease of social-ambitionitis. but calm yourself. it's not so bad as it seems when you've got the right doctor. i've practiced for thirty years among endbury ladies. they can't spring anything new on me. i've taken your mother through doily fever induced by the change from table-cloths to bare tops, through portière inflammation, through afternoon tea distemper, through _art-nouveau_ prostration and mission furniture palsy, not to speak of a horrible attack of acute insanity over the necessity for having her maids wear caps. i think you can trust me, whatever dodge the old malady is working on her." he had run on volubly, to give lydia time to recover herself, his keen blue eyes fixing her, and now, as she wavered into something like a smile at his chatter, he shot a question at her with a complete change of manner: "but what's the matter with _you_?" lydia started as though he had suddenly clapped her on the shoulder. "i--why, i--just--" she hesitated, "why, i don't know what _is_ the matter with me." she brought it out with the most honest surprise in the world. dr. melton's approval of this answer was immense. "why, lydia, i'm proud of you! you're one in a thousand. you'll break the hearts of everyone who knows you by turning out a sensible woman if you don't look out. i don't believe there's another girl in endbury who would have had the nerve to tell the truth and not fake up a headache, or a broken heart, or _weltschmerz_, or some such trifle, for a reason." he pulled himself up to his feet. "of course, you don't know what's the matter with you, my dear. _i_ do. _i_ know everything, and can't do a thing. that's me! physically, you're upset by endbury heat after an ocean voyage, and mentally it's the reaction caused by your subsidence into private life after being the central figure of the returned traveler. last evening, now, with that mob of friends and the family pawing at you and trying to cram-jam you back into the endbury box and shut the lid down--_that_ was enough to kill anybody with a nerve in her body. what's the history of the morning? i hope you slept late." lydia shook her head. "no; i was up ever so early.--marietta came over to borrow the frames for drying curtains, and stayed to breakfast." something about her accent struck oddly on the trained sensitiveness of the physician's ear. her tone rang empty, as with something kept back. "marietta's been snapping at you," he diagnosed rapidly. "well, a little," lydia admitted. the doctor laid the palm-leaf fan aside and took lydia's slim fingers in both his firm, sinewy hands. "my dear, i'm going to do as i have always done with you, and talk with you as though you were a grown-up person and could take your share in understanding and bearing family problems. your sister marietta is not a very happy woman. she has too many of your father's brains for the life she's been shunted into. she might be damming up a big river with a finely constructed concrete dam, and what she is giving all her strength to is trying to hold back a muddy little trickle with her bare hands. the achievement of her life is to give on a two-thousand-a-year income the appearance of having five thousand like your father. she does it; she's a remarkably forceful woman, but it frets her. she ought to be in better business, and she knows it, though she won't admit it. so, don't you mind if she's sharp-tongued once in a while. it's when she feels the muddy water oozing through her fingers." he fancied that lydia's eyes on his were a little blank, perhaps absent, and broke off with a short laugh. he was quite hardened to the fact that people never understood his fanciful metaphors, but lydia, as a child, had used to have a curious intuitive divination of his meaning. after his laugh he sighed and turned the talk. "well, and has flora burgess been after you to get your impression of endbury as compared with europe? your mother said she wanted an interview with you for next sunday's _society notes_." lydia smiled. the subject was an old joke with them. "no; she hasn't appeared yet. i haven't seen her--not since my birthday a year ago, the time she described the supper-table as a 'glittering, scintillating mass of cut-glass and silver, and yet without what could really be called ostentation.' isn't she delicious! how is the little old thing, anyway?" "still trotting industriously about endbury back yards sowing the dragon's teeth of her idiotic ideas and standards." "oh, i remember, you don't like her," said lydia. "she always seems just funny to me--funny and pathetic. she's so dowdy, and reverential to folks with money, and enjoys other people's good times so terrifically." "she's like some political bosses--admirable in private life, but a menace to the community just the same." lydia laughed involuntarily, in spite of her preoccupation. "flora burgess a menace to the community!" the doctor turned away and began to mount the stairs. "me and cassandra!" he called over his shoulder in his high, sweet treble. "just you wait and see!" he disappeared down the upper hall, finding his way about the darkened house with a familiarity that betokened long practice. lydia sat down on the bottom step to wait for his return. the clock in the dining-room struck twelve. it came over her with a clap that but half a day had passed since she had run out into the dawn. for an instant she had the naïve, melodramatic instinct of youth to deck out its little events in the guise of crises. she began to tell herself with gusto that she had passed some important turning-point in her life; when, as was not infrequent with her, she lost the thread of her thought in a sudden mental confusion which, like a curtain of fog, shut her off from definite reflection. complicated things that moved rapidly always tired lydia. she had an enormous capacity for quiet and tranquillity. to-day she felt that more complicated things were moving rapidly inside her head than ever before--as though she had tried to keep track of the revolutions of a wheel and had lost her count and could now only stare stupidly at the spokes, whirling till they blended into one blur. what was this endbury life she had come back to? what in the world had that man been talking about? what a strange person he was! how very bright his eyes were when he looked at you--as though he were, somehow, seeing you more than most people did. what did the doctor mean by all that about marietta? it had never occurred to her that the life of anyone about her might have been different from what it was. what else was there for people to do but what everybody else did? it was all very unsettling and, in this heat and loneliness, daunting. through this vague discomfort there presently pierced a positive apprehension of definite unpleasantness. she would have to tell her mother that she had spent the whole morning talking to mr. rankin, and her mother would be cross, and would say such--lydia remembered as in a distant dream her supreme content with life of only a few hours earlier. it seemed a very bewildering matter to her now. ought she so certainly to tell her mother? she lingered for a moment over this possibility. then, "oh, of course!" she said aloud, flushing with an angry shame at her moment's parley with deceit. she heard her mother's door open and turned to see the doctor running down the stairs, his wrinkled little face very grave. "you were right, lydia, to be anxious about your mother, and i am an old fool! there is no fool like a fluent fool! i'm afraid she's in for quite a siege. there's no danger, thank heaven! but i don't believe she can be about for a month or more. i'm going to 'phone for a trained nurse. just see that nobody disturbs her, will you?" he darted away, leaving lydia leaning against the newel-post, gasping. the clock in the dining-room chimed the quarter-hour. she cried out to herself, as she climbed the stairs heavily, that she could not stand it to have things happen to her so fast. if all endbury days were going to be like this one-- she was for a moment brought to a standstill by a realization of depths within herself that she had not dreamed of. she realized, horrified, that on hearing the doctor's verdict her first thought--gone before it was formulated, but still her first thought--had been one of relief that now she need not tell her mother. it had not occurred to her at all, nor did it now, that she either should or should not tell her father. chapter vii outside the labyrinth the black rock woods lay glowing under the cloudy autumn sky like a heap of live coals, the maples still quivering in scarlet, the chestnuts sunk into a clear yellow flame, the oaks, parched by the september heat, burnt out into rusty browns. above them, the opalescent haze of october rose like a faint blue smoke, but within the woods the subdued light was richly colored, like that which passes through the stained glass of a great cathedral. the first of the fallen leaves lay in pools of gold in the hollows of the brown earth, where the light breezes had drifted them. it was, for the moment, singularly quiet, so, that, as lydia walked quickly along the footpath, the pleasant rustle of her progress was the only sound she heard. under a large chestnut she paused, gathering her amber-colored draperies about her and glancing uncertainly ahead to where the path forked. she looked a yellow leaf blown by some current of the air unfelt by the rest of the forest and caught against the rough bark of the tree. after hesitating for a moment, she drifted slowly along the right-hand path, looking about her with dreamy, dazzled eyes. from time to time, she stopped and lifted her face to the light and color above her, and once she stood a long time leaning against a tree, stirring with the tip of her parasol a heap of burning maple leaves. under her drooping hat her face was almost vacant in a wide beatitude of harmony with the spirit of day. when she walked on again it was with a lighter and lighter step, as though the silence had come to have a lovely meaning for her which she feared to disturb. the path turned sharply after passing through a thicket of ruddy brambles, and she found herself in a little clearing which the haze of the upper air descended to fill. the yellow chestnuts stood in a ring about the sunburnt grass. it was like a golden cup filled with some magic, impalpable draught. through this she now saw a rough little house, brown as an oak leaf, with a wide veranda, under which, before a work-bench, sat daniel rankin. his tanned arms moved rhythmically backward and forward, but his ruddy head was high, and his eyes, roving about the leafy walls of the clearing, caught sight of lydia as soon as she had turned the corner. she stopped short, with a startled gesture, on the edge of the woods, but remained standing quietly while rankin sprang up from his seat and walked toward her smiling. "oh, miss emery," he called welcomingly. "i didn't recognize you for a minute. every once in a while a young lady or a child loses her way from a picnic in the woods and stumbles into my settlement. i always have to hurry to show them there's no danger of the wild man who lives in that house eating them up." he came up to her now, and put out his hand with a frank pleasure. "i wasn't afraid," said lydia; "i was startled for a minute, but i knew right away it must be your house. you described it to me, you know." "it's very much flattered that you remember its portrait," said the owner. "won't you honor it some more by sitting down in its veranda for a while? or must i take you back to your picnic party at once?" lydia moved on, looking about her at the piles of boards, half hidden by vines, at the pool of clear water welling up through white sand in front of the house, and at the low rough building, partly covered with woodbine ruby-red against the weather-beaten wood. "my picnic party's gone home," she explained. "it was only marietta and her little boy, anyhow. my sister thought it was going to rain, and took the quickest way home. i told marietta i'd walk across and take the garfield avenue trolley line. i must have taken a wrong turn in the path." they had reached the veranda now, and lydia sank into the chair which rankin offered her. she smiled her thanks silently, her face still steeped in quiet ecstasy, and for a long time she said nothing. the quick responsiveness that was at all times her most marked characteristic answered this rare mood of nature with an intensity almost frightening in its visible joy. rankin also said nothing, looking at her reflectively and stroking his close-clipped red beard. above the faded brown of his work-shirt, his face glowed with color. in the silent interval of the girl's slow emergence from her reverie, his gaze upon her was so steady that when lydia finally glanced up at him he could not for a moment look away. the limpid unconsciousness of her eyes changed into a startled look of inquiry, as though he had spoken and she had not understood. then a flush rose to her cheeks, she looked down and away in a momentary confusion, moved in her chair, and began to talk at random. "so this is where you live. it's lovely. it looks like a fairy story--the little house in the wood, you know--nothing seems real to-day--the woods--it makes me want to cry, they are so beautiful. i've been wondering and wondering what outdoors was looking like. you know poor mother is sick, and though she's not so awfully sick, and of course we've a trained nurse for her, still i've had to be housekeeper and i haven't had time to breathe. the second girl left right off because of the extra work she thought sickness would make, but it seems to me we've had a million new second girls in the three weeks. it's been awful! i haven't had time to get out at all or to see anybody." she was quite herself now, and confided her troubles with a naïve astonishment, as though they were new to humanity. "yes; i've heard ladies say before that it's quite awful," agreed her companion gravely. he swung himself up to sit on his work-bench, his long legs stretched before him, just reaching the ground. "envy me," he went on, smiling; "i don't have to have a second girl, or a first one, either." "what _do_ you do?" asked lydia, not waiting, however, for an answer, but continuing her relieved outpouring of her own perplexities. "it's perfectly desperate at home. i haven't had a minute's peace. this afternoon i just got wild, and said i _would_ get away from it for a minute, and just ran away. father's nice about it, but he does look something fierce when he comes home and finds another one left. he says that mother doesn't have to change more than two or three times a year!" she presented this as the superlative of stability. rankin laughed again. lydia felt more and more at her ease. he was evidently thinking of her pretty looks and ways rather than of what she was saying, and, like all of her sisterhood, this was treatment which she thoroughly understood. for the moment she forgot that he was the man who had startled and almost shocked her by his unabashed presentation, in a conversation with a young lady, of ideas and convictions. she leaned back in her chair and put on some of the gracefully imperious airs of regnant american young-ladyhood. "you must show me all about how you live, and everything," she commanded prettily. "i've been so curious about it--and now here i am." she was enchantingly unconscious of the possibility of her having seemed to seek him out. "what a perfectly beautiful piece of wood you have in that chair-back." she laid her ungloved, rosy finger-tips on a dark piece of oak. "and so this is where you work?" "i work everywhere," he told her. "i do all that's done, you see." "you must have to walk quite a ways to get your meals, don't you?" lydia turned her white neck to glance inside the house. rankin's mouth twitched humorously. "you'll never understand me," he said lightly. "i get my meals myself, here." lydia turned on him sharply. "you don't _cook_!" she cried out. "and wash dishes, and make my bed, and sweep my floor, and, once in a great while, dust." the romantic curiosity died out of the girl's eyes into a shocked wonder. she glanced at his large brown hands, and seemed about to speak. nothing came from her lips finally, however, beyond the pregnant "well!" which seemed the only expression in her vocabulary for extreme surprise. rankin threw back his head, showing a triangle of very white throat above his loose collar, and laughed aloud. the sound of his mirth was so infectious that lydia laughed with him, though half uneasily. "it's so funny," he explained, "to see the picture of myself i gather from your shocked and candid eyes. i'm so used to my queer ideas nowadays that i forget that what seems perfectly natural to me still seems perfectly crazy to others." "well, not _crazy_." lydia proffered this negation in so halting an accent that rankin burst into another peal of laughter. "but it must be horrid for you to wash dishes and cook!" protested lydia, feeling resentful that her inculcated horror of a man's "lowering himself" to woman's work should be taken with so little seriousness. she tried to rearrange a mental picture which the other was continually destroying. "but i suppose it's very picturesque. you cook over an open fire, i imagine." there was a humorous glint in his eye, "i cook over the best brand of oil-stove that money can buy," he told her, relentlessly, watching her wince from the sordid image. "i have all the conveniences i can think of. all i'm trying to do is to get myself fed with the least expenditure of gray matter and time on my part, and as things are now arranged in this particular corner of the country i find i can do it best this way. it's more work trying to persuade somebody who doesn't want to wait on me than to jump up and do it myself. also, having brains, i can certainly cook like a house afire." at this, lydia was overcome by that openness to conviction from unexpected sources which gave her mother one of her great anxieties for her. "well, honestly, do you know," she said unexpectedly, "there is a lot in that. i've thought ever so many times in the last two weeks that if father would let me wait on the table, for instance, i could get on ever so much easier." "and i'll just warrant," the man went on, "that i've had more time to myself lately than you have, for all i've my living to earn as well as the housework." "my goodness!" cried lydia, repudiating the comparison. "that needn't be saying much for you, for i haven't had a minute--not even to sit with mother as much as i ought." "what did you have to do that kept you from that?" "oh, you're no housekeeper, that's evident, or you wouldn't ask. a man _never_ has any idea about the amount of work there is to do in a house. why, set the table, and sweep the parlors, and change the flower vases, and dust, and pick up, and dust--i don't know what makes things get so dusty. we've got an awfully big house, you know, and of course i want to keep everything as nice as if mother were up. everybody expects me to do that!" "i had a great-aunt," began rankin with willful irrelevancy, "a very wonderful old woman who taught me most of what i value. she was considered cracked, so maybe that's why i am a freak, and she was as wise as wise! and she had stories that fitted every occasion. one that she used to tell was about a farmer cousin of hers, who had a team of spirited young horses that he was breaking. everybody warned him that if they ever ran away they'd be spoiled for life, and he got carefuller and carefuller of them. one day he and his father were haying beside a river, and the father, who couldn't swim a stroke, fell in. the horses were frightened by the splash and began to prance, and the son ran to their heads, beside himself with fear. the old man came to the top and screamed, 'help! help!' and the son answered, fairly jumping up and down in his anguish of mind over his poor old father's fate, 'oh, help, somebody! somebody come and help! i can't leave my horses!'" he stopped. lydia slid helplessly into the naïve question, "well, did his father drown?" before the meaning of the little parable struck her. she began to laugh, with her gay, sweet inability to resent a joke made at her own expense. "don't you think you are a good hand at sermon-making!" she mocked him. "it's all very well to preach, but just you tell me what you would have done in my place." "i should have left those big rooms, filled with things to dust, and let the dust lie on them--even such an awful thing as that!" lydia considered this with honest surprise. "why, do you know, it never occurred to me i could do that!" rankin nodded. "it's a common hallucination," he explained. "i've had it. i have to struggle against it still." "hallucination?" "the notion that you belong to the things that belong to you." lydia looked at him sidewise out of her clear dark eyes. she was beginning to feel more at home in his odd repertory of ideas. "i wonder," she mused, "if that's why i always feel so much freer and happier in old clothes--that i don't forget that they're for me and i'm not for them. but really, you know, dressmakers and mothers and folks get you to thinking that you are for clothes--you're made to show them off." rankin vouchsafed no opinion as to this problem of young-ladyhood. "here's your sister's rain," he said instead, pointing across the clearing, where against the dark tree-trunks fine, clear lines slanted down to the dry grass. lydia rose in some agitation. "why, i didn't really think it would rain! i thought it was just marietta's--" she glanced down in dismay at her thin low shoes and the amber-colored silk of her ruffled skirt. rankin stood up eagerly. "ah, i've a chance to do you a service. just step in, won't you, a moment and let me skirmish around and see what a bachelor's establishment can offer to a beautiful young lady who mustn't get wet." lydia moved into the wide, low room, saying deprecatingly, "it wouldn't hurt _me_ to get wet, you know. but this dress just came from paris, and i haven't had a chance to show it to anybody yet." rankin laughed, hastening to draw up a chair before the hearth, where a few embers still glowed, their presence explained by the autumnal chill which now struck sharply across the room from the open door as the rain began to patter on the roof. the girl looked about her in silence, apparently with surprise. "well, how do you like it?" asked the master of the house, throwing some dry twigs on the fire so that the flame, leaping up, lighted the corners, already dusky with the approach of evening. "it's not very tidy, is it?" he began rummaging in a recess in the wall, tumbling out coats and shoes and hats in his haste. finally, "there!" he cried in triumph, shaking out a rain-coat, "that will keep your pretty french finery dry." he turned back to the girl, who was sitting very straight in her chair, peering about her with wide eyes and a strange expression on her face. "why, what's the matter?" he asked. [illustration: "you say beautiful things!" he replied quietly. "my rough quarters are glorified for me."] lydia stood up, with a quick indrawn breath. "i don't know," she said, "what it is. it seems as though i'd been here before. it looks so familiar to me--so good--" she went closer to where, still holding out the rain-coat, he stood on the other side of a table strewn with papers. she leaned on this, fingering a pen and looking at him with a shy eagerness. she was struggling, as so often, with an indefinable feeling which she had no words to express. "don't you know," she went on, "every once in a while you see somebody--an old man or woman, perhaps, on the street cars, in the street--and somehow the face goes home to you. it seems as though you'd been waiting to see that face again. well, it's just so with this room. it has a face. i like it very--" she broke off, helplessly inarticulate before the confusion of her thoughts, and looked timidly at the man. she was used to kindly, amused laughter when she tried, stumblingly, to phrase some of the quickly varying impressions which made her life so full of invisible incidents. but rankin did not laugh, even kindly. his clear eyes were more than serious. they seemed to show him moved to an answering emotion. "you say beautiful things!" he replied quietly. "my rough quarters are glorified for me. i've been fond of them before--they're the background to a good many inward struggles and a considerable amount of inward peace, but now--" he looked about him with new eyes, noting the dull gleam of gold with which the chestnut ceiling answered the searching flicker of the fire, the brighter sparkles which were struck out from the gilded lettering on the books which lined the walls, and the diamond-like flashes from the polished steel of the tools on the work-bench at the other end of the room. there was a pause in which the silence within the house brought out the different themes composing the rich harmony of the rain, the steady, resonant downpour on the roof, the sweet whispers of the dried grass under the torrent, the muted thuddings of the big drops on the beaten earth of the veranda floor, and the hurried liquid overflow of the eaves. it was still light enough to see the fine color of the leather that covered the armchairs, and the glossy black of a piano, heaped with a litter of music. near the piano, leaning against the wall, a violoncello curved its brown crook-neck over the shapeless bag that sheltered it. lydia pointed to it. "you're musical!" she said, as if she had made an important discovery. rankin roused himself, followed the direction of her gaze, and shook his head. "no; i can't play a note," he said cheerfully, laying the rain-coat down and going to look over the pile of overshoes in a box; "but i like it. my queer old great-aunt left me that 'cello. it had belonged to her grandfather. i believe being so old makes it quite valuable. the piano belongs to an old german friend of mine who has seen better days and has now no place to keep it. two or three times a week he comes out here with an old crony who plays the 'cello, and they make music till they get to crying on each other's necks." "do you cry, too?" lydia smiled at the picture. rankin came back to the fire with a pair of rubbers in his hand. "no; i'm an american. i only blow my nose hard," he said gravely. "well, it must be lovely!" she sighed this out ardently, sinking back in her chair. "i love music so it 'most kills me, but i don't get very much of it. i took piano lessons when i was little, but there were always so many other things to do i never got time to practice as much as i wanted to, and so i didn't get very far. anyhow, after i heard a good orchestra play, my little tinklings were worse than nothing. i wish i could hear more. but perhaps it's just as well, mother says. it always gets me so excited. i'm sure i should cry, along with the germans." "they would like that," observed her host, "above everything." "father keeps talking about getting one of those player-pianos, but mother says they are so new you can't tell what they are going to be. she says they may get to be too common." rankin looked at her hard. "would you like one?" he asked this trivial question with a singular emphasis. "why, i haven't really thought," said lydia, considering the matter. the man looked oddly anxious for her answer. finally, "why, it depends on how much music you can make with them. if they are really good, i should want one, of course." rankin smiled, drew a long breath, and fell sober again as if at a sudden thought. "i don't see any oil-stove," said the girl, skeptically, looking about her. "oh, i have a regular kitchen. it's there," he nodded back of him; "and two rooms beside for me and for dr. melton or my germans, or some of my other freak friends when they stay too long and miss the last trolley in to town. oh, i have lots of room." "it looks really rather nice, now i'm here and all," lydia vaguely approved; "though i don't see why you couldn't have gone on more like other folks and just changed some things--not been so _awfully_ queer!" rankin was kneeling before her, holding out a pair of rubbers. at this remark he sat back on his heels, and began: "my great-aunt said that there was a man in her town who had such a terrible temper that his wife was in perfect terror of him, and finally actually died of fear. everybody was paralyzed with astonishment when, two or three years after, one of the nicest girls in town married him. people told her she was crazy, but she just smiled and said she guessed she could get along with him all right. everything went well for a week or two, and then one day he said the tea was cold and not fit for a pig to drink, and threw the cup on the floor. she threw hers down and broke it all to smash. he stared and glared, and threw his plate down. she set her lips and banged her own plate on the hearth. he threw his knife and fork through the window. she threw hers after, and added the water-pitcher for good measure." lydia's astonishment at this point was so heartfelt that the raconteur broke off, laughed, and ended hastily, "i spare you the rest of the dinner-service. the upshot of it was that every dish in the house was smashed and not a word spoken. then the man called for his carriage (he was a rich man--that sort usually is), drove to the nearest china-store, bought a new set, better than the old, took it back, and lived in peace and harmony with his wife ever after. and here is the smallest pair of rubbers i can find, and i shall have to tie these on!" lydia watched the operation in silence. as he finished it and rose to his feet again, "what was that all about?" she inquired simply. "compromise," he answered. "there are occasions when it doesn't do any good." "does it do such a lot of good to go off in the woods by yourself and do your own cooking?" asked lydia with something of her father's shrewd home-thrusting accent. "what would happen if everybody did that?" rankin laughed. "everybody'd have a good time, for one thing," he answered, adding, more seriously, "the house of rimmon may be all right for some people, but _my_ head isn't clear enough." lydia looked frankly at a loss. she did not belong to the alert, quickly "bluffing" type of young lady. "rimmon?" she asked. "he's in the bible." "that's a good reason why i've never heard of him," she said ruefully. "all i meant by him was that people who conform outwardly to a standard they don't really believe in, are in danger of getting most awfully mixed up. and certainly they don't stand any chance of convincing anybody else that there's anything the matter with the standard. what's needed isn't to upset everything in a heap, but to call people's attention to the fact that things could be a lot better than they are. and that's hard to do. and who ever called more people's attention to that fact than an impractical, unbalanced nobleman who took to cobbling shoes for the peace of his soul? there wasn't a particle of sense to what tolstoi _did_, but--" he stopped, hesitating in an uncertainty that lydia understood with a touching humility. "oh, you needn't explain who tolstoi is. i've heard of him." "well, you mustn't imagine i'm anything like tolstoi!" cried the young man, laughing aloud at the idea, "for i don't take a bit of stock in his deification of working with your muscles. that was an exaggeration he fell into in his old age because he'd been denied his fair share of manual work when he was young. if he'd had to split kindlings and tote ashes and hoe corn when he was a boy, i bet he wouldn't have thought there was anything so sanctifying about callouses on your hands!" "oh, dear! you're awfully confusing to me," complained lydia. "you always seem to be making fun of something i thought just the minute before you believed in." rankin looked intensely serious. "there isn't an impression i'd be sorrier to give you," he said earnestly. "perhaps the trouble is that you don't as yet know much about the life i've got out of." "i've lived in endbury all my life," protested lydia. "there may still be something for you to learn about the lives of its men," suggested her companion. "if you think it's so wrong, why don't you reform it?" lydia launched this challenge suddenly at him with the directness characteristic of her nation. "i have to begin with reforming myself," he said, "and that's job enough to last me a long while. i have to learn not to care about being considered a failure by all the men of my own age who are passing me by; and i don't mind confessing to you that that is not always easy--though you mustn't tell dr. melton i'm so weak. i have to train myself to see that they are not really getting _up_ so fast, but only _scrambling_ fast over slipping, sliding stones; and then i have to try to find some firm ground where i can make a path of my own, up which i can plod in my own way." the tone of the young people, as they talked with their innocent grandiloquence of these high matters, might have been taken for that of a couple deep in some intimate discussion, so honestly serious and moved was it. there was a silence now, also like the pause in a profoundly personal talk, in which they looked long into each other's eyes. the clock struck five. lydia sprang to her feet. "oh, i must hurry on! i told marietta to telephone home that i'd be there at six." she still preserved her charming unconsciousness of the unconventionality of her situation. a european girl, brought up in the strictest ignorance of the world, would still have had intuitions to make her either painfully embarrassed or secretly delighted with this impromptu visit to a young bachelor; but lydia, who had been allowed to read "everything" and the only compromise to whose youth had been fitful attempts of the family to remember "not to talk too much about things before lydia," was clad in that unearthly innocence which the advancing tide of sophistication has still left in some parts of the united states--that sweet, proud, pathetic conviction of the american girl that evil is not a vital force in any world that she knows. the young man before her smiled at her in as artless an unconsciousness as her own. they might have been a pair of children. "you've plenty of time," he assured her. "though i live so far out of the world, the garfield avenue trolley line is only five minutes' walk away. oh, i'm prosaic and commonplace, with my oil-stove and trolley cars. there's nothing of the romantic reactionary about me, i'm afraid." he wrapped the rain-coat about her and took an umbrella. "don't you lock up your house when you go away?" asked lydia. "the poor man laughs in the presence of thieves," quoted rankin. they stood on the veranda now, looking out into the blue twilight. the rain drummed noisily on the roof and the soft swish of its descent into the grass rose to a clear, sibilant note. the wind had died down completely, and the raindrops fell in long, straight lines like an opaque, glistening wall, which shut them off from the rest of the world. back of them, the fire lighted up the empty chair that lydia had left. she glanced in, and, moved by one of her sudden impulses, ran back for a moment to cast a rapid glance about the quiet room. when she returned to take rankin's arm as he held the open umbrella, she looked up at him with shining eyes. "i have made friends with it--your living-room," she said. as they made their way along the footpath, she went on, "when i get into the trolley car i shall think i have dreamed it--the little house in the clearing--so peaceful, so--just look at it now. it looks like a little house in a child's fairy-tale." they paused on the edge of the clearing and looked back at the pleasant glow shimmering through the windows, then plunged into the strip of forest that separated the clearing from the open farming country and the main road to endbury. neither of them spoke during this walk. the rain pattered swiftly, varying its monotonous refrain as it struck the umbrella, the leaves, the little brook that ran beside them, or the stony path. lydia clung to rankin's arm, peering about her into the dim caves of twilight with a happy, secure excitement. after her confinement to the house for the last fortnight, merely to be out of doors was an intoxication for her, and ever since she had left her sister and begun her wanderings in the painted woods she had felt the heroine of an impalpable adventure. the silent flight through the dripping trees was a fitting end. except for breaking in upon the music of the rain, she would have liked to sing aloud. she thought, flittingly, how marietta would laugh at her manufacturing anything romantic out of the commonplace facts of the insignificant episode, but even as she turned away from her sister's imagined mocking smile, she felt an odd certainty that to rankin there was also a glamour about their doings. it was as though the occasional contact of their bodies as they moved along the narrow path were a wordless communication. he said nothing, but as they emerged upon the long treeless road, stretching away over the flat country to where the lights of endbury glowed tremulously through the rain, he looked at his companion with a quick intensity, as though it were the first time he had really seen her. it was that man's look which makes a woman's heart beat faster, even if she is as inexperienced as lydia. she was already tingling with an undefined emotion, and the shock of their meeting eyes made her face glow. it shone through the half-light as though a lamp had been lighted within. they stood silently waiting for the car which flashed a headlight toward them far down the track. as it drew near, bounding over the rails, humming like a great insect, and bringing visibly nearer and nearer the end of their time together, lydia was aware that rankin was in the grasp of an emotion that threatened to become articulate. the steady advance of the car was forcing him to a speech against which he struggled in vain. lydia began to quiver. she felt an expectancy of something lovely, moving, new to her, which grew tenser and tenser, as though her nerves were the strings of an instrument being pulled into tune for a melody. standing there in the cold, rainy twilight, she had a moment of the exultation she had thought was to be so common in her endbury career. she felt warmed through with the consciousness of being lovely, admired, secure, supremely fortunate, just as she had thought she would feel; but she had not been able to imagine the extraordinary happiness that this, or some unrecognized element of the moment, gave to her. the car was almost upon them; the blinding glare of the headlight showed their faces with startling suddenness. she saw in rankin's eyes a tenderness that went to her heart. she leaned to him from the steps of the car to which he swung her--she leaned to him with a sweet, unconscious eagerness. in the instant before the car moved forward, as he stood gazing up at her, he spoke at last. the words hummed meaningless in lydia's ears, and it was not until some time after, in the garish white brilliance of the car, that she convinced herself that she had heard aright. even then, though she still saw his face raised to hers, the raindrops glistening on his hair and beard, even though she still heard the fervor of his voice, she remained incredulous before the enigma of his totally unexpected words. he had said, with a solemn note of pity in his voice: "ah, my poor child, i am so horribly, horribly sorry for you!" chapter viii the shadow of the coming event judge emery looked tired and old as he sat down heavily at his dinner-table opposite his pretty daughter. the discomfort and irregularity of the household for the last two weeks had worn on the nerves of a very busy man who needed all of his strength for his work. it seemed an evil fate of his, he reflected as he took his napkin out of its ring, that whenever he was particularly hard-pressed in his profession, domestic turmoil was sure to set in. he was now presiding over a suit between the city and the electric railway company, involving many intricate details of electrical engineering and accounting methods. until that suit was settled, he felt that it was unreasonable for his family to expect him to give time or attention to anything else. in the absence of other vital interests in his life, he had come to focus all his faculties on his profession. on the adroitness of clever attorneys he expended the capacity for admiration which, as his life was arranged, found no other outlet; and, belonging to the generation before golf and bridge and tennis had brought games within the range of serious-minded adults, he had the same intent curiosity about the outcome of a legal contest that another man might have felt in the outcome of a newport tournament. his wife had long ago learned, so she said, that any attempt to catch his mental eye while an interesting trial was in progress was as unavailing as to try to call a street gamin away from a knot-hole in a fence around a baseball field. she knew him and all his capabilities very well, his wife told herself, and so used was she to the crystallized form in which she had for so many years beheld him, that she dismissed, as typically chimerical "notions," the speculations of her doctor--also a lifelong friend of her husband's--as to what judge emery might have become if--the doctor spoke in his usual highly figurative and fantastic jargon--"he had not had to hurry so with that wheel in his cage." "when i first knew nat emery," he once said, "he was sitting up till all hours reading _les miserables_, and would knock you down if you didn't bow your head at the mention of thackeray. he might have liked music, too. an american isn't inherently incapable of that, i suppose." at which he had turned on sixteen-year-old lydia with, "which would you rather have, lyddy; a husband with a taste for beethoven or one that'd make you five thousand a year?" lydia had shudderingly made the answer of sixteen years, that she never intended to have a husband of any kind whatever, and mrs. emery had rebuked the doctor later for "putting ideas in girls' heads." it was an objection at which he had laughed long and loud. mrs. emery liked her doctor in spite of not understanding him; but she loved her husband because she knew him through and through. in his turn, judge emery bestowed on his wife an esteem the warmth of which was not tempered by his occasional amusement at her--an amusement which mrs. emery was far from suspecting. he did heartily and unreservedly admire her competence; though he never did justice to her single-handed battle against the forces of ignorance and irresponsibility in the kitchen until an illness of hers showed that the combat must be continuous, though his wisdom in selecting an ambitious wife had shielded him, as a rule, from the uproar of the engagement. this evening, as he looked across the white table-cloth at his daughter, he had a sudden qualm of doubt, not unusual in parents, as to the capacity of the younger generation to carry on the work begun by the older. of course, he reassured himself, this had scarcely been a fair trial. the child had been plunged into the business the day after her return, with the added complication of her mother's illness; but, even making all allowances, he had been dismayed by the thorough-going domestic anarchy that had ensued. he was partly aware that what alarmed him most was lydia's lack of zest in the battle, an unwillingness to recognize its inevitability and face it; a strange, apparently willful, blindness to the value of victory. her father was disturbed by this failure to acquiesce in the normal, usual standard of values. he recalled with apprehension the revolutionary sayings and doings of his second son, which had been the more disconcerting because they flowed from the young reactionary in such a gay flood of high spirits. harry had no more shared the reverent attitude of his family toward household æsthetics than toward social values. a house was a place to keep the weather from you, he had said laughingly. if you could have it pretty and well-ordered without too much bother, well and good; but might the lord protect him from everlastingly making omelets to look at and not to eat. lydia, to be sure, had ventured no irreverent jokes, and, so far as her father could see, had never conceived them; but a few days before she had suggested seriously, "why can't we shut up all of the house we don't really use, and not have to take care of those big parlors and the library when you and i are always in the dining-room or upstairs with mother, now she's sick?" judge emery had thought of the grade of society which keeps its "best room" darkened and closed, of the struggles with which his wife had dragged the family up out of that grade, and was appalled at lydia's unconscious reversion to type. "your mother would feel dreadfully to have you do that; you know she thinks it very bad form--very green." lydia had not insisted; it ran counter to every instinct in lydia to insist on anything. she had succumbed at the first of his shocked tones of surprise; but the suggestion had shown him a glimpse of workings in her mind which made him uneasy. however, to-night there were several cheering circumstances. the doctor had left word that, in all probability, mrs. emery would be quite herself in ten days--a shorter time than he had feared. lydia was really charming in a rose-colored dress that matched the dewy flush in her cheeks; the roast looked cooked as he liked it, and he had heard some warm words that day about the brilliancy of young paul hollister's prospects. he took a drink of ice-water, tucked his napkin in the top of his vest--a compromise allowed him by his wife at family dinners, and smiled at his daughter. "your mother tells me that you've had a letter from paul, saying that he'll be back shortly," he said with a jocosely significant emphasis. "i suppose we shall hardly be able to get a glimpse of you after he's in town again." at this point, beginning to carve the roast, he had a sinking premonition that it was going to be very tough, and though he heroically resisted the ejaculation of embittered protest that rose to his lips, this magnanimity cost him so dear that he did not think of lydia again till after he had served her automatically, dashing the mashed potato on her plate with the gesture of an angry mason slapping down a trowelful of mortar. it seemed to him at the moment that the past three weeks had been one succession of tough roasts. he took another drink of ice-water before he gloomily began on his first mouthful. it was worse than he feared, and he was in no mood to be either very imaginative or very indulgent to a girl's whims when lydia said, suddenly and stiffly, "i wish you wouldn't speak so about paul. i don't know what makes everybody tease me so about him!" her father was chewing grimly. "i don't know why they shouldn't, i'm sure," he said. "young folks can't expect everybody to keep their eyes shut and draw no conclusions. of course i understand paul's not saying anything definite till now, on account of your being so young." something of marietta's unsparing presentation of facts was inherited from her father, though, under his wife's tutelage, he usually spared lydia when he thought of it. at this time he was speaking almost absently, his attention divided between the exceptions to his rulings taken by the corporation counsel and the quality of his dinner; both disturbing to his quiet. he finally gave up the attempt at mastication and swallowed the morsel bodily, with a visible gulp. as he felt the consequent dull lump of discomfort, he allowed himself his first articulate protest. "good heavens! what meat!" lydia had grown quite pale. she pushed back her plate and looked at her father with horrified eyes. "father! what a thing to say!" she finally cried out. "you make me ashamed to look him--to look anybody in the face. why, i never dreamed of such a thing! i never--" judge emery was very fond of his pretty daughter, and at this appeal from what he felt to be a very mild expression of justified discontent, he melted at once. "now, never mind, lydia, it won't kill me. only as soon as your mother gets about again, for the lord's sake have her take you to a butcher shop and learn to select meats." lydia looked at him blankly. she had the feeling that her father was so remote from her that she could hardly see him. she opened her lips to speak, but at that moment the maid--the latest acquisition from the employment agency, a slatternly irish girl--went through the dining-room on her way to answer the door-bell, and her father's amused comment cut her short. "lydia, you'll have your guests thinking they're at a lunch counter if you let that girl go on wearing that agglomeration of hair." the maid reappeared, sidling into the room, half carrying, half dragging a narrow, tall green pasteboard box, higher than herself but still not long enough for its contents, which protruded in leafy confusion from one end. "it's for you," she said bluntly, depositing it beside lydia and retreating into the kitchen. lydia looked at it in wonder, turning to crimson confusion when her father said: "from paul, i suppose. very nice, i'm sure. ring the bell for dessert before you open it. of course you're in a hurry to read the card." he smiled with a tender amusement at the girl, who met his eyes with a look of fright. she opened the box, from which arose a column of strong, spicy odor, almost like something visible, and naïvely read the card aloud: "to the little girl grown up at last--to the young lady i've waited so long to see." she laid the card down beside her plate and kept her eyes upon it, hanging her head in silence. her father began to consume his dessert rapidly. the cream in it was delicious, and he ate with appreciation. to him, as to many middle-aged americans, the two vital parts of a meal were the meat and the dessert. the added pleasures or comforting consolations of soup, salads, vegetables, entrées, made dishes, were not for him. he ate them, but with a robust indifference. "meat's business," he was wont to say, "and dessert's fun. the rest of one's victuals is society and art and literature and such--things to leave to the women." he now stopped his consumption of his dessert and recalled himself with an effort to his daughter's impalpable difficulties. she was murmuring, "but, father--you must be mistaken-- why, nobody so much as hinted at such a--" "that's your mother's doings. she'd be furious now if she knew i'd spoken right out. but you don't want to be treated like a little girl all your life, do you?" he laughed at her speechless embarrassment with a kind obtuseness to the horror of youth at seeing its shy fastnesses of reserve laid open to indifferent feet. divining, however, through his affection for her, that she was really more than pleasantly startled by his bluntness, he began to make everything smooth by saying: "there aren't many girls in endbury who don't envy my little lydia, i guess. paul is considered--" at this point lydia rose hurriedly and actually ran away from the sound of his voice. she fled upstairs so rapidly that he heard the click of her heel on the top step before he could draw his breath. he laughed uneasily, finished his dessert in one or two huge mouthfuls, and followed her. he was recalled by the ringing of the telephone bell, and when he went upstairs again he was smiling broadly. with his lawyer's caution, he waited a moment outside his wife's room, where he heard lydia's voice, to see if her mother had hit upon some happy inspiration to quiet the girl's exaggerated maidenly shyness. he had the tenderest indulgence to his daughter's confusion, but he was not without a humorous, middle-aged realization of the extremely transitory nature of this phase of youth. he had lived long enough to see so many blushing girls transformed into matter-of-fact matrons that the inevitable end of the business was already present to his mind. he was vastly relieved that lydia had a mother to understand her fancies, and upon his wife, whom he would not have trusted to undertake the smallest business transaction without his advice, he transferred, with a sigh of content, the entire responsibility of wisely counseling their daughter. "thank the lord, that's not my job!" he had often said about some knotty point in the up-bringing of the children. mrs. emery had always answered that she could not be too thankful for a "husband who was not a meddler." the judge now listened at the door to the conversation between the two women with a grin of satisfaction. "why, my dear, what is there so terrible in having the handsomest and most promising young man in endbury devoted to you? you don't need to marry him for years and years if you don't want to--or never, if you don't like him enough." she laughed a little, teasingly, "perhaps it's all just our nonsense, and he never has thought of you in that way. maybe when he comes to see you he'll tell you about a beautiful girl in urbana or cincinnati that he's engaged to--and _then_ what would your silly father say?" "oh, if i could only think that," breathed lydia, as though she had been reprieved from a death sentence. "of course! father was just joking. but he startled me so!" "he was probably thinking of his horrid law business, darling. when a big trial is on he wouldn't know me from eve. he says _anything_ at such times." judge emery laughed noiselessly, and quite without resentment at this wifely characterization. lydia went on: "it wasn't so much what he said, you know--as--oh, the way he took it for granted--" "well, don't think about it any more, dear; just be your sweet natural self when paul comes to see you the first time--and don't let's talk any more now. mother gets tired so easily." lydia's remorseful outcry over having fatigued her mother seemed a good occasion for judge emery's entrance into the room and for his announcement. he felt that she would make an effort to control any agitation she might feel, and indeed, beyond a startled gasp, she made no comment on his news. mrs. emery herself was more obviously stirred to emotion. "to-night? why, i didn't think he'd be in town for several days yet." "he only got in at five o'clock this afternoon, he said." the two parents exchanged meaning glances over this chronology, and mrs. emery flushed and smiled. "now, lydia," she said, "it's a perfect shame i'm not well enough to be there when he comes. it would make it easier for you. but i wish you'd say honestly whether you'd rather have your father there or see paul alone." judge emery's face took on an aggrieved look of alarm. "good gracious, my dear! what good would i be? you know i can't be tactful. besides, i've got an appointment with melton." lydia rose from where she knelt by the bed. her chin was quivering. "why, you make me feel so--so queer! both of you!--as though it were anything--to see paul--when i've known him always." her mother seized on the rôle opened to them by this speech, and said quickly: "why, of course! aren't we silly! i don't know what possesses us. when he comes you just run along and see him, and say your father and i are sorry not to be there." during the next half-hour she made every effort, heroically though obviously seconded by her husband, to keep the conversation in a light and casual vein, but when the door-bell rang, they all three heard it with a start. mrs. emery said, very carelessly, "there he is, dear. run along and remember me to him." but she pulled lydia down to her, straightened a bow on her waist with a twitch, loosened a lock of the girl's shining dark hair, and kissed her with a sudden yearning fervor. after they were alone, judge emery laughed aloud. "you're just as bad as i am, sarah. you don't _say_ anything, but--" "oh, i know," his wife said; "i can't help it!" she deliberated unresignedly over the situation for a moment, and then, "it seems as though i couldn't have it so, to be sick just now, when i'm needed so much. this first month is so important! and lydia's getting such a different idea of things from what i meant, having this awful time with servants, and all. i have a sort of feeling once in a while that she's getting notions!" she pronounced the word darkly. "notions?" judge emery asked. he had never learned to interpret his wife's obscurities when the mantle of intuitions fell on her. "oh, don't ask me what kind! i don't know. if i knew i could do something about it. but she speaks queerly once in a while, and the evening of the day she was out with marietta in the black rock woods she was-- do you know, i think it's not good for lydia to be outdoors too much. it seems to go to her head so. she gets to looking like harry--almost reckless, and like some little scampering wild animal." judge emery rose and buttoned his coat about his spare figure. "maybe she takes a back track, after some of my folks. you know there's one line in my mother's family that was always crazy about the woods. my grandfather on my mother's side used to go off just as regular as the month of may came around, and--" mrs. emery interrupted him with the ruthless and justifiable impatience of people at the family history of their relations by marriage. "oh, go along! and stop and speak to paul on your way out. just drop in as you pass the door. we don't want to really chaperone her. nobody does that yet--but--the hollisters are so formal about their girls--well, you stop in, anyhow. it's borne in on me that that'll look better, after all." chapter ix father and daughter in the midst of his conference with dr. melton, an hour later, it came upon judge emery with a clap that he had forgotten this behest of his wife's, plunged deep in legal speculations as he had been, the instant he turned from her door. he brought his hand down on the table. "what's the matter?" asked the little doctor, peering up at him. "oh, nothing important--women's cobwebs. i'm afraid i'll have to go, though. we can take this up again to-morrow, can't we?" "at your service," said the doctor; but he pulled with some exasperation at a big pile of pamphlets still to be examined. "it's something about lydia's receiving a call from paul hollister, and her mother wanting me to stop in as i left the house and say good-evening--sort of represent the family--do the proper thing. don't it tickle you to see women who used to sleigh-ride from seven to eleven every evening in a little cutter just big enough for one and a half, begin to wonder if they hadn't better chaperone their girls when they have callers in the next room?" he stirred up the pamphlets with a discontented look. "confound it, i wish i could stay! which one of those has the statistics about the accidents when the men aren't allowed one day in seven?" "see here, emery!" in spite of his evident wish to exhort, the doctor continued sitting as he spoke. he was so short that to rise could have given him no perceptible advantage over the tall lawyer. "see here; do you know that you have a most unusual girl for a daughter?" "i have heard people say that i have a glimmering notion of her merits," said the other with a humorous gravity. "oh, i don't mean pretty, and appealing, and with a good complexion, and all that--and i don't mean you don't spoil her most outrageously. i mean she's got the oddest make-up for a modern american girl--she's simple." "i don't see anything odd about her--or simple!" her father resented the adjectives with some warmth. dr. melton answered with his usual free-handed use of language: "well, it's because, like everybody else old and spoiled and stodgy and settled, you've no eyes in your head when it comes to something important, like young people. because they're all smooth and rosy you think they're all alike." he rushed on, delivering himself as always with restless vivacity of gesture, "i tell you youth is one of the most wastefully ignored forces in the world! talk about our neglecting to get the good out of our water-power! the way we shut off the capacity of youth to see things as they are, before it gets purblind with our own cowardly unreason--why, it's as if we tried to make water run uphill instead of turning our mill-wheels with its natural energy." judge emery had listened to a word or two of this harangue and then had looked for and found his hat and coat, with which he had invested himself, and now stood ready for the street, one hand on the knob of the door. "well, good-night to you," he said pleasantly, as though the doctor were not speaking; "i'll try to see you to-morrow." dr. melton jumped to his feet, laughing, ran across the room and caught at the other's arm. "don't blame me. much preaching of true gospel to deaf ears has made me yell all the time. you know you don't really hear me, any more than anyone else." "there's no doubt about that, i don't!" acquiesced the judge frankly. "i will run on, though i know it never does any good. how'd i begin this time? what started me off? what was i saying?" "you were saying that lydia was queer and half-witted," said the judge moderately. "i said she was simple--and by that i mean she's so wise you'd better look out or she'll find you out. she's as dangerous as a bomb. she has a scent for essentials. she can tell 'em from all our flummery. i'm afraid of her, and i'm afraid _for_ her! remember the fate of the father in the _erl-king_! he thought, i dare say, that he was doing a fine thing for his child, to hurry it along to a nice, warm, dry, safe place!" judge emery broke in, impatient of this fantastic word-bandying. "oh, come, melton, i can't stand here while you spin your paradoxes. i've got to get home before young hollister leaves or my wife won't like it." "i'll go with you, then," cried the little doctor, clapping on his hat. "you sha'n't escape me that way. i'm in full cry after the best figure of speech i've hit on in months." "good lord!" the lawyer looked down laughingly at his friend as the two set off, a stork beside a sparrow. "you and your figures!" "it came over me with a bang the other day that in lydia we have in our midst that society-destroying child in _the kaiser's new clothes_." "eh?" said lydia's father blankly. "you remember the last scene in that inimitable tale? where the kaiser walks abroad with all the people shouting and hurrahing for the new clothes, and not daring to trust their own eyes, and suddenly a little child's voice is heard, 'but the kaiser has nothing on!'" "i don't know what you're talking about," said the judge with a patient indifference. "well, you will know when you hear lydia say that some day. she knows--she'll know! perhaps you've done well to send her to that idiotic finishing school." "don't lay it to me!" cried the judge, laughing; "_i_ didn't send her--or not send her. if you were married you'd know that fathers never have anything to say about what their daughters do." "more fools they!" rejoined the doctor pointedly. "but in this case maybe it's all right. she's as ignorant as a hottentot, of course, but perhaps any real education might have spoiled her innate capacity to--" "oh, pshaw!" the judge was vaguely uneasy. "you let lydia alone. talk your nonsense about something else. there's nothing queer about lydia, thank heavens! she's just like all young ladies." "that's a horrible thing to say about one's own daughter!" cried the doctor, falling immediately into the lightly mournful, satirical vein that was the alternative to his usual racing talk. "there won't be anything queer about her long, that's fact. in real life the child is never really allowed to complete that sentence. a hundred hands are clapped over its mouth, and it's hustled, and shaken, and frightened, and scolded, till it thinks there's something the matter with its eyesight. and lydia's a sweet, gentle child, who'll want to say whatever pleases people she loves--that'll be another bandage over her eyes. and she's not dowered with an innate fondness for shrieking out contradictions at the top of her voice, and unless you've a real passion for that you get silenced early in life." the lawyer laughed with the good-natured contempt of a large, silent man for a small, voluble one. "that's a tragedy you can't know much about from experience, melton. no cruel force ever silenced you." he paused at the walk leading to his house. a big street light glowed and sputtered over their heads. "come in, won't you, and see lydia?" "no; no cruel force has ever _silenced_ me," the doctor mused, putting his hands slowly into his pockets, "but it has bound me hand and foot. i talk, and i talk, but do you ever see me doing anything different from the worst fools of us all?" "are you coming in?" the judge spoke with his absent tolerance of his doctor's fancies. "no, thank you, as the farmer said to the steeple-climber. i'm going home to my lonely office to give thanks to providence that i'm not responsible for a daughter." the judge frowned. "nonsense! look at marietta." "i do," said the doctor. "well--?" the lawyer was challenging. in the long run the doctor rubbed him the wrong way. "i hope you make a better job of bandaging lydia's eyes than you did hers." the judge had turned toward the house. at this he stopped and made an irritated gesture. "melton, you are enough to give a logical man brain fever. you're always proclaiming that parents have no real influence over their children's lives--that it's fate, or destiny, or temperament--and now--you blame me because marietta's discontented over her husband's small income." the doctor looked up quickly, his face twitching. "you think that's the cause of marietta's discontent? by heaven, i wish lydia could go into a convent." suddenly his many-wrinkled little face set like a mask of tragedy. "oh, nat, you know what lydia's always been to me--like my own--as precious--oh, take care of her! take care of her! see, lydia can't fight. she can't, even if she knew what was going on to fight against--" his voice broke. he looked up at his tall friend and shivered. judge emery clapped him on the shoulder with a rough friendliness. "no wonder you do miracles in curing women, marius. you must know their insides. you talk like a mother in a fit of the nerves over a sick child. in the lord's name, what has lydia to fight against? if there was ever a creature with a happy, successful life before her-- besides, don't we all stand ready to do her fighting for her?" though the night was cool, the doctor took off his hat and wiped his forehead. he looked up once as though he were about to speak, but in the end he only put his hat back on his head, nodded, and went his way, his quick, light, uneven tread waking a faint echo in the empty street. as the judge let himself in at the front door, a murmur of voices from the brightly-lighted parlor struck gratefully on his ear. he was not too late. "how are you, hollister?" he called as he pulled off his overcoat. "glad to see you back. let's hear all about the urbana experience." hollister's dramatic interest in each engagement of his battle for success was infectious. those who knew him, whether they liked him or not, waited for news of the results of his latest skirmish as they waited for the installments of an exciting serial story. as the older man entered, the tall, quick-moving young fellow came over to the door and shook his hand with energy. the judge reflected that nobody but hollister could so convey the effect that he was being made kindly welcome in his own house; but he did not dislike this vigor of personality. he sat down on the chair which his young guest indicated as a suitable one, and rubbed his chin, smiling at his daughter. "dr. melton sent his love to you, but he wouldn't come in." paul looked brightly at lydia. "i should hope not! my first evening with her! to share it with anybody! except her father, of course!" he added the last as an afterthought, more with the air of putting the judge at his ease than of excusing himself for an ungraceful slip of the tongue. the judge laughed, restraining an impulse to call out, "you're a wonder, young man!" and said instead, "well, let's hear the news." lydia said nothing, but her aspect, always vividly expressive of her mood, struck her father as odd. as he glanced at her from time to time during the ready, spirited narrative of the young "captain in the army of electricity," as he had once called himself, lydia's father felt a qualm of uneasiness. her lips were very red and a little open, as though she were breathless from some exertion, and a deep flush stained her cheeks. she looked at paul while he talked animatedly to her father, but when he addressed himself to her she looked down or away, meeting her father's eyes with a curious effect of not seeing him at all. the judge, moved by the oblique, harassing intimations he had been forced to hear from the doctor as to the possibility of his not understanding all that was in his daughter's mind, was oppressed by that most nightmarish of emotions for a man of clear-cut intellectual interests--an apprehension, like an imperceptible, clinging cobweb, not to be brushed away. he wished heartily that the next year were over and lydia "safely married." daughters were so much more of a responsibility than sons. they forced on one the reality of a world of intangible conditions which one could, somehow, comfortably ignore with sons. and yet, how about harry? perhaps if some one had not ignored with him-- "i should have been back ten days ago," paul drew to the end of his story, "but i simply had to wait to oversee those tests myself. since i've adopted that rule of personally checking the inspector's work, we've been able to report forty per cent. fewer complaints of newly installed dynamos to the general office. and you see in this case, from the accident, what might have happened." "by the lord!" cried the lawyer, moved in spite of his preoccupations by the story of danger the other had been relating, "i should think it would turn your hair white every time a dynamo's installed. how did you feel when the fly-wheel broke?" "the fly-wheel isn't on the dynamo, of course," corrected paul, "so i don't feel responsible for it in a business way, and that's everything. as for being frightened, why, it's all over so quickly. you don't have time to take in what's happening. you're there or you're not. and if you are, the best thing is to get busy with repairs," he added, with a simple, manly depreciation of his courage. "you mustn't think it often happens, you know; it's supposed never to." he spoke of the personal side of the matter with a dry brevity which contrasted effectively with the unconscious eloquence with which he had previously brought before their eyes the tense excitement in the new power-house when the wheels first stir to life in incredibly rapid revolutions and the mysterious modern genii begins to rush through the wires. at no time did lydia's suitor show to better advantage than in speaking of his profession. the alertness of his face and the prompt decision of his speech suited the subject. his mouth fell into lines of grimly fixed purpose which expressed even more than his words when he spoke of the rivalry in endurance, patience and daring in the army of young electrical engineers, all set, as he was, on crowding one another out of the rapidly narrowing road to preferment and the few great golden prizes of the profession. this evening he was more than usually fervent. judge emery thought he detected in him traces of the same excitement that flamed from lydia's cheeks. "i tell you, judge, i was wrong when i spoke of the 'army' of electricity. in the army advancement comes only from somebody's death, and with us it's simply a question of who's got the most to give. he gets the most back--and that's all there is to it. the company's bound to have the man it can get the most work out of. if you can do two ordinary men's work, you get two men's pay. see? there's no limit to the application of that principle. why, our field organizer on the pacific coast is only a little older than i, and, by jove! the work they say he'll turn off is something marvelous! you wouldn't believe it. but you can train yourself to it, like everything else. to be able to concentrate--not to lose a detail--to put every ounce of your force into it--that's the thing." he brought one hand down inside the other, and sat for a moment in silence as tense with stirring possibilities to the others as to himself. the judge felt moved to a most unusual sensation, as if he were a loosened bowstring beside this twanging, taut intensity. he felt slightly dismayed to have his unspoken principles carried to this _n_th power. he had given the best of himself, all his thoughts, illusions, hopes, endeavors, to his ideal of success, but his ambition had never been concentrated enough to serve as a lens through which the rays of his efforts might focus themselves into the single beam of devastating heat on which paul counted so certainly to burn away the obstacles between himself and success. various protesting comments rose to his lips, which he kept back, disconcerted to find how much they resembled certain remarks of dr. melton's. the young man stirred, looked at lydia, and smiled brilliantly. "i mustn't keep this little sick-nurse up any later, i suppose," he said; but for a moment he made no movement to go. he and lydia exchanged a gaze as long and silent as if they had been alone. it occurred to the judge that they both looked dazzled. when paul rose he drew a long breath and shook his head half humorously at his host. "you and i will have to look to our guns, during the next season, to hold our own, won't we? i've been making lydia promise to reserve me three dances at every single ball this winter, and i think i'm heroic not to insist on more--but her first season--!" lydia said, with her pretty, light laugh, a little shaking now, "but suppose you're out of town, setting up some new dynamo or something and your three dances come along?" paul crossed the room to her, as if drawn irresistibly by the sound of her voice. he stood by her, looking down into her eyes (he was very tall), bending over her, smiling, pressing, confident, masterful. "you're to sit out those three dances and think of me, and think of me--of course! i shall be thinking of you." lydia's little tremulous air of archness dropped under this point-blank rejoinder. she flushed, and looked at her father. that unimaginative person started toward her as though she had called to him for help, and then, ashamed of his inexplicable impulse, turned away confusedly and disappeared into the hall. paul took this movement as a frank statement of the older man's desire to be, for the moment, rid of him. "oh, i _am_ going, judge," he called after him, unabashed; "it is just a bit hard to tear myself away--i've been waiting so long for her to get back!" to lydia he went on, "i've grown thin and pale waiting for you, while you--look at yourself, you heartless little witch!" he pointed across to a tall mirror in which they were reflected against the rich background of his roses. for a moment both the beautiful young creatures looked each into his own eyes, mysterious with youth's total ignorance of its own meaning. paul took lydia's hand in his, and pointed again to their reflections as they stood side by side. he tried to speak, but for once his ready tongue was silent. judge emery came back to the door, a weary patience on his white, tired face. the young man turned away with a sigh and a smile. "yes, yes, judge, i'm off. good-night, lydia. don't forget the theater wednesday night." he crossed the room with a rapid, even step, shook hands with the judge, and got himself out of the room with an easy briskness which the older man, mindful of his own rustic youth, was half-inclined to envy. after he and lydia were left alone he did not venture a word of comment, lest he hit on the wrong thing. he went silently about, putting out the lights, and locking the windows. lydia stood where paul had left her, looking at her bright image in the mirror. when the last bulb went out, the room was in a flickering twilight, the street arc-light blinking uncertainly into the windows. judge emery stood waiting for his daughter to move. he could scarcely see her form--her face not at all, but there flashed suddenly upon him the memory of her appealing look toward him earlier. it shook him as it had then. his heart yearned over her. he would have given anything he possessed for the habit of intimate talk with her. he put out his hands, but in the twilight she did not see the gesture. he felt shy, abashed, horribly ill at ease, torn by his tenderness, by his sense of remoteness. he said, uncertainly, "lydia--lydia dear--" she started. "oh, yes, of course. it's late." she passed, brushed lightly against him, as he stood trembling with the sense of her dearness to him. she began to ascend the stairs. he had felt from her the emanation of excitement, guessed that she was shivering like himself before a crisis--and he could find no word to say. she had passed him as though he were a part of the furniture. he had never talked to her about--about things. he stood at the foot of the stairs in the darkness, listening to her light, mounting footfall. once he opened his mouth to call to her, but the habit of a lifetime closed it. "she will talk to her mother," he told himself; "her mother will know what to say." when he followed her up the stairs he was conscious chiefly that he was immeasurably tired. melton, perhaps, had something on his side with his everlasting warnings about nervous breakdowns. he could not stand long strains as he used to do. he fell asleep tracing out the thread of the argument presented that day by the counsel for the defense. chapter x casus belli dr. melton looked up in some surprise from his circle of lamplight as his goddaughter came swiftly into the room. "your mother worse?" he queried sharply. "no, no, dear godfather. i just thought i'd come over and see you for a while. i had a little headache--marietta's back from cleveland to-day, and she and flora burgess are at the house--" "you've said enough. i'm thankful that you have this refuge to fly to from such--" "oh, flora's not so bad as you make her out, the queer, kind little old dowdy--only i didn't feel like talking 'parties,' and 'who's who,' to-night--and their being with mother made it all right for me to leave her." the doctor took off his eye-shade and showed his little wizened face rather paler than usual. "that's a combination that would kill _me_, and your mother not well yet--still, many folks, many tastes." he looked at lydia penetratingly. she had taken a chair before the soft-coal fire and was staring at it rather moodily. "well, lydia, my dear, and how does endbury strike you now? speaking of many tastes, what are yours going to be like, i wonder?" "i wonder," she repeated absently. "well, at least you know whether the young man who called on you last night is to your taste?" lydia turned her face away and made a nervous gesture. "oh, don't, godfather!" "very well, i won't," he said cheerfully, turning to his books with the instinct of one who knows his womankind. there was a long silence, broken only by the purring of the coal. then lydia gave a laugh and went to sit on the arm of his chair. "of course that was what i came to see you about," she admitted, her sensitive lips quivering into a smile that was not light-hearted; "but now i'm here i find i haven't anything to say. perhaps you'd better give me a pink pill and send me home to forget all about everything." dr. melton took her fingers and held them closely in his thin, sinewy hands. "oh, if i could--if i only could do something for you!" he searched her face anxiously. "what did young hollister say that makes you so troubled?" she sat down on the edge of his writing-table and reflected. "it wasn't anything he _said_," she admitted. "he was all right, i guess. father had scared the life out of me before he came, by sort of taking it for granted--oh, you know--the silly way people do--" "yes." "well, paul was as nice as could be about that, so far as words go-- he didn't say a thing embarrassing or--or hard to answer, but he let me _see_--all the same! he kept saying what an immense help i'd be to an ambitious man. he said he didn't see why i shouldn't grow into the leader of endbury society, like the mrs. hollister, his aunt, that he and his sister live with, you know." "i suppose he's right," conceded the doctor, reluctantly. "well, while he was talking about it, it seemed all very well--you know the way he goes at things--how he makes you feel as though he were a locomotive going sixty miles an hour and you were inside the engine cab, holding on for dear life?" dr. melton shook his head. "paul has given me a great variety of sensations," he admitted, "but i can't say that he ever gave me quite this locomotive-cab illusion you speak of." "well, he has me, lots of times," persisted lydia. "it's awfully exciting--you don't know where you're going, and you can't stop to think, everything tears past you so fast and your breath is so blown out of you. you feel like screaming. you forget everything else, you get so--so stirred up and excited. but after it's over there's always a time when things are flat. and this morning, and all day long, i've felt very--different about what he wants and all. i don't believe i'm very well, perhaps--or maybe--" she broke off, to say with emotion, "oh, godfather, wouldn't it be too awful if i should turn out to be without ambition." she pronounced the word with the reverence for its meaning that had been drilled into her all her life, and looked at dr. melton with troubled eyes. he thrust his lips out with a grimace habitual to him in moments of feeling, and for an instant said nothing. when he spoke his voice broke on her name, as it had the night before when he had stood looking up at her windows. "oh, lydia!--oh, my dear, i'm terribly afraid of your future!" "i'm a little scared of it myself," she said tremulously, and hid her face on his shoulder. she was the first to speak. "wouldn't marietta just scream with laughter at us?" she reminded him. "we _are_ foolish, too! there's nothing in the world you could lay your finger on. there's nothing anyhow, i guess, but nerves. i wouldn't dare breathe it to anybody else, but you always know how i'm feeling, anyhow. it's as though--here i am, grown up, and there's nothing for me to do that's worth while--even if--even if--paul--" the doctor took a sudden resolution. "why don't you talk to your father, lydia? why don't you ask him about--" he was cut short by lydia's gesture of utter wonder. "_father_? don't you know that there's a big trial on? he couldn't tell without figuring up, if you should ask him quick, whether i'm fourteen or nineteen--or nine! mother wouldn't let me, anyhow, even if he could have any idea of what i was driving at. she never let us bother him the least bit when there was something big happening in his lawyering. i remember that time i had pneumonia and nearly died, when i was a little girl, that she told him i had just a cold; and he never knew any different for years afterward, when i happened to say something about it. she didn't want him worried when he needed all his wits for some important business." the doctor looked at her with frowning intensity, and then down at his papers. he seemed on the point of some forcible utterance, which he restrained with many twitchings of his mouth. finally he got up and went to a window, staring out silently. "i think i'll go and look up dear aunt julia," said lydia. "very well, my dear," said the doctor over his shoulder. "she's in her room, i think." in exactly the same mild tone, he added, "damnation!" "what did you say?" asked lydia. he turned toward her, and took up a book from the table. "i said nothing, dear lydia--i've nothing to say, i find." lydia broke into a light, mocking laugh--the doctor's volubility was an old joke--and began to speak, when a woman's voice called, "oh, marius, here's mr.---- why, lydia, how did you get in without my seeing you?" she entered the room as she spoke--a middle-aged woman, with large blue eyes and graying fair hair, who evidently did her duty by the prevailing styles in dress with a comfortable moderation of effort. lydia's mother, as the sister of mrs. sandworth's long-dead husband, thought it necessary, from time to time, to endeavor to stir her sister-in-law up to a keener sense of what was due the world in the matter of personal appearance; but mrs. sandworth, born a melton, had the irritating unconcern for social problems of that distinguished kentucky family. she cared only to please her brother marius, she said, and he never cared what she had on, but only what was in her mind--a remark that had once caused judge emery to say, in a fit of exasperation with her wandering wits, that if she ever had as little on as she had in her mind, he guessed melton would sit up and take notice. lydia now rushed at her aunt, exclaiming, "oh, aunt julia, how _good_ you do look to me! the office door was open and i slipped in that way, without ringing the bell." "it's four years old, and never been touched, not even the sleeves," said the other deprecatingly. her brother laughed. "who did you say was here--oh, it's you, rankin; come in, come in." the newcomer was half-way across the room before he saw lydia. he stopped, with a look of extreme pleasure and surprise, which lydia answered with a frank smile. "why, have you met my niece?" asked mrs. sandworth, looking from one to the other. "oh, yes; mr. rankin's my oldest new friend in endbury. i met him the first day i was back." "and when i set up the newel-post--" "and i ran on to his house by accident the day marietta and i were out with little pete, when it rained and i borrowed his overcoat and umbrella--" "and then i had to call to take them away, of course--" they intoned their confessions like a gay antiphonal chant. a bright color had come up in lydia's cheeks. she looked very sunny and good-humored, like a cheerful child, an expression which up to that year had been habitual to her. dr. melton looked at her without speaking. "so, you see," she concluded, "not to speak of several other times--we're very well acquainted." "well, marius! did you ever!" mrs. sandworth appealed to her brother. "oh, i've known about it all along. rankin and i have discussed lydia as well as other weighty matters, a great many times." mrs. sandworth's easily diverted mind sped off into another channel. "yes, how you do discuss. i'm going to look right at the clock every minute from now on, so's to be sure to remind you of that engagement at judge emery's office at half-past nine. i know what happens when you and mr. rankin get to talking." "i'll not stay long; miss emery has precedence." "oh, don't mind me," said lydia. "they won't--nor anything else," her aunt assured her. rankin laughed at this characterization. the doctor did not seem to hear. he was brooding, and drumming on the table. from this reverie he was startled by the younger man's next statement. "i've got an apprentice," he announced. "eh?" queried the doctor with unexpected sharpness. "the fifteen-year-old son of my neighbor, luigi carfarone, who works on the railroad. the boy's been bad--truant--street gamin--all that sort of thing, and his mother, who comes in to clean for me sometimes, has been awfully anxious about him. but it seems he has a passion for tools--maybe his ancestors were mediæval craftsmen. anyhow, he's been working for me lately, doing some of the simpler jobs, and really learning fast. and he's been so interested he's forgotten all his deviltry. so, yesterday, didn't he and his father and his mother and about a dozen littler brothers and sisters all come in solemn procession, dressed in their best, to dedicate him to me and my profession, as they grandly call it." "oh, how perfectly lovely!" cried lydia. the doctor resumed his drumming morosely. "of course you know the end of that." "you mean he'll get tired of it, and take to robbing chicken-roosts again?" "not much! he'll like it, and stick to it, and bring others, and you'll extend operations and build shops, and in no time you'll go the way of all the world--a big factory, running night and day; you on the keen jump every minute; dust an inch thick over your books and music; nerves taut; head humming with business schemes to beat your competitors; forget your wife most of the time except to give her money; making profits hand over fist; suborning legislators to wink at your getting special railroad rates for your stuff; can't remember how many children you have; grand success; notable example of what can be done by attention to business; nervous prostration at forty-five; bright's disease at fifty; leave a million." rankin burst into a great roar of boyish laughter at this prophetic flight. the doctor gnawed his lower lip, and looked at him without smiling. "i've got ten million blue devils on my back to-night," he said. "so i see--so i see." rankin was still laughing, but as he continued to look into his old friend's face his own grew grave by reflection. "you don't believe all that?" "oh, you won't mean to. it'll come gradually." he broke out suddenly, "good heavens, rankin, give me a serious answer." "answer!" the cabinet-maker's bewilderment was immense. "have you asked me anything?" the doctor turned away to his desk with the pettish gesture of a woman whose inner thoughts are not divined. "he makes me feel very thick-witted and dense," rankin appealed to the two women. mrs. sandworth exonerated him from blame. "oh, nobody ever can make out what he's driving at. i never try." she took out a piece of crochet work. "lydia, they're at it now. i know the voice marius gets on. _would_ you make this in shell stitch? it's much newer, of course, but they say it don't wash so well." as lydia's attention wavered, "oh, there's not a particle of use in trying to make out what they're saying. they just go on and on." rankin was addressing himself to the doctor's back. "i don't, you know, see anything wicked in making a lot of chairs by machinery instead of a few by hand. i'm no handcraft faddist. i did that in the beginning only because i had to begin somehow to earn my living honestly without being too tied up to folks, and i couldn't think of any other way. but i think, now that you've put the idea into my head--i think it would be a good thing to gather the boys of the neighborhood around me--and, by gracious! the girls too! that's one of my convictions--that girls need very much the same treatment as boys. and if it should develop into a large business (which i doubt strongly), what's the harm? the motive lying back of it would be different from what i so fear and hate in big businesses. you can bet your last cent on one thing, and that is that the main idea would not be to make as much furniture as fast as possible, as cheap as possible, but to make it good, and to make only as much as would leave me and every last one of the folks that work for me time and strength to live--'leisure to be good.' who said that, anyway? it's fine." "_hymn to adversity_," supplied the doctor, who was better read in the poets than the younger generation. he added, skeptically, "could you, though, do any such thing? wouldn't it run _you_, once you got to going?" "well, if worst came to worst--" began rankin, then changing front, he began again: "my great-aunt--" the doctor fell back in his chair with a groan and a laugh. "yes; the same one you may have heard me mention before. she told me that all through her childhood her family was saving and pulling together to build a fine big house. they worked along for years until, when she was a young lady, they finally accomplished it; built a big three-story house that was the admiration of the countryside. then they moved in. and it took the women-folks every minute of their time, and more, to keep it clean and in order; it cost as much to keep it up, heated, furnished, repaired, painted, and everything the way a fine house should be, as their entire living used to cost. the fine big grounds they had laid out to go with the mansion took so much time to--" "you see. you see. that's just what i meant," broke in the doctor. "well, i'm a near relative of my great-aunt's. one day, when all the rest of the family was away, she set fire to the house and burned it to the ground, with everything in it." "she didn't!" broke in mrs. sandworth, who had been coaxed to a fitful attention by the promise of a coherent story. rankin laughed. "well, that was the way she told it to me, and i don't doubt she _would_ have," he amended. the doctor grunted, "huh! but would _you_!" he went on, "you couldn't compete with your rivals, anyhow, if you didn't concentrate everything on making chairs. don't you know the successful business man's best advertisement? 'all of my life-strength i've put into the product i offer you,' he says to the public, and it's true." "oh, well, if i couldn't do business there'd be an end of the matter, and none of your horrible prophecies would come true." "your wife wouldn't let you."--dr. melton took up another line of attack--"she'd want a motor-car and 'nice' associates and a fashionable school for the children, and a home in the 'respectable' part of town." rankin's easy-going manner changed. he sat up and frowned. "there you step on one of my corns, doctor"--he did not apologize for the rustic metaphor--"i don't believe a single, solitary identical word of that. it's my most hotly held conviction that women are so much like humans that you can't tell the difference with a microscope. i mean, if they're interested in petty, personal things it's because they're not given a fair chance at big, impersonal things. everybody's jumping on the american woman because she knows more about bridge-whist than about her husband's business. _why_ does she? because he's satisfied to have her--you can take my word for it! he likes her to be absorbed in clubs and bridge and idiotic little dabblings in near-culture and pseudo-art, just for the reason that a busy mother gives her baby a sticky feather to play with. it keeps the baby busy. it keeps his wife's attention off him. it's the american man just as much as the woman who's mortally afraid of a sure-enough marriage with sure-enough shared interests. he doesn't want to bother with children, or with the servant problem or the questions of family life, and he doesn't want his wife bothering him in his business any more than she wants him interfering with hers. that idea of the matter is common to them both." "that's a fine, chivalric view of the situation," said the doctor sardonically. "maybe if you'd practiced as long in as many american families as i have, you might have a less idealistic view of your female compatriots." "i don't idealize 'em," cried rankin. "good lord! don't i say they're just like men? they amount to something if they're given something worth while to do--not otherwise." "don't you call bringing up children worth while?" "you bet i do. so much so that i'd have the fathers take their full half of it. i'd have men do more inside the house and less outside, and the women the other way 'round." the doctor recoiled at this. "oh, you're a visionary. it couldn't be done." "it couldn't be done in a minute," admitted rankin. the doctor mused. "it's an interesting thought. but it's not for our generation. a new idea is like a wedge. you have to introduce it by the thin edge. the only way to get it started is by beginning with the children. adults are hopeless. there's never any use trying to change them." "oh, you can't fool children," said rankin. "it's no use teaching them something you're not willing to make a try at yourself. they see through that quick enough! what you're really after, is what they see and learn to go after themselves. if anything's to be done, the adults must take the first step." "but, as society is organized, the idea is preposterous." "society's been organized a whole lot of different ways in its time. who tells me that it's bound to stay this way? i tell you right now, it hasn't got _me_ bluffed, anyhow! my wife--if i ever have one--is going to be my sure-enough wife, and my children, _my_ children. i won't _have_ a business that they can't know about, or that doesn't leave me strength enough to share in all their lives. i can earn enough growing potatoes and doing odd jobs of carpentering for that!" the doctor looked wonderingly at the other's kindling face. "rankin," he asked irrelevantly, "aren't there _ever_ moments when you despair of the world?" the voice of the younger man had the fine tremor of sincerity as he answered, "why, good heavens, _no_, doctor! that's why i dare criticize it so." the doctor looked with an intensity almost fierce into the other's confident eyes. he laid his thin, sinewy hand on the other's big brown fist, as though he would fain absorb conviction by contact. "but i'm sick with the slowness of the progress you talk of--believe in," he burst out finally. "it comes too late--the advance from our tragic materialism; too late for so many that could have profited by it most." he looked toward lydia bending over her aunt's fancy work. rankin followed the direction of his eyes. "yes; that's what i mean," said the doctor heavily, rising from his chair. "that and such thousands of others. oh, for a theseus to hunt down this minotaur of false standards and wretched ideas of success! i see them, the precious youths and maidens, going in by thousands to his den of mean aspirations, and not a hand is raised to warn them. they must be silly and tragic because everyone else is!" rankin shook his head. "i think i'm proving that you don't have to go into the labyrinth--that you can live in health and happiness outside." "there's rather more than that to be done, you'll admit," said the doctor with an uncompromising bitterness. rankin colored. "i don't pretend that it's much of anything--what i've done." the doctor did not deny him. he thrust out his lips and rubbed his hand nervously over his face. finally, "but you have done it, at least," he brought out, "and i've only talked. as another doctor has said: 'i've never taken a bribe; but there's a pale shade of bribery known as prosperity.'" they fell into a silence, broken by mrs. sandworth's asking, "lydia, have your folks got an old mythology book? i studied it at school, of course, but it has sort of passed out of my mind. was it the minotaur that sowed teeth and something else very odd came up that you wouldn't expect?" lydia did not smile. "i don't know whether we have the book or not, but miss slater told us the story of the minotaur. there's a picture of theseus and ariadne in europe somewhere--munich, i think--or maybe siena. it was where one of the girls had a sore throat, i remember, and we had to stay quite a while. miss slater told us about it then." the doctor stood up. "julia, it's nearly half-past now. who remembered this time? i'm off, all of you. rankin, see that lydia gets home safely, will you?" "oh, i must go too--now, with you." the girl jumped up. "i didn't realize it was so late. they'll be wondering at home." "come along, then, both of you. i'll go with you to the corner where i take my car." the chill of the night air sent them along at a brisk gait, lydia swinging easily between them, her head on a level with rankin's, the doctor's hat on a level with her ear. she said nothing, and the two talked across her, disjointed bits of an argument apparently under endless discussion between them. the doctor flung down, with a militant despondency, "it'd be no use trying to do anything, even if you weren't so slothful and sedentary as you are! it moves in a vicious circle. because material success is what the majority want, the majority'll go on wanting it. hardy says somewhere that it's innate in human nature not to desire the undesired of others." rankin sang out a ringing "aw, g'wan! it's innate in human nature to murder and steal whenever it pleases, and i guess even hardy'd admit that those aren't the amusements of the majority quite so extensively as they used to be--what? first thing you know people'll begin to desire things because they're worth desiring and not because other folks have them--even so astonishing a flight as that!" he made a boyish gesture--"and what a grand time that'll be to live in, to be sure!" they were waiting at the corner for the doctor's street car, which now came noisily down toward them. he watched it advance, and proffered as a valedictory, his gloom untempered to the last, "you're a wild man that lives in the woods. i've doctored everybody in the world for thirty years. which knows human nature best?" rankin roared after him defiantly, waking the echoes and startling the occupants of the car, "i do! i do! i do!" the car bore the doctor away, a perversely melancholy little figure, contemplating the young people blackly. "whatever do you suppose set him off so?" rankin wondered aloud as they resumed their rapid, swinging walk through the cold air. "i'm afraid i did," lydia surmised. "i had a wretched fit of the blues, and i guess he must have caught them from me." rankin looked down at her keenly, his thoughts apparently quite altered by her phrase. "ah, he worries a great deal about you," he murmured. lydia laughed nervously, and said nothing. they walked swiftly in silence. the stars were thick above them in the wind-swept autumn night. lydia tilted her head to look up at them once or twice. she saw rankin's face pale under the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat, his eyes meeting hers in an intent regard like a wordless speech. the fine, cold, austere wind swept them along like leaves, whipping their young pulses, chanting loudly in the leafless branches of the maples, and filling the dark spaces above with a great humming roar. they thrilled responsive to all this and to the mood of high seriousness each divined in the other. lydia's voice, breaking in upon the intimate silence, continued the talk, but it was with another note. the mute interval, filled with wind and darkness and the light of stars, had swung them up to a higher plane. she spoke with an artless sureness of comprehension--a certainty--they were close in spirit at that moment, and she was not frightened, not even conscious of it. "why should the doctor worry? _what is the matter?_ marietta says the trouble with me is that i'm spoiled with having everything that i want." "_have_ you everything you want?" rankin's bluntness of interrogation was unmitigated. lydia looked up at him swiftly, keenly. in his grave face there was that which made her break out with an open quivering emotion she had not shown even to the doctor's loving heart. "it's a weight on my very soul--that there's nothing for me to look forward to--nothing, nothing that's worth growing up to do. i haven't been taught anything--but i know i want to be something better than--perhaps i can't be--but i want to try! i want to try! that's not much to ask--just a chance to try--but i don't even know how to get that. i don't even dare to speak of--of--such things. people laugh and say it's sunday-schooley fancies that'll disappear, that i'll forget as i get into living. but i don't want to forget. i'm afraid i shall. i want to keep trying. i don't know--" they did not slacken their swift advance as they talked. they looked at each other seriously in the starlight. rankin had given an indrawn exclamation as she finished, and after an instant's pause he said, with a deep emotion, "oh, perhaps--at least we both want to try--_be ariadne for me!_ help me to find the clue to what's wrong in our lives, and perhaps--" he looked down at her, shaken, drawing quick breaths. she answered his gaze silently, her face as shining white as his. he went on: "you shall decide what ariadne may be or may come to be--i will take whatever you choose to give--and bless you!" she had a gesture of humility. "_i_ haven't anything to give." his accent was memorable as he cried, "you have yourself--you--you! but you are too gentle! it is hard for you--it will be too hard for you to do what you feel should be done. i could perhaps do the things if you would tell me--help you not to forget--not to let life make you forget what is worth doing and learning!" she put back a mesh of her wind-blown hair to look at him intently, and to say again in wonder, "i'm not anything. what can you think i--what can you hope--" they were standing now on the walk before her father's house. "i can hope--" his voice shook, "i can hope that you may make me into a man worthy to help you to be the best that's in you." lydia put out her hand impulsively. it did not tremble. she looked at him with radiant, steady eyes. he raised the slim, gloved fingers to his lips. "whether to leave you, or to try to--oh, i would give my life to know how best to serve you," he said huskily. he turned away, the sound of his steps ringing loud in the silent street. lydia went slowly up the walk and into the empty hall. she stood an instant, her hands clasped before her breast, her eyes closed, her face still and clear. then she moved upstairs like one in a dream. as she passed her mother's door she started violently, and for an instant had no breath to answer. some one had called her name laughingly. finally, "yes," she answered without stirring. "oh, come in, come in!" cried marietta mockingly. "we know all about everything. we heard you come up the street, and saw you philandering on the front walk. and for all it's so dark, we made out that paul kissed your hand when he went away." there was a silence in the hall. then lydia appeared in the door. mrs. emery gave a scream. "why, lydia! what makes you look so queer?" they turned startled, inquiring, daunting faces upon her. it was the baptism of fire to lydia. the battle, inevitable for her, had begun. she faced it; she did not take refuge in the safe, silent lie which opened before her, but her courage was a piteous one. in her utter heartsick shrinking from the consequences of her answer she had a premonition of the weakness that was to make the combat so unequal. "it was not paul," she said, pale in the doorway; "it was daniel rankin." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - book ii in the locomotive cab chapter xi what is best for lydia the girls who were to be débutantes that season, the "crowd" or (more accurately to quote madeleine hollister's racy characterization) "the gang," stood before hallam's drug store, chattering like a group of bright-colored paroquets. they had finished three or four ice-cream sodas apiece, and now, inimitably unconscious that they were on the street corner, they were "getting up" a matinée party for the performance of the popular actress whom, at that time, it was the fashion for all girls of their age and condition to adore. they had worked themselves up to a state of hysteric excitement over the prospect. a tall brown-eyed blonde, with the physical development of a woman and the facial expression of a child of twelve, cried out, "i feel as though i should swoon for joy to see that darling way she holds her hands when the leading man's making love to her--so sort of helpless--like this--" "oh, madeleine, that's not a _bit_ the way. it's so!" the first speaker protested, "well, i guess i ought to be able to do it. i've practiced for _hours_ in front of the glass doing it." "for mercy's sake that's nothing. so have i. who hasn't?" madeleine referred the question to lydia, "lyd has seen her later than anybody. she saw her in london. just think of going to the theater in london--as if it was anywhere. she says they're crazy about her over there." "_oh, wild!_" lydia told them. "her picture's in every single window!" "which one? which one?" they clamored, hanging on her answer breathlessly. "that fascinating one with the rose, where she's holding her head sideways and--" oh, yes, they had that one, their exclamation cut her short, relieved that their collections were complete. "lyd met a woman on the steamer coming back whose sister-in-law has the same hairdresser," madeleine went on. they were electrified. "oh, _honestly_? is it her own?" they trembled visibly before solution of a problem which had puzzled them, as they would have said, "for eternities." "every hair," lydia affirmed, "and naturally that color." their enthusiasm was prodigious, "how grand! how perfectly grand!" they turned on lydia with reproaches. "here you've been back two months and we haven't got a bit of good out of you. think of your having known that, all this--" "her mother's sick, you know," madeleine hollister explained. "she hasn't been so sick but what lydia could get out to go buggy-riding with your brother paul ever since he got back this last time." lydia, as though she wished to lose herself, had been entering with a feverish intensity into the spirit of their lively chatter; but now, instead of responding with some prompt, defensive flippancy, she colored high and was silent. a clock above them struck five. "oh, i must get on," she cried; "i'm down here, you know, to walk home with father." they laughed loudly, "oh, yes, we know all about this sudden enthusiasm for poppa's society. where are you going to meet paul?" lydia looked about at the crush of drays, trolley-cars, and delivery-wagons jamming the busy street, "well, not here down-town," she replied, her tone one of satisfied security. a confused and conscious stir among her companions and a burst of talk from them cut her short. they cried variously, according to their temperaments, "oh, there he comes now!" "i think it's mean lydia's gobbling him up from under our noses!" "i used to have a ride or two behind that gray while lydia was away!" "my! isn't he a good-looker!" they had all turned like needles to the north, and stared as the spider-light wagon, glistening with varnish, bore down on them, looking singularly distinguished and costly among the dingy business-vehicles which made up the traffic of the crowded street. the young driver guided the high-stepping gray with a reckless, competent hand through the most incredibly narrow openings and sent his vehicle up against the flower-like group of girls, laughing as he drew rein, at the open, humorous outcry against him. a chorus of eager recrimination rose to his ears, "now, mr. hollister, this is the first time lydia's been out with our crowd since she came home!" "you might let her alone!" "go away, paul, you greedy thing!" "i haven't asked lydia a single thing about her european trip!" "well, maybe you think," he cried, springing out to the sidewalk, "that i've been spending the last year traveling around europe with lydia! i haven't heard any more than you have." he threw aside the lap-robe of supple broadcloth, and offered his hand to lydia. a flash of resentment at the cool silence of this invitation sprang up in the girl's eyes. there was in her face a despairing effort at mutiny. her hands nervously opened and shut the clasp of the furs at her throat. she tried to look unconscious, to look like the other girls, to laugh, not to know his meaning, to turn away. the young man plunged straight through these pitiful cobwebs. "why, come on, lydia," he cried with a good-humored pointedness, "i've been all over town looking for you." she backed away, looking over her shoulder, as if for a lane of escape, flushing, paling. "oh, no, no thank you, paul. not _this_ afternoon!" she cried imploringly, with a soft fury of protest, "i'm on my way to father's office. i want to walk home with him. i want to see him. i thought it would be nice to walk home with him. i see so little of him! i thought it would be nice to walk home with him." she was repeating herself, stammering and uncertain, but achieving nevertheless a steady retreat from the confident figure standing by the wagon. this retreat was cut short by his next speech. "oh, i've just come from your father. i went to his office, thinking you might be there. he said to tell you and your mother that he won't be home to dinner to-night at all. he's got some citations on hand he has to verify." lydia had stopped her actual recoil at his first words and now stood still, but she still tugged at the invisible chain which held her. she was panting a little. she shook her head. "well--anyhow--i want to see him!" she insisted with a transparently aimless obstinacy like a frightened child's. "i want to see my father." paul laughed easily, "well, you'd better choose some other time if you want to get anything out of him. he had turned everybody out and was just settling to work with a pile of law-books before him. you know how your father looks under those circumstances!" he held the picture up to her, relentlessly smiling. lydia's lips quivered, but she said nothing. paul went on soothingly, "i've only come to take you straight home, anyhow. your mother wants you. she said she had one of those fainting turns again. she said to be sure to bring you." at the mention of her mother's name, lydia turned quite pale. she began to walk slowly back towards the wagon. there was angry, helpless misery in her dark eyes, but there was no longer any resistance. "oh, if mother needs me--" she murmured. she took the offered hand, stepped into the wagon and even went through some fitful pretense of responding to the chorus of facetious good-bys which rose from the group they were leaving. she said little or nothing in answer to the young man's kind, cheerful talk, as they drove along one main thoroughfare after another, conspicuous by the brilliant, prosperous beauty of their well-fed youth and their handsome garb, pointed out by people on the sidewalks, constantly nodding in response to greetings from acquaintances. lydia flushed deeply at the first of these salutations, a flush which grew deeper and deeper as these features of their processional advance repeated themselves. she put her hand to her throat from time to time as though it ached and when the red rubber-tired wheels turned noiselessly in on the asphalt of her home street, she threw the lap-robe brusquely back from her knees as though for an instant escape. the young man's pleasant chat stopped. "look here, lydia," he said in another tone, one that forced her eyes to meet his, "look here, don't you forget one thing!" his voice was deep with the sincerest sympathy, his eyes full of emotion, "don't you forget, little lydia, that nobody's sorrier for you than i am! and i don't want anything that--" he cried out in sudden passion--"good lord, i'd be cut to bits before i'd even _want_ anything that wasn't best for you!" he looked away and mastered himself again to quiet friendliness, "you know that, _don't you_, lydia? you know that all i want is for you to have the most successful life anyone can?" he leaned to her imploring in his turn. she drew a quick breath, and moved her head from side to side restlessly. then drawn by the steady insistence of his eyes, she said, as if touched by his patient, determined kindness, "oh, yes, yes, paul, i realize how awfully good you're being to me! i wish i could--but--yes, of course i see how good you are to me!" he laid his hand an instant over hers, withdrawing it before she herself could make the action. "it makes me happy to have you know i want to be," he said simply, "now that's all. you needn't be afraid. i shan't bother you." they were in front of the emery house now. he did not try to detain her longer. he helped her down, only repeating as she gave him her gloved hand an instant, "that's what i'm for--to be good to you." the wagon drove off, the young man refraining from so much as a backward glance. the girl turned to the house and stood a moment, opening and shutting her hands. when she moved, it was to walk so rapidly as almost to run up the walk, up the steps, into the hall and into her mother's presence, where, still on the crest of the wave of her resolution, she cried, "mother, did you really send paul for me again. did you _really_?" "why, yes, dear," said mrs. emery, surprised, sitting up on the sofa with an obvious effort; "did somebody say i didn't?" "i hoped you didn't!" cried lydia bitterly; "it was--horrid! i was out with all the girls in front of hallam's--everybody was so--they all laughed so when--they looked at me so!" mrs. emery spoke with dignity, "naturally i couldn't know where he would find you." "but, mother, you _did_ know that every afternoon for two weeks you've--it's been managed so that i've been out with paul." mrs. emery ignored this and went on plaintively, "i didn't see that it was so unreasonable for an invalid to send whoever she could find after her only daughter because she was feeling worse." lydia's frenzy carried her at once straight to the exaggeration which is the sure forerunner of defeat in the sort of a conflict which was engaging her. "_are_ you feeling any worse?" she cried in a despairing incredulity which was instantly marked as inhumanly unfilial by the scared revulsion on her face as well as mrs. emery's pale glare of horror. "oh, i didn't mean that!" she cried, running to her mother; "i'm sorry, mother! i'm sorry!" the tears began running down mrs. emery's cheeks, "i don't know my little lydia any more," she said weakly, dropping her head back on the pillow. "i don't know myself!" cried lydia, sobbing violently, "i'm so unhappy!" mrs. emery took her in her arms with a forgiveness which dropped like a noose over lydia's neck, "there, there, darling! mother knows you didn't mean it! but you must remember, lydia dearest, if you're unhappy these days, so is your poor mother." "i'm making you so!" sobbed lydia, "i know it! something like this happens every day! it's why you don't get well faster! i'm making you unhappy!" "it doesn't make any difference about me!" mrs. emery heroically assured her, "i don't want you to be influenced by thinking about my feelings, lydia. above everything in the world, i don't want you to feel the _slightest_ pressure from me--or any one of the family. oh, darling, all i want--all any of us want, is what is best for our little lydia!" chapter xii a sop to the wolves six o'clock had struck when mrs. sandworth came wearily back from her christmas shopping. it was only the middle of november, but each year she began her preparations for that day of rejoicing earlier and earlier, in a vain attempt to avoid some of the embittering desolation of confusion and fatigue which for her, as for all her acquaintances, marked the december festival. she let herself down heavily from the trolley-car which had brought her from the business part of endbury back to what was known as the "residential section," a name bestowed on it to the exclusion of several other much larger divisions of town devoted exclusively to the small brick buildings blackened by coal smoke in which ordinary people lived. as she walked slowly up the street, her arms were full of bundles, her heart full of an ardent prayer that she might find her brother either out or in a peaceable mood. she loved and admired dr. melton more than anyone else in the world, but there were moments when the sum total of her conviction about him was an admission that his was not a reposeful personality. for the last fortnight, this peculiarity had been accentuated till mrs. sandworth's loyalty had cracked at every seam in order not to find him intolerable to live with. moreover, her own kind heart and intense partiality for peace in all things had suffered acutely from the same suspense that had wrought the doctor to his wretched fever of anxiety. it had been a time of torment for everybody--everybody was agreed on that; and mrs. sandworth had felt that life in the same house with lydia's godfather had given her more than her share of misery. on this dark november evening she was so tired that every inch of her soft plumpness ached. she had not prospered in her shopping. things had not matched. she let herself into the front door with a sigh of relief at finding the hall empty. she looked cautiously into the doctor's study and drew a long breath, peeped into the parlor and, almost smiling, went on cheerfully upstairs to her room. from afar, she saw the welcoming flicker of the coal fire in her grate, and felt a glow of surprised gratitude to the latest transient from the employment agency who was now occupying her kitchen. she did not often get one that was thoughtful about keeping up fires when nobody was at home. it would be delicious to get off her corset and shoes, let down her hair--there he was, bolt upright before the fire, his back to the door. she took in the significance of his tense attitude and prepared herself for the worst, sinking into a chair, letting her bundles slide at various tangents from her rounded surface, and surveying her brother with the utmost unresignation. "well, what is it now?" she asked. he had not heard her enter, and now flashed around, casting in her face like a hard-thrown missile, "lydia's engaged." all mrs. sandworth's lassitude vanished. she flung herself on him in a wild outcry of inquiry--"which one? which one?" he answered her angrily, "which do you suppose? doesn't a steam-roller make some impression on a rose?" "oh!" she cried, enlightened; and then, with widespread solemnity, "well, think--of--that!" "not if i can help it," groaned the doctor. "but that's not fair," his sister protested a moment later as she took in the rest of his speech. "heaven knows it's not," he agreed bitterly. she stared. "i mean that paul hasn't been nearly so steam-rollery as usual." the doctor rubbed his face furiously, as though to brush off a disagreeable clinging web. "he hasn't had to be. there have been plenty of other forces to do his rolling for him." "if you mean her father--you know he's kept his hands off _religiously_." "he has that, damn him!" the doctor raged about the room. a silent prayer for patience wrote itself on mrs. sandworth's face. "you're just as inconsistent as you can be!" she cried. "i'm more than that," he sighed, sitting down suddenly on a chair in the corner of the room; "i'm heartsick." he shivered, thrust his hands into his pockets and surveyed his shoes gloomily. one of mrs. sandworth's cheerful capacities was for continuing tranquilly the minute processes of everyday life through every disturbance in the region of the emotions. you _had_ to, she said, to get them done--anybody that lived with the doctor. she now took advantage of his silence to count over her packages, remove her wraps, loosen a couple of hooks at her waist and fluff up the roll of graying hair over her forehead. the doctor looked at her. she answered him reasonably, "it wouldn't help lydia any if i took it off and threw it in the fire, would it? it's my best one, too; the other's at the hairdresser's, getting curled." "it's not," the doctor broke out--"it's not, heaven be my judge! that _i_ want to settle it. but i did want lydia to settle it herself." "she has, at last," mrs. sandworth reminded him, in a little surprise at his forgetting so important a fact. "she has _not_!" roared the doctor. his literal-minded sister looked aggrieved bewilderment. she felt a bitterness at having been stirred without due cause. "marius, you're unkind. what did you tell me she had for--when i'm so tired it seems as if i could lie down and die if i--" dr. melton knew his sister. he made a rapid plunge through the obscurity of her brain into her heart's warm clarity, and, "oh, julia, if you had seen her!" he cried. she leaned toward him, responsive to the emotion in his voice. "tell me about it, poor marius," she said, yearning maternally over his pain. "i can't--if you had seen her--" "but how did you hear? did she tell you? when did--" "i was there at five, and her mother met me at the door. she took me upstairs, a finger on her lip, and there she and marietta said they guessed this afternoon would settle things. a week ago, she said, she'd had an up-and-down talk with that dreadful carpenter and as good as forbade him the house--" mrs. sandworth had a gesture of intuition. "oh, if they've managed to shut lydia off from seeing him--" the doctor nodded. "that's what her mother counted on. she said she thought it a sign that lydia was just infatuated with rankin--her being so different after she'd seen him--so defiant--so unlike lydia! but now she hadn't seen him for a week, and her mother and marietta had been 'talking to her'--_julia!_--and then paul had come to see her every evening, and had been just right--firm and yet not exacting, and ever so gentle and kind--and this afternoon when he came lydia cried and didn't want to go down, but her mother said she mustn't be childish, and marietta had just taken her right down to the library and left her there with paul, and there she was now." the doctor started up and beat his thin, corded hand on the mantel. he could not speak. his sister got up and laid a tender hand on his shoulder. "poor marius!" she said again. he drew a long breath. "i did not fly at their throats--i turned and ran like mad down the stairs and into the library. it was rankin i wanted to kill for letting his pride come in--for leaving her there alone with those--i was ready to snatch lydia up bodily and carry her off to--" he stopped short and laughed harshly. "i reach to lydia's shoulder," he commented on his own speech. "that's me. to see what's to be done and--" "what _was_ to be done?" asked mrs. sandworth patiently. she was quite used to understanding but half of what her brother said and had acquired a quiet art of untangling by tireless questionings the thread of narrative from the maze of his comments and ejaculations. "there was nothing to be done. i was too late." "you didn't burst in on them while paul was kissing her or anything, did you?" "paul wasn't there." "not there! why, marius, you're worse than usual. didn't you tell me her mother said--" "he had been there--one look at lydia showed that. she sat there alone in the dim light, her face as white--and when i came in she said, without looking to see who it was, 'i'm engaged to paul.' she said it to her mother, who was right after me, of course, and then to marietta." "well--!" breathed mrs. sandworth as he paused; "so that was all there was to it?" "oh, no; they did the proper thing. they kissed her, and cried, and congratulated everybody, and her mother said, with an eye on me: 'darling, you're _not_ doing this just because you know it'll make us so very happy, _are_ you?' lydia said, 'oh, no; she supposed not,' and started to go upstairs. but when marietta said she'd go and telephone to flora burgess to announce it, lydia came down like a flash. it was _not_ to be announced she told them; she'd _die_ if they told anybody! paul had promised solemnly not to tell anybody. her mother said, of course she knew how lydia felt about it. it _was_ a handicap for a girl in her first season. lydia was half-way up the stairs again, but at that she looked down at her mother--_god!_ julia, if a child of mine had ever looked at me like that--" mrs. sandworth patted him vaguely. "oh, people always look white and queer in the twilight, you know--even quite _florid_ complexions." the doctor made a rush to the door. "but dinner must be ready to put on the table," she called after him. "put it on, then," he cried, and disappeared. a plain statement was manna to mrs. sandworth. she had finished her soup, and was beginning on her hamburg steak when the doctor came soberly in, took his place, and began to eat in silence. she took up the conversation where they had left it. "so it's all over," she commented, watching his plate to see that he did not forget to salt his meat and help himself to gravy. "nothing's ever over in a human life," he contradicted her. "why do you suppose she doesn't want it announced?" "you don't suppose she means to break it off later?" "i haven't any idea _what_ she means, any more than she has, poor child! but it's plain that this is only to gain time--a sop to the wolves." "wolves!" cried poor mrs. sandworth. "well, tigers and hyenas, perhaps," he added moderately. "they're crazy about lydia, that whole emery family," she protested. "they are that," he agreed sardonically. "but i don't mean only her family. i mean unclean prowling standards of what's what, as well as--" "they'd lie down and let her walk over them! you know they would--" "if they thought she was going in the right direction." mrs. sandworth gave him up, and drifted off into speculation. "i wonder what she could have found in that man to think of! a girl brought up as she's been!" "perhaps she was only snatching a little sensible talk where she could get it." "but they _didn't_ talk sensibly. marietta said lydia tried, one of the times when they were going over it with her, lydia tried to tell her mother some of the things they said that night when he took her home from here. marietta said they were 'too sickish!' 'flat sunday-school cant about wanting to be good,' and all that sort of thing." "that certainly wouldn't have tempted _marietta_ from the path of virtue and sharp attention to a good match," murmured the doctor. "nobody can claim that there's anything very seductive to the average young lady in rankin's fanaticism." "oh, you admit he's a fanatic!" mrs. sandworth seized on a valuable piece of driftwood which the doctor's tempest had thrown at her feet. "everybody who's worth his salt is a fanatic." "not paul. everybody says he's so sane and levelheaded." "there isn't a hotter one in creation!" "than _paul_?" "than paul." "oh, marius!" she reproached him for levity. "he's a fanatic for success." "oh, i don't call _that_--" "nor nobody else in endbury--but it is, all the same. and the only wonder is that lydia should have been attracted by rankin's heretical brand and not by paul's orthodox variety. it shows she's rare." "good gracious, marius! you talk as though it were a question of ideas or convictions." "that's a horrible conception," he admitted gravely. "it's which one she's in love with!" mrs. sandworth emitted this with solemnity. the doctor stood up to go. "she's not in love with either," he pronounced. "she's never been allowed the faintest sniff at reality or life or experience--how can she be in love?" "well, they're in love with her," she triumphed for her sex. "i don't know anything about paul's inner workings, and as for rankin, i don't know whether he's in love with her or not. he's sorry for her--he's touched by her--" mrs. sandworth felt the ground slip from beneath her feet. "good gracious me! if he's not in love with her, nor she with him, what are you making all this fuss about?" the doctor thrust out his lips. "i'm only protesting in my usual feeble, inadequate manner, after the harm's all done, at idiots and egotists laying their dirty hands on a sacred thing--the right of youth to its own life--" "well, if you call that a feeble protest--!" she called after him. he reappeared, hat in hand. "it's nothing to what i'd like to say. i will add that daniel rankin's a man in a million." mrs. sandworth responded, rather neatly for her, that she should hope so indeed, and added, "but, marius, she couldn't have married him--really! mercy! what had he to offer her--compared with paul? everybody has always said what a _suitable_ marriage--" dr. melton crammed his hat on his head fiercely and said nothing. "but it's so," she insisted. "he hasn't anything to offer to marietta, perhaps." "marietta's _married_!" mrs. sandworth kept herself anchored fast to the facts of any case under discussion. "_is_ she?" queried the doctor with a sincerity of interrogation which his sister found distracting. "oh, marius!" she reproached him again; and then helplessly, "how did we get on to marietta, anyhow? i thought we were talking of lydia's engagement." "i was," he assured her. "and i was going to ask you really seriously, just straight out, what you are so down on the emerys for? what have they done that's so bad?" "they've brought her up so that now in her time of need she hasn't a weapon to resist them." "oh, ma--" began mrs. sandworth despairingly. "well, then, i will tell you--i'll explain in words of one syllable. mind you, i don't undertake to settle the question--heaven forbid! it may be all right for marietta mortimer to kill herself body and soul by inches to keep what bores her to death to have--a social position in endbury's two-for-a-cent society, but, for the lord's sake, why do they make such a howling and yelling just at the time when lydia's got the tragically important question to decide as to whether that's what _she_ wants? it's like expecting her to do a problem in calculus in the midst of an earthquake." mrs. sandworth had a mortal antipathy to figures of speech, acquired of much painful experience with her brother's conversation. she sank back in her chair and waved him off. "calculus!" she cried, outraged; "earthquakes! and i'm sure you're as unfair as can be! you can't say her father's obscured any question. you _know_ he's not a dictatorial father. his principle is not to interfere at all with his children." "yes; that's his principle all right. his specialties are in other lines, and they have been for a long time. his wife has seen to that." mrs. sandworth had one of her lucid divinations of the inner meaning of a situation. "oh, the poor emerys! poor lydia! oh, marius, aren't you glad we haven't any children!" "every child that's not getting a fair chance at what it ought to have, should be our child," he said. he went up to her and kissed her gently. "good-night," he said. "where are you going?" "to the black rock woods." "tell him--" she was inspired--"tell him to try to see lydia again." "i was going to do that. but she won't be allowed to. it's pretty late now. she ought to have seen him a great many years ago--from the time he was born." "but she's ever so much younger than he," cried mrs. sandworth after him, informingly. chapter xiii lydia decides in perfect freedom the maid had announced to mrs. emery, finishing an unusually careful morning toilet, that miss burgess, society reporter of the endbury _chronicle_, was below. before the mistress of the house could finish adjusting her well-matched gray pompadour, a second arrival was heralded, "the gentleman from the greenhouse, to see about miss lydia's party decorations." and as the handsome matron came down the stairs a third comer was introduced into the hall--mme. boyle herself, the best dressmaker in town, who had come in person to see about the refitting of the débutante's paris dresses, the débutante having found the change back to the climate of endbury so trying that her figure had grown quite noticeably thinner. "it was the one thing necessary to make maddemwaselle's tournoor exactly perfect," mme. boyle told mrs. emery. out of a sense of what was due her loyal endbury customers, mme. boyle assumed a guileless coloring of frenchiness, which was evidently a symbol, and no more intended for a pretense of reality than the honestly false brown front that surmounted her competent, kindly celtic face. mrs. emery stopped a moment by the newel-post to direct madame to lydia's room and to offer up a devout thanksgiving to the kindly providence that constantly smoothed the path before her. "oh, madame, just think if it had been a season when hips were in style!" as she continued her progress to what she was beginning to contemplate calling her drawing-room, she glowed with a sense of well-being which buoyed her up like wings. in common with many other estimable people, she could not but value more highly what she had had to struggle to retain, and the exciting vicissitudes of the last fortnight had left her with a sweet taste of victory in her mouth. she greeted miss burgess with the careful cordiality due to an ally of many years' standing, and with a manner perceptibly but indefinably different from that which she would have bestowed on a social equal. mrs. emery had labored to acquire exactly that tone in her dealings with the society reporter, and her achievement of it was a fact which brought an equal satisfaction to both women. miss burgess' mother was an englishwoman, an ex-housekeeper, who had transmitted to her daughter a sense, rare as yet in america, of the beauty and dignity of class distinctions. in her turn miss burgess herself, the hard-working, good-natured woman of fifty who for twenty years had reported the doings of those citizens of endbury whom she considered the "gentry," had toiled with the utmost disinterestedness to build up a feeling, or, as she called it, a "tone," which, among other things, should exclude her from equality. when she began she was, perhaps, the only person in town who had an unerring instinct for social differences; but, like a kindly, experienced actor of a minor rôle in theatricals, she had silently given so many professional tips to the amateur principals in the play, and had acted her own part with such unflagging consistency and good-will, that she had often now the satisfaction of seeing one of her pupils move through her rôle with a most edifying effect of having been born to it. long ago she had taken the emerys to her warm heart and she had rejoiced in all their upward progress with the sweet unenvious joy of an ugly woman in a pretty, much-loved sister's successes. lydia was to her, as to mrs. emery, a bright symbol of what she would fain have been herself. miss burgess' feeling for her somewhat resembled that devout affection which, she had read, was felt by faithful old servants of great english families for the young ladies of the house. the pathetic completeness of her own insignificance of aspect had spared her any uneasy ambitions for personal advancement, and it is probable that the vigor of her character and her pleasure in industry were such that she had been happier in her daily column and weekly five-column _society notes_ than if she had been as successful a society matron as mrs. emery herself. she lived the life of a creator, working at an art she had invented, in a workroom of her own contriving, loyally drawing the shutters to shade an unfortunate occurrence in one of the best families, setting forth a partial success with its best profile to the public, and flooding with light real achievements like mrs. hollister's rose party (_the_ mrs. hollister--paul's aunt, and madeleine's). all that she wrote was read by nearly every woman in endbury. she was a person of importance, and a very busy and happy old maid. mrs. emery had a great taste for miss burgess' conversation, admiring greatly her whole-hearted devotion to endbury's social welfare. she had once said of her to dr. melton, "there is what _i_ call a public-spirited woman." he had answered, "i envy flora burgess with the fierce embittered envy i feel for a cow"--an ambiguous compliment which mrs. emery had resented on behalf of her old ally. now, as mrs. emery added to her greeting, "you'll excuse me just a moment, won't you, i must settle some things with my decorator," miss burgess felt a rich content in her hostess' choice of words. there _were_ people in endbury society who would have called him, as had the perplexed maid, "the gentleman from the greenhouse." later, asked for advice, she had walked about the lower floor of the house with mrs. emery and the florist, saturated with satisfaction in the process of deciding where the palms should be put that were to conceal the "orchestra" of four instruments, and with what flowers the mantels should be "banked." after the man had gone, they settled to a consideration of various important matters which was interrupted by an impassioned call of madame boyle from the stairs, "could she bring maddemwaselle down to show this _perfect_ fit?"--and they glided into a rapt admiration of the unwrinkled surface of peach-colored satin which clad lydia's slender and flexibly erect back. when she turned about so that madame could show them the truly exqueese effect of the trimming at the throat, her face showed pearly shadows instead of its usual flower-like glow. as madame left the room for a moment, miss burgess said, with a kind, respectful facetiousness, "i see that even fairy princesses find the emotions of getting engaged a little trying." lydia started, and flushed painfully. "oh, mother--" she began. her mother cut her short. "my _dear_! miss burgess!" she pointed out, as who should deplore keeping a secret from the family priest, "you know she never breathes a word that people don't want known. and she had to be told so she can know how to _put_ things all this winter." "i'm sure it's the most wonderfully _suitable_ marriage," pronounced miss burgess. a ring at the door-bell was instantly followed by the bursting open of the door and the impetuous onslaught of a girl, a tall, handsome, brown-eyed blonde about lydia's age, who, wasting no time in greetings to the older women, flung herself on lydia's neck with a wild outcry of jubilation. "my dear! isn't it dandy! perfectly _dandy_! paul met me at the train last night and when he told me i nearly swooned for joy! of all the tickled sisters-in-law! i wanted to come right over here last night, but paul said it was a secret, and wouldn't let me." a momentary failure of lung-power forced her to a pause in which she perceived lydia's attire. she recoiled with a dramatic rush. "oh, you've got one of them _on_! lydia, how insanely swell you do look! why, mrs. emery"--she turned to lydia's mother with a light-hearted unconsciousness that she had not addressed her before--"she doesn't look _real_, does she!" there was an instant's pause as the three women gazed ecstatically at lydia, who had again turned her back and was leaning her forehead against the window. then the girl sprang at her again. "well, my goodness, lydia! i just love you to pieces, of course, but if we were of the same complexion i should certainly put poison in your candy. as it is, me so blonde and you so dark--i tell you what--what we won't do this winter--" she ran up to her again, putting her arms around her neck from behind and whispering in her ear. miss burgess turned to her hostess with her sweet, motherly smile. "aren't girls the _dearest_ things?" she whispered. "i love to see them so young, and full of their own little affairs. i think it's dreadful nowadays how so many of them are allowed to get serious-minded." madeleine was saying to lydia, "you sly little thing--to land paul before the season even began! where are you going to get your lingerie? oh, _isn't_ it fun? if i go abroad i'll smuggle it back for you. you haven't got your ring yet, i don't suppose? make him make it a ruby. that's ever so much sweller than that everlasting old diamond. he's something to land, too, paul is, if i do say it--not, of course, that we've either of us got any money, but," she looked about the handsomely furnished house, "you'll have lots, and paul'll soon be making it hand over fist--and i'll be marrying it!" she ended with a triumphant pirouette her vision of the future, and encountered madame boyle, entering with a white and gold evening wrap which sent her into another paroxysm of admiration. the dressmaker had just begun to say that she thought another line of gold braid around the neck would--when mrs. emery, looking out of the window, declared the caterer to be approaching and that she _must_ have aid from her subordinates before he should enter. "i do _not_ want to have that old red lemonade and sweet crackers everybody has, and slabs of ice-cream floating around on your plate. think quick, all of you! what kind of crackers can we have?" "animal crackers," suggested madeleine, with the accent of a remark intended to be humorous, drawing lydia into a corner. "now, don't make lydia work. she's _it_ right now, and everything's to be done for her. madame, come over here with that cloak and let's see about the--and oh, you and lydia, for the love of heaven tell me what i'm to do about this fashion for no hips, and me with a figure of eight! lydia, the fit of that thing is _sublime_!" "maddemwaselle, don't you see how a little more gold right here--" "here, lydia," called her mother, "it wasn't the caterer after all; it's flowers for you. take it over there to the young lady in pink," she directed the boy. madeleine seized on the box, and tore it open with one of her vigorous, competent gestures. "_orchids!_" she shouted in a single volcanic burst of appreciation. "i never had orchids sent me in my life! paul must have telegraphed for them. you can't buy them in endbury. and here's a note that says it's to be answered at once, while the boy waits--oh, my! oh, my!" "lydia, dear, here's the caterer, after all. will you just please say one thing. would you rather have the coffee or the water-ices served upstairs--oh, here's your aunt julia--julia sandworth, i never needed advice more." mrs. sandworth's appearance was the chord which resolved into one burst of sound all the various motives emitted by the different temperaments in the room. every one appealed to her at once. "just a touch of gold braid on the collar, next the face, don't you--" "why not a real supper at midnight, with creamed oysters and things, as they do in the east?" "do _you_ see anything out of the way in publishing the details of miss lydia's dress the day before? it gives people a chance to know what to look for." [illustration: "no, no; i can't--see him--i can't see him any more--"] "how can we avoid that awful jam-up there is on the stairs when people begin to--" mrs. sandworth made her way to the corner where lydia stood, presenting a faultlessly fitted back to the world so that madame boyle might, with a fat, moist forefinger, indicate the spot where a "soupçon" of gold was needed. "please, ma'am, the gentleman said i was to wait for an answer," said the messenger boy beside her. "and she hasn't _read_ it, yet!" madeleine was horrified to remember this fact. "turn around, lydia," said mrs. sandworth. lydia's white lids fluttered. the eyes they revealed were lustrous and quite blank. madeleine darted away, crying, "i'm going to get pen and paper for you to write your note right now." "lydia," said mrs. sandworth, in a low tone, "daniel rankin wants to speak with you again. your godfather is waiting here in the hall to know if you'll see him. he didn't want to _force_ an interview on you if you didn't want it. he wants to see you but he wanted you to decide in perfect _freedom_--" the tragic, troubled, helpless face that lydia showed at this speech was a commentary on the last word. she looked around the room, her eyebrows drawn into a knot, one hand at her throat, but she did not answer. her aunt thought she had not understood. "just collect your thoughts, lydia--" the girl beat one slim fist inside the other with a sudden nervous movement. "but that's what i can't do, aunt julia. you know how easily i get rattled--i don't know what i'm--i _can't_ collect my thoughts." as the older woman opened her lips to speak again she cut her short with a broken whispered appeal. "no, no; i can't--see him--? i can't stand any more--tell him i guess i'll be all right--it's settled now--mother's told all these--i like paul. i _do_ like him! mother's told everybody here--no, no--i can't, aunt julia! i _can't_!" mrs. sandworth, her eyes full of tears, opened her arms impulsively, but lydia drew back. "oh, let me alone!" she wailed. "i'm so tired!" madame boyle caught this through the clatter of voices. "why, poor maddemwaselle!" she cried, her kindly, harassed, fatigued face melting. "sit down. sit down. i can show the ladies about this collar just as well that way--if they'll ever look." mrs. sandworth had disappeared. madeleine, coming with the pen and ink, was laughing as she told them, "i didn't know dr. melton was in the house. i ran into him pacing up and down in the hall like a little bear, and just now i saw him--isn't he too comical! he must have heard our chatter--i saw him running down the walk as fast as he could go it, his fingers in his ears as if he were trying to get away from a dynamite bomb before it went bang." "he hasn't much patience with many necessary details of life," said mrs. emery with dignity. she turned her criticism of her doctor into a compliment to her brother's widow by adding, "whatever he would do without julia to look after him, i'm sure none of us can imagine." "he is a very original character," said miss burgess, discriminatingly. madeleine dismissed the subject with a compendious, "he's the most killingly, screamingly funny little man that ever lived!" "now, _ladies_," implored madame boyle, "one more row--not solid--just a soupçon--" chapter xiv mid-season nerves "if i should wait and read my paper here instead of on the cars, do you suppose lydia would be up before i left?" asked the judge as he put his napkin in the ring and pushed away from the breakfast table. mrs. emery looked up, smiling, from a letter, "'of course such a great favorite as miss emery,'" she read aloud, "'will be hard to secure, but both the governor and i feel that our party wouldn't be complete without her. we're expecting a number of other endbury young people.' and do you know who writes that?" she asked triumphantly of her husband. "how should i?" answered the judge reasonably. "mrs. ex-governor mallory, to be sure. it's their annual st. valentine's day house-party at their old family estate in union county." the judge got up, laughing. "old family estate," he mocked. "they are one of the oldest and best families in this state," cried his wife. "the governor's an old blackguard," said her husband tolerantly. "the mallorys--the hollisters--lydia is certainly," began mrs. emery, complacently. lydia's father laughed again. "oh, with you and flora burgess as manager and press agent--! you haven't answered my question about whether if i waited and--" "no, she wouldn't," said mrs. emery decisively. "after dancing so late nights, i want her to sleep every minute she's not wanted somewhere. _i_ have the responsibility of looking after her health, you know. i hope she'll sleep now till just time to get up and dress for marietta's lunch-party at one o'clock." the father of the family frowned. "is marietta giving another lunch-party for lydia? they can't afford to do so much. marietta's--" "this is a great chance for marietta--poor girl! she hasn't many such chances--lydia's carrying everything before her so, i mean." "how does marietta get into the game?" asked her father obtusely. mrs. emery hesitated a scarcely perceptible instant, a hesitation apparently illuminating to her husband. he laughed again, the tolerant, indifferent laugh he had for his women-folks' goings-on. "she thinks she can go up as the tail to lydia's kite, does she? she'd better not be too sure. if i don't miss my guess, paul'll have a word or two to say about carrying extra weight. gosh! marietta's a fool some ways for a woman that has her brains." he stated this opinion with a detached, impersonal irresponsibility, and began to prepare himself for the plunge into the damp cold of the endbury january. his wife preserved a dignified silence, and in the middle of a sentence of his later talk, which had again turned on his grievance about never seeing lydia, she got up, went into the hall, and began to use the telephone for her morning shopping. her conversation gave the impression that she was ordering veal cutlets, maidenhair ferns, wax floor-polish, chiffon ruching, and closed carriages, from one and the same invisible interlocutor, who seemed impartially unable to supply any of these needs without rather testy exhortation. mrs. emery was one of the women who are always well served by "tradespeople," as she now called them, "and a good reason why," she was wont to explain with self-gratulatory grimness. the judge waited, one hand on the door-knob, squaring his jaw over his muffler, and listening with a darkening face to the interminable succession of purchases. after a time he released the door-knob, loosened his muffler, and sat down heavily, his eyes fixed on his wife's back. after an interval, mrs. emery paused in the act of ringing up another number, looked over her shoulder, saw him there and inquired uneasily, "what are you waiting for? you'll catch cold with all your things on. isn't dr. melton always telling you to be careful?" she felt a vague resentment at his being there "after hours," as she might have put it, so definitely had long usage accustomed her to a sense of solitary proprietorship of the house except at certain fixed and not very frequent periods. she almost felt that he was eavesdropping while she "ran her own business." there was also his remark about marietta and kites, unatoned for as yet. she had not forgotten that she "owed him one," as madeleine hollister light-heartedly phrased the connubial balanced relationship which had come under her irreverent and keen observation. a cumulative sharpness from all these causes was in her voice as she remarked, "didn't i tell you that lydia--" judge emery's voice in answer was as sharp as her own. "look-y here, susan, i bet you've ordered fifty dollars' worth of stuff since you stood there." "well, what if i have?" she was up in arms in an instant against his breaking a long-standing treaty between them--a treaty not tacit, but frequently and definitely stated. they regulated their relations on a sound business basis, they were wont to say of themselves, the natural one, the right one. the husband earned the money, the wife saw that it was spent to the best advantage, and neither needed to bother his head or dissipate his energies about the other's end of the matter. they had found it meant less friction, they said; fewer occasions for differences of opinion. once, when they had been urging this system upon their son george, then about to marry, dr. melton had made the suggestion that there would be still fewer differences of opinion if married people agreed never to see each other after the ceremony in the church. there would be no friction at all with that system, he added. it was one of his preposterous speeches which had become a family joke with the emerys. "well, what if i have?" mrs. emery advanced defiantly upon her husband, with this remark repeated. judge emery shared a well-known domestic peculiarity with other estimable and otherwise courageous men. he retreated precipitately before the energy of his wife's counter-attack, only saying sulkily, to conceal from himself the fact of his retreat, "well, we're not millionaires, you know." "did i ever think we were?" she said, smiling inwardly at his change of front. "if you stand right up to men, they'll give in," she often counseled other matrons. she began to look up another number in the telephone book. "if you order fifty dollars' worth every morning, besides--" "three-four-four--weston," remarked his wife to the telephone. to her husband she said conclusively, "i thought we were agreed to make lydia's first season everything it ought to be. and isn't she being worth it? there hasn't a girl come out in endbury in _years_ that's been so popular, or had so much--" she jerked her head around to the telephone--"three-four-four--weston? is this mr. schmidt? i want mr. schmidt himself. tell him mrs. emery--" the judge broke in, with the air of launching the most startling of arguments, "well, my salary won't stand it; that's sure! if this keeps up i'll have to resign from the bench and go into practice again." his wife looked at him without surprise. "well, i've often thought that might be a very good thing." she added, with good-humored impatience, "oh, go along, nathaniel. you know it's just one of your bilious attacks, and you will catch cold sitting there with all your--mr. schmidt, i want to complain about the man who dished up the ice-cream at my last reception. i am going to give another one next week, and i want a different--" "i won't be back to lunch," said her husband. the door slammed. as he turned into the front walk it opened after him, and his wife called after him, "i'm going to give a dinner party for lydia's girl friends here this evening, so you'd better get your dinner down-town or at the meltons'. i'll telephone julia that--" the judge stopped, disappointment, almost dismay, on his face. "i'm going to keep track from now on," he called angrily, "of just how often i catch a glimpse of lydia. i bet it won't be five minutes a week." mrs. emery evidently did not catch what he said, and as evidently considered it of no consequence that she did not. she nodded indifferently and, drawing in her head, shut the door. at the end of the next week the judge announced that he had put down every time he and lydia had been in a room together, and it amounted to just forty-five minutes, all told. lydia, a dazzling vision in white and gold, had come downstairs on her way to a dance, and because paul, who was to be her escort, was a little late, she told her father that now was his time for a "visit." this question of "visiting" had grown to be quite a joke. judge emery clutched eagerly at anything in the nature of an understanding or common interest between them. "oh, i don't know you well enough to visit with you," he now said laughingly, "but i'll look at you long enough so i'll recognize you the next time i meet you on the street-car." lydia sat down on his knee, lightly, so as not to crumple her gauzy draperies, and looked at her father with the whimsical expression that became her face so well. "i'm paying you back," she said gayly. "i remember when i was a little girl i used to wonder why you came all the way out here to eat your meals. it seemed so much easier for you to get them near your office. honest, i did." "ah, that was when i was still struggling to get my toes into a crack in the wall and climb up. i didn't have time for you then. and you're very ungrateful to bring it up against me, for all i was doing was to wear my nose clear off on the grindstone so's to be able to buy you such pretty trash as this." he stroked the girl's shimmering draperies, not thinking of what he was saying, smiling at her, delighted with her beauty, with her nearness to him, with this brief snatch of intimate talk. "ungrateful--yourself! what am i doing but wearing my nose off on the grindstone--dr. melton threatens nervous prostration every day--so's to show off your pretty trash to the best advantage. _i_ haven't any time to bother with _you_ now!" she mocked him laughingly, her hands on his shoulders. "well, that sounds like a bargain," he admitted, leaning back in his chair; "i suppose i've got to be satisfied if you are. _are_ you satisfied?" he asked with a sudden seriousness. "how do you like paul, now you know him better?" lydia flushed, and looked away in a tremulous confusion. "why, when i'm with him i can't think of another thing in the world," she confessed in a low, ardent tone. "ah, well, then that's all right," said the judge comfortably. there was a pause, during which lydia looked at the fire dreamily, and he looked at lydia. the girl's face grew more and more absent and brooding. the door-bell rang. "there he is, i suppose," said her father. "but isn't it a pity we couldn't make connections?" she asked musingly. "maybe i'd have liked you better with your nose on, better even than pretty trash." "eh?" said judge emery. his blankness was so acute that he slipped for an instant back into a rusticity he had long ago left behind him. "what say, lydia?" he asked. "yes, yes, paul; i didn't hear you come in," called the girl, jumping up and beginning to put on her wraps. the young man darted into the room to help her, saying over his shoulder: "much obliged to you, judge, for your good word to egdon, march and company. i got the contract for the equipment of their new factory to-day." the judge screwed himself round in his chair till he could see paul bending at lydia's feet, putting on her high overshoes. "that's quite a contract, isn't it?" he asked, highly pleased. "the biggest i ever got my teeth into," said paul, straightening up. "i'm ashamed to have lydia know anything about it, though. i didn't bring a hack to take her to the dance." "oh, i never thought you would," cried lydia, standing up and stamping her feet down in her overshoes--an action that added emphasis to her protest. "i'd rather walk, it's such a little way. i like it better when i'm not costing people money." "you're not like most of your sex," said paul. "down in mexico, when i was there on the brighton job, i heard a spanish proverb: 'if a pretty woman smiles, some purse is shedding tears.'" the two men exchanged laughing glances of understanding. lydia frowned. "that is hateful--and horrid--and a _lie_!" she cried energetically, finding that they paid no attention to her protest. "_i_ didn't invent it," paul exonerated himself lightly. "but you laughed at it--you think it's so--you--" she was trembling in a sudden resentment at once inexplicable and amusing to the other two. "highty-tighty! you little spitfire!" cried her father, laughing. "i see _your_ finish, my boy!" "good gracious, lydia, how you do fly at a man! i take it back. i take it back." paul looked admiringly at his pretty sweetheart's flashing eyes and crimson cheeks as he spoke. she turned away and picked up her cloak without speaking. "to tell the truth," said paul, going on with the conversation as though it had not been interrupted, and addressing his father-in-law-to-be, "every penny i can rake and scrape is going into the house. lydia's such a sensible little thing i knew she'd think it better to have something permanent than an ocean of orchids and candy now. besides, such a belle as she is gets them from everybody else." mrs. emery often pointed out to lydia's inexperience that it was rare to see a man so magnanimously free from jealousy as her fiancé. "the architect and i were going over it to-day," the young electrician went on, "and i decided, seeing this new contract means such a lot, that i would have the panels in the hall carved, after all--of course if you agree," he turned to lydia, but went on without waiting for an answer. "the effect will be much handsomer--will go with the rest of the house better." "they'd be lots harder to dust," said lydia dubiously, putting a spangled web of gold over her hair. the contrast between her aspect and the dingy suggestions of her speech made both men laugh tenderly. "when titania takes to being practical--" laughed paul. lydia went on seriously. "honestly, paul, i'm afraid the house is getting too handsome, anyhow--everything in it. it's too expensive, i'm--" "nothing's too good for you." paul said this with conviction. "and besides, it's an asset. the mortgage won't be so very large. and if we're in it, we'll just have to live up to it. it'll be a stimulus." "i hope it doesn't stimulate us into our graves," said lydia, as she kissed her father good-night. "well, your families aren't paupers on either side," said paul. a casual remark like this was the nearest approach he ever made to admitting that he expected lydia to inherit money. he would have been shocked at the idea of allowing any question of money to influence his marriage, and would not have lifted a hand to learn the state of his future father-in-law's finances. still, it was evident to the most disinterested eye that there were plenty of funds behind the emery's ample, comfortable mode of life, and on this point his eyes were keen, for all their delicacy. as the young people paused at the door, judge emery took a note-book out of his pocket and elaborately made a note. "fifty-five minutes in eight days, lydia," he called. at the end of a fortnight he proclaimed aloud that the record was too discouraging to keep any longer; he was losing ground instead of gaining. he had followed mrs. emery to her room one afternoon to make this complaint, and now moved about uneasily, trying to bestow his large, square figure where he would not be in the way of his wife, who was hurrying nervously about to pack lydia's traveling bag. she looked very tired and pale, and spoke as though near a nervous outbreak of some sort. didn't he know that lydia had to start for the mallory valentine house-party this afternoon, she asked with an asperity not directed at the judge's complaint, for she considered that negligible, but at lydia for being late. she often became so absorbed and fascinated by her own managerial capacity that she was vastly put out by lapses on the part of the object of it. she did not spare herself when it was a question of lydia's career. without a thought of fatigue or her own personal tastes, she devoted herself with a fanatic zeal to furthering her daughter's interests. it sometimes seemed very hard to bear that lydia herself was so much less zealous in the matter. when the girl came in now, flushed and guiltily breathless, dr. melton trotted at her heels, calling out excuses for her tardiness. "it's my fault. i met her scurrying away from a card-party, and she was exactly on time. but i walked along with her and detained her." "it was the sunset," said lydia, hurrying to change her hat and wraps. "it was so fine that when godfather called my attention to it, i just _stood_! i forgot everything! there may have been sunsets before this winter, but it seems as though i hadn't had time to see one before--over the ironworks, you know, where that hideous black smoke is all day, and the sun turned it into such loveliness--" "you've missed your trolley-car," said her mother succinctly. "oh, i'm _sorry_!" cried lydia, in a remorse evidently directed more toward displeasing her mother than the other consequences of her delay, for she asked in a moment, very meekly, "will it make so very much difference if i don't go till the next one?" "you'll miss the governor. he was coming down to meet those on this car. you'll have to go all alone. all the rest of the party were on this one." "oh, i don't care about that," cried lydia. "if that's all--i'd ever so much rather go alone. i'm never alone a single minute, and it'll rest me. the crowd would have been so noisy and carried on so--they always do." her mother's aggrieved disappointment did not disappear. she said nothing, bringing lydia's traveling wraps to her silently, and emanating disapproval until lydia drooped and looked piteously at her godfather. dr. melton cried out at this, "look here, susan emery, you're like the carpenter that was so proud of his good planing that he planed his boards all away to shavings." mrs. emery looked at him with a lack of comprehension of his meaning equaled only by her evident indifference to it. "i mean--i thought what you were going in for was giving lydia a good time this winter. you're running her as though she were a transcontinental railway system." "you can't accomplish anything without system in this world," said mrs. emery. she added, "perhaps lydia will find, when she comes to ordering her own life, that she will miss her old mother's forethought and care." lydia flung herself remorsefully on her mother's neck. "i'm so _sorry_, mother dear," she almost sobbed. dr. melton's professional eye took in the fact that everyone in the room was high-strung and tense. "the middle-of-the-social-season symptom," he called it to himself. "i'm so sorry, mother," lydia went on. "i will be more careful next time. you are _so_ good to--to--" "good heavens!" said dr. melton. "all the child did was to give herself a moment's time to look at a fine spectacle, after spending all a precious afternoon on such a tragically idiotic pursuit as cards." "oh, _sunsets_!" mrs. emery disposed of them with a word. "come, lydia." "i'll go with her, and carry her bag," said the doctor. "you made such a good job of getting her here on time," said mrs. emery, unappeased. the judge offered to go, as a means of one of his rare visits with lydia, but his wife declared with emphasis that she didn't care who went or didn't go so long as she herself saw that lydia did not take to star-gazing again. it ended by all four proceeding down the street together. "you're sure you remember everything, lydia?" asked her mother. "let me see," said the girl, laughing nervously. "do i? the governor's wife is his second, so i'm to waste no time admiring the first set of children. they're methodists, so i'm to keep quiet about our being episcopalians--" "i guess we're not episcopalians enough to hurt," commented her father, who had never taken the conversion of his women-folks very seriously. "and it's my pink crêpe for dinner and tan-colored suit if they have afternoon tea. and mrs. mallory is to be asked to visit us, but not her daughter, because of her impossible husband, and i'm to play my prettiest to the governor, because he's always needing dynamos and such in the works, and paul--" the big car came booming around the corner, and she stopped her category of recommendations. the doctor rushed in with a last one as they stepped hurriedly toward the rear platform: "and don't forget that your host is the most unmitigated old rascal that ever stood in with two political machines at once." the judge swung her up on the platform, the doctor gave her valise to the conductor, her mother waved her hand, and she was off. the two men turned away. not so mrs. emery. she was staring after the car in a fierce endeavor to focus her gaze on the interior. "who was that man that jumped up so surprised to speak to lydia?" "i didn't notice anybody," said the judge. dr. melton spoke quickly. "lydia's getting in a very nervous state, my friends; i want you to know that. this confounded life is too much for her." "she doesn't kill herself getting up in the morning," complained her father. "it is a month now since i've seen her at breakfast." "i don't _let_ her get up," said mrs. emery. "i guess if you'd been up till two every morning dancing split dances because you were _the_ belle of the season, you'd sleep late! besides," she went on, "she'll be all right as soon as her engagement is announced. the excitement of that'll brace her up." "good lord! it's not more excitement she needs," began dr. melton; but they had reached the house, and mrs. emery, obviously preoccupied, pulled her husband quickly in, dismissing the doctor with a nod. she drew the judge hurriedly into the hall, and, "it was that rankin!" she cried, the slam of the door underscoring her words, "and _i_ believe marius melton knew he was going on that car and made lydia late on purpose." judge emery was in the state in which of late the end of the day's work found him--overwhelmingly fatigued. he had not an ounce of superfluous energy to answer his wife's tocsin. "well, what if it was?" he said. "they'll be an hour and a half together--alone--more alone than anywhere except on a desert island. alone--an hour and a half!" "oh, susan! if paul can't in three months make more headway than rankin can tear down in an hour and a half--" she raged at him, revolted at the calmness with which he was unbuttoning his overcoat and unwinding his muffler, "you don't understand--_anything_! i'm not afraid she'll elope with him--paul's got her too solid for that--rankin probably won't say anything of _that_ kind! but he'll put notions in her head again--she's so impressionable. and she says queer things now, once in a while, if she's left alone a minute. she needs managing. she's not like that levelheaded, sensible madeleine hollister. lydia has to be guided, and you don't see anything--you leave it all to me." she was almost crying with nervous exhaustion. that lydia's course ran smooth through a thousand complications was not accomplished without an incalculable expenditure of nervous force on her mother's part. dr. melton had several times of late predicted that he would have his old patient back under his care again. judge emery, remembering this prophecy, was now moved by his wife's pale agitation to a heart-sickening mixture of apprehension for her and of recollection of his own extreme discomfort whenever she was sick. he tried to soothe her. "but, susan, there's nothing we can do about it," he said reasoningly, hanging up his overcoat, blandly ignorant that her irritation came largely from his failure to fall in with her conception of the moment as a tragic one. "you could _care_ something about it," she said bitterly, standing with all her wraps on. the telephone bell rang. she motioned him back. "no; i might as well go first as last. it'll be something i'd have to see about, anyway." as he hesitated in the middle of the hall, longing to betake himself to a deep easy chair and a moment's relaxation, and not daring to do so, he was startled by an electric change in his wife's voice. "you're at hardville, you say? oh, flora burgess, i could go down on my knees in thanksgiving. i want you to run right out as fast as you can and get on the next interurban car from endbury. lydia's on it--" she cast caution from her desperately--"and i've just heard that there's somebody i don't want her to talk to--you know--_carpenters_--run--fly--never mind what they say! make them talk to you, too!" she turned back to her husband, transfigured with triumph. "i guess that'll put a spoke in _his_ wheel!" she cried. "flora burgess's at hardville, and that's only half an hour from here. i guess they can't get very far in half an hour." the judge considered the matter with pursed lips. "i wish it hadn't happened," he mused, as unresponsive to his wife's relief as he had been to her anxiety. "at first, i mean--last autumn--at all." his wife caught him up with a good humor gay with relief. "oh, give you time, nat, and you come round to seeing what's under your nose. i was wishing it hadn't happened long before i knew it had. i breathed it in the air before we ever knew she'd so much as seen him." "melton says he thinks the fellow has a future before him--" "oh, marius melton! how many of his swans have stuffed feather pillows!" the judge demurred. "i often wish i could think he _was_--but melton's no fool." he added, uneasily, "he's been pestering me again about taking a long rest--says i'm really out of condition." "perhaps a change of work would do you good--to be in active practice again. you could be your own master more--take more vacations, maybe." the judge surveyed her with a whimsical smile. "i'd make a lot more money in practice," he admitted. if she heard this comment she made no sign, but went on, "you do work too constantly, too. i've always said so! if you'd be willing to take a little more relaxation--go out more--" judge emery shuddered. "endbury tea-parties--!" his wife, half-way up the stairs, laughed down at him. "tea-parties! there hasn't been a tea-party given in endbury since we were wearing pull-backs." the laugh was so good-natured that the judge hoped for a favorable opening and ventured to say irrelevantly, as though reverting automatically to a subject always in his mind, "but, honest, susie, can't we shave expenses down some? this winter is costing--" she turned on him, not resentfully this time, but with a solemn appeal. "why, nat! lydia's season! the last winter we'll have her with us, no doubt! i'd go on bread and water afterward to give her what she wants now--wouldn't _you_? what are we old folks good for but to do our best by our children?" the judge looked up at her, baffled, inarticulate. "oh, of course," he agreed helplessly, "we want to do the best by our children." chapter xv a half-hour's liberty inside the big interurban car lydia and rankin were talking with a freedom that enormously surprised lydia. the man had started up with an exclamation of pleasure, had taken her bag, found a vacant seat, put her next the window and sat down by her before lydia, quite breathless with the shock of seeing him, could do more than notice how vigorous he looked, his tall, spare figure alert and erect, his ruddy hair and close-clipped beard contrasting vividly with his dark-blue flannel shirt and soft black hat. he was on a business trip, evidently, for on his knees he held a tool-box with large ungloved hands, roughened and red. with his usual sweeping disregard of conventional approaches, he plunged boldly into the matter with which their thoughts were at once occupied. "so this was why dr. melton insisted i should take this car. well, i'm grateful to him! it gives me a chance to relieve my mind of a weight of remorse i've been carrying around." lydia looked at him, relieved and surprised at the hearty spontaneity of this opening. he misunderstood her expression. "you don't mind, do you, my speaking to you about last fall--my saying i am so very sorry i made you all the trouble dr. melton tells me i did? i'm really very sorry!" nothing could have more completely disarmed lydia's acquired fear of him as the bogey-man of her mother's exhortations. it is true that she was, as she put it to herself, somewhat taken down by the contrast between her secret thought of him as a wounded, rejected suitor, and this clear-eyed, self-possessed, friendly reality before her; but, after a momentary feeling of pique, coming from a sense of the romantic, superficially grafted on her natural good feeling, she was filled with an immense relief. lydia was no man-eater. in spite of traditional wisdom, she, like a considerable number of her contemporaries, was as far removed from this stage of feminine development as from a stone-age appetite for raw meat. she now drew a long breath of the most honest satisfaction that she had done him no harm, and smiled at rankin. he waited for her to speak, and she finally said: "it's awfully good of you to put it that way! i've been afraid you must have been angry with me and hurt that i--so you didn't mind at all!" rankin smiled at little ruefully at her swift conclusion. "i believe in telling the truth, even to young ladies, and i can not say i didn't mind at all--or that i don't now. but i am convinced that you were right in dropping me--out of the realm of acquaintances." his assumption was, lydia saw with gratitude, that they were talking simply about a possible acquaintanceship between them. "it's evidently true--what i told you the very first time i saw you. we don't belong in the same world." as he said this, he looked at her with an expression lydia thought severe. she protested, "what makes you so sure?" "because to live in my world--even to step into it from time to time--requires the courage to believe in it." "and you think i didn't?" asked lydia. it was an inestimable comfort to her to have brought into the light the problem that had so long lain in the back of her head, a confused mass of dark conjecture. "did you?" he asked steadily. "you ought to know." there was silence, while lydia turned her head away and looked at the brown, flat winter landscape jerking itself past the windows as the car began to develop speed in the first long, open space between settlements. she was trying to remember something distinct about the nightmare of misery that had followed her admission of the identity of the man who had kissed her hand that starry night in october, but from the black chaos of her recollection she brought out only, "oh, you don't realize how things are with a girl--how many million little ways she's bound and tied down, just from everybody in the family loving her as--" "oh, yes, i do; i prove i do by saying that you were probably right in yielding so absolutely to that overwhelming influence. if you hadn't the strength to break through it decisively even once, you certainly couldn't have gotten any satisfaction out of doing things contrary to it. so it's all right, you see." lydia's drooping face did not show that she derived the satisfaction from this view of her limitations that her companion seemed to expect. "you mean i'm a poor-spirited, weak thing, who'd better never try to take a step of my own," she said with a sorry smile. "i don't mean anything unkind," he told her gently. "i've succeeded in convincing myself that your action of last autumn was the result of a deep-rooted instinct for self-preservation--and that's certainly most justifiable. it meant i'd expected too harsh a strength from you--" he went on with a whimsical smile, which even the steadiness of his eyes did not keep from sadness--"as though i'd hoped you could lift a thousand-pound weight, like the strong woman in the side-show." she responded to his attempt at lightness with as plain an undercurrent of seriousness as his own. "why do you live so that people have to lift thousand-pound weights before they dare so much as say good-morning to you?" "because i don't dare live any other way," he answered. "it's hard on other people," lydia ventured, but retreated hastily before the first expression of upbraiding she had seen in his eyes. he had so suddenly turned grave with the thought that it had been harder on him than on anyone else that she cried out hurriedly, "but you didn't help a bit--you left it all to me--" she stopped, her face burning in uncertainty of the meaning of her words. rankin's answer came with the swiftness of one who has meditated long on a question. "i'm glad you've given me a chance to say what--i've wished you might know. i thought it over and over at the time--and since--and i'm sure it would not have been honorable--or delicate--or right, _not_ to leave it all to you. that much was yours to decide--whether you would take the first step. it would have been a crime to have hurried or urged you beyond what lay in your heart to do--or to have overborne you against some deep-lying, innate instinct." lydia's voice was shaking in self-pity as she cried out, "oh, if you knew what the others--nobody _else_ was afraid to hurry or urge me to--" she stopped and looked away, her heart beating rapidly with a flood of recollections. rankin's lips opened, but he shut them firmly, as though he did not trust himself to speak. his large red hands closed savagely on the handle of his tool-box. there was a silence between them. the car began to move more slowly, and the conductor, standing up from the seat where he had been dozing, remarked in a conversational tone to a woman with two children near him, "gardenton--this is the cross-roads to gardenton." later, as the car stood still under the singing vibration of the trolley-wire overhead, he added in the general direction of lydia and rankin, now the only passengers, "next stop is wardsboro'!" his voice came to them with a singular clearness in the quiet of the momentary stop. they were in the midst of a mournful expanse of bare ploughed fields, frozen and brown. the motorman released his brake, letting the brass arm swing noisily about, the conductor sat down again, and as the car began to move forward again he closed his eyes. he looked very tired and, now that an almost instant sleep had relaxed his features, pathetically young. "how pale he is," said lydia, wishing to break the silence with a harmless remark. "he looks tired to death." "he probably is just that," said rankin, wincing. "it's sickening, the way they work. seven days a week, most of them, you know." "no; i didn't know," cried lydia, shocked. "why, that's awful. when do they see their families?" "they don't. one of them, whose house isn't far from mine, told me that he hadn't seen his children, except asleep, for three weeks." "but something ought to be done about it!" the girl's deep-lying instinct for instant reparation rose up hotly. "are they so much worse off than most american business men?" queried rankin. "do any of them feel they can take the time to see much more than the outside of their children; and isn't seeing them asleep about as--" lydia cut him short quickly. "you're always blaming them for that," she cried. "you ought to pity them. they can't help it. it's better for the children to have bread and butter, isn't it--" rankin shook his head. "i can't be fooled with that sort of talk--i've lived with too many kinds of people. at least half the time it isn't a question of bread and butter. it's a question of giving the children bread and butter and sugar rather than bread and butter and father. of course, i'm a fanatic on the subject. i'd rather leave off even the butter than the father--let alone the sugar." "but here's this very motorman you know about--what could he do?" "they're not forced by the company to work seven days a week--only they're not given pay enough to let them take even one day off without feeling it. this very motorman i was talking with got to telling me why he was working so extra hard just then. his oldest daughter is going to graduate from the high school and he wants to give her a fine graduating dress, as good as anybody's, and a graduating 'present.' it seems that's the style now for graduating girls. he said he and his wife wanted her always to remember that day as a bright spot, and not as a time when she was humiliated by being different from other girls." "well, my goodness! you're not criticizing them for that, are you? i think it was just as sweet and lovely of them as can be to realize how a girl feels." rankin looked at her, smiled slightly, and said nothing. his silence made lydia thoughtful. after a time, "i see what you mean, of course," she said slowly, "that it would be _better_ for her, perhaps--but if he _loves_ her, her father _wants_ to do things for her." rankin's roar of exasperation at this speech was so evidently directed at an old enemy of an argument that lydia was only for an instant startled by it. "i _don't_ say he can do too much for her," he cried. "he can't! nobody can do too much for anybody else if it's the right thing." "and what in the world do you think _would_ be the right thing in this case?" lydia put the question as a poser. "why, of course, to pamper her vanity; to feed her moral cowardice; to make her more afraid than ever of senseless public opinion; to deprive her of a fine exercise for her spiritual force; to shut her off from a sense of her material situation in life until the knowledge of it will come as a tragedy to her; to let her grow up without any knowledge of her father's point of view--" "there, there! that's enough!" said lydia. "i didn't need to be so violent about it, that's a fact," apologized rankin. "but you're talking of people the way they ought to be," objected lydia, apparently drawing again from a stock of inculcated arguments. "do you really, honestly, suppose that that girl would rather have an opportunity to do something for her parents and--and--and all that, than have a fine dress that would cost a lot and make the other girls envious?" "oh, lydia!" cried her companion, not noticing the betrayal of a mental habit in the slipping out of her name. "you're just in a state of saturated solution of dr. melton. don't you believe a word he says about folks. they're lots better than he thinks. the only reason anybody has for raging at them for being a bad lot is because they are such a good lot! they are so chuck-full of good possibilities! there's so much more good in them than bad. you think that, don't you? you _must_! there's nothing to go on, if you don't." as lydia began to answer she felt herself, as once or twice before when with rankin, suddenly an immeasurable distance from her usual ways of mental life. she looked about her upon a horizon very ample and quite strange, without being able to trace the rapid steps that had carried her away from the close-walled room full of knickknacks and trifles, where she usually lived. she drew a deep breath of surprise and changed her answer to an honest "i don't believe i know whether i believe you or not. i don't think i ever thought of it before." "what _do_ you think about?" the question was evidently too sincere an interrogation to resent. the girl made several beginnings at an answer, stopped, looked out of the window, looked down at her shoe-tip, and finally burst into her little clear trill of amusement. "i don't," she said, looking full at rankin, her eyes shining. "you've caught me! i can't remember a single time in my day when i think about anything but hurrying to get dressed in time to be at the next party promptly. maybe some folks can think when they're hurrying to get dressed, but i can't." rankin was very little moved to hilarity by this statement, but he was too young to resist the contagion of lydia's mirth, and laughed back at her, wondering at the mobility of her ever-changing face. "if you don't think, what do you _do_?" he interrogated with mock relentlessness. "nothing," said lydia recklessly, still laughing. "what do you feel?" he went on in the same tone, but lydia's face changed quickly. "oh--lots!" she said uncertainly, and was silent. the car began to pass some poor, small houses, and in a moment came to a standstill in the midst of a straggling village. the young conductor still slept on, his head fallen so far on his shoulder that his breathing was difficult. the motorman, getting no signal to go on, looked back through the window, putting his face close to the glass to see, for it had grown dusky outside and the electric lights were not yet turned on. after a look at the sleeping man he glanced apprehensively at the two passengers, and then, apparently reassured that they were not "company detectives," he pushed open the door. "this is wardsboro'," he told them as he went down the aisle, "and the next stop is hardville." he was a strong, burly man, and easily lifted the slight, boyish form of the conductor to a more comfortable position, propping him up in a corner of the seat. the young man did not waken, but his face relaxed into peaceful lines of unconsciousness as his head fell back, and his breathing became long and regular, like a sleeping child's. as the big motorman went back to his post, he explained a little sheepishly to the two, who had watched his operation in attentive silence, "it's against the rules, i know, but there ain't anybody but you two here, and he don't look as though he'd really got his growth yet. i got a boy ain't sixteen that looks as old as he does, and ruggeder at that. i reckon the long hours are too much for him." "do you know him?" asked rankin. the motorman turned his red, weather-beaten face to them from the doorway where he stood, pulling on his clumsy gloves. "who, me?" he asked. "no; i never seen him till to-day. he's a new hand, i reckon." he drew the door after him with a rattling slam, rang the bell for himself, and started the car forward. in the warm, vibrating solitude of the car, the two young people looked at each other in a silent transport. lydia's dark eyes were glistening, and she checked rankin, about to speak, with a quick, broken "no; don't say a word! you'd spoil it!" there was between them one of the long, vital silences, full of certainty of a common emotion, which had once or twice before marked a significant change in their relation. finally, "that's something i shall never forget," said lydia. rankin looked at her in silence, and then, quickly, away. "it's like an answer to what i was saying--a refutation of what dr. melton thinks--about people--" as rankin still made no answer, she exclaimed in a ravished surprise, "why, i never saw anything so lovely--that made me so happy! i feel warm all over!" indeed, her face shone through the dusk upon her companion, who could now no longer constrain himself to look away from her. he said, his voice vibrant with a deep note which instantly carried lydia back to the other time when she had heard it, under the stars of last october, "it's only an instrument exquisitely in tune which can so respond--" he broke off, closed his lips, and, turning away from her, gazed sightlessly out at the dim, flat horizon, now the only outline visible in the twilight. lydia said nothing, either then or when, after a long pause, he said that he would leave the car at the next station. "it has been very pleasant to see you again," he said, bending over his tool-box, "and you mustn't lay it up against me that i haven't congratulated you on your engagement. of course you know how i wish you all happiness." "thank you," said lydia. ahead of the car, some lights suddenly winking above the horizon announced the approach of hardville. rankin stood up, slipped on his rough overcoat, and sat down again. he drew a long breath, and began evenly: "i know you won't misunderstand me if i try to say one more thing. i probably won't see you again for years, and it would be a great joy to me to be sure that you know how hearty is my good-will to you. i'm afraid you can't think of me without pain, because i was the cause of such discomfort to you, but i know you are too generous to blame me for what was an involuntary hurt. of course i ought to have known how your guardians would feel about your knowing me--" "oh, _why_ should you be so that all that happened!" cried lydia suddenly. "if it was too hard for me, why couldn't you have made it easier--thought differently--acted like other people. _would_ you--if i hadn't--if we had gone on knowing each other?" rankin turned very white. "no," he said; "i couldn't." "it seems to me," said lydia hurriedly, "that, without being willing to concede anything to their ideas, you ask a great deal of your friends." "yes," said rankin, "i do. it's a hard struggle i'm in with myself and the world--oh, evidently much too hard for you even to look at from a distance." his voice broke. "the best thing i can do for you is to stay away--" he rose, and stepped into the aisle. "but you are so kind--you will let me serve you in any other way, if i can--ever. if i can ever do something that's hard for you to do--you must know that i stand as ready as even dr. melton to do it for you if i can." indeed, for the moment, as lydia looked up into his kind, strong face, his impersonal tenderness made him seem almost such an old, tried friend as her godfather; almost as unlikely to expect any intimate personal return from her. "you must remember," he went on, "the great joy it gave us both to-day even to see an act of kindness. give me an opportunity to do one for you if i ever can." it already seemed to lydia as though he had gone away from her, as though this were but a beneficent memory of him lingering by her side. she hardly noticed when he left her alone in the car. the conductor started up, wakened by the silence, and announced wildly, "wardsboro', wardsboro'!" "no, it ain't; it's the first stop in hardville," contradicted the motorman, sticking his head in through the door. "turn on them lights!" as the glass bulbs leaped to a dazzling glare, lydia blinked and looked away out of the window. a moment later an arm laid about her neck made her bound up in amazement and confront a small, middle-aged woman, with a hat too young for her tired, sallow face, with a note-book in her hand and an apologetic expression of affection in her light blue eyes. "i'm sorry i startled you, miss lydia," she said. "i keep forgetting you're not still a little girl i can pick up and hug." "oh, you!" breathed the girl, sitting down again. "i didn't think there was anybody in the car with me, you see." "have you come all the way from endbury alone, then?" asked miss burgess, looking about her suspiciously. "no, i have not," said lydia uncompromisingly. "mr. rankin, the cabinet-maker, has been with me till just now." miss burgess sat down hastily in the vacant seat by lydia. "and he's coming back?" she inquired. "no; he got off at hardville. this _is_ hardville, isn't it?" "yes. i happened to be out reporting a big church bazaar here." she settled back comfortably. "what a nice chance for a cozy little visit i shall have with you. these long trips on the interurban are fine for talking. unless i shall tire you? did mr. rankin talk much? what does he talk _about_, anyhow? he's always so rude to me that i've never heard him say a word except about his work." lydia considered for a moment. "we talked about the street-car conductors having such long hours to work," she said, "and later about whether people have more bad in them than good." "oh!" said miss burgess. lydia smiled faintly, the ghost of her whimsical little look of mockery. "we decided that they have more good," she said. miss burgess cast about her for a suitable comment. at last, "really!" she said. chapter xvi engaged to be married all over the half-finished house the workmen began to lay down their tools. paul hollister's face broke into a good-humored smile as a moment later he caught the faraway five-o'clock whistles calling from the city. he was in a very happy mood these days and the best aspect of the phenomena of the world was what impressed him most. as the workmen disappeared down the driveway to the main road, running to catch the next trolley-car to endbury, he looked after them with little of the usual exasperation of the house-builder whose work they were slighting, but with an agreeable sense of their extreme inferiority to him in the matter of fixity of purpose. he felt that they symbolized the weakness of most of humanity, and promised himself with a comfortable confidence an easy and lifelong victory over such feeble adversaries. of late, business had been going even better than ever. the days had begun to grow appreciably longer with the approach of spring, and there had been several noons of an almost summer-like mildness, but now, in spite of the fact that the sun was still shining, the first chill of the late march evening dropped suddenly upon the bare-raftered structure whose open windows and door-spaces offered no barrier to the damp breeze. hollister stirred from his pleasant reverie and began to walk briskly about, inspecting the amount of work accomplished since his last visit. he kept very close track of the industry of his workmen and the competence of his contractor, and lydia's father admired greatly the way in which his future son-in-law did not allow himself to be "done" by those past masters of the art. it argued well for the future, judge emery thought, and he called lydia's attention to the trait with approval. before the wide aperture which was to be the front door, the owner of the house stopped and looked eagerly out toward the road. it was near the time when lydia had promised to be there, and he meant to see her and run to meet her when she first turned in upon the ground that was to be her home. it was the first time that lydia had happened to visit the new house alone. either her mother or hollister's sister had accompanied her on the two or three other occasions, but to-day she telephoned that mrs. emery had been really out-and-out forbidden by dr. melton to get out of bed for two or three days, and as for madeleine--at this point madeleine had snatched the receiver from lydia's hand and had informed her brother that madeleine was going to be busy with _her_ young man and couldn't get off to chaperone people that had been as long engaged as he and lydia. that was part of the bright color of the world to paul--his sister's recent engagement to their uncle's partner in the iron works, a very prosperous, young-old bachelor of fifty-odd, whose intense preoccupation with business had never been pierced by any consciousness of the other sex until madeleine had, as she proclaimed in her own vernacular, "taken a club to him." it was a very brilliant match for her, and justified her own prophecy concerning herself that she was not to be satisfied with any old-fashioned, smooth-running course for true love. "it must shoot the chutes, or nothing," she was accustomed to say, in her cheerful, high-spirited manner. paul thought, with self-approval, that, for orphans of the poorer branch of the hollister family, he and madeleine had not done badly with their lives thus far. he looked again impatiently toward the entrance to the grounds. a trolley-car had just rattled by on the main road. if lydia was on it, she would appear at that turning under the trees. no; evidently she had not been on that one. the harsh jar of the trolley's progress died away in the distance and no lydia appeared. he had fifteen minutes to wait for the next one. he drew out a note-book and began jotting down some ideas about the disposition of the five acres surrounding the house. he was ambitious to have the appearance of a country estate and avoid the "surburban" look which would be so fatally easy to acquire in the suburban place. he decided that he would not as yet fence in his land. the house was the last one of a group of handsome residences that had lately sprung up in the vicinity of the new country club, and to the south was still open country, so that without a fence, he reflected, he could have himself, and convey tacitly to others, the illusion of owning the wide sweep of meadow and field which stretched away a mile or more to a group of beech trees. he jumped down lightly from the porch, as yet but sketchily outlined in joists and rafters, and stood in a litter of shavings, bits of board and piles of yellow earth, with a kindling eye. he had that happy prophetic vision of the home-builder which overlooks all present deficiencies and in an instant, with a confident magic, erects all that the slow years are to build. he saw a handsome, well-kept house, correctly colonial in style, grounds artfully laid out to increase the impression of space, a hospitable, smoothly run interior, artistic, homelike, admired. a meadow-lark near him began to tinkle out its pretty silver notes. the sun set slowly below the smoky horizon; a dewy peace fell about the deserted place. paul had his visions of other than material elements in his future and lydia's. such a dream came to him there, standing in the dusk before the germ of his home to be. he saw himself an alert man of forty-five, a good citizen, always on the side of civic honor; a good captain of industry, quick to see and reward merit; a good husband who loved and cherished his wife as on the day he married her, and protected her from all the asperities of reality; a good father--he had almost an actual vision of the children who would carry on his work in life--girls of lydia's beauty and sweetness, boys with his energy and uprightness--and there was lydia, too, the lydia of twenty years from now--in the full bloom of physical allurement still, a gracious hostess, a public-spirited matron, lending the luster of his name to all worthy charities indorsed by the best people, laying down with a firm good taste dictates as to the worthy social development of the town. before this vision there rose up in him the ardent impulse to immediate effort which is the sign manual of the man of action. he stirred and flung his arm out. "it's all up to me," he said aloud. "i can do it if i go after it hard enough. i've got to make good for lydia's sake and mine. she must have the best i can get--the very best i know how to get for her." a sound behind him made him catch his breath. he was trembling as he turned about and saw lydia coming swiftly up the driveway. "good heavens, how i love her!" he thought as he ran down to meet her. he was trembling when he took her in his arms, folding her in that close embrace of surprised rapture at finding everything real, and no dream, which is the unique joy of betrothal. he would not let her speak for a moment, pressing his lips upon hers. when he released her, she cried in a whisper, "oh, it's wonderful how when you're close to me everything else just isn't in the world!" "that's being in love, lydia," paul told her with a grave thankfulness. "i don't mean," she went on, with her ever-present effort to express honestly her meaning, "i don't mean just--just being really close--having your arms around me, though that always makes me forget things, too--but being--_feeling_ close, you know--inside. not having any inner corner where we're not together--the way we are now--the way i knew we should be when i saw you running down to meet me. i always know the minute i see you whether it's going to be this way." she added, a little wistfully, "sometimes, you know, it isn't." paul lifted her up to the porch and led her across into the hallway. here he took her in his arms again and said with a shaken accent: "dearest lydia, dearest! i wish it were always the way you want it--" lydia dropped her head back on his shoulder and looked at him earnestly. in the half-light, white and clear from the freshly plastered walls, her face was like alabaster. "dear paul, isn't that what getting married means--to learn how to be really, really close to each other all the time. there isn't anything else worth getting married for, is there? _is_ there?" her lover looked down into her eyes, into her sweet, earnest face, and could not speak. finally, his hand at his throat, "oh, lydia, you're too good for me!" he said huskily. "you're too good for any man!" "no, no, no!" she protested with a soft energy. "i'm weak, as weak as water. you must give me a lot of your strength or i'll go under." "god knows i'll give you anything i have." "then, never let things come between us--never, never, never! i'm all right as long as i'm close to you. if we just keep that, nothing else can matter." they were silent, standing with clasped hands in the passage-way that was to be the thoroughfare of their common life. it was a moment that was to come back many times to lydia's memory during later innumerable, hurried daily farewells. the thought of the significance of the place came to her mind now. she said softly, "this must be a foretaste of what we're to have under this roof. how good it seems not to be in a hurry to--" with a start paul came to himself from his unusual forgetfulness of his surroundings. "we _ought_ to be in a hurry now, dearest. dr. melton keeps me stirred up all the time to take care of you, and i'm sure i'm not doing that to let you stand here in this cold evening air. come, let me show you--the closet under the stairs, you know, and the place for the refrigerator." lydia yielded to his care for her with her sweet passivity, echoed his opinion about the details, and ran beside him down the driveway, to catch the next car to endbury, with a singular light grace for a tall woman encumbered with long skirts. in spite of their haste, they missed the car and were obliged to wait for a quarter of an hour beside the tracks. they talked cheerfully on indifferent topics, the sense of intimate comradeship gilding all they said. in their hearts was fresh the memory of the scene in the new house. they looked at each other and smiled happily in the intervals of their talk. paul was recapitulating to lydia the advantages of the location of their house. "we are in the vanguard of a new movement in american life," he said, "the movement away from the cities. madeleine tells me that she and lowder are planning a house at the other end of this street, and you can be sure they know what they are about." lydia did not dissent from this opinion of her future sister-in-law, but she interrupted paul a moment later, to say fondly, "_oh_, but i'm glad that you aren't fifty-five and bald and with lots of money!" paul laughed. "madeleine'll get on all right. she knows what she's about. it's a pair of them." "well, i am church-thankful that that is not what _we_ are about!" exclaimed lydia. her lover voiced the extreme content with his lot which had been his obsession that day. "we have _everything_, darling. we shall have all that madeleine and old lowder have and we have now all this heavenly happiness that they'll never know--or miss," he added, giving them their due. "i didn't mean that," protested lydia. "it seems to me that being like them and being like us are two contradictory things. you _can't_ be both and have the things that go with both. and what i'm so thankful for is that we're us and not them." paul laughed. "you just see if there's anything so contradictory. trust me. you just see if you don't beat madeleine on her own ground yet." "i don't _want_--" began lydia; but paul had gone back to his first theme and was expanding it for her benefit. "yes; we're getting the english idea. in twenty years from now you'll find the social center of every moderate-sized american city shifted to some such place as this." lydia craned her neck down the tracks impatiently. "i hope we don't miss a trolley car every day of those twenty years," she said, laughing. "we'll have an automobile," he said. then, reflecting that this was a somewhat exaggerated prophecy, he went on, with the honesty he meant always to show lydia (so far as should be wise), "no; i'm afraid we sha'n't, either--not for some time. it'll take several years to finish paying altogether for the house, and we'll have to pull hard to keep up our end for a time. but we're young, so much won't be expected of us--and if we just dig in for a few years now while we're fresh, we can lie back and--" "well, _gracious_!" said lydia, "who wants an automobile, anyhow! only i wish the trolley didn't take so long. it's going to take the best part of an hour, you know; the ten or twelve minutes to get here from the house, the two or three minutes to wait, the thirty minutes on the car, the ten minutes to your office--and then all that turned inside out when you come back in the evening." "oh, i'll be able to do a lot of business figuring in that time. it won't be wasted." they fell into happy picture-making of their future. lydia wanted to have chickens and a garden, she said. she'd always wanted to be a farmer's wife--an idea that caused paul much laughter. they revised the plans for the furnishing of the hall--the china closet could stand against the west wall of the dining-room; why had they not thought of that before? the little room upstairs was to be a sewing-room "although i hate sewing," cried lydia, "and nowadays, when ready-mades are so cheap and good--" "nobody expected you to make yourself tailored street dresses," said paul; "but don't i all the time hear madeleine and my aunt saying how the 'last _chic_ of a costume, the little indefinable touches that give a toilet distinction,' they have to fuss up themselves out of bits of lace and ribbon and fur and truck?" he was quoting, evidently, with an amused emphasis. lydia leaned to him, her eyes wide in a mock solemnity. "paul, i have a horrible confession to make to you. i _loathe_ the 'last _chic_, the little indefinable touches that give a toilet,' and so forth! it makes me sick to spend my time on them. what difference does it make to real folks if their toilets _aren't_ 'and so forth!'" she looked so deliciously whimsical with her down-drawn face of rebellious contrition that paul was enchanted. "and this i learn when it's too late for me to draw back!" he cried in horror. "woman! woman! this tardy confession" "oh, there are lots of other confessions. just wait." "out with them!" "i don't know _anything_." "that's something," admitted paul. "and you must teach me." "oh, this docile little wife! don't you know the suffragists will get you if you talk meek like that? what do you want to know? volts, and dynamos, and induction coils?" "everything," said lydia comprehensively, "that you know. books, politics, music--" "lord! what a hash! what makes you think i know anything about such things?" "why, you went through cornell. you must know about books. and you're a man, you must know about politics; and as for music, we'll learn about that together. aunt julia and godfather are going to give us a piano-player--though i know they can't afford it, the dears!" "people _are_ good to us." paul's flush of gratitude for his good fortune continued. "you like music, don't you?" asked lydia. "i guess so; i don't know much about it. some crazy german post-grads at cornell used to make up a string quartette among themselves and play some things i liked to hear--i guess it was pretty good music, too. they were sharks on it, i know. yes; now i think of it, i used to like it fine. maybe if i heard more--" "oh, the evenings together!" breathed lydia. "doesn't it take your breath away to think of them? we'll read together--" paul saw the picture. "yes; there're lots of books i've always meant to get around to." they were silent, musing. then paul laughed aloud. lydia started and looked at him inquiringly. "oh, i was just thinking how old married folks would laugh to hear us infants planning our little castles in spain. you know how they always smile at such ideas, and say every couple starts out with them and after about six months gets down to concentrating on keeping up the furnace fire and making sure the biscuits are good." lydia laid her hand eagerly on his arm. "but don't let's, paul! please, _please_ don't let us! just because everybody else does is no reason why we _have_ to. you're always saying folks can make things go their way if they try hard enough--you're so clever and--" "oh, i'm a wonder, i know! you needn't tell me how smart i am." "but, paul, i'm in earnest--i mean it--" the car had arrived by this time and he swung her up to the platform. like other moderns they were so accustomed to spend a large part of their time in being transported from place to place that they were quite at home in the noisy public conveyance, and after a pause to pay fares, remove wraps, and nod to an acquaintance or two, they went on with their conversation as though they were alone. people looked approvingly at the comely, well-dressed young couple, so naïvely absorbed in each other, and speculated as to whether they were just married or just about to be. after they were deposited at the corner nearest the emery house, the change to the silent street, up which they walked slowly, reluctant to separate, took them back to their first mood of this loveliest of all their hours together--the sweet intimacy of their first meeting in the new house. lydia felt herself so wholly in sympathy with paul that she was moved to touch upon something that had never been mentioned between them. "paul, dear," she said, her certainty that he would understand, surrounding her with an atmosphere of spiritual harmony which she recognized was the thing in all the world which mattered most to her, "paul dear, i never told you--there's nothing to tell, really--but when i went to the mallory's house-party in february i rode from here to hardville with mr. rankin and had a long talk with him. you don't mind, do you?" her lover drew her hand within his arm and gave it an affectionate pressure. "you may not know things, lydia, as you say, but you are the _nicest_ girl! the straightest! i knew that at the time--miss burgess told me. but i'm glad you've given me a chance to say how sorry i was for you last autumn when everybody was pestering you so about him. i knew how you felt--better than you did, i'll bet i did! i wasn't a bit afraid. i knew you could never care for anybody but me. why, you're _mine_, lydia, i'm yours, and that's all there is to it. you know it as well as i do." "_i know it when i'm with you_," she told him with a bravely honest, unspoken reservation. he laughed his appreciation of her insistent sincerity. "well, when you're married won't you be with me all the time? so that's fixed! and as for meeting somebody by accident on the street-cars--why, you foolish darling, you're not marrying a turk, or an octopus--but an american." lydia was silent, but her look was enough to fill the pause richly. she was savoring to the full the joy of close community of spirit which had been so rare in her pleasant life of material comfort, and she was saying a humble prayer that she might be good enough to be worthy of it, that she might be wise enough to make it the daily and hourly atmosphere of her life with paul. "what are you thinking about, darling?" asked the other. "i was thinking how lovely it's going to be to be really married and come to know each other well. we don't know each other at all yet, _really_, you know." paul was brought up short, as so often with lydia, by an odd, disconcerted feeling, half pleasure, half shock, from the discovery in her of pages that he had not read, germs of ideas that had not come from him. "why, darling lydia, what do you mean? we know each other through and through!" he now protested. it gave a tang of the unexpected to her uniform sweetness, this always having a corner still to turn which kept her out of his sight. paul was used to seeing most women achieve this effect of uncertainty by the use of coquetry, and in the free-and-easy give and take between young america of both sexes, he had learned with a somewhat cynical shrewdness to discount it. he entered into the game, but, in his own phrase, he always knew what he was about. lydia, on the contrary, often penetrated his armor by one of these shafts, barbed by her complete unconsciousness of any intent. he felt now, with a momentary anguish, that he could never be sure of her belonging quite to him until they were married, and cried out upon her idea almost angrily, "i don't know what you mean! we know each other now." "oh, no, we don't," she insisted. "there are lots of queer fancies in me that you'll only find out by living with me--and, oh, paul! the fine, noble things i _feel_ in you! but i can see the whole of them only by seeing you day by day. and then there are lots of things that aren't in us, really, yet, but only planted. they'll grow--we'll grow--paul, to-day is an epoch. we've passed a new milestone." "how do you mean?" he asked. "the way we've felt--the way we've talked--of real things--out there in our own--" she laughed a little, a serene murmur of drollery which came to her when she was at peace. "we've been engaged since november, but we only got engaged to be married to-day--just as our wedding's to be in june, but goodness knows when our marriage will be." paul smiled at her tenderly. "if i'd known the date was so uncertain as that i shouldn't have dared to go so far in my house-building." "oh, it's all right so far," she reassured him, smiling; "but we must pitch in and finish it. why, that's just it, paul--" she was struck with the aptness of her illustration--"that's just it. we've got the rafters and joists up now; maybe before we're married, if we're good, we can get the roof on so it won't rain on us; but all the finishing, all that makes it good to live in, has got to be done after the wedding." he did not know exactly what she was talking about, but he made up for vagueness by fervor. "after we are married," he cried, "i'll move mountains and turn stones to gold." "but the first thing to do is to lay floors for us to walk on," lydia told him. for answer, he drew her into his arms and closed her mouth with a kiss. chapter xvii card-dealing and patent candles spring had come with its usual hotly advancing rush upon the low-lying, sheltered southerly city. there had been a few days of magical warmth, full of spring madness, when every growing thing had expanded leaves with furious haste, when the noise of children playing in the street sounded loud through newly-opened windows, when, even on city streets, every breath of the sweet, lively air was an intoxicating potion. then, with a bound, the heat was there. evenings and nights were still cool, but noons were as oppressive as in july. the scarcely expanded leaves hung limp in a summer heat. all during that eventful winter, mrs. emery had frequently remarked to her sister-in-law that lydia's social career progressed positively with such brilliancy that it was like "something you read about." mrs. sandworth invariably added the qualifying clause, "but in a very nice book, you know, with only nice people in it, where everything comes out nicely at the end." her confidence in literature as a respectable source of pleasure was not so guileless as mrs. emery's. it had been cruelly shaken by dipping into some of the russian novels of the doctor's. not infrequently the two ladies felt, with a happy importance, that they were the authors of the book and that the agreeable episodes and dramatic incidents which had kept the flow of the narrative so sparkling were the product of their own creative genius. when april came on, and lydia agreed to the announcement of her engagement, they felt the need of some remarkable way of signaling that important event and of closing her season with a burst of glory. for her season had to end! dr. melton said positively that if lydia had another month of the life she had been leading he would not be responsible for the consequences. "she has a fine constitution, inherited from her farmer grandparents," he said, smiling to see mrs. emery wince at this uncompromising statement of lydia's ancestry, "but her nervous organization is too fine for her own good. and i warn you right now that if you get her nerves once really jangled, i shall take to the woods. you can just give the case to another doctor. it would be too much for _me_." the girl herself insisted that she felt perfectly well and able to stand more than when she first began going out. she affirmed this with some impatience, her eyes very bright, her cheeks flushed, whenever her godfather protested against a new undertaking. "when you get going, you _can't_ stop," she told him, shaking off his detaining hand. mrs. emery told the doctor that he'd forgotten the time when he was young or he'd remember that all girls who'd been popular at all--let alone a girl like lydia--looked thin and worn by the end of the season; but during the last week of april, when the first hot days had arrived, a small incident surprised her into thinking that perhaps the doctor had some right on his side. not that there was in itself anything so very alarming about a nervous explosion from a girl so high-strung and susceptible as lydia. the startling thing was that this explosion proceeded, so far as her mother could see, from nothing at all, from the idlest of chance remarks by mrs. sandworth, as always, whitely innocent of the smallest intention to wound. she and mrs. emery were much given to watching lydia dress for the innumerable engagements that took her away from the house. they made a pretext of helping her, but in truth they were carried away by the delight in another's beauty which is more common among women than is generally imagined. they took the profoundest interest in the selection of the toilet she should wear, and regarded with a charmed surprise the particular aspect of lydia's slim comeliness which it brought out. they could not decide whether they liked her best in clinging, picture costumes, big hats, plumes, trailing draperies, and the like, or dashing, jaunty effects. once in the winter, after she had left them on her way to an evening skating party and they had seen her from the window join hollister and add her skates to those glittering on his shoulder, mrs. sandworth promulgated one of her unexpected apothegms: "do you know what we are, susan emery? we're a couple of old children playing with a doll." mrs. emery protested with an instant, reproving self-justification: "_you_ may be--you're not her mother; but i understand lydia through and through." mrs. emery felt that if lydia had overheard that remark of her aunt's her excitement and resentment might have been natural; but the one which led to the distressing little scene in late april was as neutral as an ordinary morning salutation. the two were watching lydia dress for a luncheon which mrs. hollister--_the_ mrs. hollister--was giving in her honor. it was about noon of a warm day, and the air that came in at the open windows was thrillingly alive with troubling, disquieting suggestions of the new life of spring. lydia, however, showed none of the languor which the sudden heat had brought to the two elder women. she was a little late, and her hurry had sent a high color to her cheeks, the curves of which were refined to the most exquisite subtlety by the loss of flesh so deplored by dr. melton. she was used, by this time, to dressing in a hurry, but her fingers trembled a little, and she tried three times before she could coil her dark silky hair smoothly. she was frowning a little with the fixity of her concentration as she turned to snatch up her long gloves and she did not hear mrs. sandworth's question until it had been repeated, "i said, lydia, is it to be bridge this afternoon?" "i don't know," said lydia with the full stop of absent indifference. "didn't mrs. hollister say?" "maybe she did. i didn't notice." the girl was tugging at her glove. "well, anyhow," said her mother, "since everybody's giving you card-parties, i should think you'd want to practice up and learn how to deal better. it's queer," she went on to mrs. sandworth, "lydia's so deft about so many things, that she should deal cards so badly." "oh, goodness! as if there was nothing better to do than that!" cried lydia, beginning on the other glove. "well, what _have_ you to do that's better?" asked her aunt in some astonishment. "lydia, my dear, your collar is pinned the least bit crooked. here, just let me--" lydia had stopped short, her glove dangling from her wrist. "why, what a horrible thing to say!" she brought this out with a tragic emphasis, immensely disconcerting to her two elders. "horrible!" protested mrs. sandworth. "yes, horrible," insisted the girl. she had turned very pale. "the very way you say it and don't think anything about it, _makes_ it horrible." mrs. sandworth began to doubt her own senses. "why, what did i say?" she appealed to mrs. emery in bewildered interrogation, but before the latter could answer lydia broke out: "if i really believed that, why, i'd--i'd--" she hesitated, obviously between tragic consequences, and then, to the great dismay of her companions, began to cry, still standing in the middle of the floor, her glove dangling from her slim, white wrist. "don't lydia! oh, don't, dear! you'll make yourself look like a fright for the luncheon." mrs. emery ran to her daughter with a solicitude in which there was considerable irritation. "you're perfectly exhausting, taking everything that deadly serious way. don't be so _morbid_! you know your aunt julia didn't mean anything. she never does!" lydia pulled away and threw herself on the bed, still sobbing, and protesting that she could not go to the luncheon; and in the end mrs. emery was obliged to make the profoundest apologies over the telephone to a justly indignant hostess. in the meantime lydia was undressed and put to bed by mrs. sandworth, who dared not open her mouth. the girl still drew long, sobbing breaths, but before her aunt left the room she lay quiet, her eyes closed. the other was struck by the way her pallor brought out the thinness of her lovely face. she hovered helplessly for a moment over the bed. "is there anything i can do for you, dearie?" she asked humbly. lydia shook her head. "just let me be quiet," she murmured. at this, mrs. sandworth retreated to the door, from which she ventured a last "lydia darling, you know i'm sorry if i said anything to hurt--" lydia raised herself on her elbow and looked at her solemnly. "it wasn't what you _said_; it was what it _meant_!" she said tragically. with this cryptic utterance in her ears, mrs. sandworth fled downstairs, to find her sister-in-law turning away from the telephone with a frown. "mrs. hollister was very much provoked about it, and i don't blame her. it's hard to make her understand we couldn't have given her a _little_ warning. and--that's the most provoking part--i didn't dare say lydia is really sick, when, as like as not, she'll be receiving company this evening." "you wouldn't want her sick, just so it would be easier to explain, would you?" asked mrs. sandworth with her eternal disconcerting innocence. mrs. emery relieved her mind by snapping at her sister-in-law with the violence allowed to an intimate of many years' standing, "good gracious, julia! you're as bad as lydia! turning everything people say into something quite different--" mrs. sandworth interrupted hastily, "susan, tell me, for mercy's sake, what did i say? the last thing i remember passing my lips was about her collar's being a little crooked,--and just now she told me, as though it was the crack of doom, that it wasn't what i said, but what it meant, that was so awful. what in the world does she mean?" mrs. emery sank into a seat with a gesture of utter impatience. "mean? mean nothing! didn't you ever know an engaged girl before?" "well, i'm sure when i was engaged i never--" "oh, yes, you did; you _must_ have. they all do. it's nerves." but a moment later she contradicted her own assurance with a sigh of unresignation. "oh, dear! why can't lydia be just bright and wholesome and fun-loving and _natural_ like madeleine hollister!" she added darkly, "i just feel in my bones that this has something to do with that rankin and his morbid ideas." mrs. sandworth was startled. "good gracious! you don't suppose she--" "no; of course i don't! i never thought of such a thing. you ought to see her when she is with paul. she's just _fascinated_ by him! but you know as well as i do that ideas go right on underneath all that!" her tone implied a disapproval of their tenacity of life. "and yet, lydia's really nothing unusual! before they get married and into social life, and settled down and too busy to think, most girls have a queer spell. only most of them take it out on religion. oh, why couldn't she have met that nice young rector--if she had to meet somebody to put ideas into her head--instead of an anarchist." "well, it's certainly all past now," mrs. sandworth reassured her. "yes; hasn't it been a lovely winter! everybody's been so good to lydia. everything's succeeded so! but i suppose dr. melton's right. we ought to call her season over, except for the announcement party--and the wedding, of course--and oh, dear! there are so many things i'd planned to do i can't possibly get in now. it seems strange a child of mine should be so queer and have such notions." however, after the two had talked over the plans for a great evening garden-party in the emery "grounds" and mrs. emery's creative eye had seen the affair in a vista of brilliant pictures, she felt more composed. she went up quietly to lydia's door and looked in. the girl was lying on her back, her wide, dark eyes fixed on the ceiling. something in the expression of her face gave her mother a throb of pain. she yearned over the foolish, unbalanced young thing, and her heart failed her, in that universal mother's fear for her child of the roughnesses of life, through which she herself has passed safely and which have given savor to her existence. in her incapacity to conceive other roughnesses than those she could feel herself, she was, it is probable, much like the rest of humankind. she advanced to the bed, her tenderest mother-look on her face, and cut lydia off from speech with gentle wisdom. "no, no, dear; don't try to talk. you're all tired out and nervous and don't know--" lydia had begun excitedly: "i've been feeling it for a long time, but when aunt julia said right out that i didn't know how to do anything better than--that i was only good to--" her mother laid a firm, gentle hand over the quivering mouth, and said in a soothing murmur, "hush, hush! darling. it wasn't anything your poor foolish aunt julia said. it isn't anything, anyhow, but being up too much and having too much excitement. people get to thinking all kinds of queer things when they're tired. mother knows. mother knows best." she had prepared a glass of bromide, and now, lifting lydia as though she were still the child she felt her to be, she held it to her lips. "here, mother's poor, tired little girl--take this and go to sleep; that's all you need. just trust mother now." lydia took the draught obediently, but she sighed deeply, and fixed her mother with eyes that were unrelentingly serious. when mrs. emery looked in after half an hour, she saw that lydia was still awake, but later she fell asleep, and slept heavily until late in the afternoon. on her appearance at the dinner-table, still languid and heavy-eyed, she was met with gentle, amused triumph. "there, you dear. didn't i tell you what you needed was sleep. there never was a girl who didn't think a sick headache meant there was something wrong with her soul or something." judge emery laughed good-naturedly, as he sliced the roast beef, and said, with admiration for his wife, "it's a good thing my high-strung little girl has such a levelheaded mother to look after her. mother knows all about nerves and things. she's had 'em--all kinds--and come out on top. look at her now." lydia took him at his word, and bestowed on her mother a long look. she said nothing, and after a moment dropped her eyes listlessly again to her plate. it was this occasion which mrs. emery chose to present to the judge her plans for the expensive garden-party, so that in the animated and, at times, slightly embittered discussion that followed, lydia's silence was overlooked. for the next few days she stayed quietly indoors, refusing and canceling engagements. mrs. emery said it was "only decent to do that much after playing mrs. hollister such a trick," and lydia did not seem averse. she sewed a little, fitfully, tried to play on the piano and turned away disheartened at the results of the long neglect--there had been no time in the season for practice--and wandered about the library, taking out first one book then another, reading a little and then sitting with brooding eyes, staring unseeingly at the page. once her mother, finding her thus, inquired with some sharpness what book she was reading to set her off like that. "it's a book by maeterlinck," said lydia, "that godfather gave me ever so long ago, and i've never had time to read it." "do you like it? what's it about?" asked her mother, suspiciously. "i can't understand it," said lydia, "when i'm reading it. but when i look away and think, i can, a little bit. i love it. it makes me feel like crying. it's all about our inner life." "my dear lydia, you put your hat right on and go over to have a little visit with marietta. what you need is a little fresh air and some sensible talk. i've been too busy with my invitation list to visit with you as i ought. marietta'll be real glad to see you. here's your hat. now, you run right along, and stop at hallam's on the way and get yourself an ice-cream soda. it's hot, and that'll do you good." as lydia was disappearing docilely out of the door, her mother stopped before going back to her desk and the list of guests for the garden-party, which had been torturing her with perplexity, to say, "oh, lydia, don't forget to ask marietta to order the perforated candles." "perforated--!" said lydia blankly, pausing at the door. "yes; don't you remember, the last time mrs. hollister called here she told us all about them." "no, i don't remember," said lydia, with no shade of apology in her tone. "why, my dear! you're getting so absent-minded! do you mean to say you didn't take in anything of what she was talking about? it's a new kind, that has holes running through it so the melted wax runs down the inside! why, we were talking about them the whole time she was here that last call." lydia opened the door, observing vaguely, "oh, yes; i do seem to remember something. it was a very dull visit, anyhow." mrs. emery returned to her list, pursing up her lips and wagging her head. "you'll have to learn, dearie, that it's little details like that that make the difference between success and failure." "we have electric light and gas," said lydia. mrs. emery looked up in astonishment and a little vexation. she, too, had nerves these days. "why, lydia, what's the matter with you? you know nobody uses those for table decoration." "_we_ could," said lydia. "why, my dear child, i never knew before there was a contrary streak in you, like your father. what in the world possesses you all of a sudden to object to candles?" "it's not candles--it's the idea of--oh, all the fuss and bother, when everybody's so tired, and the weather's so hot, and it's going to cost too much anyhow." "well, what would you have us fuss and bother about, if not over having everything nice when we entertain?" mrs. emery's air of enforced patience was strained. lydia surveyed her from the hall in silence. "that's just it--that's just it," she said finally, and went away. mrs. emery laid down her pen to laugh to herself over the queer ways of children. "they begin to have notions with their first teeth, and i suppose they don't get over them till _their_ first baby begins to teethe." when lydia arrived at her sister's house, she found that competent housekeeper engaged in mending the lace curtains of her parlor. she had about her a battery of little ingenious devices to which she called lydia's attention with pride. "i've taught myself lace-mending just by main strength and awkwardness," she observed, fitting a hoop over a torn place, "and it's not because i have any natural knack, either. if there's anything i hate to do, it's to sew. but these curtains do go to pieces so. i wash them myself, to be careful, but they are so fine. still," she cast a calculating eye on the work before her, "i'll be through by the end of this week, anyhow--if that new swede will only stay in the kitchen that long!" she bent her head over her work again, holding it up to the light from time to time and straining her eyes to catch the exact thread with her almost impalpably fine needle. lydia sat and fanned herself, looking flushed and tired from the walk in the heat, and listening in silence to mrs. mortimer's account of the various happenings of her household: "and didn't i find that good-for-nothing negro wench had been having that man--and goodness knows how many others--right here in the house. i told ralph i never would have another nigger--but i shall. you can't get anything else half the time. i tell you, lydia, the servant problem is getting to be something perfectly terrible--it's--" lydia broke in to say, "why don't you buy new ones?" mrs. mortimer paused with uplifted needle to inquire wildly, "new _what_?" "new curtains, instead of spending a whole week in hot weather mending those." "good gracious, child! will you ever learn anything about the cost of living! i think it's awful, the way father and mother have let you grow up! why, it would take half a month's salary to reproduce these curtains. i got them at a great bargain--but even then i couldn't afford them. ralph was furious." "you could buy muslin curtains that would be just as pretty," suggested lydia. "why, those curtains are the only things with the least distinction in my whole parlor! they _save_ the room." "from what?" "from showing that there's almost nothing in it that cost anything, to be sure! with them at the window, it would never enter people's heads to think that i upholstered the furniture myself, or that the pictures are--" "why shouldn't they think so, if you did?" lydia proffered this suggestion with an air of fatigued listlessness, which, her sister thought, showed that she made it "simply to be contrary." acting on this theory, she answered it with a dignified silence. there was a pause. lydia tilted her head back against the chair, and looked out of the window at the new green leaves of the piazza vine. mrs. mortimer's thin, white, rather large hands drew the shining little needle back and forth with a steady, hurrying industry. it came into her mind that their respective attitudes were symbolical of their lives, and she thought, glancing at lydia's drooping depression, that it would be better for her if she were obliged to work more. "work," of course, meant to marietta those forms of activity which filled her own life. "_i_ never have any time for notions," she thought, the desperate, hurrying, straining routine of her days rising before her and moving her, as always, to rebellion and yet to a martyr's pride. lydia stirred from her listless pose and came over to her sister, sitting down on a stool at her feet. "marietta, dear, please let me talk to you. i'm so miserable these days--and mother won't let me say a word to her. she says it's spring fever, and being engaged, and the end of the season, and everything. please, _please_ be serious, and let me tell you about it, and see if you can't help me." her tone was so broken and imploring that mrs. mortimer was startled. she was, moreover, flattered that lydia should come to her for advice rather than to her parents. she put her arm around her sister's shoulders, and said gently, "why, yes, dear; of course; anything--" "then stop sewing and listen to me--" "but i can sew and listen, too." "oh, etta, _please_! that's just the kind of thing that gets me so wild. just a little while!" the harassed housekeeper cast an anxious eye on the clock, but loyally stifled the sigh with which she laid her work aside. lydia apologized for interrupting her. "but i do want you to really think of what i am saying. everybody's always so busy thinking about _things_! oh, etta, i'm just as unhappy as i can be--and so scared when i think about--about the future." mrs. mortimer's face softened wonderfully. she stroked lydia's dark hair. "why, poor dear little sister! yes, yes, darling, i know all about it. i felt just so myself the month before i was married, and mother couldn't help me a bit. either she had forgotten all about it, or else she never had the feeling. i just had to struggle along through without anybody to help me or to say a word. oh, i'm so glad i can help my little sister. _don't_ be afraid, dear! there's nothing so terrible about it; nothing to be scared of. why, once you get used to it you find it doesn't make a bit of difference to you. everything's just the same as before." lydia lifted a wrinkled brow of perplexity to this soothing view of matrimony. "i don't know what you're talking about, etta!" she cried in a bewilderment that seemed to strike her as tragic. "why--why, being married! wasn't that what you meant?" "oh, no! _no!_ nothing so definite as that! i couldn't be afraid of paul--why should i be? i'm just frightened of--everything--what everybody expects me to do, and to go on doing all my life, and never have any time but to just hurry faster and faster, so there'll be more things to hurry about, and never talk about anything but _things_!" she began to tremble and look white, and stopped with a desperate effort to control herself, though she burst out at the sight of mrs. mortimer's face of despairing bewilderment, "oh, don't tell me you don't see at all what i mean. i can't say it! but you _must_ understand! can't we somehow all stop--_now_! and start over again! you get muslin curtains and not mend your lace ones, and mother stop fussing about whom to invite to that party--that's going to cost more than he can afford, father says--it makes me _sick_ to be costing him so much. and not fuss about having clothes just so--and paul have our house built little and plain, so it won't be so much work to take care of it and keep it clean. i would so much rather look after it myself than to have him kill himself making money so i can hire maids that you _can't_--you say yourself you can't--and never having any time to see him. perhaps if we did, other people might, and we'd all have more time to like things that make us nicer to like--" at this perturbing jumble of suggestions, mrs. mortimer's head whirled. she took hold of the arms of her chair as if to steady herself, but, conscientiously afraid of discouraging the girl's confidence, she nodded gravely at her, as if she were considering the matter. lydia sprang up, her eyes shining. "oh, you dear! you _do_ see what i mean! you see how dreadful it is to look forward to just that--being so desperately troubled over things that don't really matter--and--and perhaps having children, and bringing them up to the same thing--when there must be so many things that do matter!" to each of these impassioned statements her sister had returned an automatic nod. "i see what you mean," she now put in, a statement which was the outward expression of a thought running, "mercy! dr. melton's right! she's perfectly wild with nerves! we must get her married as soon as ever we can!" lydia went over to the window, and stood looking out as she talked, now with an excited haste, now with a dragging note of fatigue in her voice. her need of sympathy was so great that she did a violence to the reticence she had always kept, even with herself. she wondered aloud if it were not perhaps daniel rankin and his queer ideas that lay at the bottom of her trouble. she added, whirling about from the window, "for mercy's sake! don't go and think i am in love with him, or anything! i haven't so much as thought of him all winter! i see, now that mother's pointed it out to me, how domineering he really was to me last autumn. i'm just crazy about paul, too! when i'm with him he takes my breath away! but maybe--maybe i can't forget mr. rankin's _ideas_! you know he talked to me so much when i was first back--and if somebody would just argue me out of them, the way he did into them! i don't believe i'd ever have thought it queer to live the way we do, just to have more things and get ahead of other people--if he hadn't put the idea into my head. but nobody else will even _talk_ about it! they laugh when i try to." she came over closer to the matron, and said imploringly, her voice trembling, "i don't _want_ to be queer, marietta! what makes me? i don't like to have queer ideas, different from other people's--but every once in a while it all comes over me with a rush--what's the _good_ of all we do?" poor lydia propounded this question as though it were the first time in the world's history that it had passed the lips of humanity. her curious, puzzled distress rose up in a choking flood to her throat, and she stopped, looking desperately at her sister. mrs. mortimer nodded again, calmly, drew a long breath, and seemed about to speak. lydia gazed at her, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with unshed tears--all one eager expectancy. the older woman's eyes wandered suddenly for an instant. she darted forward, clapped her hands together once, and then in rapid succession three or four times. then rolling triumphantly something between her thumb and forefinger, she turned to lydia. the little operation had not taken the third of a moment, but the change in the girl's face was so great that mrs. mortimer was moved to hasty, half-shamefaced, half-defiant apology. "i _was_ listening to you, lydia! i _was_ listening! but it's just the time of year when they lay their eggs, and i have to fight them. last year my best furs and ralph's dress suit were perfectly _riddled_! you know we can't afford new." lydia rose in silence and began pinning on her hat. her sister, for all her vexation over the ending of the interview, could hardly repress a smile of superior wisdom at the other's face of tragedy. "don't go, lyddie, don't go!" she tried to put her arms around the flighty young thing. "oh, dear lydia, cultivate your sense of humor! that's all that's the matter with you. there's nothing else! look here, dear, there _are_ moths as well as souls in the world. people have to be on the lookout for them,--for everything, don't you see?" "they look out for _moths_, all right," said lydia in a low tone. she submitted, except for this one speech, in a passive silence to her sister's combination of petting and exhortation, moving quietly toward the door, and stepping evenly forward down the walk. she had gone down to the street, leaving mrs. mortimer still calling remorseful apologies, practical suggestions, and laughing comments on her "tragedy way of taking the world." at the gate, she paused, and then came back, her face like a mask under the shadow of her hat. marietta stood waiting for her with a quizzical expression. under her appearance of lightly estimating lydia's depression as superficial, she had been sensible of a not unfamiliar qualm of doubt as to her own manner of life, an uneasy heaving of a subconscious self not always possible to ignore; but, as was her resolute custom, she forced to the front that perception of the ridiculous which she had urged on her sister. she bit her lips, to conceal a smile at lydia's mournful emphasis as she went on: "i forgot to tell you, marietta, what i was sent over for. you're to be sure to order the perforated candles. it's the kind that has holes down the middle, so the wax doesn't look mussy on the outside, and it's very, very important to have the right kind of candles." mrs. mortimer, willfully amused, looked with an obstinate smile into her sister's troubled eyes as lydia hesitated, waiting, in spite of herself, for the understanding word. "you're a darling, lyddie," said the elder woman, kissing her again; "but you are certainly _too_ absurd!" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - book iii a suitable marriage chapter xviii two sides to the question lydia's unmarried life had given her but few abstract ideas for the regulation of conduct, and fewer still ideals of self-discipline, but chief among the small assortment that she took away from her mother's house had been the high morality of keeping one's husband unworried by one's domestic difficulties. "domestic difficulties" meant, apparently, anything disagreeable that happened to one. not only her mother, but all the matrons of her acquaintance had concentrated on the extreme desirability of this wifely virtue. "it pays! it pays!" mrs. emery had often thus chanted the praises of this quality in her daughter's presence. "i've noticed ever so many times that men who have to worry about domestic machinery and their children don't get on so well. their minds are distracted. their thoughts _can't_ be, in the nature of things, all on their business." she was wont to go on, to whatever mother she was addressing, "we know, my dear mrs. blank, don't we, how perfectly distracting the problems are in bringing up children--to say nothing of servants. how much energy would men have for their own affairs if they had to struggle as we do, i'd like to know! besides, if one person's got to be bothered with such things, she might as well do it all and be done with it. it's easier, besides, to have only one head. men that interfere about things in the house are an abomination. you can't keep from quarreling with them--angels couldn't." she had once voiced this universally recognized maxim before dr. melton, who had cut in briskly with a warm seconding of her theory. "yes, indeed; in the course of my practice i have often thought, as you do, that it would be easier all around if husbands didn't board with their wives at all." mrs. emery had stared almost as blankly as mrs. sandworth herself might have done. "i never said such a crazy thing," she protested. "didn't you? perhaps i don't catch your idea then. it seemed to be that every point of contact was sure to be an occasion for friction between husband and wife, and so, of course, the fewer they were--" "oh, bother take you, marius melton!" mrs. emery had quite lost patience with him. "i was just saying something that's so old, and has been said so often, that it's a bromide, actually. and that is that it's a poor wife who greets her tired husband in the evening with a long string of tales about how the children have been naughty and the cook--" "oh, yes, yes; now i see. of course. the happiest ideal of american life, a peaceful exterior presented to the husband at all costs, and the real state of things kept from him because it might interfere with his capacity to pull off a big deal the next day." mrs. emery had boggled suspiciously at this version of her statement, but finding, on the whole, that it represented fairly enough her idea, had given a qualified assent in the shape of silence and a turning of the subject. lydia had not happened to hear that conversation, but she heard innumerable ones like it without dr. melton's footnotes. on her wedding day, therefore, she conceived it an essential feature of her duty toward paul to keep entirely to herself all of the dismaying difficulties of housekeeping and keeping up a social position in america. she knew, as a matter of course, that they would be dismaying. the talk of all her married friends was full of the tragedies of domestic life. it had occurred to her once or twice that it was an odd, almost a pathetic, convention that they tried to maintain about their social existence--a picture of their lives as running smoothly with self-adjusting machinery of long-established servants and old social traditions; when their every word tragically proclaimed the exhausting and never-ending personal effort that was required to give even the most temporary appearance of that kind. "we all know what a fearful time everybody has trying to give course dinners--why need we pretend we don't?" she had thought on several painful occasions; but this, like many of her fancies, was a fleeting one. there had been as little time since her wedding day as before it for leisurely speculation. the business of being _the_ bride of a season had been quite as exciting and absorbing as being _the_ débutante. the first of february, six months after her marriage, found her as thin and restlessly active as she had been on that date a year before. it was at that time that she had the first intimation of a great change in her life, and since the one or two obscure and futile revolts of her girlhood, nothing had moved her to more rebellious unresignation than the fact that her life left her no time to take in the significance of what was coming to her. "oh, my dear! isn't it too good!" said her mother, clasping her for a moment as they stood, after removing their wraps, in the dressing-room of a common acquaintance. "aren't you the lucky, lucky thing!" "i don't know. i don't know a thing about it," lydia returned unexpectedly, though her face had turned a deep rose, and she had smiled tremulously. "ever since dr. melton told me it was probably so, i've been trying to get a moment's time to think it over, but you--" "it's something to _feel_, not to think about!" cried her mother. "you don't need time to feel." "but i'd like to think about everything!" cried lydia, as they moved down the stairs. "i get things wrong just feeling about them. but i'm not quick to think, and i never have any time--they're always so many other things to do and to think about--the dinner, getting paul off in time in the morning, how badly the washwoman does up the table linen--" "oh, lydia! why will you be so contrary? everybody says _laundress_ now!" "--and however paul and i can pay back all the social debts we've incurred this winter. everybody's invited us. it makes me wild to think of how we owe everybody." "oh, you can give two or three big receptions this spring and clear millions off the list. and then a dinner party or two for the more exclusives. you won't need to be out of things till june--with the fashion for loose-fitting evening gowns; you're so slender. and you'll be out again long before christmas. it's very fortunate having it come at this time of year." lydia looked rather dazed at this brisk and matter-of-fact disposing of the matter, and seemed about to make a comment, but the bell rang for card-playing to begin and mrs. emery hurried to her table. lydia had meant to ask her mother's sympathy about another matter that for the time was occupying her own thoughts, but there was no other opportunity for further speech between them during the card party--mrs. emery devoting herself with her usual competent energy to playing a good game. she played much better bridge than did either of her daughters. she liked cards, liked to excel and always found easy to accomplish what seemed to her worth doing. marietta also felt that to avoid being "queer" and "different" one had to play a good hand, but, as she herself confessed, it made her "sick" to give up to it the necessary time and thought. as for lydia, she got rid of her cards as fast as possible, as if with the deluded hope that when they were all played, she might find time for something else. on the afternoon in question her game was more unscientific than usual. criticism was deterred from articulate expression by the common feeling in regard to her, assiduously fostered by flora burgess' continuous references to her in _society notes_ as the coming social ruler of endbury's smart set. there was as yet, to be sure, no visible indication whatever of such a capacity on lydia's part, but the printed word--particularly miss burgess' printed word--was not to be doubted. madeleine hollister, however (now soon to be madeleine lowdor), was no respecter of personages, past or future. at the appearance of an especially unexpected and disappointing card from her sister-in-law's hand, she pounced upon her with: "lydia, what _are_ you thinking about?" "my washwoman's grandson," burst out lydia, laying down her cards with a careless negligence, so that everyone could see the contents of her hand. "oh, madeleine! i'm so worried about her, and i wish you'd--" she got no further. madeleine's shriek of good-natured laughter cut her short like a blow in the face. the other ladies were laughing, too. "oh, lydia! you are the most original, unexpected piece in the world!" cried her sister-in-law. "you'll be the death of me!" she appealed to the other players at their table: "did you ever hear anything come out funnier?" to the players at the next tables, who were looking with vague, reflected smiles at this burst of merriment, she called: "oh, it's too killing! lydia hollister just played a trump on a trick her partner had already taken, and when i asked what in the world she was thinking about--meaning, of course--" lydia sat silent, looking at her useless cards during the rest of the narration of her comic speech. she was reflecting rather sadly that she had been very foolish to think, even in a thoughtless impulse, of telling madeleine the story she had so impetuously begun. after a time it came to her, as a commentary of the little incident, that neither could she get anything from marietta in the matter. at the end of the party, she and her mother walked together to the street-cars, but she still said nothing of what was in her mind. she would not admit to herself that her mother would receive it as she felt sure marietta and madeleine would, but--she dared not risk putting her to the test. it was a period in lydia's life when she was constantly in fear of tests applied to the people she loved and longed to admire. during the half-hour's noisy journey out to bellevue--the unhackneyed name that had been selected for the new and fashionable suburb she inhabited--she had eliminated from this crisis in her mind, one by one, all the people in her circle. dr. melton was out of town. otherwise she would have gone to him at once. mrs. sandworth without her brother was a cipher with no figure before it. her father?--she realized suddenly that it was the first time she had ever thought of going to her father with a perplexity. no; she knew too little about his view of things. she had never talked with him of anything but the happenings of the day. flora burgess--devoted flora? lydia smiled ruefully as she thought of the attitude flora burgess would be sure to take. it finally came to the point where there was no one left but paul; and paul ought not to be worried with domestic questions lest his capacity for business be impaired. she had a deep inculcated sense of the necessity and duty of "doing her share," as the phrase had gone in the various exhortations addressed to her before her marriage. the next few years would be critical ones in paul's career, and the road must be straight and clear before his feet--the road that led to success. no one had voiced a doubt that this road was not coincident with all other desirable ones; no one had suggested that the same years would be critical in other directions and would be certain to be terribly and irrevocably determinative of his future relation to his wife. lydia, ardently and naïvely anxious to find something "worth doing," therefore had settled on this one definite duty. she had wrestled in a determined silence with the many incompetent and degenerate negresses, with the few impertinent americans, with the drunken irish and insolent swedes, who had filed in and out of her kitchen ever since her marriage. suburban life was a new thing in endbury, and "help" could see no advantages in it. she had strained every nerve to make them appear to paul, as well as to the rest of the world, the opposite of what they were; and to do herself, furtively, when paul was not there, those of their tasks they refused or neglected. every effort was concentrated, as in her mother's and sister's households, on keeping a maid presentable to open the door and to wait on the table, rather than to perform the heavier parts of the daily round. those lydia could do herself, or she could hire an unpresentable older scrubwoman to do them. she often thought that if she could but employ scrubwomen all the time, the problem would be half solved. but the achievement of each day was, according to endbury standards, to keep or get somebody into the kitchen who could serve a course dinner, even if the mistress of the house was obliged to prepare it. she had never dreamed of feeling herself aggrieved, or even surprised, by this curious reverse side to her outward brilliant life. all her married friends went through the same experience. madeleine, it is true, announced that she was going to make lowdor import two japanese servants a year, and dismiss them when they began to get american ideas; but madeleine was quite openly marrying lowdor for the sake of this and similar advantages. lydia felt that her own problems were only the usual lot of her kind, and though she was nearly always sick at heart over them, she did not feel justified in complaining--least of all to paul. but this present trouble--this was not just a question of help. for the last month they had been floating in the most unexpected lull of the domestic whirlwind. the intelligence office had sent out ellen--ellen, the deft-handed cook, the silent, self-effacing, competent servant of every housekeeper's dreams. her good luck seemed incredible. ellen was perfection, was middle-aged and settled, never went out in the evenings, kept her kitchen spotlessly clean, trained the rattle-headed second girls who came and went, to be good waitresses and made pastry that moved paul, usually little preoccupied about his food provided there was plenty of meat, to lyric raptures. the difference she made in lydia's life was inconceivable. it was as though some burdensome law of nature had been miraculously suspended for her benefit. she gauged her past discomfort by her present comfort. and yet-- from the first lydia had had an uneasy feeling in the presence of her new servant, a haunting impression when her back was turned to ellen that if she could turn quickly enough, she would see her cook with some sinister aspect quite other than the decent, respectful mask she presented to her mistress. the second girl of the present was a fresh-faced, lively young country lass, whom ellen herself had secured, and whose rosy child's face had been at first innocence itself; but now sometimes lydia overheard them laughing together, a laughter which gave her the oddest inward revulsion, and when she came into the kitchen quickly she often found them looking at books which were quickly whisked out of sight. and then, a day or so before, old mrs. o'hern, her washwoman, had come directly to her with that revolting revelation of ellen's influence on her grandson, little patsy. at the recollection of the old woman's face of embittered anguish, lydia shuddered. oh, if she could only tell paul! he was so loving and caressing to her--perhaps he would not mind being bothered this once--she did not know what to think of such things--she did not know what to do, which way to turn. she was startled beyond measure at having real moral responsibility put on her. perhaps paul could think of something to do. he was waiting for her when she entered the house, having come in from an out-of-town trip on an earlier train than he had expected to catch. he dropped his newspaper and sprang up from his chair to put his arms about her and gloat over her beauty. "you're getting prettier every day of your life, lydia," he told her, ruffling her soft hair, and kissing her very energetically a great many times. "but pale! i must get some color into your cheeks, melton says--how's this for a way?" he seemed to lydia very boyish and gay and vital. she caught at him eagerly--he had been away from home three days--and clung to him. "oh, paul! how much good it does me to have you here, close! you are _so_ much nicer than a room of women playing the same game of cards they began last september!" paul shouted with laughter--his pleasant, hearty mirth. "i'm appreciated at my full worth," he cried. "oh, how i loathe cards!" cried lydia, taking off her hat. "it's better than the talk you'd get from most of the people there, i bet," conjectured paul, taking up his newspaper again. "cards are a blessing _that_ way, compared with conversation." "oh, dear, i suppose so!" lydia stopped a moment in the doorway. "but doesn't it seem a pity that you never see anybody but people who'd bore you to death if you didn't stop their mouth with cards?" "that's the way of the world," remarked paul comfortably, returning to the news of the day. the little friendly chat gave lydia courage for her plan of asking her husband's advice about her perplexity, but, mindful of traditional wisdom, she decided, as she thriftily changed her silk "party dress" for a house-gown of soft wool, that she would wait until the mollifying influence of dinner had time to assert itself. she wondered fearfully, with a quick throb of her heart, how he would receive her confidence. when she called him to the table she looked searchingly into his strong, resolute, good-natured face, and then, dropping her eyes, with an indrawn breath, began her usual fruitless endeavors to learn from him a little of what had occupied his day--his long, mysterious day, spent in a world of which he brought back but the scantiest tidings to her. as usual, to-night he shook his shoulders impatiently at her questioning. "oh, lydia darling, don't talk shop! i'm sick and tired of it after three days of nothing else. i want to leave all that behind me when i come home. that's what a home is for!" lydia did not openly dissent from this axiom, though she murmured helplessly: "i feel so awfully shut out. it is what you think about most of the time, and i do not know enough about it even to imagine--" paul leaned across the table to lay an affectionate hand on his wife's slim fingers. "count your mercies, my dear. it's all grab, and snap, and cutting somebody's throat before he has a chance to cut yours. it wouldn't please you if you did know anything about it--the business world." he drew a long breath, and went on appreciatively with his cutlet--lydia had learned something about meats since the year before--"you are a very good provider, little girl; do you know it?" "oh, i love to," said lydia. she added reflectively: "wouldn't it be nice if things were so i could do the cooking myself and not have to bother with these horrible creatures that are all you can get usually?" paul laughed at the fancy. "that's a high ambition for my wife, i must say!" "we'd have better things to eat even than ellen gives us," said lydia pensively. "if i had a little more time to put on it, i could do wonders, i'm sure of it." "i don't doubt that," said her husband gallantly; "but did you ever know anybody who _was_ her own cook?" "well, not except in between times, when they couldn't get anybody else," confessed lydia. "but lots of people i know who do go through the motions of keeping one would be better off without one. they can't afford it, and--oh, i wish we were poorer!" paul was highly amused by this flight of fancy. "but we're as poor as poverty already," he reminded her. "we're poor for buying hundred-dollar broadcloth tailor-made suits for me, and cut glass for the table, but we'd have plenty if i could wear ready-made serge at--" paul laughed outright. "haven't you ever noticed, my dear, that the people who wear ready-made serge are the ones who could really comfortably afford to wear calico wrappers? it goes right up and down the scale that way. everybody is trying to sing a note above what he can." "i know it does--but does it _have_ to? wouldn't it be better if everybody just--why doesn't somebody begin--" "it's the law of progress, of upward growth," pronounced paul. lydia was impressed by the pontifical sound of this, though she ventured faintly: "well, but does progress always mean broadcloth and cut glass?" "_we_ have the wherewithal to cultivate our minds!" said paul, laughing again. "weren't the complete works of the american essayists among our wedding presents!" he referred to an old joke between them, at which lydia laughed loyally, and the talk went on lightly until the meal was over. as they walked away from the table together lydia said to herself, "now--now--" but paul began to laugh as he told an incident of madeleine's light-hearted, high-handed tyranny over her elderly fiancé, and it seemed impossible for lydia to bring out her story of mean and ugly tragedy. as usual the evening was a lively one. some acquaintances from the "younger married set" of bellevue dropped in for a game of cards, madeleine and "old pete" lowdor came out to talk over the plans for their new handsome house at the end of the street and at paul's suggestion lydia hastily got together a chafing-dish supper for the impromptu party which prolonged itself with much laughter and many friendly wranglings over trumps and "post-mortems" until after midnight. paul was in the highest of gay spirits as he stood with his pretty wife on the porch, calling good-nights to his guests disappearing down the starlit driveway. he inhaled the odor of success sweet and strong in his nostrils. as they looked back into the house, they saw the faithful ellen clearing away the soiled dishes, her large, white, disease-scarred face impassive over her immaculate and correct maid's dress. "isn't she a treasure!" cried the master of the house. "to sit up to this hour!" he started, "what's that?" from the shadow of the house a slim lad's figure shambled out into the driveway. as he passed the porch where paul stood, one strong arm protectingly about lydia, he looked up and the light from the open door struck full on a white, purposeless, vacant smile. the upward glance lost for him the uncertain balance of his wavering feet. he reeled, flung up his arms and pitched with drunken soddenness full length upon the gravel, picking himself up clumsily with a sound of incoherent, weak lament. "why, it's a drunken man--in _our driveway_!" cried paul, with proprietary indignation. "get out of here!" he yelled angrily at the intruder's retreating back. when he turned again to lydia he saw that one of her lightning-swift changes of mood had swept over her. he was startled at her pale face and burning, horrified eyes, and remembering her condition with apprehension, picked her up bodily and carried her up the stairs to their bedroom, soothing her with reassuring caresses. there, sitting on the edge of their bed, her loosened hair falling about her white face, holding fast to her husband's hands, lydia told him at last; hesitating and stumbling because in her blank ignorance she knew no words even to hint at what she feared--she told him who patsy was, the blue-eyed, fifteen-year-old boy, just over from ireland, ignorant of the world as a child of five, easily led, easily shamed, by his fear of appearing rustic, into any excess--and then she told him what the boy's grandmother had told her about ellen. it was a milestone in their married life, her turning to him more intimately than she would have done to her mother, her breaking down the walls of her lifelong maiden's reserve and ignorance. she finished with her face hidden in his breast. what should she do? what _could_ she do? paul took her into the closest embrace, kissed her shut eyes in a passion of regret that she should have learned the evil in the world, of relieved belittling of the story, lydia's portentous beginning of which had quite startled him, and of indignation at "mrs. o'hern's foul mouth--for you can just be sure, darling lydia, that it's all nothing but rowings among the servants. probably ellen won't let mrs. o'hern take her usual weekly perquisite of sugar and tea. servants are always quarreling and the only way to do is to keep out of their lies about each other and let them fight it out themselves. you never can have any idea of who's telling the truth if you butt in and try to straighten it, and the lord knows that ellen's too good a cook and too much needed in this family until the new member arrives safely, to hurt her feelings with investigating any of mrs. o'hern's yarns. just you refuse to listen to servants' gossip. if you'd been a little less of a darling, inexperienced school-girl, you'd have cut off such talk at the first words. just you take my word for it, you dear, you sweetheart, you best of--" he ran on into ardent endearments, forgetting the story himself, blinding and dazzling lydia with the excitement which always swept her away in those moments when paul was her passionate, youthful lover. she tried to revert to the question once or twice later, but now paul alternated between shaming her laughingly for her gullibility and making fun of her "countrified" interest in the affairs of her servants. "but, paul, mrs. o'hern says that patsy doesn't _want_ to drink and--and go to those awful houses--his father died of it--only ellen makes him, by--" paul tried to close the discussion with a little impatience at her attempt to press the matter. "every irish boy drinks more or less, you little goose. that's nothing! of course it's too bad to have you _see_ a drunken man, but it's nothing so tragic. if he didn't drink here, he would somewhere else. the only thing we have to complain about that i can see, is having the cook's followers drunk--but ellen's such a miracle of competence we must overlook that. as for the rest of mrs. o'hern's dirty stories, they're spite work evidently." as lydia looked up at him, her face still anxious and drawn, he ended finally, "good gracious, lydia, don't you suppose i know--that my experience of the world has taught me more about human nature than you know? you act to me as though you trusted your washwoman's view of things more than your husband's. and now what you want to do, anyhow, is to get some rest. you hop into bed, little rabbit, and go to sleep. don't wait for me; i've got a lot of figuring to do." when he went to bed, a couple of hours later, lydia was lying quietly with closed eyes, and he did not disturb her; but afterward he woke out of a sound sleep and sat up with a sense that something was wrong. he listened. there was not a sound in the room or in the house. apparently lydia was not wakened by his startled movement. she lay in a profound immobility. but something about her very motionlessness struck a chill to his heart. women in her condition sometimes had seizures in the night, he had heard. with a shaking hand, he struck a match and leaned over her. he gave a loud, shocked exclamation to see that her eyes were open, steady and fixed, like wide, dark pools. he threw the match away, and took her in his arms with a fond murmur of endearments. "why, poor little girl! do you lie awake and worry about what's to come?" lydia drew a painful breath. "yes," she said; "i worry a great deal about what's to come." he kissed her gently, ardently, gently again. "you mustn't do that, darling! you're all right! melton said there wasn't one chance in a thousand of anything but just the most temporary illness, without any complications. it won't be so bad--it'll be soon over, and think what it means to us--dearest--dearest--dearest!" lydia lay quiet in his arms. she had been still so long that he thought her asleep, when she said, in a whisper: "i hope it won't be a girl!" chapter xix lydia's new motto lydia's two or three big receptions, of which her mother had spoken with so casual a confidence, came off, while not exactly with nonchalant ease, still, on the whole, creditably. it is true that dr. melton had stormed at lydia one sunny day in spring, finding her bent over her desk, addressing invitations. "it's april, child!" he cried, "april! the crocuses are out and the violets are almost here--and, what is more important, your day of trial gets closer with every tick of the clock. come outdoors and take a walk with me." "oh, i can't!" lydia was aghast at the idea, looking at a mountain of envelopes before her. "here! i'll help you finish those, and then we'll--" "no, no, _no_!" in lydia's negation was a touch of the irritation that was often during these days in her attitude toward her godfather. "i can't! please don't tease me to! the curtains to the spare room have to be put up, and the bed draperies somehow fixed. a stray dog got in there when he was wet and muddy and went to sleep on my best lace bedspread." dr. melton had not practiced for years among endbury ladies without having some knowledge of them and a corresponding readiness of mind in meeting the difficulties they declared insurmountable. "i'll buy you a white marseilles bedspread on our way back from the walk," he offered gravely. "oh, i've got plenty of plain white ones," she admitted incautiously, "but they don't go with the scheme of the room--and the first reception's only two days off." dr. melton fixed her with an ironical and melancholy smile: "now, lydia, i did think you had it in you to realize that your health and the strength of your child are worth more than--" lydia sprang up and confronted him with an apparent anger of face and accent that was contradicted by her trembling chin and suffused eyes. "oh, go away!" she commanded him, shaking her head and motioning him off. "don't talk so to me! i can't help it--what i do! everything's a part of the whole system, and i'm in that up to my neck--you know i am. if that's right, why, everything's all right, just the way everybody thinks it is. and if it's wrong--" she caught her breath, and turned back to her desk. "if it's wrong, what good would be done by little dribbling compromises of an occasional walk." she sat down wearily, and leaned her head on her hand. "i just wish you wouldn't keep me so stirred up--when i'm trying so _hard_ to settle down!" dr. melton seemed to divine perfectly the significance of this incoherent outbreak. he thrust out his lips in his old grimace that denoted emotion, and observed the speaker in a frowning silence. when she finished, he nodded: "you are right, lydia, i do no good." he twirled his hat about between his fingers, looking absently into the crown, and added, "but you must forgive me, i love you very dearly." lydia ran over to him, conscience-stricken. he took her embrace and remorseful kiss quietly. "don't be sorry, lydia dear. you have just shown me, as in a flash of lightning, how much more powerful a grasp on reality you have than i." lydia recoiled from him with an outcry of exasperation. "i! why, i'm almost an idiot! i haven't a grasp on anything! i can't see an inch before my nose. i'm in a perfect nightmare of perplexity all the time because i can't make out what i'm driving at--or ought to--" she went on more quietly, with a reasoning air: "only look here, godfather, it came over me the other night, when i couldn't sleep, that perhaps what's the trouble with me is that i'm _lazy_! i believe that's it! i don't want to work the way marietta does, and mother does, and even madeleine does over her dresses and parties and things. it must be i'm a shirk, and expect to have an easier time than most people. that _must_ be it. what else can it be?" the doctor made no protest against this theory, taking himself off in a silence most unusual with him. lydia did not notice this; nor did she in the next two or three months remark that her godfather took quite literally and obeyed scrupulously her exhortation to leave her in peace. she was in the grasp of this new idea. it seemed to her that in phrasing it she had hit upon the explanation of her situation which she had been so long seeking, and it was with a resolve to scourge this weakness out of her life that she now faced the future. she found a satisfaction in the sweeping manner in which this new maxim could be applied to all the hesitations that had confused her. all her meditations heretofore had brought her nothing but uncertainty, but this new catchword of incessant activity drove her forward too resistlessly to allow any reflections as to whether she were going in the right direction. she yielded herself absolutely to that ideal of conduct which had been urged upon her all her life, and she found, as so many others find, oblivion to the problems of the spirit in this resolute refusal to recognize the spirit. it was perhaps during these next months of her life that she most nearly approximated the endbury notion of what she should be. she had yielded to paul on the subject of the cook not only because of her timid distrust of her own inexperienced judgment but because of her intense reaction from the usual endbury motto of "husbands, hands off!" she had wanted paul to be interested in the details of the house as she hoped to know and be interested in what concerned him, and when he showed his interest in a request she could not refuse it. she hoped that she had made a good beginning for the habit of taking counsel with each other on all matters. but she thought and hoped and reflected very little during these days. she was enormously, incredibly busy, and on the whole, she hoped, successfully so. the receptions, at least, went off very well, everybody said. dr. melton did not see his goddaughter again until he came with mrs. sandworth to the last of these events. she was looking singularly handsome at that time, her color high, her eyes very large and dark, almost black, so dilated were the pupils. with the nicety of observation of a man who has lived much among women, the doctor noticed that her costume, while effective, was not adjusted with the exquisite feeling for finish that always pervaded the toilets of her mother and sister. lydia was trying with all her might to make herself over, but with the best will in the world she could not attain the prayerful concentration on the process of attiring herself, characteristic of the other women of her family. "she forgot to put the barrette in her back hair," murmured mrs. sandworth mournfully, as she and her brother emerged from the hand-shake of the last of the ladies assisting in receiving, "and there are two hooks of her cuff unfastened, and her collar's crooked. but i don't dare breathe a word to her about it. since that time before her marriage when she--" "yes, yes, yes," her brother cut her short; "don't bring up that tragic episode again. i'd succeeded in forgetting it." "you can call it tragic if you like," commented mrs. sandworth, looking about for an escape from the stranded isolation of guests who have just been passed along from the receiving line; "but what it was all about was more than i ever could--" her eyes fell again on lydia, and she lost herself in a sweet passion of admiration and pride. "oh, isn't she the loveliest thing that ever drew the breath of life! was there ever anybody else that could look so as though--as though they still had dew on them!" she went on, with her bold inconsequence: "there is a queer streak in her. sometimes i think she doesn't care--" she stopped to gaze at a striking costume just entering the room. "what doesn't she care about?" asked the doctor. mrs. sandworth was concentrating on sartorial details as much of her mind as was ever under control at one time, and, called upon for a development of her theory, was even more vague than usual. "oh, i don't know--about what everybody cares about." "she's likely to learn, if it's at all catching," conjectured the doctor grimly, looking around the large, handsome room. an impalpable effluvium was in the air, composed of the scent of flowers, the odor of delicate food, the sounds of a discreetly small orchestra behind palms in the hallway, the rustling of silks, and the pleasurable excitement of the crowd of prosperous-looking women, pleasantly elated by the opportunity for exhibiting their best toilets. "to think of its being our little lydia who's the center of all this!" murmured mrs. sandworth, her loving eyes glistening with affectionate pride. "it really is a splendid scene, isn't it, marius?" "if they were all gagged, it might be. lord! how they yell!" "oh, at a _reception_!" mrs. sandworth's accent denoted that the word was an explanation. "people have to, to make themselves heard." "and why should they be so eager to accomplish that?" inquired the doctor. "listen!" standing as they were, tightly pressed in between a number of different groups, their ears were assaulted by a disjointed mass of stentorian conversation that gave a singular illusion as if it all came from one inconceivably voluble source, the individuality of the voices being lost in the screaming enunciation which, as mrs. sandworth had pointed out, was a prerequisite of self-expression under the circumstances. they heard: "--_for over a month and the sleeves were too see you again at mrs. elliott's i'm pouring there from four i've got to dismiss one with little plum-colored bows all along five dollars a week and the washing out, and still impossible! i was there myself all the time and they neither of thirty-five cents a pound for the most ordinary ferns and red carnations was all they had, and we thought it rather skimpy under the brought up in one big braid and caught down with at the peterson's they were pink and white with_--" "_oh, no, madeleine! that was at the burlingame's_." mrs. sandworth took a running jump into the din and sank from her brother's sight, vociferating: "_the petersons had them of old-gold, don't you remember, with little_--" the doctor, worming his way desperately through the masses of femininity, and resisting all attempts to engage him in the vocal fray, emerged at length into the darkened hall where the air was, as he told himself in a frenzied flight of the imagination, less like a combination of a menagerie and a perfume shop. here, in a quiet corner, sat lydia's father, alone. he held in one hand a large platter piled high with wafer-like sandwiches, which he was consuming at a gargantuan rate, and as he ate he smiled to himself. "well, mr. ogre," said the doctor, sitting down beside him with a gasp of relief; "let a wave-worn mariner into your den, will you?" provided with an auditor, judge emery's smile broke into an open laugh. he waved the platter toward the uproar in the next rooms: "a boiler factory ain't in it with woman, lovely woman, is it?" he put it to his old friend. "gracious powers! there's nothing to laugh at in that exhibition!" the doctor reproved him, with an acrimonious savagery. "i don't know which makes me sicker; to stay in there and listen to them, or come out here and find you thinking they're _funny_!" "they _are_ funny!" insisted the judge tranquilly. "i stood by the door and listened to the scraps of talk i could catch, till i thought i should have a fit. i never heard anything funnier on the stage." "look-y here, nat," the doctor stared up at him angrily, "they're not monkeys in a zoo, to be looked at only on holidays and then laughed at! they're the other half of a whole that we're half of, and don't you forget it! why in the world should you think it funny for them to do this tomfool trick all winter and have nervous prostration all summer to pay for it? you'd lock up a _man_ as a dangerous lunatic if he spent his life so. what they're like, and what they do with their time and strength concerns us enough sight more than what the tariff is, let me tell you!" "i admit that what your wife is like concerns you a whole lot!" the judge laughed good-naturedly in the face of the little old bachelor. "don't commence jumping on the american woman now! i won't stand it! she's the noblest of her sex!" "do you know why i am bald?" said dr. melton, rubbing his hand over his shining dome. "if i did, i wouldn't admit it," the judge put up a cautious guard, "because i foresee that whatever i say will be used as evidence against me." "i've torn out all my hair in desperation at hearing such men as you claim to admire and respect and wish to advance the american woman. you don't give enough thought to her--real thought--from one year's end to another to know whether you think she has an immortal soul or not!" "oh, you can't get anywhere, trying to reason about those sort of things. you have to take souls for granted. besides, i give her as fair a deal in that respect as i give myself," protested lydia's father reasonably, smiling and eating. "there's something in _that_, now!" cried his interlocutor, with an odd celtic lilt which sometimes invaded his speech; "but she _has_ an immortal soul, and i'm by no means sure that yours is still inside you." the judge stood up, brushed the crumbs of his stolen feast from his well-fitting broadcloth, and smiled down indulgently at the unquiet little doctor. "she's all right, melton, the american woman, and you're an unconscionably tiresome old fanatic. that's what _you_ are! come along and have a glass of punch with me. lydia's cook has a genius for punch--and for sandwiches!" he added reflectively, setting down the empty platter. dr. melton apparently was off on another tangent of excitability. "did you ever see her?" he demanded with a fiercely significant accent. the judge made a humorous wry mouth. "yes, i have; but what concern is a cook's moral character to her employer any more than an engineer's to the railroad--" "well, it mightn't hurt the railroad any if it took more cognizance of its engineers' morals--" began the doctor dryly. the judge cut him short with a great laugh. "oh, melton! melton! you bilious sophomore! take a vacation from finding everything so damn tragic. take a drink on me. you're all right! everybody's all right!" the doctor nodded. "and the reception is the success of the season," he said. chapter xx an evening's entertainment the dinner parties, so paul told lydia one evening a few days later, would certainly be as successful and with but little more trouble. "just think of the dinners ellen's been giving us for the last two months! i don't believe there's another such cook in ohio--within our purse, of course." lydia did not visibly respond to this enthusiasm. indeed, she walked away from the last half of it, and leaned out of a window to look up at the stars. when she came back to take up the tiny dress on which she was sewing, she said: "i don't think i can stand more than this one dinner party, paul. i'm sorry, but i don't feel at all well, and this dreadful nausea troubles me a good deal." "well, you look lovelier than ever before in your life," paul reassured her tenderly, and felt a moment's pique that her face did not entirely clear at this all-important announcement. "come, let's go over to the derby's for a game of bridge, will you, lydia?" this conversation took place on a tuesday late in may. the dinner party was set for thursday. on wednesday morning, after paul's usual early departure, lydia went to her writing desk to send a note to madeleine hollister. paul had intimated that she and madeleine were seeing less of each other than he had expected from their girlhood acquaintance, and lydia, in her anxiety to induce paul to talk over with her and plan with her the growth of their home life, was eager to adopt every casual suggestion he threw out. she began, therefore, a cordial invitation to madeleine to spend several days with them. she would try again to be more intimate with her husband's sister. she had not inherited her mother's housekeeping eye, and was never extremely observant of details. being more than usually preoccupied this morning, she had no suspicion that someone else had been using the conveniences for writing on her desk until she turned over the sheet of paper on which she had begun her note, and saw with surprise that the other side was already covered with a coarse handwriting, unfamiliar to her. as she looked at this in the blankest astonishment, a phrase leaped out at her comprehension, like a serpent striking. and then another. and another. she tried to push back her chair to escape, but she was like a person paralyzed. with returning strength to move came an overwhelming wave of nausea. she crept up to her own room and lay motionless and soundless for hour after hour, until presently it was noon, and the pleasant tinkling of gongs announced that lunch was served. lydia rose, and made her way down the stairs to the well-ordered table, set with the daintiest of perfectly prepared food, and stood, holding on to the back of a chair, while she rang the bell. the little second girl answered it--one of the flitting, worthless, temporary occupants of that position. "tell ellen to come here," said her mistress. at the appearance of the cook, lydia's white face went a little whiter. "did you use my writing desk last evening?" she asked. ellen looked up, her large, square-jawed face like a mask through which her eyes probed her mistress' expression. "yes, mrs. hollister; i did," she said in the admirable "servant's manner" she possessed to perfection. "i ought to ask your pardon for doing it without permission, but someone was wanting mr. hollister on the telephone, and i thought best to sit within hearing of the bell until you and mr. hollister should return, and as--" "you left part of your letter to patsy o'hern," said lydia, and sat down suddenly, as though her strength were spent. the woman opposite her flushed a purplish red. there was a long silence. lydia looked at her servant with a face before which ellen finally lowered her eyes. "i am sure, mrs. hollister, if you don't think i'm worth the place, and if you think you can manage without me to-morrow night, i'll go this minute," she said coolly. lydia did not remove her eyes from the other's flushed face. "you must go far away from bellevue," she said. "you must not take a place anywhere near here." ellen looked up quickly, and down again. the color slowly died out of her face. after a sullen silence, "yes," she said. "that is all," said lydia. * * * * * paul found his wife that evening still very white. she explained ellen's disappearance with a dry brevity. "that we should have continued to give that--that awful--to give her opportunity to work upon a boy of--" she ended brokenly. "suppose he had been my brother!" paul was aghast. "but, my _dear_! to-morrow is the night of the dinner! couldn't you have put off a few days this sudden fit of--" lydia broke from her white stillness with a wild outcry. she flung herself on her husband, pressing her hands on his mouth and crying out fiercely: "no, no, paul! not that! i can't bear to have you say that! i hoped--i hoped you wouldn't think of--" paul was fresh from an interview with dr. melton, and in his ears rang innumerable cautions against excitement or violent emotions. with his usual competent grasp on the essentials of a situation that he could not understand at all, he put aside for the time his exasperated apprehensions about the next day's event, and picking lydia up bodily he carried her to a couch, closing her lips with gentle hands and soothing her with caresses, like a frightened child. "oh, you are good to me!" she murmured finally, quieted. "i must try not to get so excited. but, paul--i _can't_ tell you--about--about that letter--and later, when i saw ellen, it was as though we fought hand to hand for patsy, though she never--" "there, there, dearest! don't talk about it--just rest. you've worked yourself into a perfect fever." if there was latent in the indulgent accent of this speech the coda, "all about nothing," it escaped lydia's ear. she only knew that the long nightmare of her lonely, horrified day was over. she clung to her husband, and thanked heaven for his pure, clean manliness. but in a vastly different way the next day was almost as much of a nightmare. lydia's father and mother were temporarily out of town and their at least fairly satisfactory cook was enjoying her vacation at an undiscoverable address. lydia was cut off from asking her sister to come to her aid by the fact that paul had prevailed upon her to omit marietta and her husband from her guests. "if you won't give but one, we've just _got_ to invite the important ones," he had said. "your sister can take dinner with us any day, and you know her husband _isn't_ the most--" lydia had picked up in the school of necessity a fair knowledge of cooking, for which she had discovered in herself quite a liking; but she had been too constantly in social demand to have the leisure for advancing far into culinary lore, and she now found herself dismayed before the elaborate menu that ellen had planned, for which the materials were gathered together. she was still shaken with the emotions of the day before, and subject to sudden giddy, sick turns, which, although lasting but an instant, left her enormously fatigued. she went furiously at the task before her, beginning by simplifying the dinner as much as she dared and could with the materials at hand, and struggling with the dishes she was obliged to retain. for years afterward, the sight of chicken salad affected her to acute nausea. the inexperienced and careless little second girl lost her head in the crisis, and had to be repeatedly calmed and assured that all that would be asked of her would be to serve the dinner to the waiters for whom lydia had arranged hastily by telephone with endbury's leading caterer. ellen had planned to serve the meal with the help of a waitress friend or two, without other outside help; a feature of the occasion that had met with paul's hearty approval. he told lydia that those palpably hired-for-the-occasion nigger waiters were very bad form, and belonged to a phase of endbury's social gaucheries as outgrown now as charade parties. but now, of course, nothing else was possible. in the intervals of cooking, lydia left her makeshift help in the kitchen, to see that nothing burned, and in a frenzy of activity flew at some of the manifold things to be done to prepare the house for the festivity. she swept and wiped up herself the expansive floors of the two large parlors, set the rooms in order, dusted the innumerable wedding present knickknacks, cleaned the stairs, wiped free from dust the carved balustrades, ordered the bedrooms that were to serve as dressing rooms in the evening, answered the 'phone a thousand times, arranged flowers in the vases, received a reportorial call from miss burgess, gave cut glass and china its final polish, laid out paul's evening clothes and arranged her own toilet ready--it was five o'clock! there were innumerable other tasks to accomplish, but she dared no longer put off setting the table. it was to be a large dinner--large, that is, for endbury--of twenty covers, and lydia had never prepared a table for so many guests. the number of objects necessary for the conventional setting of a dinner table appalled her. she was so tired, and her attention was so fixed on the complicated processes going on uncertainly in the kitchen, that her brain reeled over the vast quantity of knives and forks and plates and glasses needed to convey food to twenty mouths on a festal occasion. they persistently eluded her attempts to marshal them into order. she discovered that she had put forks for the soup--that in some inexplicable way at the plate destined for an important guest there was a large kitchen spoon of iron--a wild sort of whimsical humor rose in her from the ferment of utter fatigue and anxiety. when paul came in, looking very grave, she told him with a wavering laugh, "if i tried as hard for ten minutes to go to heaven as i've tried all day to have this dinner right, i'd certainly have a front seat in the angel choir. if anybody here to-night is not satisfied, it'll be because he's harder to please than st. peter himself." "my aunt alexandra will be here," said paul, the humorous side of her speech escaping him. lydia set down a tray of glasses, and broke into open, shaking, hysterical laughter. paul surveyed her grimly. her excitement had flushed her cheeks and darkened her eyes, and her sudden, apparently light-hearted, mirth put the finishing touch to a picture that could seem to her husband nothing but a care-free, not to say childish, attitude toward a situation of grave concern to him and his prospects and ambitions in the world. his inborn and highly cultivated regard for competence and success in any enterprise undertaken, drowned out, as was by no means infrequent with him, any judicial inquiry into the innate importance of the enterprise. he had an instant of bitter impatience with lydia. he felt that he had a right to hold her to account for the outcome of events. if she were well enough to have rosy cheeks and to laugh at nothing, she was well enough to have satisfactory results expected from her efforts. "i hope very much that everything will go well," he said curtly, turning away. "our first dinner party means a good deal." but everything did not go well. indeed, it is scarcely too much to say that nothing went well. from the over-peppered soup (lydia had forgotten to caution her rattle-brained assistant that she had already seasoned the bouillon) to the salad which, although excellent, gave out frankly, beyond any possibility of disguise, while five people were still unserved, the meal was a long procession of mishaps. paul took up sorrily his wife's rather hysterical note of self-mockery, and laughed and joked over the varied eccentricities of the pretentious menu. but there was no laughter in his heart. never before, in all his life, from babyhood up, had he been forced to know the acrid taste of failure, and the dose was not sweetened by his intense consciousness that he was not in any way responsible. no such fiasco had ever resulted from anything he _had_ been responsible for, he thought fiercely to himself, leaning forward smilingly to talk to the president of the street-railway company, who, having nothing in the shape of silverware left before his place but a knife and spoon, was eating his salad with the latter implement. "lydia has no right to act so," he thought. the hostess gave the effect of flushed, bright-eyed animation usual with her on exciting occasions. "your wife is a beauty," said the street-railway magnate, looking down the disorganized table toward her. paul received this assurance with the proper enthusiastic assent, but something else gleamed hotly in his face as he looked at her. "i have _some_ rights," thought the young husband. "lydia owes me something!" he never before had been moved to pity for himself. lydia seemed to herself to be in an endless bad dream. the exhausting efforts of the day had reduced her to a sort of coma of fatigue through which she felt but dully the successive stabs of the ill-served, unsuccessful dinner. at times, the table, the guests, the room itself, wavered before her, and she clutched at her chair to keep her balance. she did not know that she was laughing and talking gaily and eating nothing. she was only conscious of an intense longing for the end of things, and darkness and quiet. after the meal the company moved into the double parlor. the plan had been to serve coffee there, but as people stood about waiting and this did not appear, paul drew lydia to one side to ask her about it. she looked at him with bright, blank eyes, and spoke in an expressionless voice: "the grocery boy forgot to deliver the coffee," she said. "there isn't any, i remember now." he turned away silently, and the later part of the entertainment began. there was to be music, one of the guests being endbury's favorite amateur soprano, another a pianist much thought of. the singer took her place by the piano, assuming carefully the correct position. lydia watched her balance on the balls of her feet, lean forward a little, throw up her chest and draw in her abdomen. as the preliminary chords of the accompaniment sounded, she was almost visibly concentrating her thoughts on the tension of her vocal chords, on the position of the soft palate and the resonance of the nasal cavities. the thoughts of her auditors followed her own. it came to lydia some time after the performance was over that the words of the song told of love and life and tragic betrayal. a near-by guest leaned to her and said, during the hand-clapping: "i couldn't make out what it was all about--never can understand a song--but, say! can't she put it all over the soprano that sings in the first methodist." his hostess gave the speaker a rather disconcerting stare, hardly explained, he thought, by the enigmatical statement that came after it: "why, that is how we are living, all of us!" the pianist was an old german, considered eccentric by endbury. he had a social position on account of his son, a prosperous german-american manufacturer of buggies, and was invited because of his readiness to play on any occasion. the old man looked about him at the company with a fatherly smile, and, sitting down to his instrument, waited pointedly until all the cheerful hum of conversation had died away. the room was profoundly silent as he brought his hands down on the keys in a startling, thrilling chord. lydia's heart began to beat fast. she felt a chill run among the roots of her hair. she was so moved she could have wept aloud, and yet, almost at once, as the musician passed on to the rich elaboration of his theme, she lost herself in a groping bewilderment. she had heard so little music! her straining attention mocked her with its futility. she and paul had been married for eight months, but they had found no time for the serious study of music from which she had hoped so much. when paul was at home for an evening he was too tired and worn for anything very deep, he said, and preferred to anything else the lighter pieces of nevin. she now gave ear despairingly to the mighty utterance of a master, catching only now and then a tantalizing glimpse of what it might mean to her. at times, there emerged from the glorious tumult of sound some grave, earnest chord, some quick, piercing melody, some exquisite sudden cadence, which reached her heart intelligibly; but through most of it she felt herself to be listening with heartsick yearning to a lovely message in an unknown tongue. her feeling of desolate exile from a realm of beauty she longed to enter, was intensified, as was natural in so sensitive a nature, by the strange power of music to heighten in its listeners whatever is, for the time, their predominant emotion. she felt like crying out, like beating her hands against the prison bars suddenly revealed to her. she was almost intolerably affected before the end of the selection. "that's an awfully long piece for anybody to learn by heart!" commented her neighbor admiringly, as the old pianist finished, and stood up wiping his forehead. "say, mr. burkhardt, what's the name of that selection?" he went on, leaning forward. the old german turned toward him, and answered gravely: "that is the feerst mofement of beethoven's opus von hundred and elefen." "oh, it is, is it?" said lydia's guest, with a facetious intonation. "all of that?" after that the soprano sang again, someone else sang a humorous negro song, there was more piano music, rendered by the prosperous son of the old pianist, who played dashingly some bright comic-opera airs. the furniture was pushed back and a few dancers whirled over the costly, hardwood waxed floors, which lydia had cleaned that morning. she felt vaguely that everyone was being most kind and that her good-natured guests were trying to make up for the failure of the dinner by unusual efforts to have the evening pass off well. she was very grateful for this humane disposition of theirs. it was the bright spot of the experience. but paul, who also saw the kindly efforts of his guests, felt that this was the last intolerable dagger-thrust. their amused compassion suffocated him. he wanted people to envy him, not pity him, he thought in mortified chagrin. after an eternity, the hour of departure arrived. as the door shut out the last of the smiling, lying guests, the host and hostess turned to face each other. paul spoke first, in an even, restrained tone: "you would better go to bed, lydia; you must be very tired." with this, he turned away to shut up the house. he had determined to preserve at all costs the appearance of the indulgent, non-critical, over-patient husband that he intensely felt himself to be. no force, he thought grimly, shutting his jaws hard, should drag from him a word of his real sentiments. fanned by the wind of this virtuous resolution, his sentiments grew hotter and hotter as he walked about, locking doors and windows, and reviewing bitterly the events of the evening. if he was to restrain himself from saying anything, he would at least allow himself the privilege of feeling all that was possible to a man so deeply injured. lydia sat quietly waiting for him to finish, her face in her hands, conscious of nothing but fatigue, in her ears a wild echo of the inexplicable, haunting beethoven chords. suddenly she started and raised her head, her face transfigured. her eyes shone, a smile was on her lips like that of someone who hears from afar the sound of a beloved voice. she made a gesture of yearning toward her husband. "oh, paul--paul!" she cried to him softly, in a tremulous voice of wonder. he turned, the light for the first time on his black, loveless face. "what is it?" he enunciated distinctly, looking at her hard. before his eyes lydia shrank back. she put up her hands instinctively to hide her face from him. finally, "nothing--nothing--" she murmured. without comment, paul went back to his conscientious round of the house. lydia had felt for the first time the quickening to life of her child. and during all that day, until then, she had forgotten that she was to know motherhood. chapter xxi an element of solidity lydia dated the estrangement from marietta, which grew so rapidly during the next year, from the conversation on the day after the dinner party. she was cruelly wounded by her sister's attack on her, but she could never remember the scene without one of her involuntary laughs so disconcerting to paul, who only laughed when he felt gay, certainly at nothing which affected him seriously. but lydia's sense of humor was so tickled at the grotesque contrast between marietta's injured conception of the brilliant social event from which she had been excluded and the leaden fiasco which it had really been, that even at the time, in the midst of denying hotly her sister's charges of snobbishness and social ambition, she was unable to keep back a shaky laugh or two as she cried out: "oh, etta! if you could know how things went, you'd be too thankful to have escaped it. it was awful beyond words!" marietta answered her by handing her with a grim silence a copy of that morning's paper, open at _society notes_. loyal flora burgess had lavished on "miss lydia's" first dinner party her entire vocabulary of deferential, not to say reverential, encomiums. the "function had inaugurated a new era of cosmopolitan amplitude of social life in endbury," was the ending of the lengthy paragraph that described the table decorations, the menu, the costume of the hostess, the names of the music-makers afterward. lydia burst into a hysterical laugh. "flora burgess is too killing!" she cried. "she was here in the afternoon to get details, and i just let her wander around and see what she could make out. i was too busy to pay any attention to her--oh, etta! i was dead and buried with fatigue before the people even began to come. i can't even remember much about it except that every single thing was wrong. that about 'cosmopolitan amplitude--' oh, isn't flora too funny!--means having music after dinner, i suppose. i don't know what else." "of course," said marietta, rising to go, "it doesn't make any difference what it was really like! only the people that were there know that. the report in the paper--" "oh, marietta, what a thing to say--that it's all pretense, every bit--and not--" marietta went on steadily and mordantly: "i don't know how you feel about it, but _i_ shouldn't be very easy in my mind to have my only sister's name not on the list of guests at my most exclusive social function." dr. melton, who made lydia a professional call that morning, found her with reddened eyes, slowly washing and putting away innumerable dirty dishes. she told him that the second girl, apparently overcome by the events of the day before, had disappeared during the night. dr. melton thrust out his lips and said nothing, but he took off his coat, put on an apron, and, pushing his patient away from the dishpan, attacked a huge pile of sticky plates. he worked rapidly and silently, with a surgeon's deftness. lydia sat quiet for some time, looking at him. finally, "i hadn't been crying because of dirty dishes," she told him; "i'm not such a child as that. marietta has been here. she said some things pretty hard to bear about her not having been invited to that awful dinner party. i didn't know what she was talking about a good deal of the time--it was all about what a snob and traitor to my family i was growing to be." "you mustn't blame marietta too much," said the doctor, rinsing and beginning to dry the plates with what seemed to lydia's fatigued languor really miraculous speed. "it's true that she watches your social advance with the calm disinterestedness of a cat watching somebody pour cream out of a jug. she wants her saucerful. but look here. did i ever tell you about the man montaigne speaks of who spent all his life to acquire the skill necessary to throw a grain of millet through the eye of a needle? well, that man was proud of it, but poor marietta's haunted by doubts as to whether in her case it's been worth while. it makes her naturally inclined to be snappy." he was so used to delighting in lydia's understanding of his perversely obscure figures of speech that he turned about, surprised to hear no appreciative comment. she was looking away with troubled eyes. "paul will think i ought not to have let marietta talk to me like that--that i ought to have resented it. i never can remember to resent things." the doctor began setting out polished water glasses on a tray. "it is the glory of a man to pass by an offense," he quoted. "ah, don't you suppose if we knew all about things we'd feel as relieved at not having resented an injury as if we had held our hands from striking a blind man who had inadvertently run against us?" there was no response. it was the second time that one of his metaphors, far-fetched as he loved them, but usually intelligible to lydia, had missed fire. he turned on her sharply. "what are you thinking about?" he asked. she raised her tragic eyes to his. "about the mashed potatoes last night--they didn't have a bit of salt in them--they were too nasty for--" "oh, pshaw! it makes no difference whether your dinner party was a success or not! you know that as well as i do. a dinner party is a relic of the dark ages, anyhow--if not of the stone age! as a physician, i shudder to see people sitting down to gorge themselves on the richest possible food, all carefully rendered extra palatable in order that they may put upon their bodies the burden of throwing off an enormous amount of superfluous food. a hundred years from now people will be as ashamed of us for our piggishness as we are of our eighteenth-century forbears for their wine-swilling to the detriment of their descendants. a dinner party of to-day bears no more relation to a rational gathering of rational people for the purpose of rational social intercourse than--" he had run on with his usual astonishing loquacity without drawing breath, overwhelming lydia with a fresh flood of words when she tried to break in; but she now sprang up and motioned him peremptorily to silence. "please, please, godfather, don't! i asked you not to unsettle me--you're not kind to do it! you're not kind! i must think it's important and, and--the necessary thing to do. i _must_!" she put her hands over her eyes as she spoke. she was trying to shut out a vision of paul's embittered face of wrathful chagrin. "that's the trouble with me," she went on. "something in me makes it hard for me to think it important enough to give up everything else for it--and i--" "why '_must_' you?" asked the doctor bluntly, crumpling his damp dishcloth into a ball. lydia looked at him and saw paul so evidently that the doctor saw with her. "i must! i _must_!" she only repeated. dr. melton opened his mouth wide, closed it again with a snap, and threw the tightly wadded ball in his hand passionately upon the floor with the gesture of an angry child. lydia was standing now, looking down at the red-faced little man as he peered up at her after his silent outbreak. his attitude of fury so contrasted with the pacific white apron which enveloped him, that she broke out into a laugh. even as she laughed and turned away to answer a knock at the door, she was acutely thankful that it was not with paul that she had been set upon by that swiftly mobile change of humor, that it was not at paul that she had launched that disrespectful mirth. the person who knocked proved to be a very large, rosy-cheeked female, who might be a big, overgrown child or a preposterously immature woman for all lydia, looking at her in perplexity, could make out. she felt no thrill of premonition as this individual advanced into the kitchen, a pair of immense red hands folded before her. "i'm anastasia o'hern, ma'am," she announced with a thick accent of county clare and a self-confident, good-humored smile, "though mostly i'm called 'stashie--and i'm just over from th' old country to my aunt bridgie that washed for you till the rheumatism got her, and when she told me about what you'd done for her and patsy--how you'd sent off that ould divil where she couldn't torment patsy no more, and him as glad of it as aunt bridgie herself, just like she knew he would be, and what an awful time you do be havin' with gurrls, and a baby comin', i says to myself and to aunt bridgie, 'there's the lady i'm goin' to worrk for if she'll lave me do ut,' and aunt bridgie was readin' to me in the paper about your gran' dinner party last night and i says to her and to myself, 'there'll be a main lot of dishes to be washed th' day and i'd better step over and begin.'" she pulled off the shawl that had covered her head of flaming hair, and smiled broadly at her two interlocutors, who remained motionless, staring at her in an ecstasy of astonishment. as she looked into lydia's pale face and reddened eyes, the smile died away. she clasped her big hands with a pitying gesture, and cried out a gaelic exclamation of compassion with a much-moved accent; then, "it's time i was here," she told herself. she wiped her eyes, passed the back of her hand over her nose with a sniff, picked up the dishcloth from the floor, and advanced upon a pile of dirty silver. her massive bulk shook the floor. "i don't know no more about housework than casey's pig," she told them cheerfully, "but aunt bridgie says in america they don't none of the gurrls know nothing. they just hold their jobs because their ladies know they couldn't do no better to change, and maybe i can learn. i want to help." she emptied the silver into the dishwater with a splash, and set to work, turning her broad face to them to say familiarly over her shoulder to lydia, "now, just you go and lie down and send the little ould gentleman about his business. you need to be quiet--for the sake of the one that's coming; and don't you forget i'm here. i'm--_here_!" dr. melton drew lydia away silently, and not until they had put two rooms between them and the kitchen did they dare face each other. with that first interchange of looks came peals of laughter--lydia's light, ringing laughter--to hear which the doctor offered up heartfelt thanksgivings. "that is your fate, lydia," he said finally, wiping his eyes. "don't you just love her?" lydia cried. "isn't she the most _human_ thing!" "do you remember maeterlinck's theory that every soul summons--" lydia interrupted to say with a wry, humorous mouth, "you know i don't know anything. don't ask me if i remember things." "well, maeterlinck has one of his fanciful theories that everybody calls to him from the unknown those elements that he most needs, which are most in harmony with--" "i caught a good solid element that time," cried lydia, laughing again. "she's embodied loyalty," said the doctor. "it breathes from every pore." "she's going to smash my cut glass and china something awful," lydia foretold. dr. melton took his godchild by the shoulders and shook her. "now, lydia emery, you listen to me! i don't often issue an absolute command, if i am your physician, but i do now. you _let_ her smash your china and cut glass, and all the rest of your devastating trash she can lay her hands on, rather than lose her--until after september, anyhow! it's a direct reward of virtue for your having shipped the 'ould divil'!" lydia's face clouded. "i'm afraid paul won't think her much of a substitute for ellen," she murmured, "and we'll have to find a cook somehow even if this one learns enough to be second girl." "second girl!" ejaculated the doctor. "she's a human being with a capacity for loyalty." "she's evidently awfully incompetent--" the doctor snorted. "competence--i loathe the word! it's used now to cover all imaginable sins, as folks used to excuse all manner of rascality in a good swordsman. we're beyond the frontier period now when competence was a matter of life and death. we ought to begin to have some glimmering realization that there are other--" "_oh_, what a hand for talk!" said lydia. the doctor rejoiced at her laughing impatience. he thought to himself, as he looked at her standing in the doorway and waving good-by to him, that she seemed a very different creature from the drooping and tearful--he interrupted his chain of thought as he boarded his car, to exclaim, "may she live long, that heavy-handed, vivifying celt!" chapter xxii the voices in the wood lydia had not been mistaken in her premonition of paul's attitude toward the new maid. he found her quite unendurable, but the direful stories told by their bellevue acquaintances about the literal impossibility of keeping servants during the hot season induced him to postpone his wrath against the awkward, irreverent, too familiar irishwoman until after lydia should feel more herself. paul's wrath lost nothing by keeping. to lydia, on the contrary, anastasia's loyalty and devotion were inexpressibly comforting during the trying days of that summer. her servant's loving heart radiated warmth and cheer throughout all her life. one day, when her mother protested against 'stashie's habit of familiar conversation with the family (they had all soon adopted the irish diminutive of her name), lydia said: "i can not be too thankful for 'stashie's love and kindness." mrs. emery was outraged. "good gracious, lydia! what things you do say." "why not? because she hasn't been to college? neither have i. she's as well educated as i am, and a great deal better woman." "why, what are you talking about? she can't read!" "i don't," said lydia. "that's worse." her mother turned the conversation, thinking she would be glad when this period of high-strung nerves and fancies should be over. she told dr. melton that it seemed to her that "lydia took it very hard," and she supposed they couldn't expect her to be herself until after september. the doctor answered: "oh, there's a great deal of nonsense about that kind of talk. a normal woman--and, thank heaven, lydia's that to the last degree--has the whole universe back of her. lydia's always balanced on a hair trigger, it's true, but she _is_ balanced! and now all nature is rallying to her like an army with banners." "ah, you never went through it yourself!" mrs. emery retreated to the safe stronghold of matronhood. "you don't know! i had strange fancies, like lydia's. women always do." another one of lydia's fancies of that summer drove her to a strange disregard of caste rules. it came through a sudden impulse of compassion one hot midsummer day when miss burgess hobbled up the driveway in the hope of gleaning some bellevue society notes. "it's a terrible time of year, miss lydia," she said, sinking into a chair with a long, quavering sigh. "one drops from thirty and sometimes forty dollars a week to twenty or less; and it's so hard on one's feet, being on them in hot weather. i assure you mine ache like the toothache. and expenses are as high as in winter, or worse, when you have an invalid to look out for. out here in breezy bellevue you've no conception how hot it is on main street. and mother _feels_ the heat!" all this she said, not complainingly, but in her usual twittering manner of imparting information, as though it were an incident of a five-o'clock tea, but lydia felt a pang of remorse for her usual thoughtless attitude of exasperated hilarity over miss burgess' peculiarities. she noticed that the kind, vacuous face was beginning to look more than middle-aged, and that the scanty hair above it was whitening rapidly. "why, bring your mother out here for the day, why don't you, any time!" she said impulsively. "i can't have any social engagements, you know, the way i am, and paul's away a good deal of the time, and 'stashie and i can get you tea and eggs and toast, at least. i'd love to have her. now, any morning that threatens heat, just you telephone you're both coming to spend the day." she felt quite strange at the thought that she had never seen the mother of this devoted, unselfish, affectionate, lifelong acquaintance. but miss burgess, though moved almost to tears at lydia's "kind thoughtfulness," clung steadfastly to her standards. she had always known that she must not presume on her "exceptional opportunities for acquaintance with endbury's social leaders," she told lydia, nor take advantage of any inadvertent kindness of theirs. her mother would be the first one to blame her if she did; her mother knew the world very well. she went away, murmuring broken thanks and protestations of devotion. lydia looked after her, disappointed. she had been quite stirred by the hope of giving some pleasure. there was little to break the long, lonely, monotonous expectancy of her life. and yet nothing surprised those who knew her better than her equable physical poise during this time of trial and discomfort. everyone had expected so high-strung a creature to be "half-wild with nerves." but lydia, although she continued to say occasional disconcerting things, seemed on the whole to be gaining maturity and firmness of purpose. paul was away a great deal that summer and she had many long, solitary hours to pass--a singular contrast to the feverish hurry of the winter "season." her old habit of involuntary questioning scrutiny came back and it is possible that her motto of "action at all costs" was passed under a closer mental review than during the winter; but though she went frequently to see her godfather and mrs. sandworth, she did not break her silence on whatever thoughts were occupying her mind, except in one brief, questioning explosion. this was on the occasion of her last visit to endbury before her confinement, a few days after her call from flora burgess. it had occurred to her that they might know something about the reporter's family and she stopped in after her shopping to inquire. she found her aunt and her godfather sitting in the deeply shaded, old grape arbor in their back yard; dr. melton with a book, as always, mrs. sandworth ungirdled and expansive, tinkling an ice-filled cup and crying out upon the weather. "sit down, lydia, for mercy's sake, and cool off. yes; we know all about her; she's a patient of marius'. have some lemonade! isn't it fearful! and marius keeps reading improving books! it makes me so much hotter! she's english, you know." dr. melton looked up from his book to remark, with his usual judicial moderation, "i could strangle that old harridan with joy. she has been one of the most pernicious influences the women of this town have ever had." "flora burgess' mother? why, i never heard of her in the world until the other day." "you can't smell sewer gas," said the doctor briefly. mrs. sandworth laughed. "marius almost killed himself last winter to pull her through pneumonia. he worked over her night and day. oh, marius is a great deal better than he talks--strangle--!" "i'm a fool, if that's what you mean," said the doctor. "what is the matter with flora burgess' mother?" asked lydia. "she's been a plague spot in this town for years--that lower-middle-class old briton, with her beastly ideas of caste--ever since she began sending out her daughter to preach her damnable gospel to defenseless endbury homes." "marius--my _dear_!" chided mrs. sandworth--"the gospel--damnable! you forget yourself!" the doctor did not laugh. "they're the ones," he went on, "who first started this idiotic idea of there being a social stigma attached to living in any but just such parts of town." "you live in just such a part of town yourself," said lydia. "my good-for-nothing, pretentious, fashionable patients wouldn't come to me if i didn't." "why do you have to have that kind of patients?" occasionally, of late, with her godfather, lydia had displayed a certain uncompromising directness, rather out of character with her usual gentleness, which the doctor found very disconcerting. he was silent now. mrs. sandworth's greater simplicity saw no difficulties in the way of an answer. "because, lydia, he's one of the kentucky meltons, and because, as i said, he talks a great deal worse than he is." "because i am a fool," said the doctor again. this time he flushed as he spoke. "he doesn't like things common around him," went on mrs. sandworth, "any more than any gentleman does. and as for strangling old mrs. burgess, what good would that do? it can't be she who's influencing endbury, because all it's trying to do is to be just like every other town in ohio." "in the union!" amended dr. melton grimly. he subsided after this into one of his fidgety, grimacing, finger-nail-gnawing reveries. he was wondering whether he dared tell lydia of a talk he had had that morning with her father. after a look at lydia's flushed, tired face, he decided that he would better not; but as the two women fell into a discussion of the layette, the conversation, mr. emery's nervous voice, his sharp, impatient gestures, came back to him vividly. he looked graver and graver, as he did after each visit to his old friend, and after each fruitless exhortation to "go slow and rest more." mr. emery was in the midst of a very important trial and, as he had very reasonably reminded his physician, this was not a good time to relax his grasp on things. "now i'm back in practice, in competition with younger men, i _can't_ sag back! it's absurd to ask it of me." "you were a fool to go back into practice at your age." "a fool! i've doubled my income." "yes; and your arteries--look here, suppose you were dead. the bar would get along without you, wouldn't it?" "but i'm not dead," the other truthfully opposed to this fallacious supposition, and turned again to his papers. the doctor shut his medicine case with a spiteful snap. "don't fool yourself that it's devotion to the common weal that drives you ahead! don't make a pretty picture of yourself as working to the last in heroic service of your fellow-man! you know, as i know, that if you dropped out this minute, american jurisprudence would continue on its triumphant, misguided way quite as energetically as now." mr. emery looked up, dropping for once the mask of humorous tolerance with which he was accustomed to hide any real preoccupation of his own. "look here, melton, i'm too nervous to stand much fooling these days. if you want to know the reason why i'm going on, i'll tell you. i've got to. i need the money." "gracious powers! did you get caught in that b. and r. slump?" the judge smiled a little bitterly. "no; i haven't lost any money--for a very good reason. i never was ahead enough to have any to lose. haven't you any idea of what the cost of living the way we do--" dr. melton interrupted him, wild-eyed: "why, nat emery! you have yourself and your wife to feed and clothe and shelter--and you tell me that costs so much that you can't stop working when there's--" "oh, go away, melton; you make me tired!" the judge made a weary gesture of dismissal. "you're always talking like a child, or a preacher, about how things _might_ be! you know what an establishment like ours costs to keep up, as well as i do. i'm in it--we've sort of gradually got in deeper and deeper, the way folks do--and it would take a thousand times more out of me to break loose than to go on. you're an old fuss, anyhow. i'm all right. only for the lord's sake leave me quiet now." the doctor shivered and put his hand over his eyes as he remembered how, to his physician's eye, the increasing ill health of his old friend gleamed lividly from his white face. mrs. sandworth brought him back to the present with an astonished "good gracious! how anybody can even _pretend_ to shiver on a day like this!" she added: "look here, marius, are you going to sit there and moon all the afternoon? here's lydia going already." seasoned to his eccentricities as she was, she was startled by his answer. "julia," he said solemnly, "did you ever consider how many kinds of murder aren't mentioned in the statute books?" "marius! what ideas! remember lydia!" "oh, i remember lydia!" he said soberly. he went to lay a hand fondly on her shoulder. "are you really going, my dear? i'll walk along to the waiting-room with you." "don't talk her to death!" cried mrs. sandworth after them. "i won't say a word," he answered. it was a promise that he almost literally kept. he was in one of the exaggeratedly humble moods which alternated with his florid, talkative, cock-sure periods. lydia, too, was quite thoughtful and subdued. they descended in a complete silence the dusty street, blazing in the late afternoon sun, and passed into the inferno of a crowded city square in midsummer. as they stood before the waiting-room, lydia asked suddenly: "godfather, how can we, any of us, do any better?" "god knows!" he said, with a gesture of impotence, and went his way. lydia entered the waiting-room and went to ask a man in uniform when the next car left for bellevue. "there's been an accident in the power-house, lady," he told her, "and that line ain't runnin'." lydia gave an exclamation of dismay. "but i must get back to bellevue to-night!" paul was out of town, but she knew the agonies of anxiety 'stashie would suffer if she did not appear. "oh, but i can telephone," she reminded herself. "you kin get out there if you don't mind takin' the long way around," the man explained with a friendly interest. "if you take the garfield line and change at ironton to the onteora branch, it'll bring you back on the other side of bellevue, and bellevue ain't so big but what it won't be a very long walk to where you live." lydia thanked him, touched, as she so often was, with the kind and, to her, welcome absence of impersonality in working people; and, assuring herself that she had time enough to eat something before her car's departure, betook herself to a dairy lunch-room where she ate a conscientiously substantial supper. the heat of the day had left her little appetite; but to "take care of herself" now seemed at last one of the worth-while things to do which she had always had so eager a longing. at seven o'clock she took the trolley pointed out to her by her friend, the starter, who noticed and remembered her when she returned to the waiting-room. the evening rush was over, and for some time she was the only passenger. then a very tired-looking, middle-aged man, an accountant perhaps, in a shabby alpaca coat, boarded the car and sank at once into a restless doze, his heat-paled face nodding about like a broken-necked doll's. lydia herself felt heavy on her the death-like fatigue which the last weeks had brought to her, but she was not sleepy. she looked out intently at the flat, fertile, kindly country, gradually darkening in the summer twilight. she was very fond of her home landscape. she had not taken so considerable a journey on a trolley for a long time--perhaps not since the trip to the mallory house-party. that was a long time ago. at the edge of thick woods the car came to a sudden stop. the lights went out. the conductor disappeared, twitched at the trolley, and went around for a consultation with the motorman, who had at once philosophically pulled off his worn glove and sat down on the step. "power's off!" he called back casually into the car to the accountant, who had started up wildly, with the idea, apparently, that he had been carried past his station. "we've got to wait till they turn her on again." "how long'll that be?" "oh, i don't know. the whole system is on the bum to-day. maybe half an hour; maybe more. better take another nap." the accountant looked around the car, encountered lydia's eyes, and smiled sheepishly. after a time of silent waiting, enlivened only by the murmur of the conversation between the motorman and the conductor outside, the gray-haired man suggested to lydia that it would be cooler out under the trees, and if she would like to go he would be glad to help her. when he had her established on a grassy bank he forbore further talk, and sat so still that, as the quiet moments slipped by, lydia almost forgot him. it was singularly pleasant there, with the rustling blackness of the wood behind them, and before them the sweep of the open farming country, shimmering faintly in the light of the stars now beginning to show in the great unbroken arch of the heavens. here the talk of the two men on the steps of the car was distinctly audible, and lydia, with much interest, pieced together a character and life-history for each out of their desultory, friendly chat; but presently they too fell silent, listening to the stir of the night breezes in the forest. lydia leaned her head against a tree and closed her eyes. she never knew if it were from a doze, or but from a reverie that she was aroused by a sudden thrilling sound back of her--the clear, deep voice of a distant 'cello. her heart began to beat faster, as it always did at the sound of music, and she sat up amazed, looking back into the intense blackness of the wood. and then, like a waking dream, came a flood of melody from what seemed to her an angel choir--fresh young voices, throbbing and proclaiming through the summer night some joyous, ever-ascending message. lydia felt her pulses loud at her temples. almost a faintness of pleasure came over her. there was something ineffably sweet about the disembodied voices sending their triumphant chant up to the stars. the sound stopped as suddenly as it began. the motorman stirred and drew a long breath. "they do fine, don't they?" he said. "my oldest girl's learning to sing alto with them." "he ain't musical himself, is he?" asked the conductor. "no; _he_ ain't. it's some dutch friends that does the playing. but he got the whole thing up, and runs the children. it's a nawful good thing for _them_, let me tell you." "what'd he do it for, i wonder," queried the conductor idly. "aw, i don't know. he's kind o' funny, anyhow. said he wanted to teach young folks how to enjoy 'emselves without spending money. that kind of talk hits their _folks_ in the right spot, you bet. he owns a slice of this farm, you know, and he's given some of the younger kids pieces of ground for gardens, and he's got up a night class in carpentering for young fellows that work in town all day. he's a crack-a-jack of a carpenter himself." "he'll run into the unions if he don't look out," prophesied the conductor. "i guess likely," assented the motorman. "they got after dielman the other day, did you hear, because he--" the talk drifted to gossip of the world of work-people. it stopped short as the 'cello again sent out its rich, vibrant introduction to the peal of full-throated joy. there seemed to be no other sound in all the enchanted, starlit world than this fervid harmony. this time it did not stop, but went on and on, swelling and dying away and bursting out again into new ecstasies. in one of the pauses, when nothing but the 'cello's chant came to her ears, lydia suddenly heard mingling with it the sweet, faint voice of a little stream whispering vaguely, near her. it sounded almost like rain on autumn leaves. the lights in the car flared up, blinding white, but the two men on the step did not stir. the conductor sat with his arms folded on his knees, his head on his arms. the motorman leaned against the end of the car. when the music finally died, after one long, ringing, exultant shout, no one moved for a time. then the motorman stood up, drawing on his glove. "quite a concert!" said the conductor, starting for the back platform. "they do _fine_!" repeated the motorman. the accountant came forward from the shadow and helped lydia up the steps. there were traces of tears on his tired face. * * * * * in september, when her mother leaned over her to say in a joyful, trembling voice, "oh, lydia, it's a girl, a darling little girl!" lydia opened her white lips to say, "she is ariadne." "what did you say?" asked her mother. "we must see that she has the clue," said lydia faintly. mrs. emery tiptoed to the doctor. "keep her very quiet," she whispered; "she is a little out of her head." chapter xxiii for ariadne's sake little ariadne was six months old before lydia could begin to make the slightest effort to resume the social routine of her life. this was not at all on account of ill health, for she had recovered her strength rapidly and completely, and, like a good many normal women, had found maternity a solvent of various slight physical disorders of her girlhood. she felt now a more assured physical poise than ever before, and could not attribute her disappearance from endbury social life to weakness. the fact was that dr. melton had upheld her in her wish to nurse her baby herself, which limited her to very short absences from the house and to a very quiet life within doors. she also discovered that the servant problem was by no means simplified by the new member of the family. "girls" had always been unwilling to come out to bellevue because of the distance from their friends and followers, and they now put forth another universally recognized obstacle in the phrase, "i never work out where there is a baby. they make so much dirt." anastasia o'hern was there, to be sure--heavy-handed, warm-hearted 'stashie, who took the new little girl to her loyal spinster heart and wept tears of joy over her safe arrival; but 'stashie had proved, as paul predicted from the first time he saw her, incorrigibly rattle-headed and loose-ended. she had learned to prepare a number of simple, homely dishes, quite enough to supply the actual needs of the everyday household, and what she cooked was unusually palatable. she had the celtic feeling for savoriness. she had also managed, under lydia's zealous tuition, to overcome the celtic tolerance for dirt, and thanks to her square, powerful body, as strong as a ditch-digger's, she made light work of keeping the house in a most gratifying state of cleanliness. but there were gaps in her equipment that were not to be filled by any amount of tuition. in the first place, as paul said of her, she was as much like the traditional trim maid as a hippopotamus is like a gazelle. furthermore, as dr. melton summed up the matter in answer to one of paul's outbreaks against her, she was utterly incapable of comprehending that satisfied vanity is the vital element in human life. for anything that pertained to the appearance of things, 'stashie was deaf, dumb and blind. she would as soon as not put one of her savory stews on the table in an earthen crock, and she never could be trusted to set the table properly. there were always some kitchen spoons among the silver, and the dishes looked, as paul said, "as though she had stood off and thrown them at a bull's-eye in the middle of the table." moreover, she herself could not emancipate herself from the ideas of toilet gleaned in the little one-room cabin in county clare. she was passionately devoted to lydia, and took with the humblest gratitude any hints about the care of her person, but it was like trying to make a color-blind person into a painter! anastasia could only love on her knees, and serve, and sympathize and cherish; she could not remember to comb her hair, or to put on a clean apron when she opened the door, even if it were madame hollister herself who rang. she had once opened to that important personage attired in a calico wrapper, a sweater, and a pair of rubber boots, having just come in from emptying the ashes--one of the heavy tasks, outside her regular work, which she took upon her strong, willing self. "but i was clane, and i got her into the house in two minutes from the time she rang, the poor old soul!" she protested to lydia, who, at paul's instance, had taken her to task. lydia explained, "but mr. hollister's aunt is a person who would rather wait half an hour in the cold than see you without an apron." to which 'stashie exclaimed, in awestruck wonder before the mysteries of creation, "folks do be the beatin'est, don't they now, mis' hollister!" "and you must not speak of mr. hollister's aunt as a 'poor old soul,'" explained lydia, apprehensive of paul's wrath if he ever chanced to hear such a characterization. "but she is that," protested 'stashie. "anybody that's her age and hobbles around so crippled up with the rheumatism--my heart bleeds for 'em." "she is very rich--" began lydia, but after a moment's hesitation she had not continued her lesson in social value. she often found that 'stashie's questions brought her to a standstill. there was something lacking in the irishwoman's mental outfit, namely, the capacity even to conceive that ideal of impersonal self-effacement, which, as paul said truthfully, is the everywhere accepted standard for servants. her loquacity was a never-ending joke to madeleine lowder and her husband, who were exulting in a couple of deft, silent, expensive japanese "boys" and who, since madeleine frankly expressed her horror at the bother of having children, seemed likely to continue ignorant, except at comfortable second-hand, of harassing domestic difficulties. if lydia had not been in such dire need of another pair of hands than her own slender ones, or if the supply from endbury intelligence offices had been a whit less unreliable and uncertain, she would not have felt justified in retaining the burly, uncouth celt, in spite of her own affection, so intensely did paul dislike her. as it was, she felt guilty for her presence and miserably responsible for her homeliness of conduct. 'stashie was a constant point of friction between husband and wife, and lydia was trying with desperate ingenuity to avoid points of friction by some other method than the usual endbury one of divided interests. many times she lay awake at night, convinced that her duty was to dismiss anastasia; only to rise in the morning equally convinced that things without her would be in the long run even harder and more disagreeable for paul than they were now. the upshot of the matter was that she herself was a very incompetent person, she was remorsefully sure of that; although her mother and marietta and paul's aunt all told her that she need expect nothing during the first year of a baby's life but one wretched round of domestic confusion. lydia did not find it so. she was immensely occupied, it is true, for though ariadne was a strong, healthy child, who spent most of her time, her grandmother complained, in sleeping, to lydia's more intimate contact with the situation there seemed to be more things to be done for the baby, in addition to the usual cares of housekeeping, than could possibly be crowded into twenty-four hours. and yet she was happier during those six months than ever before in her life; happier than she had ever dreamed anyone could be. she stepped about incessantly from one task to another and was very tired at night, but there was no nervous strain on her, and she had no moments of blasting skepticism as to the value of her labors. everything she did, even the most menial tasks connected with the baby, was dignified, to her mind, by its usefulness; and she so systematized and organized her busy days that she was always ahead of her work. paul was obliged to alter his judgment of her as impractical and incapable--although of course the dearest and sweetest of little wives--for nothing could have been more competent than the way she managed her baby and her simple housekeeping. indeed, there came to the young husband's mind not infrequently, and always with a slight aroma of bitterness, the conviction that lydia was perfectly able to do whatever she really wished to do and considered important; and that previous conditions must have been due to her unwillingness to set herself seriously at the problems before her. it was a new theory about his wife's character, which the intelligent young man laid by on a mental shelf for future use after this period of intense domesticity should be past. at present, he accepted thankfully his clean house and his savory food, was not too much put out by 'stashie's eccentricities, since there was no one but the immediate families to see them, and rejoiced with a whimsical tenderness in lydia's passion of satisfaction with her baby. he saw so little of the droll, sleeping, eating little mite that he could not as yet take it very seriously as his baby. but it was, on the whole, a happy half-year for him too. he was much moved and pleased by lydia's joy. he had meant to make his wife happy. lydia herself was transported by the mere physical intoxication of new motherhood, a potion more exciting, so her much experienced physician said, than any wine ever fermented. she hung over her sleeping baby, poring upon the exquisite fineness of the skin, upon the rosy little mouth, still sucking comically at an imaginary meal, upon the dimpled, fragile hands, upon the peaceful relaxation of the body, till the very trusting, appealing essence of babyhood flooded her senses like a strong drug; and when the child was awake, and she could bathe the much creased little body, and handle the soft arms, and drop passionate kisses on the satin-smooth skin, and rub her cheek on the downy head, she found herself sometimes trembling and dizzy with emotion. she felt constantly buoyed up by a deep trust and belief in life which she had not known before. the huge and steadying continuity of existence was revealed to her in those days. it was a revelation that was never to leave her. she outgrew definitely the sense of the fragmentary futility of living which had always been, inarticulate, unvoiced, but intensely felt, the torment of her earlier life. it grieved her generous heart and her aspiration to share all with her husband that the exigences of his busy life deprived him of any knowledge of this newly-opened well of sweet waters, that he had nothing from his parenthood but an amused, half shame-faced pride in points about the baby which, he was informed, were creditable. at a faint hint of this feeling on lydia's part, her sister-in-law broke into her good-natured laughter at lydia's notions. "what can a man know about a baby?" she cried conclusively. "why, i didn't know about one till ariadne came. i learned on her. what's to hinder a man's doing the same thing?" madeleine was so much amused by this fantastic idea that she repeated it to dr. melton, who came in just then. "don't it take _lydia_!" she appealed to him. the doctor considered the lovely, fair-haired creature in silence for a moment before answering. then, "yes; of course you're right," he assented. "it's a strictly feminine monopoly. it's as true that all men are incapable of understanding the significance of a baby in the universe and in their own lives, as it is true that all women love babies and desire them." his tone was full of a heavy significance. he could never keep his temper with paul's sister. madeleine received this without a quiver. she neither blushed nor looked in the least abashed, but there was an unnecessary firmness in her voice as she answered, looking him steadily in the eye: "exactly! that's just what i've been telling lydia." she often said that she was the only woman in endbury who wasn't afraid of that impertinent little doctor. after madeleine had gone away, lydia looked at her godfather with shining eyes. "i am living! i am living!" she told him, holding up the baby to him with a gesture infinitely significant; "and i like it as well as i thought i should!" "most people do," he informed her, "when they get a peck at it. it generally takes something cataclysmic, too, to tear them loose from their squirrel-cages--like babies, or getting converted." if he thought that early married life could also be classed among these beneficently uprooting agencies, he kept his thoughts to himself. lydia's marriage had been eminently free from disagreeable shocks or surprises, and amply deserved to be called successful in the usual reasonable and moderate application of that adjective to matrimony; but there had been nothing in it, certainly, to destroy even temporarily anyone's grasp on what are known as the realities of life. the doctor considered, and added to his last speech: "getting converted is surer. babies grow up!" lydia felt that her godfather was right, and that babies gave one only a short respite, when, toward spring, she observed in all the inhabitants of her world repeated signs of uneasy dissatisfaction with her "submergence in domesticity," as mrs. emery put it in a family council. her father inquired mildly, one day in march, with the touchingly vague interest he took in his children's affairs, if it weren't about time she returned a few calls and accepted some invitations, and began "to live _like_ folks again." "ariadne isn't the first baby in the world," he concluded. "she's the first one _i_ ever had," lydia reminded him, with the humorous smile that was so like his own. "well, you mustn't forget, as so many young mothers do, that you're a member of society and a wife, as well as a wet-nurse," he said. marietta had never resumed an easy or genial intercourse with the hollisters since the affair of the dinner party, but she came to call at not infrequent intervals, and paul's sister dropped in often, to "keep an eye on lydia," as she told her husband. she had an affection for her sister-in-law, in spite of an exasperated amusement over her liability to break out with new ideas at unexpected moments. both these ladies were loud in their exhortations to lydia not to let maternity be in her life the encumbering, unbeautifying, too lengthy episode it was to women with less force of character than their own. "you do get so _out_ of things," madeleine told her with her usual breathless italicizing, "if you stay away too long. you just never can catch up! there's a behind-the-timesy _smell_ about your clothes--honest, there is--if you let them go too long." marietta added her quota of experienced wisdom to the discussion. "if you just hang over a baby all the time, you get morbid, and queer, and different." madeleine had laughed, and summed up the matter with a terse, "worse than that! you get left!" lydia's elder brother, george, the rich one, who lived in cleveland and manufactured rakes and hoes, wrote her one of his rare letters to the same effect. lydia thought it likely that he had been moved to this unusual show of interest in her affairs by proddings from her mother and marietta. if this surmise was correct, and if a similar request had been sent to henry, the other member of the emery family, the one who had married the grocer's daughter, the appeal had a strikingly different effect. from oregon came an impetuous, slangily-worded exhortation to lydia not to make a fool of herself and miss the best of life to live up to the tommyrot standard of old dry-as-dust endbury. the emerys heard but seldom from this erring son, and lydia, who had been but a child when he left home, had never before received a letter from him. he wrote from a fruit farm in oregon, the description of which, on the grandiloquent letter-head, gave an impression of ampleness and prosperity which was not contradicted by the full-blooded satisfaction in life which breathed from every line of the breezy, good-natured letter. the incident stirred lydia's imagination. it spoke of a wider horizon--of a fresher air than that about her. she tried to remember the loud-talking, much-laughing, easy-going young man as she had seen him last. they were too far apart in years to have had much companionship, but there had been between them an unspoken affection which had never died. people always said that george and marietta were alike and lydia and harry. to this mrs. emery always protested that lydia wasn't in the _least_ like henry, and she didn't know what people were talking about; but the remark gave a secret pleasure to lydia. she, too, was very fond of laughing, and her brother's vein of light-hearted nonsense had been a great delight to her. it was not present in any of the rest of the family, and certainly did not show itself in her at this period of her life. during this time paul's attention was concentrated on bringing about a reallotment of american electric territory in the middle west, an arrangement that would add several busy cities to his district and make a decided difference in his salary and commissions. he worked early and late in the endbury office, and made many trips into all parts of the field, to gather data conclusive of the value of his scheme. lydia had tried hard to get from him information enough to understand what it was all about, but he put her off with vague, fatigued assurances that it was too complicated for her to grasp, or for him to go over without his papers; that it would take him too long to explain, and that, anyhow, she could be sure of one thing--it was all straight, clean business, designed entirely to give the public better service and more work from everybody all 'round. lydia did not doubt this. it was always a great source of satisfaction to her to feel secure and unshaken trust in her father's and her husband's business integrity, and she was sorry for marietta, who could not, she feared, count among her spiritual possessions any such faith in ralph. it was, on the other hand, one of her most unresigned regrets, that she was not allowed to share in these ideals for public service of her husband and father--these ideals so distantly glimpsed by her, and perhaps not very consciously felt by them. it was not that they refused to answer any one of her questions, but they were so little in the habit of articulating this phase of their activities that their tongues balked stubbornly before her ignorant and fumbling attempts to enter this inner chamber. "oh, it's all right, lydia! just you trust me!" paul would cry, with a hint of vexation in his voice, as if he felt that questions could mean only suspicion. lydia's tentative efforts to construct a bridge between her world and his met constantly with this ill success. she had had so little training in bridge-building, she thought sadly. one evening that spring, such a futile attempt of hers was interrupted by the son of one of their neighbors, a lad of eighteen, who had just been given a subordinate position in his father's business. as he strolled up to their veranda steps, lydia looked up from the dress she was enlarging for the rapidly growing baby and reflected that astonishingly rapid growth is the law of all healthy youth. the tall boy looked almost ludicrous to her in his ultra-correct man's outfit, so vividly did she recall him, three or four years before, in short trousers and round-collared shirt-waist. his smooth, rosy face had still the downy bloom of adolescence. "howd' do, walter!" said paul, glancing up from a pile of blue-prints over which he had been straining his eyes in the fading evening light. "evening," answered the boy, nodding and sitting down on the top step with one knee up. "d'you mind if i smoke, mrs. hollister?" "not at all," she answered gravely, tickled by the elaborate carelessness with which he handled his new pipe. "what you working on, hollister?" he went on with the manner of one old business man to another. lydia hid a smile. she found him delicious. she began to think how she could make dr. melton laugh with her account of walter the man. "the lay-out of the new power-house--elliott-gridley works in urbana," answered paul, in a straightforward, reasonable tone, a little absent. lydia stopped smiling. it was a tone he had never used to answer any business question she had ever put to him. "i'm figuring on their generators," he went on in explanation. "big contract?" asked walter. "two thousand kilowatt turbo generator," answered paul. the other whistled. "whew! i didn't know they had the cash!" "they haven't," said paul briefly. "oh, chattel-mortgage?" surmised the other. "lease-contract," paul corrected. "that doesn't have to be recorded." "what's the matter with recording it?" "afraid of their credit. they don't want dunn's sending all over creation that they've put chattel-mortgages on their equipment, do they?" "no; sure! i see." the boy grasped instantly, with a quick nod, the other's meaning. "well, that's _one_ way of gettin' 'round it!" he added admiringly after an instant's pause. lydia had laid down her work and was looking intently at her two companions. at this she gave a stifled exclamation which made the boy turn his head. "say, mrs. hollister, aren't you looking kind of pale this evening?" he asked. "these first hot nights do take it out of a person, don't they? mr. hollister ought to take you to put-in-bay for a holiday. momma'd take care of the baby for you and welcome. she's crazy about babies." he was again the overgrown school-boy that lydia knew. the conversation drifted to indifferent topics. lydia did not take her usual share in it, and when their caller had gone paul inquired if she really were exhausted by the heat. "oh, no," she said; "you know i don't mind the heat." "you didn't say much when walter was here, and i--" "i was thinking," lydia broke in. "i was thinking that i couldn't understand a word you and walter were saying any more than if you were talking hebrew. i was thinking that that little boy knows more about your business than i do." paul did not attempt to deny this, but he laughed at her dramatic accent. "sure, he does! and about how to tie a four-in-hand, and what's the best stud to wear at the back of a collar, and where to buy socks. what's that to you?" lydia looked at him with quivering, silent lips. he answered, with a little heat: "why, look-y here, lydia, suppose i were a doctor. you wouldn't expect to know how many grains of morphine or what d'you call 'em i was going to use in--" "but dr. melton _is_ a doctor, and i know lots about what he thinks of as he lives day after day--there are other things besides technical details and grains of morphine--other problems--human things--why, for instance, there's one question that torments him all the time--how much it's right to humor people who aren't sick but think they are. he talks to me a great deal about such--" paul laughed, rising and gathering up his blue-prints. "well, i can't think of any problem that torments me but the everlasting one of how to sell more generators and motors than my competitors. come on indoors, honey; i've got to have some light if i finish going over these to-night." his accent was evidently intended to end the discussion, and lydia allowed it to do so, although the incident was one she could not put out of her mind. she watched walter going back and forth to endbury with a jealousy the absurdity of which she herself realized, and she listened with a painful intentness to the boy's talk during his occasional idle sojourns on their veranda steps. yet she had been used to hearing paul talk unintelligibly to the business associates whom, from time to time, he brought out to the house to dine and to talk business afterward. somehow, she said to herself, it's being just _walter_ seemed to bring it home to her. to have that boy--and yet she liked him, too, she thought. she looked sometimes into his fresh, innocently keen face with a yearning apprehension. paul was amused at his precocious airs, and yet was not without respect for his rapidly developing business capacity. he said once, "walter's a real nice boy. i shouldn't mind having a son like that myself!" the remark startled lydia. if she were to have a son he _would_ be like that, she realized. and he would grow up and marry some--she sprang up and caught ariadne to her in a sudden fierce embrace. "you'll break your back lifting that heavy baby 'round so," paul remonstrated with justice. for all her aversion to the set forms of "society" as understood by endbury, lydia was fond of having people about her, "to try to get really acquainted with them" she said, and during that summer the hollister veranda in the evening became a rendezvous for their bellevue neighbors. paul rather deplored the time wasted in this unprofitable variety of informal social life which, in his phrase, "counted for nothing" but he was always glad to see walter. "at the rate he's going and the way he's taking hold, he'll be a valuable business friend in a few years," he said prophetically to lydia, and he assumed more and more the airs of a comrade with the lad. one evening when walter came lounging over to the veranda, lydia was busy indoors, but later she stepped to the door in time to hear paul say, laughing: "well, for all that, he's not so good as wellman phelps' stenographer." "how so?" asked the boy, alert for a pleasantry from his elder. "why, phelps carries this fellow 'round with him everywhere he goes, has had him for years, and twice a week all he has to do is to say: 'say, fred; write my wife, will you?'" his listener broke out into a peal of boyish laughter. "pretty good!" he applauded the joke. "it's a fact," paul went on. "fred writes it and signs it and sends it off, and phelps never has to trouble his head about it." lydia stepped back into the darkness of the hall. when she came out later, a misty figure in white, paul rose, saying, "well, walter, i'll leave you to mrs. hollister now. i've got some work to do before i get to bed." lydia sat silent, looking at the boy's face, clear and untarnished in the moonlight. he was looking dreamily away at the lawn, dappled with the shadow of the slender young trees. they seemed creatures scarcely more sylvan than he, sprawled, like a loitering faun with his hands clasped behind his head. his mouth had the pure, full outlines of a child's. "what are you thinking about, walter?" lydia asked him suddenly. he started, and brought his limpid gaze to hers. "about how to cross-index our follow-up letter catalogue better," he answered promptly. "really? really?" she leaned toward him, urging him to frankness. he was surprised at her tone. "why, sure!" he told her. "why not? what else?" lydia said no more. she had never felt more helplessly her remoteness from her husband's world than during that spring. it was a sentiment that paul, apparently, did not reciprocate. in spite of his frequent absences from home and his detached manner about most domestic questions, he had as definite ideas about his wife's resumption of her social duties as had everyone else. "it made him uneasy," as he put it, "to be losing so many points in the game." "look here, my dear," he said one evening in spring when the question came up; "summer's almost here, and this winter's been as good as dropped right out. can't you just pick up a few threads and make a beginning? it'll make it easier in the fall." he added, uneasily, "we don't want old lowder and madeleine to get ahead of us entirely, you know. you can leave the kid with 'stashie, can't you, once in a while? she ought to be able to do _that_ much, i should think." he spoke as though he had assigned to her the simplest possible of all domestic undertakings. as lydia made no response, he said finally, before attacking a pile of papers, "if i'm going to earn a lot more money, what good'll it do us if you don't do your share? besides, we owe it to the kid. you want to do your best by your little girl, don't you?" as always, lydia responded with a helpless alacrity to that appeal. "oh, yes! oh, yes! we must do our best for her." this phrase summed up the religion she had at last found after so much fervent, undirected search. the church, as she knew it, was chiefly the social center of various fashionable activities which differed from ordinary fashionable enterprises only in being used to bring in money, which money, handed over to the rector, disappeared into the maw of some unknown, voracious, charitable institution. and beyond the church there had been no element in the life she knew, that was not frankly materialistic. but now, as the miracle of awakening consciousness took place daily in her very sight, and as the first dawnings of a personality began to look out of her child's eyes, all lydia's vague spiritual cravings, all the groping tendrils of her aspirations, clung about the conviction more and more summing up her inner life, that she must do her best for ariadne, must make the world, into which that little new soul had come, a better place than she herself had found it. she felt as naïvely and passionately that her child must be saved the mistakes that she had made, as though she were the first mother who ever sent up over her baby's head that pitiful, universal prayer. the matter of the social duty of the young hollisters was finally compromised by lydia's accepting a number of invitations for the latter part of the season, and giving a series of big receptions in may. they were not by a hair nor a jot nor a tittle to be distinguished from their predecessors of the year before. as they seemed hardly adequate, lydia suggested half-heartedly that they give a dinner party, but paul replied, "with 'stashie to pour soup down people's backs and ask them how their baby's whooping cough is, as she passes the potatoes?" the hot weather came with the rush that was always so unexpected and so invariable, and another season was over. it was a busy, silent, thoughtful summer for lydia. of course (much to lydia's distress), ariadne had been weaned when her mother had been forced to leave her to "go out" again, and this necessitated such anxious attention to her diet and general regimen during the hot weather that lydia was very grateful to have little to interfere with her. the general office had accepted provisionally paul's redistributing plan, and in his anxiety to prove its value he was away from home more even than usual. the heat was terrible, but lydia and he both knew no other climate, and lydia loved the summer as the time of year when the fierceness of nature forced on all her world a reluctant adjournment of their usual methods of spending their lives. she was absorbed in ariadne, and the slow, blazing summer days were none too long for her. the child began to develop an individuality. she was a sensitive, quickly-responsive little thing; exactly, so mrs. emery said, like lydia at her age, except that she seemed to have none of lydia's native mirth, but, rather, a little pensive air that made her singularly appealing to all who saw her, and that pierced her mother's heart with an anguish of protecting love. lydia said to her godfather one day, suddenly, "i wonder if people can be taught how to fight?" he had one of his flashes of intuition. "the baby, you mean?" lydia evaded the directness of this. "oh, in general, aren't folks better off if they like to fight for themselves? don't they _have_ to?" he considered the question in one of his frowning silences, so long that lydia started when he spoke again. "they don't need to fight with claws for their food, as they used to do. things are arranged now so that the physically strong, who like such a life, are the ones who choose it. they get food for the others. why shouldn't the morally strong fight for the weaker ones and make it possible for everyone to have a chance at developing the best of himself without having to battle with others to do it?" "that's pretty vague," said lydia. "why, look here," said the doctor. "you don't plow the field to plant the wheat that makes your bread. that's a man of a coarser physical fiber than yours, who is strengthened by the effort, and not exhausted as you would be. why shouldn't the world be so organized that somebody of coarser moral texture than yours should do battle with the forces of materialism and tragic triviality that--" "but ariadne's growing up! she will need all that so _soon_-- and the world won't be organized then, you know it won't--and she's no fighter by instinct, any more than--" she was silent. the doctor filled in her incomplete sentence mentally, and found no answer to make. chapter xxiv "through pity and terror effecting a purification of the heart" one hot day in august, ariadne slept later than usual and when she woke was quite unlike her usual romping, active self. her round face was deeply flushed, and she lay listlessly in her little bed, repulsing with a feeble fretfulness every attempt to give her food. lydia's heart swelled so that she was choked with its palpitations. paul was out of town. she was alone in the house except for her servant. to that ignorant warm heart she turned with an inexpressible thankfulness. "oh, 'stashie! stashie!" she called in a voice that brought the other clattering breathlessly up the stairs. "the baby! look at the baby! and she won't touch her bottle." the tragic change in the irishwoman's face as she looked at their darling, their anguished community of feeling--there was instantly a bond for the two women which wonderfully ignored all the dividing differences between them. lydia felt herself--as she rarely did--not alone. it brought a wild comfort into her tumult. "'stashie, you don't--you don't think she's--_sick?_" she brought the word out with horrified difficulty. 'stashie was running down the back stairs. "i'm 'phonin' to th' little ould doctor," she called over her shoulder. lydia ran to catch up ariadne. the child turned from her mother with a moan and closed her eyes heavily. a moment later, to lydia's terror, she had sunk into a stupor. the doctor found mistress and maid hanging over the baby's bed with white faces and trembling lips, hand in hand, like sisters. he examined the child silently, swiftly, looking with a face of inscrutable blankness at the clinical thermometer with which he had taken her temperature. "just turn her so she'll lie comfortably," he told 'stashie, "and then you stay with her a moment. i want a talk with your mistress." in the hall, he cast at lydia a glance of almost angry exhortation to summon her strength. "are you fit to be a mother?" he asked harshly. "wait a minute," said lydia; she drew a long breath and took hold of the balustrade. "yes," she answered. "ariadne's very sick. i oughtn't to have allowed you to wean her with hot weather coming on. you'd better wire paul." "yes," she said, not blenching. "what else can i do?" "'phone to the hospital for a trained nurse, start some water boiling to sterilize things, and get somebody here in a hurry to go to the nearest drug store for me. i'll go back to her now." "is she--is she--dangerously--?" asked lydia in a low, steady voice. "yes; she is," he said unsparingly. the telegram lydia sent her husband read: "ariadne suddenly taken very sick. dr. melton says dangerously. he thinks she does not suffer much, though she seems to. when shall i expect you?" the answer she received in a few hours read: "have two nurses. get jones, cleveland, consultation. impossible to leave." it was handed her as she was running up the stairs with a pitcher of hot water. she read it, as she did everything that day, in a dreamlike rapidity and quietness, and showed it to dr. melton without comment. he handed it back without a word. later, he turned for an instant from the little bed to say, irrelevantly, "peterson, of toledo, would be better than jones, if i have to have anybody. but so far, it's simple enough--damnably simple." he was obliged to leave for a time after this, called by a patient at the point of death. that seemed quite natural to lydia. death was thick in the air. he left the baby to a clear-eyed, deft-handed, impersonal trained nurse, on whom lydia waited slavishly, sitting motionless in a corner of the room until she was sent for something, then flying noiselessly upon her errand. her mother and father were out of town, and marietta limited herself to telephoning frequent inquiries. she told 'stashie to tell her sister she knew she would be only in the way, with two nurses in the house. lydia made 'stashie answer all the telephone calls. she felt that if she broke her silence, if she tried to speak--and then she could not bear to be out of the sight of the little figure with the flushed cheeks, moving her head back and forth on the pillow and gazing about with bright, unseeing eyes. as night came on, she began to give, in a voice not her own, little piteous cries of suffering, or strange delirious mockeries of her pretty laughter and quaint, unintelligible, prattling talk. once, as the long, hot night stood still, the baby called out, quite clearly: "mamma! mamma!" it was the first time she had ever said it. lydia sprang up and rushed toward the bed like an insane person, her arms outstretched, her eyes glittering. dr. melton did not forbid her to take up her child, but he said in a neutral tone, "it would be better for her to lie perfectly quiet." lydia stopped short, shuddering. the doctor did not take his eyes from his little patient. after a moment the mother went slowly back to her seat. "hand me the thermometer," said the doctor to the nurse. in the early morning came a telegram from paul. "wire me frequently baby's condition. spare no expense in treatment." lydia answered: "ariadne slightly worse. doctor says crisis in three days." this time she put in no extra information as to the baby's suffering, and her message was under ten words, like his own. she despatched him thereafter a bulletin every four or five hours. they ran mostly to the effect that ariadne was about the same. the doctor came and went, the nurses relieved each other, the telephone rang for marietta's inquiries, flora burgess called once a day to get the news from 'stashie. lydia was slave to the nurses, alert for the slightest service she could render them, divining, with a desperate intuition, their needs before they were formulated. 'stashie was the only person who paid the least attention to her, 'stashie the only phenomena to break in on the solitude that surrounded her like an illimitable plain. 'stashie made her eat. 'stashie saw to it that once or twice she lay down. 'stashie combed her hair, and bathed her white face--most of all, 'stashie went about with eyes that reflected faithfully the suffering in lydia's own. she said very little, but as they passed, the two women sometimes exchanged brief words: "niver you think it possible, mis' hollister!" "no," lydia would answer resolutely; "it's not possible." but as the hours slowly filed past the doctor assured her bluntly that it would be quite possible. "there's a fighting chance," he said, "and nothing more." he added relentlessly, "if i hadn't been such a fool as to let you wean her--" there was in his manner none of his usual tenderness to his godchild. one would have thought he scarcely saw her. he was the physician wholly. lydia was grateful to him for this. she could not have borne his tenderness then, but his professional concentration left her horribly alone. no, not alone! there was always 'stashie--silent 'stashie, with red eyes, her heart bleeding. but even 'stashie's loyal heart could not know all the bitterness of lydia's. 'stashie's breasts did not swell and throb, as if in mockery. 'stashie did not hear, over and over, "if she had not been weaned--" on the night and near the hour when the crisis was expected, lydia was at the end of the hall, where she had installed an oil-stove. she was heating water needed for some of the processes of the sick room. it had begun to steam up in the thick, hot night air, was singing loudly, and would boil in an instant. she sat looking at it in her tense, trembling quiet. there was no light but the blue flame of the stove. suddenly there rang loudly in her ears the question to which she had deafened herself with such crucifying effort--"what if ariadne should die?" it was as though someone had called to her. she looked down into the black abyss from which she had willfully turned away her eyes, and saw that it was fathomless. a throe of revolt and hatred shook her. she bowed her head to her knees, racked by an anguish compared with which the torture of childbirth was nothing; and out of this deadly pain came forth, as in childbirth, something alive--a vision as swift, as passing as a glimpse into the gates of paradise; a blinding certainty of immensity, of the hugeness of the whole of which she and ariadne were a part; of the sacredness of life, which was to be lived sacredly, even if-- she raised her head, living a more exalted instant than she had ever dreamed she would know. the water broke into quick, dancing bubbles. in a period of time incalculably short, transfiguration had come to her. the door at the other end of the hall opened and dr. melton's light, uneven footstep echoed back of her. she did not turn. he laid a hand on her shoulder. it was trembling, and with a wonderful consciousness of endless courage she turned to comfort him. his lips were twitching so that for an instant he could not speak. then, "she'll pull through. i'm pretty sure now, she'll--" he got out and leaned against the wall. lydia took him into a protecting embrace as though it were his baby who had turned back from the gates of death. she had come into a larger heritage. she was mother to all that suffered. looking down on the head which, for an instant, lay on her bosom, she noticed how white the hair was. he was an old man, her godfather, he had been on a long strain--. he looked up at her. and then in an instant it was over. he had mastered himself and had grasped the handle of the basin. "how long has this been boiling?" he asked. lydia pointed to her watch, hanging on the wall. "three minutes by that," she said. "may i leave to tell 'stashie?" the doctor nodded absently. neither spoke of paul. lydia hurried across the dark, silent house with swift sureness. the happiness she was about to confer cast a radiance upon her. she touched the door to the servant's room, and ran her fingers lightly over it to find the knob. faint as the noise was, it was answered instantly by a stir inside. there was a thud of bare feet and a quick rush. lydia felt the door swing open before her in the darkness and spoke quickly to the trembling, breathing form she divined there, "the doctor says she's safe." strong arms were about her, hot tears not her own rained down on her face. before she knew it, she was swept to her knees, where, locked in the other's close embrace, she felt the big heart thump loud against her own and heard go up above her head a wild "oh, god! oh, mary mother! oh, christ! oh, mary mother! glory be to god! hail, mary, mother of god! thanks be to god! thanks be--" kneeling there in the blackness, with her servant's arms around her, lydia thought it the first prayer she had ever heard. * * * * * ariadne grew well with the miraculous rapidity of children, and when paul came back was almost herself again, if a little thinner. it was upon lydia that paul's eyes fastened, lydia very white, her face almost translucent, her starry eyes contradicting the tremor of her lips. he drew her to him, crying out: "why, lydia darling, you look as though you'd been drawn through a knot-hole! this has been enough sight harder on you than on the baby! what in the world wore _you_ out so? i thought you had two nurses!" he looked closely into her face, seeing more changes: "why, you poor, poor, poor thing!" he said compassionately. "you look positively years older." "oh, i am that," she told him, seeming to speak, oddly enough, he thought, exultantly. "you just shouldn't allow yourself to get so wrought up over ariadne," he expostulated affectionately. "you'll wear yourself out! what earthly good did it do the baby? sickness is a matter for professionals, i tell you what! you had the two nurses and your precious old dr. melton that you swear by! what more could be done? that's the reason i didn't come back. i knew well enough that there wasn't an earthly thing i could do to help." lydia looked at him so strangely that he noticed it. "oh, of course i could have been company for you. but that was the _only_ thing! getting the baby well was the business of the hour, _wasn't_ it now? and the doctor and nurses were looking out for that. besides, you had 'stashie to wait on you." "yes; i had 'stashie," admitted lydia. paul perceived uneasily some enigmatic quality in her quiet answer, and went on reasonably: "now, lydia, don't go making yourself out a martyr because i didn't come back. you know i'd have come if there was anything to be done! i'd have come from the ends of the earth to help you nurse her if we'd had to do that! but, thank the lord, i make enough money so we could do better by the little tad than that!" "suppose i had gone to the theater that night," asked lydia slowly. "there was nothing i could do here." paul was justifiably aggrieved. "good lord, lydia! i wasn't off amusing myself! i was doing _business!_" his special accent for the word was never more pronounced. "making money to pay for the trained nurses that saved her life," he ended. his conviction of the unanswerable force of this statement put him again in good humor. "now, little madame, you listen to me. you're going to take a junketing honeymoon off with me, or i'll know the reason why! i'm going to take you up to put-in-bay for a vacation! pretty near all our card-club gang are there now, and we'll have a gay old time and cheer you up! i bet you just let yourself go, and worried yourself into a fever, didn't you?" during this speech lydia stood leaning against him, feeling the cloth of his sleeve rough on her bare forearm, feeling the stir and life of his body, the warmth of his breath on her face. she had an impulse to scream wildly to him, as though to make him hear and stop and turn, before he finally disappeared from her sight; and she faced him dumbly. there were no words to tell him--she tried to speak, but before his absent, kind, wandering eyes, a foreknowledge of her own inarticulateness closed her lips. he had not been there, and so he would never know. she stirred, moved away, and rearranged the flowers in a vase. "oh, yes; i worried, of course," she said. "the baby was awfully sick for three days." she felt desperately that she was failing in the most obvious duty not to try to make him understand what had happened in his absence. she bethought herself of one fact, the mere statement of which should tell him a thousand times more eloquently than words, something of what she had suffered. "the doctor told me twice that she wouldn't have been sick if she hadn't been weaned." she said this with an accent of immense significance, clasping her hands together hard. paul was unpacking his suit-case. "great scott! you nursed her six months!" he said conclusively, over his shoulder. "besides, you _had_ to wean her--don't you remember?" "oh, yes; i remember," said lydia. her hands dropped to her sides. "don't they get over things quickly?" commented paul, looking around at the baby. "to see her creeping around like a little hop-toad and squeaking that rubber bunny--why, i declare, i don't believe that anything's been the matter with her at all. you and the doctor lost your nerve, i guess." three or four days later he was called away again. their regular routine began. the long, slow days, slid past the house in bellevue in endless, dreamy procession. ariadne grew fast, developing constantly new faculties, new powers. by the end of the summer she was no longer a baby, but a person. the young mother felt the same mysterious forces of change and growth working irresistibly in herself. the long summer, thoughtful and solitary, marked the end of one period in her life. she looked forward shrinkingly to the winter. what would happen to this new self whose growth in her was keeping pace with her child's? what would happen next? chapter xxv a black milestone what happened was, in the first week of october, the sudden death of her father. it was sudden only to his wife and daughter, whom, as always, the judge had tried to spare, at all costs, the knowledge of anything unpleasant. dr. melton thought that perhaps the strong man's incredulity of anything for him to fear had a good deal to do with his repeated refusals to allow his wife or daughter to be warned of the danger of apoplexy. without that hypothesis, it seemed incredible, he told mrs. sandworth, that so kind a man could be so cruel. "everything's incredible," murmured mrs. sandworth, her handkerchief at her eyes, her loving heart aching for the newly-made widow, her lifelong friend. her brother did not answer. he sat, gnawing savagely on his finger nails, his thoughts centered, as always, on his darling lydia--fatherless. he had prided himself on his acute insight into human nature in general, and upon his specialized, intensified knowledge of those two women whom he had known so long and studied so minutely; but "i've been a conceited blockhead, and vanity's treacherous as well as damnable," he cried out to his sister some days later, amazed beyond expression at the way in which their loss affected lydia and her mother. mrs. emery's attitude was a revelation to him, a revelation that left him almost as angrily full of grief as she herself. he had thought best on the whole not to disclose to her the substance of the several conversations he had had with his dead friend on the subject of finances. with two prosperous sons, the widow would be well taken care of, he thought, perhaps adding with a little acridity, "just as she always has been, without a thought on her part." but when mrs. emery, divining the truth with an awful intuition, came flying to him after the settlement, he was not proof against the fury of her interrogations. if she wanted to know, he would tell her, he thought grimly to himself. "there is nothing left," she began, bursting into his office, "but the house, which has a mortgage, and the insurance--nothing! nothing!" it was rather soon for her to be resentful, the doctor thought bitterly, misreading the misery on her face. "no," he said. "had the judge lost any money--do you know?" "no; i think not." "but where--what--we had at one time five thousand dollars at least in the savings bank. i happened to know of that small account. i supposed of course there was more. there is no trace of even that, the administrator says." "that went into the extra expenses of the year lydia made her début. and her wedding cost a great deal, he told me one day--and her trousseau--and other expenses at that time." used as the doctor was to the universal custom of divided interests among his well-to-do patients, it did not seem too strange to him to be giving information about her own affairs to this gray-haired matron. she was not the first widow to whom he had been forced to break bad news of her husband's business. mrs. emery stared at him, her dry lips apart, a glaze over her eyes. he thought her expression strange. as she said nothing, he added, with a little sour pleasure in defending his dead friend, even if it should give a prick to a survivor, "the judge was so scrupulously honest, you know." the widow sat down and laid her arms across the table, still staring hard at the doctor. it came to him that she was not looking at him at all, but at some devastating inner sight, which seared her heart, but from which she could not turn away her eyes. he himself turned away, beginning to be aware of some passion within her beyond his divination. there was a long silence. finally, "that was the reason he would not stop working," said the woman in a voice which made the physician whirl about. he looked sharply into her face, and what he saw there took him in one stride to her side. she kept her stony eyes still on the place where he had been--eyes that saw only, as though for the first time, some long procession of past events. "i see everything now," she went on with the same flat intonation. "he _could_ not stop. that was the reason why he would never rest." she got slowly to her feet, smoothing over and over one side of her skirt with a strange automatic gesture. she was looking full into the doctor's face now. "i have killed him," she said quietly, and fell as though struck down by a blow from behind. her long, long illness was spent in the melton's home, with the doctor in attendance and julia sandworth, utterly devoted, constantly at hand. the old emery house, the outward symbol of her married life, was sold, and the big "yard" cut up into building lots long before she was able to sit up. lydia came frequently, but, acting on the doctor's express command, never brought ariadne. the outbreaks of self-reproach and embittered grief that were likely to burst upon the widow, even in the midst of one of her quiet, listless days, were not, he said, for a child to see or hear, especially such a sensitive little thing as ariadne. those wild bursts of remorse were delirious, he told lydia, but to his sister he said he wished they were. "i imagine they are the only times when she comes really to herself," he added sadly. [illustration: "i see everything now," she went on. "he could not stop."] the especial agony for the sick woman was that nothing of what had happened seemed to her now in the least necessary. "why, if i had only known--if i had only dreamed how things were--" she cried incessantly to those about her. "what did i care about anything compared with nat! i loved my husband! what did i care--if i had only dreamed that--if i had only known what i was doing!" dr. melton labored in heartsick pity to remove her fixed idea, which soon became a monomania, that she alone was to blame for the judge's death. it now seemed to him, in his sympathy with her grief, that she had been like a child entrusted with some frail, priceless object and not warned of its fragility. she herself cried out constantly with astonished hatred upon a world that had left her so. "if anyone had warned me--had given me the least idea that it was so serious--i could have lived in three rooms--we had been poor--what did i care for anything but nathaniel! i only did all those things because--because there was nothing else to do!" lydia tried to break the current with a reminder of the sweet memories of the past. "father loved you so! he loved to give you what you wanted, mother dear." "what i wanted! i wanted my husband. i want my husband!" the widow screamed like a person on the rack. the doctor sent lydia away with a hasty gesture. "you must not see her when she is violent," he said. "you would never forget it." it was something he himself never forgot, used as he was to pitiful scenes in the life of suffering humanity. he was almost like a sick person himself, going about his practice with sunken eyes and gray face. his need for sympathy was so great that he abandoned the tacit silence about the emerys which had existed between him and rankin ever since lydia's marriage, and, going out to the house in the black rock woods, unburdened to the younger man the horror of his heart. "she's suffering," he cried. "she's literally heartbroken! she is! it's real! and what has she had to make up for it? oh, it's monstrous! one thing she says keeps ringing in my ears. that gray-haired woman, a human being my own age--the silly, tragic, childish thing she keeps saying--'i only did all those things--i only wanted all those things--because there was nothing else!' _nothing else!_" he turned on his host with a fierce "good god! she's right. what else was there ever for--for any woman of her class--" rankin pushed his shivering, fidgeting visitor into a chair and, laying a big hand on his shoulder, said with a faint smile: "maybe i can divert your mind for an instant with a story--another one of my great-aunt's, only it's an old one this time; you've probably heard it--about the old man who said to his wife on his death-bed, 'i've tried to be a good husband to you, dear. it's been hard on my teeth sometimes, but i've always eaten the crusts and let you have the soft bread.' you remember what the wife's answer was?" "no," said the doctor frowning. "it's the epitome of tragedy. she said, 'oh, my dear, and i like crusts so!'" the doctor stared into the fire. "do you mean--there's work for them?" "i mean work for them," repeated the younger man. the word echoed in a long silence. "it's the most precious possession we have," said rankin finally. "we ought to share more evenly." the doctor rose to go. "generally i forget that we're of different generations," he said with apparent irrelevance, "but there are times when i feel it keenly." "why now especially?" rankin wondered. "i've stated a doctrine that is yours, too." "no; you wouldn't see, of course. yes; it's my doctrine--in theory. i believe it, as people believe in christianity. i should be equally loath to see anybody doubt it, or practice it. ah, i'm a fool! besides, i was born in kentucky. and i'm sixty-seven years old." he shut the door behind him with emphasis. he was on his way to bellevue to see lydia. knowing her tender heart, he had expected to see her drowned in grief over her father's death. her dry-eyed quiet made him uneasy. that morning, he found her holding ariadne on her knees and telling her in a self-possessed, low tone, which did not tremble, some stories of "when grandfather was a little boy." "i don't want her to grow up without knowing something of my father," she explained to the doctor. her godfather laid a hand on her arm. "don't keep the tears back so, lydia," he implored. she gave him as great a shock of surprise as her mother had done. "if i could cry," she said quietly, "it would be because i feel so little sorrow. i do not miss my father at all--or hardly at all." the doctor caught at his chair and stared. "how should i?" she went on drearily. "i almost never saw him. i never spoke to him about anything that really mattered. i never let him know me--or anything i really felt." "what are you talking about?" cried the doctor. "you always lived at home." "i never lived with my father. he was always away in the morning before i was up. i was away, or busy, in the evening when he was there. on sundays he never went to church as mother and i did--i suppose now because he had some other religion of his own. but if he had i never knew what it was--or anything else that was in his mind or heart. it never occurred to me that i could. he tried to love me--i remember so many times now--and _that_ makes me cry!--how he tried to love me! he was so glad to see me when i got home from europe--but he never knew anything that happened to me. i told you once before that when i had pneumonia and nearly died mother kept it from him because he was on a big case. it was all like that--always. he never knew." dr. melton broke in, his voice uncertain, his face horrified: "lydia, i cannot let you go on! you are unfair--you shock me. you are morbid! i knew your father intimately. he loved you beyond expression. he would have done anything for you. but his profession is an exacting one. put yourself in his place a little. it is all or nothing in the law--as in business." "when you bring children into the world, you expect to have them cost you some money, don't you? you know you mustn't let them die of starvation. why oughtn't you to expect to have them cost you thought, and some sharing of your life with them, and some time--real time, not just scraps that you can't use for business?" as the doctor faced her, open-mouthed and silent, she went on, still dry-eyed, but with a quaver in her voice that was like a sob: "but, oh, the worst of my blame is for myself! i was a blind, selfish, self-centered egotist. i could have changed things if i had only tried harder. i am paying for it now. i am paying for it!" she took her child up in her arms and bent over the dark silky hair. she whispered, "it's not that i have lost my father. i never had a father--but you!" she put out her hand and pressed the doctor's hard. "and my poor father had no daughter." she set the child on the floor with a gesture almost violent, and cried out loudly, breaking for the first time her cheerless calm, "and now it is too late!" ariadne turned her rosy round face to her mother's, startled, almost frightened. lydia knelt down and put her arms about the child. she looked solemnly into her godfather's eyes, and, as though she were taking a great and resolute oath, she said, "but it is not too late for ariadne." chapter xxvi a hint from childhood as the spring advanced and judge emery's widow recovered a little strength, it became apparent that life in endbury, with its heartbreaking associations, would be intolerable to her. in anxious family councils many futile plans were suggested, but they were all brushed decisively away by the unexpected arrival from oregon of the younger son of the family. one day in may, a throbbingly sunshiny day, full of a fierce hot vigor of vitality, lydia was with her mother in the melton's darkened parlor. as so often, the two women had been crying and now sat in a weary lethargy, hand in hand. there came a step on the porch, in the hall, and in the doorway stood a tall stranger. lydia looked at him blankly, but her mother gave a cry and flung herself into his arms. "i've come to take you home with me, momma dear," he said quietly, using the old name for her, which had been banished from the emery household since lydia's early childhood. the sound of it went to her heart. the newcomer smiled at her over his mother's head. it was her father's smile, the quaint, half-wistful, humorous smile, which had seemed so incongruous on the judge's powerful face. "i'm your brother harry, little lyddie," he said, "and i've come to take care of poor momma." during all that summer it was a bitter regret to lydia that she had seen her brother so short a time. he had decreed that the sooner his mother was taken away from endbury, the better for her, and mrs. emery had clung to him, assenting passively to all he said, and peering constantly, with tear-blurred eyes, into his face to see again his astonishing resemblance to his father. they had left the day after his arrival. he had found time, however, to go out to bellevue for a brief visit, to see lydia's home and her little daughter--paul was away on a business trip--and the half-hour he spent there was one that lydia never forgot. the tall, sunburned westerner, with his kind, humorous eyes, his affectionate smile, his quaint, homely phrases, haunted the house for the rest of the summer. the time of his stay had been too breathlessly short for any serious talk. he had looked about at the big, handsome house with a half-mocking awe, inspected the "grounds" with a lively interest in the small horticultural beginnings lydia had been able to achieve, told her she ought to see his two hundred acres of apple-trees; and for the time that was left before his trolley-car was due he played with his little niece and talked over her head to his sister. "she's a dandy, lyddie! she's a jim-dandy of a little girl! she ought to come out and learn to ride straddle with her cousins. i got a boy about her age--say, they'd look fine together! he's a towhead, like all the rest of 'em--like their mother." for months afterward lydia could close her eyes and see again the transfigured expression that had come over his face at the mention of his wife. "talk about luck!" he said, after a moment's pause, "there never was such luck as my getting annie. say, i wish you could know her, lyddie. i tell you what--shoulder to shoulder, every minute, she's stood up to things right there beside me for twelve years--lord! it don't seem more than six months when i stop to think about it. we had some hard sledding along at the first, but with the two of us pulling together--. she's laughed at sickness and drought and bugs and floods. we're all through that now, we're doing fine; but, honest, it was worth it, to know annie through and through as i do. there isn't a thing about the business she doesn't know as well as i do, and good reason why, too. we've worked it all out together. we've stuck close, we have. i've helped in the house and with the kids, and she's come right out into the orchards with me. share and share alike--that's our motto." he was silent a moment, caressing ariadne's dark hair gently, and reviewing the past with shining eyes. "lord! lord! it's been a good life!" he turned to his sister with a smile. "well, lyddie, i expect you know something about it, too. you certainly are fixed fine, and everybody says you've married a splendid fellow." lydia leaned forward eagerly, the impulse to unburden herself overwhelming. "oh, paul is the best man--" she began, "so true and kind and--and--pure--but harry, we don't--we can't--his business--" she turned away from her brother's too keen eyes and stared blindly at the wall, conscious of an ache in her heart like a physical hurt. later, as they were talking of old memories, of lydia's childhood, harry asked suddenly: "how'd you happen to give your little girl such a funny name?" it was a question that had not been put to lydia before. her family had taken for granted that it was a feverish fancy of her sick-bed. she gazed at her brother earnestly, and was about to speak when he looked at his watch and stood up, glancing uneasily down toward the trolley track. it was too late--he would be gone so soon--like something she had dreamed. "oh, i liked the name," she said vaguely; adding, "harry! i wish you could stay longer! there's so much i should like to talk over with you. oh, how i wish you'd never gone away." "you come out and see us," he urged. "it'd do you good to get away from this old hole-in-the-ground! we live six miles from a neighbor, so you'd have to get along without tea-parties, but i bet annie and the kids would give you a good time all right." he kissed lydia good-by, tossed ariadne high in the air, and as he hurried down the driveway he called back over his shoulder: "take good care of my little niece for me! i tell you it's the kids that count the most!" it was a saying that filled ringingly for lydia the long, hot days of the quiet summer that ensued. as for ariadne, she did not for months stop talking of "nice, laughy, unkie hawy." her fluency of speech was increasing out of all proportion to her age. whatever slow changes might be taking place in lydia, went on silently and obscurely during that summer; but in the fall a new moral horizon burst upon her with the realization that she was again to become a mother. another life was to be entrusted to her hands, to hers and paul's, and with the knowledge came the certainty that she must now begin to take some action to place her outer life more in accord with her new inner self. it would be the worst moral cowardice longer to evade the issue. thus bravely did she exhort herself, and, though shrinking with apprehension at the very thought of entering upon a combat, attempted to shame herself into a little courage. when paul heard of his wife's hopes, he was enchanted. he cried out jubilantly: "i bet you it'll be a boy this time!" and caught her to him in an embrace of affection so ardent that for a moment she glowed like a bride. she clung to him, happy in the warmth of feeling that, responsive, as always, to his touch, sprang up in her; and when in his good-natured, half-laughing, dictatorial way he made her lie down at once and promise to rest and be quiet, the boyish absurdity of his solicitude was sweet to her. he disappeared in answer to a telephone call, and she closed her eyes, savoring the pleasure of the little scene. how she needed paul to reconcile her to life! how kind he really was! how good! his was the clean, honorable affection he had promised her on their wedding day. if she were to have any faith in the novels she read (like most american women of the leisure class, her education after her marriage consisted principally in reading the novels people talked about), if there was any truth in what she read in these stories, she felt she was blest far above most women in that there had come to her since her marriage no revelation of a hidden, unclean side to her husband's nature. but lydia had never felt herself closely touched by reading; it all seemed remote from her own life and problems. the sexual questions on which the plots invariably turned, which formed the very core and center of the lives of the various female characters, had, as a matter of fact, according to her honest observation of her acquaintances, a very subordinate place in the average american life about her. the marital unhappiness, estrangement, and fragmentary incompleteness in the circle she knew, over which she had grieved and puzzled, had nothing to do with what novels mean by "unfaithfulness." the women of endbury, unlike the heroines of fiction, did not fear that their husbands would fall in love with other women. the men of endbury spent as little time in sentimentalizing over other men's wives as they did over their own. she often wondered why writers did not treat of the other problems that beset her class--for instance, why it was only women in frontier conditions, like harry's wife, who could share in their husband's lives; why nobody tried to change things so that they could do more of their part in the work of the world; why they could not have a share in the activities that gave other men, even little boys like walter, so much closer knowledge of their husbands' characters than they, their wives, had. she had a dim notion, caught from stray indications in the magazines, that writers were considering such questions in books other than novels, but she had no idea how to search them out. the woman's club to which she belonged was occupied with the art of masaccio, who was, so a visitor from chicago's æsthetic circles informed them, the "latest thing" in art interests. she decided to ask paul if he had heard of such books. she would ask him so many such questions in the new life that was to begin. they had been married more than three years and, so far as their relations to each other went, they were by no means inharmonious; but of the close-knit, deep-rooted intimacy of soul and mind that had been her dream of married life, there had not been even a beginning. well, she told herself bravely, four years were but a short period in a lifetime. they were both so young yet. they could begin now. paul came back from the telephone, note-book in hand, jotting down some figures. he smiled at her over the top of the book, and before he sat down to his desk he covered her carefully with a shawl, stroked her hair, and closed her eyes, saying with an absent tenderness: "there! take a nap, dear, while i finish these notes." he looked supremely satisfied with himself in the instant before he plunged into his calculations, and lydia guessed that he was congratulating himself on having remembered her in the midst of absorbing business cares. she lay looking at him as he worked, her mind full of busy thoughts. chiefly, as she went over their situation, she felt guilty to think how entirely apart from him all her real life was passed. the doubts, the racking spiritual changes, that had come to her, she had kept all to herself; and yet she could say honestly that her silence had been involuntary, instinctive, she fancied whimsically, like the reticence as to emotions that one keeps in the hurly-burly of a railway station. with tickets to be bought and trunks to be checked and time-tables to be consulted, it is absurd to try to communicate to a busy and preoccupied companion inexplicable qualms of soul-sickness. any sensible woman--and lydia, like most american women, had been trained by precept and example to desire above all things to be sensible and not emotionally troublesome to the men of her family--any sensible woman kept her thoughts to herself till the time came when she could talk them over without interfering with the business on hand. as she lay on the sofa and watched paul's face sharpen in his concentration, it occurred to her that the point of the whole matter was that for her and paul the suitable and leisurely time for mutual discussion had never come. that was all! that was the whole trouble! it was not any inherent lack of common feeling between them. simply, there was always business on hand with which she must not interfere. paul lifted his head, his eyes half closed in a narrowed, speculative gaze upon some knotty point in his calculation. this long, sideways look happened to fall upon lydia, and she turned cold before the profound unconsciousness of her existence in those eyes apparently fixed so piercingly upon her. she had a quick fancy that the blank wall of abstraction at which that vacant stare was directed really and palpably separated her husband from her. for a moment she wondered if she were growing like the women she had heard her father so unsparingly condemn--silly, childish, egotistic women who could not bear to have their husbands think of anything but themselves, who were jealous of the very business which earned them and their children a living. she acquitted herself of this charge proudly. she did not want all of paul's time; she wanted only some of it. and then, it was not to have him thinking of her, but with her about the common problems of their life; it was to think with him about the problems of his life; it was to have him help her by his sound, well-balanced, well-trained mind, which, so everyone said, worked such miracles in business; to have him help her through the thicket of confusion into which she was plunged by her inability to accept the plainly-marked road over which all of her world was pressing forward. perhaps it was all right, she thought, the way endbury people "did." she asked nothing better than to be convinced that it was; she longed for a satisfying answer. but paul did not even know she had doubts! how could he, she asked herself, exonerating him from blame. he was away so many hours of the day and days of the year; and when he came home he was so tired! it was characteristic of her temper that she had learned quickly and without bitterness the lesson every wife must learn, that neither tenderness nor delicate perceptions of shades of feeling can be extorted from a very tired or very preoccupied man. masculine fatigue brings with it a healthy bluntness as to what is being expected in the way of emotional responsiveness, and men will not allow their sense of duty to spur their jaded affection to the point of exhaustion. lydia noted this, felt that she could not with any show of reason resent it, since it showed a state of things as hard for paul as for her; but she could not blind herself to the fact that the inevitable result was paul's complete ignorance of her real life. she felt herself to be so different from the girl he had married as scarcely to be recognizable, and yet there was no way by which he could have caught even a glimpse of the changes that had made her so. the short periods they spent with each other were necessarily more than filled by consultations about matters of household administration and plans for their social life, and about the way to spend the money that paul earned. paul was a very good-natured and consciously indulgent husband, but lydia seldom emerged from an hour's conversation with him without an uneasy feeling that she was not by any means getting out of the money he furnished her the largest amount possible of what he wanted; and this sensation was scarcely conducive to an expression of what was, after all, on her part nothing but a vague aspiration toward an ideal--an aspiration that came to her clearly only at times of great tranquillity and peace, when her mind was quite at rest. she was going around and around the treadmill of her familiar perplexities when a trifling incident, so small, so dependent on its framing of situation, accent, expression and gesture as scarcely to be recordable, gave her a sudden glimpse of quite another side to the matter. she was shocked into realizing that just as their way of life hid from paul what was going on in her mind, so he also, in all probability, was rapidly changing without her knowledge. paul finished his figuring, pushed the papers to one side with a sigh of fatigue, and turned his eyes thoughtfully on his wife. "that's very good news of yours, lydia dear, about the expected son and heir. but it's rather a pity it didn't come last winter, isn't it?" "how so?" she asked. "why, you had to be out of things on account of being in mourning, anyhow. if this had happened the year your father died, you could have killed two birds with one stone, don't you see?" lydia's perception of a thousand reasonable explanations and excuses for this speech was so quick that it was upon her almost before she was aware of her resentment. she hurried to shut the door on a blighting new vision of her husband, by telling herself loudly that it was to be expected paul should feel so; but, rapid as her loyal, wifely movement had been, she had felt a gust of hot revulsion against something in her husband which her affection for him forbade her to name. she could not put out of her mind, his look, his accent, his air of taking for granted that the speech was a natural one. the knowledge that marietta would be too bewildered by her dwelling on the incident even to laugh at her, did not avail to free her of the heavy doubts that filled her. was she mistaken in feeling that it indicated an alarming increase of materialism in paul? she was really too fanciful, she told herself many times a day, surprised to find herself going over it again. was it a mere chance remark--a little stone in the garden path--or was it the first visible outcropping of a stratum of unconquerable granite which grimly underlay all the flower beds of his good nature? the final impression on her mind was of a new motive for coming to a better, closer understanding with paul about the fundamentals of their life. it had not occurred to her before, in spite of all her struggles "to be good," as she put it to herself with her childlike naïveté, that paul might be needing her as much as she needed him! spurred on by this new reason for breaking through the impalpable wall that separated their inner lives, she resolved that she would no longer let herself be dominated by the inconsequent multiplicity of the trifling incidents that filled their days. if she could only get close to paul she was sure that all would be well. she made herself hope, with a brave belittling of the tangle that baffled her, that perhaps just one long, serious talk with paul would be all that was needed. if she could just make paul see what she saw, he could tell her how to set to work to remedy things. paul was so clever. paul was always so kind--when he saw! she began watching for a favorable opportunity for this long, serious talk, and as day after day fled past with only a glimpse of paul desperately in a hurry in the morning and desperately tired at night, she was aware that her idea of the shape their life was taking had not exaggerated the extent of the broad flood of trivialities that separated them. although the light laugh of her girlhood was rarer than before her marriage, life had not proved it to be the result of mere animal spirits. she still saw a great deal to laugh at, though sometimes it was tremulous laughter, carrying her to the edge of tears. and she often laughed to herself during these days at the absurd incongruity of what her heart was swelling to utter and the occasions on which she would have to speak. 'stashie was away, tending her aunt who was ill, away for an indefinite period, for patsy's steady wages quite sufficed to keep his cousin at home to care for his grandmother. lydia sometimes feared the satisfaction she took in patsy's exemplary career was tinctured with vainglory for her own share in it, but, if so, she was punished for it now, since it was his very prosperity that took away from her the only steady domestic help she had ever been able to keep. she had now only a cook, a slatternly negress, with a gift for frying chicken and making beaten biscuit, and a total incapacity to conceive of any other activity as possible for her. lydia had telephoned to the two employment agencies in endbury and had been informed, by no means for the first time, that the supply of girls willing to work in the suburbs had entirely given out. for the time being there was simply not one to be had, so for the next few days lydia, as well as paul, was more than usually occupied; but her fixed intention to "talk things over with him" was not shaken. and yet--day after day went by with the routine unvaried--there was no time in the morning; in the evening paul was too tired, and on sundays there was always "company," it being practically their only time for daylight entertainment. often paul brought a business associate home for dinner; his family or hers came in; there were always callers in the afternoon; and they were usually invited out to supper or had guests themselves. it was the busiest day of the week. ever since her father's death she had been reviving in her mind, shocked to find them so few, her positive, personal recollections of him, and one of them now came back to her with a symbolic meaning. it had been a not uncommon occurrence in her childhood--a school picnic in the black rock woods; but this one stood out from all the others because, by what freak of chance she never knew, her father had gone with her instead of her mother. how proud she had been to have him there! how eagerly she had done the honors of the "entertainment"! how anxiously she had hoped that he would be pleased with the recitations, the songs, the may-day dance! one of the events of the day was to be the recitation of a fairy poem by a boy in one of the upper grades. he was to step out of the bushes in the character of a brownie. the child had but just thrust his head through the leaves and begun, "i come to tell ye of a world ye mortals wot not of," when a terrific clap of thunder overhead, followed by lightning, and rain in torrents, broke up the picnic and sent everyone flying for shelter to a near-by barn. lydia had been very much afraid of thunderstorms, and she could still remember how, through all her confusion and terror, she had admired the fixity of purpose of the little brownie, piteous in his drenched fairy costume, gasping out, as they ran along: "i come to tell ye--i come to tell ye, mortals--" to his scurrying audience. when they reached the barn and were huddled in the hay, wet and forlorn, and deafened by the peals of thunder, the determined little boy had stood up on a farm wagon on the barn floor, and the instant the storm abated began again with his insistent tidings of a world they wot not of. with her father's death fresh in her mind, lydia could not without a throb of pain recall his rare outburst of hearty laughter at the child's perseverance. "i bet on that kid!" he had cried out, applauding vigorously at the end. "who _is_ he?" "paul hollister," she had told him, proud to know the bigger children. "he's a very especial friend of mine." "well, you can bet he'll get on," her father had assured her. the opening of the brownie's speech had come to be one of the humorous catchwords of the emery household, to express firmness of purpose, and it was now with a mixture of laughter and tears that lydia recalled the scene--the dusky interior of the barn, the sweet, strong scent of the hay, the absurd little figure grimacing and squeaking on the farm wagon, and her big, little-known, all-powerful father, one strong arm around her, protecting her from all she feared, as nothing in the world could protect her now. she was grown up now, and must learn how to protect her own children against dangers less obvious than thunderstorms. it was her turn now to insist on making herself heard above uproar and confusion. her little brownie playmate shamed her into action. she would not wait for a pause in the clatter of small events about paul and herself; she would raise her voice and shout to him, if necessary, overcoming the shy reluctance of the spirit to speak aloud of its life. chapter xxvii lydia reaches her goal and has her talk with her husband paul was still asleep when lydia opened her eyes one morning and said to herself with a little laugh, but quite resolutely: "i come to tell ye of a world ye mortals wot not of." as she dressed noiselessly, she fortified herself with the thought that she had, in her nervousness, greatly overestimated the seriousness of her undertaking. there was nothing so formidable in what she meant to do, after all. she only wished to talk reasonably with her husband about how to avoid having their life degenerate into a mere campaign for material advancement. she did not use this phrase in her thoughts about the matter. she thought more deeply, and perhaps more clearly, than during her confused girlhood, but she had no learned or dignified expressions for the new ideas dawning in her. as she coiled her dark hair above her face, rather pale these days, like a white flower instead of the glowing rose it had been, she said to herself, like a child: "now, i mustn't get excited. i must remember that all i want is a chance for all of us, paul and the children and me, to grow up as good as we can, and loving one another the most for the nicest things in us and not because we're handy stepping-stones to help one another get on. and we can't do that if we don't really put our minds to it and make that the thing we're trying hardest to do. the other things--the parties and making money and dressing better than we can really afford to--they're only all right if they don't get to seeming the things to look out for first. we must find out how to keep them second." a golden shaft of winter sunshine fell on paul's face. he opened his eyes and yawned, smiling good-naturedly at his wife. lydia summoned her courage and fairly ran to the bed, sitting down by him and taking his strong hand in hers. "oh, you india-rubber ball!" he cried in humorous despair at her. "don't you know a woman with your expectations oughtn't to go hurling herself around that way?" "i know--i'm too eager always," she apologized. "but, paul, i've been waiting for a nice quiet time to have a long talk with you about something that's troubling me, and i just decided i wouldn't wait another minute." paul patted her cheek. he was feeling very much refreshed by his night's sleep. he smiled at his young wife again. "why, fire away, lydia dear. i'm no ogre. you don't have to wait till i'm in a good temper, do you? what is it? more money?" "oh, no, _no_!" she repudiated the idea so hotly that he laughed, "well, you can't scare me with anything else. what's up?" lydia hesitated, distracted, now that her chance had come, with the desire to speak clearly. "paul dear, it's very serious, and i want you to take it seriously. it may take a great effort to change things, too. i'm very unhappy about the way we are--" a wail from ariadne's room gave warning that the child had wakened, as she not infrequently did, terrified by a bad dream. lydia fled in to comfort her, and later, when she came back, leading the droll little figure in its pink sleeping-drawers, paul was dressing with his usual careful haste. he stopped an instant to laugh at ariadne's face of determined woe and tossed her up until an unwilling smile broke through her pouting gloom. then he turned to lydia, as to another child, and rubbed his cheek on hers with a boyish gesture. "now, you other little forlornity, what's the matter with you?" lydia warmed, as always, at the tenderness of his tone, though she noticed with an inward laugh that he continued buttoning his vest as he caressed her and that his eyes wandered to the clock with a wary alertness. "perhaps you'd better wait and tell me at the table," he went on briskly. "i'm all ready to go down." he pulled his coat on with his astonishing quickness, and ran downstairs. lydia put ariadne into her own bed, telling the docile little thing to stay there till mother came back for her, and followed paul, huddling together the remnants of her resolution which looked very wan in the morning light. breakfast was not ready; the table was not even set, and when she went out into the kitchen she was met by a heavy-eyed cook, moving futilely about among dirty pots and pans and murmuring something about a headache. lydia could not stop then to investigate further, but, hurrying about, managed to get a breakfast ready for paul before his first interest in the morning paper had evaporated enough to make him impatient of the delay. he fell to with a hearty appetite as soon as the food was set before him, not noticing for several moments that lydia's breakfast was not yet ready. when he did so, he spoke with a solicitous sharpness: "lydia, you need a guardian! you ought to eat as a matter of duty! i bet half your queer notions come from your just pecking around at any old thing when i'm not here to keep track of you." he poured out another cup of coffee for himself as he spoke. "yes, dear; i know, i do. i will," lydia assured him, with her quick acquiescence to his wishes. "but this morning mary is sick, or something, and i got yours first." paul spoke briefly, with his mouth full of toast: "if you were more regular in the way you run the house, and insisted on never varying the--" "but i was afraid you would be late," said lydia. it was the daily terror of her life. "i _am_ late now," he told her, with his good-humored insistence on facts. "i've missed the : , and i've just time to catch the next one if i hurry. do you happen to know, dear, where i put that catalogue from elberstrom and company? the big red book with the picture of a dynamo on the cover. i was looking over it last night, and heaven knows where i may have dropped it." the opinion as to the proper answer to a speech like this was one of the sharply marked lines of divergence between madeleine lowder and her brother's wife. "soak him one when you get a chance, lydia," she was wont to urge facetiously, and her advice in the present case would unhesitatingly have been to answer as acrimoniously as possible that if he were more regular in the way he handled such things his wife would have to spend less time ransacking the house looking for them. but in spite of such practical and experienced counsel, lydia was scarcely conscious of refraining from the entirely justifiable and entirely futile customary recriminations, and she was as unaware as paul of the vast amount of embittering domestic friction which was spared them by her silence. she had some great natural advantages for the task of creating a better domestic life at which she was now so eagerly setting herself, and one of them was this incapacity to resent petty injustices done to herself. she was handicapped in any effort by her utter lack of intellectual training and by a natural tendency to mental confusion, but her lack of small vanities not only spared her untold suffering, but added much to her singleness of aim. she now went about searching for the catalogue, finally finding it in the library under the couch. when she came back to the dining-room she saw paul standing up by the table, wiping his mouth. evidently he was ready to start. how absurd she had been to think of talking seriously to him in the morning! "mary brought your breakfast in," he said nodding toward an untidy tray. "i hate to seem to be finding fault all the time, but really her breath was enough to set the house on fire! can't you keep her down to moderate drinking?" "i'll try," said lydia. paul took the catalogue from her hand and reached for his hat. they were in the hall now. "good-by, honey," he said, kissing her hastily and darting out of the house. lydia had but just turned back to the dining-room when he opened the door and came in again, bringing a gust of fresh winter air with him. "say, dear, you forgot about something you wanted to tell me about. i've got eight minutes before the trolley, so now's your chance. what is it? something about the plumbing?" in the dusky hall lydia faced him for a moment in silence, with so singular an expression on her face that he looked apprehensive of some sort of scene. then she broke out into breathless, quavering laughter, whose uncertainty did not prevent paul from great relief at her apparent change of mood. "never mind," she said, leaning against the newel-post, "i'll tell you--i'll tell you some other time." he kissed her again, and she felt that it was with a greater tenderness now that he no longer feared a possibly disagreeable communication from her. after he had gone, she thought loyally, putting things in the order of importance she had been taught all her life, "well, it _is_ hard for him to have perplexities at home and not to be able to give the freshest and best of himself to business." it was not until later, as she was dressing ariadne, that she swung slowly back to her new doubt of that view of the problem. ariadne was in one of her most talkative moods, and was describing at great length the dream that had frightened her so. there was a hen with six little chickens, she told her mother, and one of them was as big--as big-- "yes, dear; and what did the big little chicken do?" lydia laced up the little shoes, on her knees before the small figure, her mind whirling. "that was just the trouble, she couldn't make it seem right any more, that paul's best and freshest should _all_ go to making money and none to a consideration of why he wished to make it." "yes, ariadne, and it flew over the house, and then?" she began buttoning the child's dress, and lost herself in ecstasy over the wisps of soft curls at the back of the rosy neck. she dropped a sudden kiss on the spot, in the midst of ariadne's narrative, and the child squealed in delighted surprise. lydia was carried away by one of her own childlike impulses of gayety, and burrowed bear-like, growling savagely, in the soft flesh. ariadne doubled up, shrieking with laughter, the irresistible laughter of childhood. lydia laughed in response, and the two were off for one of their rollicking frolics. they were like a couple of kittens together. finally, "come, dear; we must get our breakfasts," said lydia, leading along the little girl, still flushed and smiling from her play. her passion for the child grew with ariadne's growth, and there were times when she was tempted to agree in the unspoken axiom of those about her, that all she needed was enough children to fill her heart and hands too full for thought; but sometimes at night, when paul was away and she had the little crib moved close to her bed, very different ideas came to her in the silent hours when she lay listening to the child's quick, regular breathing. at such times, when her mind grew very clear in the long pause between the hurry of one day and the next, she had rather a sort of horror in bringing any more lives into a world which she could do so little to make ready for them. ariadne was here, and, oh! she must do something to make it better for her! her desire that ariadne should find it easier than she to know how to live well, rose to a fervor that was a prayer emanating from all her being. perhaps she was not clever or strong enough to know how to make her own life and paul's anything but a dreary struggle to get ahead of other people, but somehow--somehow, ariadne must have a better chance. something of all this came to her mind in the reaction from her frolic, as she established the child in her high-chair and sat down to her own cold breakfast; but she soon fell, instead, to pondering the question of mary in the kitchen. she had not now that terror of a violent scene which had embittered the first year of her housekeeping, but she felt a qualm of revulsion from the dirty negress who, as she entered the kitchen, turned to face her with insolent eyes. it seemed a plague-spot in her life that in the center of her home, otherwise so carefully guarded, there should be this presence, come from she shuddered to think what evil haunts of that part of endbury known as the "black hole." she thought, as so many women have thought, that there must be something wrong in a system that made her husband spend all his strength laboring to make money so much of which was paid, in one form or another, to this black incubus. she thought, as so many other women have thought, that there must be something wrong with a system of life that meant that, with rare exceptions, such help was all that could be coaxed into doing housework; but lydia, unlike the other women she knew, did not--could not--stop at the realization that something was wrong. some irresistible impulse moved her to try at least to set it right. on this occasion, however, as she faced the concrete result of the system, she was too languid, and felt too acutely the need for sparing her strength, to do more than tell her cook briefly that if she did not stop drinking she would be dismissed. mary made no reply, looking down at her torn apron, her face heavy and sullen. she prepared some sort of luncheon, however, and by night had recovered enough so that with lydia's help the dinner was eatable. paul was late to dinner, and when he sat down heavily at the table lydia's heart failed her at the sight of his face, fairly haggard with fatigue. she kept ariadne quiet, the child having already learned that when daddy came home from the city there must be no more noisy play; and she served paul with a quickness that outstripped words. she longed unspeakably to put on one side forever all her vexing questions and simply to cherish and care for her husband physically. he had so much to burden him already--all he could carry. but she had been so long bringing herself to the point of resolution in the matter, she had so firmly convinced herself that her duty lay along that dark and obscure path, that she clung to her purpose. after dinner, when she came downstairs from putting ariadne to bed, she found him already bent over the writing-table, covering a sheet of paper with figures. "you remember, paul, i have something to talk over with you," she began, her mouth twitching in a nervous smile. he pushed the papers aside, and looked up at her with a weary tenderness. "oh, yes; i do remember. we might as well have it over now, i suppose. wait a minute, though." he went to the couch, piled the pillows at one end, and lay down, his hands clasped under his head. "i might as well rest myself while we talk, mightn't i?" "oh, yes, yes, poor dear!" cried lydia remorsefully. "i wish i didn't _have_ to bother you!" "i wish so, too," he said whimsically. "sure it's nothing you can't settle yourself?" he closed his eyes and yawned. "i don't _want_ to settle it myself!" cried lydia with a rush, seeing an opening ready-made. "that's the point. i want you to be in it! i want you to help me! paul, i'm sure there's something the matter with the way we live--i don't like it! i don't see that it helps us a bit--or anyone else--you're just killing yourself to make money that goes to get us things we don't need nearly as much as we need more of each other! we're not getting a bit nearer to each other--actually further away, for we're both getting different from what we were without the other's knowing how! and we're not getting nicer--and what's the use of living if we don't do that? we're just getting more and more set on scrambling along ahead of other people. and we're not even having a good time out of it! and here is ariadne--and another one coming--and we've nothing to give them but just this--this--this--" she had poured out her accumulated, pent-up convictions with passion, feeling an immense relief that she had at last expressed herself--that at last she had made a breach in the wall that separated her from paul. at the end, as she hesitated for a phrase to sum up her indictment of their life, her eyes fell on paul's face. its expression turned her cold. she stopped short. he did not open his eyes, and the ensuing silence was filled with his regular, heavy breathing. he had fallen asleep. lydia folded her hands in her lap and sat looking at him intently. in the tumult of her emotions there was neither bitterness nor resentment. but a cloud had passed between her and the sun. she sat there a long time, her face very pale and grave. after a time she laid her hand on her husband's shoulder. she felt an intolerable need to feel him at least physically near. the telephone bell rang distinctly in the hall. paul bounded to his feet, wide awake. "i bet that's the washburn superintendent!" he cried. "he said they might call me up here if they came to a decision." he had apparently forgotten lydia's presence, or else the fact that she knew nothing of his affairs. he disappeared into the hall, his long, springy, active step resounding quickly as he hurried to the instrument. lydia heard his voice, decisive, masterful, quiet, evidently dictating terms of some bargain that had been hanging in the balance. when he came back, his head was up, like a conqueror's. "i've got their contract!" he told her, and then, snatching her up, he whirled her about, shouting out a "yip! yip! yip!" of triumph. in spite of herself lydia's chin began to tremble. she felt a stinging in her eyes. paul saw these signs of emotion and was conscience-stricken. "oh, i'm a black-hearted monster!" he cried, in burlesque contrition. "i must have dropped off just as you began your spiel. but, lydia, if _you'd_ taken that west virginia trip, you'd go to sleep if the angel gabriel were blowing his horn! i was gone three days, you know, and, honest, i didn't have three hours' consecutive sleep! don't be too mad at me. start over again. i'll listen to every word, honest to gracious i will. i feel as waked up as a fighting cock, anyhow, by this washburn business! to think i've pulled that off at last!" "i'm not mad at _you_, paul," said lydia, trying to speak steadily, and holding with desperate resolution to her purpose of communicating with her husband. "i'm mad at the conditions that made you so sleepy you couldn't keep awake! all i had to say is that i don't like our way of life--i don't see that it's making us any better, and i want ariadne--i want our children to have a better one. i want you to help me make it so." paul stared at her, stupefied by this attack on axioms. "good gracious, my dear! what are you talking about? 'our way of life!' what do you mean? there's nothing peculiar about the way we live. our life is just like everybody else's." lydia burned with impatience at the appearance of this argument, beyond which she had never been able to induce her mother or marietta to advance a step. she cried out passionately: "what if it is! if it's not the right kind of life, what difference does it make if everybody's life _is_ like it!" the idea which her excitement instantly suggested to paul was reassuring. before ariadne came, he remembered, lydia had had queer spells of nervous tension. he patted her on the shoulder and spoke in the tone used to soothe a nervous horse. "there, lydia! there, dear! don't get so wrought up! remember you're not yourself. you do too much thinking. come, now, just curl up here and put your head on my--" lydia feared greatly the relaxing influence of his caressing touch. if once he put forth his personal magnetism, it would be so hard to go on. she drew away gently. "_can_ anybody do too much thinking, paul? the trouble must be that i'm not thinking right. and, oh, i want to, so! _please_ help me! everybody says you have such a wonderful head for organization and for science--if i were a dynamo that wasn't working, you could set me right!" paul laughed, and made another attempt to divert her. "i couldn't if the dynamo looked as pretty and kissable as you do!" he was paying very little attention to what she said. he was only uncomfortable and uneasy to see her so white and trembling. he wished he had proposed taking her out for the evening. she had been having too dull a time. he ought to see that she got more amusement. they said that comic opera now running in town was very funny. "paul, listen to me!" she was crying desperately as these thoughts went through his head. "listen to me, and look honestly at the way we've been living since we were married, and you _must_ see that something's all wrong. i never see you--never, never, do you realize that? except when you're in a raging hurry in the morning or tired to death at night, and when i'm just as tired as you are, so all we can do is to go to bed so we can get up in the morning and begin it all over again. or else we tire ourselves out one degree more by entertaining people we don't really like--or rather people about whose real selves we don't know enough to know whether we like them or not--we have them because they're influential, or because everybody else entertains them, or because they can help us to get on--or can be smoothed over so they won't hinder our getting on. and there's no prospect of doing anything different from this all the days of our life--" "but, look-y here, lydia, that's the way things _are_ in this world! the men have to go away the first thing in the morning--and all the rest of what you say! _i_ can't help it! what do you come to me about it for? you might as well break out crying because i can't give you eyes in the back of your head. that's the way things are!" lydia made a violent gesture of unbelief. "that's what everybody's been telling me all my life--but now i'm a grown woman, with eyes to see, and something inside me that won't let me say i see what i don't--_and i don't see that_! i don't _believe_ it has to be so. i can't believe it!" paul laughed a little impatiently, irritated and uneasy, as he always was, at any attempt to examine too closely the foundations of existing ideas. "why, lydia, what's the matter with you? you sound as though you'd been reading some fool socialist literature or something." "you know i don't read anything, paul. i never hear about anything but novels. i never have time for anything else, and very likely i couldn't understand it if i read it, not having any education. that's one thing i want you to help me with. all i want is a chance for us to live together a little more, to have a few more thoughts in common, and, oh! to be trying to be making something better out of ourselves for our children's sake. i can't see that we're learning to be anything but--you, to be an efficient machine for making money, i to think of how to entertain as though we had more money than we really have. i don't seem really to know you or live with you any more than if we were two guests stopping at the same hotel. if socialists are trying to fix things better, why shouldn't we have time--both of us--to read their books; and you could help me know what they mean?" paul laughed again, a scornful, hateful laugh, which brought the color up to lydia's pale face like a blow. "i gather, then, lydia, that what you're asking me to do is to neglect my business in order to read socialist literature with you?" his wife's rare resentment rose. she spoke with dignity: "i begged you to be serious, paul, and to try to understand what i mean, although i'm so fumbling, and say it so badly. as for its being impossible to change things, i've heard you say a great many times that there are no conditions that can't be changed if people would really try--" "good heavens! i said that of _business_ conditions!" shouted paul, outraged at being so misquoted. "well, if it's true of them--no; i feel that things are the way they are because we don't really care enough to have them some other way. if you really cared as much about sharing a part of your life with me--really sharing--as you do about getting the washburn contract--" her indignant and angry tone, so entirely unusual, moved paul, more than her words, to shocked protest. he looked deeply wounded, and his accent was that of a man righteously aggrieved. "lydia, i lay most of this absurd outbreak to your nervous condition, and so i can't blame you for it. but i can't help pointing out to you that it is entirely uncalled for. there are few women who have a husband as absolutely devoted as yours. you grumble about my not sharing my life with you--why, i _give_ it to you entire!" his astonished bitterness grew as he voiced it. "what am i working so hard for if not to provide for you and our child--our children! good heavens! what more _can_ i do for you than to keep my nose on the grindstone every minute. there are limits to even a husband's time and endurance and capacity for work." lydia heard a frightened roaring in her ears at this unexpected turn to the conversation. paul had never spoken so to her before. this was a very different tone from his irritation over defective housekeeping. she was as horrified as he over the picture that he held up with such apparently justified indignation, the picture of her as a querulous and ungrateful wife. why, paul was looking at her as though he hated her! for the first time in her married life, she conceived the possibility that she and paul might quarrel, really seriously quarrel, about fundamental things. the idea terrified her beyond words. her mind, undisciplined and never very clear, became quite confused, and only her long preparation and expectation of this talk enabled her to keep on at all, although now she could but falter ahead blindly. "why, paul dear--don't look at me so! i never dreamed of _blaming_ you for it! it's just because i want things better for you that i'm so anxious to--" "you haven't noticed me complaining any, have you?" put in paul grimly, still looking at her coldly. "--it's because i can't bear to see you work so hard to get me things i'd ever so much rather go without than have you grow so you can't see anything but business--it seems all twisted! i'd rather you'd pay an assistant to go off on these out-of-town trips, and we'd get along on less money--live in a smaller house, and not entertain." "oh, lydia, you talk like a child! how can i talk business with you when you have such crazy, impractical ideas? it's not just the money an assistant would cost! either he'd not be so good as i, and then i'd lose my reputation for efficiency and my chance for promotion, or else he _would_ be as good and he'd get the job permanently and divide the field with me. a man has to look a long way ahead in business!" "but, paul, what if he _did_ divide the field with you? what if you don't get ahead of everybody else, if you'd have time and strength to think of other things more--you said the other day that you weren't sleeping well any more, and you're losing your taste for books and music and outdoors--why, i'd rather live in four rooms right over your office, so that you wouldn't have that hour lost going and coming--" paul broke in with a curt scorn: "oh, lydia! what nonsense! why don't you propose living in a tent, to save rent?" "why i would--i would in a minute if i thought it would make things any better!" lydia cried with a desperate simplicity. at this crowning absurdity, paul began to laugh, his ill-humor actually swept away by his amusement at lydia's preposterous fancies. it was too foolish to try to reason seriously with her. he put his hand on her shining dark hair, ruffling it up like a teasing boy. "i guess you'd better leave the economic status of society alone, lydia. you might break something if you go charging around it so fierce." a call came from the darkness of the hall: "mis' hollister!" "it's mary," said paul; "probably you forgot to give her any instructions about breakfast, in your anxiety about the future of the world. if you can calm down enough for such prosaic details, do tell her for the lord's sake not to put so much salt in the oatmeal as there was this morning." lydia found the negress with her wraps on, glooming darkly, "mis' hollister, i'm gwine to leave," she announced briefly. lydia felt for a chair. mary had promised faithfully to stay through the winter, until after her confinement. "what's the matter, mary?" "i cyant stay in no house wheah de lady says i drinks." "you will stay until--until i am able to be about, won't you?" "my things is gone aready," said mary, moving heavily toward the door, "and i'm gwine now." as she disappeared, she remarked casually, "i didn't have no time to wash the supper dishes. good-by." "what's the matter with mary?" called paul. lydia went back to him, trying to smile. "she's gone--left," she announced. paul opened his eyes with a look of keen annoyance. "you can't break in a new cook _now_!" he said. "she can't go now!" "she's gone," repeated lydia wearily. "i don't know how anybody could make her stay." paul got up from the couch with his lips closed tightly together, and, sitting down in a straight chair, took lydia on his knee as though she were a child. "now, see here, my wife, you mustn't get your feelings hurt if i do some plain talking for a minute. you've been telling me what you think about things, and now it's my turn. and what _i_ think is that if my dear young wife would spend more time looking after her own business she'd have fewer complaints to make about my doing the same. the thing for you to do is to accept conditions as they are and do your best in them--and, really, lydia, make your best a little better." lydia was on the point of nervous tears from sheer fatigue, but she clung to her point with a tenacity which in so yielding a nature was profoundly eloquent. "but, paul, if everybody had always settled down and accepted conditions, and never tried to make them better--" "there's a difference between conditions that have to be accepted and those that can be changed," said paul sententiously. lydia tore herself away from him and stood up, trembling with excitement. she felt that they had stumbled upon the very root of the matter. "but who's to decide which our conditions are?" paul caught at her, laughing. "i am, of course, you firebrand! didn't you promise to honor and obey?" he went on with more seriousness, a tender, impatient, condescending seriousness: "now, lydia, just stop and think! do you, can you, consider this a good time for you to try to settle the affairs of the universe--still all upset about your father's death, and goodness knows what crazy ideas it started in your head--and with an addition to the family expected! _and_ the cook just left!" "but that's the way things always are!" she protested. "that's life. there's never a time when something important hasn't just happened or isn't just going to happen, you have to go right ahead, or you never--why, paul, i've waited for two years for a really good chance for this talk with you--" "thank the lord!" he ejaculated. "i hope it'll be another two before you treat me to another evening like this. oh, pshaw, lydia! you're morbid, moping around the house too much--and your condition and all. wait till you've got another baby to play with--i don't remember you had any doubts of anything the first six months of ariadne's life. you ought to have a baby a year to keep you out of mischief! just you wait till you can entertain and live like folks again. in the meantime you hustle around and keep busy and you won't be so bothered with thinking and worrying." unknowingly, they had drawn again near to the heart of their discussion. unknowingly lydia stood before the answer from her husband, the final statement that she wished to hear. "but to hustle and keep busy--that's good only so long as you keep at it. the minute you stop--" paul's answer was an epoch in her thought. "_don't stop!_" he cried, surprised at her overlooking so obvious a solution. at this bullet-like retort, lydia shivered as though she had been struck. she turned away with a blind impulse for flight. her gesture brought her husband flying to her. he took her forcibly in his arms. "what the devil--what is the matter _now_?" he asked, praying for patience. she hung unresponsive in his grasp. "what's the matter?" he repeated. "you've just told me a horrible thing," she whispered; "that life is so dreadful that the only way we can get through it at all is by never looking at--" paul actually shook her in his exasperation. "gee whiz, lydia! you're enough to drive a man to drink! i never told you any such melodramatic nonsense. i told you straight horse sense, which is that if you took more interest in your work, in the work that every woman of your class and position has to do, you'd have less time to think foolishness--and your husband would have an easier life." her trembling lips opened to speak again, but he closed them with a firm hand. "and now, as your natural guardian, i'm not going to let you say another word about it. you dear little silly! however did you get us so wound up! blessed if i have any idea what it's all been about!" he was determined to end the discussion. he was relieved beyond expression that he had been able to get through it without saying anything unkind to his wife. he never meant to do that. he now went on, shaking a finger at her: "you listen to me, lydia-emery-that-was! do you know what we are going to do? we're going out into that howling desolation that mary has probably left in the kitchen, and we're going to see if we can find a couple of clean glasses, and we're going to have a glass of beer apiece and a ham sandwich and a piece of the pie that's left over from dinner. you don't know what's the matter with you, but i do! you're starved! you're as hungry as you can be, aren't you now?" lydia had sunk into a chair during this speech and was now regarding him fixedly, her hands clasped between her knees. at his final appeal to her, she closed her eyes. "yes," she said with a long breath; "yes, i am." chapter xxviii "the american man" a ripple from the surging wave of culture which, for some years, had been sweeping over the women's clubs of the middle west, began to agitate the extremely stationary waters of endbury social life. the women's literary club felt that, as the long-established intellectual authority of the town, it should somehow join in the new movement. the organization of this club dated back to a period now comparatively remote. mrs. emery, who had been a charter member, had never been more genuinely puzzled by dr. melton's eccentricities than when he had received with a yell of laughter her announcement that she had just helped to form a "literary club," which would be the "most exclusive social organization" in endbury. it had lived up to this expectation. to belong to it meant much, and both paul and flora burgess had been gratified when, on her mother's resignation, lydia had been elected to the vacant place. this close corporation, composed of ladies in the very inner circle, felt keenly the stimulating consciousness of its importance in the higher life of the town, and had too much civic pride to allow endbury to lag behind the other towns in ohio. columbus women, owing to the large german population of the city, were getting a reputation for being musical; cincinnati had always been artistic; toledo had literary aspirations; cleveland went in for civic improvement. the leading spirits of the woman's literary club of endbury cast about for some other sphere of interest to annex as their very own property. they were hesitating whether to undertake a campaign of municipal house-cleaning, or to devote themselves to the study of the sonnet form in english verse, when an unusual opportunity for distinction opened before them. the daughter of the club's president was married to a professor in the state university of michigan, and on one of her visits home she suggested that her mother's club invite to address it the alliance française lecturer of that year. he had to come out to ann arbor, anyhow--ann arbor was not very far from endbury--not far, that is, as compared with the journey the lecturer would have made from columbia and harvard to "michigan state." one of the club husbands was a railroad man and, maybe, could give them transportation. frenchmen were always anxious to make all the money they could--she was sure that m. buisine could be induced to come for a not extravagant honorarium. why should not endbury go in for cosmopolitanism? that certainly would be something new in ohio. and so it was arranged for an afternoon for the first week in december, a very grand "house-darkened-and-candle-lighted performance," as madeleine lowder labeled this last degree of endbury ceremonious elaboration. it was held at the house of paul's aunt, so that, naturally, lydia could by no means absent herself. madeleine came for her, and together they took ariadne to marietta's house and left her there for safe-keeping. lydia was intensely conscious, under her sister's forbearing silence, that marietta had never been asked to join the woman's literary club. even the jaunty madeleine was aware of a tension in the brief conversation over the child's head, and remarked as she and lydia walked away from the house: "well, really now, _was_ that the most tactful thing in the world?" "what else could i do?" asked lydia, at her wit's end. "i don't dare leave ariadne with those awful things from the employment agencies, and 'stashie's not coming back till next week." "oh, _she's_ coming again, is she?" commented her companion. "well, that'll mean lots of fun watching paul squirm. but don't mind him, lydia." madeleine was one of the women who prided herself on her loyal sense of solidarity among her sex. "if he says a word, you poke him one in the eye. keep her till after your confinement, anyhow. a woman ought to be allowed to run her house without any man butting in. we let them alone; they ought to let us." there never was a person in the world, lydia thought, in whom marriage had made less difference than in paul's sister. she was exactly the same as in her girlhood. lydia wondered at her with an ever-growing amazement. the enormous significance of the marriage service, the mysteries of the dual existence, her new responsibilities,--they all seemed non-existent. paul said approvingly that madeleine knew how to get along with less fuss than any woman he ever saw. her breezy high spirits were much admired in endbury, and her good humor and prodigious satisfaction with life were considered very cheerfully infectious. the two women had reached madame hollister's house while madeleine was expounding her theory of matrimony, and now took their places in the throng of extremely well-dressed women sitting on camp chairs, the rows of which filled the two parlors. the lecturer with the president of the club, occupied a dais at the other end of the room. he was a tall, ugly man, with prominent blue eyes, gray hair upstanding in close-cropped military stiffness, and a two-pronged grizzled beard. he was looking over his audience with a leisurely smiling scrutiny that roused in lydia a secret resentment. "he's very distinguished looking, isn't he?" whispered madeleine. "so different! and _cool_! i'd like to see pete lowder sit up there to be stared at by all this gang of women." "oh, he's probably used to it," said her neighbor on the other side. "they say he's spoken before any number of women's clubs. he does two a day sometimes. he's seen lots of american society women before now." madeleine stared at him curiously. "i wonder what he thinks of us! i wonder! i'd give anything to know!" she said. she repeated this sentiment in varying forms several times. lydia wondered why madeleine should care so acutely about the opinion of a stranger and a foreigner, and finally, in her naïve, straightforward way, she put this question to her. madeleine was not one of the many who evaded lydia's questions, or answered them only with a laugh at their oddity. she was very straightforward herself and generally had a very clear idea of what underlay any action or feeling on her part. but this time her usual rough-and-ready methods of analysis seemed at fault. "oh, because," she said indefinitely. "don't you always want to know what men are thinking of you?" "men that know something about me, maybe," lydia amended. madeleine laughed. "_they're_ the ones that don't think at all, one way or the other," she reminded her sister-in-law. the president of the club rose. her introduction of the speaker was greeted with cordial, muted applause from gloved hands. there was a scraping of chairs, a stir of draperies, and little gusts of delicate perfumes floated out, as the hundred or more women settled themselves at the right angle, all their keen, handsome, nervous faces lifted to the speaker in a pleasant expectancy. not only were they agreeably aware that they were forming part of one of the most recherché events of endbury's social life, but they were remembering piquant rumors of m. buisine's sensational attacks on american materialism. the afternoon promised something more interesting than their usual programme of home-made essays and papers. their expectation was not disappointed. in fluent english, apparently smooth with long practice on the same theme, he wove felicitous and forceful elaborations on the proverb relating to people who are absent and the estimation in which they are held by those present. he had seen in america, he said, everything but the american man. he had seen hundreds and thousands of women as well-dressed as parisiennes (and, as a rule, much more expensively), as self-possessed as english great ladies, as cultivated as russian princesses, as universally and variously handsome as visions in a painter's dream--("he's not afraid of laying it on thick, is he?" whispered madeleine with an appreciative laugh)--but, except for a few professors in college, he had seen no men. he had inquired for them everywhere and was told that he did not see them because he was a man of letters. if he had been the inventor of a new variety of railroad brake he would have seen millions. he was told that the men, unlike their wives, had no intellectual interests, had no clubs with any serious purposes, had no artistic aims, had no home life, no knowledge of their children, no interest in education--that, in short, they left the whole business of worthy living to their wives, and devoted themselves exclusively to the wild-beast joys of tearing and rending their business competitors. he gave many picturesque instances of his contention, he sketched several lively and amusing portraits of the one or two business men he had succeeded in running down; their tongue-tied stupefaction before the ordinary topics of civilization, their scorn of all æsthetic considerations; their incapacity to conceive of an intellectual life as worthy a grown man; the stone-age simplicity with which they referred everything to savage cunning; their oblivion to any other standard than "success," by which they meant possessing something that they had taken away by force from somebody else. it was indeed a very entertaining lecture, a most stimulating, interesting experience to the crowd of well-dressed women; although perhaps some of them found it a little long after the dining-room across the hall began to be filled with waiters preparing the refreshments and an appetizing smell of freshly-made coffee filled the air. still, it was a lecture they had paid for, and it was gratifying to have it so full and conscientiously elaborated. the ideas promulgated were not startlingly new to them, since they had read magazine articles on "why american women marry foreigners" and similar analyses of the society in which they lived; but to have it said to one's face, by a living man, a tall, ugly, distinguished foreigner, with the ribbon of the legion of honor in his buttonhole,--that brought it home to one! they nodded their beautifully-hatted heads at the truth of his well-chosen, significant anecdotes, they laughed at his sallies, they applauded heartily at the end when the lecturer sat down, the little smile, that lydia found so teasing, still on his bearded lips. "well, he hit things off pretty close, for a foreigner, didn't he?" commented madeleine cheerfully, gathering her white furs up to the whiter skin of her long, fair throat and preparing for a rush on the refreshment room. "he must have kept his eyes open pretty wide since he landed." lydia did not answer, nor did she join in the stampede to the dining-room. she sat still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes very bright and dark in her pale face. she was left quite alone in the deserted room. across the hall was the loud, incessant uproar of feminine conversation released from the imprisonment of an hour's silence. from the scraps of talk that were intelligible, it might have been one of her own receptions. lydia heard not a mention of the opinions to which they had been listening. apparently, they were regarded as an entertaining episode in a social afternoon. she listened intently. she looked across at the crowd of her acquaintances as though she were seeing them for the first time. in their midst was the tall foreigner, smiling, talking, bowing, drinking tea. he was being introduced in succession to all of his admiring auditors. lydia rose to go and made her way to the dressing-room on the second floor for her wraps. as she returned toward the head of the stairs she saw a man's figure ascending, and stood aside to let him pass. he bowed with an unconscious assurance unlike that of any man lydia had ever seen, and looked at her pale face and burning eyes with some curiosity. a faint aroma of delicate food and fading flowers and woman's sachet-powder hung about him. it was the lecturer, fresh from his throng of admirers. lydia's heart leaped to a sudden valiant impulse, astonishing to her usual shyness, and she spoke out boldly, hastily: "why did you tell us all that about our men? didn't you think any of us would realize that they are good--our men are--good and pure and kind! didn't you think we'd know that anything that's the matter with them must be the matter with us, too? they had mothers as well as fathers! it's not fair to blame everything on the men! it's not fair, and it can't be true! we're all in together, men and women. one can't be anything the other isn't!" she spoke with a swift, grave directness, looking squarely into the man's eyes, for she was as tall as he. they were quite alone in the upper hall. from below came the clatter of the talking, eating women. the frenchman did not speak for a moment. for the first time the faint smile on his lips died away. he paid to lydia the tribute of a look as grave as her own. finally, "madame, you should be french," he told her. the remark was so unexpected an answer to her attack that lydia's eyes wavered. "i mean," he went on in explanation, "that you are acting as my wife would act if she heard the men of her nation abused in their absence. i mean also that i have delivered practically this same lecture over thirty times in america before audiences of women, and you are the first to--madame, i should like to know your husband!" he exclaimed with another bow. "my husband is like all other american men," cried lydia sharply, touched to the quick by this reference. "it is because he is that i--" she broke off with her gesture of passionate unresignation to her lack of fluency. already the heat of the impulse that had carried her into speech was dying away. she began to hesitate for words. "oh, i can't say what i mean--you must know it, anyhow! you blame the fathers for leaving all the bringing-up of the children to their wives, and yet you point out that the sons keep growing up all the time to be--to be--to be all you blame their fathers for being! if we women were half so--fine--as you tell us, why haven't we changed things?" the foreigner made a vivid, surprised, affirmatory gesture. "exactly! exactly! exactly, madame!" he cried. "it is the question i have asked myself a thousand times: why is it--why is it that women so strong-willed, so unyielding in the seeking what they desire, why is it that apparently they have no influence on the general fabric of the society in--" "perhaps it is," said lydia unsparingly, her latent anger coming to the surface again and furnishing her fluency, "perhaps it is because people who see our faults don't help us to correct them, but flatter us by telling us we haven't any, and all the time think ill of us behind our backs." the lecturer began to answer with aplomb and an attempt at graceful cynicism: "ah, madame, put yourself in my place! i am addressing audiences of women. would it be tactful to--" but under lydia's honest eyes he faltered, stopped, flushed darkly under his heavy beard, up over his high, narrow forehead to the roots of his gray hair. he swallowed hard. "madame," he said, "you have rebuked me--deservedly. i--i demand your pardon." "oh, you needn't mind me," said lydia humbly; "my opinion doesn't amount to anything. i oughtn't to talk, either. i don't _do_ anything different from the rest--the women downstairs, i mean. i can only see there's something wrong--" she found the other's gaze into her troubled eyes so friendly that she was moved to cry out to him, all her hostility gone: "what _is_ the trouble, anyhow?" the lecturer flushed again, this time touched by her appeal. "i proudly put at your service any reflections i have made--as though you were my daughter. i have a daughter about your age, who is also married--who faces your problems. madame, you look fatigued--will you not sit down?" he led her to a sofa on one side of the hall and took a seat beside her. "is not the trouble," he began, "that the women have too much leisure and the men too little--the women too little work, the men too much?" "oh, yes, yes, yes!" lydia's meditations had long ago carried her past that point; she was impatient at his taking time to state it. "but how can we change it?" "you cannot change it in a day. it has taken many years to grow. it has seemed to me that one way to change it is by using your leisure differently. even those women who use their leisure for the best self-improvement have not used it well. many of my countrymen say that the culture of american women is like a child's idea of ornamentation--the hanging on the outside of all odd bits of broken finery. i have not found it always so. i have met many learned women here, many women more cultivated than my own wife. but listen, madame, to the words of an old man. culture is dust and ashes if the spiritual foundations of life are not well laid; and, believe me, it takes two, a man and a woman, to lay those foundations. it can not be done alone." "but how, how--" began lydia impatiently. "in the only way that anything can be accomplished in this world, by working! your women have not worked patiently, resolutely, against the desertion of their men. worse--they have encouraged it! have you never heard an american, woman say: 'oh, i can't bear a man around the house! they are so in the way!' or, 'i let my husband's business alone. i want him to let--'" he imitated an accent so familiar to lydia that she winced. "oh, don't!" she said. "i see all that." "you must find few to see with you." "but how to change it?" she leaned toward him as though he could impart some magic formula to her. "with the men, work to have them share your problems--work to share theirs. do not be discouraged by repeated failure. defeat should not exist for the spirit. and, oh, the true way--you pointed it out in your first words. you have the training of the children. their ideals are yours to make. a generation is a short--" his face answered more and more the eager intentness of her own. he raised his hand with a gesture that underlined his next words: "but remember always, always, what amiel says, that a child will divine what we really worship, and that no teaching will avail with him if we _teach_ in contradiction to what we _are_." they were interrupted by a loud hail from the stairs. madeleine lowder's handsome head showed through the balustrade, and back of her were other amused faces. "i started to look you up, lydia," she said, advancing upon them hilariously, "i thought maybe you weren't feeling well, and then i saw you monopolizing the lion so that everybody was wondering where in the world he was, and you were so wrapped up that you never even noticed me, so i motioned the others to see what a demure little cat of a sister i have." she stood before them at the end of this facetious explanation, laughing, frank, sure of herself, and as beautiful as a great rosy flower. "your _sister_," said the lecturer incredulously to lydia. "my husband's sister," lydia corrected him, and presented the newcomer in one phrase. "isn't she a sly, designing creature, mr. buisine?" cried madeleine, in her usual state of hearty enjoyment of her situation. "you haven't met many as up-and-coming, have you now?" "i do not know the meaning of your adjective, mademoiselle; but it is true that i have met few like your brother's wife." "i'm not mademoiselle!" madeleine was greatly amused at the idea. the lecturer looked at her with a return to his enigmatic smile of the earlier afternoon. "i never saw a person who looked more unmarried than yourself, mademoiselle," he persisted. "oh, we american women know the secret of not looking married," said madeleine proudly. "you do indeed," said the frenchman with the manner of gallantry. "all of you look unmarried." lydia rose to go. the lecturer looked at her, his eyes softening, and made a silent gesture of farewell. he turned back to madeleine. "but i _am_," she assured him, pleased and flattered with the centering of their persiflage on herself. she made a gesture toward lydia, disappearing down the stairs. "i'm as much married as _she_ is!" m. buisine continued smiling. "that is quite, quite incredible," he told her. chapter xxix "... in tragic life, god wot, no villain need be. passions spin the plot." "say, lydia," said madeleine with her bluff good humor, coming into the house a few days after the french lecture, "say, i'm awfully sorry i told paul! i never supposed he'd go and get mad. it was just my fool notion of being funny." lydia was dusting the balustrade, her back to her visitor. she tingled all through at this speech, and for an instant went on with her work, trying to decide if she should betray the fact that she knew nothing of the incident to which madeleine's remark seemed to refer, or if she should, as she had done so many times already, conceal under a silence her ignorance of what her husband told other people. she never learned of matters pertaining to paul's profession except from chance remarks of his business associates. he had not even told her, until questioned, about his great inspiration for rearranging the territory covered in that region by his company; a plan that must have engrossed his thoughts and fired his enthusiasm during months of apparently common life with his wife. and paul had been genuinely surprised, and a little put out at her desire to know of it. she decided that she dared not in this instance keep silent. she was too entirely in the dark as to what madeleine had done. "i don't know what you're talking about, madeleine," she said, turning around, dust-cloth in hand, trying to speak casually. her sister-in-law stared. "didn't paul come home and give it to you? he looked as though he were going to." lydia's heart sank in a vague premonition of evil. "paul hasn't said anything to me. why in the world should he? is it about 'stashie? she's been back several days now, but i thought he hadn't noticed her much." "well, he _hasn't_ said anything, that's a fact!" exclaimed madeleine, with the frank implication in her voice that she had not before believed lydia's statement. "my, no! it's not about 'stashie. it's about the french lecturer." lydia's astonishment at this unexpected answer quite took away her breath. "_about the_--" she began. "why, look-y here, it was this way," explained madeleine rapidly. "i told you i was only joking. i thought it would be fun to tease paul about the mash you made on old what's-his-name--about your sitting off on a sofa with him, and being so wrapped up you didn't even notice when the whole gang of us came to look at you--and maybe i stretched it some about how you looked leaning forward and gazing into his eyes--" she broke off with a laugh, cheerfully unable to continue a serious attitude toward life. "oh, never you mind! it does a married man good to make him jealous once in a while. keeps 'em from getting too stodgy and husbandy." "jealous!" cried lydia. "paul jealous! of me! never!" her certainty on the point was instant and fixed. "well, you'd ha' thought he was, if you'd seen him. i was jollying him along--we were in the trolley, going to endbury. i had to take that early car so's to keep a date with briggs, and, oh, lydia! that brown suit he's making for me is a _dream_, simply a dream! he's put a little braid, just the least little bit, along--" "what did paul say?" "paul? oh, yes--how'd i get switched off onto briggs? why, paul didn't say _anything_; that was what made me see he wasn't taking it right. he just sat still and listened and listened till it made me feel foolish. i thought he'd jolly me back, you know. he's usually a great hand for that. and then when i looked at him i saw he looked as black as a thundercloud--that nasty look he has when he's real mad. when we were children and he'd look that way, i'd grab up any old thing and hit him quick, so's to get it in before he hit me. well, i was awfully sorry, and i said, 'why, hold on a minute, paul, let me tell you--' but he said he guessed i'd told him about enough, and before i could open my mouth he dropped off the car. we'd got in as far as hayes avenue. i wanted to explain, you know, that the frenchman was old enough to be our _grandfather_!" "when did this happen?" "oh, i don't know; three or four days ago--why, thursday, it must have been, for after i got through with briggs i went on to that--" "and this is monday," said lydia; "four days." at the sight of her sister-in-law's troubled eyes, madeleine was again overcome with facile remorse. she clapped her on the shoulder hearteningly. "i'm awfully sorry, lyd, but don't you go being afraid of paul. you're too gentle with him, anyhow. a married woman can't afford to be. you have to keep the men in their places, and you can't do that if you don't knock 'em the side of the head once in so often. it's good for 'em. honest! and about this, don't you worry your head a minute. like as not paul's forgot everything about it. he'd forget anything, you know he would, if an interesting job came up in business. and if he ever does say anything, you just laugh and tell him about old thingamajig's white hair and pop eyes, and he'll laugh at the joke on himself." lydia drew back with a gesture of extreme repugnance. "don't talk so--as though paul could be so--so vulgar." madeleine laughed. "i guess you won't find a man in _this_ world that isn't 'vulgar' that way." "why, i've been _married_ to paul for years--he wouldn't think i--no matter what you told him, he couldn't conceive of my--" mrs. lowder, as usual, found her brother's wife very diverting. "of your doing a little hand-holding on the side? oh, go on! flirting's no crime! and you did--honest to goodness, you did, turn that old fellow's head. you ought to have seen the way he looked after you." lydia cut her off with a sharp "oh, _don't_!" she was now sitting, still absently grasping the dust-cloth. madeleine stood for a moment looking at her in a meditative silence rather unusual for her. "lydia, you don't look a bit well," she said kindly. "are you still bothered with that nausea?" she sat down by her sister-in-law and put her arms around her with an impulse of affectionate pity that almost undid lydia, always so helplessly responsive to tenderness. "what's the matter, lyd?" madeleine went on. "something's not going just right. are you scared about this second confinement? is paul being horrid about something? you just take my advice, and if you want anything out of him, you fight for it. nobody gets anything in this world if they don't put up a fight for it." lydia began to say that there were some things which lost their value if obtained by fighting, but suddenly she stopped her faltering words, drew a long breath, and laid her head on the other's shoulder. more than wifely loyalty kept her silent. all her lifelong experience of madeleine crystallized into a certainty of her limitations, and with this certainty came the realization that madeleine stood for all the circle of people about her. lydia had learned one lesson of life. she knew, she now knew intensely, that there was no cry by which she could reach the spiritual ear of the warm human beings so close to her in the body. she knew there was no language in which she could make intelligible her travail of soul. in the moment the two women sat thus, she renounced, once for all, any hope of outside aid in her perplexities. they lay between herself and paul. she could hope to find expression and relief for them only through that unique privilege of marriage, utter intimacy. she kissed her husband's sister gently, comforted somewhat by the mere fact of her presence. "you're good to bother about me, maddely," she said, using a pet name of their common childhood. "i guess i'm not feeling very well these days. but that's to be expected." "well, i tell you what, i wouldn't be so patient about it as _you_ are!" cried the other wife. "it's simply horrid to have all this a second time, and ariadne so little yet. it's _mean_ of paul." she continued voicing an indignant sympathy with her usual energy. lydia looked at her with a vague smile. at the first words of the childless woman, she had been filled with the mother-hunger which gave savor to her life during those days. as madeleine went on, she sat unheeding, lost in a fond impatience to feel the tiny body on her knees, the downy head against her cheek. her arms ached with emptiness. for an instant, so vivid was her sense of it, the child seemed to be there, in her arms. she felt the eager tug of the soft lips at her breast. she looked down--"well, anyhow, you poor, dear thing! i hope you will bottle-feed this one! it would be just a little _too_ much if they made you nurse it!" lydia did not even attempt a protest. her submissive, entire acceptance of spiritual isolation seemed an answer to many of the conflicting impulses which had hitherto distracted her. she wished that she could reassure madeleine by telling her that she would never again make another "odd" speech to her. she renounced all common life except the childlike, harmless, animal-like one of mutual material wants, and this renunciation brought her already a peace which, though barren, was infinitely calming after her former struggling uncertainties. "how did those waists come out that you sent to the cleaner's, madeleine?" she asked, in a bright, natural tone of interest. "i hope the blue one _didn't_ fade." madeleine reported to her husband that lydia had seemed in one of her queer notional moods at first, but cheered up afterward and talked more "like folks," and seemed more like herself than she had since her father died. they had a real good visit together she said, and she began to think she could get some good satisfaction out of having lydia for a neighbor, after all. but after lydia was alone, there sprang upon her the terror of living on such terms with paul. no, no! never that! it would be dying by inches! beaten back to this last inner stronghold of the dismantled castle of her ideals of life, she prepared to defend it with the energy of desperation. she did not believe madeleine's story, or, at least, not her interpretation of paul's attitude, but she felt a dreary chill at his silence toward her. it seemed to her that their marriage ought to have brought her husband an irresistible impulse to have in all their relations with each other a perfect openness. she resolved that she would begin to help him to that impulse that very day; now, at once. when paul came in, he seemed abstracted, and went directly upstairs to pack a satchel, stating with his usual absence of explanatory comment that he was called to evanston on business. he ate his dinner rather silently, glancing furtively at the paper. only at the breakfast-table--such was their convention--did he allow himself to become absorbed in the news. ariadne prattled to her mother of her adventures in the kitchen, where patsy o'hern, 'stashie's cousin patsy, was visiting her, and he made ariadne a "horse out of a potato and toothpicks for legs, and a little wagon out of a matchbox, and a paper doll to sit and drive, and patsy was perfectly loverly, anyhow, and he was making such a lot of money every day, and, oh, he made the wheels out of potato, too, as round as could be he cut it, and he gave every cent of it to his grandmother and she loved him as much as she did 'stashie, and wasn't it good to have 'stashie back, and--" paul frowned silently over his pie. "come, dear; it's seven o'clock and bedtime," said lydia, leading the little girl away. when she came back she noticed by the clock that she had been gone almost half an hour. she was surprised to see paul still in the dining-room, as though he had not stirred since she left him. he was sitting in an attitude of moody idleness, singular with him, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. he looked desperately, tragically tired. no inward monitor gave any warning to lydia of what the next few moments were to be in her life. she crossed the room quickly to her husband, feeling a great longing to be close to him. as she did so, a rattling clatter of tin was heard from the kitchen, followed by a shout of roaring laughter. something in paul's tense face snapped. he started up, overturning his chair. "oh, _damn_ that idiot!" he cried. the door opened behind them. 'stashie stood there, her red hair hidden in a mass of soft dough that was beginning to ooze down over her perspiring, laughing face. "i just wanted to show you what a comycal thing happened, mis' hollister," she began, in her familiar way. "'twould make a pig laugh, now! i'd begun my bread dough, and put it on a shelf, an'--" "oh, get out of here!" paul yelled at her furiously. "and less noise out of you in the kitchen!" he slammed the door shut on her retreat, and turned to lydia with a face she did not recognize. the room grew black before her eyes. "i suppose you still prefer that dirty irish slut to my wishes," he said. his words, his accent, the quality of his voice, were the zigzag of lightning to his wife. the storm burst over her head like thunder. she was amazed to feel a great wave of anger surge up in her, responsive to his own. she cried, in outraged resentment at his injustice: "you know very well--" and stopped, horrified at the passion which rose clamoring to her lips. "i know very well that my home is the last place where my wishes are consulted," said paul, catching her up. "i will dismiss 'stashie to-morrow," returned lydia with a bitter, proud brevity. "you're rather slow to take a hint. how long has she been with us? as for your saying that you can't get anyone else, and can't keep house decently as other decent people do, there isn't a word of truth in it! you can do whatever you care enough about to try to do. you didn't make an incompetent mess of taking care of the baby as you did out of that disgusting dinner party!" it was the first time he had ever spoken outright to her of that experience. lydia was transfixed to hear the poison of the memory as fresh in his voice as though it had happened yesterday. "i'm simply not worth putting yourself out for," went on paul, turning away and picking up his overcoat. "i'm only a common, ignorant, materialistic beast of an american husband!" he added in an insulting tone: "i suppose you'd like two husbands; one to earn your living for you, and one to talk to about your soul and to exchange near-culture with!" he had not looked at lydia as he poured out this sudden flood of acrimony, but at her quick, fierce reply, he faced her. "i'd like _one_ husband," she cried white with indignation. "and i'd like a wife!" paul flashed back at her hotly. "a wife that'd be a help and not a hindrance to everything i want to do--a wife that'd be loyal to me behind my back, and not listen to sneaking foreigners telling her that she's a misunderstood martyr--_martyr_!" his sense of injury exalted him. "yes; all you american wives are martyrs, all right, i must say. while your husbands are working like dogs to make you money, you're sitting around with nothing to do but drink tea and listen to a foreigner who tells you--in summer time, while you're enjoying the cool breeze out here on a--maybe you think a dynamo-room's a funny place to be, with the thermometer standing at--what am i _doing_ when i'm away from you? enjoying myself, no doubt. maybe you think it's enjoyment to travel all night on a--maybe you think it's nice to make yourself conspicuous with another man that's been abusing your--" lydia could hear no more for a loud roaring in her ears. she knew then the blackest moment of her life--a sickening scorn for the man before her. madeleine had been right, then. they were of the same blood. his sister knew him better than--she, his wife, his wedded wife, was not to be spared the pollution of having her husband-- "i didn't take any stock in madeleine's nasty insinuations about your flirting with him, of course, but it showed me what you've been thinking about me all this time i've been working like a--" lydia drew the first conscious breath since the beginning of this nightmare. the earth was still under her feet, struck down to it though she was. the roaring in her ears stopped. she heard paul say: "maybe you think i'm made of iron! i tell you i'm right on my nerves every minute! dr. melton threatens me with a breakdown every time i see him!" there was a sort of angry pride in this statement. "i can't sleep! i'm doing ten men's work! and what do i get from you? any rest? any quiet? why, these first years, when you might have made things easier for me by taking all other cares off my mind and leaving me free for business--they've actually been harder because of you!" he thrust his arms into his overcoat and caught up his satchel. "i haven't wanted anything so hard to give! good lord! all i asked for was a well-kept house where i could invite my friends without being ashamed of it, and to live like other decent people!" he moved to the door, and put one hand, one strong, thin hand, on the knob. with the unearthly clearness of one in a terrible accident, lydia noticed every detail of his appearance. he was flushed, a purple, congested color, singularly unlike his usual indoor pallor; hurried pulses throbbed visibly, almost audibly, at his temples; one eyelid twitched rapidly and steadily, like a clock ticking. with a gesture as automatic as drawing breath, he jerked out his watch and looked at it, apparently to make sure of catching his trolley, although his valedictory was poured out with such a passionate unpremeditation that the action must have been involuntary and unconscious. "but i don't even ask that now--since it doesn't suit you to bother to give it! all i ask now ought to be easy enough for any woman to do--not to _bother_ me! leave me alone! keep your everlasting stewing and fussing and hysterical putting-on to yourself! i don't bother you with my affairs--i haven't, and i never will--why, for god's sake, can't you-- some men marry women who help them, and pull with them loyally, instead of pulling the other way all the time! such a woman would have made me a thousand times more successful than i--" lydia broke in with a loud voice of anguished questioning: "do they make them better men?" she asked piercingly. her husband looked at her over his shoulder. "oh, you and your goody-goody cant!" he said, and going out without further speech, closed the door behind him. the clock struck the half-hour. their conversation had lasted less than five minutes. chapter xxx tribute to the minotaur the scene of paul's departure was no worse than many an outbreak in the ordinary married life of ordinary, quick-tempered, over-tired married people, for whom an open quarrel brings relief like the clearing of the air after an electric storm, but to lydia it was no such surface manifestation of nerves. the impulse that had made them both break out into the cruel words came from some long-gathering bitterness, the very existence of which was like the end of all things to her. a single flash of lightning had showed her to the edge of what a terrifying precipice they had strayed, and then had left her in darkness. that was how it seemed to her; she was in the most impenetrable blackness, though the little girl played on beside her with a child's cheerful blindness to its elder's emotion, and anastasia detected nothing but that her mistress had a better color than before and stepped about quite briskly. it was the restless activity of a tortured animal which drove lydia from one household task to another, hurrying her into a trembling physical exhaustion, which, however, brought with it no instant's cessation of the tumult in her heart. the night after paul's departure was like a black eternity to her turning wildly on her bed, or rising to walk as wildly about the silent house. "but i can't stand this!--to hate and be hated! i can not bear it! i must do something--but what? but what?" once she feared she had screamed out these ever-recurring words, so audibly like a cry of agony did they ring in her ears; but, forcing herself to an instant's immobility, she heard ariadne's light, regular breathing continue undisturbed. she sat down on her bed and told herself that she would go out of her mind if she could not think something different from this chaos of angry misery. she fell on her knees, she sent her soul out in a supreme appeal for help and, still kneeling, she felt the intolerable tension within her loosen. she began to cry softly. the unnatural strength which had sustained her gave way; she sank together in a heap, her head leaning against the bed, her arms thrown out across it. here anastasia found her the next morning, apparently asleep, although upon being called she seemed to come to herself from a deeper unconsciousness. whatever it had been, the hour or two of oblivion that lay back of her was like a wall between her soul and the worst phase of her suffering. in answer to her cry for help, perhaps an appeal to the best in her own nature, there had come a cessation of what was to her the only unbearable pain--the bitter, blaming anger which had flared up in her, answering her husband's anger like the reflection of a torch in a mirror. in that silent hour before dawn, she had seen paul suddenly as a victim to forces outside himself quite as much as she was; poor, tired paul, with his haggard face, flushed with a wrath that was not his own, but an involuntary expression of suffering, the scream of a man caught in the cogs of a great machine. she hung before her mental vision now, constantly, the picture of paul as she had seen him when she came downstairs; paul leaning his chin on his hands, his jaded face white and drawn under his thinning, graying hair. the alleviation which came through this conception of her husband was tempered by the final disappearance of her old feeling that paul was stronger, clearer-headed, than she, and that if she could but once make him stop and understand the forces in their life which she feared, he could conquer them as easily as he conquered obstacles in the way of their material success. she now felt that he was not even as strong as she, since he could not get even her faint glimpse of their common enemy, this minotaur of futile materialism which had devoured the young years of their marriage and was now threatening to destroy the possibility of a great, strongly-rooted affection which had lain so clearly before them. she felt staggered by the responsibility of having to be strong enough for two; and as another day wore on this new preoccupation became almost as absorbing an obsession as her anger of the night before. but this was steadying in the very velocity with which her mind swept around the circle of possible courses of action. her thoughts hummed with a steady, dizzy speed around and around the central idea that something must be done and that she was now the only one to do it. 'stashie thought to herself that she had never seen mrs. hollister look so well, her eyes were so bright, her cheeks so pink. lydia had set herself the task of getting down and sorting the curtains in the house, preparatory to sending them to the cleaner. above the piles of dingy drapery, her face shone, as 'stashie had noted, with a strange, feverish brightness. her knees shook under her, but she walked about quickly. ariadne ran in and out of the house, chirping away to her mother of various wonderful discoveries in the world of outdoors. lydia heard her as from a distance, although she gave relevant answers to the child's talk. "it has come down," she was saying to herself, "to a life-and-death struggle. it isn't a question now of how much of the best in paul, in me, in our life, we can save. it's whether we can save _any_! how dirty lace curtains get! it must be the soft coal--yes, it is a life and death struggle--i must see to ariadne's underwear. it is too warm for these sunny days.--oh! oh! paul and i have quarreled! and what about! about such sickeningly trivial things--how badly 'stashie dusts! there are rolls of dust under the piano--but i thought people only quarreled--quarreled terribly--over great things: unfaithfulness, cruelty, differences in religion! oh, if i only now had a religion, a religion which would--yes, ariadne; but only to the edge of the driveway and back. how muddy the driveway is! paul said it should have more gravel--_paul!_ how _can_ he come back to me after such--madeleine says married people always quarrel--how can they look into each other's eyes again! we must escape that sort of life! we must! we _must_!" the thought of what she had hoped from her marriage and of what she had, filled her with the most passionate self-reproach. it must be at least half her fault, since she and paul made up but one whole. as she helped 'stashie sort the dingy curtains, she was saying over and over to herself that she was responsible, responsible as much as for ariadne's health. this conception so possessed her now that she felt herself able to accomplish anything, even the miracle needed. to have achieved this state of passionate resolution gave her for a moment the sense of having started upon the straight road to escape from her nightmare; and for the first time since the door had slammed behind paul she drew a long breath and was able to give more than a blind gaze to the world about her. she noticed that, though it was after twelve o'clock, ariadne had not been told to come to luncheon. when the little girl came running at her mother's call, her vivid face flushed with happy play, lydia knew a throb of that exquisite, unreasoning parent's joy, lying too near the very springs of life for any sickness of the spirit to affect it. like everything else, however, the touch of the child's tight-clinging arms about her neck brought her back to her preoccupation. ariadne must not be allowed to grow up to such a regret as she felt, that she had never known her father. there were moments, she saw them clearly, when paul realized with difficulty the fact of his daughter's existence, and he never realized it as a fact involving any need for a new attitude on his part. "when is daddy coming back to us _vis_ time?" asked ariadne over her egg. anastasia paused furtively at the door. she had had a divination of trouble in the last talk between her master and mistress. the door had slammed. mr. hollister had not called for the tie she was pressing for him in the kitchen--'stashie told herself fiercely that "killing wud be too good for her, makin' trouble like the divil's own!" she listened anxious for lydia's answer. "daddy's coming back to us as soon as his business is done," said paul's wife. at the turn of her phrase she turned cold, and added with a quick vehemence: "no, no! before that! long before that!" she went on, to cover her agitation and get the maid out of the room, "'stashie, get the baby a glass of milk." "the front door bell's ringin'," said 'stashie, departing in that direction, with the assurance of her own ability to choose the proper task for herself, so exasperating to her master. she came back bringing miss burgess in her wake, miss burgess apologizing for "coming right _in_, that way," exclaiming effusively at the pretty picture made by mother and child,--"she must be such company for you, miss lydia"--miss burgess, deferential, sure of her own position and her hostess', and determinedly pleased with the general state of things. lydia repressed a sigh of impatience, but, noting the tired lines in the little woman's face, told anastasia to make another cup of tea for miss burgess and cook her an egg. "oh, delighted, i'm sure! quite an honor to have the same lunch with little miss hollister." ariadne did not smile at this remark, though from the speaker's accent it was meant as a pleasantry. miss burgess cast about in her mind for another bit of suitable badinage, but finding none, she began at once on the object of her visit. "now, my dear, i want you to listen to all i have to say before you make one objection. it's an idea of my very own. you'll let me get through without interruption?" "yes, oh, yes," murmured lydia, lifting ariadne down from her high-chair and untying the napkin from about her thin little neck. the introduction of a new element in her surroundings had for a moment broken the thread of her exalted resolutions. she wondered with a sore heart, as though it had been a common lovers' quarrel, how she and paul could ever get over the first sight of each other again. she was wondering how, with the most passionate resolve in the world, she could do anything at all under the leaden garment of physical fatigue which would weigh her down in the months to come. miss burgess began in her best style, which she so evidently considered very good indeed, that she could not doubt lydia's attention. it was all about a home for working-women she explained; a new charity which had come from the east, had caught on like anything among the smart set of columbus, and was about to be introduced into endbury. the most exclusive young people in columbus--the east end set (miss burgess had a genius for achieving oral capitalization) gave a parlor play for the first benefit there, in one of the old broad street homes, and they were willing to repeat it in endbury to introduce it there. a perfectly splendid crowd was sure to come, tickets could be any price, and the hostess who lent her house to it could have the glory of a most unique affair. mrs. lowder would be overwhelmed with delight to have the pick of the society of the capital at her house, but miss burgess had thought it such an opportunity for miss lydia to come out of mourning with, since it was for charity. she motioned lydia, about to speak, sternly to silence: "you said you wouldn't interrupt! and you haven't let me say _half_ yet! that's your side of it--the side your dear mother would think of if she were only here; but there's another side that you can't, you _oughtn't_ to resist!" she finished her tea with a hasty swallow and, going around the table, sat down by lydia, laying her hand impressively on the young matron's slim arm. "you're the sweetest thing in the world, of course, but, like other people of your fortunate class, you can't realize how perfectly awfully lucky you are, nor how unlucky _poor_ people are! of course it stands to reason that you can't even imagine the life of a working-woman--you, a woman of entire leisure, with every want supplied before you speak of it by a husband who adores you! why, miss lydia, to give you some idea let me tell you just one little thing. lots and lots of the working-women of endbury live with their families in two or three rooms right on that horrid main street near their work because they can't afford _carfares_!" lydia looked at her without speaking. she remembered her futile, desperate, foolish proposition to paul to get more time together by living near his work. with a roar, the flood of her bewilderment, diverted for a time, broke over her again. she braced herself against it. through her companion's dimly-heard exhortations that, from her high heaven of self-indulgence, she stoop to lend a hand to her less favored sisters, she repeated to herself, clinging to the phrase as though it were a magic formula: "if i can only wish hard enough to make things better, nothing can prevent me." the telephone bell rang, and miss burgess interrupted herself to say: "it's for me, i know. i told them at the office to call me up here." she got herself out of the room in her busy way, her voice soon coming in a faint murmur from the far end of the hall. lydia walked to the window to call ariadne in to put on a wrap, the thought and action automatic. she had buttoned the garment about the child's slender body before she responded again to the little living presence. then she took her in a close embrace. with the child's breath on her face, with her curls exhaling the fresh outdoor air, there came to pass for poor lydia one of the strange, happy mysteries of the contradictory tangle that is human nature. she had felt it often with paul after one of their long separations--how mere physical presence can sometimes bring a consolation to the distressed spirit. as she held her child to her heart, things seemed for a moment quite plain and possible. why, paul was ariadne's father! as soon as he was with her again, all would be well. it must be. nothing could separate her from the father of her baby! they were one flesh now. there was still all their lifetime to grow to be one in spirit. she had only to try harder. they had simply started on a false track. they were so young. so many years lay before them. there was plenty of time to turn back and start all over again--there was plenty of time to-- "oh, my dear! my dear!" miss burgess faltered weakly into the room and sank upon a chair. lydia sprang up, ariadne still in her arms, and faced her for a long silent instant, searching her face with passion. then she set the little girl down gently. "run out and play, dear," she said, and until the door had shut on the child she did not stir. her hand at her throat, "well?" she asked. miss burgess began to cry into her handkerchief. "it's paul!" said lydia with certainty. she sat down. the weeping woman nodded. "he has left me," lydia continued in the same dry tone of affirmation. "i know. we had a quarrel, and he has left me." miss burgess looked up, quite wild with surprise, her sobs cut short, her face twisted. "oh, no--no--no!" she cried, running across the room and putting her arms about the other. "no; it's not that! he--he--the man who telephoned said they were testing the dynamo, and your husband insisted on--" lydia came to life like a swimmer emerging into the air after a long dive. "oh, he's hurt! he's hurt!" she cried, bounding to her feet. "i must go to him. i must go to him!" she tore herself away from the reporter and darted toward the door. the older woman ran after her, stumbling, sobbing, putting hands of imploring pity on her. although no word was spoken, lydia suddenly screamed out as though she had been stabbed. "_no! not that!_" she cried. "yes, yes, my poor darling!" said the other. lydia turned slowly around. "then it is too late. we never can do better," she said. miss burgess tried helplessly to unburden her kind heart of its aching sympathy. "you spoke of a little disagreement, but, oh, my dear, don't let that be the last thought. think of the years of perfect love and knowledge you had together." "we never knew each other," said lydia. her voice did not tremble. "oh, don't! don't!" pleaded miss burgess, alarmed. "you mustn't let it unhinge you so! such a perfect marriage!" "we were never married," said lydia. she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. "oh, help! someone!" called the poor reporter. "somebody come quick." lydia opened her eyes. she spoke still in a low, steady voice, but in it now was a shocking quality from which the other shrank back terrified. "_i could have loved him!_" she said. "quick--'stashie--hurry--keep the baby out of the room! your mistress has fainted!" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - book iv "but it is not too late for ariadne" chapter xxxi protection from the minotaur dr. melton burst open the door of the house in the black rock woods, and running to the owner caught hold of his bared brown arm. "paul hollister is dead!" he cried. "i read the papers," said rankin, looking down at him without stirring. "the damn fool!" cried the doctor, his face working. "just now! there's another child expected." rankin's inscrutable gravity did not waver at this speech. he felt the hand that rested on his arm tremble, and he was thinking, as judge emery had so often thought, that perhaps one reason for the doctor's success in treating women was a certain community of too-responsive nerves. "you can hardly blame a man because the date of his death is inconvenient," he said reasonably. he drew up one of his deep chairs and pushed the doctor into it. "sit down and get your breath. you look sick. how do you happen to be up so early? it's hardly daylight." "up! you don't suppose i've been to bed! lydia--" his voice halted. rankin's quiet face stirred. "she feels it--terribly?" "i can't make her out! i can't make her out!" the doctor flung this confession of failure before him excitedly. "i don't know what's in her mind, but she's evidently dangerously near--women in her condition never have a very settled mental poise, anyhow, and this sudden shock--they _telephoned_ it--and there was nobody there but that fool flora--" "do you mean that mrs. hollister is out of her mind?" asked rankin squarely. "i don't know! i don't know, i tell you! she says strange things--strange things. when i got there yesterday afternoon, she was holding ariadne--you knew, didn't you? that she called their little girl ariadne--?" rankin sat down, white to the lips. "no," he said, "i didn't know that. i never heard anything about--about her married life." "well, she was holding ariadne as close as though she was expecting kidnapers. i came in and she looked up--god! rankin, with what a face of fear! it wasn't grief. it was terror! she said: 'i must save the children--i mustn't let it get the children, too.' i asked her what she meant, and she went on in a whisper that fairly turned the blood backward in my veins, 'the minotaur! he got paul--i must hide the children from him!' and that's all she would say. i managed to put ariadne to bed, though lydia screamed at the idea of having her out of her sight, and i gave lydia a bromide and made her lie down. i think she knew me--oh, yes, i'm sure she did--why, she seemed like herself in every way but that one--but all night long she has wakened at intervals with a shriek and would not be quieted until she had felt of ariadne. nothing i said has had the slightest effect. i'm at my wits' end! if she doesn't get quieted soon--i finally gave her an opiate--enough to drug her senseless for a time--i don't know what to do! i don't know what to do!" he dropped his head into his hands and sat silent, shivering. rankin was looking at him, motionless, his powerful hands gripping his knees. he did not seem to breathe at all. the doctor sprang up and began to trot about, kicking at the legs of the furniture and biting his nails. "yes, i can, too! i do blame him for the date of his death!" he went back angrily to an earlier remark. "hollister killed himself as gratuitously as if he had taken a pistol! and he did it out of sheer, devilish vanity--ambition! he had worked himself almost insane, anyhow. i'd warned him that he must take it easy, get all the rest he could. his nerves were like fiddle-strings. and what did he do? made a night trip to evanston to superintend a job entirely outside his work. the inspector gave the machines the regular test; but paul wasn't satisfied. said they hadn't come up to what he'd guaranteed to get the contract; took charge of the test himself, ran the speed up goodness knows how high. the inspector said he warned him, but paul had got going and nothing could stop him--speed-mad--efficiency-mad--whatever you call it. and at last the fly-wheel on the engine couldn't stand it. it went through four floors and tore a hole in the roof--they say, in their ghastly phrase, there isn't enough left of him for a funeral! the other men left widows and children, too, i suppose--oh, damn! damn! damn!" he stopped short in the middle of the floor, his teeth chattering, his hand at his mouth. rankin's face showed that he was making a great effort to speak. "would i be allowed to see her?" he asked finally. the doctor spun round on him, amazed. "you? lydia? why in the world?" "perhaps i could quiet her. i have been able to quiet several delirious sick people when others couldn't." "i don't even know she's delirious--that's what puzzles me. she seems--" "will you let me try?" asked rankin again. * * * * * when they reached the house in bellevue, lydia was still in a heavy stupor, so mrs. sandworth told them, showing no surprise at rankin's appearance. the two men sat down outside the door of her room to wait. it was a long hour they passed there. rankin sat silent, holding on his knee little ariadne, who amused herself quietly with his watch and the leather strap that held it. he took the back off, and let her see the little wheel whirring back and forth. his eyes never left the child's serious, rosy face. once or twice he laid his large, work-roughened hand gently on her dark hair. dr. melton fidgeted about, making excursions into the sick room and downstairs to look after his business by telephone, and, when he sat by the door, relieving his overburdened heart from time to time in some sudden exclamation. "paul hasn't left a penny, of course," one of these ran, "and he hadn't finished paying for the house. but she'll come naturally to live with julia and me." at these last words, in spite of his painful preoccupation, a tender look of anticipation lighted his face. again, he said: "what crazy notion can it be about the whatever-it-was getting paul?" later, "was there ever such a characteristic death?" finally, with a long sigh: "poor paul! poor paul! it doesn't seem more than yesterday that he was a little boy. he was a brave little boy!" mrs. sandworth came to the door. "she's beginning to come to herself, i think. she stirs, and moves her hands about." as she spoke, there was a scream from the bedroom: "my baby! my baby!" rankin sprang to his feet, holding ariadne on one arm, and stepped quickly inside. "here is the baby," he said in a quiet voice. "i was holding her all the time you slept. i will not let the minotaur come near her." lydia looked at him long, with no sign of recognition. the room was intensely silent. a drop of blood showed on dr. melton's lower lip where his teeth gripped it. "nobody else sees it," said lydia in a hurried, frightened tone. "they won't believe me when i say it is there. they won't take care of ariadne. they can't--" "i see it," rankin broke in. he went on steadily: "i will take care that it does not hurt ariadne." "do you promise?" asked lydia solemnly. "i promise," said rankin. lydia looked about her wonderingly, with blank eyes. "i think, then, i will lie down and rest a little," she said, in a thin, weak voice. "i feel very tired. i can't seem to remember what makes me so tired." she sank back on the pillows and closed her eyes. her face was like a sick child's in its appealing, patient look of suffering. she looked up at rankin again. "you will not go far?" she asked. "i shall be close at hand," he answered. "you are very kind," murmured lydia, closing her eyes again. "i am sorry to be so much trouble to you--but it is so important about ariadne. i am sorry to be so--you are--very--" melton touched the other man's arm and motioned him to the door. chapter xxxii as ariadne saw it all that day, the tall, ruddy-haired man in working clothes sat in the hall, within sight, though not within hearing, of the sick room, playing with the rosy child, and exerting all his ingenuity to invent quiet games that they could play there "where muvver tan see us"; ariadne soon learned the reason for staying in one place so constantly. she was very happy that day. never in her life had she had so enchanting a playfellow. he showed her a game to play with clothespins and tin plates from the kitchen--why, it was so much fun that 'stashie herself had to join in as she went past. and he told one story after another without a sign of the usual grown-up fatigue. they had their lunch there at the end of the hall, on the little sewing-table with two dolls beside them and the new man made ariadne laugh by making believe feed the dolls out of her doll's tea-set. it was a little queer, of course, to stay right there all the time, and to have muvver staring at them from the bedroom at the other end of the hall, and not to be allowed to do more than tiptoe in once or twice and kiss her without saying a word; but when ariadne grew confused with trying to think this out, and the little eyes drooped heavily, the new man picked her up and tucked her away in his arms so comfortably that, though she meant to reach up and feel if his beard felt as red as it looked, she fell asleep before she could raise her hand. when she woke up it was twilight, but she was still in his arms. she stirred sleepily, and he looked down and smiled at her. his face looked like an old friend's--as though she had always known it. he had a friendly smile. she was very happy. uncle marius came toward them, teetering on his toes, the way he always did. "i think it's safe to leave now, rankin," he said. "she has fallen into a natural sleep." the new man stood up, still holding ariadne. how tall he was! she kept going up and up, and when she peered over his shoulder she found herself looking down on uncle marius' white head. "how about to-morrow?" asked the new man. "we'll see. we'll see," said dr. melton; and then they all went downstairs and had toast and boiled eggs for supper. ariadne informed her companions, looking up from her egg with a yolky smile, "daddy told muvver the other day that 'stashie had certainly learned to boil eggs something _fine_! and he laughed, but muvver didn't. was it a joke?" "they are very good eggs indeed, and well boiled," the new man answered. she loved the way in which he conversed with her. "ought we to give her some idea?" asked the doctor in a low voice. "i would wait until she asks," said the other. but paul's child never asked. once or twice she remarked that daddy was away longer than usual "_vis_ time," but he had never been a very steadily recurrent phenomenon in her life, and soon her little brain, filled with new impressions, had forgotten that he ever used to come back. there were many new impressions. a great deal was happening nowadays. every morning something different, every day new people going and coming. aunt marietta, auntie madeleine, uncle george from cleveland, whom she'd seen only once or twice before, and great-aunt hollister, whom she knew very well and feared as well as she knew her. after a time even the husbands began to appear, the husbands she had seen so rarely; aunt marietta's husband, and aunt madeleine's--fat, bald mr. lowder, who smelled of tobacco and soap and took her up on his lap--as much as he had--and gave her a big round dollar and kissed her behind her ear and smiled at her very kindly and held her very close. he said he liked little girls, and he wished auntie madeleine would get him one some day for a christmas present. she informed him, filled with admiration at the extent of her own knowledge, that he couldn't get a christmas present some day, but only just christmas day. mostly, however, they paid no attention to her, these many aunts and uncles who came and went. and, oddly enough, uncle marius always shut the door to muvver's room when they came, and wouldn't let them, no matter how much they wanted to, go in and see muvver, who was, she gathered, very sick. ariadne didn't see, really, why they came at all, since they couldn't see muvver and they certainly never so much as looked at 'stashie, dear darling 'stashie--more of a comfort these queer days than ever before--and they never, never spoke to the new man, who came and went as though nobody knew he was there. they would look right at him and never see him. everything was very hard for a little girl to understand, and she dared ask no questions. everybody seemed to be very angry, and yet not at her. indeed, she took the most prodigious care to avoid doing anything naughty lest she concentrate on herself this now widely diffused disapprobation. never in her life had she tried so hard to be good, but nobody paid the least attention to her--nobody but the new man and 'stashie, and they weren't the angry ones. the others stood about in groups in corners, talking in voices that started in to be low and always got loud before they stopped. ariadne added several new words to her vocabulary at this time, from hearing them so constantly repeated. when her dolls were bad now, she shook them and called them "indecent! indecent!" and asked them, with as close an imitation as she could manage, of great-aunt hollister's tone, "what _do_ you suppose people are thinking! what _do_ you suppose people are thinking!" or she knocked them into a corner and said "shocking! shocking!" one day she stopped uncle marius, hurrying past her up the stairs, and asked him: "what are you thinking of, uncle marius?" "what am i thinking of? what do you mean?" he repeated, his face and eyes twitching the way they did when he couldn't understand something right off. "why, auntie madeleine keeps asking everybody all the time, 'what _can_ the doctor be thinking of?' i just wondered." he bent to kiss her raspingly--there were stiff little stubby white hairs coming out all over his face--and he said, as he trotted on up the stairs, "i am thinking of making sure that you have a mother, my poor dear." and then there was a bigger change one day. she went to bed in her own little crib, and when she woke up she wasn't there at all, but in a big bed in a room at aunt julia's; and aunt julia was smiling at her, and hugging her, and saying she was so glad she had come to live with her and uncle marius for a while. ariadne found out that uncle marius had brought her and muvver the night before in a carriage all the way from bellevue. she regretted excessively that she had not been awake to enjoy the adventure. at aunt julia's, things were quieter. all at once the other people, the other uncles and aunts, had disappeared. that, of course, was because she and muvver were at aunt julia's. she conceived of the house in bellevue as still filled with their angry faces and voices, still echoing to "indecent! indecent!" and "what _do_ you suppose people are saying?" there was a long, long time after this when nothing special happened. the new man continued to come here, and his visits were the only events in ariadne's quiet days. apparently he came to see ariadne, for he never went to see muvver at all, as he used to do in bellevue. he took ariadne out in the back yard as the weather began to get warmer, and showed her lots of outdoor plays. he was as nice as ever, only a good deal whiter; and that was odd, for they were now in may, and from playing outdoors all the time ariadne herself was as brown as a berry. at least, that was what aunt julia said. ariadne accepted it with her usual patient indulgence of grown-ups' mistakes. there was not, of course, a single berry that was anything but red or black, or at least a sort of blue, like huckleberries in milk. she and 'stashie had gone over them, one by one; they knew. uncle marius remembered to shave himself nowadays. in fact, everything was more normal. ariadne began to forget about the exciting time in bellevue. muvver wasn't in bed all the time now, but sat up in a chair for part of the day and even, if one were ever so quiet, could listen to accounts of what happened in ariadne's world and could be told how aunt julia said that 'stashie was quite a help as second girl if you just remembered to put away the best china, and that they had had eight new cooks since ariadne had been there, but the second _would_ have stayed, only her mother got sick. the others just left. but aunt julia didn't mind. when there wasn't any cook, if it happened to be 'stashie's day off, they all had bread and milk for supper, just as she had, and they let her set the table, and she could do it ever so well only she forgot _some_ things, of course, and uncle marius never got mad. he just said he hoped eating bread and milk like her would make him as good as she was--and she _was_ good--oh, muvver, she was trying ever so hard to be good-- "come, dear," said aunt julia, "mother's getting tired. we'd better go." it was only after she went away, sometimes only when she lay awake in her strange big bed, that ariadne remembered that muvver never said a word, but only smoothed her hair and kissed her. she and the new man used to play out in the old grape-arbor in the back yard, and it was there, one day in mid-may, that uncle marius came teetering out and called the new man to one side, only ariadne could hear what they said. uncle marius said: "it's no use, rankin. it's a fixed idea with her. she isn't violent any more, but she hasn't changed. she is certainly a little deranged, but not enough for legal restraint. she could take ariadne and disappear any day. i'm in terror lest she do that. i've no authority to prevent her. she won't talk to me freely about what she is afraid of. she doesn't seem to trust me--_me_!" ariadne found the conversation as dull as all overheard grown-ups' talk, and tried to busy herself with a corn-cob house the new man had been showing her how to build. two or three times lately he had taken her out to his little house in the woods and showed her a lot of tools, and told her what they were for, and said if she were older he would teach her how to use them. ariadne's head was full of the happy excitement of those visits. corn-cob houses were for babies, she thought now. after a time, uncle marius went away, slamming the front gate after him and stamping away up the street as though he were angry, only he did all kinds of queer things without being angry. in fact, she had never seen him angry. perhaps he and muvver were different from other people and never were. she looked up with a start. the new man had come back to the arbor, but he did not look like play. he looked queer, so queer that ariadne's sensitive lower lip began to tremble and the corners of her mouth to draw down. she could _not_ remember having done anything naughty. she was frightened by the way he looked. and yet, he picked her up quite gently, and held her on his knee, and asked her if muvver could walk about the house yet. "oh, yes," she told him, "and came down to dinner last night." the new man put her down, and asked her with a "please" and "i'd be much obliged" as though she were a grown-up herself, if she would do something for him--go to muvver and ask her if she felt strong enough to come down into the grape-arbor to see him. tell her he had something very special to say to her. ariadne went, skipping and hopping in pleasurable excitement at her own importance, and returned triumphantly to say that muvver said she would come. she wondered if he felt too grown-up for cob houses himself. he hadn't built it any higher when she was gone. he looked as if he hadn't even winked. while she stood wondering at his silence, his face got very white. he stood up looking toward the house. muvver was coming out, very slowly, leaning on the railing to the steps--muvver in the nightgowny dress aunt julia had made her, only it wasn't really nightgowny, because it was all over lace--muvver with her hair in two braids over her shoulders and all mussed up where she'd been lying down. ariadne wondered that she hadn't smoothed it a little. she knew what people would say to _her_ if she came around with her hair looking like that. the man went forward to meet muvver, and gave her his hand, and they neither of them smiled or said how do you do, but came back together toward the arbor. and when they got there muvver sat down quick, as though she were tired, and laid her head back against the chair. the man lifted ariadne up and kissed her--he had never done that before. now she knew how his beard felt--very soft. she felt it against her face for a long time. and he told her to go into the house to 'stashie. so she went. ariadne always did as she was told. 'stashie was trying to make some ginger cookies, and the oven "jist would _not_ bake thim," she said. they were all doughy when they came out, very much as they were when they went in; but the dough was deliciously sweet and spicy. 'stashie and ariadne ate a great deal of it, because 'stashie knew very well from experience that the grown-ups have an ineradicable prejudice against food that comes out of the oven "prezackly" the way it went in. after that they had to wash their hands, all sticky with dough, and after that 'stashie took ariadne on her lap and told her irish fairy stories, all about cap o'rushes and the leprechaun, till they were startled by the boiling over of the milk 'stashie had put on the stove to start a pudding. 'stashie certainly did have bad luck with her cooking, as she herself frequently sadly admitted. but, oh! wasn't she darling to ariadne! it made the lonely little girl warm all over to be loved the way 'stashie loved her. sometimes when ariadne woke up with a bad dream it was 'stashie who came to quiet her, and she just hugged her up close, close, so that she could feel her heart go thump, thump, thump. and she always, always had time to explain things. it was wonderful how much time 'stashie had for that--or anything else ariadne needed. she was putting more milk on the stove when in dashed uncle marius, his mouth wide open and his hands jumping around. "where's your mother? where's mrs. hollister?" he cried. "out in the arbor," said ariadne. "alone?" "oh, no--" ariadne began to explain, but the doctor had darted to the window. you could see the grape-arbor plainly from there--muvver sitting with her hair all mussed up around her face, listening to the new man, who sat across the table from her and talked and talked and talked, and never moved a finger. uncle marius put his hand up quick to his side and said something ariadne couldn't catch. she looked up, saw his face, and ran away, terrified, to hide her face in 'stashie's dirty apron. now she knew how uncle marius looked when he was angry. she heard him go out and down the steps, and went fearfully to watch him. he went across the grass to the arbor. the others looked toward him without moving, and when he came close and leaned against the table, muvver looked up at him and said something, and then leaned back again, her head resting against the chair, her eyes closed, her hands dropped down. how tired muvver always looked! and just then 'stashie spilled all the cocoa she was going to use to flavor the pudding with. she spilled it on the stove, and it smoked and stinked--there was nobody nowadays to forbid ariadne to use 'stashie's words--and 'stashie said there wasn't any more and they'd have to go off to the grocery-store to get some, and if ariadne knew where that nickel was mis' sandworth give her, they could get a soda-water on the way, and with two straws it would do for both. chapter xxxiii what is best for the children? lydia lifted her face, white under the shadow of her disordered hair, and said: "it is mr. rankin who must take care of the children--ariadne, and the baby if it lives." she spoke in a low, expressionless voice, as though she had no strength to spare. dr. melton's hand on the table began to shake. he answered: "i have told you before, my dear, that there is no reason for your fixed belief that you will not live after the baby's birth. you must not dwell on that so steadily." lydia raised her heavy eyes once more to his. "i want him to have the children," she said. the doctor took a step or two away from the table. he was now shaking from head to foot, and when he came back to the silent couple and took a chair between them he made two or three attempts at speech before he could command his voice. "it is very hard on me, lydia, to--to have you turn from me to a--to a stranger." his voice had grotesque quavers. lydia raised a thin, trembling hand, and laid it on her godfather's sinewy fingers. she tried to smile into his face. "dear godfather," she said wistfully, "if it were only myself--but the children--" "what do you mean, lydia? what do you mean?" he demanded with tremulous indignation. she dropped her eyes again and drew a long, sighing breath. "i haven't strength to explain to you all i mean," she said gently, "and i think you know without my telling you. you have always known what is in my heart." "i had thought there was some affection for me in your heart," said the doctor, thrusting out his lips to keep them from trembling. lydia's drooping position changed slightly. she lifted her hands and folded them together on the table, leaning forward, and bending full on the doctor the somber intensity of her dark, deep-sunken eyes. "dear godfather, i have no time or strength to waste." the slowness with which she chose her words gave them a solemn weight. "i cannot choose. if it hurts you to have me speak truth, you must be hurt. you know what a failure i have made of my life, how i have missed everything worth having--" dr. melton, driven hard by some overmastering emotion, drew back, and threw aside precipitately the tacit understanding he and lydia had always kept. "lydia, what are you talking about! you have been more than usually favored--you have been loved and cherished as few women--" his voice died away under lydia's honest, tragic eyes. she went on as though he had not spoken. "my children must know something different. my children must have a chance at the real things. if i die, who can give it to them? even if i live, shall i be wise enough to give them what i had not wisdom or strength enough to get for myself?" "you speak as though i were not in the world, lydia," the doctor broke in bitterly, "or as though you hated and mistrusted me. why do you look to a stranger to--" "could you do for my children what you have not done for yourself?" she asked him earnestly. "how much would you see of them? how much would you know of them? how much of your time would you be willing to sacrifice to learn patiently the inner lives of two little children? you would be busy all day, like the other people i know, making money for them to dress like other well-to-do children, for them to live in this fine, big house, for them to go to expensive private schools with the children of the people you know socially--for them to be as much as possible like the fatherless child i was." lydia clenched her thin hands and went on passionately: "i would rather my children went ragged and hungry than to be starved of real companionship." the doctor made a shocked gesture. "but, lydia, someone must earn the livings. you are--" lydia broke in fiercely: "they are not earning livings--they are earning more dresses and furniture and delicate food than their families need. they are earning a satisfaction for their own ambitions. they are willing to give their families anything but time and themselves." "lydia! lydia! i never knew you to be cruel before! they can not help it--the way their lives are run. it's not that they wish to--they can not help it! it is against an economic law you are protesting." "that economic law has been broken by _one_ person i know," said lydia, "and that is the reason i--" the doctor flushed darkly. the tears rose to his eyes. "lydia, oh, my dear! trust me--trust me! i, too, will--i swear i will do all that you wish--don't turn away from me--trust me--!" lydia's mouth began to quiver. "ah! don't make me say what must sound so cruel!" the doctor stared at her hard. "make you say, you mean, that you _don't_ trust me." she drew a little, pitiful breath, and turned away her head. "yes; that is what i mean," she said. she went on hurriedly, putting up appealing hands to soften her words, "you see--it's the children--i _must_ do what is best for them. it must be done once for all. suppose you found you couldn't now, after all these years, turn about and be different? suppose you found you couldn't arrange a life that the children could be a part of, and help in, and really do their share and live with you. you _mean_ to--i'm sure you mean to! but you never _have_ yet! how dare i let you try if you are not sure? i can't come back if i am dead, you know, and make a new arrangement. mr. rankin has proved that he can--" at the name, the doctor's face darkened. he shot a black look at the younger man sitting beside him in his strange silence. "what has rankin done?" he asked bitterly. "i should say the very point about him is that he has done nothing." "he has tried, he has tried, he is trying," cried lydia, beating her hands on the table. "think! of all the people i know, he is the only one who is even trying. that was all i wanted myself. that is all i dare ask for my children--a chance to try." "to try what?" asked the doctor challengingly. "to try not to have life make them worse instead of better. that's not much to ask--but nobody i know, but one only has--" "simplicity and right living don't come from camping out in a shed," said the doctor angrily. "externals are nothing. if the heart is right and simple--" "if the heart is right and simple, nothing else matters. that is what i say," answered lydia. dr. melton gave a gesture of cutting the question short. "well, of course it's quite impossible! rankin can't possibly have any claim on your children in the event of your death. think of all your family, who would be--" "_i think of them_," said lydia with an accent so strange that the doctor was halted. "oh, i have thought of them!" she said again. she put her hands over her eyes. "could i not make a will, and appoint as guardian--" she began to ask. dr. melton cut her short with a sound like a laugh, although his face was savage. "did you never hear of wills being contested? how long do you suppose a will you make under the present circumstances would stand against an attack on it by your family and the hollisters, with their money and influence!" "oh! oh!" moaned lydia, "and i shall not be here to--" rankin stirred throughout all his great height and broke his silence. he said to lydia: "there is some way--there must be some way. i will find it." lydia took down her hands and showed a face so ravaged by the emotions of the colloquy that the physician in her godfather sprang up through the wounded jealousy of the man. "lydia, my dear, you must stop--this is idiotic of me to allow you--not another word. you must go into the house this instant and lie down and rest--" he bent over her with his old, anxious, exasperated, protecting air. lydia seized his hands. her own were hot and burning. "rest! i can't rest with all this unsettled! i go over and over it--how can i sleep! how can you think that your little opiates will make me forget that my children may be helpless, with no one to protect them--" she looked about her wildly. "why, little ariadne may be given to _madeleine_!" her horrified eyes rested again on her godfather. she drew him to her. "oh, help me! you've always been kind to me. help me now!" there was a silence, the two exchanging a long gaze. the man's forehead was glistening wet. finally, his breath coming short, he said: "yes; i will help you," and, his eyes still on hers, put out a hand toward rankin. the younger man was beside them in a stride. he took the hand offered him, but his gaze also was on the white face of the woman between them. "we will do it together," he told her. "rest assured. it shall be done." the corners of lydia's mouth twitched nervously. "you are a good man," she said to her godfather. she looked at rankin for a moment without speaking, and then turned toward the house, wavering. "will you help me back?" she said to the doctor, her voice quite flat and toneless; "i am horribly tired." * * * * * when the doctor came back again to the arbor, mrs. sandworth was with him, her bearing, like his, that of a person in the midst of some cataclysmic upheaval. it was evident that her brother had told her. without greeting rankin, she sat down and fixed her eyes on his face. she did not remove them during the talk that followed. the doctor stood by the table, drumming with his fingers and grimacing. "you must know," he finally made a beginning with difficulty, "i don't know whether you realize, not being a physician, that she is really not herself. she has for the present a mania for providing as she thinks best for her children's future. of course no one not a monomaniac would so entirely ignore your side, would conceive so strange an idea. she is so absorbed in her own need that she does not realize what an unheard-of request she is making. to burden yourself with two young children--to mortgage all your future--" rankin broke in with a shaking voice and a face of exultation: "good god, doctor! don't grudge me this one chance of my life!" the doctor stared, bewildered. "what are you talking about?" he asked. "about myself. i don't do it often--let me now. do you think i haven't realized all along that what you said of me is true--that i have done nothing? done nothing but succeed smugly in keeping myself in comfort outside the modern economic treadmill! what else could i do? i'm no orator, to convince other people. i haven't any universal panacea to offer! i'm only an inarticulate countryman, a farmer's son, with the education the state gives everyone--who am i, to try to lead? apparently there was nothing for me to do but ignobly to take care of myself--but now, god be thanked! i have my chance. someone has been hurt in their infernal squirrel-cage, and i can help--" the older man was looking at him piercingly, as though struck by a sudden thought. he now cut him short with, "you're not deceiving yourself with any notion that she--" the other answered quickly, with a smile of bitter humility: "you have seen her look at me. she does not know whether i am a human being or not--i am to her any strong animal, a horse, an ox--any force that can carry ariadne safely!" he added, in another tone, his infinitely gentle tone: "i see in that the extremity of her anxiety." the doctor put his hand on the other man's powerful arm. "do you realize what you are proposing to yourself? you are human. you are a young man. are you strong enough to keep to it?" rankin looked at him. mrs. sandworth leaned forward. "i am," said rankin finally. the words echoed in a long silence. the younger man stood up. "i am going to see a lawyer," he announced in a quiet voice of return to an everyday level. "until then, we have all more to think over than to talk about, it seems to me." * * * * * after he had left them the brother and sister did not speak for a time. then the doctor said, irritably: "julia, say something, for heaven's sake. what did you think of what he said?" "i didn't hear what he said," answered mrs. sandworth; "i was looking at him." "well?" urged her brother. "he is a good man," she said. a sense that she was holding something in reserve kept him silent, gazing expectantly at her. "how awfully he's in love with her!" she brought out finally. "that's the whole point. he's in love with her! all this talk about 'ways of living' and theories and things that they make so much of--it just amounts to nothing but that he's in love with her." "oh, you sentimental idiot!" cried the doctor. "i hoped to get some sense out of you." "that's sense," said mrs. sandworth. "it hasn't anything to do with the point! why, as for that, paul was in love with--" "he was _not_!" cried mrs. sandworth, with a sudden loud certainty. the doctor caught her meaning and considered it frowningly. when he spoke, it was to burst out pathetically: "_i_ have loved her all her life." "oh, you!" retorted his sister, with a sad conclusiveness. ariadne came running out to them. "i just went to look into muvver's room, and she was sound asleep! honest! she was!" the child had heard enough of the doctor's long futile struggles with the horrors of lydia's sleepless nights to divine that her news was important. she was rewarded with a startled look from her elders. "come!" said the doctor. they went into the house, and silently to lydia's half-open door. she lay across the bed as she had dropped down when she came in, one long dark braid hanging to the floor. they stood looking at her almost with awe, as though they were observing for the first time the merciful miracle of sleep. her bosom rose and fell in long, regular breaths. the drawn, haggard mask that had overlain her face so many months was dissolved away in an utter unconsciousness. her eyelashes lay on a cheek like a child's; her mouth, relaxed and drooping, fell again into the lines they had loved in her when she was a little girl. she looked like a little girl again to them. mrs. sandworth's hand went to her throat. she looked at her brother through misty eyes. he closed the door gently, and drew her away, making the gesture of a man who admits his own ignorance of a mystery. chapter xxxiv through the long night "they must have gone crazy, simply crazy!" said madeleine, making quick, excited gestures. "mrs. sandworth, of course--a person can hardly blame her for anything! she's a cipher with the rim off when the doctor has made up his mind. but, even so, shouldn't you think in common decency she'd have let us know what they were up to in time to prevent it? _i_ never heard a word of this sickening business of ariadne's adoption till day before yesterday. did _you_?" she ended half-suspiciously. mrs. mortimer stopped her restless pace up and down the old-fashioned, high-ceilinged room, and made a gesture for silence. "i thought i heard something--up there," she explained, motioning to the upper part of the house. "i wonder what made lydia so sure beforehand that she wouldn't live through this?" "well, i guess from what the nurse told me there _isn't_ much chance for her," said madeleine in a hard voice. her color was not so high as usual, her beautiful face looked grim, and she spoke in a bitter tone of seriousness that made her seem quite another person. marietta's thin, dark countenance gave less indication of her mood, whatever it was. she looked sallow and worn, and only her black eyes, hot and gloomy, showed emotion. both women were silent a moment, listening to the sound of footsteps overhead. "it seems as though it _must_ be over soon now!" cried the childless one of the two, drawing in her breath sharply. "it makes me furious to think of women suffering so. bertha williamson was telling me the other day about when her little walter was born--it made me _sick_!" the matron looked at her and shivered a little, but made no response. "the nurse says lydia is mostly unconscious now. perhaps the worst is over for her! poor lyd! what do you suppose made her act so?" went on madeleine, moving about restlessly, her voice uncertain. she went to the window, and drew aside the shade to look out into the blackness. "oh, i wish the men would come! what time is it, do you suppose? yes, i see; half-past three. oh, it _must_ be over soon! i wish they'd come! you telegraphed george, didn't you? heavens! how it rains!" "he was to come on the midnight train. is your husband--" "oh, he was horrid about it--wanted me to do it all myself. he's in the midst of some big deal or other. but i told him he'd _have_ to come and help out, or i'd--i'd _kill_ him! he'll bring the lawyer." "where do you suppose?" began marietta, looking over her shoulder. "out in his shanty in the black rock woods," said madeleine harshly, "with no idea of what's going on. just before you came, the doctor sent out for a messenger to take him word, and you'd better believe i got hold of that messenger!" "of course that'll make things easier," said marietta. "oh, it won't be hard at all," madeleine assured her; "the lawyer'll be right at hand; it'll be over in a minute." marietta's face altered. she drew back from the other woman. "oh, madeleine! you act as though--you were counting on lydia's--" "no; i'm not. i used to think a lot of lydia before she disgraced poor paul's memory in this way! but you see it'll be easy to do, one way or the other. if she--if she doesn't--why, marietta, you know lydia! she never can hold out against you and george, the nearest she has in the world. i should think you'd feel awfully about what people are saying--her letting ariadne be adopted in that scandalous way when she had brothers and sisters. i should think you'd feel like asserting yourselves. _i_ do, certainly! i'm just as near to ariadne as you are! and i know george is perfectly furious about the whole business!" "but maybe the doctor won't let us go in, right in to her--" a long-cherished grudge rose to the surface in mrs. lowder's energetic reply: "well, i guess this is one time when the high-and-mighty dr. melton'll have to be shoved on one side, and if necessary i'll do the shoving!" "you feel justified?" "justified! i should think i do! justified in keeping my brother's child out of the clutches of that--and if my husband and your brother together can't raise the cash and the pull to get ariadne away from him, too, i miss my guess. they will; of course they will, or what's the use of having money when you go to law!" marietta was silent. madeleine took her lack of responsiveness as due to the resentment of a poor person to her remarks as to the value of wealth in a democracy. she frowned, regretting a false step, and went on conciliatorily: "of course we're only doing what any decent family is bound to do--protecting the children. it's what lydia herself would want if she were in her right mind." she fell silent now, restless, fidgeting about, picking up small objects and setting them down unseeingly, and occasionally going to the window to look out at the hot, rainy night. she was in mourning for paul, and above her black draperies her face was now like marble. mrs. mortimer, also in black, sat in a determinedly passive silence. finally, the younger woman broke out: "oh, i'll go crazy if i just stay here! i'm going upstairs to see the nurse again." in an instant she was back, her face whiter than before. "it's a boy--alive, all right--half an hour ago. would you think they'd let us sit here and never tell us--" her voice changed. "a little boy--" she sat down. "how is lydia?" asked lydia's sister. "--a little boy," said madeleine. she addressed the other woman peremptorily. "i want him! you can have ariadne!" she flushed as she spoke, and added defiantly: "i know i always said i didn't want children!" "how is lydia?" marietta broke in with an angry impatience. "very low, the nurse said; dr. melton wouldn't give any hope." marietta's face twitched. her large white hands clasped each other hard. "i'm going into the doctor's office to telephone my husband," went on madeleine; "there's not a minute to lose." after she was alone, mrs. mortimer's thin, dark face settled into tragic repose. she leaned back her head and closed her eyes, from which a slow tear ran down over her sallow cheeks. there was no sound but the patter of summer rain on the porch roof outside. firm, light steps came hastily to the outer door, the door clicked open and shut, the steps came down the hall. mrs. mortimer sat up and opened her eyes. she saw a tall man in rough clothes, hatless, with raindrops glistening on his bright, close-cropped hair and beard. he was hesitating at the foot of the stairs, but at her slight movement he caught sight of her and rushed toward her. "has she--is there--" he began. mrs. mortimer gazed intently into his quivering face. "my sister has given birth to a son, and lies at the point of death," she said with her unsparing conciseness, but not harshly. the man she addressed threw up one hand as though she had struck him, and took an aimless, unsteady step. mrs. mortimer did not turn away her eyes from the revelation of his face. her own grew sterner. she was trying to bring herself to speak again. she put her hand on his arm to attract his attention, and looked with a fierce earnestness into his face. "listen," she said. "we were wrong, all of us, about lydia. we were wrong about everything. you were right. i wanted to tell you. if my sister had lived--she is so young--i hoped--" she turned away to hide the sudden break-up of her rigid calm. "little lydia!" she cried. "oh, misery! misery!" behind them was the sound of a shutting door and a key turned in the lock. they both spun about and saw mrs. lowder slip the key into the bosom of her dress. her aspect of white determination suited this theatrical gesture, as she placed herself quickly before the door. "if you will promise me solemnly that you will leave the house at once, i will let you out," she said, in a high, shaking voice. rankin did not answer. he looked at her as though he did not see her. "what business have you here, anyhow?" she went on fiercely. "i am here to adopt mrs. hollister's second child," stated rankin, collecting himself with an effort. mrs. lowder's pale face flushed. "you'll do nothing of the sort. i shall adopt my brother's child myself! how _dare_ you--a perfect stranger--" "mrs. hollister wishes it," said rankin. "lydia is out of her mind--if she is alive!" said madeleine, trembling excitedly, "and the child's own relatives are the proper--you needn't think you are going to keep ariadne, either! it can be proved in any court that lydia was crazy, and that her family are the ones that ought to--" "that will be decided in the future," said rankin. "for the present i have a legal right to ariadne, and i shall have to the boy!" "do you mean you would dare to lay hands on a woman?" cried madeleine, extending her arms across the door. rankin turned, and in one stride had reached the window, which stood open to the hot, rainy summer night. he was gone in an instant. "quick! quick! lock the front door!" cried madeleine, fumbling with the key. she turned it and darted into the hallway, and fell back, crying angrily: "oh, no! there's the back door--and the doctor's office and all the windows. it's no use! it's no use!" she broke into a storm of sobs. "you didn't help a bit!" she cried furiously to the other woman. "you didn't even try to help!" it was an accusation against which marietta did not attempt to defend herself. chapter xxxv the swaying balance dr. melton was at the top of the stairs as the other man came bounding up. "where in god's name have you been?" he demanded. "did you start as soon as my messenger--" "no messenger came--only 'stashie just now. i started the instant she--" "have you the paper--the contract--whatever it--" rankin showed a flash of white in his pocket. "is she able to sign it?" "oh, she _must_! she won't have an instant's peace until she does. she has been wild because you were so late in--" their hurried, broken colloquy was cut short by a nurse who came to dr. melton, saying, "the patient is always asking if the gentleman who is to--" "yes, yes; he is here." the doctor motioned her to precede them. "go in; you're needed as a witness." he held rankin back an instant at the door. "remember! no heroics! just have the signing done as quickly as possible and get out!" his little wizened face looked ghastly in the dim light of the hall, but his voice was firm, and his hand did not tremble. rankin followed him into the bedroom, which was filled with a strong odor of antiseptics. the nurse turned on the electric light, shading it with her hand so that the light fell only on the lower part of the bed, leaving lydia's head in the shadow. she lay very straight and stark, as though, thought rankin despairingly, she were already dead. her right arm was out over the sheet, her thin hand nerveless. her face was very white, her lips swollen and bleeding as though she had bitten them repeatedly. she was absolutely motionless, lying on her back with closed eyes. at the slight sound made by the men in entering, she opened her eyes and looked at them. every vestige of color dropped out of rankin's face. her eyes were alive, sane, exalted--lydia's own eyes again. he was holding the paper open in his hand, and without a word knelt down by the bed, offering it to her mutely. their eyes met in a long gaze. the doctor and nurse looked away from this mute communion. rankin put a pen in lydia's fingers and held up the paper. with, a faint, sighing breath, loud in the silent room, she raised her hand. it fell to the bed again. dr. melton then knelt beside her, put his own sinewy, corded fingers around it and guided it to the paper. the few lines were traced. lydia's hand dropped and her eyes closed. rankin stood up to go. the nurse turned off the light and the room was again in a half obscurity, the deep, steady voice of the rain coming in through the open windows, the sweet summer-night smells mingling with the acrid odor of chemicals, lydia lying straight and stark under the sheet--but now her eyes were open, shining, fixed on rankin. their light was the last he saw as he closed the door behind him. after a time the doctor came out and joined rankin waiting at the head of the stairs. he looked very old and tired, but the ghastly expression of strain was replaced with a flickering restlessness. he came up to rankin, blinking rapidly, and touched him on the arm. "look here!" he whispered. "her pulse has gone down from a hundred and fifty to a hundred and thirty." he sat down on the top step, clasped his hands about his knees, and leaned his white head against the balustrade. he looked like some small, weary, excited old child. "lord, rankin! sit down when you get a chance!" he whispered. "if you'd been through what i have! and you needn't try to get me to add another word to what i've just told you. i don't dare! it may mean nothing, you know. it may very likely mean nothing. good heavens! the mental sensitiveness of women at this time! it's beyond belief. i never get used to the miracle of it. everything turns on it--everything! if the pulse should go down ten more now, i should--oh, heaven bless that crazy celt for getting you here! good lord! if you hadn't come when you did! i don't see what could have become of the messenger i sent--why, hours ago--i knew that nothing could go right if you weren't--is that the door?" he sprang up and sank back again--"i told the nurse to report as soon as there was any change--i was afraid if i stayed in the room she would feel the twitching of my damned nerves--yes, really--it's so--she's in a state when a feather's weight--suppose 'stashie hadn't brought you! i couldn't have kept madeleine off much longer--god! if _madeleine_ had gone into that room, i--lydia--but nobody told 'stashie to go! it must have been an inspiration. i thought of course my messenger--i was expecting you every instant. she's been crouching out here in the hall all night, not venturing even to ask a question, until i caught sight of her eyes--she loves lydia too! i told her then the baby had come and that her mistress had no chance unless you were here. she must have--when did she--" rankin gave a sound like a sob, and leaned against the wall. he had not stirred before since the doctor's first words. "you don't mean there's _hope_?" he whispered, "any hope at all?" the doctor sprang at him and clapped his hand over his mouth. "i didn't say it! i didn't say it!" the door behind them opened, and the nurse stepped out with a noiseless briskness. the doctor walked toward her steadily and listened to her quick, low-toned report. then he nodded, and she stepped back into the bedroom and shut the door. he stood staring at the floor, one hand at his lips. rankin made an inarticulate murmur of appeal. his face glared white through the obscurity of the hall. the older man went back to him, and looked up earnestly into his eyes. "yes; there's every hope," he said. he added, with a brave smile: "for you and lydia there's every hope in the world. for me, there's the usual lot of fathers." chapter xxxvi another day begins they started. from below came a wail of fright. as they listened the sound came nearer and nearer. "that's ariadne--a bad dream--get her quiet, for the lord's sake." "where is she sleeping?" "in the room next the parlor." rankin gave an exclamation, and leaped down the stairs. at the foot he was met by a little figure in sleeping-drawers. "favver! favver!" she sobbed, holding up her arms. rankin caught her up and held her close. "you promised you wouldn't get so afraid of dreams, little daughter," he said in a low, tender voice of reproach. "but this was a nawful one!" wept ariadne. "i fought i heard a lot of voices, men's and ladies' as mad--oh! awful mad--and loud!" she went on incoherently that she had been too frightened to stir, even though after a while she dreamed that the front door slammed and they all went away. but then she was _too_ frightened, and came out to find favver. rankin took her back to her bed, and sat down beside it, keeping one big hand about the trembling child's cold little fingers. "it was only a bad dream, ariadne. just go to sleep now. father'll sit here till you do." "you won't let them come back?" asked the child, drawing long, shaken breaths. "no," he said quietly. "you'll always be close, to take care of me?" "yes, dear." "and of muvver and 'stashie?" there was a pause. ariadne spoke in grieved astonishment. "why, of _course_ of muvver and 'stashie, favver." rankin took a sudden great breath. "i hope so, ariadne." "well, you _can_ if you want to," the child gravely gave her assent. she said no more for a time, clutching tightly to his hand. then, "favver." "yes, dear." "i fink i could go to sleep better if i had my bunny." "yes, dear," said the man patiently; "where is he?" "i fink he's under ve chair where my clothes are--ve _big_ chair. 'stashie lets me put my clothes on ve biggest chair." the man fumbled about in the dark. then, "here's your bunny, ariadne." the child murmured something drowsily unintelligible. the man took his seat again by the bed. there was a pause. the child's breathing grew long and regular. the rain sounded loud in the silence. in the distance a street-car rattled noisily by. ariadne started up with a scream: "favver! favver!" "right here, dear. just the trolley-car." "it 'minded me of ve mad ladies' voices," explained ariadne apologetically, breathing quickly. she added: "vat was such a _nawful_ dream, favver. i wonder could i have your watch to hear tick in my hand to go me to sleep." "yes, dear; but only for to-night because of the bad dream." there were little nestling noises, gradually quieting down. then, sleepily: "favver, please." "yes, dear." "i fink i could go _all_ to sleep if you'd pit your head down on my pillow next my bunny." a stir in the darkness, and an instant's quiet, followed by, "why, favver, what makes your face all over water?" there was no answer. "and your beard is as wet as--" she broke off to explain to herself: "oh, it's rain, of tourse. i forgot it's raining. _now_ i remember how to _really_ go all to sleep. i did before. i listen to it going patter, patter, patter, patter--" the little voice died away. there was no sound at all in the room but the swift, light voice of the watch calling out that time, time, time can cure all, can cure all, can cure all--and outside the brooding murmur of the rain. a faint, clear gray began to show at the windows. the end ------------------------------------------------------------------------ romain rolland's jean-christophe dawn · morning · youth · revolt translated by gilbert cannan. pp. $ . net; by mail, $ . . it commences with vivid episodes of this musician's childhood, his fears, fancies, and troubles, and his almost uncanny musical sense. he plays before the grand duke at seven, but he is destined for greater things. an idol of the hour, in some ways suggesting richard strauss, tries in vain to wreck his faith in his career. early love episodes follow, and at the close the hero, like wagner, has to fly, a hopeful exile. 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"attracted delighted attention in the course of its serial publication. sentiment and humor are deftly mingled in this clever book."--_n. y. tribune._ "we must go back to louisa alcott for their equals."--_boston advertiser._ "for young and old alike we know of no more refreshing story."--_new york evening post._ henry holt and company publishers -- new york ------------------------------------------------------------------------ henry williams's the united states navy a handbook. by henry williams, naval constructor, u. s. navy. with full-page illustrations and a number in the text. mo. $ . net; by mail, $ . . this is a neat, crisp, matter-of-fact account of our navy, with an occasional illuminating anecdote of famous court-martials and such. it has been passed by high authorities and its publication officially sanctioned. the _contents_ includes: naval history--the navy's organization--the navy's personnel--man-of-war in commission--classes of ships in the navy--description--high explosives; torpedoes; mines; aeroplanes--designing and building a warship; dry docks--the national defense. thomas leaming's a philadelphia lawyer in the london courts illustrated by the author. vo. $ . net; by mail, $ . . (circular on application.) a trained observer's graphic description of the english law courts, of their ancient customs yet up-to-date methods; of the lives and activities of the modern barrister and solicitor--the "k. c.," the "junior," the "devil"--and of the elaborate etiquette, perpetuated by the inns of court, which still inflexibly rules them, despite the tendencies of the times and growth of socialism. _nation_:--"the style of narrative, the conciseness of statement, and the wealth of allusion make this book one which certainly the lawyer, and probably many laymen, will wish to finish at one sitting, and not hurriedly.... we hope to see the author appear again, and as a philadelphia lawyer at home." _bookman_:--"this quiet recital of facts ought of itself to create a revolution in this country.... he disclaims any intention of entering upon odious comparisons.... when the bar of america is aroused to the necessity of reform it will find these observations ... a mine of well-digested information and helpful suggestions." _dial_:--"his interesting account of the trial and conviction of madar la dhingra." _new york evening sun_:--"a suitable mixture of anecdote and generalization to give the reader a pleasant and clear idea of english courts, their ways and plan.... one of the most valuable chapters relates to the discipline of the bar." _philadelphia press_:--"a vast deal of useful and often fascinating information.... an eminently readable volume, which, although designed primarily for the lay reader, has already elicited hearty commendation from not a few leaders of the profession.... american lawyers are beginning to see that much may be learned from modern english practice.... on the subject of the ethics of the english bar mr. leaming has much to say that is worth careful perusal." henry holt and company west d street new york ------------------------------------------------------------------------ sixth edition, enlarged and with portraits hale's dramatists of to-day rostand, hauptmann, sudermann, pinero, shaw, phillips, maeterlinck by prof. edward everett hale, jr., of union college. with gilt top, $ . net; by mail, $ . . since this work first appeared in , maeterlinck's sister beatrice, the blue bird and mary magdalene, rostand's chantecler and pinero's mid-channel and the thunderbolt--among the notable plays by some of dr. hale's dramatists--have been acted here. discussions of them are added to this new edition, as are considerations of bernard shaw's and stephen phillips' latest plays. the author's papers on hauptmann and sudermann, with slight additions, with his "note on standards of criticism," "our idea of tragedy," and an appendix of all the plays of each author, with dates of their first performance or publication, complete the volume. _bookman_: "he writes in a pleasant, free-and-easy way.... he accepts things chiefly at their face value, but he describes them so accurately and agreeably that he recalls vividly to mind the plays we have seen and the pleasure we have found in them." _new york evening post_: "it is not often nowadays that a theatrical book can be met with so free from gush and mere eulogy, or so weighted by common sense ... an excellent chronological appendix and full index ... uncommonly useful for reference." _dial_: "noteworthy example of literary criticism in one of the most interesting of literary fields.... provides a varied menu of the most interesting character.... prof. hale establishes confidential relations with the reader from the start.... very definite opinions, clearly reasoned and amply fortified by example.... well worth reading a second time." _new york tribune_: "both instructive and entertaining." _brooklyn eagle_: "a dramatic critic who is not just 'busting' himself with titanic intellectualities, but who is a readable dramatic critic.... mr. hale is a modest and sensible, as well as an acute and sound critic.... most people will be surprised and delighted with mr. hale's simplicity, perspicuity and ingenuousness." _the theatre_: "a pleasing lightness of touch.... very readable book." henry holt and company publishers -- new york ------------------------------------------------------------------------ proofreading team from images provided by case western reserve university's preservation department (http://www.cwru.edu/ul/preserve/general.htm). bart ridgeley; a story of northern ohio. by a.g. riddle . contents. i. a failure ii. the blue chamber iii. newbury iv. at the post office v. mrs. markham's views vi. what he thought of things vii. logic of the gods viii. a ramble in the woods, and what came of it ix. a darkened soul x. after the flood xi. uncle aleck xii. a consecration xiii. blackstone xiv. the young idea shoots xv. snow's party xvi. waltz xvii. bart xviii. sugar making xix. henry xx. what the girls said xxi. a departure xxii. a shattered column xxiii. the storm xxiv. a law suit (to be skipped) xxv. the warning xxvi. lost xxvii. the babes in the woods xxviii. at judge markham's xxix. after xxx. jefferson xxxi. old ben xxxii. the letters xxxiii. at wilder's xxxiv. rough sketches xxxv. sartliff xxxvi. old gid xxxvii. the old story xxxviii. the old story over again xxxix. about lawyers, and dull xl. the disguise xli. the invitation xlii. admitted xliii. julia xliv. finding the way xlv. some things put at rest xlvi. prince arthur xlvii. the trial xlviii. the advocate xlix. waiting l. the gospel of love li. the return lii. final dream land chapter i. a failure. he could see from the top of the hill, down which the road wound to the river, that the bridge was gone, and he paused for a moment with an involuntary feeling that it was useless to go forward; but remembering that his way led across, at all events, he walked down to the bank. there it ran, broad, rapid, and in places apparently deep. he looked up and down in vain: no lodged drift-wood; no fallen trees; no raft or wreck; a recent freshet had swept all clear to high-water mark, and the stream rolled, and foamed, and boiled, and gurgled, and murmured in the afternoon august sun as gleefully and mockingly as if its very purpose was to baffle the wearied youth who looked into and over its changing tide. in coming from cleveland that morning he had taken a wrong road, and now, at mid-afternoon, he found his progress stayed with half his day's journey still before him. it would have been but a moment's task to remove his clothes and swim over, but the region was open and clear on that side for a considerable distance, and notwithstanding his solitude, he hesitated to make the transit in that manner. it was apparent, from the little-travelled road, that the stream had been forded by an indirect course, and one not easily determined from the shore. it occurred to him that possibly some team from cleveland might pass along and take him over; and, wearied, he sat down by his light valise to wait, and at least rest; and as he gazed into the rapid current a half-remembered line of a forgotten poet ran and ran through his mind thus: "which running runs, and will run forever on." his reflections were not cheerful. three months before he had gone over to hudson with a very young man's scheme of maintaining himself at school, and finally in college; and finding it impracticable, had strayed off to the lower part of the state with a vague idea of going down the mississippi, and, perhaps, to texas. he spent some time with relatives near cincinnati, and under a sudden impulse--all his plans, as he was pleased to call them, were impulses--he had returned, adding, as he was conscious, another to a long-growing list of failures, which, in the estimation of many acquaintances, also included himself. his meditations were interrupted by the sound of an approaching carriage coming over the hill. he knew the horses. they were judge markham's, and driven by the judge himself, alone, in a light vehicle. the young man sprang up at the sight. here was the man whom of all men he most respected, and feared as much as he could fear any man, whose good opinion he most cared to have, and yet who he was conscious had a dislike for him. the judge would certainly take him over the river, and so home, but in his frank and ingenuous nature how could he face him on his almost ignominious return? he stood still, a little away from the carriage-track, half wishing he might not be seen. he was seen, however, and a close observer might have discovered the half sneer on the otherwise handsome and manly face of the judge, who had taken in the situation. the horses were held in a walk as they came down near where the young man stood, with a half ashamed, yet eager, expression of countenance, and turned partly away, as if he expected--in fact, wished for nothing. "what are you doing here?" called out the judge. it was not a wholly courteous inquiry, and scarcely necessary, though not purposely offensive; but the tone and manner struck like an insult on the young man's sensitive spirit, and his answer went back a little sharply: "i am waiting for the river to run by," "ah! i see. well, i am glad you have found something that suits you." there was no mistaking the sarcasm of this remark, and perhaps its sting was deeper than was meant. the judge was not an unkind man, though he did not relish the reply to his question; he held up his horses on the margin of the water, and perhaps he wanted to be asked by this pert youth for the favor of a passage over. of course the petition was not, and never would have been made. he lingered a moment, and without another word entered the river, and, turning his horses' heads up stream for a short distance, drove out on the other side; as he turned into the regular track again, he caught a view of the young man standing impassive on the same spot where he first saw him. it is possible that judge markham, the most wealthy and popular man of his region, did not feel wholly at ease as, with his fine team and empty carriage, he drove away, leaving the weary, travel-stained youth standing on the other side of the river; and it is possible that the form of the deserted one may be brought to his memory in the hereafter. "'something that suits me'--'something that suits me!' all right, judge markham!" and as the carriage was hidden in the woods, the waters that rolled on between them were as nothing to the bitter, swelling tide that, for a moment, swept through the young man's bosom. he was undecided no longer. removing his boots and stockings, he entered the river at the point, and, following the course taken by the judge, he passed out, and resumed his journey homeward. as he walked rapidly onward, the momentary bitterness subsided. he was not one to hate, or cherish animosities, but he was capable of deep impressions, and of forming strong resolutions. there was a chord of melancholy running through his nature, which, under excitement, often vibrated the longest; and almost any strong emotion left behind a tone of sadness that lingered for hours, and sometimes for days, although his mind was normally buoyant and hopeful. as he went on over the hills, in the rude pioneer country of northern ohio, thirty-six or seven years ago, he thought sad-colored thoughts of the past, or, rather, he recalled sombre memories of the, to him, far-off time, when, with his mother and brothers, he formed one of a sobbing group around a bed whereon a gasping, dying man was vainly trying to say some last words; of afterwards awakening in the deep nights, and listening to the unutterably sweet and mournful singing of his mother, unable to sleep in her loneliness; of the putting away of his baby brother, and the jubilee when he was brought back; of the final breaking up of the family, and of his own first goings away; of the unceasing homesickness and pining with which he always languished for home in his young boy years; of the joy with which he always hurried home, the means by which he would prolong his stay, and the anguish with which he went away again. his mother was to him the chief good. for him, like providence, she always was, and he could imagine no possible good, or even existence, without her--it would be the end of the world when she ceased to be. and he remembered all the places where he had lived, and the many times he had run away. and then came the memory of julia markham, as she was years ago, when he lived in her neighborhood, and her sweet and beautiful mother used to intrust her to his care, in the walks to and from school, down on the state road--julia, with her great wonderful eyes, and world of wavy hair, and red lips; and then, as she grew into beautiful and ever more beautiful girlhood, he used to be more and more at judge markham's house, and used to read to julia's mother and herself. it was there that he discovered shakespeare, and learned to like him, and milton, whom he didn't like and wouldn't read, and the sketch book, and knickerbocker's history, and cooper's novels, and scott, and, more than all, byron, whom mrs. markham did not want him to read, recommending, instead, young's night thoughts, and pollock's course of time, and southey--the dear good woman! and then came a time when he was in the store of markham & co., and finally was taken from the counter, because of his sharp words to customers, and set at the books, and sent away from that post because he illustrated them with caricatures on the margins, and smart personal rhymes. julia was sixteen, and as sweet a romping, hoydenish, laughing, brave, strong girl as ever bewitched the heart of dreaming youth; and he had taught her to ride on horseback; and then she was sent off, away "down country," to the centre of the world, to boston, where were uncles and aunts, and was gone, oh, ever and ever so long!--half a lifetime--nearly two years--and came back; and then his thoughts became confused. then he thought of judge markham, and now he was sure that the judge did not like him; and he remembered that julia's mother, as he came towards manhood, was kind and patronizing, and that when he went to say good-by to julia, three months ago, although she knew he was coming, she was not at home, and he only saw her mother and nell roberts. then he thought of all the things he had tried to do within the last two years, and how he had done none of them. people had not liked him, and he had not suspected why, and had not cared. people liked his elder brothers, and he was glad and proud of it; and a jumble of odds and ends and fragments became tangled and snarled in his mind. what would people say of his return? did he care? he asked nobody's leave to go, and came back on his own account. but his mother--she would look sad; but she would be glad. it certainly was a mistake, his going; could it be a blunder, his returning? he was thinking shallowly; but deeper thoughts came to him. he began to believe that easy places did not exist; and he scorned to seek them for himself, if they did. the world was as much to be struggled with in one place as another; and, after all, was not the struggle mainly with one's own self, and could that be avoided? then what in himself was wrong? what should be fought against? who would tell him? men spoke roughly to him, and he answered back sharply. he couldn't help doing that. how could he be blamed? he suspected he might be. he knew there were better things than to chop and clear land, and make black salts, or tend a saw-mill, or drive oxen, or sell tape and calico; but, in these woods, poor and unfriended, how could he find them? was not his brother henry studying law at jefferson, and were they not all proud of him, and did not everybody expect great things of him? but henry was different from him. dr. lyman believed in him; judge markham spoke with respect of him. julia markham--how inexpressibly lovely and radiant and distant and inaccessible she appeared! and then he felt sore, as if her father had dealt him a blow, and he thought of his sending him away the year before, and wished he had explained. no matter. how he writhed again and again under the sting of his contemptuous sarcasm! "he wouldn't even pick me up; would leave me to lie by the wayside." towards sundown, weary and saddened, he reached the centre, "jugville," as he had named it, years before, in derision. he was a mile and a half from home, and paused a moment to sit on the platform in front of "marlow's hotel," and rest. the loungers were present in more than usual force,--jo and biather alexander, old neaze savage, old cal chase, tinker,--any number of old and not highly-esteemed acquaintances. "hullo, bart ridgeley! is that you?" bart did not seem to think it necessary to affirm or deny. "ben away, hain't ye? must a-gone purty much all over all creation, these last three months. how's all the folks where you ben?" no reply. a nod to one or two of the dozen attracted towards him was the only notice he took of them, seeming not to hear the question and comments of tinker. his silence tempted old cal, the small joker of the place, to open: "you's gone an everlastin' while. s'pose you hardly know the place, it's changed so." "it has changed some," he answered to this; "its bar-room loafers are a good deal more unendurable, and its fools, always large, have increased in size." a good-natured laugh welcomed this reply. "there, uncle cal, it 'pears to me you've got it," said one. "'pears to me we've all got it," was the response of that worthy. "come in, bart," said the landlord, "and take something on the strength o' that." "thank you, i will be excused; i have a horror of a sudden death;" and, taking up his valise, he started across the fields to the near woods. "bully!" "good!" "you've got that!" cried several to the discomfited seller of drinks. "it is your treat; we'll risk the stuff!" and the party turned in to the bar to realize their expectations. "there is one thing 'bout it," said bi, "bart hain't changed much, anyway." "and there's another thing 'bout it," said uncle bill, "a chap that carries such a sassy tongue should be sassy able. he'll answer some chap, some day, that wun't stan' it." "the man that picks him up'll find an ugly customer; he'd be licked afore he begun. i tell you what, them ridgeley boys is no fighters, but the stuff's in 'em, and bart's filled jest full. i'd as liv tackle a young painter." this was neaze's view. "that's so," said jo. "do you remember the time he had here last fall, with that braggin' hunter chap, mc-something, who came along with his rifle, darin' all hands about here to shute with him? he had one of them new peck-lock rifles, and nobody dared shute with him; and bart came along, and asked to look at the feller's gun, and said something 'bout it, and mc-somebody dared him to shute, and bart sent over to haw's and got 'old potleg,' that steve patterson shot himself with, and loaded 'er up, and then the hunter feller wouldn't shute except on a bet, and bart hadn't but fifty cents, and they shot twenty rods off-hand, and bart beat him; and they doubled the bet, and bart beat agin, and they went on till bart won more'n sixty dollars. sometimes the feller shot wild, and bart told him he'd have to get a dog to hunt where he hit, and he got mad, and bart picked up his first half-dollar and pitched it to jotham, who put up the mark, and left the rest on the ground." "there come mighty near bein' trouble then, an' there would ha' ben ef the major hadn't took bart off," said bi. and while these rough, good-natured men talked him over, barton walked off southerly, across the newly-shorn meadow, to the woods. twilight was in their depths, and shadows were stealing mysteriously out, and already the faint and subtle aroma which the gathering dew releases from foliage, came out like an incense to bathe the quick and healthy senses of the wearied youth. he removed his hat, opened his bosom, expanded his nostrils and lungs, and drank it as the bee takes nectar from the flowers. what an exquisite sense of relief and quiet came to him, as he found himself lost in the shadows of the young night! not a tree in these woods that he did not know, and they all seemed to reach out their mossy arms with their myriad of little, cool, green hands, to welcome him back. they knew nothing of his failures and disappointments, and were more sympathizing than the coarse and ribald men whose rude taunts he had just heard, and to whose admiration he was as indifferent as to their sarcasm. these were grand and beautiful maple woods, free from tangling underbrush, and standing thick and stately on wide, gentle slopes; and to-night the lisping breath of the summer evening came to this young but sad and burdened heart, with whispers soothing and restful. he had never been so long from home before; the nearer he approached it, the more intense his longings grew, and he passed rapidly through the open glades, disappearing momentarily in the obscurity of the thickets, past the deserted sugar camp, until finally the woods grew lighter, the trees more scattered, and he reached the open pasture lands in sight of the low farm-house, which held his mother and home. how strange, and yet familiar, even an absence of only three months made everything! the distance of his journey seemed to have expanded the months into years. he entered by a back way, and found his mother in the little front sitting-room. she arose with--"oh, barton, have you come?" and received from his lips and eyes the testimonials of his heart. she was slight, lithe, and well made, with good puritan blood, brain, and resolution; and as she stood holding her child by both his hands, and looking eagerly into his face, a stranger would have noticed their striking resemblance. her face, though womanly, was too marked and strong for beauty. both had the square decisive brow, and wide, deep eyes--hers a lustrous black, and his dark gray or blue, as the light was. her hair was abundant, and very dark; his a light brown, thick, wavy, and long. both had the same aquiline nose, short upper-lip, bland, firm, but soft mouth, and well-formed chin. her complexion was dark, and his fair--too fair for a man. "yes, mother, i have come; are you glad to see me?" "glad--very glad, but sorry." she had a good deal of the spartan in her nature, and received her son with a sense of another failure, and failures were not popular with her. "i did not hear from you--was anxious about you; but now, when you come back to the nothing for you here, i know you found less elsewhere." "well, mother, i know i am a dreadful drag even on your patience, and i fear a burden besides, instead of a help. i need not say much to you; you, at least, understand me. it was a mistake to go away as i did, and i bring back all i carried away, with the result of some reflection. i can do as much here as anywhere. i hoped i could do something for you, and i, poor unweaned baby and booby, can do better for myself near you than elsewhere." not much was said. she was thoughtful, deep natured, tender, and highly strung, though not demonstrative, and these qualities in him were modified by the soft, sensuous, imaginative elements that came to him--all that he inherited, except his complexion, from his father. his mother gave him supper, and he sat and inquired about home events, and gave her a pleasant account of their relatives in the lower part of the state. he said nothing of the discovery he had made among them--her own family relatives--that she had married beneath her, and had never been forgiven; and he fancied that he discovered some opening of old, old sorrows, dating back to her girlhood days, as he talked of her relatives. the two younger brothers came rattling in--george, a handsome, eager young threshing-machine, a bright, broad-browed boy, and edward, older, with drooping head and thoughtful face, and with something of bart's readiness at reply. george ran to him-- "oh, bart, i am so glad! and there is so much--a flock of turkeys--and a wolverine, and oh! so many pigeons and everything--more than you can shoot in all the fall!" "well, captain, we will let them all live, i guess, unless that wolverine comes around!" "there is a real, true wolverine; several have seen him, and he screeches, and yells, and climbs trees, and everything!" "there _is_ something around," said edward. "theodore and bill johnson heard him, over in the woods, not a week ago." "likely enough," replied bart; "but wolverines don't climb. there may be a panther. now, ed, what has been going on on the farm? is the haying done?" "yes; and the wheat is all in, and most all the oats. the corn is splendid in the old elm lot, and then the major has been chopping down your old sugar camp, where we worked when you came home from old hewitt's." "oh, dear, that was the loveliest bit of woodland, in the bend of the creek, in all the magnificent woods; well?" "he has nearly finished the jenks house," resumed edward, "and is now at snow's, in auburn. he said you would be home before now." "what about his colts?" "oh, arab runs about wild as ever, and he has dolf with him." "how many hands has he with him?" "four or five." "dr. lyman asked about you," said george, "and wondered where you were. he said you would be back in three weeks, and that something must have happened." "it would be lucky for the doctor's patients," replied bart, "if something should keep him away three days." "i guess he wants you to go a-fishing with him. they had a great time down there the other day--he, and mr. young, and sol johnson. they undertook to put up a sail as henry and you do, and it didn't work, and they came near upsetting; and' sol and old man young were scart, and old young thought he would get drownded. oh, it must have been fun!" and so the boys chippered, chirped, and laughed on to a late bed-time, and then went to bed perfectly happy. then came inquiries about henry, who had written not long before, and had wondered why he had not heard from barton; and, at last, wearied and worn with his three hundred miles' walk, bart bade his mother good-night, and went to his old room, to rest and sleep as the young, and healthful, and hopeful, without deep sorrows or the stings of conscience, may do. in the strange freaks of a half-sleeping fancy, in his dreams, he remembered to have heard the screech of a wild animal, and to have seen the face of julia markham, pale with the mingled expression of courage and fear. chapter ii. the blue chamber. in the morning he found the front yard had a wild and tangled, and the garden a neglected look, and busied himself, with the boys, in improving their appearance. in the afternoon he overhauled a small desk, the contents of which soon lay about on the floor. there were papers of all colors and sizes--scraps, single sheets, and collections of several pages--all covered with verses in many hands, from that of the young boy to elegant clerkly manuscript. they seemed to represent every style of poetic composition. it would have been amusing to watch the manner and expression with which the youth dealt with these children of his fancy, and to listen to his exclamations of condensed criticism. he evidently found little to commend. as he opened or unrolled one after another, and caught the heading, or a line of the text, he dashed it to the floor, with a single word of contempt, disgust, or derision. "faugh!" "oh!" "pshaw!" "blank verse? blank enough!" some he lingered over for a moment, but his brow never cleared or relented, and each and all were condemned with equal justice and impartiality. when the last was thrown down, and he was certain that none remained, he rose and contemplated their crumpled and creased forms with calm disdain. "oh, dear! you thought, some of you, that you might possibly be poetry, you miserable weaklings and beguilers! you are not even verses--are hardly rhymes. you are, one and all, without sense or sound." his brow grew severe in its condemnation. "there! take that! and that! and that!"--stamping them with his foot; "poor broken-backed, halting, limping, club-footed, no-going, unbodied, unsouled, nameless things. how do you like it? what business had you to be? you had no right to be born--never were born; had no capacity for birth; you don't even amount to failures! words are wasted on you: let me see if you'll burn." lighting one, he threw it upon the hearth. "it does! i am surprised at that. i rather like it. how blue and faint the flame is--it hardly produces smoke, and"--watching until it was consumed--"no ashes. too ethereal for smoke and ashes. let me try the rest;" and he did. he then opened a small drawer and took out a portfolio, in which were various bits of bristol-board and paper, covered with crayon and pen sketches, and some things in water-colors--all giving evidence of a ready hand which showed some untaught practice. whether his sense of justice was somewhat appeased, or because he regarded them with more favor, or reserved them for another occasion, was, perhaps, uncertain. singularly enough, on each of them, no matter what was the subject, appeared one or more young girl's heads--some full-faced, some three-fourths, and more in profile--all spirited, all looking alike, and each having a strong resemblance to julia markham. two or three were studied and deliberate attempts. he contemplated these long and earnestly, and laid them away with a sigh. they undoubtedly saved the collection. that night he wrote to henry: "dear brother,--i am back, of course. it is an unpleasant way of mine--this coming back. it was visionary for me to try a fall with the sciences at hudson. you would have been too many for them; i ran away. i found colton sick at cincinnati. the texan rangers had left. i looked into the waters of the ohio, running and hurrying away returnlessly to the south-west. lord, how they called to me in their liquid offers to carry me away! they seemed to draw me to linger, and gurgle, and murmur in little staying, coaxing eddies at my feet, to persuade me to go. "how near one seems to that far-off region of fever and swamp, of sun and sea, of adventure and blood, and old buccaneering, standing by those swift waters, already on their way thither! should i go? was i not too good to go, and be lost? think of the high moral considerations involved? no matter, i didn't go--i came! well! "on reflection--and i thus assume that i do reflect--i think men don't find opportunities, or, if they do, they don't know them. one must make an opportunity for himself, and then he will know what to do with it. the other day i stood on the other side of the chagrin waiting for an opportunity, and it didn't come, and i made one. i waded through, and liked it, and that was not the only lesson i learned at the same time. but that other was for my personal improvement. a man can as well find the material for his opportunity in one place as another. see how i excuse myself! "just now, i am a reformed young blue beard. fatima and her sister may go--have gone. i have just overhauled my 'blue chamber,' taken down all my suspended wives, and burned them. they ended in smoke. lord! there wasn't flesh and blood enough in them all to decompose, and they gave out no odor even while burning. i burned them all, cleaned off all the blood-spots, ventilated the room, opened the windows, and will turn it to a workshop. no more sighing for the unattainable, no more grasping at the intangible, no more clutching at the impalpable. i am no poet, and we don't want poetry. our civilization isn't old enough. poets, like other maggots, will be produced when fermentation comes. i am going about the humdrum and the useful. i am about as low in the public estimation as i can well go; at any rate i am down on hard land, which will be a good starting-point. now don't go off and become sanguine over me, nor trouble yourself much about me. "'the world will find me after many a day,' as southey says of one of his books. i doubt if it ever did. the doctor contends that southey was a poet; but then he thinks i am, also! "what a deuce of a clamor is made about this new comet or planet! what a useful thing to us poor, mud-stranded mortals to find out that there is another little fragment of a world, away some hundreds of millions of miles, outside of no particular where--for i believe this astronomical detective is only on its track! the doctor is in ecstacies over it, takes it as a special personal favor, and declaims luminously and constellationally about writing one's name among the stars, like that frisky cow who, in jumping over the moon, upon a time, made the milky way. i've always had some doubts about that exploit; but then there is the mark she left. your friend roberts is uneasy about this new star business; he is afraid that it will unsettle the cheese market, and he don't know about it, nor do i. "there! i got home only last night, and haven't heard any news to write you. some time i will tell of two or three things i saw and heard, and about some of our cousins, who regard us as belonging to the outer and lower skirts of the race. if i am to be one end of a family, let it be the beginning. "mother sends love. edward and george speak of you constantly. i've not seen our major since my return. "write me a good, sharp, cutting, criticising, deuced brotherly letter soon. as ever, "bart. "p.s. have you read pickwick? "b." it was full of badinage, with only a dip or two into an absorbing purpose that he had fully formed, and which he evidenced to himself by the summary expulsion of the muses. in the world of nature and humanity, is there such an embodiment of contradictions and absurdities as a youth in his transit from the dreamland of boyhood to the battle-field of manhood, through a region partaking of both, and abounding with strange products of its own? i am not speaking of the average boy, such boys as make up the male mass of the world--the undreaming, unthinking, plodding, drudging, sweating herd, whose few old commonplace, well-worn ideas don't possess the power of reproduction, and whose thoughts are thirteenth or thirteen hundredth-handed, and transmitted unimpregnated to other dullards, and whose life and spirit is that of the young animal merely--but a real young man, one of possibilities, intended for a man, and not merely for a male, one in whom the primitive forces of nature are planted, and who may develop into a new driving or forming power. what a mad, impulsive, freaky thing it is! you may see him bruising his still soft head a score of times against the impossible, and he will still contend that he can do it. he will spring frantically up the face of an unclimbable precipice, as the young salmon leaps up a cataract, and die in the faith that he can go up it. oh, sublime faith! oh, sublime folly! what strides he is constantly taking to the ridiculous, and not always from the sublime! how strong! how weak! how wise! how foolish! consistent only in folly, and steady in the purpose of being foolish. how beautiful, and how ugly! what a lovable, detestable, desirable, proud, wilful, arrogant, supercilious, laughing, passionate, tender, cruel, loving, hating, good sort of a good-for-nothing he is! he believes everything--he believes nothing; and, like mary's son, questions and mocks the doctors to their beards in the very temple. patience! he must have his time, and room to grow in, develop, and shape out. let him have coral for his teeth, and climbing, and running, and jumping for his muscle. no man may love him, and no woman but his mother, and she is to be tried to the extent of endurance. wait for him; he will, with or without your help, turn out good or bad, and in either event people will say: "i always told you so," "i always knew it was in him"; and cite a score of unhappened things in proof of their sagacity. barton was one of these; neither better nor worse, full of possibilities and capabilities, impulsive, rash, and unreasoning. he has just made a resolve, and will act upon it; proud and sensitive to a degree, he had heard a word of fault once at the store, which another word would have explained. he would not say it, and went. it was discovered that the fault was not his, in time for him to remain; but he left without that word. he is willing to take his chances, and must speak and act for himself. he sealed and directed his letter, walked about with the plaintive airs of old melodies running and running through his head, and sang snatches and verses of sad old ballads, going over and over with some touching line, or complaining strain, till he was saturated with its tender melancholy, and so he came back to ordinary life. chapter iii. newbury. newbury was one of the twenty-odd townships, five miles square, that then made up the county of geauga, and a part of the western reserve, the yankee-doodledom of ohio, settled exclusively by emigrants from new england. it was so much of massachusetts, connecticut, vermont, etc., translated into the broader and freer west. it has been said that the yankee, like a certain vegetable, heads best when transplanted. it was the old thing over, under new and trying circumstances. the same old ideas and notions, habits of thought and life; poor, economical and thrifty folk, with the same reverence for religion and law, love of education, and restless desire for improvement, and to better the present condition. in the west the yankee developed his best qualities in the second generation. he became a little straighter and less angular, and wider between the eyes. in the first generation he lived out his life scarcely refracted by the new atmosphere. this crop still stood firm and hardy on the reserve, and they often turned homesick eyes, talked lovingly and lingeringly of "down country," as they all called loved and cherished new england. most of the first settlers were poor, but hardy and enterprising. the two last qualities were absolutely necessary to take them through the long, wearisome journey to ohio, the then far west. they took up lands, built cabins, and forced a subsistence from the newly-cleared, stumpy virgin soil. this homogeneous people constituted a practical and thorough democracy. their social relations were based on personal equality, varied only by the accident of superior talents, address or enterprise, and as yet but little modified by wealth or its adventitious circumstances. among the emigrants scattered here and there was occasionally found a branch of a "down country" family of some pretensions, dating back to services in the revolution, to old wealth, or official position. among these were one or two families at painesville, near the lake, at parkman, several at warren, and more at cleveland, who had made each other's acquaintance, and who, as the country improved and the means of communication were perfected, formed and kept up a sort of association over the heads, and hardly within the observation, of the people generally. of these, as we may say, by right of his wife, was judge markham. he was a hardy, intelligent, and, for his day, a cultivated man, who came early into the woods as an agent for many large stockholders of the old connecticut land company, and a liberal percentage of the sales placed in his hands the nucleus of a large fortune. sagacity in investments and improvements, with thorough business capacity, had already made him one of the wealthiest men on the reserve; while a handsome person, and frank, pleasant address, rendered him very popular. he had been for several years an associate judge of the court of common pleas for geauga county, and had an extensive acquaintance and influence. mrs. markham, a genuine daughter of the old puritan ancestry, dating back to the first landing, a true specimen of the best yankee woman under favorable circumstances, was a most thoroughly accomplished lady, who had gone into the woods with her young husband, and who shed and exercised a wide and beneficent influence through her sphere. so simple, sweet, natural and judicious was she ever, that her neighbors felt her to be quite one of themselves, as she was. everybody was drawn to her; and so approachable was she, that the lower and more common declared that she was no lady at all. their only child, julia, just maturing into womanhood, was one of the best and highest specimens of the american girl, to whom refinement, grace, and a strong, rich, sweet nature, came by right of birth, while she inherited beauty from both parents; she seemed, however, unconscious of this last possession, as she was of the admiration which filled the atmosphere that surrounded her. she, too, must speak and act for herself. at the time of the incidents to be narrated, the northern and eastern part of newbury had a considerable population. it was traversed by a highway leading west through its centre to cleveland, and by a stage-road leading from painesville to the ohio river, through its eastern part. this was called the "state road," and on it stood parker's hotel, a stage-house much frequented, and constituting the centre of a little village, while further south was the extensive trading establishment of markham & co., using the name and some of the capital of the judge, and managed mainly by roberts and another junior. judge markham's spacious and elegant dwelling stood about half a mile south of the store. the south-western part of the township, with much of two adjoining townships, remained an unbroken forest, belonging to an eccentric landholder who refused to sell it. this was spoken of as "the woods," and furnished cover and haunts for wild game and animals, hunting-ground for the pioneers, and also gave shelter to a few shiftless squatters, in various parts of its wide expanse. in the eastern border of the township was punderson's pond, a beautiful, irregular-shaped body of limpid water, embosomed by deep wooded hills, and of considerable extent, well stocked with fish, and much frequented on that account. in the afternoon of the second day after his return, bart went down a highway leading east to the state road, to the post-office, kept at markham's store, and this road took him down by the southern end of the pond, and thence southerly on the state road. he passed along by dr. lyman's, jonah johnson's, and so on, past houses, and clearings, and woodlands, looking almost wistfully, as if he expected pleasant greetings; but the few he saw merely nodded to him, or called out: "are you back again?" he paused on the hill by the saw-mill, which overlooked the pond, and gazed long over its beautiful surface, sleeping in utter solitude amid the green hills, under the slanting summer sun, and seemed to recognize in it what he had observed, on the evening of his return, about the old homestead--the change that had taken place in himself--a change which often accounts for the strange appearance of the most familiar and cherished places. we find it reflected in the face of inanimate nature, and wonder at her altered guise, unconscious of the cause. he sauntered musingly on to the state road, and over by the old grist-mill, past several houses, up to parker's. here, by a beautiful spring under the shade of old apple and cherry-trees, near the carriage-way, was an indolent group of afternoon idlers. conspicuous among them was the dark and striking face of dr. lyman, the rich mahogany of uncle josh, and the homely, shrewd, and fresh-colored countenance of jonah johnson. bart could not avoid them if he would; and regretted that he had not gone across the woods to the post-office, and so escaped them. "well, young scholasticus," said the doctor, after the slight greetings had been given to the new-comer, "you seem to have graduated with great rapidity. you went through college like--" "one of your emetics, doctor. i came out at the same door i went in at. now, doctus, doctior, doctissimus, i am fair game on this point, so blaze away with everything but your saddle-bags, and i will laugh with the rest of you." a good-natured laugh welcomed this coming down. "well," replied the doctor, "there can't be much more said." "i should like to know, young man," remarked uncle josh, "whether you raly got into the college, i should." "well, mr. burnett, i _raly_ did not, i didn't," mimicking uncle josh. "what did you do, badinage apart?" "i took a good outside look at the buildings, which was improving; called on your friends dr. nutting and rev. beriah green, who asked me what church i belonged to, and who was my instructor in latin." "what reply did you make?" "what could i say? i didn't hear the first; and as to the second, i couldn't bring reproach upon you, and so i said i had never had one. you must own, doctor, that i showed great tenderness for your reputation." "you certainly did me a kindness." "thank you, doctor." "i should raly like to know," said uncle josh, "what you are thanking the doctor for, i should." "well, go on." "i went off," continued bart. "the fact is, i thought that that retreat of the sciences might hold that little learning, which is a dangerous thing--as you used to not quote exactly--and i thought it prudent to avoid that 'pierian spring.'" "what is the young man talking about now?" inquired uncle josh. "i would raly like to know, i would." "i must ask the doctor to explain," answered bart. "i was referring to one of his old drinking-places, where, according to him, the more one drank the soberer he grew. you would not fancy that tipple, would you?" "you see, uncle josh," said the doctor, laughing, "what comes of a young man's going a week to college." "the young man didn't know anything at all, before," declared uncle josh, "and he seems to know less now, amazingly." this was uncle josh's sincere opinion, and was received with a shout of laughter, in which bart heartily joined. indeed, it was his first sincere laugh for many a day. johnson asked him "whether he went to the ohio river," and being answered in the affirmative, asked him "by what route he went, and what he saw." uncle jonah, as bart usually called him, was one of his very few recognized friends, and asked in a way that induced him to make a serious answer. "i walked the most of the way there, and all the way back. i went by way of canton, columbus, dayton, and so to cincinnati, and returned the same way." "what do you think of that part of the state which you saw?" "unquestionably we have the poorest part of it. as our ancestors landed on the most desolate part of the continent, so we took the worst part of ohio. if you were to see the wheat-fields of stark, or the corn on the scioto, and the whole of the region about xenia and dayton, and on the miami, you would want to emigrate." "what about the people?" "oh, dear! i didn't see much of them, and that little did not make me wish to see more. the moment you step across the south line of the reserve you step into a foreign country, and among a foreign people, who speak a foreign language, and who know one of us as quick as they see us; and they seem to have a very prudent distrust of us. after passing this black, dutch region, you enter a population of emigrants from virginia, kentucky, maryland, and some from north carolina, and all unite in detesting and distrusting the reserve yankee. "it is singular, the difference between the lake and river side of the state. at cincinnati you seem to be within a step of new orleans, and hear of no other place--not a word of new york, and less of boston. there everything looks and goes south-west, while we all tend eastward." in reply to questions, bart told them of columbus and cincinnati, giving fresh and graphic descriptions, for he observed closely, and described with a racy, piquant exaggeration what he saw. breaking off rather abruptly, he seemed vexed at the length of his monologue, and went on towards the post-office. "that young man will not come to a single darn," said uncle josh; "not one darn. he is not good for anything, and never will be. his father was a very likely man, and so is his mother, and his older brothers are very likely men, but he is not worth a cuss." "uncle josh is thinking about bart's sketch of him, clawing old nore morton's face," said uncle jonah. "i did not like that; i did not like it at all. it made me look like hell amazingly," said the old man, much moved. "you had good reason for not liking it," rejoined uncle jonah, "for it was exactly like you." "dr. lyman, what do you think of this young man? he was with you, wa'n't he, studyin' something or other?" asked uncle josh; "don't you agree with me?" "i don't know," answered the doctor, "i am out of all patience with him. he is quick and ready, and wants to try his hand at every new thing; and the moment he finds he can do it, he quits it. there is no stability to him. he studied botany a week, and latin a month, and euclid ten days." "he hunts well, and fishes well--don't he?" asked another. "they say he shoots well," said uncle josh, "but he will wander in the woods all day, and let game run off from under his eyes, amazingly! they said at the big hunt, in the woods, he opened the lines and let all the deer out. he isn't good for a thing--not a cussed thing." "isn't he as smart as his brother henry?" asked uncle jonah. "it is not a question of smartness," replied the doctor. "he is too smart; but henry has steadiness, and bottom, and purpose, and power, and will, and industry. but bart, if you start him on a thing, runs away out of sight of you in an hour. the next you see of him he is off loafing about, quizzing somebody; and if you call his attention back to what you set him at, he laughs at you. i have given him up, utterly; though i mean to ask him to go a-fishing one of these nights." "exactly," said uncle jonah, "make him useful. but, dr. lyman and joshua burnett, the boy has got the stuff in him--the stuff in him. why, he told you here, in fifteen minutes, more about the state of ohio than you both ever knew. you will see--" "you will see, too, that he will not come to a darn," said uncle josh, regarding that as a sad doom indeed. chapter iv. at the post-office. barton found a more attractive group at the store. the post-office occupied a window and corner near the front of the large, old-fashioned, square store-room; and, as he entered the front door, he saw, in the back part of the room, a gay, laughing, warbling, giggling, chirping group of girls gathered about julia markham, as their natural centre. barton was a little abashed; he might have moved up more cautiously, and reconnoitred, had he not been taken by surprise. there was no help for it. he deposited his letters and called for his mail, which gave him time to gather his forces in hand. now barton was born to love and serve women in all places, and under all forms and circumstances. his was not a light, silly, vapid, complimentary devotion, but deep in his nature, through and through, he reverenced woman as something sacred and high, and above the vulgar nature of men; this reformed his mind, and inspired his manners; and, while he was generally disliked by men, he was favorably regarded by women. it was not in woman's nature to think ill of a youth who was always so modestly respectful, and anxious to please and oblige; and no man thus constituted was ever awkward or long embarrassed in woman's presence. she always gets from him, if not his best, what is proper. if he can lose self-consciousness, and receive the full inspiration of her presence, he will soon be at his ease, if not graceful. the last thing absolutely that ever could occur to barton, and it never had as yet, was the possibility of his being an object of interest personally to a woman, or to women. he was modest--almost to bashfulness; but as he never presumed, he was never snubbed; and now, on this summer afternoon, he had came upon a group of seven or eight of the most attractive girls of the neighborhood, accompanied by one or two strangers. there was julia, never so lovely before, with a warm color on her cheek, and a liquid light in her dark eyes, in whose presence all other girls were commonplace; and her friends nell roberts and kate fisher, lizzie mun and pearlie burnett, and several others. the young man was seen and recognized, and had to advance. think of walking thirty feet alone in the faces of seven or eight beautiful girls, and at the same time be easy and graceful! it is funny, what a hush the presence of one young man will bring over a laughing, romping cluster of young women. at his entrance, their girlish clamor sunk to a liquid murmur; and, when he approached, they were nearly silent, all but julia and a stylish blonde, whom barton had never seen before. they were gathered around a cloud and tangle of women's mysterious fabrics, whose names are as unknown to men as their uses. most of the young girls suspended their examinations and rippling comments, and, with a little heightened color, awaited the approach of the enemy. he came on, and gracefully bowed to each, was permitted to take the hands of two or three, and greeted with a little chorus of--"you have come back!" "where have you been?" "how do you do?" julia greeted him with her eyes, as he entered, with a sweet woman's way, that thrilled him, and which enabled him to approach her so well. she had remained examining a bit of goods, as if unaware of his immediate presence for a moment, and he had been introduced to the strange lady by kate fisher as her cousin, miss walters, from pittsburgh. then julia turned to him, and, with a charming manner, asked: "mr. ridgeley"--she had not called him bart, or barton, since her return from boston--"mr. ridgeley, what do the girls mean? have you really been away?" "have i really been away? and if i really have, am i to be permitted to take your hand, and asked how i really do? as if you really cared?" "really," was her answer, "you see we have just received our fall fashions, and it is not the fall style this year to give and take hands after an absence." "a-h! how popular that will be with poor masculines! is that to be worn by all of you?" "i don't know," said kate; "it is not fall with some of us yet." "thank you! and may i ask miss markham if it was the spring and summer style not to say good-bye at a parting?" the tone was gay, but there was something more in it, and the girl replied: "that depends upon the lady, i presume; both styles may be varied at her pleasure." "ah, i think i understand! you are kind to explain." "mr. barton," said lizzie, "flora and i here cannot determine about our colors"--holding up some gay ribbons--"and the rest can't help us out. what do you think of them?" "that they are brilliant," answered barton, looking both steadily and innocently in the faces, in a way that deepened their hues. "oh, no! these ribbons?" exclaimed the blushing girl, thrusting them towards his eyes. "indeed i am color blind, though not wholly blind to color." and a little ripple of laughter ran over the bright group, and then they all laughed again. can any one tell why a young girl laughs, save that she is happy and joyous? if she does or says anything, she laughs, and if she don't, she laughs, and her companions laugh because she does, and then they all laugh, and then laugh again because they laughed before, and then they look at each other and laugh again; thus they did now, and barton could no more tell what they were laughing at than could they; he was not so foolishly jealous as to imagine that they were laughing at him. then kate turned to him: "you won't go away again, i hope. we are going to have a little party before long, and you must come, and i want to see you waltz with my cousin. she waltzes beautifully, and i want to see her with a good partner. will you come?" "indeed i would be most happy; but your compliment is ironical. you know we don't waltz, and none of us can, if we try." "is that the awful dance where the gentleman takes the lady around the waist, and she leans on him, and they go swinging around? oh, i think that is awful!" "the germans, and many of our best ladies, and gentlemen, waltz," replied miss walters, "as they do in baltimore and new york, and i suppose my cousin thought no harm could be said of it at her little party." "oh, i am sure i did not mean that it was wrong, and i would like to see the dance!" was the eager disclaimer. barton had drawn away from this discussion, and lingered a moment near julia, to ask after her mother. she replied that mrs. markham was very well, but did not ask him to call and see for himself, nor did she in any way encourage him to prolong the conversation. so, with a little badinage and _persiflage_, he took his leave. i shall not attempt to set down what was said of him after he left, nor will i affirm that anything was said. young ladies, for aught i know, occasionally talk up young men among themselves, and if they do it is nobody's business. chapter v. mrs. markham's views. in the gathering twilight, in a parlor at the markham mansion, sat julia by the piano, resting her head on one hand, while with the other she brought little ripples of music from the keys; sometimes a medley, then single and prolonged notes, like heavy drops of water into a deep pool, and then a twinkling shower of melody. she was not sad, or pensive, or thoughtful; but in one of these quiet, sweet, and grave moods that come to deep natures--as a cloud passing over deep, still water enables one under its shadow to see into its depths. her mother stood at an open window, inhaling the evening fragrance of flowers, and occasionally listening to the wild note of the mysterious whippoorwill, that came from a thicket of forest-trees in the distance. the step of her father caught the ear of the young girl, who sprang up and ran towards him with eager face and sparkle of eye and voice. "oh, papa, the trunks came this afternoon, with the fashion-plates, and patterns, and everything, and all we girls--nell, kate fisher, miss flora walter, pearlie, ann, and all hands of us--have had a regular 'opening.' we went through with them all. the cottage bonnet is a love of a thing, and i am going to have it trimmed for myself. sleeves are bigger than ever, and there were lots of splendid things!" "and so roberts has suited you all, for once, has he?" said the judge, passing an arm around her small waist. "roberts! faugh, he had nothing to do with it. aunt mary selected them all herself. they are the latest and newest from paris--almost direct." "does that make them better?" "well, i don't know that there is anything in their coming from paris, except that one likes to know that they come from the beginning-place of such things. now if they had been made in boston, new york, or baltimore, one would not be certain they were like the right thing; and now we know they are the real thing itself. do you understand?" "oh, yes--as well as a man may; and it is quite well put, too, and i don't know that i ever had so clear an idea of the value of things from a distance before." "well, you see, when a thing comes clear from the farthest off, we know there ain't anything beyond; and when it comes from the beginning, we don't take it second hand." "i see; but why do you care, you girls in this far-off, rude region?" "mamma, do you hear that? here is my own especial father, and your husband, asking me, a woman, and a very young woman too, for a reason." "it is because you are a very young one that he expects you to give a reason. perhaps he thinks you will not claim the privilege of our sex." "well, i won't. now, then, papa judge, this is not a far-off, rude region, and you see that the french ladies want these styles and fashions, and all that; well, if they want them, we want them too." "now i don't quite see. how do you know they want them? perhaps they are sent here because they don't want them; and, besides, why should a backwoods girl in ohio want what a high-born lady in the french capital wants?" "because the american girl is a woman; and, besides, the court must hear and decide, and not ask absurd questions." "and who is to see you in french millinery, here in the woods?" "oh, bless its foolish man's heart, that thinks a woman dresses to please its taste, when it hasn't any! we dress to please ourselves and plague each other--don't you know that? and we ain't pleased with poky home-made things." "julia! mother," appealed the judge, with uplifted hands, to mrs. markham, "where did this young lady get her notions?" "from the common source of woman's notions, as you call them, i presume--her feelings and fancies; and she is merely letting you see the workings of a woman's mind. we should all betray our sex a hundred times a day, if our blessed husbands and fathers had the power to understand us, i fear." "and don't we understand you?" "of course you do, as well as you ever will. my dear husband, don't you also understand that if you fully comprehended us, or we you, we should lose interest in each other? that now we may be a perpetual revelation and study to each other, and so never become worn and common?" "there, papa judge, are you satisfied--not with our arguments, but with us?" "the man who was not would be unreasonable and--" "man-like," put in julia. "let me sing you my new song." a piano was a novelty in northern ohio. julia played with a real skill and expression, and her father, though no musician, loved to listen, and more to hear her sing, with her clear, strong, sweet voice, and so she played and sang her song. when she had finished, "by the way," remarked her father, "i understand that our travelled young townsman, who has just returned from foreign parts, was at the post-office this afternoon, and perhaps you met him." "whom do you mean?" asked julia. "your mother's pet, bart ridgeley." "now, papa, that is hardly kind, after what you said of him the other day. he is not mother's pet at all. she is only kind to him, as to everybody. indeed, he don't seem to me like anybody's pet, to be patted and kept in-doors when it rains, and eat jellies, and be nice. i saw him at the store a moment; he was very civil, and merely asked after mamma, and went out." "did you ask him to call and see mamma?" asked her father a little gravely. "not at all. the truth is, papa, after what you said i could not ask him, and was hardly civil to him." "was it unpleasant to be hardly civil to him?" "no; though i like to be civil to everybody. you know i have seen little of him since i came home, and when i have, he was sometimes silent and distant, and not like what he was before i went away." "you find him improved in appearance and manners?" persisted the judge. "well, he was always good-looking, and had the way of a gentleman. miss walters seemed quite taken with him, and was surprised that he had grown up here in the woods." her father was silent a moment, and the subject was changed. mrs. markham was attentive to what was said of poor bart, but made no comment at the time. * * * * * in their room, that night, in her sweet, serious way, she said to her husband, "edward, i do not want to say a word in favor of barton ridgeley. i do not ask you to change your opinion of him or your course towards him; but i wish to ask if it is necessary to discuss him, especially with julia?" "why?" "well, can it be productive of good? if you are mistaken in your estimate of him, you do him injustice, and in any event you will call her attention to him, and she may observe and study him; and almost any young woman who should do that might become interested in him." "do you think so? men don't like him." "is that a reason why a woman would not?" "have you discovered any reason to think that julia cares in the least for him?" "julia is young, and, like the women of our family, develops in these respects slowly; but, like the rest of us, she will have her own fancies some time, and you know"--with a still softer voice--"that one of them left a beautiful home, and a circle of love and luxury, to follow her heart into the woods." "yes, and thank god that she did! roses and blessings and grace came with you," said the judge, with emotion. "but this boy--what is he to us, or what can he ever be? he is so freaky, and unsteady, and passionate, and flies off at a word, and goes before he is touched. he will do nothing, and come to nothing." "what can he do? would you really have him buy an axe and chop cord-wood, or work as a carpenter, or sell tape behind the counter? are there not enough to do all that work as fast as it needs to be done? is there not a clamorous need of brain-work, and who is there to do it? who is to govern, and manage, and control twenty years hence? look over all the young men whom you know, and who promises to be fit to lead? think over those you know in cleveland, or painesville, or warren. is somebody to come from somewhere else? think of your own plans and expectations. who can help you? i see possibilities in this wayward, passionate, hasty, generous youth. he is a tender and devoted son, and i am glad he came back; and nobody knows how he may be pushed against us and others." "well," said the judge, after a thoughtful pause, "what can i do? what would you have me do--change myself, or try to change him?" "i don't know," thoughtfully: "i think there is nothing you can do now. i would wish you to cultivate a manner towards him that would leave it in your power to serve him or make him useful, if occasion presents. he needs a better education, and perhaps a profession. he should study law. he has a capacity to become a very superior public speaker--one of the first. i don't think there is much danger of his forming bad habits or associations. he avoids and shuns everything of that kind. you know he deeded his share of his father's land to his brother, to provide a home for his mother, and i presume will remain, both from choice and necessity, with her for the present." the judge mused over her words. he did not tell her of having met and left barton the other side of the chagrin; nor did he disclose fully the dislike he felt for him, or the fears he may have entertained at the idea of any intimacy between him and julia. his wife mused also in her woman's way. she, too, would have hesitated to have barton restored to the old relations of his boyhood. while she knew of much to admire and hope for in him, she knew also that there was much to cause anxiety, if not apprehension. in thinking further, she was inclined to call upon his mother, whom she much esteemed for her strong and decisive traits of character, soft and womanly though she was. cares and anxieties had kept her from association with her neighbors, among whom, as she knew, she seldom appeared, except on occasions of sickness or suffering, or when some event seemed to demand the presence of a deciding woman's mind and will. she remembered one or two such times in their earlier forest life, when mrs. ridgeley had quietly assumed her natural place for a day, to go back to her round of widowed love, care and toil. she would make occasion to see her, and perhaps find some indirect way to be useful to both mother and son. chapter vi. what he thought of things. how grateful to the sensitive heart of the young man would have been the knowledge that he was an object of thoughtful interest to julia's mother, who, next to his own, had his reverence and regard! he knew he was generally disliked; his intuitions assured him of this, and in his young arrogance he had not cared. indeed, he had come to feel a morbid pleasure in avoiding and being avoided; but now, as he sat in the little silent room in the late night, he felt his isolation. he had been appalled at a discovery--or rather a revelation--made that afternoon. he knew that he loved julia, and that this love would be the one passion of manhood, as it had been of his boyhood. he had given himself up to it as to a delicious onflowing stream, drifting him through enchanted lands, and had not thought or cared whither it might bear, or on what desolate shore it might finally strand him. now he felt its full strength and power, and he knew, too, that it was a force to be controlled, when perhaps that had become impossible. he had never asked himself if a return of his passion were even possible, until now, when his whole fervid nature had gone out in a great hungry longing for her love and sympathy. she had never stood so lovely and so inaccessible as he had seen her that day. how deeply through and through came the first greeting of her eyes! it was an electric flash never received before, and which as suddenly disappeared. how cool and indifferent was her manner and look as he approached, and stood near her! no inquiry, save that mocking one! not a word; not a thought of where he had been, or why he had returned, or what he would do; the shortest answer as to his inquiry about her mother; no intimation that he might even call at the house. thus he went over with it all--over and over again. what did he care? but he did, and could not deceive himself. he did care, and must not; and then he went back over all their intercourse since her return home, two or three months before he left, and it was all alike on her part--a cool, indifferent avoidance of him. oh, she was so glorious--so beautiful! the whole world lay in the span of her slender waist--a world not for him. was it something to be adventured for, fought for, found anywhere? something that he could climb up to and take? something to plunge down to in fathomless ocean and carry back? no, it was her woman's heart. like her father, she disliked him; and if, like her father, she would openly let him see and hear it--but doesn't she? what had he to offer her? how could he overcome her father's dislike? he felt in his soul what would come to him finally, but then, in the lapsing time? and she avoided him now! he returned to his algebraic problem, with a desperate plunge at its solution. the unknown quantity remained unknown; and, a moment later, he was gratified to see how he had finally caught and expressed, with his pencil, a look of julia, that had always eluded him before. but was he to be overcome by a girl? was life and its ambitions to be crushed out and brought to nought by one small hand? he would see. it would be inexpressible luxury to tell her once--but just once--all his passion and worship, and then, of course, remain silent forever, and go out of her presence. he wished her to know it all, so that, as she would hear and know of him in the coming years, she would know that he was worthy, not of her love, but worthy to love her, whatever that may mean, or whatever of comfort it might bring to either. what precious logic the heart of a young man in his twenty-second year is capable of! chapter vii. logic of the gods. "doctor," said barton, in the little office of the latter, "i've called to borrow your euclid; may i have it? i have never tried euclid, really." "oh, yes, you can have it, and welcome. do you want to try yourself on the _pons asinorum?_" "what is that; another bridge of sighs? for i suppose they can be found out of venice." "it is a place over which asses have to be carried. it is, indeed, a bridge of sighs, and a bridge of size." "oh, doctor, don't you do that! well, let me try it! i want more work; and especially i want a wrestle with euclid." "work! what are you doing, that you call work?" "well, hoeing beans, pulling up weeds, harvesting oats, with recreations in latin grammar, dabol, algebra, watts on the mind, butler's analogy, and other trifles." "all at one time?" "no, not more than three at the same time. don't lecture me, doctor, i am incorrigible. when i work, i don't play." "and when you don't play you work, occasionally; well, i think euclid will do you good." "i won't take it as a prescription, doctor!" "a thorough course of mathematics would do more for one of your flighty mind, than anything else; you want chaining down to the severe logic of lines and angles." "to the solution of such profound problems as, that the whole of a thing is more than a fraction of it; and things that are exactly alike resemble each other, for instance, eh?" "pshaw! you will make fun of everything. will you ever reach discretion, and deal with things seriously?" "i was never more serious in my life, and could cry with mortification over my lost, idled-away hours, you never believed in me, and are not to blame for that, nor have i any promises to make. i am not thought to be at all promising, i believe." "bart," said the doctor, seriously, "you don't lack capacity; but you are too quick and impulsive, and all imagination and fancy." "well, doctor, you flatter me; but really is not the imagination one of the highest elements of the human mind? in the wide world's history was it not a crowning, and one of the most useful qualities of many of the greatest men?" "great men have had imagination. i presume, and achieved great things in spite of it; but through it, never." "why, doctor! the mere mathematician is the most servile of mortals. he is useful, but cannot create, or even discover. he weighs and measures. project one of his angles into space, and, though it may reach within ten feet of a blazing star that dazzles men with eyes, yet he will neither see nor know of its existence. his foot-rule won't reach it, and he has no eyes. imagination! it was the logic of the gods--the power to create; and among men it abolishes the impossible. by its force and strength one may strike fire from hidden flints in darkened worlds, and beat new windows in the blind sides of the ages. columbus imagined another continent, and sailed to it; and so of all great discoverers." the doctor listened with some surprise. "did it ever occur to you, bart, that you might be an orator of some sort?" "such an orator as brutus is--cold, formal, and dead? i'd rather not be an orator at all, 'but talk right on,' like plain, blunt mark antony." "and yet brutus has been quoted and held up by poets and orators as a sublime example of virtue and patriotism, young man!" "and yet he never made murder the fashion;" and--striking an attitude--"caesar had his brutus! charles had his cromwell! and george iii. had--what the devil did george have? he was stupid enough to have been a mathematician, though i never heard that he was." "oh dear, bart!" said the doctor, with a sigh, "for god's sake, and your own, do study euclid if you can! don't you see that your mind is always sky-rocketing and chasing thistle-down through the air?" "'the downy thistle-seed my fare, my strain forever new,'" said bart, laughing, and preparing to go. "by the way," asked the doctor, "wouldn't you like to go fishing one of these nights? we haven't been but once or twice this summer. jonah, and theodore, and 'brother young' and i have been talking about it for some days. we will rig up a fire-jack, if you will go, and use the spear." "i am afraid i would be sky-rocketing, doctor; but send me word when you are ready." * * * * * barton had now entered upon something like a regular course. he had one of those intense nervous temperaments that did not require or permit excessive sleep. he arose with the first light, and took up at once the severest study he had until breakfast, and then worked with the boys, or alone, the most of the forenoon, at whatever on the farm, or about the house, seemed most to want his hand; the afternoons and evenings were given to unremitting study or reading. his tone of mind and new habit of introspection induced him to take long walks in the woods and secluded places, and after his work for the day was done; he imposed upon himself a regular and systematic course, and compelled himself to adhere to it. he saw few, went nowhere; and among that busy people, after the little buzz occasioned by his return had subsided, he ceased to be an object of interest or comment. it was remarked among them that they did not hear his rifle in the forests, and nobody had presents of wild turkeys and venison, as they sometimes had, and he was in his own silent way shaping out his own destiny. he received a letter from henry in reply to his own, full of kindness, with such hints as the elder could give as to his course of study. his observing mother saw at once a marked change in his manner and words. thoughtful and forbearing, his arrogance disappeared, and his impetuous, dashing way evidently toned down, while he was more tender towards her, and seemed to fall naturally into the place of an elder brother--careful and gentle to the young boys. chapter viii. a ramble in the woods, and what came of it. already the summer had deepened and ripened into autumn. the sky had a darker tint, and the breeze had a plaintive note in its voice; and here and there the footprints of change were in the tree-tops. on one of those serene, deep afternoons, barton, who had been importuned by the boys to go into the woods in pursuit of a flock of turkeys, that george had over and over declared "could be found just out south, and which were just as thick and fat as anything," yielded, and, taking his rifle, started out, accompanied by them, in high glee. george's declaration about the turkeys was, without much difficulty, verified, and bart, who was a practised hunter, and knew all the habits of the shy and difficult bird, managed in a short time to secure two. he felt an old longing for a good, long, lonely ramble, and directed the boys, who were in ecstacies at his skill and the result, to carry the game back to their mother, while he went out to the slashing, adding that if he did not come back until into the night, they might know he had gone to the pond, to meet the doctor and a fishing-party; and with a good-natured admonition from george, to look out for that wolverine that haunted the slashing, they separated. the "slashing" was a large tract of fallen timber, all of which had been cut down years before, and left to decay as it fell. near this, and to the east, an old roadway had been cut, leading south, which was often used by the neighbors to go from the ridgeley neighborhood to settlements skirting the eastern border of "the woods" before mentioned. still further east, and surrounded by forest, on a small stream, was coe's carding machine and fulling mill, to which a by-way led from the state road, at a point near parker's. the coes, a shiftless, harmless set, lived much secluded, and were often the objects of charity, and as such somewhat under the patronage of mrs. markham and julia; and some of her young friends were occasionally attracted there for a ramble among the rocks and springs, from which coe's creek, a little stream, arose. from the old road a path led to the fields of judge markham, about a fourth of a mile distant, which was the shortest route from his house to coe's. * * * * * on his return ramble, just as bart was about to emerge from the woods into the opening made by the old road from the west, he was surprised to see julia approaching him, going along that track towards home. she was alone, and walking with a quick step. lifting his hat, he stepped forward towards the path in which she was walking. the meeting in the wild, still woods, under the deepening shades of approaching night, was a surprise to both; and, by the light in the eyes of the youth, and warmer color in the face of the maiden, seemed not unpleasant to either. "this is a surprise, meeting you here alone," said barton, stepping to the side of the footway, a little in advance of her. "it must be," answered julia. "poor old lady coe is quite ill, and i've been around there, and, as it was latish, i have taken this short way home, rather than go all the way around the road." "indeed, if you are really going this way you must permit me to attend you," said bart, placing his gun against a stump. "it is a good half-mile to the path that leads out to your father's, and it is already darkening;" and he turned and walked by her side. "it is really not necessary," said the girl, quite decidedly. "i know the way, and am not in the least afraid." "forgive me, miss markham, but i really fear that you must choose between my attendance out of these woods and turning back around the road," replied bart. his manner, so frank and courteous, and his voice, so gentle, had nevertheless, to her woman's ear, a vibration of the man's nerve of force and will, to which the girl seemed unconsciously to yield. they walked along. the mystery of night was weaving its weird charm in the forest, and strange notes and sounds came from its depths, and these young, pure natures found an undefined sweetness in companionship. on they walked in silence, as if neither cared to break it. the young girl at length said: "mr. ridgeley"--not barton, or his first name, as in her childhood--what a heart-swoon smote the youth at the formal address!--"mr. ridgeley, there is something i must say to you. my father does not care to have me in your company, and i must not receive the most ordinary attention from you. he would not, i fear, like to know that you were at our house." did it cost her anything to say this? apparently not, though her voice and manner diminished its sting. a moment's pause, and barton's voice, cold and steady, answered back: "i know what your father's feelings towards me are," and then, with warmth, "but i am sure that he would think less of me, if possible, were i to permit any woman to find her way, at this hour, out of this wilderness." it was not much to say, but it was well said, and he turned his face towards her as he said it, lit up with a clear expression of man's loyalty to woman--not unpleasant to the young girl. why could not he leave it there and to the future? they walked on, and the shadows deepened. "miss markham, i, too, must say a thing to you: from my boyhood to this hour, deeply, passionately, with my whole heart and soul, have i loved you." there was no mistaking; the intensity of his voice made his words thrill. she recoiled from them as if stunned, and turned her face, pale now, and marked, fully towards him. "what! what did you say?" "i love you!" with a deep, full voice. "how dare you utter such words to me?" her eyes flashed and nostrils dilated. "because they are true; because i am a man and you are a woman," steadily and proudly. "a man! you a man! is it manly to waylay me in this lonely place, and force yourself upon me, and insult me with this? you compel me to--to--" "scorn and despise you!" supplied the youth, in a bitter tone. "take the words, then, if you choose them." she was simply grand in her style, till this last expression, which had the angry snap of an enraged woman. some high natures might have answered back her scorn; a lower one might have complained; and still another would have left her in the woods. barton said nothing, but, with a cold, stony face, walked on by her side. if, in his desperation, he wanted this killing thrust, which must ever rankle and never heal, to enable him to overcome and subdue his great passion, he had got it. that little hand, that emphasized her words with a gesture of superb disdain, would never have to repeat the blow. it raised about her a barrier that he was never after to approach. he was not a man to complain. he would have told her why he said these words; he could not now. some men are like wolves in traps, and die without a moan. barton could die, and smile back into the face of his slayer, and say no word. night was now deepening in the woods, with the haughty maiden, and high, proud and humiliated youth, walking still side by side through its shadows. they at length reached the path that led from the open way to the left, approaching julia's home. there was a continuous thicket of thrifty second-growth young trees bordering the track along which the two were journeying, and the opening through it made by this narrow path was black with shadow, like the entrance to a cave. "this is the way," said bart, turning into it. these were the first words he had uttered, and came as if from a distance. without a word of hesitation julia turned into the path with him, yet with almost a shudder at the darkness. they had not taken a dozen steps when an appalling, shrieking yell, a brute yell, of ferocious animal rage--the rage for blood and lust to mangle and tear--burst from the thicket on their right. a wild plunge through tangled brush and limbs, another more appalling shriek, and a dark, shadowy form, with a fierce, hungry growl, crouched in the pathway just before them, with its yellow, tawny, cruel eyes flashing in their faces. the first sound seemed to heat every fiery particle of the blood of the youth into madness, and open an outlet to the burning elements of his nature. here was something to encounter, and for her, and in her presence; and the brute had hardly crouched as if for its spring, when, with an answering cry, a man's shout, a challenge and a charge, he sprang forward, with his unarmed strength, to the encounter. as if cowed and overcome by the higher nature, the brute turned, and with a complaining whine like a kicked dog, ran into the depths of the woods. barton had momentarily, in a half frenzy, wished for a grapple, and felt a pang of real disappointment. "the brute is a coward," he said, as he turned back, where the white robes of julia were dimly visible in the darkness. she was a daughter of the puritans, and had the blood and high courage of her race. the first cry of the animal had almost frozen her blood, but the eager, proud, manly shout of barton affected her like a trumpet-call. she exulted in his dashing courage, and felt an irresistible impulse to rush forward to his aid. it all occurred in the fraction of a moment; and when she realized that the peril was over, she was well-nigh overcome. "you were always brave," said barton, cheerily, with just a little strain in his voice; "you were in no danger, and it is all over." no answer. "you are not overcome?" with an anxious voice. "oh," coming close to her, "if i might offer you support!" he held out his hand, and she put hers in it. how cool and firm his touch was, and how her tremor subsided under it! he pulled her hand within his arm, and hers rested fully upon his, with but their light summer draperies between them. "but a little way further," he said, in his cheery voice, and they hurried forward. neither spoke. what did either think? the youth was sorry for the awful fright of the poor girl, and so glad of the little thing that eased his own humiliation. the girl--who can tell what a girl thinks? as they reached the cleared land, a sense of relief came to julia, who had started a dozen times, in her escape out of the woods, at imaginary sounds. day was still in the heavens, and the sight of her father's house gladdened her. "will you mind the dew?" asked her companion. "not in the least," she answered; and he led her across the pastures to the rear of an enclosure that surrounded the homestead. he seemed to know the way, and conducted her through a large open gate, and so to a lane that led directly to the rear of the house, but a few yards distant. he laid his hand upon the small gate that opened into it, and turning to her, said: "i may not intrude further upon you. for your relief, i ought perhaps to say that the words of madness and folly which i uttered to you will neither be recalled nor repeated. let them lie where they fell--under your feet. your father's house, and your father's daughter, will be sacred from me." the voice was firm, low, and steady; and opening the gate, the young girl entered, paused a moment, and then, without a word, ran rapidly towards the house. as she turned an angle, she saw the youth still standing by the gate, as if to protect her. she flew past the corner, and called, in a distressed voice: "mamma! mamma! oh, mother!" she was a puritan girl, with the self-repression and control of her race, and the momentary apprehension that seized her as she left the side of barton was overcome as she entered her father's house. "julia!" exclaimed her mother, coming forward, "is that you? where have you come from? what is the matter?" "i came through the woods," said the girl, hurriedly. "i've been so awfully frightened! such dreadful things have happened!" with a half hysterical laugh, which ended in a sob. "julia! julia! my child! what under the heavens has happened? are you hurt?" "no, only dreadfully frightened. i was belated, and it came on dark, and just as we turned into the path from the old road, that awful beast, with a terrible shriek, sprang into the road before us, and was about to leap upon me, when barton sprang at him and drove him off. if it had not been for him, i would have been torn in pieces." "barton?--was he with you? thank god! oh, bless and thank god for your escape! my child! my child! how awful it sounds! come! come to my room, and let me hold you, and hear it all!" "oh, mamma! what a weak and cowardly thing a woman is! i thought i was so strong, and really courageous, and the thought of this thing makes me tremble now." they gained her mother's room, and julia, seating herself at her mother's feet, and resting her arms on her mother's lap, undertook to tell her story. "i cannot tell you how it all happened. barton met me, and would come along with me, and then he said strange things to me; and i answered him back, and quarrelled with him, and--" "what could he have said to you? tell me all." julia began and told with great minuteness, and with much feeling, her whole adventure. she explained that she really did not want bart to come with her, for that it would displease her father; and that when he did, she thought he ought to know that he was not at liberty to be her escort or come to the house, and so she told him. she could not tell why she answered him just as she did, but she was surprised, and not quite herself, and she might have said it differently, and need not have said so much, and he certainly must know that she did not mean it all. surely it was most his fault; if he really had such feelings, why should he tell her, and tell her as he did? it was dreadful, and she would never be happy again; and she laid her head in her mother's lap, in her great anguish. when her burst of grief had subsided, and she was calm, her mother asked several questions, and learned all that was said, and was much excited at julia's account of the encounter with the beast and barton's intrepidity. she seemed to feel that they had both escaped a great danger, through his courage. "my dear child," she said, "i don't know what to think of these strange and trying events, mixed up as they are. there is one very, very unfortunate thing about it." "that i met barton? oh, mother!" "no, no; not that. it was unfortunate that you came the way you did, or unfortunate that you went, perhaps; but it is not that. it was most providential that barton was with you, but so unfortunate that he said to you what he did." "is it a misfortune to be loved, mother?" "let us not talk of this to-night, my darling," stooping and kissing her still pale cheek. "god only knows of these things. it may not be a misfortune, but it may bring unhappiness, dear, to somebody." "perhaps, mother, if he had not had such feelings he would not have come with me." "my child! my child! don't say what might have happened. i am glad and grateful--so grateful that he was with you--that he was generous enough to come, after what you said to him; but now, how can we express our gratitude to him?" "oh, mamma! i am sure it is no matter. he won't care now what we think." "you are too much agitated, my daughter, to-night; let us not talk it over now. but what became of barton? did he come in?" "no, i left him at the back gate, without a word, only waiting for me to run in. of course he went back to the woods and wild beasts. what other place was there for him?" "don't, don't, julia! don't say such words. harm will not come to him." "i know it won't," said the young girl; "for when the whole world turns against a brave, true heart, god watches over it with the more care." "true, my child; and we can at least pray god to be near him, only don't think of this matter now. in a day or two you will be yourself, and look at it in a different light. your father will return to-morrow, and it may not be best to tell him of all this at present. it would only disturb him." "yes, mamma; i could not tell him everything as i have told you, and so i must not tell him anything, nor anybody else. how wretched it all is!" chapter ix. a darkened soul. as julia left bart, the full force of her scornful words seemed for the first time to reach him. the great restraint her presence imposed in some way suspended, or broke their effect, and he turned from the gate with a half-uttered moan of anguish. he did not then recall her words or manner; he only realized that, in a cruel and merciless way, she had crushed his heart and soul. it was not long; both recoiled with a sense of wrong and injustice, and utter helplessness, for the hurt came from a woman. instinctively he returned to the point whence they had emerged when they left the woods, and the thought of the screaming brute came to him with a sense of relief. here was an object upon which he could wreak himself, and in a half frenzy of madness he hurried towards a spot in the edge of the slashing, towards which the cowardly thing had run when it fled from his onset. he paused to listen upon the margin of that tangled wilderness of young trees, briers, and decaying trunks. how solemn and quiet, wild and lonely it was, in the deep night and deeper woods! the solemn hush fell upon the bruised spirit of the youth with the quieting touch and awe of a palpable presence, rebukingly, yet tenderly and pityingly. quick to compassionate others, he had ever been relentless to himself, and refused to regard himself as an object of injustice, or as needing compassion. as he stood for a moment confronting himself, scorned, despised and humiliated, he felt for himself the measureless contempt to which he seemed to have fallen; yet, under it all, and against it all, he arose. "oh, bart! bart! what a poor, abject, grovelling thing you really are," he said bitterly, "when the word of a girl so overcomes you! when the slap of her little hand so benumbs and paralyzes you! if you can't put her haunting face from you now, god can hardly help you. how grand she was, in her rage and scorn! let me always see her thus!" and he turned back into the old road. along this he sauntered until his eye met the dull gleam of his rifle-barrel against the old stump where he left it. with a great start, he exclaimed, "oh, if i could only go back to the moment when i stood here with power to choose, and dream!" it was a momentary weakness, a mere recoil from the wound still so fresh and ragged. it was still in early evening, with time and life heavy on his hands, when he remembered that the doctor had sent him word to come to the pond that night. taking his rifle by the muzzle, and throwing it across his shoulder, he plunged into the woods in a right line for the west shore of the pond, at about its midway. through thick woods tangled with underbrush and laced with wild vines, down steep banks, over high hills and rocky precipices, across clearings and hairy brier patches, he took his way, and found relief in the physical exertions of which he was still capable. at last he stood on the margin of the forest and hill-embosomed waters of that lovely little lake. it was solitary and silent, but for the weird sounds of night birds and aquatic animals that frequented its reedy margin, and a soft, silvery mist was just rising from its unruffled surface, that gathered in a translucent veil against the dark forest of the opposite shore. its simple, serene and quiet beauty, under the stars and rising moon, was not lost upon the poetic nature of barton, still heaving with the recent storm. he ran his eye along the surface of the water, and discerned in the shadow of the wood, near the island, a fourth of a mile distant, a light, and below it the dark form of a boat. placing his closed hands to his lips, he blew a strong, clear, full whistle, with one or two notes, and was answered by theodore. at the landing near him was a half-rotten canoe, partially filled with water, and near it was an old paddle. without a moment's thought, barton pushed it into deep water, springing into it as it glided away. he had not passed half the distance to the other boat, when he discovered that it was filling. with his usual rashness, he determined to reach his friends in it by his own exertions, and without calling to them for aid, and by an almost superhuman effort he drove on with his treacherous craft. the ultimate danger was not much to a light and powerful swimmer, and he plunged forward. the noise and commotion of forcing his waterlogged canoe through the water attracted the attention of the party he was approaching, but who had hardly appreciated his situation as he lightly sprang from his nearly filled boat into their midst. "hullo, bart! why under the heavens did you risk that old log? why didn't you call to us to meet you?" "because," said bart, excited by his effort and danger, "because to myself i staked all my future on reaching you in that old hulk, and i won. had it sunk, i had made up my mind to go with her, and, like mr. mantalini, in dickens's last novel, 'become a body, a demnition moist unpleasant body.'" "what old wreck is it?" inquired young, looking at the scarcely perceptible craft that was sinking near them. "it is the remains of the old canoe made by thomas ridgeley, in his day, i think," said jonah. "nothing of the sort," said bart; "it is the remains of old bullock's 'gundalow,' that has been sinking and swimming, like old john adams in the revolution, these five years past. don't let me think to-night, uncle jonah, that anything from my father's hand came to take me into the depths of this pond." the craft occupied by the party was a broad, scow-like float, with low sides, steady, and of considerable capacity. at the bow was a raised platform, covered with gravel, on which stood a fire-jack. the crew were lying on the silent water, engaged with their lines, when bart so unceremoniously joined them. he went forward to a vacant place and lay down in the bottom, declining to take a line. "what is the matter, bart?" asked the doctor. "i don't know. i've been wandering about in the woods, and i must have met something, or i have lost something,--i don't know which." "i guess you saw the wolverine," said theodore. "i guess i did;" and pretty soon, "doctor, is this your robe? let me cover myself with it; i am cold!" and there was something almost plaintive in his voice. "let me spread it over you," said the doctor, with tenderness. "what ails you, bart? are you ill?" "if you left your saddle-bags at home, i think i am; if they are here, i am very well. doctor," he went on, "can a man have half of his faculties shut off and retain the others clear and strong?" "i don't know,--perhaps so; why?" "well, i feel as if one of your astringents had placed its claws on a full half of me and drawn it all into a pucker; and the other half is in some way set free, and i feel clairvoyant." "what do you think you can see?" asked the doctor. "a young man--quite a young man--blindfolded, groping backward in the chambers of his darkened soul, and trying to escape out of it," said bart. "what a queer fancy!" said the doctor. "he must have an unusually large soul," said uncle jonah. "every soul is big enough for the man to move in, small as it is," said bart. "what is your youth doing in his, now?" asked the doctor. "he is sitting down, resigned," answered bart. "if his soul was dark, why was he blindfolded?" asked the doctor. "well, i don't know. for the same reason that men with eyes think that a blind man cannot see so well in the dark, perhaps," was the answer. "and see here," looking into the water, "away down here is a beautiful star. there, i can blot it out with my hand! and see, now, how i can shatter it into wavelets of stars, and now break it into a hundred, by merely disturbing the water where i see it, 'like sunshine broken in a rill.' who knows but it may be the just-arrived light of an old, old star which has just come to us? how easy to climb back on one of these filmy rays, myriads of millions of leagues, home to its source! i will take off the bandage and let the poor boy see it, and climb if he may." "you are fanciful and metaphysical," said the doctor. "euclid has not operated, i fear. why would you go up to the source of that ray? would you expect to find god and heaven there?" "i should but traverse the smallest portion of god," said bart, "and yet how far away he seems just now. somebody's unshapen hand cuts his light off; and i cannot see him by looking down, and i haven't the strength to look up." "how incoherently you talk; after all, suppose that there is no god, for do your best, it is but a sentiment, a belief without demonstrative proof." "oh, doctor, don't! you are material, and go by lines and angles; cannot you understand that a god whose existence you would have to prove is no god at all? that if his works and givings out don't declare and proclaim him, he is a sham? you cannot see and hear, doctor, when you are in one of your material moods. look up, if you can see no reflection in the waters below." "well, when i look into the revealed heaven, for instance, bart, i see it peopled with things of the earth, reflected into it from the earth; showing that the whole idea is of the earth--earthy." "oh, doctor! like the poor old galilean; when he thought it was all up, he went out and dug bait, and started off a-fishing. you attend to your fishing, and let me dream. if god should attempt to reveal himself to you to-night, which i wouldn't do, he would have to elevate and enlarge and change you to a celestial, so that you could understand him; or shrink and shrivel himself to your capacity, and address you on your level, as i do, using the language and imagery of this earth, and you would answer him as you do me--'it is all of the earth--earthy.' i want to sleep." the doctor pondered as if there was a matter for thought in what he had heard, and a little ripple of under-talk ran on about the subjects, the everlasting old, old and eternally new problems that men have dreamed and stumbled over, and always will--which bart had dreamily spoken of as if they were very familiar to his thoughts, and they spoke of him, and wondered if anything had happened, and pulled their boat to a new position, while the overtaxed youth subsided into fitful slumber. theodore finally awoke him, and said that they proposed to light up the jack, if he would take the spear, and they would push out to deeper water, and try for bass. bart stared about him uncomprehendingly for a moment. "oh, theodore, my fishing days are over! i will never 'wound the gentle bosom of this lake' with fish spear, or gig, or other instrument; and i've backed this old rifle around for the last time to-day." "bart, think of all our splendid times in the woods!" "what a funny dream i had: i dreamed i was a young indian, not john brown's 'little indian,' but a real red, strapping, painted young indian, and our tribe was encamped over on the west side of this indian lake, by otter point; and i was dreadfully in love with the chief's daughter." "who didn't love you again," said theodore. "of course not, being a well-brought up young indianess: and i went to the indian spring, that runs into the pond, just above 'barker's landing,' that you all know of." "i never knew that it was an indian spring," said young. "well, it is," replied bart. "it has a sort of an earthen rim around it, or had a few minutes ago; and the water bubbles up from the bottom. well, you drop a scarlet berry into it, and if it rises and runs over the rim, the sighed-for loves you, or she don't, and i have forgotten which. i found a scarlet head of ginseng, and dropped the seeds in one after another, and they all plumped straight to the bottom." "well, what was the conclusion?" "logical. the berries were too heavy for the current, or the current was too weak for the berries." "and the indianess?" "she and all else faded out." "oh, pshaw! how silly!" said young. "will you take the spear, or won't you?" "will you take the spear, or won't you?" replied bart, mimicking him with great effect. "have you heard from henry lately?" asked uncle jonah. "a few days ago," answered bart, who turned moodily away like a peevish child angered with half sleep, and a pang from the thrust he had received. "henry is the most ambitious young man i ever knew," said the doctor; "i fear he may never realize his aspirations." "why not?" demanded bart, with sudden energy. "what is there that my brother henry may not hope to win, i would like to know? he will win it or die in the effort." "he will not, if he lives a thousand years," said young, annoyed at bart's mimicking him. "it ain't in him." "what ain't in him, old testament?" demanded bart, with asperity. "the stuff. i've sounded him; it ain't there!" "you've sounded him! just as you are now sounding this bottomless pond, with a tow string six feet long, having an angle worm at one end, and an old hairy curmudgeonly grub at the other." "there, brother young," said uncle jonah, "stop before worse comes." "mr. young," said bart, a moment later, with softened voice, making way towards him, "forgive me if you can. i've done with coarse and vulgar speeches like that. you believe in henry, and only spoke to annoy me. i take it all back. i will even spear you some bass, if theodore will light up the jack. give me the oars, and let me wake up a little, while we go to better ground below." for a few moments he handled the polished, slender-tined, long-handled spear with great dexterity and success, and told the story of old leather stocking spearing bass from the pioneers. he soon ceased, however, and declared he would do no more, and his companions, disgusted with his freaky humor, prepared to return. bart, casting down his spear, remained in moody silence until they landed. theodore picked up his rifle, the fish were placed in baskets, the tackle stowed away, the boat secured, and the party proceeded homeward. bart lived further from the pond than any of the party, and theodore, who loved him, and was kind to his moods, taking a few of the finest fish, accompanied him home. as they were about to separate from uncle jonah--the father of theodore--he turned to bart, and said: "something has happened, no matter what; don't be discouraged, you stick to them old books; there's souls in 'em, and they will carry you out to your place, some time." "thank you, thank you, uncle jonah!" said bart, warmly; "these are the only encouraging words i've heard for two years." "theodore," said bart, as they walked on, "what an uncomfortable bore i must have been to-night." "oh, i don't know! we thought that something had happened, perhaps." "no, i'm trying to change, and be more civil and quiet, and have been thinking it all over, and don't feel quite comfortable; and we have both something to do besides run in the woods. you were very good to come with me, theodore," he said, as they parted at the gate. chapter x. after the flood. the next morning bart was not up as usual, and george rushed into the low-ceiled room, under the roof. "bart! breakfast is ready! ma thinks it strange you ain't up. that was a splendid big bass. where did you take him? are you sick?" as he came in. "no, georgie; i am only languid and dull. i must have been wofully tired." "i should think you would be, running all day and up all night. i should think you'd be hungry, too, by this time." "georgie, how handsome you look this morning! what a splendid young man you will be, and so bright, and joyous, and good! everybody will love you; no woman will scorn you. there, tell mother not to wait! i will get up soon." some time after, the light, quick step of his mother was heard approaching his door, where she paused as if to listen. "i am up, mother," called out bart; and she found him partly dressed, and sitting listlessly on his bed, pale and dejected. "it is nothing, mother; i'm only a little depressed and dull. i'll be all right in an hour. i ran in the woods a good deal, took cold, and am tired." she looked steadily and wistfully at him. the great change in his face could not escape her. weary he looked, and worn, as from a heart-ill. "what has happened, barton? did you go to anybody's house? whom did you see?" "no; i went to the pond, and met the doctor and uncle jonah, and theodore came home with me." "did you meet julia markham anywhere?" "i did; she was going home from coe's by the old road, and i went out of the woods with her." a long, hard-drawn breath from his mother, who saw that he took her question like a stab. "it is no matter, mother. it had to be over some time." "barton! you don't mean, barton--" "i do, just that, mother," steadily. "she was kinder in her scorn than she meant. it was what i needed." "her scorn! her scorn, barton!" "yes, her scorn, mother," decidedly and firmly. "you must have talked and acted foolishly, barton." "i did talk and act foolishly, and i take the consequences." "you are both young, barton, and you have all the world in which to overcome your faults and repair your mistakes, and julia--" "not another word of her, mother dear! she has gone more utterly out of my life than as if she were buried. then i might think of her; now i will not," firmly. "oh, that this should come to you now, my poor, poor boy!" "don't pity me, mother! i am soft enough now, and don't you for a moment think that i have nothing else to do in this world but to be killed out of it by the scorn of a girl. let us not think of these markhams. the judge is ambitious, and proud of his wealth and self, and his daughter is ambitious too. the world wants me; it has work for me. i can hear its voices calling me now, and i am not ready. don't think i am to sit and languish and pine for any girl;" and his mouth was firm with will and purpose, and a great swell of pride and pain agitated the bosom of his mother, who recognized the high elements of a nature drawn from her own. "you know, mother," he continued, thoughtfully, "that i am not one to be loved. i am not handsome and popular, like morris, whom all men like and many women love; nor thoughtful and accomplished and considerate, like henry, whom everybody esteems and respects, and of whom so much is expected." "do you envy them, barton?" "envy them, mother? don't i love the world for loving morris? don't i follow him about to feel the gladness that he brings? don't i live on the praises of henry? and don't i tear every man that utters a doubt of his infallibility? poor old dominie young! i was savage on him last night, for an unnecessary remark about henry; and i'll go and hear him preach, to show my contrition; and penitence can't go further. now, mother dear, i probably wanted this, and i am now down on the flat, hard foundation of things. don't blame this julia, and don't think of her in connection with me. no girl will ever scorn one of your boys but once." she lingered, and would have said more; but he put her away with affected gayety, and said he was coming down immediately,--and he did. but the melancholy chords vibrated long. there was another overhauling of the little desk, and innumerable sketches of various excellence, having a family resemblance, with faults in common, were sent to join the departed verses. that night, in a letter to henry, he said: "i've burned the last of my ships, not saving even a small boat." * * * * * mrs. ridgeley pondered over the revelation which her woman's intuitions had drawn from barton. no woman can understand why a son of hers should fail with any natural-born daughter of woman, and she suspected that poor bart had, with his usual impetuosity, managed the affair badly. no matter if he had; she felt that he was not an object of any woman's scorn; and this particular julia, she had every reason to know, would live to correct her impressions and mourn her folly. she, however, was incapable of injustice to even her own sex; and if julia did not fancy barton, she was not to blame, however faulty her taste. she remembered with satisfaction that she and hers were under no obligations to the markhams, and she only hoped that her son would be equal to adhering to his purpose. she had little fear of this, although she knew nothing of the offensive manner of his rejection, and had no intimation of what followed it. to her, julia was to be less than the average girl of her acquaintance. in the afternoon the two mothers met by accident, at the store, whither mrs. ridgeley had gone to make a few small purchases, and mrs. markham to examine the newly-arrived goods. mrs. ridgeley had no special inducement to waste herself on mrs. markham, and none to exhibit any sensibility at the treatment of barton; her manner was an admirable specimen of the cool, neighborly, indifferently polite. she was by nature a thorough-bred and high-spirited woman; and had julia openly murdered poor bart, the manner of his mother would not have betrayed her knowledge of the fact to mrs. markham. that lady busied herself with some goods until mrs. ridgeley had completed her purchases, when she approached her with her natural graciousness, which was so spontaneous that it was hardly a virtue, and was met with much of her own frank suavity. these ladies never discussed the weather, or their neighbors, or hired girls,--which latter one of them did not have; and with a moment's inquiry after each other's welfare, in which each omitted the family of the other, mrs. markham asked mrs. ridgeley's judgment as to the relative qualities of two or three pieces of ladies' fabrics, carelessly saying that she was choosing for julia, who was quite undecided. mrs. ridgeley thought miss markham was quite right to defer the matter to her mother's judgment, and feared that her own ignorance of goods of that quality would not enable her to aid mrs. markham. mrs. markham casually remarked that there was much demand for the goods, and that julia had had a long walk around to the coes the day before, and home through the woods, and was a little wearied to-day, and had referred the matter to her. mrs. ridgeley understood that miss markham was accustomed to healthy out-door exercise, and yet young girls were sometimes, she presumed, nearly as imprudent as boys, etc.; she trusted miss markham would soon be restored. if either of the ladies looked the other in the face while speaking and spoken to, as is allowable, neither discovered anything by the scrutiny. mrs. markham thought mrs. ridgeley must suffer much on account of the rashness of so many spirited boys, though she believed that mrs. ridgeley was fortunate in the devotion of all her sons. mrs. ridgeley thanked her; as to her boys, she had become accustomed to their caring for themselves, and when they were out she seldom was anxious about them. mrs. markham thought that they must have some interesting adventures in their hunting excursions. mrs. ridgeley said that morris always enjoyed telling of what he had done and met in the woods, while barton never mentioned anything, unless he had found a rare flower, a splendid tree, or a striking view, or something of that sort. the ladies gave each other much well-bred attention, and mrs. markham went on to remark that she had not seen barton since his return, but that julia had mentioned meeting him once or twice. mrs. ridgeley replied that soon after barton came home, she remembered that he spoke of meeting miss markham at the store. the faces of the ladies told nothing to each other. mrs. markham gave an animated account of her call at the house being built by major ridgeley for mr. snow, in auburn, and said that mr. snow was promising that major ridgeley might give a ball in it; and the major undertook to have it ready about new year's, and that the ball would be very select, she understood; the house was to contain a very fine ball-room, etc. had mrs. ridgeley received a letter recently from henry? she had. would barton probably go and study with his brother? she thought that would be pleasant for both. mrs. markham was very kind to inquire about the boys. would mrs. ridgeley permit mrs. markham to send her home in her new buggy? it stood at the door. mrs. ridgeley thanked her; she was going up by coe's, and so out across the bit of woods, home. did not mrs. ridgeley fear the animal that had been heard to scream in these woods? mrs. ridgeley did not in the least, and she doubted if there was one. the ladies separated. mrs. markham decided that barton had not told his mother of meeting julia the day before, nor of their adventure afterwards, and she was relieved from the duty of explaining anything; and she thought well of the young man's discretion, or pride. mrs. ridgeley thought that mrs. markham was talking at her for a purpose, perhaps to find out what barton told her; and it was some little satisfaction, perhaps, to know that julia did not feel like being out,--but then julia was a noble girl, and would feel regret at inflicting pain. poor bart! generous mrs. ridgeley! it also occurred to mrs. ridgeley that mrs. markham did not return to the subject of the goods, and she was really afraid that julia might lose her dress. chapter xi. uncle aleck. the marvellous power of christianity to repeat itself in new forms apparently variant, and reveal itself under new aspects, or rather its wonderful fulness and completeness, that enables the different ages of men, under ever-varying conditions of culture and development, to find in it their greatest needs supplied, and their highest civilization advanced, may be an old observation. a change in the theological thought and speculation of new england was beginning to make its way to the surface at about the time of the migration of its sons and daughters to the far-off ohio wilderness, and many minds carried with them into the woods a tinge of the new light. theodore parker had not announced the heresy that there was an important difference between theology and religion, and that life was of more consequence than creed. but calvinism had come to mean less to some minds, and there was another turning back to the great source by strong new seekers, to whom the accepted formulas had become empty, dry shells, to be pulverized, and the dead dust kneaded anew with the sweet waters of the ever fresh fountain. those who bore the germs of the new thought to the wild freedom of nature, in the woods, found little to restrain or direct it; and, as is usual upon the remoulding of religious thought, while the strong religious nature questions only as to the true, many of different temperament boldly question the truth of all. the seeds and sources of a religious revolution are remote, and its apparent results a generation of heretics and infidels. heresy sometimes becomes orthodoxy in its turn, and in its career towards that, and in its days of zeal and warfare, the infidel often becomes its convert. those in the new colony, who turned to the somewhat softer and sweeter givings out of the great teacher, and to whom these qualities made the predominant elements of his doctrines, were few in numbers, scattered and weak, while the mass of the immigrants were staunch in the theology of their old home. the holders of the new ideas not only suffered from the odium of all new heresies, but their doctrines were especially odious, as tending to destroy the wholesome sanctions of fitting punishments, while, like the teachers of all ideas at variance with the old, they were surrounded by and confounded with the herd of old scoffers and unbelievers, who always try to ally themselves with those who, for any reason, doubt or question the dogmas always rejected by them. and so it is that the apostles of a new dogma come to be weighted with whatever of odium may attach to the old rejectors of the old; and there is always this bond of sympathy between the new heretic and the old infidel; they are both opposed to the holders of the old faith, and hence so far are allies. in newbury, in that far-off time, a dozen families, perhaps, respectable for intelligence and morality, were zealous acceptors of the new ideas; and about these, to their great scandal, gathered the straggling, rude spirits and doubtful characters that lightly float on the wave of emigration, to be dropped wherever that subsides. the organizing power of the new ideas in itself, was not great. their spirit was not, and cannot, be aggressive. they consisted in part of a rejection of much that made puritanism intolerant in doctrine, and that furnished it with its organizing and militant power. men organize to do, and not merely to not do. among the most earnest in the support of these ideas were thomas ridgeley and his wife, who were also among the most prominent in their neighborhood. their public religious exercises were not frequent, and were holden in a school-house in their vicinity, the most attractive feature of which was the excellent singing of the small congregation. mrs. ridgeley came from a family of much local celebrity for their vocal powers, while her husband was not only an accomplished singer, but master of several instruments, and in the new settlements he was often employed as a teacher of music. the preacher of this small congregation was mr. alexander, "uncle aleck," as everybody called him, who lived in the west part of the town, on the border of "the woods." a man well in years, inferior in person, with a mild, sweet, benevolent face, and blameless, dreamy life, he spent much time in "sarching the scripters," as he expressed it, in constant conversations and mild disputations of bible texts and doctrines, and sermonizing at the sunday assemblies of his co-believers. he was a man without culture, without the advantage of much converse with cultivated people, of rather feeble and slender mental endowments, but of a wonderfully sweet, serene, cheerful temper, and a most abiding faith. his was a heart and soul whose love and compassion embraced the created universe. he believed that god created only to multiply the objects of his own love, and that the ultimate end of all providence was to bless, and he did not doubt that he would manage to have his way. that he had ever generated forces and powers beyond his control, he did not believe. the gospels, to him, were luminous with love, mercy, and protecting providence; and while his sermons were faulty and confused, his language vicious, and his pronounciation depraved, so that he furnished occasional provocation to scoffers among the profane, and to critics among the orthodox, there was always such sweetness and tenderness, and love so broad, deep, rich and pure, that few earnest or thoughtful minds ever heard him without being moved and elevated by his benignant spirit. he was always in converse with the master in his early ministrations, in beautiful, far-off, peaceful galilee. he was a contented and happy feeder upon the manna and wine of those early wanderings and preachings among a simple and primitive people; and was forever lingering away from jerusalem, and avoiding the final catastrophe, which he could never contemplate without shuddering horror. no power on earth could ever convert his simple faith to the idea that this great sacrifice was an ill-devised scheme to end in final failure; and he preached accordingly. the elder ridgeley had been dead many years; the simple faith had gained few proselytes; uncle aleck's sermons made little impression, and gained nothing in clearness of statement or doctrine, but ripened and deepened in tenderness and sweetness. his people remained unpopular, and nothing but the force of character of a few saved them from personal proscription. the ridgeley boys, the older ones, were steady in the faith of their parents. morris openly acknowledged it and henry had been destined by his father to its teachings; barton stood by his mother, however he esteemed her faith, and occasionally said sharp and pungent things of its opponents, which confirmed the unpopular estimate in which he was undoubtedly held. the markhams were orthodox. dr. lyman was a nearly unbelieving materialist at this time, but had several times "wabbled," as bart expressed it, from orthodoxy to infidelity, without touching the proscribed ground of uncle aleck. mr. young was an obsolete revival exhorter, whose life did little to illustrate and enforce his givings out. he had a weakness for the elder scriptures; and hence the irreverent name applied to him in the boat by bart. chapter xii. a consecration. among the adherents of uncle aleck were the coes, a mild, moony race, and recently it was understood that emeline, the only daughter in a family of eight or nine, a languid, dreamy, verse-making mystic, had expressed a wish to receive the rite of christian baptism, at that time practised by uncle aleck and his associates in northern ohio. the ceremony had been postponed on account of the illness of her mother, and was finally performed on the sunday following the incidents last narrated. a meeting was to be holden in the primitive forest, near coe's cabin, on the margin of a deep, crystal pool, formed naturally by the springs that supplied coe's creek. few events happened in that quiet region, and this was an event. news of it had circulated widely, and hundreds attended. the occasion was not without a certain touching interest. the beauty of the day, the wildness of the scenery under the grand old trees, with rude rocks, beautiful slopes, and running, pure water, and the deepening tints of autumn in sky, cloud and foliage,--the warm shafts of sunshine that here and there lit it all up,--the sincere gravity that fell as a sabbath hush on the expectant multitude, who seemed to realize the presence of a solemn mystery,--carried back an imaginative mind to an earlier day and a more primitive people, when the early christians, in the absence of schism, administered the same rite. uncle aleck, imbued with the sweetest spirit of his master, seemed inspired with a sense of the sacredness of the act he was to perform. of its divine origin, and sweet and consecrating efficacy, he had not the slightest doubt. the simple services of his faith he performed in a way that harmonized entirely with the occasion and its surroundings. a grand hymn under the old trees was sung by the choir with fine effect; a short, fervent prayer, the reading of two or three portions of one of the gospels, and a few words of sweet and simple fervor, expressive of a great love and sacrifice, and the unutterable hope and rest of its grateful acknowledgment in the public act about to be performed, followed; and then the believing, trembling girl was led into the translucent waters, which for a single instant closed over her, and was returned, with a little cry of ecstasy, to her friends. another hymn, a simple benediction, and the solemnly impressed crowd broke up into little knots, and left the spot vacant to the silence of approaching night. conspicuous in this gathering, as conspicuous everywhere where he appeared, was major ridgeley, an elder brother of bart. slightly taller, and absolutely straight in the shoulders, with an uppish turn to his head, the major was universally pronounced a handsome man. his large, bright, hazel eye, pure red and white complexion just touched by the sun, with a world of black curling hair swept carelessly back from, an open white brow, with well-formed mouth and chin, and his frank, dashing, manly way, cheery voice, and gay manner, made him a universal favorite; and, farmer and carpenter though he was, he was welcomed as an equal by the best people in the community. he had little literary cultivation, but mixing freely among men, and received with universal kindness by all women, he had the ready manners of a man of the world, which, with a shrewd vigor of mind, qualified him for worldly success. bart came upon the ground with his mother, near whom he remained, and to whom he was very attentive. to him the whole thing was very impressive. his poetic fancy idealized it, and carried him back till he seemed to see and hear the dedication of a young, pure spirit to the sweet sacredness of a holy life, as in the days of the preachings of the apostles. when the final hymn was given out he stood by his brother, facing most of the crowd, and for the first time they recognized in him a nameless something that declared and asserted itself--something that vaguely hinted of the sheaf of the boy joseph, that arose and stood upright, and to which their sheaves involuntarily did obeisance. still very young, and less handsome than his brother, he was yet more striking, pale and fair, with little color, and a face of boyish roundness, which began to develop lines of thought and strength. his brow, not so beautiful, was more ample; his features were regular, but lacked the light, bright, vivacious expression of morris; while from his deep, unwinking eyes men saw calmly looking out a strong, deep nature, not observed before. he joined his mother and brother in the last hymn. everybody knew the ridgeleys could sing. they carried the burden of the grand and simple old tune nearly alone. the fine mezzo-soprano of the mother, the splendid tenor of morris, and the rich baritone of bart, in their united effect, had never been equalled in the hearing of that assembly. the melody was a sweet and fitting finale of the day, swelling out and dying away in the high arches of the forest. * * * * * the coes were objects of the kindness of mrs. markham and julia, obnoxious as was their religious faith; but mrs. markham was tolerant, and she and her husband and daughter, with most of the state road people, were present. while they were waiting for the crowd to disperse, so that they could reach their carriage, the ridgeleys, who began to move out, on their way home, approached, and were pleasantly recognized by the markhams, with whom the major was a great favorite. the two parties joined, shook hands, and interchanged a pleasant greeting--all but bart. he moved a little away, and acknowledged their presence by holding his hat in his hand, as if unconscious that he was a spectacle for the eyes of some of them, and without betraying that he could by any possibility care. it was a sore trial for him. mrs. markham looked at him several times as if she would go to him, and an expression once or twice came into the sweet and pensive face of julia, that seemed to mean that she wished she could say to him, "i want so much to thank you for your courage and generosity!" morris noticed the strange conduct of barton, and felt an impulse to call to him, and on their way home he spoke to him about it. "why, bart, what is the matter? i thought you and the markhams were on the best of terms; especially you and julia and mrs. markham." "well, major, you see a shrewd man can be mistaken, don't you?" "what has happened?" "that which renders it absolutely impossible that i should ever voluntarily go into the presence of these markhams, and especially of julia." the voice was low, and full of force, with a little bitterness. morris looked at his brother with incredulous amazement. "morris," said bart, "don't ask more about it. mother guessed something of it. pray don't refer to it ever again." morris walked forward, with their mother; and when he turned back to the stricken face of his young brother, there was a great tenderness in his eye; but his brow gathered and his face darkened into a momentary frown. he was by nature frank and brave, and could not long do any one injustice. his nature was hopeful, and bright, and manly. no girl could always scorn his brother bart; nor did he believe that bart would willingly remain scorned. chapter xiii. blackstone. the town of burton was one of the oldest in the county. it was the residence of many wealthy men, the seat of judge hitchcock, chief justice of the state, as well as the home of seabury ford, a rising young politician, just commencing a most useful and honorable career, which was to conduct him to the chief magistracy of the state. the young whig party had failed to elect gen. harrison, but the result of the contest assured it of success in the campaign of , for which a vast magazine was rapidly and silently accumulating. the monetary and credit disasters of ' -' , occurring in the third term of uninterrupted party rule, would of themselves have overthrown a wiser and better administration than that of mr. van buren, patriotic and enlightened as that was, contrasted with some which followed. men, too, were beginning to examine and analyze the nature and designs of slavery; and already theodore weld had traversed the northern and middle states, and with his marvellous eloquence and logic, second to none of those who followed him, had stirred to their profoundest depths the cool, strong, intellectual souls of the new englanders of those regions. one early october morning, as gen. ford, then commander of a brigade of militia, in which major ridgeley held a commission, was arranging some papers in his law office, a young man paused a moment in front of the open door, and upon being observed, lifted his hat and stepped frankly forward. young men in ohio then seldom removed their hats to men, and rarely to women; and the act, gracefully done as it was, was remarked by the lawyer. "general ford, i believe?" said the youth. "yes; will you walk in?" "i am barton ridgeley," said the young man, stepping in; "usually called bart." "a brother of major ridgeley?" "yes; though i am thought not to be much like him." "the major is a warm friend of mine," said the general, "and i should be glad to serve you." "thank you, general; i feel awkward over my errand here," hesitating; "i wanted to see a lawyer in his office, with his books and papers, and be permitted to look, especially at his books." "you are entirely welcome. i am not much of a lawyer, and have but a few books, but nothing would give me more pleasure than to have you examine them." "i may annoy you." "not at all. i've not much to do. take a seat." bart did so. he found the general, whom he had only seen at a distance on muster days, a man of the ordinary height, with heavy shoulders, with a little stoop in them, a very fine head and face, and a clear, strong, grayish, hazel eye; and, on the whole, striking in his appearance. there were files of leading newspapers, the _national intelligencer, ohio state journal, courier and inquirer_, etc. these did not so much attract the young man's attention; but, approaching a large book-case, filled compactly with dull yellow books, uniform in their dingy, leathery appearance, he asked: "are these law-books?" "yes, those are law-books." "and these, then, are the occult cabalistical books, full of darkness and quirks and queer terms, in which is hidden away, somewhere, a rule or twist or turn that will help the wrong side of every case?" "so people seem to think," said the general, smiling. "does a student have to read all of these?" "oh, no, not to exceed a dozen or fourteen." "a-h-h-h! not more than that? will you show me some of them?" "certainly. there, this is blackstone, four volumes, which covers the whole field of the law; all the other elementary writers are only amplifications of the various titles or heads of blackstone." "indeed! only four volumes! can one be a lawyer by reading blackstone?" "a thorough mastery of it is an admirable foundation of a good lawyer." "how long is it expected that an ordinary dullard would require to master blackstone?" "some students do it in four months. i have known one or two to do it in three. they oftener require six, and some a year." bart could hardly repress his astonishment. "four months! a month to one of these books!" running them over. "they have some notes, i see; but, general, a man should commit it to memory in that time!" the general smiled. "this is an english work; is there an american which answers to blackstone?" "yes, kent's commentaries, four volumes, which many prefer. i have not got it. also swift's work, in two volumes, which does not stand so high. judge cowan, of new york, has also written a book of some merit." "shall i annoy you if i sit down and read blackstone a little?" "not at all." he read the title-page, glanced at the american preface, etc., and then plunged in promiscuously. "it has less latin than i expected. is it good classical latin?" a smile. "it is law latin, and most of it would have puzzled cicero and virgil, i fear. are you a latin scholar?" "i'm not a scholar at all. i've been an idler, generally, and have picked up only a few phrases of latin. i've a brother, a student with giddings & wade, at jefferson, who would have told me all i want to know, but i had a fancy to find it out first hand." "exactly;" and the general thought he looked like a youth who would not take things second-hand. "they are able lawyers, and it is said giddings will retire from the bar and run for congress. it is thought that mr. whittlesey will resign, and make an opening." bart thought that the general spoke of this with interest, and he made another dab at blackstone. he then wandered off to a small but select case of miscellaneous books. "adam smith!" he said, with animation; "i never saw that before. how interesting it must be to get back to the beginning of things. and here is junius, whom i have only read about! and hume! and irving! and scott's novels! oh dear, oh dear! general, what a happy man you must be, with all these about you, and these newspapers, to come and go between you and the outside world." "oh! i don't know. i have but few books, compared with real libraries, and yet i must say i have more than i make useful." bart plunged into ivanhoe for a moment, and then laid it down with a sigh. the general, who found much in the frank enthusiasm of bart to attract him, asked him many questions about himself, surroundings, etc., all of which were answered with a modest frankness, that won much on the open, manly nature of ford. bart said he most of all wanted to study law, but he did not know how to accomplish it. he was without means, and wanted to remain with his mother, and he wanted only to look at the books, and learn a little about what he would have to do, the time, etc. the general said "the laws of ohio required two years' study, before admission, which would be upon examination before the supreme court, or by a committee of lawyers appointed for that purpose; lawyers who received students usually charged fifty or sixty dollars per year for use of books and instruction, the last of which often did not amount to much." bart looked wistfully at the books, and arose to go. the general asked him to remain to dinner with such hearty cordiality, that bart assented, and the general took him into the house and introduced him to mrs. ford, a tall, slender woman, of fine figure, with striking features, and really handsome; of very kindly manners, and full of genuine good womanly qualities, who believed in her husband, and was full of ambition for him. the quiet, easy manners, and frank, sparkling conversation of bart, won her good-will at once. "was he acquainted with judge markham's people?" "a little." "mrs. markham is one of the most superior and accomplished women i ever met," said mrs. ford. of course he was acquainted with julia, who was thought to be the belle of all that region? barton was slightly acquainted with her, and thought her very beautiful. his acquaintance with young ladies of her position was very limited, but he could believe that few superiors of hers could be found anywhere, etc. poor bart! mrs. ford presumed that a great many young men had their eyes on her, and it would be a matter of interest to see where her choice would fall. it was some satisfaction to bart to feel that he could hear this point referred to without any but the same pain and bruise of heart that any thought of her occasioned. after dinner, general ford said to bart that if he really wished to enter upon the study of the law, he would do what he could for him; that he would permit him to take home such books as he could spare, and when he had read one he would examine him upon it, and give him another. this was more than had entered bart's mind; and so unaccustomed was he to receiving favors, that the sensations of gratitude were new to him, and he hardly expressed them satisfactorily to himself. his new tutor had taken a real liking to him; he may have remembered that the major was one of the rising young men in the south-west part of the county, whom he liked also. he called barton's attention to the chapters of blackstone that would demand his more careful reading, and they parted well pleased with each other. bart pushed off across the fields in a right line for home, with the priceless book in his hand; light came to him, and opportunity. lord! how his heart and soul and brain arose and went out to meet them! as the branches of the young forest-tree that springs up by a river-side shoot out, rank, and strong, and full, to the beautiful light and air, and so, too, as the tree grows one-sided and disfigured, the danger is that this embodiment of young force and energy may develop one-sided. the poetic, upward tendency of his nature will help him, and his devotion to his mother will hold him unwarped, while the struggle with a great, pure, and utterly hopeless passion shall at least make a sacred desert of his heart, where no unhallowed thought shall take root. his was eminently a nature to be strengthened and purified by suffering. but he had the law in his hands. no matter how gnarled, warped or obscure were the paths to its lurking-places, he would find them all out, and pluck out all its meanings, and make its soul his own. he had already learned from his brother the fallacy of the vulgar judgment of the law, and he knew enough of history to know that some of the wisest and greatest of men were eminent lawyers, and he thought nothing of the moral dangers of the law as a profession. he had never been even in a magistrate's court, but he had heard the legends and traditions of the advocates; had read that eminent fiction, wirt's life of patrick henry, and a volume of charles phillips's speeches, and had felt that strong inner going forth of the soul that yearned to find utterance in oversweeping speech. several times on his way home he stopped to read, and only suspended his studies at the approach of evening, which found him east of the pond, lying across his direct route, and which he found the means of passing. blackstone he took in earnest, and smiled to find nothing that he did not seem to comprehend, and often went back, fearing that the seeming might not be the real meaning. at the end of a week he returned to his kind friend, the general, not without misgivings as to the result of his work. he found him at leisure in the afternoon, and was received with much kindness. "well, how goes blackstone?" "indeed i don't know; and i am anxious, if you have leisure, to find out." the general took the book, and turning to the definition of law, and the statement of a few elementary principles, found that they were thoroughly understood. turning on, he paused with his finger in the book. "what do you think of the english constitution?" bart looked a little puzzled. "the english government seems to be an admirable structure--on paper; but as to the principles that lie below it, or around it, that govern and control its workings, and from which it can't depart, i am cloudy." "yes, a good many are; but then there is, as you know, a great unwritten english constitution--certain great fixed principles which from time to time have been observed, through many ages, until their observance has become a law, from which the government cannot depart, and they take the form of maxims and rules." "i think i understand what you mean; but to me everything is in cloud-land, vague and shifting, and the fact that nobody has ever attempted to put in writing these principles, or even to enumerate them, leads one to doubt whether really there are such things. when king, lords and commons are, in theory and practice, absolutely omnipotent, i can't comprehend how there can be any other constitution. when they enact a law, nobody can question it, nobody can be heard against it; no court can pronounce it unconstitutional. what may have been thought to be unconstitutional they can declare to be law, and that ends it. so they can annihilate any one of the so-called constitutional maxims. when a party in power wants to do a thing, it is constitutional; when a minister or great noble is to be got rid of, he is impeached for a violation of the constitution, and constitutionally beheaded." "well," said the general, smiling, "but this, for instance: the great palladium of british liberty, taxation, must be accompanied with representation." "yes; that, if adhered to, would protect property and its owners; but then it never has been carried out, even in england, while the non-taxpayer is wholly out of its reach; and my recollection is, that the constitutional violation of this palladium of the constitution by king, lords and commons, produced a lively commotion, some sixty-odd years ago." "yes, i've heard of that; but the attempt to tax the colonies was clearly unconstitutional; they were without representation in the parliament that enacted the law." "but then, general, you are to remember that, according to blackstone, parliament was and is, by the english constitution, omnipotent. the fact is, we took one part of the constitution, and george the other; we kept our part, and all our land, and george maintained his, on his island, strong as ever; and yet there, property-owners always have been and always will be taxed, who do not vote. i fear that it will be found that all the other maxims have from time to time suffered in the same way." "you must admit, however," said the general, "that the maxims in favor of personal freedom have usually been adhered to in england proper." "yes, the sturdy elements of the natural constitution of the english people have vindicated their liberty against all constitutional violations of it; and while i cordially detest them, one and all, there isn't another nation in europe that i am willing to be descended from." "i fear that is the common sentiment among our people," said the general. "and so you think the world-famous british constitution may be written in one condensed sentence--the old english formula--parliament is omnipotent." "yes, just that. parliament is the constitution; everything else is ornamental." without expressing any opinion, the general resumed, and turning at hop, skip and jump, he found that bart happened to be at home wherever he alighted. he finally turned to the last page, and asked questions with the same result, closing the book with: "well, what else have you been doing this week?" "not much; i've worked a little, dabbled with geometry some, read gibbon a little, newspapers less, run some in the woods, and fooled away some of my time," answered bart, with a self-condemning air. "have you slept any?" "oh, yes." "oh, dear!" said the general, laughing good-humoredly, and then looking grave, "this will never do--never!" "well, general," said bart, crestfallen, "i've only had the book a week, and although i don't memorize easily, i believe i can commit the whole before a month is out, except the notes." "oh, my dear boy, it isn't that! i don't know but there is a man in the world who, without having seen a law book before, has taken up and mastered the first volume of blackstone in a week, but i never heard of him. what will never do is--it will not do for you to go on in this way; you would read up a library in a year, if you lived, but will die in six months, at this rate." with tears in his eyes, bart said: "do not fear me, general; i am strong and healthy; besides, there are a good many things worse than death." "i am serious," said the general. "no mortal can stand such work long." "well, general, i must work while the fit is on; i am thought to be incapable of keeping to any one thing long." "how old are you?" "in my twenty-second year." "have you ever practised speaking in public?" "i am thought to make sharp and rough answers to folks, quite too much, i believe," answered bart, laughing; "but, save in a debating school, where i was ruled out for creating disorder, i've never tried speech-making." "you will grow more thoughtful as you grow older," said the general. "if i do," said bart, "i know those who think i can't grow old fast enough." the general gave him the second volume of blackstone, with the injunction to be two weeks with it. "suppose i finish it in a week?" "you must not; but if you do, bring it back, and take a scolding." "certainly," said bart. the general asked him to go in to tea. bart thought that would not do, and excused himself. * * * * * the end of another week found bart at the end of the second volume, and also at general ford's office. the general was away; but he found an opportunity further to cultivate the acquaintance of mrs. ford, who introduced him to several of her circle of acquaintance, and permitted him to take the third volume of blackstone. the work was finished with the fourth week, to general ford's satisfaction, and bart was then set to try his teeth on buller's "nisi prius," made up of the most condensed of all possible abstracts of intricate cases, stated in the fewest possible words, and those of old legal significance, the whole case often not occupying more than four or five lines. the cases, as there stated, convey no shadow of an idea to the unlearned mind. what a tussle poor bart had with them! how often he turned them over, and bit at and hammered them, before they could be made to reveal themselves. the general looked grim when he handed him the book, and said that he did so by the advice of judge hitchcock. he also loaned him adam smith and junius, with permission to take any books from his library during the winter, and they parted--the general to go to his duties in the legislature, and barton to work his way on through the winter and into the law. the devotion of bart to his books took him wholly from association with others. he wrote occasionally to henry, saying little of what he was doing, and going rarely to the post-office, and never elsewhere. he developed more his care of his mother, and a protecting tenderness to his younger brothers. kate fisher's little party came and went, without bart's attendance. the major was spreading himself out in building houses, clearing land, and unconsciously preparing the way to a smash-up; and the immediate care of the family devolved more and more upon the younger brother. chapter xiv. the young idea shoots. there was a region south, on the state road, partly in the townships of auburn and mantua, that, like "the woods," long remained a wilderness, and was known as the "mantua woods." within the last year or two, the whole of it had been sold and settled, with the average of new settlers, strong, plain, simple people, with a sprinkling of the rough, and a little element of the dangerous. they had built there a neat frame school-house, just on the banks of bridge creek, and were fully bent on availing themselves of the benefits of the ohio common school fund and laws. here, on one bleak, late november monday morning, in front of the new school-house, stood bart ridgeley, who appeared then and there pursuant to a stipulation made with him, to keep their first school. he undertook it with great doubt of his ability to instruct the pupils, but with none of his capacity to manage them. he stood surrounded by some forty young specimens of both sexes and all ages--from rough, stalwart young men, bold and fearless in eye and bearing, down to urchins of five. one-half were girls, and among them several well-grown lasses, rustic and sweet. there had also come up seven or eight of the principal patrons, to see the young school-master and learn of the prospects. they were evidently disappointed, and wondered what "morey" could be thinking of to hire that pale, green boy, with his neat dress and gloves, to come down there. grid bingham or john craft would throw him out of the window in a week. finally, jo keys did not hesitate to recommend him to go home; while canfield, who knew his brother morris, thought he had better try the school. bart was surprised and indignant. he cut the matter very short. "gentlemen," he said quietly, but most decidedly, "i came down here to keep your school, and i shall certainly do it," with a little nod of his head to keys. "i shall be glad to see you at almost any other time, but just now i am engaged." the decided way in which he put an end to the interview was not without its effect. he called the scholars in, and began. they brought every sort of reading-book, from the bible, english reader, american preceptor, columbian orator, third part, etc., to a new england primer. but beyond reading, and spelling, and writing, he had only arithmetic, grammar and geography. on the whole, he got off well, and before the end of the first week was on good terms, apparently, with his whole school, with one or two exceptions; and so on through the second, which closed on friday, and bart turned gladly and eagerly toward home, to his mother and brothers. the close of that week had been a little under a cloud, which left just a nameless shadow over the commencement of the third, and bart began it with an uneasy feeling. bingham, a short, stout, compact young ruffian, of twenty-two or twenty-three, not quite as tall as bart, but a third more in weight, and who had an ugly reputation as a quarrelsome fellow of many fights, had at first treated bart with good-natured toleration, and said he would let him go on awhile. with him consorted john craft, a chap of about his age, but of better reputation. bingham had broken up a school the winter before, just below in mantua, and was from the first an object of dread to parents in the new district. he was a dull scholar, and his blunders had exposed him to ridicule, which the teacher could not always repress. he left the school, on that friday, moody and sullen, and came back on monday full of mischief. not a word was said, that reached bart's ears, but the young women had a scared look, and an ominous dread seemed to brood over the school-room. monday and tuesday came and went, as did the scholars, and also wednesday forenoon. the room was arranged with three rows of desks on two sides, and one on the third. behind these sat the large scholars, with grid, near the door. when he called the scholars in, after the recess, bart quietly locked the outside door, and put the key in his pocket. he was cool, collected, and on the alert. the first class began to read, each rising while reading, and then sitting down. bart had observed that bingham sat with his book closed, and wholly inattentive to the exercise, and quietly placed himself within a few feet of his desk. as it came bingham's turn, he sat with an assumed look of swaggering indifference. "mr. bingham," said bart very quietly, "will you read?" "i'm not goin' to read for any god damned----" the sentence was never finished, though grid was; yet just how, nobody who saw it could quite tell. something cracked, and grid and his desk went sprawling into the middle of the floor. a hand came upon his collar as the last word was uttered. it was so sudden that he only seized his desk, which was taken from its fastening at the bottom as if it were pasteboard, and went in ruins with its occupant. as he struck, half stunned and surprised, he arose partly to his feet, and received on the side of his head a full blow from the fist of bart. craft, who had been amazed at the suddenness of the catastrophe, and who was to have shared in the fight, if necessary, arose hesitatingly just as grid received his _quietus_. bart turned upon him with his white, galvanized face, and watery, flashing eyes, "sit down, john craft," in a voice that tore him like a rasp on his spine, and john sat down. during this time, and until now, no other sound was heard in the room; now a half sob, with suppressed cries, broke from the terrified girls and children. "hush! hush! not a word!" said the still excited master; "it is over, and nobody much hurt." bingham now began to rise, and bart approached him: "wait a moment, mr. bingham," he said, and, unlocking the outside door: "there! now take your books and leave, and don't let me find you about this school-house so long as i remain--go!" and the humbled bully sullenly picked up his small property and went. "mr. craft," said bart, approaching that cowed and trembling youth, "you and i can get along. i don't want to part with you if you will remain with me. i will excuse you from school this afternoon, and you can come back in the morning, and that may be the last of it. i will not humiliate you and myself with any punishment." there was a tremor in bart's voice, and a softness in his face. john arose: "mr. ridgeley, i don't know how i came to--i am very sorry--i want to stay with you." "all right, john, we will shake hands on it." and they did. "my poor, poor children!" said bart, going up to the younger ones, who had huddled into the farthest corner and clambered on to the desks. "my poor scared little things, it is all over now, and we are all so glad and happy, aren't we?" and he took up some of the smallest in his arms and kissed them, and the still frightened, but glad and rejoicing young women, looked as if they would be willing to have that passed round. when they were pacified, and resumed their places, charley smith gathered up the boards and parts of the disabled desk, and bart, with a few kind words to the older scholars, resumed the exercises of the school. scenes of violence were rare, even in that rude day, among that people; the sensibilities of the children were deeply wounded, and none of them were in a fitting condition to profit by their exercises, which were barely gone through with, and they were early dismissed to their homes, with the marvellous tale of the afternoon's events. bart was in the habit of remaining to write up the copies, and place everything in order before he left. the young men and older maidens lingered at the door, and then returned in a body, to say how glad they were that it had ended as it did. they knew something would happen, and they were so glad, and then they shook hands with him, and went hurrying home. when they left, bart locked the door, and, throwing himself into the chair by his table, laid his head down and burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears;--but he was a man now, and tears only choked and suffocated him. he was ashamed of himself for his weakness, and bathing his eyes, walked about the school-room to regain his composure. every particle of anger left his bosom before bingham left the house, and now he was fully under the influence of the melancholy part of his nature. never before, even in childish anger, had he touched a human being with violence, and now he had exerted his strength, and had grappled with and struck a fellow-man in a brute struggle for animal mastery; he felt humiliated and abased. that the fellow's nature was low, and that he was compelled to act as he had done, was little comfort to him. he was glad that he decided not to punish or expel john. darkness came, and he was aroused by a noise at the door. he unlocked it, and found canfield and morey and smith. "hullo, ridgeley!" exclaimed the former. "good god! and so you had a pitched battle, and licked that bully before he had time to begin; give me your hand! who would have thought it?" "i did," said morey. "i knowed he'd do it. what will jo keys say now, i wonder?" and the party went inside, and wondered over the wrecked desk, and asked all about it. and then came in the stalwart jo himself, celebrated for his strength. "wal, wal, wal! if this don't beat all natur, i give it up! what are you made of, young man, all spring and whalebone? i'd a bet he would 'a cleaned out a school-house full o' such dainty book chaps. i give it up. let me feel o' you," taking bart good-naturedly by the shoulder. "you'll do, by----. my valdy said that when grid gathered himself up the first time, he went heels over head, clear to the fire-place." and so the good-natured athlete went over with it all, with a huge relish for the smallest detail, and others came in, until nearly all the male patrons of the school had assembled; and bart informally, but with hearty unanimity, was declared the greatest school-master of his day; they quoted all the similar instances within the range of memory or legend, and this achievement was pronounced the greatest. they were proud of him, and of the exploit, and of themselves that they had him. morey, who had taken him because he could find no other, blazed up into a man of fine discernment; and jo nearly killed him with approving slaps on his feeble back. indeed, his apologies for what he had said were too striking. life in all new communities is run mainly on muscle, and whoever exhibits skill and bravery in its rough encounters, peaceful or warlike, always commands a premium. the people among whom bart lived had not passed beyond the discipline of brute force, and he shared the usual fortune of heroes of this sort, of having his powers and achievements exaggerated, even by those under whose eyes he had acted. a rumor reached markham's and parker's, from which it spread, that bart's school had arisen against him, and the first version was that he was killed, or very dangerously wounded; that he defended himself with desperation, and killed one or two, but was finally overcome; that the neighborhood was divided and in arms, and the school-house had been burned. but the stage came in soon after, and the driver declared that he had seen grid bingham, whom he knew, brought out dead, that john craft was badly hurt, and one or two more, and that bart, who escaped without injury, would be arrested for murder. it was finally said that he would not be arrested, but that grid was either dead or dying; that he headed four or five of the older boys, and they were whipped out by bart single-handed, who locked the door, and pitched in, etc. the rumor produced a deep sensation in newbury; and, whilst it was thought that bart had been rash, and undoubtedly in fault, yet he had behaved handsomely. when it was ascertained that he was victor, it was generally thought that he was a credit to the place, which was very natural and proper, considering that he had never before been thought to be a credit to anything anywhere. chapter xv. snow's party. it was called a house-warming, although the proprietor had not taken possession of the house with his family. the ball-room and most of the rooms were complete, and the building was, on the whole, in a good condition to receive a large company. the major was the presiding genius of the festivities; and while the affair was in a way informal, and an assemblage of friends and neighbors of the owner, still he had made a judicious use of his authority, and had invited a good many rather prominent people from a distance. the evening of the occasion saw not only a numerous assemblage, but one in which the highest grades of society were fully represented. as it was not strictly a ball, there was not the least impropriety in the straightest church-members--and they were strict, then--attending it; and they did. the sleighing was fine, and, as the usage was, the guests came early, and went early--the next morning. the barns, stables and neighboring houses were freely offered, and an efficient corps of attendants were on hand, while the absence of public-houses in the immediate neighborhood relieved the occasion of the presence of the unbidden rough element that would otherwise have volunteered an attendance. the markhams were there, with julia, and the bevy of beautiful girls we saw with her at the store; mrs. ford from burton, with some of her set; two or three from chardon; the harmons from mantua; some of the kings from ravenna; two or three perkinses from warren, and many others. a rather showy young mr. greer, a gentleman of leisure, and who floated about quite extensively, knew everybody, and seemed on pleasant terms with them all, was among the guests. the essential elements of pleasure and enjoyment--high and gay spirits, good-nature, with a desire to please and be pleased, where everybody was at their best, and where was a large infusion of good breeding--were present, and a general good time was the logical result. there was a plenty of good music, and the younger part of the company put it to immediate and constant use. the style of dancing was that of the mediaeval time, between the stately and solemn of the older, and the easy, gliding, insipid of the present; and one which required, on the part of the gentlemen, lightness and activity, rather than grace, and allowed them great license in the matter of fancy steps. two long ranks contra-faced, and hence contra dance--degenerated to country dance--was the prevailing figure; the leading couple commencing and dancing down with every other couple, until in turn each on the floor had thus gone through. the cotillon, with its uniform step and more graceful style, had been already introduced by instructors, who had found short engagements under the severe reprobation of the orthodox churches; but the waltz was unknown, except in name, and the polka, schottische, etc., had then never been mentioned on the reserve. the young people early took possession of the dancing-hall, where, surrounded by the elders, a quick succession of money musk, opera reel, chorus jig, etc., interspersed sparingly with cotillons, evidenced the relish with which young spirits and light hearts enjoy the exercises of the ball-room. julia markham was the conceded belle, beautiful and elegant in form and style, faultless in dress and manner, brilliant with the vivacity of healthy girlhood. next to her, undoubtedly, was miss walters, with whom ranked several elegant girls from abroad. and of the young people here may be remarked what is usually true in all country places, that there were about three cultivated and refined girls to one young man of corresponding accomplishments. as the ball went forward, the elders--and the elders did not dance in the young ohio in those days, rarely or never--gathered into various groups, discussing the dancers and various kindred topics, and the little odds and ends of graceful "they says" that append themselves to the persons of those at all noticeable. mrs. ford and mrs. markham were the centre of the principal of these. they were really good friends, and liked each other. their husbands were friends, and possible rivals, and watched each other. both were ambitious, and lived too near each other. "who is miss walters?" mrs. ford asked. "she is from pittsburgh. her brother is in new orleans, and she remains with the fishers, relatives of hers, till he returns." "she is very elegant." "she is indeed, and she and julia are great friends." "who is that dancing with julia?" "a mr. thorndyke. he is of a boston family, on a visit to his uncle in thorndyke. mr. markham knew them, and he came up to call on us." "he dances a little languidly, i think." "he feels a little out of place in this mixed company, i presume. his notions are high boston." "how does that suit julia?" "it amuses her. he was telling her how this and that is done in boston, and she in return told him how we do not do the same things here, and claimed that our way is the best." "here comes major ridgeley. he seems much at home in a ball-room." "yes, he is one of those ready men, who always appear best in a crowd." he saw and made his way to them; inquired about the general, spoke of his reply to byington, complimented the dancing of julia, inquired about her partner, and rattled on about several things. "will your brother barton be here this evening?" asked mrs. ford. "i don't know; he thought he would not," was the reply. "he don't go out at all, lately." "what an awful time he had with that bingham!" said mrs. ford. "they say he has broken up two or three schools, and was a powerful and dangerous man, twenty-five or six years old. i would really like to see barton. he is quite a lion." "bart is sensitive about it," answered the major, "and don't speak of it. why, i was on my way up from ravenna, the next day after it happened, and called at his school-house for half an hour; the desk had not been put up then, and i asked him what had happened to it, and he said the boys had torn it down in a scuffle. he never said a word of the fracas to me, and i only heard of it when i got up to parker's. there i found young johnson, who had just come from there." "why, how you talk! what is the reason for that, do you suppose?" "i don't know. he was at home a few days after, and seemed hurt and sad over it; and when i asked him how many innocents he had slaughtered since, he said one in two days, and at that rate they would just last him through." "it is funny," said mrs. ford. "as i have observed, barton is not much inclined to talk about what he does," said mrs. markham; "and, do you know, major, he has not given me a chance to speak to him since his return." "he thinks, possibly, that he is under a cloud," answered the major. "he chooses to think so, then," said mrs. markham; and the music closed, and the dancers looked for seats, and the major went away to meet an engagement for the next dance. chapter xvi. waltz. a little commotion about the door--a little mob of young men and boys--and a little spreading buzz and whisper--some hand-shakings--two or three introductions--then another buzz--and bart made his way forward, with an air of being annoyed and bored and pushed forward as if to escape. he was under the inspiration of one of those sudden impulses upon which he acted, so sudden, often, as to seem not the result of mental process. he discovered mrs. ford and mrs. markham, with julia, miss walters, and several others, about them, whom he at once approached with the modest assurance of a thorough-bred gentleman, safe in the certainty of a gracious reception, and conscious of power to please. a happy word to the two or three who made way for him, and he stood bowing and smiling, and turning and bowing to each with the nice discriminating tact that rendered to all their due. mrs. ford graciously extended her hand, which he took, and bowed very low over; she was nearest him. mrs. markham, in a pleased surprise, gave him hers, and its reception was, to her nice perception, even more profoundly acknowledged. to miss markham and miss walters precisely the same, with a little of the chivalrous devotion of a knight to acknowledged beauty. "the fall and _winter_ style prevails, i presume," he said, in gay banter, as if anticipating that their gloved hands were not to be touched. "your memory is good, mr. ridgeley," said julia, with a little laugh and a little flush. "forgetfulness is not my weakness," he replied. "i was not aware you knew mrs. ford," said mrs. markham, observing the little flutter in julia's cheeks, and thinking there was a meaning in bart's _persiflage_. "mrs. ford and general ford," he answered with much warmth, "have been so very, very kind to me, that i have presumed to claim her acquaintance, even here; but then, they have only known me three months," with affected despair. "well," said mrs. ford, "what of that?" "i find you with those who have known me all my life," with a deprecating look towards mrs. markham. "well, mr. ridgeley, you are not deserving of forbearance at my hands, if i only knew of anything bad to say of you." "what exquisite irony! may i be permitted to know which of my thousand faults is now specially remembered against me?" "you have not permitted me, until this moment, even to speak to you since your return last summer." "may i ask that you will permit that to stand with my other misdemeanors until some rare fortune enables me to atone for all at once?" "and when will that be?" "oh! in that blissful never, when the sundays come together, when the sun and glorious weather wrap the earth in spring forever; as in that past time olden, which poets call the golden." laughing. "and so i have poetry, and inspire it myself--that is some compensation, certainly," said mrs. markham, smiling. "i fear my verses have deepened my offence," said bart, with affected gravity. kate fisher intervened here: "mr. ridgeley, i have more cause for offence than even mrs. markham. why didn't you come to my little party? i made it on your account." "the offence was great," he answered, "but then staying away was ample punishment, as you must know." "no, i don't know it. i know you weren't there, and your excuse was merely a regret, which always means one don't want to go." "oh, mrs. ford!" said bart, "see what your coming here, or my coming here, exposes me to!" "have i heard the worst?" "well, you see, mrs. ford," said kate, "that mr. ridgeley can waltz, and so can miss walters, and i made a little party to see them waltz, and he didn't come." "that is grave. will you leave it to me to pass judgment upon him?" "i will." "and do you submit, mr. ridgeley?" "she's so very kind to you," remarked mrs. markham. "i do," said the young man, "and will religiously perform the sentence." "well, it won't be a religious exercise--you are to waltz with miss walters, now and here." a little clapping of little hands marked the righteousness of the award. "mrs. ford," observed the culprit, "your judgment, as usual, falls heaviest on the innocent. miss walters, it remains for you to say whether this sentence shall be executed. if you will permit me the honor, i shall undergo execution with an edifying resignation." the smiling girl frankly placed her hand in his: "i should be sorry to prevent justice," she said, which was also applauded. major ridgeley was spoken to, and it was understood that the next dance would be a waltz, which had never before been more than named in a yankee ball-room, on the reserve; and it was anticipated with curiosity, not unmixed with horror, by many. the floor was cleared, a simple waltz air came from the band, and the pleased miss walters, in the arms of barton, was whirled out from her mob of curious friends, on to and over the nearly vacant floor, the centre of all eyes, few of which had witnessed such a spectacle before. the music went on with its measured rise and fall, sweet and simple, and youth and maiden possessed with it, seemed to abandon themselves utterly to it, and were controlled and informed by it; with one impulse, one motion, and one grace, each contributing an exact proportion, they glided, circling; and while the maiden thus yielded and was sustained, her attitude, so natural, graceful and womanly, had nothing languishing, voluptuous or sensuous; a sweet, unconscious girl, inspired by music and the poetry and grace of its controlling power, in the dance. miss walters dearly loved to dance, and above all to waltz. she had rarely met a partner who so exactly suited her step and style, and who so helped the inspiration she was apt to feel. bart had had little practice as a waltzer, but natural grace, and the presence of ladies, usually brought him to his best; and it was not in nature, perhaps, that he should not receive some inspiration from the beautiful girl, half given to his embrace, and wholly to his guidance. so around and around through the hushed and admiring throng they went, whirling, turning, advancing, retreating, rising and falling, swaying and sinking, yet always in unison, and in rhythmic obedience to the music. sometimes the music rose loud and rapid, and then languished to almost dying away; but whatever its movement or time, it was embodied and realized by the beautiful pair, in their sweeping, graceful motions. the maiden's face was wrapt with a sweet, joyous light in her half-shut eyes; his, pale, but lit up and softened in the lamp-light, seemed fairly beautiful, like a poet's. "how beautiful!" "how exquisite!" from the ladies. "what a dance for lovers!" said mrs. ford. "they are lovers, are they not?" asked a lady from warren. "i think not," said mrs. markham, with a glance at julia, who, never withdrawing her eyes, stood with lips slightly apart, and her face bright with unenvying admiration. a little ripple--a murmur--and a decided clapping of hands around the room, with other sounds from the crowd at the entrance, marked the appreciation of the beautiful performance. the moment that this reached barton, he led his delighted partner towards her group of friends, remarking: "your admirers are sincere, miss walters, but too demonstrative, i fear." "oh, i don't mind it," said the straightforward girl. "and i have to thank you for your courtesy to me," he went on, "and only hope that all my punishments may come in the same form." "mrs. ford, is the judgment satisfied?" "satisfactory as far as you went, but then you did not serve out your time." "have consideration, i pray, for the minister of justice," bowing to miss walters. "she seemed rather to like it," said mrs. ford. "indeed i did!" and the young ladies gathered about to congratulate her, and cast admiring glances at her partner. "mr. ridgeley," said mrs. markham, "i was not aware that you were an accomplished waltzer." "you forget," bart answered mockingly, "that i am travelled; and you know my only aptitude is for the useless." "i did not say that." "you are too kind. i sometimes supply words to obvious thoughts." "and sometimes to those that have no existence." the floor filled again, and the music struck up. standing, a moment later, at a window, julia saw a figure pass out, pause at the roadway, turn and look up. the full glare of the lamps revealed the face of bart, from which the light had faded, and its beauty and spirit of expression had departed. he gazed for an instant up at the brilliant and joyous scene, where a moment before he had been a central and applauded figure, and then, muffling his face in his cloak, he turned away. he had not intended to go, and sat melancholy through the darkness of the early night; but somehow, a hungry, intense longing came to him to go and look for a moment upon the loveliness of julia, as she would stand open to the eyes of all, just for one moment, and then to go away. he felt that he ought not to do it, but he went. he could not help it. when he reached the place, three miles away, he was annoyed by being recognized and pointed at, and talked at, on account of his late encounter with grid. "he ain't a powerful-lookin' chap." "i wouldn't be afeared o' him." "he's a darned sight harder'n he looks," etc. when he escaped into the ball-room, the impulse to go into the immediate presence of julia was followed, and ended by as sudden a retreat. he had not known how utterly weak and helpless he was, and felt angry with himself that he could ever wish for the presence of one who had so scorned him. he was ashamed, also, that the music, the dance, and gay joyance of the scene he had just left, had still such a seductive charm for him, and he recorded a mental resolution to avoid all similar allurements for the future. having made this resolution, and strong in his faith of keeping it, he merely turned to take final leave, as he fell under the eyes of julia, and without seeing her. the night outside was cold, dark, and thick, with a pitiless snow, that was rapidly filling the track along the highway. bart turned, without the remotest touch of self-pity, to face it, with a heart as cold and dark as the night that swallowed him up. he felt that there was not a heart left behind that would throb with a moment's pain for him--that would miss him, or wonder at his departure; and he was sure that he did not care. yet, with what a sweet, remonstrating, expostulating call the music came after him, with its plaining at his desertion! fainter and sweeter it came, and died out with a wailing sob, as the night, with its storm and darkness, blotted him out! mrs. ford, who may have anticipated his attendance at the supper-table, missed him. his late partner in the dance cast her eyes inquiringly through the thronged rooms. she remarked to julia that she believed mr. ridgeley had left, and thought it very strange. julia said she presumed he had, and did not say what she thought. most of the elders left early; the young people danced the music and themselves away, and the gray, belated dawn of the next day looked coldly into the windows of a sacked, soiled, and silent house. chapter xvii. bart. bart devoted himself unselfishly and unsparingly to his school, to all its duties and to all his scholars, and especially to the children of the poor, and the backward pupils. he went early to the house, and remained late. he was the tender, considerate, elder brother of the scholars, and was astonished at his power to win regard, and maintain order. order maintained itself after one memorable occasion--one to which he never referred, and of which he did not like to hear. it made his school famous, and drew to it many visitors, and to himself no little curiosity and attention. he endeavored to carry on his law-reading; but beyond reviewing--and not very thoroughly--blackstone, he could do little. as usual, he was homesick; and whenever a week was ended he left the school-house for his mother's, and never returned until the following monday morning. his kind patrons noticed with surprise that he seemed sad and depressed after the expulsion of grid, and that this gloominess was deepened about the time of snow's ball. barton came to take a real pleasure in his school. formed to love everything, and without the power of hating, or of long retaining a resentment, he became attached to his little flock, especially the younger ones, and was loved in return by them, without reserve or doubt. he did much to improve, not alone the minds of the older pupils, but to soften and refine the manners of the young men under his charge; while the young women, always inclined to idealize, found how pleasant it was to receive little acts of gentlemanly attention from him. in the afternoon of a long, bright, march day--one of those wondrous days, glorious above with sky and sun, and joyous with the first note of the blue-bird--the little red school-house by the margin of the maple-woods was filled with the pupils and their parents, assembled for the last time. bart, in a low voice, tremulous with emotion, bade them all good-by, and most of them forever, and taking his little valise, walked with a saddened heart back to his mother. this time he had not failed, and he never was to fail again. how many events and occurrences linked in an endless series unite to form the sum-total of ordinary human life! incident to it, they are in fact all ordinary. if any appear extraordinary, it is because they occur in the life of an extraordinary individual, or remarkable consequences flow from them. like all parts of human life, in and of themselves they are always fragmentary: springing from what precedes them, they have no beginning proper; causing and flowing into others, they have no ending, in effect; and as the dramatic in actual life is never framed with reference to the unities, so results are constantly being produced and worked out by accidents, and the prominent events often contribute nothing to any supposed final catastrophe. strangers interlope for a moment, and change destinies, coming out for a day, from nothing, and going to nowhere, but marring and misshaping everything. no plot is to develop as this sketch of old-time life continues, and incidents will be of value only as they tend to mould and develop the character and powers of one, and little will be noticed save that which concerns him. it is, perhaps, already apparent that he is very impressible, that slight forces which would produce little effect on different natures, are capable of changing his shape, will beat him flat, roll him round, or convert him into a cube or triangle, and yet, that certain strong, always acting forces will restore him, with more or less of the mark or impress of the disturbing cause upon him. he has a strong, tenacious nature, unstained with the semblance of a vice. he forms quick resolutions, but can adhere to them. he is tender to weakness, and fanciful to phantasy. his aptitude for sarcasm and ridicule, unsparingly as it had been turned upon everybody, brought upon him general dislike. his indecision and vacillation in adopting and pursuing a scheme in life, lost him the confidence of his acquaintances--ready to believe anything of one who had dealt them so many sharp thrusts. he was sensitive to a fault, and a slight word would have driven him forever from julia markham, and turned him back upon himself, as a dissolving and transforming fire. mentally, he was quick as a flash, with a strong grasp, and a power of ready analysis; and so little did his mental achievements cost him, that his acquirements were doubted. he already paid the penalty of a nervous and brilliant intellect--that of being adjudged not profound. men are always being deceived as to the real value of things, by their apparent cost. we see this illustrated in the case of some grave and ponderous weakling, who has nothing really in him, and yet who creaks, and groans, and labors, and toils, to get under way, until our sympathy with his painful effort leads us so to rejoice over his final delivery that we have lost all power or disposition to weigh or estimate his half-strangled, commonplace bantling, when it is finally born, and we are rather inclined to wonder over it as a prodigy. no doubt the generation of men who witnessed the mountain in labor, regarded the sickly, hairy little mouse, finally brought forth, as a genuine wonder. great is mediocrity! it is the average world, and the majority conspires to do it reverence. genius, if such a thing there is, may be appreciated by school-boys; the average grown world count it as of no value. if a man has a brilliant intellect, let him bewail it on the mountains, as the daughter of jephtha did her virginity. if he has wit, let him become brutus. readiness and genius are apt to be arrogant; and, when joined with a lively temper, with an ardent, impetuous nature, they render a young man an object of dread, dislike, or worse. bart had grave doubts of his being a genius, but it had been abundantly manifest to his sensitive perceptions that he was disliked; and he had in part arrived at the probable cause, and was now very persistently endeavoring to correct it by holding his tongue and temper. like all young men bent upon a pursuit where his success must depend upon intellect, he was most anxious to ascertain the quality and extent of his brain-power--a matter of which a young man can form no proper idea. later in life a man is informed by the estimate of others, and can judge somewhat by what he has done. the youth has done nothing. he has made no manifestation by which an observer can determine; when he looks at himself, he can examine his head and face; but the mind, turned in upon itself, with no mirror, weight, count or measure, feels the hopelessness of the effort. if some one would only tell him of his capacity and power, of his mental weakness and deficiency, it would not, perhaps, change his course, but might teach him how best to pursue it. chapter xviii. sugar making. the long, cold winter was past; spring had come, and with it sugar making, the carnival season, in the open air, among the trees. the boys had the preparations for sugar making in an advanced stage. a new camp had been selected on a dry slope, wood had been cut, the tubs distributed, and they were waiting for bart and a good day. both came together; and on the day following the close of his school, at an early hour they hurried off to tap the trees. spring and gladness were in the air. the trill of the blue-bird was a thrill; and the first song of the robin was full of lilac and apple blossoms. the softened winds fell to zephyrs, and whispered strange mysterious legends to the brown silent trees, and murmured lovingly over the warming beds of the slumbering flowers. young juices were starting up under rough bark, and young blood and spirits throbbed in the veins of the boys, and loud and repeated bursts of joyous voices gushed with the fulness of the renewing power of the season. the day, with its eager hope, strength and joyousness, filled bart to the eyes, and his spirit in exultation breaking from the unnatural thrall that had for many months of darkness and anxious labor overshadowed it, went with a bound of old buoyancy, and he started with laughing, open brow, and springy step, over the spongy ground, to the poetry of life in the woods. that one day they tapped all the trees. the next, the kettles were hung on the large crane, the immense logs were rolled up, the kettles filled with sap, and the blue smoke of the first fire went curling up gracefully through the tree-tops. what an event, the first fire! not as in new england, sugar in the west is never made until the winter snow has disappeared, and the surface has become dry, and the woods pleasant, and the opening day at the boiling was as brilliant as its predecessor. bart and edward, with a yoke of steers, gathered the sap towards evening, and george tended the kettles; many curious bright-eyed chickadees boldly ventured up about the works, peeping, flitting, and examining, with head first on one side and then on the other, the funny doings of these humans in their dominions, and searching for the store of raw pork, which, according to their recollection, ought to be hid away somewhere near by. the boys had pulled down, removed and rebuilt their old snug cabin, with one end open to the broad and roaring fire; in the bottom of which, over its floor, were placed a large quantity of sweet bright straw, and two or three heavy blankets. the "run" made it necessary to boil all night; and filling the kettles and adjusting the fires, bart and the boys, hungry and tired, went up to supper and the chores; after which bart and edward, taking the former's rifle, and lighted by a hickory torch, returned to the camp for the night--edward really to sleep, sweet and unbroken, in the cabin, and bart to take care of the kettles and fires, to muse and dream, and think bright, strange thoughts, and watch the effects of the lights and shadows, listen to the dropping of the sap into the buckets, and the boding owls, whose melancholy notes harmonized with, rather than interrupted, the solemn effect of deepest night. man easily reverts to savagery and nature; and this tendency was marked in bart, whom this new recurrence to old habits of wood-life, so dear to him, filled with such pleasant sensations of joyous unrest, that until near the coming dawn he was disinclined to sleep, and when he did, the first note of an old robin from the topmost twig of a giant old maple awoke him fresh to the labor and enjoyment of another resplendent day. and so the days followed each other, and the spring deepened. myriads of flower-beds shot up through the dead leaves, and opened out their frail and wondrously tinted petals for a single day, and faded. not a new one opened--not a cloud or tint varied the sky--not a note of a bird or tap of a woodpecker, that was not marked by bart, to whom nature had at least given the power to appreciate and love her lighter works. chapter xix. henry. the principal event of the spring among the ridgeleys, was the return home of henry. he had closed his novitiate, and was awaiting his examination for admission to the bar. he had already, on the recommendation of his friend and instructor, wade, formed a favorable business connection with the younger hitchcock, at painesville; and now, after a year's absence, he came back to his mother and brothers, for a few days of relaxation and visiting. less strong than the major, of grave, thoughtful, but cheerful face and mien, heavy-browed and deep-eyed, with plain, marked face, and finished manners, he was well calculated to impress favorably, and win confidence and respect. his mind was solid, but lacked the sparkle and vivacity of bart's, and compensatingly was believed to be deep. he was the pride and hope of the family: around him gathered all its expectations of distinction, and no one shared all these more intensely than bart, who had awaited his coming with hope and fear. he was accompanied by a fellow-student named ranney, of about his own age, and like him, above the usual height, broad and heavy-shouldered, with a massive head and strong face, a high narrow forehead; rather shy in manner, and taciturn. they came one night while bart was in the sugar-camp, where he spent many nights, and he met them the next morning at the breakfast-table. no one could be gladder than he to meet his brother, but, like his mother, he was struck by his emaciated form and languor of manner. bart had heard of ranney as a man of strong, profound, ingenious mind, with much power of sarcasm, and who had formed a partnership with wade, on the retirement of mr. giddings from the bar. he stood a little in awe of him, whose good opinion he would have gladly secured, but who, he had a presentiment, would not understand him. indeed, he was quite certain he did not understand himself. the young men had been fellow-students for two years, had many things in common, and were strong friends. bart soon found that they had a slender view of his law reading, and spoke slightingly of ford as a lawyer. they had both diligently studied to the lower depths of the law, had a fair appreciation of their acquisitions, and would not overestimate the few months of solitary reading of a boy in the country. bart did not mention his studies, and only answered modestly his brother's inquiries, who closed the subject for the time by saying that if he was serious in his desire to study law, "he would either arrange to take him to painesville in the fall, or have his friend ranney take him in hand." bart was pleased with the idea of being with either; and possibly he may have wondered whether whoever took him in hand would not have that hand full. the young men strolled off to his sugar-camp during the forenoon, lounged learnedly about, evincing little interest in the camp and surroundings, although the deepening season had filled the woods with flowers and birds; and bart wondered whether "coke on littleton," and executory devises, and contingent remainders, had produced in them their natural consequences. he watched to see whether new maple sugar was sweet to them, and on full reflection doubted if it was. they did not interfere with his work, and sauntered back to an early dinner, and bart saw no more of them until night. he closed out his work early for the day, and spent the evening with them and his mother. henry naturally inquired about his old acquaintances, and bart answered graphically. he was in a mood of reckless gayety. he took them up, one after another, and in a few happy strokes presented them in ludicrous caricature, irresistible for its hits of humor, and sometimes for wit, and sometimes sarcasm--a stream of sparkle and glitter, with queer quotations of history, poetry, and scripture, always apt, and the latter not always irreverent. ranney had a capacity to enjoy a medley, and both of the young men abandoned themselves to uncontrollable laughter; and even the good mother, who tried in vain to stop her reckless son, surprised herself with tears streaming down her cheeks. bart, for the most part, remained grave, and occasionally edward helped him out with a suggestion, or contributed a dry and pungent word of his own. as the fit subsided, henry, half serious and half laughing, turned to him: "oh, bart, i thought you had reformed, and become considerate and thoughtful, and i find that you are worse than ever." "but, henry, what's the use of having neighbors and acquaintances and friends, if one cannot serve them up to his guests; and only think, i've gone about for six months with the odds and ends of 'flat, stale and unprofitable' things accumulating in and about him--the said bart--until, as a sanitary measure, i had to utter them." "how do you feel after it?" inquired henry. "rather depressed, though i hope to tone up again." "bart," said henry, gravely, "i haven't seen much of you for two or three years; i used to get queer glimpses of you in your letters, and i must look through your mental and moral make-up some time." "you will find me like the sterile, stony glebe, which, when the priest reached in his career of invocation and blessing--'here,' said the holy father, 'prayers and supplications are of no avail. this must have manure.' grace would, i fear, be wasted on me, and our good mother would willingly see me under your subsoiling and fertilizing hand." "do you ever seriously think?" "i? oh yes! such thoughts as i can think. i think of the wondrously beautiful in nature, and am glad. i think of the wretched race of men, and am sad. i think of my shallow self, and am mad." henry, with unchanged gravity: "do you believe in anything?" "yes, i believe fully in our mother; a good deal in you, though my faith is shaken a little just now; and am inclined to great faith in your friend mr. ranney." all smile but henry. "yes, all that of course, but abstract propositions. have you faith, in anything?" "well, i believe in genius, i believe in poetry--though not much in poets--music--though that is not for men. i believe in love--for those who may have it. i believe in woman and in god. when i draw myself close to him, i am overcome with a great awe, and dare not pray. it is only when i seem to push him off, and coop him up in a little crystal-domed palace beyond the stars, and out of hearing, that i dare tell him how huge he is, and pipe little serenades of psalmody to him." "oh, barton, you are profane!" "no, mother, men are profane in their gorgeous egotism. we are the braggarts, and ascribe egotism to god himself; while we are the sole objects of interest in the universe. god was and is on our account only; and when men fancy that they have found a way of running things without him, they shove him out entirely. i put it plainly, and it sounds bad." "this is a compendious confession of faith," said henry; and, pausing, "why do you put genius first?" "as the most doubtful, and, at the same time, an interesting article. i am at the age when a young man queries anxiously about it. has he any of it--the least bit?" "well, what is your conclusion?" "sometimes i fancy i feel faintly its stir and spur and inspiration." "when it may be only dyspepsia," said henry. "it may be. i haven't ranked myself among geniuses." "yet you believe in it. what is it?" "i can't tell. can you tell what is electricity or life?" "that is not logical. you answer one question by asking another." "i am not sure but that is allowable," interrupted ranney. "you pose your opponent with an unanswerable question, and he in turn proposes several, thereby suggesting that there are things unknown, and that if you will push him to that realm you are equally involved. it may not be logical, but it usually silences." "not quite, in this instance," said henry, "for we know by their manifestations that life and electricity are; they manifest themselves to us." "and by the same rule genius manifests itself to your brother, although it may not to you." "thank you, mr. ranney," said bart. "now i do not suppose," he went on, "that genius is a beneficent little imp, or genie, lodged in the brain of the fortunate or unfortunate, who is all-powerful, and always at hand to give strength, emit a flash of light, or pour inspiration into the faculties, nor does it consist in anything that answers to that idea. but there are men endowed with quick, strong intellects, with warm, ardent, intense temperaments, and with strong imaginations; where these, or their equivalents, are found happily blended, the result is genius. there is a working power that can do anything, and with apparent ease. if it plunges down, it need not remain long; if it mounts up, it alights again without effort or injury." "and such a 'working power,' you suppose, would, of itself, be a constant self-supply, and always equal to emergencies, and of its own unaided spontaneous inspirations and energies, i suppose," said henry, "and has nothing to do but float and plunge about, diving and soaring, in the amplitude of nature?" "well, henry, you can't get out of a man what isn't in him. you need not draw on a water-bottle for nectar, or hope to carve marble columns from empty air; genius can't do that. an unformed, undeveloped mind never threw out great things spontaneously, as the cloud throws out lightning. men are not great without achievement, nor wise without study and reflection. nor was there ever a genius, however strong and brilliant in the rough, that would not have been stronger and more brilliant by cutting," said bart, with vehemence. "all i contend for is, that genius, as i have supposed, can make the most and best of things, often doing with them what other and commoner minds cannot do at all." "this is not the school-boy's idea of genius," said ranney. "and," said bart, a little assertively, "i am not a school-boy." "so i perceive," said ranney, coolly. "the fault i find with you geniuses--" "we geniuses!!--" "is," said henry, "you perpetually fly and caracol about, and just because you can, apparently, and for the fun of the thing." "eagles fly," said bart. "and so do butterflies, and other gilded insects." "therefore, flying should be dispensed with, i suppose," said bart. "because things of mere painted wings, all wing and nothing else, can float in the lower atmosphere, are all winged things to be despised? birds of strong flight can light and build on or near the ground, but your barn-yard fowl can hardly soar to the top of the fence for his crow." "but your geniuses, bart, will not work, will not strip to the long, patient, delving drudgery necessary to unravel, separate, analyze, weigh, measure, estimate and count, and come to like work for work's sake, and so grow to do the best and most work. they deal a few heavy blows, scatter things, pick up a few glittering pebbles, and--" "leave to dullards the riches of the mines they never would have found," broke in bart. "and fly away into upper air," pursued henry. "oh, i know that some chaps rise for want of weight, as you would say; but mere weight will keep a man always at the surface. your men who are always plunging into things, digging and turning up the earth--who believe with the ancients that truth is in a well--often lose themselves, and are smothered in their own dirt-holes, and call on men to see how deep they are. god coins with his image on the outside, as men mint money, and your deep lookers can't see it; they are for rushing into the bowels of things." "there is force in that, bart. men may see god in his works, if they will; but men don't so stamp their works. at his best, man is weak; unknowing truth, he puts false brands on his goods, mixes and mingles, snarls and confuses, covers up, hides and effaces, so far as he can, god's works, and palms off as his the works of the other. and it is with these that the lawyer has to do: a work in which your mere genius would make little headway. he would go to it without preparation; he would grow weary of the hopelessness of the task, and fly away to some pleasant perch, and plume his wing for another flight, i fear." "might not his lamp of genius aid him somewhat?" put in bart. "it might," said ranney, "and he might be misled by its flare. he would do better to use the old lights of the law. some are a little lurid, and some a little blue, but always the same in tempest or calm. the law, as you have doubtless discovered, is founded in a few principles of obvious right. their application to cases is artificial. the law, for its own wise purposes, takes care of itself; of its own force, it embraces everything, investigates everything, construes itself, and enforces itself, as the sole power in the premises. its rules in the text-books read plain enough, and are not difficult of apprehension. the uncertainty of the law arises in the doubt and uncertainty of the facts; and hence the doubt about which, of many rules, ought to govern. a man of genius, as you describe him, ought to become a good lawyer; he would excel in the investigation and presentation of facts; but none but a lawyer saturated with the spirit of the law until he comes to have a legal instinct, can with accuracy apply it." this was clear and strong to barton, and profitable to him. "now barton," said henry, turning to ranney, as if bart were absent, "went through with blackstone in a month, and probably would go through it every month in the year, and then he might be profitably put to read blackstone. if i were to shut him up with the 'institutes,' in four days there might be nothing of poor coke left but covers and cords." "and what would become of bart?" asked ranney. "go mad--but not from much learning," answered the youth for himself; "or you would find him like a dried geranium-leaf hid in the leaves of the year-books,-- 'where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead.'" there was a touch of sarcasm in his mocking voice; and flashing out with his old sparkle, "be patient with me, boys, the future works miracles. there are mountains ungrown, and fountains unflown, and flowers unblown, and seed never strown, and meadows unmown, and maids all alone, and lots of things to you unknown, and every mother's son of us must always blow his own--nose, you know." and while the young men were a little astonished at the run of his lines, the practical and unexpected climax threw them into another laugh. soon henry took a candle, and the two young men retired. they paused a moment in the little parlor. "was there ever such a singular and brilliant compound?" said ranney. "what a power of expression he has! and i see that he generally knows where he is going to hit. if you can hold him till he masters the law, he will be a power before juries." "i think so too," said henry; "but he must be a good lawyer before he can be a good advocate,--though that isn't the popular idea." "let him work," said ranney. "he will shed his flightier notions as a young bird moults its down." how kind to have said this to bart! oh, what a mistake, that just praise is injurious! how many weary, fainting, doubting young hearts have famished and died for a kind word of encouragement! when bart returned to the sitting-room, his mother and younger brothers had retired. "i am scorned of women and misunderstood of men--even by my own brother," he said bitterly to himself. "let me live to change this, and then let me die." the old melancholy chords vibrated, and he went to his little attic, remembering with anguish the stream of nonsense and folly he had poured forth, and thought of the laughter he had provoked as so much deserved rebuke; and he determined never to utter another word that should provoke a smile. he would feed and sleep, and grow stupid and stolid, heavy and dull, and bring forth emptiness and nothings with solemn effort and dignified sweatings. early on the morrow he was away to the camp, to renew the fires under his sugar-kettles. the cool, fresh air of the woods refreshed and restored his spirits somewhat. he placed on the breakfast-table two bouquets of wood-flowers, and met his guests with the easy grace and courtesy of an accomplished host; and both felt for the first time the charm of his manner, and recognized that it sprung from a superior nature. as they were about to rise from the breakfast-table, "gentlemen," said he, "miss kate fisher gives, this afternoon, a little sugar party, out at her father's camp. henry, she sent over an invitation specially for you two, with one to me, for courtesy. i cannot go; but you must. you will meet, mr. ranney, several young ladies, any one of whom will convert you to my creed of love and poetry, and two or three young, men stupid enough to master the law,"--with a bright smile. "i promised you would both go. the walk is not more than a mile, the day a marvel right out of paradise, and you both need the exercise, and to feel that it is spring." "and why don't you go, barton?" asked henry. "well, you are not a stranger to any whom you will meet, and don't need me. in the first place, i must remain and gather the sap, and can't go; in the second, i don't want to go, and won't; and in the third, i have several good reasons for not going,"--all very bright, and in good humor. "what do you say, ranney?" "well, i would like to go, and i would like to have barton go with us." "would you, though?"--brightening. "no, i can't go; though i would be glad to go with you anywhere." chapter xx. what the girls said. kate's little party, out on the dry, bright yellow leaves, gay with early flowers, under the grand old maples, elms and beeches, in the warm sun, came and went, with laughter and light hearts. if it could be reproduced with its lights, and colors, and voices, what a bright little picture and resting-place it would be, in this sombre-colored annal! i am sad for poor bart, and i cannot sketch it. the young lawyers had been there, seen, talked to, got acquainted with, were looked up to, deferred to, admired and flirted with, and had gone, leaving themselves to be talked about. two young girls, amid the fading light, with the rich warm blood of young womanhood in their cheeks, and its latent emotions sending a softened light into their eyes, with their arms about each other's waists, were pensively walking out of the dusky woods to the open fields, with a little ripple and murmur of voices, like the liquid pearls of a brook. they had been speaking of the young lawyers. "and these two," said julia, "are some of those who are to go out and shape and mould and govern. i am glad to have seen them, and hear them talk." "do you think these are to be leading men?" asked flora walters. "i presume so. it is generally conceded that henry ridgeley is a young man of ability; and i don't think any one could be long in the company of mr. ranney without feeling that he is no ordinary man. indeed, henry said that he was destined to a distinguished career." "well, now to me they were both a little heavy and commonplace. mr. ridgeley was easy and gentlemanly; mr. ranney a little shy and awkward. i've no doubt one would come to like either of them, when one came to know him." "oh, flora! the beauty of a man is strength and courage, and power and will and ability. when one comes to see these, the outside passes out of sight." "do you think that absolute ugliness could be overcome in that way?" "yes, even deformity. i should be taken even by beauty, in a man, and should expect conforming beauty of heart and soul. do you know, i sometimes half feel that i would like to be a man?" "you, julia! with your wealth, beauty and friends, who may, where you will, look and choose?" "yes, i, as much as you flatter me. i can feel the ambition of a young man; and were i one, how gladly would i put the world and its emptiness from me, and nurse and feed my soul and brain with the thoughts and souls of other men, till i was strong and great; and then, from my obscurity, i would come forth and take my place in the lead;" and her great eyes flashed. "if you are ambitious, you have but to wait until the leading spirit comes. what a help you would be to him!" "he might never come, or i might not know him when--" "or you would not love him, if you did know him." "he might not love me; or, if he did, i might drive him away. but that is not what was in my mind, although a woman must be ambitious through another. to be one of these young men, to know their minds, to feel their hopes and ambitions, and struggle with and against them, for the places, the honors and leaderships!" "and would you never love and wed, woo and marry?" "yes; and i would like to see the woman who would scorn me. i would take her as mine, and she should not choose but love me!" "why, julia! who would think that you, sweet and deep as you are, could say such things! would you like to be wooed in that way?" "i never came to that. i am only a woman without aim in life. i am only to float along between flowery banks, until somebody fishes me out, i suppose!" "i am sure, were i you, i could well float on until the right man came; and you, julia, it is your own fault if you do not marry for love. you will not be obliged to consult anything else." "and you?" said julia, laughing. "i? oh! i am dependent on my brother, you know." "yes, and there comes in the hardship; were you a man, you could go out and make and choose. now, a daughter remains where her father and mother leave her. the sons may rise, the daughters stay below, and if sought for, it is usually in the same channels in which the parents move, and that is the hardship of those who, unlike you, are on a lower plane, or who, like you, have no father and mother to sustain them in their proper place. if you could win wealth, you would only marry for love; and i am sure you will do so now." "a woman who wins fortune usually loses the capacity to win love, i fear," said flora. "and the woman who wins nothing deserves nothing," said julia. "i am a little like my mother, i presume; but who would win you, and how, i wonder?" "oh," answered flora, "i suppose the man who really and truly loved me. i would like to have him come, as the breeze comes, with the odor of flowers, as the spring comes, with music and song, with all sweet and gentle influences, with beauty and grace; but he must not be effeminate." "he would have to be a good waltzer, i presume?" "would that be an objection?" asked flora. "no; but a man who excels in these light accomplishments may fail in the stronger qualities. i admit that beauty and grace would go a great way, if one could have them also." "julia, were i you, i would have them all." "girls, what are you loitering along there for? talking over the young lawyers, i'll bet; who takes which?" called back kate, impetuously; "i don't want either." * * * * * all the afternoon long, bart was sad and silent, and spite of himself, his thoughts would hover about that bright place in the maple woods, sweet with one face of indescribable beauty; one form, one low, many-toned voice which haunted--would haunt him. he came in to a latish supper, with a grave face. the spring was not in his step; the ring was not in his voice, or the sparkle in his words. the two guests were in high spirits, and talked gushingly of the young ladies they had met, and they wondered that it did not provoke even a sarcasm from him. "it would compensate you for not going," said ranney, kindly, "if we were to tell you what was said of you in your absence." "and who said it," added henry. not a word, nor a look even. "one might be willing to be called a genius, for such words, and from such a young lady," ventured ranney. "i am not sure but that i would even venture upon poetry, under such inspiration," said henry. to the youth these remarks sounded like sarcasm, and he felt too poor even to retort. "oh, boys!" finally said bart, "it is good exercise for us all; _persiflage_ is not your 'best holt,' as the wrestlers would say, and you need practice, while i want to accustom myself to irony and sarcasm without replying. if by any possibility you can, between you, get off a good thing at my expense, it would confer a lasting obligation; but i don't expect it." "upon my word--" began ranney. "we all speak kindly of our own dead," said bart, "and should hardly expect the dead to hear what we said. mother said you had determined to leave us in the morning;" to ranney--"our brother the major will be home in the morning, and would be glad to make your acquaintance, and show you some attention." and so he escaped. when ranney took leave the next morning, he kindly remarked to bart that he would at any time find a place in his office, and should have his best endeavor to advance his studies. it was sincere, and that was one of the charms of his character. bart was pleased with it, and it almost compensated for the unintentional wounds of the night before. chapter xxi. a departure. morris came, and the brothers were together, and the two elder went around to many of their old acquaintance--many not named here, as not necessary to the incidents of this story. for some reason barton did not accompany them. if anything was said between them about him, no mention of it was made to him. henry came to regard him with more interest, and to treat him with marked tenderness and consideration, which bart took as a kindly effort to efface from his mind the pain that he supposed henry must be aware he had given him. had he supposed that it arose from an impression that he was suffering from any other cause, he would have coldly shrunk from it. * * * * * at the end of ten days, henry's baggage was sent out to hiccox's for the stage, and he took leave of his mother, morris, edward, and george, and, accompanied by bart, walked out to the state road, to take the stage for painesville, where his work was to begin. he was in bright spirits; his hopes were high; he was much nearer home; his communication was easier, and his absences would be shorter. bart, for some reason, was more depressed than usual. on their way down, henry asked him about a mr. greer whom he first saw at the sugar party, and afterwards at parker's, and who had seemed to take much interest in bart. bart had met him only once or twice, and was not favorably impressed by him. henry said that he had talked of seeing bart, and that he (henry) rather liked him. it had been already talked over and understood that bart should go to painesville in the fall, and enter fully upon the study of the law. as they reached the stage-road, bart's depression had been remarked by henry, who made an ineffectual effort to arouse him. finally the stage came rattling down the hill, and drew up. the brothers shook hands. henry got in, and the stage was about to move away, when bart sprang upon the step, and called out "henry!" who leaned his face forward, and received barton's lips fully on his mouth. men of the yankee nation never kiss each other, and the impression produced upon henry was great. tears fell upon his face as their lips met, and from his eyes, as the heavy coach rolled into the darkness of the night. are there really such things as actual presentiments? god alone knows. is the subtle soul-atmosphere capable of a vibration at the approach and in advance of an event? and are some spirits so acutely attuned as to be over-sensible of this vibration? god knows. or was the act of bart, like many of his, due to sudden impulse? perhaps he could not tell. if the faculty was his, don't envy him. barton had already resumed his connection with gen. ford's office. the general had returned full of his winter's labors, and found an intelligent and sympathizing listener in bart, who had a relish for politics and the excitements of political life, although he was resolved to owe no consideration that he might ever win to political position. under the stimulus from his intercourse with his brother and ranney, and profiting by their hints and suggestions, he plunged more eagerly into law-books than ever. he constructed a light boat, with a pair of sculls, and rigged also with a spar and sail, with which to traverse the pond, with places to secure it on the opposite shores; and early passers along the state road, that overlooked the placid waters, often marked a solitary boatman pulling a little skiff towards the eastern shore. and once, a belated picnic party, returning from barker's landing, discovered a phantom sail flitting slowly in the night breeze over the dark waters to the west. they lingered on the brow of the hill, until it disappeared under the shadow of the western wooded shore, wondering and questioning much as to who and what it was. one, the loveliest, knew, but said nothing. the markhams, one day, in their carriage, passed bart with his books toiling up oak hill. he removed his hat as they passed, without other recognition. all of them felt the invisible wall between them, and two, at least, silently regretted that they might not invite him to an unoccupied seat. they were at the fords' to dinner that day, and bart, being invited to join them by the general, politely declined. the general was a little grave at the table, while mrs. ford was decided and marked in her commendation of the young student, and described, with great animation, a little excursion they had made over to the pond, and the skill with which bart had managed his little sail-boat. chapter xxii. a shattered column. in mid june came the blow. george brought up from the post-office, one evening, the following letter: "painesville, june , . barton ridgeley, esq.: "_dear sir_,--i write at the request of my sister, mrs. hitchcock. your brother is very ill. wanders in his mind, and we are uneasy about him. he has been sick about a week. mr. hitchcock is absent at court. sincerely yours, edward marshall." "henry is ill," said barton, very quietly, after reading it. "this letter is from mrs. hitchcock. he has been poorly for a week. i think i had better go to him." "he did not write himself, it seems," said his mother. "he probably doesn't regard himself as very sick, and did not want us sent for," said bart, "and they may have written without his knowledge. i will take arab, and ride in the cool of the night." "you are alarmed, barton, and don't tell me all. read me the letter." and he read it. "i will go with you, barton," very quietly, but decidedly. "how can you go, mother?" "as you do," firmly. "you cannot ride thirty miles on horseback, mother, even if we had a horse you could ride at all." "i shall go with you," was her only answer. an hour later, with a horse and light buggy, procured from a neighbor, they drove out into the warm, sweet june night. at chardon, they paused for half an hour, to breathe the horse, and went on. bart was a good horseman, from loving and knowing horses, and drove with skill and judgment. they talked little on the road, and at about two in the morning they drove up to the old american house in painesville, and, with his mother on his arm, barton started out on river street, to the residence of mr. hitchcock. how silent the streets! and how ghostly the white houses stood, in the stillness of the night! and how like a dream it all seemed! they had no difficulty in finding the house, with its ominous lights, that had all night long burned out dim into the darkness. the door was open, and the bell brought a sweet, matronly woman to receive them. "we are henry ridgeley's mother and brother," said barton. "is he still alive?" the question indicated his utter hopelessness of his brother's condition. "come in this way, into the parlor," said the lady; and stepping out, "mother," she called, "mr. ridgeley's mother has come. please step this way." a moment later, a tall, elderly lady, sad-faced as was her daughter, and much agitated, entered the room. "my mother," said the younger lady. "i am mrs. hitchcock." "your son--" said the elder lady. "take me to him at once, i pray you! let me see him! i am his mother! who shall keep me from him?" "mother," said barton, stepping up and placing his hands about her, "don't you feel it? henry is dead. i knew it ere we stepped in." "dead! who says he is dead? he is not dead!" "tell her," said barton; "she is heroic: let her know the worst." "take me to him!" she said, as they remained silent. up the stairs, in a dimly-lighted room, past two or three young men, and a kind neighbor or two, they conducted her; and there, composed as if in slumber, with his grand head thrown back, and his fine strong face fully upward, she found her third-born, growing chill in death. she sprang forward--arrested herself when within a step of him, and gazed. the light passed from her own eye, and the warmth from her face; a spasm shook her, and nothing more. she did not shriek; she did not faint; she made no outcry,--scarcely a visible sign; but steadily and almost stonily she gazed on her dead, until the idea of the awful change came fully to her. the chill passed from her face and manner; and seating herself on the bed,--"you won't mind me, ladies. you can do no more for him. leave him to me for a little;" and she bent over and kissed his pallid lips, and laid her face tenderly to his, and lifted with her thin fingers the damp masses of his hair, brown and splendid, like bart's, but darker, and without the wave. "what a grand and splendid man you had become, henry! and i may toy with and caress you now, as when you were a soft and beautiful baby, and you will permit me!" and lifting herself up, she steadfastly gazed at his emaciated face and shrunken temples, and opening his bosom, and baring its broad and finely-formed contour, she scanned it closely. "oh, why could not i see and know, and be warned! i thought he could not die! oh, i thought that all i had would remain! that in their father god had taken all he would reclaim from me! that i should go, and together we should adorn a place where they should come to us! oh, merciful father!" and the storm of agony, such as uproots and sweeps away weak natures, came upon her. as for barton, his sensibilities were stunned and paralyzed, while his mind was left to work free and clear. all his anguish was for his mother; for himself, the moment had not come. he was appalled to feel the almost indifference with which he looked upon the remains of his manly and high-souled brother, and he repeated over and over to himself: "henry is dead! he is dead! don't you hear? don't you know? he is dead! why don't you mourn?" an hour later, came a gentle tap at the door. barton went to find mrs. hitchcock standing there. "your mother must be aroused and taken away. my mother and i will take you to her house. she must be cared for now." "mother," said bart, taking her lightly in his arms, "these dear good ladies must care for you. let me take you out; and our dear henry must be cared for, too." how unnatural his voice sounded to him! had he slain his brother, that he should care so little?--that his voice should sound so hoarse and hollow? his mother was passive in his hands,--wearied, broken, and overwhelmed. he carried her across a small open space, and into a large house, where her kind hostess received and cherished her as only women experienced and chastened by sorrow can. barton was conducted to a spacious, cool room, luxurious to his eyes; yet he felt no weariness, but somehow supernaturally strained up to an awful tension. "why don't i shriek, and tear my hair, and make some fitting moan over this awful loss? why can't i feel it? o god! am i a wretch without nature, or heart, or soul? he is dead! why should he die, and now, plucked and torn up by the root, just at flowering? what a vile economy is this! what a waste and incompleteness! and the world full of drivellers and dotards, that it would gladly be quit of. wasn't there space and breath for him? why should such qualities be so bestowed, to be so wasted? why kindle such a light, to quench it so soon in the dark river? what a blunder! why was not i taken?" why? oh, weak, vain questioner! he threw off part of his clothing, and lay down on the bed and slept. he awoke, offended and grieved that the sun should shine. why was it not hidden by thick clouds, and why should they not weep? but why should they, if he did not? and what business had the birds to be glad and joyous, and the perfume of flowers to steal out on the bright air? he knew he was wrong. he was no longer angry and defiant, but his grief was dry and harsh, and his sensibilities creaked like a dry axle. he found his mother tender, calm, and pitying him. awful as was the bereavement to her, she felt that the loss was, after all, to him. her strong nature, quivering and bleeding under the blow, had righted itself, and the sweet influence of faith and hope was coming up in her heart. she saw barton with his pallid face, and steady but bright eyes. she knew that she never quite understood, had never quite fathomed, his nature. gentle voices, assuaging hands, and sweet charities were about the stricken ones; and pious hands, with all christian observances, ministered to their beautiful dead. nothing more could be done; and before mid-day barton, with his mother, started on their return, to be followed at evening by the remains of the loved one, arrayed for sepulture. barton, with every faculty of mind intensely strong and clear, and weighted with the great calamity to absolute gravity, had struck those he met as a marvel of clear apprehension and perception of all the surroundings and proprieties of his painful position. the younger members of the painesville bar, who had begun to know and love their young brother, had gathered about him in his illness, and now came forward to take charge of and prepare his remains for final rest, and to render to his friends the kindness of refined charity. barton knew that somehow they looked curiously at him, as he introduced himself to them, and fancied that his dazed and dreamy manner was singular; but knew that such considerate and kind, such brotherly young men, would make allowances for him. when they gathered silently to take leave, he turned: "gentlemen, you know our obligations to you. think of the most grateful expression of them, and think i would so express them if i could. some day i may more fittingly thank you." they thought he never could. he remembered the fitting words to mrs. hitchcock and her mother, mrs. marshall, and drove away, with his pale, silent mother. all the way home in a dream. something awful had happened, and it was not always clear what it was, or how it had been brought about. chapter xxiii. the storm. about midnight the painesville hearse drove up, accompanied by the four young pall-bearers, of the painesville bar, who attended the remains of their young brother. the coffin was deposited in the little parlor, and the carriages drove to parker's for the night. the stricken and lonely mother was in the sanctity of her own room. the children had cried themselves to sleep and forgetfulness. the brother, who had been sent for, could not reach home until the next morning. barton had declined the offers of kind friends to remain, and was alone with his dead. the coffin-lid had been removed, and he lifted the dead-cloth from the face. he could not endure the sharp angle of the nose, that so stabbed up into the dim night, unrelieved by the other features. the wrath of a strong, deep nature, thoroughly aroused, is sublime; its grief, when stirred to its depths, is awful. barton knew now what had happened and what he had lost. the acuteness of his fine organization had recovered its sharpest edge. the heavens had been darkened for him nearly a year before, but now the solid earth had been rent and one-half cloven away, and that was the half that held the only hopes he had. he didn't calculate this now. genius, intellect, imagination, courage, pride, scorn, all the intensities of his nature, all that he supposed he possessed, all that lay hidden and unsuspected, arose in their might to overcome him now. he did not think, he did not aspire, or hope, or fear, or dream, or remember: he only felt, and bled, and moaned low, hopeless, helpless moans. if it is given to some natures to enjoy intensely, so such correspondingly suffer; and bart, alone with his pale, cold, dead brother, through this deep, silent night, abandoned himself utterly to the first anguish at his loss, and it was wise. as it is healthful and needful for young children to cry away their pains and aches, so the stricken and pained soul finds relief in pouring itself out in oversweeping grief. the storm swept by and subsided, and bart, kneeling by the coffin of his brother, in the simple humility of a child, opened his heart to the pitying eye of the great father. his lips did not move, but steadily and reverently he turned to that sweet nearness of love and compassion. finally he asked that every unworthy thought, passion, folly, or pride, might be exorcised from his heart and nature; and then, holding himself in this steady and now sweet contemplation and silent communion, a great calm came into his uplifted soul, and he slept. and, as he passed from first slumber to oblivious and profound sleep, there floated, through a celestial atmosphere, a radiant cloud, on which was reclining a form of light and beauty. he thought it must be his departed brother, but it turned fully towards him, and the face was the face of julia, with sweetest and tenderest compassion and love in her eyes; and he slept profoundly. in the full light of the early morning, the elder brother stole into the room, to be startled and awed by the pale faces of his dead and his sleeping brothers, now so near each other, and never before so much alike. how kingly the one in death! how beautiful the other in sleep! and while he held his tears in the marvellous presence, his pale, sweet mother came in, and placed her hand silently in his, and gazed; and then the young boys, with their bare feet; and so the silent, the sleeping, and the dead, were once more together. * * * * * at mid-day, those who had heard of the event gathered at the ridgeley house, sad-faced and sorrow-stricken. the family had always been much esteemed, and henry had been nearly as great a favorite as was morris, and all shared in the hope and expectation of his future success and eminence. uncle aleck came, feeble and heart-stricken. a sweet prayer, a few loving words, a simple hymn, and the young pall-bearers carried out their pale brother, and, preceding the hearse in their carriage, followed by the stricken ones and the rest in carriages and on foot, the little procession went sadly to the burying-ground. there a numerous company, attracted from various parts where the news had reached, were assembled and awaiting the interment. the idle and curious were rewarded by the sight of a hearse, and the presence of the deputation of the painesville bar, and impressed with a sense of the importance and consideration of the young man in whose honor such attentions were bestowed. the ceremony of interment was short, and of the simplest. the committing of the dead to final rest in the earth, is always impressive. man's innate egotism always invests the final hiding away of the remains of one of his race in perpetual oblivion, with solemnity and awe. one of the lords has departed; let man and nature observe and be impressed. uncle aleck was too feeble to go to the grave. the mourners--the mother sustained by barton, and morris, attended by his promised bride, a sweet and beautiful girl, and the two young boys so interesting in their childish sorrow, so few in number, and unsupported by uncles, aunts or cousins--were objects of unusual interest and commiseration. but now, when the last act was performed for them, and the burial hymn had been sung, there was no one to speak for them the usual thanks for these kindnesses, and just as this came painfully to the sensibilities of the thoughtful, barton uncovered his head and said the few needed words in a clear, steady voice, with such grace, that matronly women would gladly have kissed him; and young maidens noticed, what they had observed before, that there was something of nameless attraction in his face and manner. kind hands and sympathizing hearts were about the ridgeleys, to solace, cheer and help; but the great void in their circle and hearts, only god and time could fill. the heart, when it loses out of it one object of tenderness and love, only contracts the closer and more tenderly about what it has left. * * * * * time elapses. it kindly goes forward and takes us with it. no matter how resolutely we cling to darkness and sorrow, time loosens our hearts, dries our tears, and while we declare we will not be comforted, and reproach ourselves, as the first poignancy of grief consciously fades, yet we are comforted. the world will not wait for us to mourn. the objects of love and of hate we may bear along with us, but distance will intervene between us and the sources of deep sorrow. so far as bart was concerned, his nature was in the main healthy, with only morbid tendencies, and the great blow of his brother's death seemed in some way to restore the equilibrium of his mind, and leave it to act more freely, under guidance of the strong common sense inherited from his mother. he knew he must not linger about his brother's grave and weep. he knew now that he was entirely upon his own resources. his brother morris's speculations, and dashing system of doing things, had already hopelessly involved him, and bart knew that no aid could be expected from him. he had returned to painesville, and closed up the few matters of his brother henry; had written to ranney, at jefferson, and already had resumed his books with a saddened and sobered determination. he supposed that henry had died in consequence of a too close and long-continued application to his studies; and while this admonished him, he still believed that his own elasticity and power of endurance would carry him forward and through, unscathed. he began also to mingle a little with others, and to take an interest in their daily affairs. people affected to find him changed, and vastly for the better. "he's had enough to sober him." "it is well he has been warned, and heeds it." "god will visit with judgments, until the thoughtless forbear," and other profound and christian remarks were made concerning him. as if providence would cut off the best and most promising, for such indirect and uncertain good as might, or might not be produced in another less worthy! chapter xxiv. a law-suit (to be skipped). a young lover's first kiss, a young hunter's first deer, and a young lawyer's first case, doubtless linger in their several memories, as events of moment. bart had tried his first case before a justice of the peace, been beaten, and was duly mortified. it is very likely he was on the wrong side, but he did not think so; and if he had thought so, he would not have been fully consoled. a poorer advocate than he could have convinced himself that he was right, and fail, as he did, to convince the court. it was a case of little importance to any but the parties. to them, every case is of the gravest moment. he acquitted himself creditably: showed that he understood the case, examined his witnesses, and presented it clearly. others came to him, and he advised with caution and prudence; and as fall approached, he was in request in various small matters; men were surprised at the modesty of his deportment, and the gentleness of his speech. instead of provoking his opponents, and answering back, as was to be expected of him, he was conciliating and forbearing. a case finally arose, of unusual importance in the domestic tribunals; it attracted much attention, helped to bring him forward in a small way, and gained him much reputation among some persons whose esteem was enviable. old man cole, "old king cole," as the boys derisively called him, an inoffensive little man, with a weak, limp woman for a wife, and three or four weaker and limper children, had for many years vegetated on one corner of an hundred-and-sixty acres of woods, having made but a small clearing, and managed in some unknown way to live on it. his feeble condition exposed him to imposition, and he was the butt for the unthinking, and victim of the unscrupulous and unruly. for some years his land, a valuable tract, had been coveted by several greedy men, and especially by one sam ward. failing to induce cole to sell what right it was admitted he had, ward, as was supposed, attempted to intimidate, and finally to annoy cole to such an extent, that for peace and safety he would willingly part with his possession. he was one of the earliest settlers, had become attached to his land, and declined to be driven off. a lawless set of young men and boys were ward's agents, although his connection with them was never made very apparent, and had committed various depredations upon the old man; until one night they made a raid upon his premises, cut down several fruit-trees, filled up his spring, tore down his old barn, and committed various acts of trespass of a grave character. it would seem as if some intelligence controlled their movements; no act criminal by the statutes of ohio had been committed, and, so far as was suspected, none but those under age had been concerned in the affair. poor old cole, an object of derision, was barely within common sympathy; and living remote, few knew of, and fewer cared for his misfortunes. he applied for advice to bart, who was indignant at the recital, and entered upon an investigation of the outrage with great energy. he was satisfied that the fathers of the trespassers could not be held for their acts, that no breach of the criminal laws had been committed; but that the boys themselves could be made liable in an action, and that on failure to pay the judgment, they could themselves be taken in execution and committed to jail. he at once commenced a suit for the trespass before a magistrate, against all whom he suspected. the commencement of the suit caused greater excitement then the perpetration of the outrage. many of the young men belonged to respectable families, while many were old offenders, who had been permitted to escape for fear of provoking graver misdemeanors. it was known that bart had taken up the case, and there was a feeling that he had at least the courage to encounter the dangerous wrath of the young scamps; the only ground of apprehension was that he had mistaken the law. the popular impression was that an action could not be maintained against minors. on the return-day of the summons barton appeared, and demanded a jury, then allowable, and the time for trial was fixed for the fifth day afterwards. in that day, with the exception of one or two small lawyers at chardon, and ford at burton, there were none within twenty-five miles of newbury, and the legal field was gleaned in the magistrates' courts, as in all new countries, by pettifoggers, of whom nearly every township was made luminous with one. of these, the acknowledged head was brace. in ordinary life he was a very good sort of a man, not without capacity, but conceited, obstinate, and opinionated; he never had any law learning. in his career before justices of the peace, he was bold, adroit, unscrupulous, coarse, browbeating, and sometimes brutal; anything that occurred to his not uninventive mind, as likely in any way to help him on or out, he resorted to without hesitation. at this time he was in full career, and was constantly employed, going into two or three counties, occasionally meeting members of the profession, who held him in detestation, and whom he was as likely to drive out of court as he was to be worsted by them. he had been employed by the young scamps to defend them. he and bart had already met, and the latter was worsted in the case, and had received from brace the usual billingsgate. he was on hand well charged on the day for the appearance of the defendants, and was at no pains to conceal the contempt he felt for his young opponent. bart said no more than the occasion demanded, and seemingly paid no attention to brace. the magistrate, a man of plain, hard sense, adjourned the case to a large school-house, and invited judge markham to sit in, and preside at the trial, to which the judge consented, which secured a decorous and fair hearing. on the day, parties, witnesses, court, jury, and counsel, were on hand--a larger crowd than newbury had seen for years. the case was called and the jury sworn, when brace arose, and with a loud nourish demanded that the plaintiff be nonsuited, on the ground of the nonage of the defendants, and concluded by expressing his surprise at the ignorance of the plaintiff's counsel: everybody knew that a minor could not be sued; he even went so far as to express his pity for the plaintiff. bart answered that it did not appear that any of the defendants were under age. if they were infants, and wanted to escape on the cry of baby, they must plead it, if their counsel knew what that meant; so that the plaintiff might take issue upon it, and the court be informed of the facts. the court held this to be the law, and brace filed his plea of infancy. bart then read from the ohio statutes that when a minor was sued in an action of tort, as in this case, the court should appoint a guardian _ad litem,_ and the _parol_ should not _demur_; and he moved the court to appoint guardians _ad litem_, for the defendants. brace's eyes sparkled; and springing to his feet, he thundered out: "the parol shall not demur--the parol shall not demur. i have got this simpleton where i wanted him! i didn't 'spose he was fool enough to run into this trap; i set it on purpose for him: anybody else would have seen it; anything will catch him. the case can go no farther; the phrase, may it please the court, is latin, and means that the case shall be dismissed. the _parol_, the plaintiff shall not _demur_, shall not have his suit. why didn't ford explain this matter to this green bumpkin, and save his client the costs?" barton reminded the court that the statute made it the duty of the court to appoint guardians _ad litem_, which was a declaration that the case was to go on; if it was to stop, no guardians were needed. brace had said the terms were latin; he presumed that his latin was like his law; he thought it was old law french. he produced a law--dictionary, from which it appeared that the meaning was, the case should not be delayed, till the defendants were of age. guardians should be appointed for them, and the case proceed, and so the court ruled. bart went up immensely in popular estimation. any man who knew a word of latin was a prodigy. bart not only knew latin, but the difference between that and old law french. who ever heard of that before? and he had lived among them from babyhood, and they now looked upon him in astonishment. "it does beat hell, amazingly!" said uncle josh, aside. after brief consultation the court appointed the fathers of the defendants their guardians, when bart remarked that his learned and very polite opponent having found nurses for his babies, he would proceed with the case, and called his witnesses. against two or three of the ringleaders, the evidence was doubtful. when bart moved to discharge three of the younger of the defendants, brace opposed this. bart asked him if he was there to oppose a judgment in favor of his own clients? the court granted his motion; when bart put the young men on the stand as witnesses, and proved his case conclusively against all the rest. what wonderful strategy this all seemed to be to the gaping crowd; and all in spite of brace, whom they had supposed to be the most adroit and skilful man in the world; and who, although he objected, and blustered, and blowed, really appeared to be a man without resources of any sort. barton rested his case. brace called his witnesses, made ready to meet a case not made by the plaintiff, and bart quietly dissmissed them one after the other without a word. then ward, who had kept in the background, was called, in the hope to save one of the defendants. him bart cross-examined, and it was observed that after a question or two he arose and turned upon him, and plied him with questions rapid and unexpected, until he was embarrassed and confused. brace, by objections and argument, intended as instructions to the witness, only increased his perplexity, and he finally sat down with the impression that he had made a bad exhibition of himself, and had damaged the case. it was now midnight, when the evidence was closed, and barton proposed to submit the case without argument. brace objected. he wanted to explain the case, and clear up the mistakes, and expose the rascalities of the plaintiff's witnesses; and the trial was adjourned until the next morning. when the case was resumed the following day, bart, in a clear, simple way, stated his case, and the evidence in support of it, making two or three playful allusions to his profound and accomplished opponent. brace followed on full preparation for the defence. of course it was obvious, even to him, that he was hopelessly beaten; and mortified and enraged, he emptied all the vials of his wrath and vituperation upon the head of bart, his client and witnesses, and sat down, at the end of an hour, exhausted. when bart arose to reply, he seemed to stand a foot taller than he ever appeared before. calmly and in a suppressed voice he restated his case, and, with a few well--directed blows, demolished the legal aspects of the defence. he then turned upon his opponent; no restraint was on him now. he did not descend to his level, but cut and thrust and flayed him from above. even the newbury mob could now see the difference between wit and vulgarity, and were made to understand that coarseness and abuse were not strength. his address to the court was superb; and when he finally turned to the jury, with a touching sketch of the helplessness of the plaintiff, and of the lawless violence of the defendants, who had long been a nuisance, and had now become dangerous to peace and good order, and submitted the case, the crowd looked and heard with open-mouthed wonder. had a little summer cloud come down, with thunder, lightning and tempest, they would not have been more amazed. when he ceased, a murmur, which ran into applause, broke from the cool, acute, observing and thinking new englanders and their children, who were present. judge markham promptly repressed the disorder, and in a few words gave the case to the jury, who at once returned a verdict for the largest amount within the court's jurisdiction; judgment was promptly rendered, execution for the bodies of the defendants issued, and they were arrested. the excitement had now become intense. here were half a score of young men in the hands of the law, under orders to be committed to jail. no one remembered such a case in newbury. breaches of the law, in that usually orderly community, were unknown, until the acts which gave rise to this suit, and some fainter demonstrations of the same character. the poor youths and their friends gathered helpless and anxious about brace, who could suggest nothing. finally, barton came forward, and offered to take the promissory notes of the parties and their fathers, for the amount of the judgment and costs, and release them from arrest, which offer they gladly accepted, with many thanks to their prosecutor; and the blow which he thus dealt was the end of disorder in newbury. for the time being cole was left at peace, and enjoyed more consideration than had ever been conceded to him before. he was destined, however, not long after, to appear in the higher court, to defend the doubtful title of his property, as will appear in the progress of this narrative. as a general rule, the people of new communities are more curious and interested in law--suits, and trials, and lawyers, than in almost anything else to which their attention can be called. lawyers, especially, are the objects of their admiration and astonishment. unaccustomed to mental labor, conscious of an inability to perform it, and justly regarding it as holding the first place in human effort, the power and skill to conduct and maintain a long-continued mental conflict, to pursue and examine witnesses, answer questions as well as ask them, make and meet objections, make impromptu speeches and argue difficult propositions, and, finally, to deliver off-hand, an address of hours in length, full of argument, illustration, sometimes interspersed with humor, wit, and pathos, and sometimes really eloquent, is by them always regarded, and not without reason, as a marvel that cannot be witnessed without astonishment. and here was this young bart ridgeley, who had been nowhere, had read next to nothing, whom they had esteemed a lazy, shiftless fellow, without capability for useful and thrifty pursuits, and who had in their presence, for the last two days, taken up a hopeless case, and conducted it against a man who, in their hearts, they had supposed was more than a match for joshua r. giddings or chief justice hitchcock, beaten and baffled him, and finally thrashed him out of all semblance of an advocate. when the case was over, and he came out, how quickly they made way for him, and eagerly closed in behind and followed him out, and looked, and watched, and waited for a word or a look from him. "what did i tell you?" "what do you say now?" "i allus knew it was in 'im." "he'll do," etc., rained about him as he went into the open air. greer had attended the trial, and was one of the warmest admirers of bart's performance. nobody knew much about this man, except that he was often on hand, well dressed, drove good horses, was open, free and pleasant, with plenty of leisure and money, always well received, and often sought after. he had, at the first, taken a real liking to bart; and now, when the latter came out, he pleasantly approached him, and offered to carry him home in his carriage, an offer the tired youth was glad to accept. on their way, he mentioned to bart something about a very profitable and pleasant business, conducted by a few high-minded and honorable gentlemen, without noise or excitement, which consisted in the sale of very valuable commodities. they employed agents--young, active, and accomplished men, and on terms very remunerative, and he thought it very likely that if bart would enter their service, it could be made much for his advantage to do so; he would call again after bart had thought it over. his remarks made an impression on bart's mind, and excited his curiosity, and he remembered what henry had said about greer when at home. judge markham had been very much impressed by bart's management of his case; perhaps to say that he was very much astonished, would better express its effect upon him. he had always given him credit for a great deal of light, ready, dashing talent, but was wholly unprepared for the exhibition of thought, reflection, and logical power which he had witnessed; the young man's grave, cautious and dignified manner won much upon him, and he was surprised when he reflected how slender was the ground of his dislike, and how that dislike had somehow disappeared. then he recalled the favorable estimate which his wife had always put upon the qualities of bart, and that he had usually found her opinions of persons accurate. the frank appeal of bart to him was manly, and almost called for some acknowledgment; and he felt that the invisible barrier between them was unpleasant. after all, was not this young man one of the few destined to distinction, and on all accounts would it not be well to give him countenance? and in this the judge was not wholly politic. he felt that it would be a good thing to do, to serve this struggling young man, and he came out of the crowded room with the settled purpose of taking bart home to his mother's, if he would ride with him, let what would come of it. he would frankly tell him what he thought of his conduct of his case, and at least open the way to renewed intercourse. he was detained for a moment, to answer questions, and got out just in time to see bart, apparently pleased, get into greer's carriage and ride away. the judge looked thoughtful at this; and a close observer would have noticed a serious change in the expression of his face. of course he was well and intimately known to all parties present, and his frank and cordial manners left him always open to the first approach. he listened to the comments upon the trial, which all turned upon bart's efforts, and the judge could easily see that the young advocate had at once become the popular idol. he was asked what he thought of bart's speech, and replied that one could hardly judge of a single effort, but that the same speech in the higher courts would undoubtedly have gained for its author much reputation, and that if bart kept on, and did himself justice, he was certainly destined to high distinction. it was kind, judicious, and all that was deserved, but it was not up to the popular estimate, and one remarked that "the judge never did like him"; another, "that the judge was afraid that julia would take a liking to bart, and he hoped she would"; and a third, "that bart was good enough for her, but he never did care for girls, who were all after him." how freely the speech of the common people runs! chapter xxv. the warning. two or three things occurred during the autumn which had some influence upon the fortunes of barton. five or six days after the trial, he received a letter, postmarked auburn, which read as follows: "beware of greer. don't listen to him. be careful of your associations." only three lines, with the fewest words: not another word, line, mark, or figure on any side of it. the hand was bold and free, and entirely unknown to him. the paper was fine-tinted note, and bart seemed to catch a faint odor of violets as he opened it; a circumstance which reminded him that a few days before he had found on the grave of his brother, a faded bouquet of flowers. there was perhaps, no connection between them, but they associated themselves in his mind. some maiden, unknown to him, had cherished the memory of his brother, may have loved him; and had secretly laid this offering on his resting-place. how sweet was the thought to him! who was she? would he ever know? she had heard something of this greer--there was something bad or wrong about him; henry may have spoken to her about the man; and she may have seen or known of greer's taking him home, and had written him this note of warning. the hand was like that of a man, but no man in ohio would use such paper, scented with violets. how queer and strange it was! and how the mind of the imaginative youth worked and worried, but not unpleasantly, over it! of course, if the note was from a woman, she must have written because he was henry's brother; and it was, in a way, from him, and to be heeded, although henry had himself been favorably impressed by greer. the warning was not lost upon him, although it may not have been necessary. a few days later, the elegant and leisurely greer made his appearance; and after complimenting bart upon his success in an easy, roundabout way, approached the subject of his call; and bart was duly impressed that it arose from considerations of favor and regard to him, that greer now sought him. the visitor referred to the rule among gentlemen, which bart must understand, of course, that what he might communicate, as well as their whole interview, must be purely confidential. the agents, he said, were selected with the utmost care, and were usually asked to subscribe articles, and sworn to secrecy; but that he had so much confidence in bart, that this would not be necessary. bart, who listened impassively, said that he understood the rule of implied confidence extended only to communications in themselves right and honorable; and that of course mr. greer could have no other to make to him. greer inquired what he meant. bart said that if a man approached, with or without exacting a pledge of confidence, and made him a proposition strictly honorable, he should of course regard it as sacred; but if he proposed to him to unite in a robbery, house-burning, or to pass counterfeit money, or commit any breach of morality, he should certainly hold himself at liberty to disclose it, if he deemed it necessary. "if i am, in advance, asked to regard a proposed communication as confidential, i should understand, of course, that the proposer impliedly pledged that it should be of a character that a man of honor could listen to and entertain; of course, mr. greer, you can have no other to make to me, and you know i would not listen to any other." during this statement, made with the utmost courtesy, bart looked greer steadily in the face, and received a calm, full, unwinking look in return. greer assured him that his notions of the ethics of honor, while they were nice, were his own, and he was glad to act upon them; that he was not on that day fully authorized to open up the matter, but should doubtless receive full instructions in a day or two; and he had called to-day more to keep his word with bart than to enter upon an actual business transaction. nothing could be franker and more open than his way and manner in saying this; and as he was trained to keenness of observation, he may have detected the flitting smile that just hovered on bart's lips. after a little pleasant commonplace talk of common things, the leisurely greer took a cordial leave, and never approached bart but once again. at the whig nominating convention, for the county of geanga, that fall, major ridgeley, who had, by a vote of the officers of his regiment, become its colonel, was a candidate for the office of sheriff. he was popular, well-known, and his prospects fair. the office was attractive, its emoluments good, and it was generally sought after by the best class of ambitious men in the counties. he was defeated in the convention through a defection of his supposed friends, which he charged, justly or otherwise, upon judge markham. the disappointment was bitter, and he was indignant, of course. like bart, when he thought a mishap was without remedy, he neither complained nor asked explanations. when he and the judge next met, it was with cool contempt on his side, and with surprise, and then coldness, on the part of markham. their words were few and courteous, but for the next eighteen months they avoided each other. of course, bart sympathized with his brother morris; although he did not suppose the judge was ever committed, still he felt that he and all his friends should have stood by his brother, and apprehended that the judge's dislike to him may have influenced his course. however that may have been, judge markham never approached bart, who continued to act upon his old determination to avoid the whole markham family. his engagements took the judge to the state capital for the winter, where, with his wife and julia, he remained until the early spring, following; as did also general and mrs. ford. barton undertook the school in his mother's neighborhood for the winter, with the understanding that he might attend to calls in the line of his proposed profession, which grew upon his hands. he pushed his studies with unremitting ardor; he had already made arrangements with mr. ranney to enter his office on the first of the april following, and hoped to secure an admission in the next september, when he should seek a point for business, to which he proposed to remove his mother and younger brothers, as soon afterwards as his means would warrant. his friend theodore had gone away permanently, from newbury, and the winter passed slowly and monotonously to bart. he knew, although he would not admit to himself, that the principal reason of his discontent was the absence of julia. what was she to him? what could she ever be? and yet, how dreary was newbury--the only place he had ever loved---when she was away. of course she would wed, some time, and was undoubtedly much admired, and sought, and courted, by elegant and accomplished men, this winter, upon whom she smiled, and to whom she gave her hand when she met them, and who were permitted to dance with her, and be near her at any time. and what was it all to him? how sore, after all, his heart was; and how he hated and cursed himself, that he must still think of her! he would go forever and ever away, and ever so far away, and would hear and think of her no more. but when she came back, with march, he somehow felt her return, and spring seemed naturally to come with her; and bright thoughts, and beautiful and poetic figures and images, would arrange themselves in couplets and stanzas, with her in the centre, in spite of him. then came sugar making, with life and health of spirit, in the woods. his brother was arranging to dispose of his interests, and had gone further west, to look for a new point, for new enterprises. chapter xxvi. lost. march and sugar making had gone, and bart had completed his scanty arrangements to depart also; and no matter what the future might have for him, he knew that he was now leaving newbury; that whatever might happen, his home would certainly be elsewhere; although it would forever remain the best, and perhaps sole home of his heart and memory. what he could do for his mother he had done. his limited wardrobe was packed. he went to the pond, to all the dear and cherished places in the woods; and one night he was guilty of the folly, as he knew it was, of wandering up the state road, past judge markham's house. he did not pretend to himself that it was not with the hope of seeing julia, but he only passed the darkened house where she lived, and went disappointed away. he would go on the morrow, and when it came, he sent his trunk up to hiccox's, intending to walk down in the evening, and intercept the stage, as henry had done. he went again to his brother's grave, and there, on its head, was an almost fresh wreath of wild flowers! he was unmanned; and, kneeling, touched the dead children of the spring with his lips, and dropped tears upon them. how grateful he was that a watchful love was there to care for this consecrated place, and he felt that he could not go that night. what mattered one day? he would wait till to-morrow, he thought, but was restless and undecided. george left him at the cemetery, and went to the post-office, and was to have gone with edward to see him off, on the stage. as the time to leave approached, bart found his disinclination to go even stronger; and he finally told his mother he would remain until the next day. she, unwomanlike, did not like the idea of his yielding to this reluctance to go. "he was ready, nothing detained him, why not have the final pain of going over at once?" he made no reply, but lounged restlessly about. at about nine o'clock george came bursting in, with his eyes flashing, and his golden hair wet with perspiration; and catching his breath, and reducing and restraining his voice, cried out: "julia markham is lost in the woods, and they can't find her!" the words struck bart like electricity, and at once made him his best self. "lost, george?" taking him by both hands, and speaking coolly, "tell me all about it." a few great gasps had relieved george, and the cool, firm hands of bart had fully restored his quick wits. "she and nell roberts had been to coe's, and orville started to go home with julia, and he did go down to judge markham's fields, where he left her." "well?" "she did not go home, nor anywhere, and they have been looking for her, all through the woods, everywhere." "all through what woods, georgie?" "down between coe's and the state road." "they will never find her there; there is a new chopping, back of judge markham's fields, which she mistook for the fields, and when she found out the mistake she turned back to the old road, and i will wager the world that she went into 'the woods,' confused and lost." after a moment--"mother, put some of your wine in my hunting-flask, and give me something that can be eaten. edward, bring me two of those bundles of hickory; and george, let me have your hatchet and belt." he spoke in his ordinary voice, but he looked like one inspired. throwing off his coat, and arraying himself in a red "wamus," and replacing his boots with heavy, close-fitting brogans, he was ready. "boys," said he, "go about and notify all in the neighborhood to meet at markham's, at daylight; and tell them for god's sake, if she is not found, to form a line, and sweep through the west woods. if i am not back by daylight, push out and do all you can. mother, don't be anxious for me. if it storms and grows cold, you know i am a born woodsman. i know now what kept me." "i am anxious, barton, only that you may find her. god go with you!" with the other things, edward placed in his hands a long wax taper, made for the sugar camp, lighted, and with a kiss to his mother, and a cheery good-night to the boys, he sprang out. as julia did not return at dark, her father and mother supposed she had stopped with nell roberts. mrs. markham remembered the adventure which signalized her last walk from coe's, and was anxious; and the judge went down to roberts's for her. nell had been home one hour, and said orville had gone home with julia. a messenger was hurried off to coe's, and word was sent through the neighborhood, to call out the men and boys. it had been years since an alarm and a hunt for the lost had occurred. the messenger returned with young coe, who said that he went with miss markham to within sight of her father's fields, when she insisted that he should return, and he did. cool and collected, the judge and his party, with lanterns and torches, accompanied by coe, proceeded to the point where he parted with julia, when it was discovered that what she had mistaken for her father's fields, was a new opening in the woods, a considerable distance back from them. it was supposed that in endeavoring to find a passage through, or around the fallen timber, she had lost her way. obviously, if she went back towards the old road, which was a broad opening through the woods, she would in no event cross it, and must be somewhere within the forest, east of it, and between the state road and the one which led from it to coe's. through these woods, with flashing torch and gleaming lantern, with shout and loud halloa, the judge and his now numerous party swept. as often as a dry tree or combustible matter was found, it was set on fire, there being no danger of burning over the forest, wet with the rains of spring. this forest covered hundreds of acres, traversed by streams and gullies, and rocky precipices, rendered difficult of passage by fallen trees, thickets, twining vines and briers. the weather had been intensely hot for the season, ominously so, for the last two days, and on this day, the sun, after hanging like a fiery ball in the thickening heavens, disappeared at mid-afternoon, in the dark mass of vapor that gathered in the lower atmosphere. the night came on early, with a black darkness, and while there was no wind, there was a low, humming moan in the air, as if to warn of coming tempest, and the atmosphere was already chill with the approaching change. chapter xxvii. the babes in the woods. "there, orville, here are our fields. i am almost home; now hurry back. it is late. i am obliged to you." they had reached the opening, and the young man turned back, and the young girl tripped lightly and carelessly on; not to find the fence, as she expected, but an expanse of fallen timber, huge trunks, immense jams of tree-tops, and numerous piles of brush, under which the path was hidden. as she looked over and across, in the gloomy twilight, trees seemed to stand thick and high on the other side. julia at once concluded that they had taken a wrong path; and she thought that she remembered to have seen one, which she and barton passed, on the memorable night of their adventure; and without attempting to traverse the chopping, or go around it, she turned and hurried back to the old road. as she went, she thought of what had then happened, and how pleasant it would be if he were with her, and how bad it had all been since that time. when she got back to the old road, it seemed very strange, and as if it had undergone some change; looking each way, for a moment, undecided, she finally walked rapidly to the north, until she came to a path leading to the left, which she entered, with a sense of relief, and hurried forward. it was quite dark, silent, and gloomy in the woods, and she sped on--on past huge trees, through open glades, down through little sinks and swales, and up on high ground, until she came to an opening. "thank god! thank god!" cried the relieved and grateful child; "i am out at last. how glad i am!" and she reached the margin of the woods, to be confronted with an interminable black jungle of fallen and decaying tree-trunks, limbs and thick standing brush, over which, and out of which, stood the dense tops of young trees. she paused for a moment, and turning to the left, thought to skirt about this obstruction, until she should reach the fence and field, which she was sure were now near her. on and on, and still on she went; over the trunks of fallen trees, through tangles of brush and pools of water, until, when she turned to look for the opening, she was alarmed and dismayed to find that it had disappeared. her heart now for the first time sank within her. she listened, but no sound, save the ominous moan in the air, came to her ear. the solemn, still, black night was all about her. she looked up, and a cold, starless, dim blank was all over her; and all around, standing thick, were cold, dark, silent trees. she stood and tried to think back: where was she, and how came she there? she knew she had once turned back, from something to somewhere--to the old road, as she remembered; and it flashed across her, that in the strange appearance of things, and in her confusion, she had crossed it, and was in the awful, endless woods! how far had she gone? if lost, had she wandered round and round, as lost folks do? then she thought of her dear, distracted mother, and of her brave and kind father. she had been missed, and they were looking for her. everybody would hear of it, and would join in the hunt; and barton might hear of it, and if he did, she knew he would come to find her. he was generous and heroic; and what a wonder and a talk it would all make, and she didn't care if it did. then she wondered if she had not better stop and stand still, for fear she would go wrong. how awfully dark it was, and the air was chilly. did she really know which way home was? and she strained her unseeing eyes intently for a moment, and then closed them, to let the way come into her mind. that must be the way, and she would go in that direction until she thought she could make them hear; and then she would call. and ere she started, amid the cold, unpitying trees, in her purity and innocence, that savage nature reveres and respects, she knelt and prayed; she asked for guidance and strength, and arose hopeful. but she found that she was very weary: her feet were wet and cold, and when she was to start, that she was confused and uncertain as to the direction. one more invocation, and she went forward. how far or how long she travelled, she had no idea. she paused to listen: no sound. perhaps they would now hear her, and she raised her voice, and called her father's name, and again and again, with all her force, through the black, blank, earless night, she sent her cry. as her voice went out, hope, and spirit, and strength went with it. she trembled and wept, and tried once again to pray. she clasped her hands; but suffocating darkness seemed to close over her, and she felt lost, utterly and hopelessly lost! a sense of injustice, of ill-usage, came to her, and she dried her eyes; she was young, and brave, and strong; and must; and would care for herself. she should not perish; day would come some time, and she should get out. she found she was very cold, and must arouse and exert herself. then came the thought and dread of wild animals; of that awful beast; and she listened, and could hear their stealthy steps in the dry leaves, and she shrunk from meeting the horrid glare of their eyes. oh, if barton were only with her, just to drive them away! god would protect him. there--as she could not help but stare into the black darkness, there surely was the glare of their eyes, that horrid, yellowish-green, glassy glare! and with a shriek she fled--not far, for she fell, and a half swoon brought her a moment's oblivion; when the dead cold night, and the dumb trees came back about her again. with the reaction she arose, and found that she had lost her hood. she felt that a wild beast had torn it from her head; and that she had taken his hot, brute breath. weak, hardly with the power of motion, she supported herself by the trunk of a tree. "father! father god! a helpless, weak child calls to thee; show me my sin, let me repent of it; weak and lost, and hopeless; sweet saviour, with thy loving sympathy, stay and help my fainting heart. if it be thy will that i perish, receive my spirit, and let this weak, vain body, unmangled, be given back to my poor grief-stricken parents. god and saviour, hear me!" there now came to her ear the voice of running water. it had a sweet sound of companionship and hope, and she made towards it, and soon found herself on the banks of a wild and rapid stream. "oh, thanks! thanks!" she murmured, "this runs from darkness out to human habitations, somewhere. it will lead out to daylight, and on its banks are human homes, somewhere. oh, give me strength to follow it, it is so hard to perish here!" the wind had long been blowing, and had now risen to a tempest, bitter and sharp from the north, and the trees were bending and breaking under its fury. julia was thoroughly chilled, and her feet were benumbed with cold. she had been aware for some time that snow was sifting over her, and rattling on the dry leaves under her feet. she was dizzy, and almost overcome with sleep; and was conscious of strange visions and queer voices, that seemed to haunt her senses. could she hold out till morning? she could not fix her wandering mind, even on this question. she occasionally heard her own voice in broken murmurs, but did not understand what she said. it was like the voice of another. she knew her mouth was dry and parched with thirst, but never thought of trying to drink from the stream, whose drowsy voice ran through her wandering consciousness. the impulse to move on remained long after all intelligent power of directing her movements had left her; and blindly and mechanically, she staggered and reeled about for a few or many minutes, until she sank to the earth unable and unwilling to struggle further. her last act was with pure womanly instinct, to draw her torn and draggled skirts about her limbs and feet. the faces of her father and mother, warm and sweet, were with her for a moment, and she tried to think of her heavenly father; and another face was all the time present, full of tenderness and love; and then all faded into oblivion, blank and utter ... what was it? something whispered, or seemed to whisper in her heart as vague consciousness returned, unutterably sweet; was it the voice of an angel coming to bear her hence? once again! and now her ear caught--and still again--a voice of earth, clear; and it had power to start her up from under the snow, that was surely weaving and thickening her virgin winding-sheet. god in heaven! once again! strong, clear and powerful, it pealed through the arches of the forest, overtopping the tempest. it was a voice she knew, and if aught might, it would have called her back from death; as now, from a deadly swoon. and once again, and nearer, with a cadence of impatience, and almost doubt, a faint answer went back; and then a gleam of light; a broad, wavering circle of glory, and barton, with his flashing eyes, and eager, flushed face, with his mass of damp curls filled with snow, and dashed back, sprang with a glad cry to her side! "barton!" she cried, trying to rise, and throwing out her hands to him. "oh, julia! you are found! you are alive! thank god! thank god!" throwing himself on his knees by her, and, clasping her cold hands in his, and, in a paroxysm, pressing them to his lips and heart, and covering them with kisses and with tears. "god sent you to me! god sent you to me!" murmured the poor, dear grateful girl. bart's self-command returned in a moment; he lifted her to her feet, and supported her. "you are nearly frozen, and the snow had already covered you. see what my mother sent to you," filling the top of his flask and placing it to her lips. "it is nothing but old wine." how revivingly it seemed to run through her veins! "i am very thirsty," she said, and he brought her a full draught from the running stream. "can you walk? let me carry you. we must get to some shelter." "i thought you would come. where is my father?" "i am alone--may i save you?" "oh, barton!" "i have not seen your father; they are looking for you, miles away. how under the heavens did you ever find your way here? how you must have suffered! see! here is your hood!" placing it over her tangled and dripping hair. "and let me put this on you." removing his "wamus," and putting her arms through the sleeves, he tied the lower corners about her little waist, and buttoned the top over her bosom and about her neck. he gave her another draught of wine, and paused for a moment--"i must carry you." "oh, i can walk!" said the revived girl, with vivacity. he lifted his nearly consumed torch, and conducted her to the stream. "we must cross this, and find shelter on the other side." he let himself at once from the abrupt bank, into the cold, swift water, that came to his middle. "i must carry you over;" unhesitatingly she stooped over to him, and was taken with one strong arm fully to himself, while he held his torch with the other. he turned with her then, and plunged across the creek, holding her above its waters. its deepest part ran next the bank where he entered; fortunately it was not very wide, and he bore her safely to the opposite and lower bank. the other side was protected from the tempest, which was at its greatest fury, by a high and perpendicular ledge of rocks which the course of the creek followed, but leaving a narrow space of hard land along the base. under the shelter, bart turned up stream with his charge, occasionally lifting his torch and inspecting the mossy ledge. within a few feet of them the snow fell in wreaths and swirls, and sometimes little eddies of wind sifted it over them. "somewhere near here, is a place where they made shingles last summer, and there was a shed against the rocks, if we could only find it." finally they doubled an abrupt angle in the nearly smooth wall, which bent suddenly back from the stream, for many feet, making a semicircle of a little space, and in the back of which bart discovered the anxiously looked-for shed;--a mere rude cover, on posts driven into the ground. under and about it were great quantities of dry shavings, and short bits of wood, the hearts and saps of shingle blocks. to place a pile of these on the margin of the creek, and apply his torch to them, took but a moment; and in an instant a bright, white flame flashed and lit up the little sheltered alcove. another, and the almost overcome girl was placed on a seat of soft, dry shavings, against the moss-grown rock, under the rude roof, out of the reach of the snow or wind; and another fire was lit of the dry shingle blocks, at her feet, from which her saturated shoes were removed, and to which warmth was soon restored. barton now took from a pocket on the outside of the "wamus," a small parcel, and produced some slices of tongue and bread, which the famished girl ate with the relish and eagerness of a hungry child. more wine, now mingled with water, completed her repast; and bart made further preparations for her comfort and rest. a larger mass of the shavings so adjusted that she could recline upon them, was arranged for her, which made an easy, springy couch; and as she lay wearily back upon them, still others were placed about and over her, until, protected as she was, warmth and comfort came to her. what a blessed sense of shelter, and safety, and peace, as from heaven, fell upon the rescued girl's heart! and how exquisitely delicious to be carried, and supported, and served by this beautiful and heroic youth, who hovered about her so tenderly, and kneeling at her feet, so gently and sweetly ministered to her! no thought of being compromised, none of impropriety in the atmosphere of absolute purity, came to cloud the stainless mind of the maiden. no memory of the past, no thought of the future, was near her. she was lost, exhausted, and dying, and god sent him to her; and she accepted him as from the hand of god. he had restored, warmed and cheered her. she was under shelter and protection, and now heavy with sleep, and still the storm raged all about and over their heads, and the snow still fell within a few feet of them, while in that little circle warmth and light pulsated, like a tender human heart. when all was done that occurred to the tender, thoughtful youth, and the eyes of the maiden were dreamily closing: "have you said your prayers?" asked bart, who had spoken barely a word since lighting the fires. "not of thanks for my deliverance," replied the girl. "will you say a prayer for us?" in a low, sweet voice. the youth knelt a little from her. "our father, whose presence is heaven, and whose presence is everywhere, let this weary, wandering one feel that presence in its sweetest power; let her repose in it; and through all time rest in it. hush the storm, and make short the hours of darkness, and with the dawn give her back to her home of love. impress her parents with a sense of her safety. remember my widowed mother and young brothers. be with all wanderers, all unsheltered birds, and lambs on bleak hill-sides, and with all helpless, hopeless things." he ceased. "you ask nothing for yourself, barton," in her tenderest voice. "have i not been permitted to save you? what remains for me to ask?" how these words came to her afterwards! she turned, moved a little, as if to make room, and slept. barton shall at some time, in his own way, tell of his experiences of that strange night. it had never come near him--the thought of seeking and saving her for himself---and when he found her perishing, and bore her over the water, and found shelter, and cheered and restored her, and as he now sat to protect her, the idea that she was or could be more to him, or different from what she had been, never approached him. it had been an inspiration to seek her, and a great possession to find her. it had brought back to him his self-respect, and had perhaps redeemed him, in her eyes, from the scorn and contempt with which she had regarded him, and in his heart he gratefully thanked god for it. now his path was open and serene, although unwarmed and unlighted with this precious love, and so, in the heart of the forest, in the soul of the night, in the bosom of the tempest, he had brought life and hope and peace and rest to her, and an angel could not have done it with a purer self-abnegation. he sat near her, at the foot of an old hemlock, waiting for the dawn. the forest and night and storm thus held in their arms these two young, strong, brave, sweet, and rich natures, so tender, and so estranged, till the morning light brightened and flashed up in the serene sky, and sent a new day over the snow-wreathed earth. the tempest subsided, the snow ceased, the wind sunk to whispers, and the young morning was rosy in the east. barton had kept the fire burning near julia, and when the new light became decided, approached her, and not without some anxiety: "miss markham--miss markham--miss markham!" raising his voice at each repetition. she did not hear. "julia!" in a low voice, bending over her. her eyes opened to the rude roof over her, and she started, turned to him, flushed, and smiled: "oh, we are still here in the woods! is it day?" "yes; how do you feel? can you walk?" cheerily. "oh yes, i haven't suffered much!" rising from the woody coverings, which she gayly shook from her. "excuse me, while you make your toilet in this extensive dressing-room, and i will look about. i will not go far, or be gone long." going still further up the stream, he found the end of the ledge of rocks, with a steepish hill sloping down to the creek, down which, under the snow, appeared to wind a road, which crossed the creek when the water was low. he turned into this road, and went up to the top of the hill, from which he could see an opening in the otherwise unbroken woods, and a little farther on he was gladdened with the sight of a smoke, rising like a cloud-column, above the trees. he hastened back to find julia equipped, and busy placing new fuel to the crackling fire. "there is a cabin not more than half a mile away, and the snow is not more than two or three inches deep; we can easily reach it," he said, brightly. "oh, barton!" said the girl, with a deep rich voice, coming to him, "how can we ever--how can my father and mother ever--how can i repay"--and her voice broke and faltered with emotion, and tears fell from her wondrous eyes. "perhaps," said bart, off his guard, "perhaps you may be willing to forget the past!" "the past--forget the past?" "pardon me, it was unfortunate! let us go." "barton!" "not a word now," said bart, gayly. "i am the doctor, you are terribly shaken up, and not yourself. i shall not let you say a word of thanks. why, we are not out of the woods yet!"--this last laughingly. "when you are all your old self, and in your pleasant home, everything of this night and morning will come to you." "what do you mean, mr. ridgeley?" a little coolly. "nothing," in a sad, low voice. they had gained the road. "see," said he, "here is somebody's road, from some place to somewhere; we will follow it up to the some place. there! i hear an axe. i hope he is cutting wood; and there--you can see the smoke of his cabin. 'i knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled.' oh, i hope he will have a rousing fire." julia walked rapidly and silently by his side, hardly hearing his last words; she was thinking why he would not permit her to thank him--and that it would all be recalled in her home--finally, his meaning came to her. he would seek and save her from death, and even from the memory of an unconsidered word, which might possibly be misconstrued; and she clung more closely to the arm which had borne her over the flood. "i am hurrying you, i fear." "no, not a bit. oh, now i can see the cabin; and there is the man, right by the side of it." "it must be wilder's," said bart. "he moved into the woods here somewhere." as they approached, the chopper stopped abruptly, and gazed on them in blank wonder. the dishevelled girl, with hanging hair, and red "wamus," and the wild, haggard-looking, coatless youth, with belt and hatchet, were as strange apparitions, coming up out of the interminable woods, as could well meet the gaze of a rustic wood-chopper of an early morning. "can you give this young lady shelter and food?" asked bart, gravely. "i guess so," said the man; "been out all night?" and he hurried them into a warm and cheerful room, bright with a blazing fire, where was a comely, busy matron, who turned to them in speechless surprise. "this is judge markham's daughter," said bart, as julia sank into a chair, strongly inclined to break down completely; "she got lost, last night, near her father's, and wandered all night alone, and i found her just beyond the creek, not more than two hours ago. i must place her in your hands, my good woman." "poor, precious thing!" cried the woman, kneeling and pulling off her shoes, and placing her chilled feet to the fire. "what a blessed mercy you did not perish, you darling." "i should, if it had not been for him," now giving way. mrs. wilder stepped a moment into the other of the two rooms, into which the lower floor of the cabin was divided, and spoke to some one in it; and giving julia a bowl of hot milk and tea, led her to the inner apartment. "take care of him;" were her words, as she left, nodding her head towards barton. "how far is it to markham's?" asked bart. "'bout seven mile round, an' five 'cross." "have you a horse?" "fust rate!" "saddle him, and go to markham's at once. the father and mother of this girl are frantic: a thousand men are hunting for her; you'll be paid." "i don't want no pay," said wilder, hurrying out. five minutes later, sitting on his saddle, he received a slip of paper from bart. "who shall i say?" said wilder, not without curiosity on his own account. "that will tell the judge all he'll want to know. he will hear my name as soon as he will care to." wilder dashed off down the forest-road by which bart and julia had approached his house. bart went listlessly into the house. his energy and excitement had suddenly died out, with the exigency which called them forth; his mental glow and physical effort, both wonderful and long-continued to an intense strain, left him, and in the reaction he almost collapsed. mrs. wilder offered him one of her husband's coats. he was not cold. she placed a smoking breakfast before him. he loathed its sight and fragrance, and drank a little milk. she knew he was a hero; so young and so handsome, yet a mere boy; his sad, grave face had a wonderful beauty to her, and his manners were so high, and like a gentleman born. she asked him some questions about his finding julia, and he answered dreamily, and in few words, and seemed hardly to know what he said. "is miss markham asleep?--is she quiet?" mrs. wilder stepped to the inner room. "she is," she answered; "nothing seems to ail her but weariness and exhaustion. she will not suffer from it." "is she alone?" "she is in bed with my daughter rose." "may i just look at her one moment?" "certainly." one look from the door at the sweetly-sleeping face, and without a word he hurried from the house. he had felt a great heart-throb when he came upon her in the woods, and now, when all was over, and no further call for action or invention was on him, the strong, wild rush of the old love for a moment overwhelmed him. it would assert itself, and was his momentary master. but presently he turned away, with an unspoken and final adieu. two hours later the judge, on his smoking steed, dashed up to the cabin, followed by the doctor and two or three others. as he touched the ground, julia, with a cry of joy, sprang into his arms. she had murmured in her sleep, awoke, and would get up and dress. she laughed, and said funny little things at her looks and dress, and examined the "wamus" with great interest, with a blush put it on, and tied it coquettishly about her waist, then seemed to think, and took it off gravely. next she ran eagerly out to the other room, and asked for bart, and looked grave, and wondered, when mrs. wilder told her he had gone, and she wondered that mrs. wilder would let him go. she kissed that good woman when she first got up, and was already in love with sweet, shy, tall, comely rose, who was seventeen, and had made fast friends with ann and george, the younger ones. then she ran out into the melting snow and bright soft air. how serene it all was, and how tall and silent stood the trees, in the bright sun! how calm and innocent it all was, and looked as if nothing dreadful had ever happened in it, and a robin came and sang from an old tree, near by. and she talked, and wondered about her mother and father, and, by little bits, told much of what happened the night before; and wondered--this time to herself--why bart went off; and she looked sad over it. mrs. wilder looked at her, and listened to her, and in her woman's heart she pondered of these two, and wished she had kept bart; she was sad and sorry for them, and most for him, for she saw his soul die in his eyes as he turned from julia's sleeping face. then came the tramp of horses, and julia sprang out, and into her father's arms. one hour after came julia's mother and nell, in the light carriage; and kisses, and tears, and little laughy sobs, and words that ran out with little freshets of tears, and unanswered questions, and unasked answers, broken and incoherent; yet all were happy, and all thankful and grateful to their father in heaven; and blessings and thanks--many of them unsaid--to the absent one. and so the lost one was restored, and soon they started back. chapter xxviii. at judge markham's. when mrs. markham at last realized that julia was lost, she hastily arrayed herself and went out with the others to search for her, calmly, hopefully, and persistently. she went, and clambered, and looked, and called, and when she could look and go no further, as woman may, she waited, and watched, and prayed, and the night grew cold, and the wind and snow came, and as trumpets were blown and guns discharged, and fires lighted in the woods, and torches flashed and lanterns gleamed through the trees, she still watched, and hoped, and prayed. when at last the storm and exhaustion drove men in, she was very calm and pale, said little, and went about with chilled tears in her eyes. judge markham was a strong, brave, sagacious man, and struggled and fought to the last, but finally in silence he rejoined his silent wife. at about three in the morning, and while the storm was at its height, she turned from the blank window where she stood, with a softened look in her eyes, from which full tides were now for the first time falling; and approaching her husband, who man-like, when nothing more could be done by courage and strength, sat with his face downward on his arms, resting on the table, and breathing great dry gasps, and sobs of agony. "edward," said she, stooping over him, "it comes to me somehow that julia is safe; that she has somewhere found shelter, and we shall find her." and now she murmured, and whispered, and talked, as the impression seemed to deepen in her own heart, and she knelt, and once more a fervent prayer of hope and faith went up. the man came and knelt by her, and joined in her prayer, and grew calm. "julia," said he, "we have at least god, and with him is all." when the morning came, five hundred anxious and determined men, oppressed with sad forebodings, had gathered from all that region for the search. persistently they adhered to the idea that the missing girl was in the lower woods. a regular organized search by men and boys, in a continuous line, was resolved upon. marshals were appointed, signals agreed upon, and appliances and restoratives provided; and the men were hastening to their places. a little knot near the judge's house were still discussing the matter, as in doubt about the expediency of further search in that locality. george was in this group, and had, as directed, given barton's opinion. judge markham, who was giving some last directions joined these men, and listened while uncle jonah, in a few words, explained bart's theory--that the girl would turn back from the chopping to the old road, and if there confused, would be likely to go into the woods, and directly away from her home. "and where is bart?" asked the judge. "he started at about nine last night, with two big bundles of hickory," said george, "to look for her, and had not returned half an hour ago." "where did he go?" asked the judge eagerly. "into the woods." "and has not returned?" "no." "your girl is safe," said uncle jonah. "the boy has found her, i'll bet my soul!" while the judge stood, struck and a little startled, by this information, and jonah's positive assurance, a man on a foaming steed came plunging down the hill, just south of the house, and pulling up, called out, "where is judge markham?" "i am he." "oh! good-morning, judge! this is for you. your girl is safe." the judge eagerly took the paper, gazed at it, and at the man, speechless. "she's at my house, judge, safe and sound." and then the group of men gave a shout; a cheer; and then another, and another--and the men forming in the near-line heard it and took it up, and repeated it, and it ran and rang miles away; and all knew that the lost one was found, and safe. no man who has not felt the lifting up of such an awful pressure, can estimate the rush of escaped feeling and emotion that follows it; and none who have not witnessed its sudden effect upon a crowd of eager, joyous men, shouting, cheering, crying, weeping, scrambling and laughing, can comprehend it, and none can describe it. all hurried eagerly back to the judge's, gathered about the happy, wondering wilder, and patted and caressed his smoking horse. mrs. markham knew it, and with radiant face and eyes came out with her grateful husband, when the bright sky again rang with the cheers of the assembled multitude. after quiet came, the judge read to them the paper he had received from wilder: "judge markham: "your daughter was found this morning, on the banks of the creek, a mile from wilder's, overcome and much exhausted. she rallied, got into wilder's, and appears strong and well. wilder will take you to her." "whose name is to it, judge?" "there is none--who gave it to you?" "the young man who found the young lady, and he didn't give his name, said the judge would hear it as soon as he would want to," was the answer; "he didn't talk much." "it was barton ridgeley," said jonah. and the name of barton went up with new cheers, and louder than any. soon away went the judge, on a splendid chestnut, with the doctor, and two or three others, on horseback, followed by mrs. markham and nell roberts in a carriage. the sun mounted up, the snow melted away, and so did the crowd. some returned home, and many gathered in little knots to talk up the exciting event. the absurdest speculations were indulged in, as to how bart found julia, and what would come out of it. there was an obvious element of romance in the affair that appealed to the sensibilities of the rudest. and then, would bart come back with julia? as the day advanced, the neighboring women and children gathered at judge markham's, all glad and happy, and a little teary over the exciting incidents, and all impatient for the return of julia. at a little past two the party returned--the judge, mrs. markham, julia, and nell, in the carriage--julia on the front seat with her father, a little pale, but with sparkling eyes, radiant, and never so lovely. as the carriage drove up, a noisy welcome saluted her. as she arose to alight, and again as she was about to enter the house, her mother observed her cast her eyes eagerly over the crowd, as if in search of some face, and she knew by her look that she did not find it. what a gathering about her, and kissing and clinging and crying of women and girls! then followed, "ohs!" and "ahs!" and "wonders!" and "did you evers!" and "never in my born days!" "and did barton really find you?" and "where is he?" etc. every one noticed that he did not come with them, and wondered, and demanded to know where he was, and doubted if he had had anything to do with it, after all. the judge told them, that by some means not yet explained, barton had found her, overcome, chilled, exhausted and in a swoon, and had carried and conducted her out to wilder's; that when she was restored, he sent wilder off with the news, and then went home, and that the doctor and roberts had gone around to his mother's to see him. beyond doubt he had saved his daughter's life. he spoke with an honest, manly warmth, and the people were satisfied, and lingeringly and reluctantly dispersed to talk and wonder over the affair, and especially the part barton had performed. toward sunset, julia, in her luxurious chamber and night-robes, seemed anxious and restless. her mother was with her, and tried to soothe her. her father entered with a cheery face. "roberts has just returned," he said. "barton got home in the morning, very much exhausted, of course. he seems not to have told his mother much, and went to his room, and had not been out. his mother would not permit him to be disturbed, and said he would be out all right in the morning." "did the doctor see him?" asked julia. "i suppose not; i will go and bring him around in the morning myself," said the judge. "thank you, papa; i would so like to see him, and i want to know how he found me," said julia. "i wonder he did not tell you," said the judge. "he hardly spoke," said julia, "unless compelled to, and told me i was too broken down to say anything. i tried to thank him, and he said i was not myself, and stopped me." chapter xxix. after. toward noon of the next day, the judge drove up to his own gate, alone, and not a little troubled. his wife and daughter were evidently expecting him. they seemed disappointed. "wouldn't he come?" asked his wife. "he was not there to come." "not there!" from both. "no; he went off in the stage last night to jefferson." "went off! why, father!" "well, it seems that he had arranged to leave on tuesday, and sent his trunk out to hiccox's, but didn't go; and all day wednesday he wandered about, his mother said, seeming reluctant to start. at evening she said he appeared much depressed, and said he would not go until the next evening." "thank god!" said the ladies. "george," continued the judge, "who had been down to the post-office, heard that you were lost, and hurried home, and told him all he had heard. his mother said when he heard it he asked a good many questions, and said, 'i know now why i stayed,' and that in five minutes he was off to the woods." "father, there was a special providence in it all." "and did providence send him off last night?" "perhaps so." "did his mother tell how he came to think julia had crossed the old road?" "he didn't tell his mother much about it. she said he was more cheerful and lighter hearted than he had been for a year, but did not seem inclined to talk much; ate a very little breakfast, and went to bed, saying that he hoped she would not let anybody disturb him. he did not come down again until five, and then told her he should leave that evening. she tried to dissuade him, but he said he must go--that he was not wanted here any more--that he felt it was better for him to go at once. she said that she spoke to him of us, of julia, saying that she thought he ought to remain and let us see him, if we wished. he answered that he had better go then, and that they would understand it. he said they might perhaps call and say some things to her; if they did, she should say to them that he could understand what their feelings might be, and appreciated them; that it was not necessary to say anything to him; that he wished all the past to be forgotten, and that nothing might be said or done to recall it; he had left newbury forever as a home. "i told her that i wanted to provide for his studies, and to start him in business--of course in as delicate a way as possible. she rather started up at that, and said she hoped i would never in any way make any offer of help to him. i asked who went with him to meet the stage, and his mother replied that he went alone--walked down just at dark, and wouldn't permit either of the boys to go with him." "why edward! how strange this is!" "it isn't strange to me at all," remarked julia, in a low, depressed voice. "father, i've a little story to tell you. i should have told it last night, and then you would have better understood some things that have occurred. it was nothing that happened between us yesterday morning. i have told you every word and thing of that." then she recited to the astonished judge the incidents of her adventure in the woods with bart and the wolverine. "and i," said the judge, "have also a little incident to relate," and he told of the occurrence on the river with which this tale began. "oh, father!" exclaimed julia, "could you leave him, away there, weary and alone?" "i did not mean to do that; i stopped, and lingered and looked back, and waited and thought he would ask or call to me," said the humiliated judge: "and now he has repaid me by saving your life." "father! father, dear!" going and laying her arm around his neck, and her cheek against his, "you are my own dear papa, and could never purposely harm a living thing. it was all to be, i suppose. mamma, do you remember the night of snow's ball, when you playfully complained of his inattention to you? and he said he would atone for all offences,-- 'in that blissful never, when the sundays come together, and the sun and glorious weather, wrapped the earth in spring forever?' and he has." "i remember, but i could not recall the words." "i can repeat the very words of the beautiful prayer that he made in the woods," said the young girl. "and which i seemed to hear," said her mother. "and that 'blissful never' came, mother, and all its good was for me--for us." "not wholly, i trust. this young man's mind and nature are their own law. his mother said he was lighter-hearted and more like himself than for a long time. he has suffered much. he mourned more for his brother than most could. he had lost his own self-respect somehow, and now he has regained it, and will come to take right views of things, and a blissful ever may come for him." "and he wanted all the past forgotten," said the girl. "of all that happened between you before he has only remembered what you said to him," said her mother. "and you possibly remember what he said to you." "i remember his generosity and bravery, mother," replied julia. the judge remained thoughtful. turning to his wife, "would you have me follow him to jefferson?" "no. he went away in part to avoid us; he will be sensitive, and i would not go to him at present. write to him; write what you really feel, a warm and manly letter like your own true self. i am not certain, though, how he will receive it." a silence followed which was broken by julia. "father, do you know this mr. wade with whom barton has gone to study?" "yes; i have met him several times and like him very much. he was our senator, and made that awful speech against slavery last winter. he is a frank, manly, straightforward man." "how old is he?" "thirty-five, perhaps; why?" "nothing. is he married?" "he is an old bachelor; but i heard some one joking him about a young lady, to whom it is said he is engaged. why do you inquire about him?" "oh! i wanted to know something of the man with whom he is. i met mr. ranney a year ago, you know." that night the fair girl remained long in a serious and thoughtful attitude. * * * * * in the afternoon of the next day, the ladies drove to mrs. ridgeley's. the elders embraced cordially. one was thinking of the boy who had died, and of him who had gone so sadly away; the other of her agony at a supposed loss, and her great joy at the recovery. julia took one of mrs. ridgeley's thin, toil-hardened hands in her two, rosy and dimpled, and kissed it, and shed tears over it. then they sat down, and mrs. markham, in her woman's direct natural way, poured out the gratitude they both felt; julia, with simple frankness, told the happenings of the night, and both were surprised to learn that bart had told her so little. mrs. ridgeley described his going out, and coming back next morning, and going again at evening. it was his way, his mother said. she was proud of barton, and wondered that this sweet girl should not love him, and actually pitied her that she did not. she would not betray his weakness; but when she came to speak of his final going, the forlorn figure of the depressed boy walking out into the darkness, alone, came before her, and she wept. then julia knelt by her, and again taking her hand, said "let me love you, while he is gone; i want to care for all that are dear to him;" and the poor mother thought that it was in part as a recompense for not loving barton. there was another thing that julia came to say, and opening her satchel, she pointed to something red and coarse, and putting her hand on it, she said, "this was bart's. he took it off himself, and put it on me; and went cold and exposed. i did not think to restore it, and i want very much to keep it--may i?" the poor mother raised her eyes to the warm face of the girl, yet saw nothing. "yes." and the pleased child replaced it and closed her satchel. then mrs. markham said their friends and neighbors were coming in on the tuesday evening following, to congratulate them, and would mrs. ridgeley let them send for her? the gathering would be informal and neighborly. but mrs. ridgeley begged to be excused. julia wanted to see the boys, and they came in from the garden--ed shy, quiet and reserved; george, dashing, sparkling and bashful. julia went up and shook them by their brown hands, and acted as if she would kiss george if he did look very much like bart. she talked with them in her frank girl's way, and took them captive, and then mother and daughter drove away. * * * * * the gathering at the judge's was spontaneous almost, and cordial. the whole family were popular individually, and the young girls especially gathered about julia, who was a real heroine and had been rescued by a brave, handsome young man;--the affair was so romantic! they wondered why bart should go away; and wouldn't he be there that night? they seemed to assume that everything would be a matter of course, only he behaved very badly in going off when he must know he was most wanted. of course he would come back, and julia would forgive him; and something they hinted of this. kate and ann, and sweet pearly burnett, who had just come home from school, and was entitled to rank next after julia, with nell and kate, were very gushing on the subject. others took bart to account. his sudden and mysterious flight was very much against him, and his reputation was at a sudden ebb. why did he go? then greer's name was mentioned, and brown, and new orleans; and it was talked over that night at markham's with ominous mystery, and one wouldn't wonder if bart had not gone to jefferson, at all--that was a dodge; and another said that at painesville he stopped and went west to cleveland; or to fairport, and took a steamer; and greer went off about the same time. julia caught these whispers and pondered them, and the judge looked grave over them. in the morning julia asked him what it all meant. she remembered that he had spoken of bart in connection with greer, when he came home from the cole trial, which made her uneasy; she now wanted to know what it meant. the judge replied that there was a rumor that bart was an associate of greer, and engaged with him. "in what?" he didn't know; he was a supposed agent of brown's, and a company. "what were they doing?" nobody knew; but it was grossly unlawful and immoral. "did anybody believe this of bart?" he didn't know; things looked suspicious. "do you suspect bart of anything wrong?" he did not; but people talked and men must be prudent. "be prudent, when his name is assailed, and he absent, and no brother to defend him?" "why did he go?" asked the judge, "and where did he go?" "father!" "i don't suspect anything wrong of him, and yet the temptation to this thing might be great." julia asked no more. the next morning she said that she had long promised sarah king to pay her a visit, and she thought she would go for two or three days. sarah had just been to pittsburg, and had seen miss walters, and she wanted so much to hear from her. this announcement quite settled it. she had recently taken the possession of herself, in a certain sweet determined way, and was inclined to act on her own judgment, or caprice. she would go down in the stage; she could go alone--and she went. the morning after, the elegant and leisurely mr. greer, at the prentiss house, ravenna, received a dainty little note, saying that miss markham was at mr. king's, and would be glad to see him at his early leisure. he pulled his whiskers down, and his collar up, and called. he found miss markham in the parlor, who received him graciously. what commands had she for him? "mr. greer, i want to ask you a question, if you will permit me." anything he would answer cheerfully. "you know barton ridgeley?" "yes, without being much acquainted with him. i like him." "have you now, or have you ever had any business connection with him?" "i have not, and i never had." "will you say this in writing?" "cheerfully, if you wish it." "i do." greer sat down to the desk in the library adjoining. "address my father, please." he wrote and handed her the following: "hon. e. markham: "_dear sir_,--i am asked if i have now, or have ever had any business relations of any kind with barton ridgeley. i have not, and never had, directly or indirectly, on my own, or on account of others. "very respectfully, "thos. j. greer. "ravenna, april ." "may i know why you wish this?" a little gravely; "you've heard something said about something and somebody, by other somebodys or nobodys, perhaps." "i have. mr. ridgeley is away. you have heard of our obligations to him, and i have taken it upon myself to ask you." "you are a noble girl, miss markham. a man might go through fire for you;" enthusiastically. "thank you." "and now i hope your little heart is at rest." "it was quite at rest before. i am much obliged, mr. greer; and it may not be in my power to make other returns." "good morning, miss markham." "good morning, mr. greer." in the afternoon, as the judge was in his office, a little springy step came clipping in. "good afternoon! papa judge," and two wonderful arms went about his neck, and two lips to his own. "why julia! you back! how is sarah?" "splendid!" "your friend miss walters?" "oh, she is well. see here, papa judge," holding out the greer note. the judge looked at and read it over in amazement. "where under the heavens did you get this?" "mr. greer wrote it for me." "mr. greer wrote it for you? i am amazed! no man could have dared to ask him for it! what put this into your head?" "you almost suspected bart"--with decidedly damp eyes--"and others did quite, and while in ravenna i wrote a note to mr. greer, who called, and i asked the direct question, and he answered. i asked him to write it and he did, and paid me a handsome compliment besides. papa judge, when you want a thing done send me." "well, my noble girl, you deserve a compliment. a girl that can do that can, of course, have a man go through night and storm and flood for her," said the judge with enthusiasm. "mr. greer said a man should go through fire," said julia, as if a little hurt. "and so he may," said the judge, improving. "that is for you," said julia, more gravely, and gave him the note. chapter xxx. jefferson. bart has come well nigh breaking down on my hands two or three times. i find him unmanageable. he is pitched too high and tuned too nicely for common life; and i am only too glad to get him off out of newbury, to care much how he went. to say, however, that he went off cheerful and happy, would do the poor fellow injustice. he did his best to show himself that it was all right. but something arose and whispered that it was all wrong. of course julia and her love were not for him, and yet in his heart a cry for her would make itself heard. didn't he go voluntarily, because he would? who was to blame? yet he despised himself as a huge baby, because there was a half conscious feeling of self-pity, a consciousness of injustice, of being beaten. then he was lame from, over-exertion, and his heart was sore, and he had to leave his mother and ed and george. would it have been better to remain a day or two and meet julia? he felt that he would certainly break down in her presence, and he had started, and shut her forever out. if she did not stay shut out it would be her own fault. and that was logical. he got into the stage, and had the front seat, with wide soft cushions, to himself, and drawing his large camlet cloak about him, he would rest and sleep. not a bit of it. on the back seat was an old lady and a young one with her; and a man on the middle seat. at parkers, where they changed horses, they had heard all about it, and had it all delightfully jumbled up. barton markham had rescued miss ridgeley from a gang of wolves, which had driven her into the chagrin river, which froze over, etc., but it had all ended happily, and the wedding-day was fixed. miss ridgeley was a lovely girl, but poor; and bart was a hero, whom the ladies would be glad to see. the old lady asked bart if he knew the parties. "yes." and he straightened out the tangle of names. "was julia a beauty?" "decidedly." "and bart?" well, he didn't think much of bart and didn't want to speak of him. he thought the performance no great shakes, etc. the ladies were offended. "no matter, julia would marry him?" "she would never think of it." at hiccox's somebody recognized bart and told the old lady who he was. "oh, dear!" he wished he had walked to jefferson and had a good mind to get out. a few years ago, when jefferson had become famous throughout the united states as the residence of two men, a stranger, who met senator wade, "old ben," somewhere east, asked him what were the special advantages of jefferson. "political," was the dry response. those privileges were not apparent to bart, as he looked over the little mud-beleaguered town of two or three hundred inhabitants, with its two taverns, court house, two or three churches, and half a dozen stores and shops, and the high, narrow wooden sidewalks, mere foot bridges, rising high above the quaggy, tenacious mud, that would otherwise have forbidden all communication. the town was built on a low level plain, every part of which, to bart's eye, seemed a foot or two lower and more depressed than every other. in fact, his two days and two nights wallow in the mud, from newbury to jefferson, had a rather depressing effect on a mind a little below par when he started; and he was inclined to depressing views. bart was not one to be easily beaten, or stay beaten, unless when he abandoned the field; and the battle at jefferson was to be fought out. lord! how far away were newbury and all the events of three days ago. there was one that was not inclined to vacate, but bart was resolute. it was dark, and he would shut his eyes and push straight forward till light came. this, then, was the place where henry had lived, and which he had learned to like. he would like it too. he inquired the way, and soon stood in front of a one-story wooden building, painted white, lettered "wade & ranney, attorneys at law." the door was a little ajar and bart pushed it open and entered a largeish, dingy, soiled room, filled with book-cases, tables and chairs, with a generally crumpled and disarranged appearance; in the rear of which was its counterpart. a slender, white-haired, very young looking man, and another of large and heavy mould occupied the front room, while in the rear sat a third, with his feet on the table. bart looked around and bowing to each: "i see mr. ranney is not in;" and with another glance around, "i presume mr. wade is not?" "no. both would be in during the evening." "i am bart ridgeley," he said. "you may remember my brother henry?" "how are you, bart? we know you, but did not at first recognize you," said white-hair frankly. "my name is case,--this is ransom, and there is kennedy. we all knew your brother and liked him." bart shook hands with, and looked at, each. case had small but marked features--was too light, but his eyes redeemed his face; and his features improved on acquaintance. ransom was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, of heavy build, dark, and with a quick, sharp eye, and jerky positive way. kennedy was sandy--hair, face, eyebrows and skin, with good eyes. "i think we shall like you, bart," said case, who had examined him. "i hope you will; it must be very pleasant to be liked," said bart vivaciously. "i've never tried it much." "there is one thing i observe," continued case, "that won't suit ransom--that way of taking off your hat when you came in." "oh!" said bart, laughing, "i'm imitative, with a tendency to improve; and shall doubtless find good models." "don't mind case," said ransom; "he's of no account. just come in?" "yes." "how do you like our town?" "very well. there seems to be a little confusion of dry land and sea." "you see, mr. ridgeley," said case, "that the dry land and sea never were separated here. the man that had the job failed, and nobody else would ever undertake it. i think, mr. ridgeley," after a pause, "i had better tell who and what we are, as we shall be together for some time. this is ransom--b. ransom. his temperament is intellectual--i may say, brainy. that b. stands for brains emphatically, being the whole of them. he is rather a matter of fact than a conclusion of law, and were you to apply a rule of law to him, although matter of fact, he would be found to be immaterial, and might be wholly rejected as surplusage. he's rather scriptural, also, and takes mostly to the prophets, jonadab, meshac, and those revered worthies. he's highly moral, and goes for light reading to the elder scriptures, drawing largely upon tamar and rachel and leah, and the pure young daughters of lot. ruth is too tame for him. he was the inventor of our 'moral reform' sidewalks, on which, as you see, no young man can walk beside a maiden. the effect on morals is salubrious." "case! case!" protested ransom. "as for law, he goes into a law book as a mite goes through a cheese, head on, and with about--" "case! case! case!" broke in ransom again, "hold up your infernal gabble." "i know the importance of first impressions," said case, with gravity, "and i want you should start favorably; and if you don't come up to my eulogium, something will be pardoned to the partiality of friendship." "yes, yes! partiality of friendship!" said ransom, excitedly; and turning to bart, "he is a case, as you see; but if a man should go into court with such a case, he would be non-suited; he isn't even _prima facie_." "good!" exclaimed kennedy. "ransom, you are inspired; flattery does you good." "go on!" said case; "don't interrupt him, he'll never get such another start." "he's a poetic cuss," continued ransom, "and writes verses for the painesville papers, and signs them "c.," though i've never been able to see anything in them. he's strong on byron, and though he's--he's--" and he stopped in excessive excitement. "there you're out, ransom," said case, "and that is by far the ablest as well as the longest speech you ever made. if you had let me go on and fully open out your excellencies, you might have completed the last sentence. now, kennedy here--" resumed case. "spare me!" said kennedy, laughing; "give ridgeley a chance to find out my strong points, if you please." "now, case," said ransom, reflectively, "case is not a bad fellow, considering that he is good for nothing, and a smart fellow for one who knows nothing, and you will like him. he's a little stiffish, and devotes himself mostly to young ladies." "thank you," said case. bart was amused at these free sketches, especially as none but good feeling prevailed, and remarked, "that it was fortunate for him that no acquaintance of his was present, who could do him justice." he walked up to the large and well-filled book-cases, and mused about. "my brother wrote and told me so much of all this that i thought i was familiar with it," he said at last. "he used to sit in that corner, by the table, with his back to the window," said kennedy, pointing to a place in the back room, which bart approached. "he was usually the first here in the morning and the last to go at night, and then often took a book with him." "we liked him very much," said ransom, "and we forwarded to you a set of resolutions on hearing of his death." "i received them," replied bart, "and if i did not acknowledge it, i owe you an apology." "you did, to ranney," said case. the memory of his brother, who had read and worked, talked and laughed, mused and hoped in that little nook, came up very fresh to barton. case proposed that they take a stroll, or a "string" as he called it, about the village, and as they walked in single file on the narrow sidewalks, the idea of "string" seemed to be realized. they went into the court house and up into the court-room, and down into the recorder's office, filled with books, and introduced bart to ben graylord, the recorder, who showed him a record-book written by his brother, every page of which sparkled with the beauty of the writing. then they went to the clerk's office of col. hendry, with its stuffed pigeon-holes, and books, and into the sheriff's office, and to divers other places. jefferson was about eleven or twelve miles from the lake, south of ashtabula. it was selected as the county seat, and at once became the residence of the county officers, and of many wealthy and influential citizens, but never became a place of much business, while ashtabula and conneaut were already busy towns. each lay at the mouth of a considerable creek, whose names they respectively bore, and which formed harbors for the lake commerce, and were both visited daily by the steamers that run up and down lake erie. these facts were communicated to bart, as they walked about, and the residences of mr. giddings, judge warren, colonel hendry, mr. st. john, and others, were pointed out to him. chapter xxxi. old ben. that evening, case and bart went in rather late to supper at the jefferson house, and case pointed out b.p. wade sitting at the head of one of the tables. bart studied him closely. he was then about thirty-five or thirty-six years of age; of a fine, athletic, compact and vigorous frame, straight, round, and of full average height, with an upward cast of the head and face that made him look taller than he was. he had a remarkably fine head and a striking face--a high, narrow, retreating forehead, a little compressed at the temples, aquiline nose, firm, goodish mouth, and prominent chin, with a deep dark eye, and strongly marked brow, not handsome, but a strong, firm, noticeable face, which, with his frank, manly, decided manner and carriage, would at once arrest the eye of a stranger, as it did that of bart, who knew that he saw a remarkable man. the head was turned, so that the light fell upon the face, giving it strong light and shadow in the rembrandt style; and bart studied and contemplated it at great advantage. he tried to reproduce the recent scene in the ohio senate, in which wade performed so conspicuous a part. it was in the worst of the bad days of northern subserviency to slavery, which now seem almost phantasmagorical; when, at the command of the kentucky state commissioners, the grovelling majority of the ohio legislature prostrated the state abjectly in the dust beneath its feet, it was demanded that no man of african blood should be permitted to remain in the state unless some responsible white man should become bail for his good conduct, and that he should never become a public charge. the bill was about to be put on its final passage in the senate, by a majority made up of men so revoltingly servile, that even such infamy failed to preserve their names. "tin pan" had decreed that a vote should be taken before adjournment for the night, and the debate ran into the deep hours. gregg powers, a tall, dark-haired, black-eyed, black-browed young senator, from akron, had just pronounced a fervent, indignant, sarcastic and bitter phillipic against it, when, after midnight, wade arose, with angry brow and flashing eye. argument and logic were out of place; appeals to honor could not be comprehended by men shameless by nature, abject by instinct, and infamous by habit, and who cared nothing for the fame of their common state. wade, at white heat, turned on them a mingled torrent of sarcasm, scorn, contempt, irony, scoffing, and derision, hot, seething, hissing, blistering, and consuming. he then turned to the haughty and insolent commissioners of slavery, who were present, that the abasement of the state might lack no mark or brand, and with an air haughtier and prouder than their own, defied them. he declared himself their mortal foe, and cast the gauntlet contemptuously into their faces. he told them they would meet him again in the coming bitter days, and with prodigious force, predicted the extirpation of slavery. nobody called him to order; nobody interrupted him; and when he closed his awful phillipic, nobody tried to reply. the vote was taken, and the bill passed into a law. and as bart called up the scene, and looked at the man taking his tea, and conversing carelessly, he thought that a life would be a cheap price for such an opportunity and effort. nature had been generous to wade, and given him a fine, well-balanced, strong, clear intellect, of a manly, direct, and bold cast, as well of mind as temperament. he was not destitute of learning in his profession, but rather despised culture, and had a certain indolence of intellect, that arose in part from undervaluing books, and although later a great reader, he was never a learned man. his manners were rude though kind; he had wonderful personal popularity, and was the freest possible from cant, pretence, or any sort of demagogueism. he was as incapable of a mean thought as of uttering the slightest approach to an untruth, or practising a possible insincerity. he was a favorite with the young lawyers and students, who imitated his rude manner and strong language; was a dangerous advocate, and had much influence with courts. in all these early years he was known as frank wade; "ben" and "old ben" came to him years after at washington. when he left the supper room case found an opportunity to introduce bart to him. wade received him very cordially, and spoke with great kindness of his brother henry, and remarked that bart did not much resemble him. "so i am generally told," said bart; "and i fear that i am less like him in intellect than in person." "you may possibly not lose by that. most persons would think you better looking, and you may have as good a mind--that we will find out for ourselves." bart felt that this was kind. wade then remarked that they would find time on monday to overhaul his law. later, bart met ranney, who, he thought, received him coolly. the next day the young men went to church. nothing in the way of heresy found foothold at jefferson. it was wholly orthodox; although it was suspected that wade and ranney had notions of their own in religion; or rather the impression was that they had no religion of any kind. not to have the one and true, was to have none according to the jefferson platform. monday was an anxious day for bart. he would now be put to a real test. he knew he had studied hard, but he remembered the air with which henry and ranney waived him off. then he was so poor, and was so anxious to get through, and be admitted in september, that he was a little nervous when the lawyers found leisure in the afternoon to "overhaul his law," as wade had expressed it. ranney had no idea of letting him off on definitions and general rules, and he plunged at once into special pleading, as presented by chitty, in his chapter on replications. no severer test could have been applied, and the young men thought it a little rough. bart answered the questions with some care, and gave the reason of the rules clearly. ranney then proposed a case of a certain special plea, and asked bart how he would reply. bart enumerated all the various replies that might be made, and the method of setting each forth. ranney then asked him to state an instance of new assignment, in a replication; and when bart had stated its purpose and given an instance, he said he thought that a good pleader would always so state his case in his declaration as to render a new assignment unnecessary, perhaps impossible. he was then asked what defects in pleading would be cured by a general verdict? and gave the rules quite luminously. ranney then asked him what books he had read; and bart named several. "what others?" and he named as many more. "is that all?" laughing. "oh!" said bart, "i remember what you and henry said about my reading, and really i have dipped into a good many besides." "well, ranney," said wade, "what can we do for this young man? i think he will pass now, better than one in a hundred." "i think so too; still, i think we can help him, or help him to help himself." and he finally named a work on commercial law, a book on medical jurisprudence, and a review of kent. at leisure moments, he would have him practise in drawing bills in chancery, declarations, pleas, etc. bart certainly might be pleased with this result, and it evidently advanced him very much in the estimation of all who had listened to his examination, although he felt that the work imposed upon him was rather slender, and just what he should do with the spare time this labor would leave him he would not then determine. he liked his new position with these ambitious young men, engaged in intellectual pursuits, with whom he was to associate and live, and upon whom he felt that he had made a favorable impression. it did not occur to him that there might be society, save with these and his books; nor would it have occurred to him to enquire, or to seek entrance into it, if it existed; with a sort of intellectual hunger he rushed upon his books with a feeling that he had recently been dissipated, and misapplied his time and energies. chapter xxxii. the letters. tuesday evening's mail brought him two letters, post-marked newbury. the sight of them came with a sort of a heart-blow. they were not wholly expected, and he felt that there might still be a little struggle for him, although he was certain that this must be the last. the well-known hand of judge markham addressed one of them. the writing of the other he did not recognize; only after he had lost its envelope, he remembered that it very much resembled the hand that wrote the greer warning. he put the letters into an inside pocket, and tried to go on with his book; like a very young man he fancied that he was observed. so he took his hat and went to the room he occupied with case. he pulled open the unknown, knew the hand, ran down and turned over to the second page, and found "julia" at the bottom, and below, the words "with the profoundest gratitude." it ran: "newbury, april , . "barton ridgeley: "_dear sir_,--is it characteristic of a brave and generous man to confer the greatest obligations upon another, and not permit that other the common privilege of expressing gratitude? were i a man, i would follow and weary you with a vain effort to utter the thanks i owe you. but i can only say a few cold words on paper at the risk of being misunderstood." ("um-m, i don't see what danger she could apprehend on that score," said bart quite sharply.) "when i had wandered beyond the help of my father and friends, into danger, and, i think, to certain death, you were inspired with the heart, skill and strength, to find and save me. next to god, who led you, i owe my life to you. when this is said, i cannot say more. i know of no earthly good that you do not deserve; i can think of no gift of heaven, that i do not ask of it for you. "you will not be offended that i should most anxiously insist that some little benefit should in some way come to you, from my father; and you will certainly, when you first return to newbury, give me an opportunity to say to you how much i owe you, and how heavy the obligation rests upon me. you promised me this and will fulfil it. my mother, who sees this note, wants you to realize her profound sense of your service to us, enhanced if possible by the noble and manly way in which you rendered it. she was always your discerning and discriminating friend." "discriminating,"--bart did not like that, but no matter. that was all. "a very pretty letter, my lady julia," said bart with a long breath. "quite warm. i confess i don't care much for your gratitude--but very pretty and condescending. and it is kind to advise me that whatever may have been your estimate of me, your sweet lady mother 'discerned' differently. what you mean by discriminating is a very pretty little woman mystery, that i shall never know." "and now for my lord judge:" "newbury, april , . "barton ridgeley, esq.: "_my dear sir_,--i was disappointed at not finding you at wilder's, where your noble exertions had placed my daughter. i was more disappointed on calling at your mother's the following morning, hoping to carry you to my house. if anything in my conduct in the past contributed to these disappointments, i regret it." ("very manly, judge markham," remarked bart. "don't feel uneasy, i should have acted all the same.") "you saved to us, and to herself, our daughter, and can better understand our feelings for this great benefit than i can express them." ("all right judge, i would not try it further, if i were you.") "whoever confers such a benefaction, also confers the right upon the receiver, not only to express gratitude by words, but by acts, which shall avail in some substantial way." ("rather logical, judge!") "i shall insist that you permit me to place at your disposal means to launch you in your profession in a way commensurate with your talents and deservings." ("um-m-m.") "i trust you will soon return to newbury, or permit me to see you in jefferson, and when the past may" ("i don't care about wading the chagrin, judge, and helping your daughter out of the woods was no more than leading out any other man's daughter, and i don't want to hear more of either. just let me alone.") "be atoned for. i need not say that my wife unites with me in gratitude, and a hearty wish to be permitted to aid you; nor how anxious we are to learn the details of your finding our daughter, all of which is a profound mystery to us. "sincerely yours, "edward markham." there was a postscript to the judge's, instead of julia's, and bart looked at it two or three times with indifference, and walked up and down the room with a sore, angry feeling that he did not care to understand the source of, nor yet to control. "very pretty letters! very well said! why did they care to say anything to me? when i came away they might have known--but then, who and what am i? why the devil shouldn't they snub me one day and pat me on the head the next? and i ought to be glad to be kicked, and glad to be thanked for being kicked--only i'm not---though i don't know why! well, this is the last of it; in my own good time--or somebody's time, good or bad--i will walk in upon my lord judge, my discriminating lady the mother, and the lady julia, and hear them say their pieces without danger of misapprehension." and his eye fell again on the judge's postscript. reads: "before i called at your mother's on that morning, i set apart the chestnut 'silver-tail,' well caparisoned, as your property. i thought it a fitting way in which one gentleman might indicate his appreciation of another. i knew you would appreciate him; i hoped he would be useful to you. he is your property, whether you will or no, and will be held subject to your order, and the fact that he is yours will not diminish the care he will receive. may i know your pleasure in reference to him? "e.m." this found the weak place, or one of the weak places, in bart's nature. the harshness and bitterness of his feelings melted out of his heart, and left him to answer his letters in a spirit quite changed from that which had just possessed him. to julia he wrote: "jefferson, april , . "miss julia markham: "yours has just reached me. i am so little used to expressions of kindness that yours seem to mock me like irony. you did not choose to become involved in discomfort and danger, nor were you left to elect who should aid you, and i can endure the reflection that you might prefer to thank some other. "if your sense of obligation is unpleasant, there is one consideration that may diminish it. a man of spirit, whose folly had placed him in the position i occupied towards you, would have eagerly sought an opportunity to render you any service, and would have done his poor best in your behalf. when it was accomplished he would not have been covetous of thanks, and might hope that it would be taken as some recompense for the past, and only ask to forget and be forgotten. no matter; so little that is pleasant has happened to me, that you surely can permit me to enjoy the full luxury of having saved you without having that diminished by the receipt of anything, in any form, from anybody, by reason of it. it is in your power to explain one thing to your father; by which he will see that i must be left to my own exertions so far as he is concerned. i do believe that your gracious mother was my one friend, who looked kindly upon my many faults, and who will rejoice if i ever escape from them. "when in newbury hereafter i shall feel at liberty to call at your father's house. "with the sincerest wishes for your welfare, i remain "your obedient servant, "a.b.e." to the judge: "hon. edward markham: "_dear sir_,--i am in receipt of yours. it was, perhaps, necessary for you to say some words to me. i may not judge of what would be fitting; i feel that you have said more than was required. i had a boy's sincere liking for you; but when i failed to secure the good-will of anybody, it is certain that there were radical defects in my character, and you but entertained the common feeling towards me. it was an honest, hearty dislike, which i have accepted--as i accept other things--without complaint or appeal. there is one near you who can explain how impossible it is that i can become an object of your interest or care. i am poor; let me remain so; i like it. let me alone to buffet and be buffetted. the atmosphere in which i live is cold and thin, and exercise is needful for me. i have not deserved well of the world, and the world has not been over kind to forget it. leave me to wage the war with it in my own way. it was god's pleasure to remove from me those upon whom i had natural claims, and i do not murmur, nor do i allude to it only as an indication that i am to go on alone. "i am aware that i do not meet you in the spirit which prompts your generous and manly kindness--no matter. think that it proceeds from something ignoble in my nature, and be glad that you may in no way be involved in any failure that awaits me. "i am sure mrs. markham has always been most kind to me, and if on the miserable night when i left my own mother i could have stolen to her somewhere, and have touched her robe with my lips, it would have been most grateful to me. we shall meet probably again, and i am sure our intercourse may be that at least of pleasant acquaintances. "with the sincerest respect, "a.b.e. "p.s.--your postscript takes me at disadvantage. what can i say? its kindness is most unkind. the horse is a mount fit for a prince. i wish he might be found useful to miss markham; if she will accept him, i would be glad that he might be devoted to her service. more than this i cannot say. "b." i am inclined to follow these letters back to newbury. it took a round week for a letter and its answer to pass between newbury and jefferson both ways. somehow, it so happened that julia, on the third day after mailing hers to bart, was at the post-office every day, on the arrival of the northern mail, with the air of an unconcerned young woman who did not expect anything. on the seventh, two letters in a hand she knew were handed her by the clerk, who looked at the time as if he thought these were the letters, but said nothing. on her way home she opened one of them and read it, and paused, and read, and studied as if the hand was illegible, and looked grave and hurt, and as if tears would start, and then calm and proud. "when she got home she silently handed the other to her father, and her own to her mother; then she went to her room. an hour later she came back, took her letter, and going into her father's office, laid it open before him, receiving his in return. this she read with a sad face; once or twice a moisture came into her eyes in spite of her, and then she sat and said nothing; and her mother came in and read her husband's letter also. "mother," said julia, "are all young men really like this proud, haughty, sensitive fellow? and yet he is so unhappy! was father at all like him?" "i don't know. you must remember that few at his age have been placed in such trying positions, and had he been less, or more, or different, we might have been without cause for gratitude to him." "well, he graciously permits us to know that he may at least once again approach 'your father's house!'" "julia! could he have done it before?" "could he not, mother, when he saved my life?" "julia, was this poor youth more than human?" "mother, i have sometimes felt that he was, and that somehow more was to be required of him than of common men." the judge sat in silence, with an expression that indicated that his reflections were not wholly cheerful. the frank words that this youth had always liked him, and that the judge had cause for dislike, so generous, were like so many stabs. "papa judge," said julia, suddenly springing to her father's side, "may i have him?" "have him! who?" "why, silver-tail, of course," laughing. "there is nobody else i can have;" rather gravely. "will you accept him?" "of course i will, and ride him too. i've always coveted him. my old 'twilight' has almost subsided into night, and is just fit for nell and pearly. they may ride her; and when this prince wants his charger, as he will, he must come to me for him--don't you see?" an hour later a splendid dark chestnut, with silver mane and tail, round-limbed, with a high dainty head, small ears, and big nostrils, with a human eye, spirited and docile, was brought round, caparisoned for a lady, and julia stood by him with his bridle in her hand, caressing and petting him, while waiting for something ere she mounted. "your name shall not be 'silver-tail' any longer; you are 'prince'"--whispering something in his ear. "do you hear, prince? you shall be my good friend, and serve me until your own true lord and master comes for you. do you hope it will be soon?" prince slightly shook his head, as if the wish was not his, at any rate. "well, soon or late, you naughty prince, he alone shall take you from my hand. do you hear?" and being mounted, she galloped away. chapter xxxiii. at wilder's. april brightened out into may, and over all the beautiful fields, and woods, and hills of newbury, came bright warm tints of the deepening season; and under the urgency of julia, her mother and herself made their contemplated visit of thanks to the wilders, who could at least be benefitted by their kindness to julia, bearing a good many nice new things for mrs. wilder and rose, and the two younger children. julia, in her warmth, found everything about the neat log house and its surroundings quite attractive. the fields were new, but grass was fresh about the house, and shrubs and plants had been put out. she had taken a strong liking to rose, a tall, sweet, shy girl of seventeen, who had received her into her bed, and who now, in her bashful way, was more glad to see her than she could express. the house, in a lovely place, was sheltered by the near forest, and everything about it was as unlike what julia remembered as could well be. it seemed to have changed its locality, and the one outside door opened on the opposite side. she went all about and around it; and out to the margin of the woods, gray and purple, and tenderest green, with bursting buds and foliage. her mother found mrs. wilder a comely, intelligent woman, who was immensely obliged by her visit, and thankful for her generous presents of dresses for herself, and rose, and the children. after dinner, julia went with rose out by the road into the woods, through which, a month ago, bart had conducted her. she recognized nothing in the surroundings. how bright and sweet, with sun and flowers, the woods were, with great maple trees opening out their swollen buds into little points of leaves, like baby-fists into chubby fingers and thumbs. on they went down to the creek which flowed the other way. julia remembered that they came up it to find the road, and they now turned down its bank. how sweet, and soft, and bright it looked, flecked with sunbeams, and giving out little gurgles of water-laughs, as if it recognized her--"oh! it is you, is it, this bright day? where is the handsome youth you clung to, on a winter morning, we know of? i know you!"--with its little ripples. they soon came to where the rock cropped out from the sloping ground and formed a ledge along the margin of the diminished stream, and soon reached the little cove; there was the rude shelter which had covered julia, and under it the couch of shavings on which she had rested, a little scattered and just as she had left it; and, near its foot, the still fresh brands that almost seemed to smoke. how strong and real it all came to the sensibilities of the girl! nothing had been there but the tender silent fingers of nature. yes, as she sat down on her old bed, and glanced up, she saw a bright-eyed phoebe-bird who had built just over her head, and now was on her nest, while her mate poured out the cheery clang of his love song, on a limb near by. the little half circle of ground, walled in by the high mossy rocks, opened southerly, and received the full glow of the afternoon sun, while in front of it ran the laughing, gleeful creek. it was very bright, but to julia very, very lonely. in a few words she pointed out to the sympathizing bose the few localities, and mentioned the incidents of that awful morning, and then she turned very gravely and thoughtfully back. rose very, very much wanted to ask about barton; her woman's instincts told her that here was a something sweet and yet mysterious, that made everything so dear to this beautiful and now pensive girl by her side. his name had not been mentioned, and julia had only referred to him, as "he did this;" "he sat by that tree." at last rose ventured: "where is he--this mr. ridgeley? mother said he went away." "yes; i never saw him after you took me into your bed, rose," said julia. "he saw you after that, miss markham." "what do you mean, rose?" "i am sure you would like to know," said rose. "i know i would. mother said that after father had gone, and after we were asleep, he asked her if he might just look upon you for a moment; and she opened the door, and he stood in it, looked towards you for a second, and then turned and went out without a single word, seeming very much agitated." rose's voice was a little agitated too. though she felt the arm that was twined tenderly about her waist, she did not dare to look in the face so near her own. "mother says," she continued, "that he was very handsome and very pale. i suppose he is very poor, but--" "but what, rose?" "i am sure," she said, hesitatingly, "that will make no difference." julia only answered with a little caress. "when he comes back," said simple rose, who was certain that it would all come right, "he will want to come and see that lovely little place, and you will want to come with him; i would like to see him." "when he comes back," said julia, brightly, "you shall see him, little rose; you are a dear, good girl, and if you are ever in peril, i am sure some brave, handsome man will come to you." rose hoped he would. the older women had talked matters over also in their grave, prudent woman's way, and both learned from the brightness in julia's face and eyes, that the ramble in the woods had been pleasant. on their way home julia described it all to her mother. they drove around by way of mrs. ridgeley's, and found her busy and cheerful. she had a letter from bart full of cheerful encouragement, and the colonel had returned, and would remain in newbury for the present. julia caught george and this time actually kissed the blushing, half-angry, yet really pleased boy. the next day mrs. ridgeley visited the graves of her husband and son, on her way from her friend mrs. punderson's, and was touched by the evidences of a watchful care that marked them. at the head of henry's grave was planted a beautiful rose tree, full of buds, and a few wild flowers lay withered among the green grass springing so freshly over him. the mother wondered what hand performed this pious act. like bart, she supposed that some gentle maiden thus evinced her tenderness for his memory, and was very anxious to know who she was. chapter xxxiv. rough sketches. the sun drank up the waters out of jefferson, and the almanac brought the day for the may term of the court for ashtabula county; came the judge, the juries and unfortunate parties; came also some twenty lawyers, from the various points of north-eastern ohio. it was to be a great time for our young students. bart had seen the court once or twice at chardon, and had heard the advocates in the famous case of ohio _vs._ joe smith, the mormon prophet, for conspiring to murder newell, and came to know some of them by name and sight. the same judge presided on that trial as in the present court--judge humphrey. bart was much interested of course in the proceedings, and observed them attentively from the opening proclamation, the calling and swearing of the grand jury, calling of the calendar of cases, etc. much more interested was he in case's graphic sketches of the members of the bar, who hit them off, well or ill, with a few words. "that elderly man, shortish, with the soft, autumn-like face, is elisha whittlesey, sixteen years in congress; where he never made a speech, but where he ranks with the most useful members: sober colors that wear. he was a good lawyer, and comes back to practice. the old men will employ him, and wonder why they get beaten." "that brisk, cheery, neat man by his side is norton--lively, smirky and smiling--you see the hair leaves the top of his head, to lay the fact bare that there is not much there; and just why that snubby little nose should perk itself up, i can't tell, unless to find out whether there really is anything above it. he has quite a reputation with juries, and a tendency to bore, sometimes in very dry places, for water, and usually furnishes his own moisture. when he isn't damp he is funny. they both live in canfield." "who is that fine-looking, fine-featured, florid man?" "that is crowell, from warren. mark him and see how studied are all his motions. he tears up that paper with an air and grace only reached by long and intense practice and study. he is a little unpopular, but is a man of ability, and is often effective with a jury. the trouble is, his shadow is immense, and falls all about him on every thing, and he sees every thing through it." "that young, dark-eyed handsome man is labe sherman, admitted last year. he and ranney are the two young men of the democracy; but there is enough of ranney to make two of him. he is a fine advocate." "look at that tall, rather over-dressed, youngish man." "the one with weak, washed-out gray eyes?" "yes." "does he know anything?" "not a devilish thing. his strong point, where he concentrates in force, is his collar and stock; from that he radiates into shirt bosom, and fades off into coat and pants. law! he don't know the difference between a bill in chancery and the pope's bull. here's another knowledge-cuss. he's from warren--mcknight. his great effort is to keep himself in--to hold himself from mischief, and working general ruin. he knows perfectly well that if he should let himself loose in a case, in open court, the other side would stand no chance at all; and his sense of right prevents his putting forth his real power. it would be equal to a denial of justice to the other side." "an instance where the severity of the law is tempered and modified by equity," remarked bart. "exactly." "who is that man on the left of bowen, and beyond, with that splendid head and face, and eyes like juno, if a man can have such eyes?" "that is dave tod, son of old judge tod, of warren. two things are in his way: he is a democrat, and lazy as thunder; otherwise he would be among the first--and it will do to keep him in mind anyway. there is some sort of a future for him." "here's another minister of the law in the temple of justice--that man with the cape on. he always wears it, and the boys irreverently call him cape cod--ward of connaught. he puts a paper into the clerk's office and calls it commencing a suit. he puts in another and calls it a declaration. if anybody makes himself a party, and offers to go to trial with him, and nobody objects, he has a trial of something, at some time, and if he gets a verdict or gets licked it is equally incomprehensible to him, and to everybody else. "there are hitchcock and perkins, of painesville, whom you know. what great wide staring eyes hitchcock has: but they look into things. and see how elegantly perkins is dressed. i'd like to hear frank wade on that costume--but perkins is a good lawyer, for all that. look at that stout, broad, club-faced man--that's old dick matoon. you see the lower part of his face was made for larger upper works; and after puckering and drawing the under lip in all he can, he speaks in a grain whistle through an opening still left, around under one ear. he knows no more law than does necessity; but is cunning, and acts upon his one rule, 'that it is always safe to continue.' "here is a man you must get acquainted with; this dark swarthy man with the black eyes, black curling hair, and cast-iron face, sour and austere. that is ned wade, frank's younger brother, and one of the pleasantest and best-hearted men alive. he has more book than frank, and quite as much talent, and will hammer his way towards the front." "who is that little, old, hump-backed, wry-necked chap hoisting his face up as if trying to look into a basket on his shoulder?" "that? that is the immortal brainard, of unionville. he is the atlas who has sustained the whole world of the law-on his back until he has grown hump-backed; and that attitude is the only way in which he can look into the law on his back, as you remark. "and there is steve mathews, mostly legs. his face begins with his chin, and runs right up over the top of his head; that head has no more brains inside than hair out. you see that little knob there in front? well, that was originally intended for a bump, and, as you see, just succeeded in becoming a wart. ranney suggested to him at the last term that the books were all against his straddling about the bar, as he always does." "that smallish man with the prominent chin and retreating forehead, is horace wilder, one of the best men at the bar. you see he is pleasant and amiable. he is a good lawyer, and give him a case which involves a question of morals and he develops immense power." "who is that dark, singular-looking young man, with full beard and open throat? is he a lawyer?" "that," said case, sadly, "is sartliff, the most brilliant intellect our region has produced; full of learning, full of genius and strange new thoughts! he is a lawyer, and should equal daniel webster." "what is the matter with him?" "god only knows! men call him crazy. if he is, the rest of us never had intellect enough to become crazy. look at his dress; he wears a kind of frock, tied with a hay rope, and is barefoot, i presume. some strange new or old idea has taken possession of him to get back to nature. if he keeps on he will become crazy. i must introduce you; he and you will like one another." "because i am crazy, too?" laughing. "because you have some out-of-the-way notions, bart, and i want you should hear him. he will make you feel as if you were in the visible presence of the forces of nature. he knew your brother well and liked him." "where does he live?" "nowhere! he remains in the open air when he can, day and night; drinks water and eats roots and herbs; sometimes a little plain bread--never meat. he was formerly vigorous, as you see, he is now thin and drooping." "has he had any unusual history, any heart agony?" "none that i ever heard of; nor was he particularly poetic or imaginative. he does not attempt any business now; but goes and comes with lawyers, the most of whom now avoid him. he has brothers, able and accomplished men, and whom he usually avoids. he commenced business with giddings, with a brilliant opening, ten years ago." the calendar was finished, a jury sworn in a case, and the court adjourned. how closely the young men watched the proceedings of the court, all the trials and points made, and the rulings, and how stripped of mystery seemed the mere practice, as at that time in ohio it really was. wise men had taken the best of the old common law practice, and with the aid of judicious legislation and intelligent courts, had got about the best it was capable of. bart managed to make himself useful and do himself some good on one occasion. ranney had taken a position in a case, on a trial of some importance, on which the court was apparently against him. bart had just gone over with it, in a text-book, and in a moment brought it in, with the case referred to, and received, as men often do, more credit than he was entitled to, ranney carried his point, and could afford to be generous. chapter xxxv. sartliff. bart had been introduced to sartliff, who was an object of universal curiosity, even where he was best known, and coming out of the court-room one delicious afternoon, he asked the young students to walk away from the squabbles of men to more quiet and cleaner scenes. they took their way out of the town towards a beech forest, whose tender, orange-tinted, green young leaves were just shaping out, and relieving the hard skeleton lines of trunks and naked limbs. passing the rude and rotting fences, by which rank herbage, young elders and briars were springing up: "see," said sartliff, "how kindly nature comes to cover over the faults and failures of men. these rotting unsightly 'improvements,' as we call them, will soon be covered over and hidden with beautiful foliage." "with weeds, and nettles, and elders," said case, contemptuously. "weeds and nettles!" repeated sartliff; "and why weeds and nettles? was there ever such arrogance! man in his boundless conceit and ignorance, after having ruined his powers, snuffs and picks about, and finds the use of a few insignificant things, which he pronounces good; all the rest he pushes off in a mass as weeds and nettles. thus the great bulk of the universe is to him useless or hurtful, because he will not, or cannot, learn its secrets. these unknown things are standing reproaches to his ignorance and sloth." "poisons, for instance, might become sanitary," said case. "if man lived in accord with nature," said sartliff, "she would not harm him. it is a baby's notion that everything is made to eat, and that all must go into the mouth. men should have got beyond this universal alimentiveness, ere this. find the uses of things, and poisons and nettles fall into their places in harmony, and are no longer poisons and nettles." "and accidents would help us on, instead of off," suggested case. "they help as often one way as the other now," replied sartliff. "but there are really no accidents; everything is produced by law." "there must be two or three systems then," suggested case. "things collide, while each obeys its law. your systems clash." "not a bit. this is apparent only; man acts abnormally under evil influences; he will not observe law; he turns upon nature and says he will subvert her laws, and compel her to obey his. of course confusion, disorder, and death are the consequences, and always will be, till he puts himself in harmony with her." "it seems to me, mr. sartliff, that in your effort to get back individually, you have encountered more difficulties, collisions, and ills, than the most of us do, who keep on the old orthodox civilized way to the devil." "that may be; i am one, looking alone; nobody helps me." "and like the younger mr. weller, you find it a pursuit of knowledge under difficulties." "precisely; i inherited an artificial constitution, and tastes, and needs. i began perverted and corrupted, and when i go back to nature, she teaches me less than she does the beasts and birds. before i can understand, or even hear her voice, i must recover the original purity and strength of organs and faculties which i might have had. i may perish in the attempt to reach a point at which i can learn. the earth chills and hurts my feet, the sun burns my skin, the winds shrivel me, and the snows and frosts would kill me, while many of the fruits good for food are indigestible to me. see to what the perversions of civilization have reduced me." "do you propose in thus getting back to nature, to go back to what we call savagery?" asked bart. "not a bit of it. it was the wants and needs of the race that whipped it into what we call civilization. when once men got a start they went, and went in one direction alone, and completely away from nature, instead of keeping with her and with an unvarying result; an endless series of common catastrophes has overtaken all civilized nations alike, while the savage tribes have alone been perpetual. i don't say that savage life is at all preferable, only that it alone has been capable of perpetuating races. in going back to nature, i propose to take what of good we have derived from civilization." "as historic verity," said bart, "i am not quite prepared to admit that savage races are perpetual. we know little of them, and what little we do know is that tribes appear and disappear. general savagery may reign, like perpetual night, over a given region, but who can say how many races of savages have destroyed and devoured each other in its darkness?" they had reached the forest, and sartliff placed himself in an easy position at the foot of an old beech, extending his limbs and bare feet over the dry leaves, in such a way as not to injure any springing herb. "mr. ridgeley," said he, "i would like to know more of you. you young men are fresher, see, and what is better, feel quicker and clearer than the older and more hackneyed. are you already shelled over with accepted dogmas, and without the power of receiving new ideas?" "i hardly know; i fear i am not very reverent. i was born of a question-asking time, like that galilean boy, whose, mother, after long search, found him in the temple, disputing with the doctors, and asking them questions." "good! good! that is it; my great mother will find me in her temple, asking questions of her doctors and ministers!" exclaimed sartliff. "and what do you ask, and what response do you get?" asked bart. "i lay myself on the earth's bosom in holy solitudes, with fasting and great prayer, and send my soul forth in one great mute, hungry demand for light. i, a man, with some of the father god stirring the awful mysteries of my nature, go yearningly naked, empty, and alone, and clamor to know the way. and sometimes deep, sweet, hollow voices answer in murmurs, which i feel rather than hear; but i cannot interpret them, i cannot compass their sounds. and sometimes gigantic formless shadows overcloud me. i know they have forms of wondrous symmetry and beauty, but they are so grand that my vision does not reach their outline, and i cannot comprehend them. i know that i am dominant of the physical creation on this earth, but at those times i feel that these great and mighty essences, whose world in which they live and move, envelopes ours and us, and to whom our matter is as impalpable air--i know that they and we, theirs and ours, are involved in higher and yet higher conditions and elements, that in some mysterious way we mutually and blindly contribute and minister to each other." "and what profit do you find in such communication?" asked bart. "it is but preparatory to try the powers, clear the vision and senses, train and discipline the essential faculties for a communion with this essence that may be fully revealed, and aid in the workings and immediate government of our gross material world, and the spirits that pertain to it more immediately, if such there are." "and you are in doubt about that?" "somewhat; and yet through some such agencies came the givings forth of the prophets." "you believe in the prophets?" asked case. "assuredly. the many generations which inherited from each other the seer faculty, developed and improved, living the secluded, severe, and simple lives of the anchorite, amid the grand and solemn silence of mountain and desert, were enabled, by wondrous and protracted effort, to wear through the filament--impenetrable as adamant to common men--that screened from them the invisible future, and they told what they saw." "yet they never told it so that any mortal ever understood what they said, or could apply their visions to any passing events, and the same givings out of these half-crazed old bards, for such they were, have been applied to fifty different things by as many different generations of men," said case. "that may have arisen, in part," said bart, "from the dim sight of the seer, and the difficulty of clothing extraordinary visions in the garb of ordinary things. it is not easy, however, for the common mind to see why, if god had a special message for his children of such importance that he would provide a special messenger to communicate it, and had a choice of messengers, it should reach them finally, in a form that nobody could interpret. with god every thing is in the present, all that has happened, and all that will, is as the now is to us. if a man can reach the power or faculty of getting a glimpse of things as god sees them, he would make some utterance, if he survived, and it would be very incoherent. besides, human events repeat themselves, and a good general description of great human calamities would truthfully apply to several, and so might be fulfilled your half hundred times, mr. case." "that isn't a bad theory of prophecy," said case approvingly; "but all these marvels were in the old time; how came the faculty to be lost?" "is it?" asked bart. "don't you hear of it in barbarous and savage conditions of men, now? our friend sartliff would say that the faculty was lost, through the corruptions and clogs of civilization; and he proposes to restore it." "no, i don't propose to restore that exactly. i want to find a way back to nature for myself, and then teach it to others, when the power of prophecy will be restored. i want to see man restored to his rightful position, as the head of this lower universe. there are ills and powers of mischief now at large, and operative, that would find their master in a perfect man. one such, under favorable auspices, was once born into this world; and we know that it is possible. he took his natural place at the head; and all minor powers and agencies acknowledged him at once. i have never been quite able to understand why he, with his power of clear discernment, should have precipitated himself upon the jewish and roman power, and so perished, and at so early a day in his life." "so that the prophets might be fulfilled," said case. "it may have been," resumed sartliff. "upon the merely human theory of the thing," said bart, "he could foresee that this was the only logical conclusion of his teachings, and best, perhaps only means of fixing his messages and doctrines in the hearts of men. i may not venture a suggestion, mr. sartliff," bart continued; "but it seems to me, that your search back will necessarily fail. in searching back, as you call it, for the happy point when the strength and purity and the inspiration of nature can be united with all that is good in christian civilization, if your theory is correct, your civilized eyes will never discern the place. you will have passed it before you have re-acquired the power to find it, and your life will be spent in a vain running to and fro, in search of it. miracles have ceased to be wonders, for we work them by ordinary means now-a-days, and we don't know them when we meet them." sartliff arose; he had been for sometime silent. his face was sad. "it may be. i like you, barton; you have a good deal of your brother's common sense, uncommon as that is, and i shall come and see you often." and without another word he strode off deeper into the woods, and was lost to the eyes of the young men. "is it possible," said bart, "that this was an educated, strong, and brilliant mind, capable of dealing with difficult questions of law? i fear that he has worn or torn through the filament that divides the workings of the healthy mind from the visions of the dreamer--wrecked on the everlasting old rocks that jut out all about our shores, and always challenging us to dash upon them. shall we know when we die? shall we die when we know? after all, are not these things to be known? why place them under our eyes so that a child of five years will ask questions that no mortal, or immortal, has yet solved? have we lost the clue to this knowledge? do we overlook it? do we stumble over it, perish, wanting it, with it in our hands without the power to see or feel it? has some rift opened to a hidden store of truth, and has a gleam of it come to the eyes of this man, filling him with a hunger of which he is to die? when the man arises to whom these mysteries shall reveal themselves, as he assuredly will, the old gospels will be supplemented." "or superseded," said case. "and is it not about time? have not the old done for us about all they can? do we not need, as well as wish for, a new?" "a man may doubtless so abuse and deprave his powers, that old healthy food ceases to be endurable, and yields to him no nutrition; of course he must perish," answered bart. "he will demand new food." chapter xxxvi. old gid. towards the close of the term, there came into the court-room, one day, a man of giant mould: standing head and shoulders above his fellows, broad shouldered, deep chested, with a short neck and large flat face, a regal brow, and large, roomy head in which to work out great problems. he had light grayish blue, or blueish gray eyes, and a scarlet mark disfiguring one side of his face. the proceedings paused, and men gathered about him. his manner was bland, his smile, that took up his whole face, very pleasant. bart knew that this was j.r. giddings, just home from washington, where he had already overhauled the seminole war, and begun that mining into the foundation of things that finally overthrew slavery. during the term bart heard him before the court and jury, and found him a dullish, heavy speaker, a little as he thought the indifferently good english parliamentary speaker might be. he often hesitated for a word, and usually waited for it; sometimes he would persist in having it at once, when he would close his eyes very tight, and compel it. his manner and gesture could not be called good, and yet bart felt that he was in the presence of a formidable man. his mind was one of a high order, without a scintilla of genius or any of its elements. he had a powerful grasp, and elude, as it might, he finally clutched the idea or principle sought it never escaped him: and he never rested until its soul and blood were his, or rejected as useless, after the application of every test. it was a bad day for slavery when giddings determined to enter congress. cool, shrewd, adroit, wary and wily, never baffled, never off his guard and never bluffed; with a reserve of power and expedients always sufficient, with a courage that knew no blenching, he moved forward. he had more industry and patience, and was a better lawyer than wade, but was his inferior as an advocate. they were opposed in the case in which giddings appeared, and bart already felt that in the atmosphere of the contest was the element of dislike on the part of wade, and of cool, watchful care on the part of giddings. wade made two or three headlong onsets, which were received and parried with bland, smiling coolness. from his manner no one could tell what giddings thought of his case or opponent. two or three evenings after, an informal "reception," as it would now be called, was held at the giddings residence, to which the students and nearly everybody else went. it was a pleasant greeting between friends and neighbors, and a valued citizen, just home after a half year's absence. nothing could be more kind and natural than the manner of mr. giddings, supported by motherly mrs. giddings, and the accomplished miss giddings, who had spent the winter with her father at washington. she was like her father, in mind and person, softened and sweetened and much more gracious by sex; tall, graceful, and with the easy presence and manner of society and cultivation. bart was taken to her, and taken by her at once. she seemed like an old acquaintance, and spoke in the kindest terms of his brother, told him of washington, its society and customs, and called him barton at once, as if they were to be on the best of terms. bart could see that she was plain, but he forgot that in a moment, and it never occurred to him again. in the course of the evening she returned to him, and said she wished to introduce him to a young lady friend, whom she was sure he would like on her own account, and on that of his brother, to whom she was to have been all that woman might be. it took bart's breath away. he was unaware that his brother had ever been engaged, or wished to be, to any lady. "she knows you are in jefferson," said miss giddings, "and has wanted very much to see you." she conducted him into a small sitting-room, and leading: him up to a young lady in black, introduced him to miss aikens--ida aikens. the young lady came forward, gave him her little hand, and looked him full and sadly in the face. "you are like him," she said, "and i have much wanted to see you." "i received a letter from you," said bart, "and fear my answer was a poor one. had i known you better, i could have written differently. my brother was more to me than most brothers can be, and all who were dear to him come at once into my tenderest regard." "you could not answer my letter better than you did. i never had a brother, and nothing can be more grateful to me than to meet you as we now meet." they sat, and he held the hand that belonged to his dead brother, and that the hand of lover was never again to clasp. gentle in deeds of charity and tenderness, it would linger in its widowed whiteness until it signalled back to the hand that already beckoned over the dark waters. strangers who saw them would have taken them for lovers. they were of nearly the same age. she, with dark, luminous eyes, and hair colored like haidee's, matched well with the dark gray and light brown. what a world of tender and mournful sweetness this interview opened up to the hungry heart of bart--the love of a sweet, thoughtful, considerate, intellectual and cultivated sister, unselfish and pure, to which no touch or color of earth or passion could come. how fully and tenderly he wrote of her to his mother, and how the unbidden wish came to his heart to tell another of her, and as if he had the right to do so. miss aikens was a young lady of high mental endowments, and great force of character, cultivated in the true sense of culture, and very accomplished. how sad and bitter seemed the untimely fate of his brother; and the meeting of this sweet and mourning girl lent another anguish to his heart, that was so slow in its recovery from that blow. the court ran on, grew irksome, and passed. bart saw something more of sartliff, and felt a melancholy interest in him. he also saw much of ida, whom he could not help liking, and something of miss giddings, whom he admired. chapter xxxvii. the old story. on the morning after wade's return from the geauga court, upon entering the office, where bart found him and ranney and case, and one or two others, there was the sudden hush that advises a new arrival that he has been a subject of remark. "good morning, mr. wade." "good morning, ridgeley." "you returned earlier than you anticipated?" "yes. how do you come on?" "about the old way. did you see my old client, cole," the king?" "old king cole? yes, i saw that worthy, and they say on the other side that they can't try the case under a year, perhaps." "well, we defend, and our defence will be as good then as ever," said bart. "the suit was commenced to save the statute of limitations," said wade; "and if any defence exists i fear it will be in chancery." "my dear sir, we will make a defence at law," was the decided answer. "i saw some of your friends over there," said wade, "who made many enquiries about you." "they are kind." said bart. "of course you know judge markham?" said wade. bart bowed. "he is a very honorable and high minded man!" bart bowed again. "he spoke of you in the very highest terms, and i was very glad to hear him." "you are very kind," said bart. "and by the way." pursued mr. wade, "i heard a little story: the judge has a very beautiful daughter," looking directly at bart, who bowed to this also. "it seems that the girl in going home from somewhere, got lost in the woods, and wandered off into a devil of a big forest there is down there, covering two or three townships. it was in the night of that awful storm in april, and she went miles away, and finally overcome, lay down to die, and was covered with the snow, when a young chap found her--god knows how--took her up, carried her across the chagrin river, or one of its branches, in under some rocks, built a fire, and brought her to, and finally got her to a man's house in the woods, sent word to her father, and went off. do you know anything about it? the story is, that you are the chap who did it." all eyes were on bart. "i heard something of it," said he, smiling. "i came off the evening after this marvel; and in the stage two ladies were full of it. they made it a little stronger than your version. i think there were several wild animals in theirs. we stopped at a tavern two or three miles on, when somebody told the old lady that i was 'the chap that did it;' but as i had told her that this bart wasn't much of a fellow, she was inclined to doubt her informant. the old lady stopped in chardon, and you must have heard her story." "the young lady herself said that you saved her," said wade, with his usual directness. "what do you say to that?" "if the young lady was in a condition to know," replied bart, "i should take her word for it." and passing into the back room he closed the door. "what the devil is there in it?" said wade. "it is just as i say. has he ever said a word about it?" "not a word," said the young men. "i met miss markham a year ago, when i was in newbury, at a sugar party," said ranney. "she is one of the most beautiful girls i ever saw, and superior in every way. bart was not there--he wouldn't go; and i remember her talking about him, with henry. when we got back we undertook to tell him what she said, and he wouldn't hear a word." "the fact is," said case, decidedly, "her father is rich, and she is proud and ambitious. bart wasn't good enough for her, and he has taken his revenge by saving her life, and now he won't yield an inch." "they say he came off and won't have anything to do with them," said wade. "that's it," said case, "and i glory in his spunk. they have just found out their mistake." during the day bart was asked by wade if he had yet seen mr. windsor; and replied that he had not, but that he was anxious to do so, as his brother always spoke of him with gratitude, as one who had been very kind to him. mr. wade said that the day before he had seen windsor, who expressed a wish to meet henry's brother, and thought he would come to jefferson in a day or two, when he would call on him. bart was much gratified, and remarked that he was doing quite a business on his brother's popularity. chapter xxxviii. the old story over again. "mr. ridgeley," asked miss giddings, "what is this delightful little romance about the rich judge's beautiful daughter, and the chivalrous young law student? i declare, if it does not bring back the days of knight-errantry, and makes me believe in love and heroism." it was one evening at her father's where bart had called with his newly found sister ida, to whom he was quite attentive. the young man looked annoyed in spite of his good breeding. "has he told you the story?"--to miss aikens. "not a word of it," said the latter. "you know," she then said to miss giddings, "that some things so pleasant to hear may not be pleasant for a party concerned to tell about." "forgive me, mr. ridgeley. it never occurred to me that this could be of that sort, but as it was so delightful as told to me, i wanted to know if it was an actual occurrence, in this humdrum world." "i suppose," said ida, "that a great many beautiful and heroic events are very prosy and painful to the actors therein, and they never dream the world will give them the gloss of romance." "ladies," said the young man, with a gay and mocking air, "hear the romance of the judge's daughter, and the poor student--certainly a _very_ poor student. there was a rich, powerful and proud judge; he had an only daughter, more beautiful than a painter's dream, and proud as a princess born. in the neighborhood was a poor and idle youth, who had been the judge's secretary, and had been dismissed, and who loved the proud and beautiful maiden, as idle and foolish youths sometimes do. the beautiful maiden scorned him with a scorn that banished him from her sight, for he was prouder than judge and daughter, both. while disporting with her damsels among the spring flowers in the forest, one day, the beautiful maiden wandered away and became lost in the heart of an interminable wood, more wild and lonely than that which swallowed up the babes of the old ballad. day passed and night came, and in its bosom was hidden a fierce tempest of wind and hail and snow. the poor maiden wandered on, and on, and on, until she came upon the banks of a dart, cold river; wild and lost amid tempest and storm, she wandered down its banks, until, in despair, chilled and benumbed without heart or hope, she laid her down to die, and the pure snow covered her. her father, the proud judge, and his friends, were searching for her miles away. "a little boy told the story to the poor student, who hurried into the forest, and under the inspiration of his scorned love, ran and ran until he found the swooning maiden under the snow, took her up in his arms, placed his garments upon her, and bore her through the cold and rapid stream, found a shelter under the rocks on the other side, kindled a fire, gave the maiden, proud no longer, a cordial, warmed and restored her, made her a couch of moss and dried leaves, and while she slept he watched over her until the day dawned. then he conducted her to a wood-chopper's cabin in the forest, where she was tenderly cared for. the poor, proud youth would hear no thanks from the maiden. he sent a note, without his name, to the proud judge, telling him where his daughter could be found; and never saw the beautiful maiden, or proud rich judge afterwards. this, ladies," with the same gay banter, "is the romance of the judge's daughter and the poor student." "and i suspect," said miss giddings, seriously, "that it is about the literal truth of the affair, and it is more romantic than i had thought." * * * * * "barton has made the acquaintance of poor sartliff," said ida, willing to introduce a new subject, "and was much struck by him." "do you think he is actually shattered?" asked miss giddings. "i really have no opinion. his mind moves in such unaccustomed channels: we find it in such unusual haunts, that nobody can tell whether it remains healthy or not. it works logically enough, granting his premises. of course he is under delusions--we should call them mistakes merely, if they occurred in ordinary speculations; but with him, in his abnormal pursuits, they are to be expressed under the vapory forms of delusions." "oh, it is the saddest sight to see this young man, with a nature so richly endowed, asking only for light, and the right way; to see him turning so blindly from the true given light, and searching with simple earnestness along sterile, rocky byways and thorny hedges, to find the path or opening that conducts back to a true starting place. he opens his bosom to sun and air, and bares his feet to the earth, thinking that inspiration will, through some avenue, reach his senses, and so inform him. it is the most pitiful spectacle that the eye can see," said ida, pathetically. "like a kind spirit sent from heaven to earth," said bart, "who, having forgotten his message, can never find his way back; but is doomed to wander up and down the uncongenial region, searching in vain for the star-beam by which he descended." "my father has quite given him up," said miss giddings; "he says he passed long since the verge of healthy thought and speculation. i used to think that possibly some new and powerful stimulus, such as might spring from some new cause--" "love, for instance," suggested bart. "yes, love, for instance. i declare, mr. ridgeley, you think as a woman." "do women really think? i thought their minds were so clear and strong that thought was unnecessary, and they were always blest with intuitions." "well, sir, some of them are obliged to think--when they want to be understood by men, who don't have intuitions, and can't go at all without something to hold up by--and a woman would think, perhaps, that if sartliff could fall in love--" "and if he can't he isn't worth the saving," interjected bart. "exactly; and if he could, that through its medium he might be brought back to a healthy frame of mind, or a healthy walk of mind. there, mr. ridgeley, i have got out with that, though rather limpingly, after all." "and a forcible case you have made. here is a man crazy about nature; you propose as a cure for that, to make him mad about a woman. and what next?" "well, love is human--or inhuman," said miss giddings; "if the former, marriage is the specific; if the latter, his lady-love might get lost in a wood, you know." "yes, i see. poor sartliff had better remain where he is, winking and blinking for the lights of nature," said bart. "i remember," interposed ida, "that he and your brother, among the matters they used to discuss, disagreed in their estimate of authors. sartliff could never endure n.p. willis, for instance." "a sign," said miss giddings, "that he was sane then, at least. willis, in europe, is called the poet's lap-dog, with his ringlets and lady blessingtons." "i believe he had the pluck to meet captain marryatt," said bart. "was that particularly creditable?" asked miss giddings. "well, poets' lap-dogs don't fight duels, much; and miss giddings, do you think a lap-dog could have written this?" and taking up a volume of willis, he turned from them and read "hagar." as he read, he seemed possessed with the power and pathos of the piece, and his deep voice trembled under its burthen. at the end, he laid the book down, and walked to a window while his emotion subsided. his voice always had a strange power of exciting him. after a moment's silence, miss giddings said, with feeling: "i never knew before that there was half that force and strength in willis. as you render it, it is almost sublime. will you read another?" taking up the book, he read "jepthah's daughter:" reading it with less feeling, perhaps, but in a better manner. "i give it up," said miss giddings, "though i am not certain whether it is not in you, rather than in willis, after all." "six or seven years ago, when my brother henry came home and gathered us up, and rekindled the home fires on the old hearth," said bart, "he commenced taking the _new york mirror_, just established by george p. morris, assisted by fay and willis. fay, you know, has recently published his novel, 'norman leslie,' the second volume of which flats out so awfully. at that time these younger men were in europe; and we took wonderfully to them, and particularly to willis's 'first impressions,' and 'pencillings by the way.' to me they were authentic, and opened the inside of english literary society and life, and i came to like him. the language has a wonderful flexile power and grace in his hands; and i think he has real poetry in his veins, much more than john neal, or dr. drake, though certainly less than bryant. yet there is a kind of puppyism about the man that will probably prevent his ever achieving the highest place in our literature." "you are a poet yourself, mr. ridgeley, i understand," said miss giddings. "i like poetry, which is a totally different thing from the power to produce it; this i am sure i have not," was the candid answer. "you have tried?" "most young men with a lively fancy and fervid feelings, write verses, i believe. here is mr. case, quite a verse writer, and some of his lines have a tone or tinge of poetry." "would you like literature for a pursuit?" "i like books, as i like art and music, but i somehow feel that our state of society at the west, and indeed our civilization, is not ripe enough to reach a first excellence in any of these high branches of achievement. our hands are thick and hard from grappling with the rough savagery of our new rude continent. we can construct the strong works of utility, and shall meet the demands for the higher and better work when that demand actually exists." "but does not that demand exist? hasn't there been a clamor for the american novel? a standing advertisement--'wanted, the american novel'--has been placarded ever since i can remember; and i must forget how long that is," said miss giddings. "yes, i've heard of that; but that is not the demand that will compel what it asks for. it will be the craving of millions, stimulating millions of brains, and some man will arise superior to the herd, and his achievement will challenge every other man of conscious powers, and they will educate and ripen each other till the best, who is never the first, will appear and supply the need. no great man ever appeared alone. he is the greatest of a group of great men, many of whom preceded him, and without whom he would have been impossible. homer, alone of his group, has reached us; shakespeare will live alone of his age, four thousand years hence." "but, mr. ridgeley, our continent and our life, with our fresh, young, intense natures, seem to me to contain all the elements of poetry, and the highest drama," said miss giddings. "so they seem to us, and yet how much of that is due to our egotism--because it is ours--who can tell? of course there is any amount of poetry in the raw, and so it will remain until somebody comes to work it up. there are plenty of things to inspire, but the man to be inspired is the thing most needed." "so that, mr. ridgeley," said ida, "we may not in our time hope for the american novel, the great american epic, or the great american drama?" "well, i don't know that these will ever be. that will depend upon our luck in acquiring a mode and style, and habit of thought, and power of expression of our own, which for many reasons we may never have. an american new writes as much like an englishman as he can--and the more servile the imitation, the better we like him--as a woman writes like a man as nearly as she possibly can, for he is the standard. what is there in irving, that is not wholly and purely english? and so of cooper; his sturdiness and vigor are those of a genuine englishman, and when they write of american subjects, they write as an englishman would; and if better, it is because they are better informed." "mr. ridgeley," said miss giddings, "can't you give us an american book?" "'when the little fishes fly like swallows in the sky,' an american will write an american book," said bart, laughing. "but your question is a good answer to my solemn twaddle on literature." "no, i don't quite rate it as twaddle," said ida. "don't you though?" asked bart. "no," seriously. "now what is the effect of our american literature upon the general character of english literature? we certainly add to its bulk." "and much to its value, i've no doubt," said bart. "well, with increased strength and vigor, we shall begin by imperceptible degrees, to modify and change the whole, and the whole will ultimately become americanized, till the english of this continent, partaking of its color and character, imparts its tone and flavor finally to the whole everywhere. i have not much faith in a purely american literature, notwithstanding miss giddings' advertisement." "mr. ridgeley," said miss giddings, "your notions are depressing. i don't believe in them, and will oppose my woman's intuitions to your man's argument." "my dear miss giddings," said bart, laughing, "you value my notions quite as highly as i do; and i wouldn't take the criticisms of a young man who ran away from the only college he ever saw, and who has only heard the names of a few authors." "i wont. they are not american; and yet there seems to be force in them." chapter xxxix. about lawyers, and dull. mr. giddings was always much interested in all young men, and put himself in their way and society, and while he affected nothing juvenile, no man could make himself more winning and attractive to them. it was said by his enemies, who were of his political household, that in this, as in all else, he was politic; that he sought out and cultivated every young man in the circle of his acquaintance; made himself familiar with his make-up; flattered and encouraged him with little attentions; sent him speeches and books, and occasional letters, and thus attached nearly all the rising young men of northeastern ohio to himself personally. this may have been one source of his great and long continued popularity and strength; he thoroughly educated at least one generation of voters. however that may be, he was much in the old office where he had done so much effective work, and laid the foundations of his position at the bar, which was with those of the first in the state. he associated on terms of the pleasantest intimacy with the young men, and early evinced a liking for bart, who, poor fellow, was ready to like anybody who would permit him. mr. giddings was at pains to impress them with the absolute impossibility of even moderate success at the bar, without industry, while with it, mediocrity of talents would insure that. "of the whole number who were admitted," he said, "about ten or fifteen per cent. succeeded; and one in a hundred became eminent. undoubtedly the greatest lawyer in the world did not possess the greatest intellect; but he must have been among the most industrious. brilliant parts may be useful; they are always dangerous. the man who trusts to the inspiration of genius, or his capacity to get advantage by ingenious management in court, will find himself passed by a patient dullard. the admiring world who witness some of the really fine intellectual performances that sometimes occur in court, haven't the faintest conception as to when the real work was done, nor at all what it consisted in; nor when and how the raw material was gathered and worked up. the soldier in war is enlisted to fight, but really a small part of his time is spent in battle; almost the whole of it is in preparation, training, gathering material, manoeuvring, gaining strategic advantages, and once in a while producing a field day, which tests the thoroughness of the preparation. this illustrates the value of absolute thoroughness in the preparation of cases. a good case is often lost, and a bad one gained, wholly by the care or negligence in their preparation. you really try your cases out of court." barton asked why it was that, while the world generally admired and respected the bar, there was a distrust of its honesty?--at which there was a general smile. "because," said mr. giddings, "there really are unworthy members of it; and the bar, like the ministry and the medical faculty, being comparatively a small body, is tried by its failures. the whole is condemned in the person of a few; while a majority--the bulk of men--estimate themselves by their successes. one great man sheds glory on his race, while one villain is condemned alone. the popular judgment, that lawyers are insincere and dishonest, because they appear on both sides of a case, with equal zeal, when there can be but one right side, is not peculiar to the bar. it should be remembered that learned and pious divines take opposite sides of all doctrinal points of scripture, and yet nobody thinks of questioning their honesty." "when both are wrong," put in wade. "now there are, nominally at least, two sides in a law suit--certainly two parties. one party goes to frank, here, and tells his side, most favorably to himself, and gets an opinion in his favor, and a suit is commenced. the other tells his side to me, for instance, and on his statement i think he has a good defence. from that moment each looks for evidence and law to sustain his side, and to meet the case made by the other; and invariably we come to the final trial, each honestly thinking he is right. we try the case zealously and sincerely, and the one who is finally beaten, feels that injustice has been done. it is the first task of an advocate to convince himself, and unless he has already done that, he may not expect to convince court and jury; and a man must be a poor advocate, or have a very bad case, who fails to convince himself, however he may fare with a jury. you need never expect to convince your opponent; he is under a retainer not to agree with you." "there is another thing about it," said wade. "the bar and writers talk about the ethics of the bar, and legal morality, and all that nonsense, until there is an impression, both among lawyers and the public, that there is one rule for lawyers and another for the rest of mankind--that we are remitted to a lower standard of honesty. this is all bosh; there can be but one standard of right and wrong; and that which is wrong out of court, cannot be right in it. i'll have but one rule. a man who will lie to a court or a jury, will lie anywhere--he is a liar." "will you submit to that rule?" asked giddings, laughing. "i always have," said wade, "and i wont have any other. now of all men, a lawyer can the least afford to be dishonest; for a taint, a doubt of his honor, ruins him; and there cannot be a more honorable body of men in the world, and never was, than the fair majority of the bar. the habit of contesting in open court, in the face of the world, engenders an honorable, manly highmindedness, free from the underhanded jealousy and petty wars of the doctors. if a man lies, or is mean, he is pretty certain to be detected and exposed at once. a lawyer cannot afford to lie and be mean. and besides, i have observed that there is really no healthy, manly development of intellect, without a healthy, manly development of the moral nature." "now, frank," said mr. giddings, "why not go a step further, and perfect the man, and say that religion should add its strength and grace, as a crown?" "well, gid, i've no objection to your religion--that is, i have no objection to religion--i don't know about yours--but i have known a good many religious men who were very bad men, and i have known a good many bad men to get religion, who did not mend their morals. if a man is a good man, it don't hurt him to join a church, as far as i know; and a bad man usually remains bad." "well, frank, leave these young men to form their own opinions." "certainly; i did not broach the subject." "they ought to become better lawyers than we are," said mr. giddings. "their means of education are far in advance; the increase of new and valuable text-books, the great progress in the learning and competency of the courts, as well as the general rapid improvement of the people in intelligence, are all in their favor; they ought to be better lawyers and better christians." "they couldn't well be worse," was the bluff response of wade. the young men remained pondering the remarks of their seniors. "well, boys," said ranney, "you've heard the ideas of two observing men. they give you the result of their experience on two or three very important practical points; what do you think of it?" "ransom," said the ready case, "is thinking who and what must be the one hundred, of whom he is to be the one. they would be a sad sight." "and case," rejoined the ever irate ransom, "that if john doe and richard roe, with a declaration in ejectment, could only be turned into doggerel, he would be an eminent land lawyer." "what has happened to ransom?" asked kennedy. "i don't know," replied case; "he has sparkled up in this same way, two or three times. can it be that an idea has been committed to his skull, lately? if one has, a _habeas corpus_ must be sued out for its delivery. solitary confinement is forbidden by the statutes of ohio." "never you mind the idea," said ransom. "i mean to find a lawyer in good practice, and go into partnership with him at once." "now, ransom," said case, still gravely, "you are a very clever fellow, and devilish near half witted; and you would allow such a man, whom you thus permitted to take himself in with you, one third or one fourth of the proceeds of the first year." "i would have no trouble about that," said ransom, not quite feeling the force of case's compliment. "well," said ranney, "i suspect that generally lawyers, desirable as partners, if they wish them, will be already supplied, and then, when one could secure an eligible connection of this kind, the danger is, that he would be overshadowed and dwarfed, and always relying on his senior, would never come to a robust maturity. well, kennedy, what do you say?" "not much; i hope to be able to work when admitted. i mean to find some good point further west, where there is an opening, and stop and wait. i don't mean to be a failure." "ridgeley, what are your views?" "modest, as becomes me; i don't think i am to be counted in any hundred, and so i avoid unpleasant comparisons. i don't mean to look long for an opening, or an opportunity; i would prefer to make both. i would begin with the first thing, however small, and do my best with it, and so of every other thing that came, leaving the eminence and places to adjust themselves. i intend to practice law, and, like kennedy, i don't mean to fail." "mr. ranney," continued bart, "what is the reason of this universal failure of law students?" "i think the estimate of giddings is large," said ranney. "but of all the young men who study law, about one half do it with no settled purpose of ever practising, and, of course, don't. of those who do intend to practice, one half never really establish themselves in it. that leaves one fourth of the whole number, who make a serious and determined effort at the bar, and one half of these--one eighth of the whole--succeed; and that brings out about as giddings estimated." "well, on the whole, that is not a discouraging view," said bart, "and for one, i am obliged to you." nevertheless, he pondered the whole matter, and turned to face calmly as he had before, the time when his novitiate should end, and he should actually enter upon his experiment. "now, case, this is a serious matter. a young and utterly unknown man, without money, friends, acquaintances or books, and doubtful whether he has brains, learning and capacity, in some small or large town, attacks the world, throws down his gage--or rather nails it up, in the shape of a tin card, four by twelve inches, with his perfectly obscure name on it. think of it! just suppose you have a little back room, up stairs, with a table, two chairs, half a quire of paper, an inkstand, two steel pens, swan's treatise, and the twenty-ninth volume of ohio statutes. you would be very busy arranging all this array of things, and would whistle cheerfully till that was accomplished, and then you would grow sad, and sit down to wait and think--" "of the rich judge's beautiful daughter," broke in case. "and wait," continued bart. "oh, bart! i glory in your pluck and spunk," said case, "and i think of your performance as major noah said of adam and eve: 'as touching that first kiss,' said he, 'i have often thought i would like to have been the man who did it; but the chance was adam's.'" "ridgeley seems to be taken in hand by miss giddings," said kennedy; "that would not be a bad opening for an ambitious man." "of the ripe years of twenty-three," put in case. "the average age would be about right. she has led out one or two of each crop of law students since she was sixteen." "what has been the trouble?" asked kennedy. "i don't know. they came, and went-- 'their hold was frail, their stay was brief, restless, and quick to pass away'-- while she remains," replied case. "bart seems to be a new inspiration, and she is as gay and lively as a spring butterfly." "and worth forty young flirts," observed ransom. "oh, come, boys!" cried bart, "hold up. miss giddings is an attractive woman, full of accomplishment and goodness--" "and experience," put in case. "who permits me to enjoy her society sometimes," continued bart. "the benefit and pleasure are wholly mine, and i can't consent to hear her spoken of so lightly." "bart is right, as usual," said case, gravely; "and i don't know of anything more unmanly than the way we young men habitually talk of women." "except the way they talk of us," said kennedy. "you would expect a lady to speak in an _un_manly way," remarked bart. "of course, if we are ever spoken of by them, it is in our absence; but i'll venture that they seldom speak of us at all, and then in ignorance of our worst faults. we are not likely to receive injustice at their hands." "bart, you must always have been lucky," said ransom. "i am doing my best not to be conceited and vain, and find it confounded hard work," was the frank, good-natured reply. chapter xl. the disguise. mrs. ridgeley received the following: "jefferson, june , . "_dear mother_:--a strange thing has happened to me, for which i am indebted to henry; indeed, i am destined to trade upon his capital. you remember how kind he said a mr. windsor was to him, employing him to transact small business matters for him, and paying him largely, besides making him useful and valuable presents? he seems to have been dissatisfied with himself for not doing more, and i am to be the recipient of his bounty in full. "he called to see me about a week ago; and then two or three days after, he sent a carriage for me, and i have just returned. he is very wealthy, an old bachelor, lives elegantly, is a thoroughly educated man, and not eccentric, except in his liking to henry, which he transfers to me. he is without near relations, and has had a history. now he insists on advancing to me enough to carry me through, clothing me, and starting me with a fine library. he says i must go east to a law school at least a year, and so start from a most favorable and advanced position. "it took my breath away. it seems fairly wrong that i should permit myself to take this man's money, for whom i have done nothing, and to whom i can make no return, and whose money i might never repay. he laughed, and said i was very simple and romantic. wasn't the money his? and couldn't he do what he pleased with it? and if he invested it in me, nobody was harmed by it. i told him i might be; i am not sure that i should be safe with the pressure and stimulus of poverty removed from me. "moreover he had purchased an elegant watch, to be given to henry, on his marriage with poor miss aikens, of whom i told you; and this he insists on my taking and wearing, with a chain big and long enough to hang me in. i told him if he wanted to give it away, that it should, i thought, properly go to miss a.--to whom, by the way, i gave that beautiful pin. i cannot wear anything that was henry's, and this would be one objection to wearing this watch. mr. windsor said it certainly was never intended for ida; that it had never been henry's, that it was mine, and i had to bring it away. i feel guilty, and as if i had swindled or stolen, or committed some mean act; and as i hold it to my ear, its strong beat reproaches me like the throb of a guilty heart. "what can i do? your feelings are right, and your judgment is good. i can't afford to be killed with a weight of obligation, nor must i remit or relax a single effort. this may stimulate me more. if i were to relax and lie down now, and let another carry me, i should deserve the scorn and contempt i have received. "write me upon this, and don't mention it to the colonel. "i have made the acquaintance of miss giddings, who is very kind to me; and she and ida furnish that essential element of ladies' society which you desired i should have. i confess i don't care much for men; but i have so little to give in return for the kindness of these noble, refined and intellectual ladies, that here again i am a receiver of alms. no matter; women never receive any proper return from men, any way. "ask ed and george to write, and tell me all the little pleasant details of the farm life and home. how tender and sweet and dear it all is to me; and what a gulf seems to have opened between me and all the past! "ever with love, dear mother, bart." mrs. ridgeley received and read the letter in the store. while she was absorbed in it. mrs. markham came in, and was struck by the expression of her face. as she finished the perusal, she discovered mrs. markham, and her look of recognition induced the latter to approach her. the incidents of the last few weeks had silently ripened the liking of the two women into a very warm and cordial feeling. as mrs. markham approached, the other gave her her hand, and held out bart's letter. mrs. markham received it, and as her eye ran over it, mrs. ridgeley could easily see the look of pleasure and warmth that lit up her face. "oh, by all means," she said, "tell him not hesitate a moment. providence has sent him a friend, and means, and his pride should not be in the way of this offer." "he is proud," said mrs. ridgeley, gravely; "but it is not wholly pride that makes him hesitate." "pardon me," said mrs. markham, "i don't mean to blame him; i sympathize with even his pride, and admire him for the very qualities that prevented his allowing us to aid him, and i hope those high qualities will never lose a proper influence over him." the mother was a little more than appeased. "am i to read the rest?" "certainly." and she resumed. a little graver she looked at one or two lines, and then the sweet smile and light came back to her face; and she handed back the letter. "what a treasure to you this son must be," she said; and she again urged her to write to bart at once, and induce him to accept the kind offer made to him. mrs. ridgeley explained who miss aikens was, and her relations to henry; that miss giddings was the daughter of the member of congress, &c. mrs. markham had noticed that bart spoke of them as "ladies," and not as young ladies, though what mental comment she made upon it was never known. people in the country go by the almanac, instead of by events, as in cities; and may quickened into june, june warmed into july, and ran on to fervid august. quiet ruled in the ridgeley cottage, rarely broken, save when julia galloped up and made a pleasant little call, had a game of romps with george, a few quick words with edward; an enquiry, or adroit circumlocution, would bring out bart's name, which the young lady would hear with the most innocent air in the world. she always had some excuse; she was going, returning to, or from some sick person, or on some kind errand. once or twice later, young king, of ravenna, accompanied her; and still later, mr. thorndyke was riding with her frequently. it was observed that while her beauty had perfected, if possible, the character of her face had deepened, and a tenderer light was in her eyes. as the time came for bart's examination, she carelessly remarked that he would be home soon, and was told that he had decided to take a short course in the albany law-school, and would go directly from jefferson; that when he left in the spring, he had determined not to return to newbury until the end of a year; but that his mother might expect him certainly at that time. julia was turning over a bound volume of the _new york mirror_, and came upon a bristol board, on which was a fine pen-and-ink outline head of bart. she took it up and asked mrs. ridgeley if she might have it. "certainly," was the answer, "if you wish it," and she carried it away. after leaving the house she discovered on the other side, a better finished and more artistic likeness of herself in crayon, with her hair falling about her neck and shoulders; and surrounding it, two or three outlines of her features in profile, which she recognized by the hair--one of poor bart's "ships" that had escaped the general burning. * * * * * barton decided to avail himself of the kindness of mr. windsor, and quietly made his arrangements accordingly. the summer was very pleasant to him. he devoted himself with his usual ardor to his books, but gave much of his leisure to ida, who began to feel the approach of a calamity that gradually extinguished the light in her eyes. she was already suffering--although not anticipating a serious result--a pressure in the forehead, and a gradual impairing of vision, without pain. under its shadow, that no medical art could dissipate, she found a wonderful solace in the tender devotion of her newly found brother, who read to her, walked with her, and occasionally rode with her, in all tender, manly ways surrounding her with an atmosphere of kind and loving observances, which she more than repaid, with the strong, healthy and pure womanly influence, which she exercised over him. chapter xli. the invitation. late one wondrously beautiful august night, as bart was returning from a solitary stroll, he was suddenly joined by sartliff, bare-headed and bare-footed, who placed his hand within his arm, and turning him about, walked him back towards the wood. bart had not seen him for weeks, and he thought his face was thinner and more haggard, and his eyes more cavernous than he had ever seen them. "what progress are you making?" asked bart, quietly. "i am getting increase of power. i don't know that i need light; i think i want strength. i hear the voices oftener, and they are wonderfully sweeter; i find that they consist of marvelous musical sounds, and i can distinguish some notes; meanings are conveyed by them. if i could only comprehend and interpret them. i shall in time if i can hold out. i find as the flesh becomes more spirit-like, that this power increases. if i only had some fine-fibred soul who could take this up where i must leave it! barton, you believe god communicates with men through other than his ordinary works?" "i don't know; i see and hear god in the wondrous symbols of nature; when they say that he speaks directly, i don't feel so certain. i am so made up, that the very nature, the character and quality of the evidence, is unequal to the facts to be proven, and so to produce conviction. if a score of you were to say to me, that in the forest to-day, you saw a fallen and decayed tree arise and strike down new roots, and shoot out new branches, and unfold new foliage and flowers, i would not believe it: nor, though five hundred men should swear that they saw a grave heave up, and its tenant come forth to life and beauty, would i believe. the quality of the evidence is not equal to sustain the burthen of the fact to be established, and it does not help the matter, that alleged proofs come to me through uncertain historical media. yet i can't say that i disbelieve. who can say that there is not within us a religious spiritual faculty, or a set of faculties, that take impressions, and receive communications, not through the ordinary perceptions and convictions of the mere mind--that sees and hears, retains and transmits, loves, hopes and worships, in a spiritual or religious atmosphere of its own; whose memories are superstitions, whose realizations are extatic visions, and whose hopes are the future of blessedness; and that it is through these faculties that religious sentiments are received, transmitted and propagated, and to which god speaks and acts, spirit to spirit, as matter to matter? who can tell how many sets of faculties are possible to us? we may have developed only a few of the lowest. i sometimes fancy that i feel the rudiments of a higher and finer set within me. who shall say that i have them not?" "go on, barton; i like to hear you unfold yourself," said sartliff. "i can't," said bart, "i can only vaguely talk about what i so vaguely feel." "barton," said sartliff, "go with me; let me impart to you what i know; perhaps you have a finer and subtler sense than i had. at any rate i can help you. you can be warned by my failures and blunders, and possess yourself of my small gains. i know i have taken some steps. i shall last long enough to place you well on the road. you are silent. do you think me crazy--mad?" "no, not that, nor do i think that we have occupied all the fields of human knowledge. we are constantly acquiring a faculty to see new things and to take new meanings from the common and old. nature has not yet delivered her full speech to man. she can communicate only as he acquires the power to receive. this idea of finding new pathways, and new regions and realms, with new powers, of finding an opening from our day into the more effulgent, with new strange and glorious creatures, with new voices and forms, with whom we may communicate, is alluring, and may all lay within the realm of possibility. i don't say that to dream of it, is to be mad." "it is possible," said sartliff with fervor. "i have seen the forms and heard the voices." "and to what purpose do you pursue these mystical studies and researches." "partly for the extacy and glory of the present, mainly for the ultimate good to the races of men, when the new and powerful agencies that come of the wisdom and strength which will be thus acquired, the powers within and about us, are developed and employed for the common good; and man is emancipated from his sordid slavery to the gross and physical of his worst and lowest nature, and when woman through this emancipation takes her real position, glorified, by the side of her glorified companion; when she seeks to be wife and mother, with free choice to be other--what a race will spring from them! strong, brave, beautiful men, great, radiant, beautiful women, like the first mothers of the race, bringing forth their young, with the same joy and gladness, as that with which they receive their young bridegrooms." "go and help me find the way for our common race." he had turned, and stood with intent eyes burning into the soul of the young man. "i have faith in you. of all the young men i have met, you have exhibited more capacity to comprehend me than any other, and i am beginning to feel the need of help," said sartliff, plaintively. "god alone can help you," said bart, "i cannot. you believe in this; to me it is a dream, with which my fancy, when idle, willingly toys. i like to talk with you. i sympathise with you; i cannot go with you. i will not enter upon your speculations. don't think me unkind." "i don't," said sartliff, "nor do i blame you. you are young and gifted, and opportunities will come to you; and distinction and fame, and some beautiful woman's love await you, and god bless you." and he walked away. there was always something about sartliff that stimulated, but at the same time excited an apprehension in bart, who regarded him as past recall to healthy life, and he felt a sense of relief when he was alone; but the old, melancholy chords continued to vibrate, and bart returned to the village under a depression that lingered about him for days. chapter xlii. admitted. at the september term of the supreme court, mr. ranney presented the certificates and applications for the admission of case, ransom, and bart on the first day, and they were, as usual, referred to a committee of the whole bar, for examination and report. the committee met that evening in the court room, the supreme judges, wood and lane, being present. old webb, of warren, whom case ought to have sketched in his rough outlines as the senior of the bar, turned suddenly to bart, the youngest of the applicants, and asked him if a certain "estate could exist in ohio?" after a moment's reflection, bart answered that it could not. "why?" bart explained the nature and conditions of the estate, and said that one of them was rendered impossible by a statute; and explained how. a good deal of surprise was expressed at this; the statute was called for, and on its being placed in his hands, bart turned to it, read the law, and showed its application. wood said, "judge lane, i think this young man has decided your hamilton co. case for you." some general conversation ensued, and when it subsided, old webb said, "well! well! young man, we may as well go home, when we get such things from a law student." and they did not ask him another question. the examination was over at last. case had acquitted himself well, and ransom tolerably. bart was mortified and disgusted. this was the extent then of the ordeal; all his labor, hard study, and anxiety, ended in this! the next morning, on the assembling of the court, the three young men were admitted, sworn in, and became attorneys and counsellors at law, and solicitors in chancery, authorized to practise in all the courts of ohio. all this was made to appear by the clerk's certificate, under the great seal of the supreme court of the state, tied with a blue ribbon, and presented to each of them. it tended not much to relieve bart, to know that the question he had so summarily disposed of had much excited and disturbed the legal world of middle and southern ohio; that the best legal minds had been divided on it; and that a case had just been reserved for the court in bane, which turned on this very point. it was over; he had his diploma, but he felt that in some way it was a swindle. what a longing came to him to go to newbury; and he was half mad and wholly sad to think that one face would come to him with the sweet, submissive, reproachful, arch expression, it wore when he forbid its owner to speak, one memorable morning, in the woods and snow; and he found himself wondering if what ida told him might by any possibility be true; he knew it could not be, and so put it all away. he took ida over to mr. windsor's for a long day's visit, made a few calls, packed his trunk, bade miss giddings, who did not hesitate to express her sorrow at his departure, a regretful good-bye, and the next morning rode to ashtabula, and there took a steamer down the lake. i am glad to have him off my hands for six months; and when he falls under them next time, seriously, i will dispose of him. chapter xliii. julia. it will be remembered that greer was a somewhat ambiguous character, about whom and whose movements some suspicions were at times afloat; but these did not much disturb him or interrupt his pleasant relations with the pleasant part of the world. he was at jefferson during the first term of the court while bart was there, and it so happened that there was a prosecution pending against a party for passing counterfeit money; who finally gave bail and never returned to take his trial; but nobody connected greer with that matter. he was also there after bart was admitted, and had an interview with the young lawyer, professionally, which was followed by some consequences to both, hereafter to be mentioned. just before this last visit, a man by the name of myers--dr. myers--a young man of fine address and of fair position, was arrested in geauga for stealing a pair of valuable horses. the arrest created great astonishment, which was increased when it was known that in default of the heavy bail demanded he had been committed to the jail at chardon. this was followed by the rumor of his confession, in which it was said that he implicated jim brown, of akron, and various parties in other places, and also greer, and, as some said, bart ridgeley, all of whom belonged to an association, many members of which had been arrested. the rumors produced much excitement everywhere, and especially in the south part of geauga; and the impression was deepened and confirmed by an article in the _geauga gazette_, issued soon after myers was committed. with staring head-lines and exclamation points, it stated that dr. myers, since his imprisonment, had made a full confession, which it gave in substance, as above. bart was referred to as a young law student at jefferson, and a resident of the south part of the county, who, as was said, had escaped, and it was supposed that he had gone east, where the officers had gone in pursuit. most of the others had been arrested. mrs. ridgeley had caught something of the first rumor in her far off quiet home; but nobody had told her of barton's connection with it, nor did her neighbors seem inclined to talk with her about the general subject. as usual, one of the boys went to the post office on the day of the arrival of the chardon paper; and brought in not only that journal, but the rumor in reference to barton. his mother read and took it all in, and was standing in blank amazement and indignation, when julia came flashing in, and found her still mutely staring at the article. "oh, mrs. ridgeley! mrs. ridgeley!" exclaimed the aroused girl, seizing her hands; "it is all false--every word of it--about barton! every single word is a lie!" "i know it is; but how can that be made to appear? men will believe it, if it is false!" "never! no one will ever believe evil of him. he is now surrounded by the best and truest of men; and when this wretched myers is tried, everything will be made clear. i knew you would see this paper, and i came at once to tell you what i know of barton's connection with greer. please listen;" and she told her of the old rumor about them, and of her journey to ravenna, to see the latter, and showed her his note, addressed to her father. the quick mind of the elder lady appreciated it as it was stated to her; and another thing, new and sudden as a revelation, came to her; and with tears in her eyes, and a softened and illuminated face, she turned to julia, a moment since so proud and defiant, and now so humble and subdued, with averted eyes and crimsoned face: "oh, julia!" and passed one arm around the slender girl. "please! please!" cried her pleading voice, with her face still away. "this is my secret--you will not tell--let him find it out for himself--please!" "certainly; i will leave to him the joy of hearing it from you," said the elder, in her inmost soul sympathizing with the younger. what a deep and tranquil joy possessed the heart of the mother, and with what wonder she contemplated the now conscious maiden! and how she wondered at her own blindness! and so the threatening cloud broke for her: broke into not only a serene peace, but a heartfelt joy and gratitude; and she parted with julia with the first kiss she had ever bestowed upon her. at the ensuing fall term of the geauga common pleas, myers was indicted for horse-stealing. the prosecuting officer refused to make terms with him, and permit him to escape, on condition of furnishing evidence against others, as he had hoped when he made his confession; and when arraigned, he plead not guilty, and upon proper showing, his case was continued to the next term, in january. a great crowd from all parts of the adjacent country, and many from a distance, had assembled to witness the trial of myers. the region of eastern ohio had, like many new and exposed communities, suffered for years from the occasional depredations of horse thieves. it was supposed that an organization existed, extending into pennsylvania. the horses taken were traced to the mountain region in that state, where they disappeared; and although greer and brown were never before connected with this branch of industry, it was thought that the horses in question, which had been intercepted, were in the regular channels of the trade, which it was hoped, would now be broken up. one noticeable thing at the court was the presence of greer, who apparently came and went at pleasure. he was cool and elegant as usual, and seemingly unconcerned and a little more exclusive. his being at large was much at variance with the understood programme, and necessitated its reconstruction. little was said about bart, and it was apparent that the public mind had returned to a more favorable tone towards him. chapter xliv. finding the way. on an early december evening, in a bright, quiet room, at the delavan house, in albany, sat bart ridgeley alone, thoughtfully and sadly contemplating a manuscript, that lay before him, which ran as follows: "unionville, nov. , . "_my dear bart_:--poor sartliff has, it seems, finally found the way. it was that short, direct, everlasting old way, so crowded, which everybody finds, and nobody loses or mistakes. you told me of your last interview with him, as did he, not long after you left. it seemed to have depressed him. he spoke of you as one who could have greatly aided him, but did not blame you. "the next time i saw him, i found him much changed for the worse. he was thin and haggard--more so than i had ever seen him. his old hopefulness and buoyancy were gone, and he was given to very gloomy and depressing views of things. he thought he had made great progress, in fact had reached a new discovery, and it was not in the least encouraging. "he finally concluded that the grand and wondrously beautiful spirits that he seemed to get glimpses of, and whose voices he used to hear, were really convict spirits, or angels, imprisoned on or banished to this earth, for a period of years, or for eternity, for crimes committed in the sun, or some less luminous abode; and i presume are cutting up here, much after their old way. though it must be conceded that this world is a place of severe punishment. "he went on to a more depressing view of us mortals, and said he had concluded that our souls were also the souls of beings who had inhabited some more favored region of the universe, also sent here for punishment; and that each was compelled to enter and inhabit a human body, for the lifetime of that body; and to suffer by partaking of all of its wretched, sensual, and degrading vicissitudes; and that whenever the soul is sufficiently punished, the body dies and permits it to escape. "i suggested that it made no difference where the soul came from, if there was one, nor how many bodies it had inhabited; and that it made against his idea, that the soul was older than the body; for if it was, it would be conscious of that pre-existence. he said that every soul did at times have a consciousness of existence in another and older form, which was very dark from its transgressions. but he took the part of the native body against this alien soul, and felt hurt and grieved that our world was a mere penal colony--a penitentiary for all the scabbed and leprous souls and spirits of the rest of god's creation. it was bad economy; and he grieved over it as a deep and irreparable personal injury. "this was a month ago; and i never saw him again. he wandered off down into the neighborhood of erie, where he had many acquaintances, took less care of himself, went more scantily clad, was more abstemious in diet, and more and more disregarded the conditions of human existence. finally, his mind became as wandering as his body. "he wanted nothing, asked for nothing, rejected food, and refused shelter, and as often as taken in and cared for, he managed to escape, and wander away, feebly and helplessly, from human association and ministration. he complained to himself that his great mother, nature, had deserted him, a helpless child, to wander and perish in the wilderness. he said he had gone after her, until weary, starving, and worn, he must lie down and die. he had called after her until his voice had sunk to a wail; and he finally died of a child's heart-broken sense of abandonment and desertion. "he was found one day, nearly unconscious, with the tears frozen in his eyes, and on being cared for, wailed his life out in broken sobs. "let us not grieve that he has found rest. "i am too sad to write of other things, and you will be melancholy over this for a month. "case." chapter xlv. some things put at rest. at the january term of the court, the case of ohio _vs._ myers, came up; and the defendant failing on his motion to continue, the case was brought on for trial, and a jury was sworn. his principal counsel was bissell, of painesville, a man of great native force and talent, and who in a desperate stand-up fight, had no superior at that time in northern ohio. he expected to exclude the confession, on the ground that myers had been induced to make it upon representations that it would be for his advantage to do so; and if this could be got out of the way, he was not without the hope of finding the other evidence of the state too weak to work a conviction. the interest in the case had not abated, and a great throng of people were in attendance. hitchcock, with whom henry ridgeley was in company at the time of his death, then an able lawyer, was the prosecuting officer, aided by the younger wilder, who had succeeded henry as his partner. wilder was a young lawyer of great promise, and was the active man in the criminal cases. he stated the case to the court and jury, saying among other things, that he would not only prove the larceny by ordinary evidence, but by the confession of the prisoner himself. bissell dropped his heavy brows, and remarked in his seat, "that he would have a good time doing that." wilder called one of the officers who made the arrest, proved that fact, and then asked him the plump question, in a way to avoid a leading form, whether the prisoner made a confession? bissell objected, on the ground that before he could answer, the defendant had a right to know whether he was induced to make it, by any representations from the witness or others. wilder answered, that it did not yet appear that a confession had been made. if it should be shown that one had, it would be then time to discuss its admissibility; and so the court ruled; and the witness answered that myers did make a full confession. wilder directed him to state it, bissell again objected, and although wilder urged that he had a right to go through with his witness, and leave the other side to call out the inducement, if any, on cross-examination, the court ruled that the circumstances under which the confession was made was a preliminary matter that the defendant had a right to show. when the witness answered to bissell, that he told myers after his arrest that they knew all about the larceny, but did not know who his accomplices were, and that if he would tell all about them he would undoubtedly be favored; and that then the defendant told his story. upon this statement, wilder cross-examined the witness, and managed to extract several items of the confession, when the court held that the confession was inadmissible. myers drew a breath of relief, but bissell's brow did not clear. he knew that the state had gained all it expected to; it had proved that a confession was made, which was about as bad as the confession itself. under this cloud, wilder called his other evidence, which of itself, was very inconclusive, and which, with the added weight that a confession had been made, left much uncertainty as to the result, and bissell was girding himself for the final struggle. wilder then called the name of john t. greer--when the head of myers dropped, and midnight fell upon the brow of bissell. placidly and serenely, that gentleman answered the call, and took the stand--seemingly the only unconcerned gentleman present. he said that he knew myers well--had known him for years; that on the morning after the larceny, he saw him and another man, at mcmillan's, near youngstown; that they brought with them a pair of horses, which he described exactly as the stolen horses, and that myers told him they got them the night before, at conant's barn in troy; that he denounced myers to his face as a horse thief, and threatened to expose him. this evidence produced a prodigious sensation. bissell put the witness through a savage cross-examination. in answer to the questions, he said that myers and himself, and others, belonged to an association, of which jim brown was the head, for manufacturing paper currency and coin, and supplying it at various points; had never passed a dollar himself; that he broke with myers because he was a thief, and no gentleman; that the association had never had any connection with running off horses, &c. "to whom did you first disclose this act of myers?" "to a young lawyer at jefferson, in his private room." "who was he?" "barton ridgeley." great sensation, and men looked at one another. "did he belong to your financial association?" "never!" sensation. "why did you go to him?" "i had a little acquaintance with him, and had great confidence in him. i wanted to consult somebody, and i went to him." he went on to say that he consulted him as a lawyer and not as a friend; that when he told ridgeley of the association, which was drawn out of him by a cross-examination, ridgeley told him at once, that while he would not use this against the witness, he certainly would against his associates. that soon after mr. wade came in, and he found out that ridgeley had managed to send for him. that ridgeley then insisted that he should tell the whole story to mr. wade, and he did. that wade called in a united states deputy marshal, and induced the witness to make an affidavit, when the marshal went to columbus, got warrants, and arrested brown and others. he was asked what fee he paid young ridgeley, and he answered, nothing. he offered him a liberal fee, and he refused it. he understood ridgeley had gone east, but did not know; nor who furnished him with money. the prosecution rested. wade was present, and bissell called him; and in answer to wilder, said he proposed to contradict greer. wilder replied, that although he was not entitled to such a privilege, yet he had no objection; and wade, in the most emphatic way, corroborated greer throughout. he said that ridgeley was at that time at the albany law-school, and would soon be back to answer for himself; and when asked if he was not poor, answered, that friends always came to such young men, with a glance at the bench, where markham sat with humphrey. the perfect desperation of his case alone warranted bissell in calling wade, with whose testimony the trial closed; and on the verdict of guilty, myers was sentenced to the penitentiary for ten years. and for the third or fourth time barton's acquaintances were disposed to regard him as a hero. chapter xlvi. prince arthur. it was not in nature, particularly in young man-nature, that such a creature as julia should ripen into womanhood without lovers. in her little circle of newbury, boys and girls loved her much alike, and with few shades of difference on account of sex. no youth of them dreamed of becoming her suitor; not even barton, whom i have sketched in vain, if it is not apparent that it would not have been over presumption in him, to dream of anything. of the numerous, and more or less accomplished young men from other places, who had met and admired her, two had somewhat singled themselves out, as her admirers, both of whom, i fear, had a good way passed the pleasant, though dangerous, line of admiration. young king, of ravenna, a frank, handsome, high-spirited youth, had for a long time been at no pains to conceal his partiality; so far from that, he had sought many occasions to evince in a modest, manly way, his devotion. his observing sister, julia's warm and admiring friend, had in vain looked wise, lifted her finger, and shaken her warning head at him. he would inevitably have committed himself, had not the high-souled and generous julia, by her frank, ingenuous woman's way with him, made him see and feel in time the uselessness of a more ardent pursuit; and so content himself with the real luxury of her friendship. the peril to him was great, and if for a time he was not unhappy, he had a grave and serious mood, that lasted many months. she had a real woman's warm, unselfish friendship for him, which has much of the sweetness and all the purity and unselfishness of a sister's love; and all unconscious as she seemed, that he could wish for more or other, she succeeded in placing him in the position of a devoted and trusted friend. thorndyke, the fourth or fifth of aristocratic generations, of a good old colonial strain, elegant to a fault, and refined to uselessness, of tastes and pursuits that took him out of the ordinary atmosphere; languid more for the want of a spur, than from lack of nerve and ability; and unambitious for want of an object, rather than from want of power to climb, was really smothered by the softness and luxury of his surroundings, rather than reduced by the poverty and feebleness of his nature; had really the elements of manly strength and elevation, and had misfortune or poverty fallen upon him, early, he would undoubtedly have developed into a man of the higher type, like the first generations of his family. like every man he was struck as much as he could be, with julia, and when he saw her in the rudeness of pioneer surroundings, he began by pitying her, and finally ended by pitying himself. when it first occurred to him to carry her out of the woods, to the actual world, and real human life, he was not a little surprised. she was not born in boston, nor did her father's family date back to the flood, but her mother's did. indeed, that came over with it. in revolving this grave matter, the only factors to be considered, were mr. thorndyke's own judgment, taste and inclinations, and julia has matured in these pages, to a small purpose, or mr. t. was much less a man than i have supposed, if these parties should not finally unite in consenting to the alliance. of course, miss julia could be had, both of herself and parents, for the asking. but his fastidious notions could alone be satisfied with a gentlemanly course of gradually warming and more devoted attentions, with all the forms and observances, so far as the disadvantages of her surroundings would permit. it was some time in the last summer, that he had made up a definite judgment in the premises under which he commenced his lambent action. during the autumn he often met king at her father's, and the young men occasionally made up small parties with julia and nell or some other young ladies for rides and excursions. towards winter, king was less at newbury; and as winter approached, mr. thorndyke seemed left to monopolize the time and society of julia. so gracious, frank and open was her invariable manner to him, that he could not for a moment doubt that after a gentlemanly lapse of time, and a course of rides, calls, walks and teas, he might in his own way dispose of the matter. his splendid gray, "west wind," was no mean companion for prince, and many a gallop they had together, and thorndyke was a gentlemanly rider and drove well, and during the winter he often drove julia out in a single sleigh. in a moment of weakness it occurred to him that west wind and prince would go well in double harness, and he proposed to julia to match them for a drive. "what!" exclaimed that young lady, "put prince in harness? make a draught horse of him?" "with west wind--certainly. why not?" "because i don't choose it. there is but one man in the world who shall drive prince, and i am sure he will not want to." "i presume judge markham don't care to drive him?" "i presume he don't;" laughing and blushing. that was the end of that, and not overly pleasing to the gentleman. it was apparent, that she was disinclined to match the horses. and march was coming, and julia was sweet and arch and gracious, and at times as he came to know her better, he thought a little grave and pensive. this was certainly a good sign; and somehow, he found himself now often watching and calculating the signs, and somehow again they did not seem to deepen or change, or indicate much. he could not on the whole convince himself that he had made much progress, except that he should ask her at some time and she would accept him, and he was certainly approaching that time. the matter in hand had become absorbing--very: and he knew he was very much interested in it; and the laugh of the beautiful girl was as rich, musical and gay as ever, though he some how fancied, that it was a little less frequent; and once or twice something had been dropped about some day early in april, at which there was a little flutter in julia. what could it be? did she think he was slow? he would speak, and put an end to it. but he didn't, and somehow he could not. he might do it any day; but did not. at any event, before that april, something should be asked and answered--but how answered? the sleigh was left under cover, the roads hardened in the march sun and wind, and several horseback excursions had been made. toward the close of the month, on their return one day, thorndyke, who had been unusually silent, suddenly asked julia if she would be at leisure that evening, at about eight; and might he call? she answered that she would be at home, and as he knew, he was quite at liberty to call. he said that he had something quite particular which he wished to say to her, and that of course she must know what it was. "indeed! if i must know what it is, you must, by the same rule, know what i will say in reply. let us consider the thing said and answered, and then your business call can be one of pleasure." "i had hoped that it might possibly be one of pleasure." the girl, looked grave for a moment, and then turning in her best manner to her escort-- "mr. thorndyke, i think i had better tell you the little story of my horse. if we ride slow, i will have time before we reach the gate." with a little increase of color, "it is not much of a story, but you may see a little moral in it." "certainly, i shall be glad to hear it. no doubt it will interest me." "you see his name is prince." "i hear that is his name." "you will see presently that is not his whole name." "silvertail?" "silver-sticks! please attend, sir. his name is prince arthur." "named after a gentleman who lived a few years ago; who dined off 'a table round,' and who was thought to be unfortunate in his lady." "no, sir. he was named for a man who may have been called after that personage; and whose life shows that the old legend may have been true, and this arthur is not unfortunate in his lady," with a softening voice, and deepening blush on her averted face. "have you never heard the story of the lost girl? who less than a year ago, bewildered and distracted, wandered away into the endless woods, in the night, mid darkness and storm; and who, o'ercome with fright and weariness and cold, lay down to die, and was covered over with snow; and that a young man with strength and courage, was conducted by god to her rescue, and carried her over an icy stream, and revived and restored her to her father and mother. did you ever hear of that?" her voice was low, deep, and earnest. he bowed. "my father gave him this horse, and he gave him to me, and i gave him that young man's name. prince is a prince among horses, and that youth is a prince among men," proudly, and with increasing color. "i thought that young man's name was bart ridgeley," very much disgusted. "arthur barton ridgeley. prince bears his first name, and he bears me;" lowering her voice and turning away. "a very pleasant arrangement, no doubt," querulously. "very pleasant to me," very sweetly. "it seems to me i have heard something else about this arthur barton ridgeley, esq.; and not quite so much to his credit." oh dear! but then he was hardly responsible. "i presume you have. and you heard it with the same ears with which you hear everything disconnected with your precious self. were their acuteness equal to their length, you would also have heard, that in this, as in everything else, he was true and noble." the voice was shaken a little by two or three emotions, and tears sprang to her eyes and dried there. when thorndyke recovered, they had reached judge markham's gate; and springing unaided from her saddle, julia turned to him with all her grace and graciousness fully restored. "many thanks for your escort, mr. thorndyke. i shall expect you at eight." at about that hour, a boy from parker's brought her the following note: "thursday evening. "_miss markham_:--pardon, if you can, my rudeness of this afternoon. kindly remember the severity of my punishment. believe me capable of appreciating a heroic act; and the womanly devotion that can alone reward it. from my heart, i congratulate you. "with the profoundest respect. "w. thorndyke." as she read, a softer light, almost a mist, came into the eyes of the young girl. "i fear i have done this man a real injustice." chapter xlvii. the trial the march term of the court at chardon was at the beginning of its third and last week. the important case in ejectment of fisk _vs_. cole, was reached at the commencement of the second, and laid over for the absence of defendant's counsel. this directly involved the title of cole to his land; a title that had been loosely talked about, and generally supposed to be bad. in the fall of , a stranger by the name of fisk appeared in the country, placed a deed of the land in question on record; gave cole notice to quit, commenced his suit, and leisurely proceeded to take his evidence in conn, and mass., and get ready for the trial. bart's trial of coles's first case had rendered the latter an object of interest; and it was generally felt that the new case was one of great oppression and hardship; and popular opinion and sympathy were wholly with cole, and all the more so, as the impression was that he would lose his land. the people of newbury, however, really believed that if bart would return and take the case in hand, in some way, he would win it; but the court had commenced, the case was called, and he still lingered in the east. in the spring before he left newbury, he had spent much time in examining the case, looking up the witnesses, and with such aid as his brother, the colonel, could give, their names had been obtained and they were all subpoenaed to attend. among them were two or three old hunters and soldiers, on the western frontier. ford was in the case, and had made up the issue, and at the trial, bart had intended to secure the aid of wade or hitchcock. except himself, no one knew much of the case, and none had confidence that cole would prevail in the trial, and a general feeling of despondency prevailed as to his prospect. on the afternoon of the third monday, bart reached chardon, from albany, secured a room, assembled his witnesses, talked up the matter with the old hunters, and by his quiet, modest confidence, and quick, ready knowledge of all the details, he at once put a new aspect upon the defence. wade was also in chardon, and on that evening, bart laid his programme before him and ford, who were not more than half convinced, and it was arranged that bart should go forward with the case, to be backed and sustained by his seniors. on the next morning he made his first appearance in court, and in person, air and manner, he had become one to arrest attention, in a crowd, such as thronged the court room; and when his name transpired, he was at once identified as a prominent person in the detection and arrest of brown & co., whose name had become widely known; and men scanned him with unusual interest. some noticed and commented upon the brown moustache, that shaded the rather too soft and bland mouth; and observed the elegant tone of his dress, which, when it was examined, resolved itself rather into the way his clothes were worn. ford introduced him to the lawyers present, with whom his quiet, modest manner deepened the impression made by his person. as he took his seat, his eye fully met the eager gaze of judge markham, from the bench. bart felt the earnest, anxious look of the judge, and the judge thought he saw a shadow of sadness in the frank eyes of bart. a case on trial ran until late in the afternoon, when fisk _vs_. cole was called, was ready, and a jury sworn. mr. kelly, of cleveland, appeared for the plaintiff, a very accomplished lawyer and a courteous gentleman. he produced the record of the old conn. land co., an allotment and map of the lands showing that the tract in dispute was originally the property of one john williams. he then made proof of the death of williams, and that certain parties were his heirs-at-law; and produced and proved a deed from these to the plaintiff. this made what lawyers call a paper title, when the plaintiff rested his case. for the defendant, barton said he would produce and prove a deed from john williams, junior, only child of williams, mentioned by the plaintiff, to the defendant, directly, dated january, , under which he took possession of the land in january, ; and that he also found a man in possession of the premises, who had possessed and claimed the land for years, and whose right he purchased. it would thus appear, whatever might be said of his written title, that he had complete right by possession, adverse to the plaintiff, for twenty years. "you will do well if you sustain that claim," said kelly, incredulously. "i shall labor for your commendation," was bart's pleasant reply. the deed was proven, as well as the relationship of john and john, jr. bart also produced a book of the probate records of geauga county, which he said contained a record of the administration of one hiram fowler, which he might want to refer to, for a date, thereafter, and if the court would permit, he would refer to, if it became necessary. he wished the record to be considered in evidence, for what it was competent to prove. "certainly," from the court, who made a note of it. he then proved that cole left massachusetts early in the spring of , but failed to show when he reached ohio, whether in , or . one man remembered to have seen hiram fowler at work for him on a tree fence, along the back line of it, during the summer of his arrival on the land. he also made proof, that at a very early day, tree fences were about at least three sides of the land, thus forming a cattle range, and evidencing possession and occupancy. he then called mcconough, of bainbridge, and men bent eagerly forward to gaze at the old indian hunter, who had been a sharp-shooter on the ill-fated "lawrence," in perry's sea fight, off put-in-bay, and who was also with gen. harrison at the thames; a quiet, compact, athletic, swarthy man, a little dull and taciturn. he said he was first on the ground in or , and found a man by the name of basil windsor, who lived in a small cabin by the spring, near which he had then two small apple trees. he was there again, with john harrington, in . they drove a herd of elk through an opening, into and through basil's yard, at the south side, and back into the woods north, until they came to a tree fence, when they turned east, and were headed off by another hedge, and the elk were too tired to get over; and there in the angle they killed two or three, when it came on dark. that harrington lit a fire, staid by the slaughtered elk through the night, to keep the wolves from devouring them, and that he, mcconough, went and staid with basil. that basil was a sort of hermit, who lived in the woods and kept two or three cows. that on their way to court a few days ago, he and harrington went to the premises of cole, and found his house near the old basil spring, and that one of the apple trees was still standing there. the other had been recently cut down. harrington, a still more celebrated hunter and pioneer, and who furnished a good idea of old leatherstocking, and who was with winchester at the battle of river raisin, from which he escaped, and was one of harrison's scouts, had been often at basil windsor's. hunters often found shelter there. he was there both before and after the war; and he fully corroborated mcconough. old bullock was then called, a heavy-framed, sluggish giant, of that strong, old-fashioned type of head and face, now nearly out of date. he, too, had served in the army, and was a famous hunter and trapper. he knew basil, a man who avoided others, and who had met with misfortunes "down country." "he had hunted and trapped all through the woods about him, and knew of his having had fences to confine his cows. knew cole; he came in in , or , couldn't tell which. cole showed him his deed; went with him to find his land, and found it was the same on which basil was living. went with him to see basil, who thought it was hard. he said that the land was his'n. he had a hundred and sixty acres; showed no deed or writin's. cole finally bought him out--his right, and 'betterments;' and gave him a horse and harness, and we went down to square punderson's, to git writin's made, and he wa'n't to home, and none was made. basil took the horse and left, and cole moved into the old cabin. i knew about the slash fences, and ketched a spotted fawn once, hid in one on 'em. i used to cross over by the big maples, by the spring run, where coles's two children were buried, to go to my traps." bullock was put under a sharp cross-examination, but his story was not shaken. he had a plenty of good-natured, lazy force, and took care of himself. a witness brought in a short section of one of the apple trees, which had twenty-nine rings showing its age, which made a sensation. several other witnesses swore that when they were boys, they used to hunt for cattle, on the bottoms, to the north of cole's land, and often got on to the old tree fences, to listen for the cow-bells. and bart rested his case. one branch of this defence looked ugly. the defendant had not clearly proven that he in person took possession of the land in time to perfect his title by adverse possession. but he had shown another man in possession, of some of the property, at least, and claiming it, and he had purchased this right, whatever it was, had gone in under him, and so succeeded to his possession, and right, if he had any. this took the plaintiff by surprise, and when the defendant rested, he and his counsel were on the alert to meet it. a note came in from the outside, and the plaintiff and his counsel retired under leave of the court, for consultation. meanwhile judge markham and the president, who had taken much interest in the case, engaged in an earnest conversation. then judge markham came down from the bench, and calling bart to him, shook him warmly by the hand, and introduced him to judge humphrey, and his associates. all of which the jury observed. upon resuming the case, the plaintiff produced his depositions, and proved that the defendant's grantor, john williams, junior, was the reputed natural son of williams, of the land company, &c.; also called witnesses to show that cole came into the county in . an attempt was then made to impeach bullock, which failed. ward was then put on the stand, and swore that he met basil hall, on a certain time, who told him that he had no claim, right or title to the land whatever. he also swore that he saw hiram fowler at work, mending the tree fence, on the north, the summer that cole came in. bart, who had evinced rare skill in the examination of his own witnesses--a more difficult thing, by the way, than to cross-examine those of an adversary--put him through a sharp and stinging cross-examination. under pretence of testing his memory, and of showing bias, he took him over the whole course, and it appeared that if he ever had the conversation he claimed with basil, it must have been after his sale to cole; and got from him such damaging statements, that it could be fairly claimed to the jury that the whole case was prosecuted in the interest of ward. if so, this would exclude his testimony wholly. this was in the dark legal days, when not only were parties excluded from giving evidence, but a pecuniary interest in the result of the suit to the value of one mill, would render a man incompetent as a witness. ward had not expected to appear as a witness at all, and though a shrewd man, he came upon the stand not well knowing the legal ground he was upon; and the questions came so thick upon each other, that they fairly took his breath. if plaintiff objected to a question, it was at once withdrawn, and another instantly put, so that he was rather confused, than aided, by his counsel's interference. it was certainly a relief to both kelly and ward, when the latter, tattered and battered, was permitted, with the ironical thanks of bart, to retire; and the plaintiff's rebutting evidence closed. bart called two or three to sustain bullock, and rested also. this was near the close of wednesday. mr. kelly then arose, and delivered the opening of the final argument to the jury, contenting himself with presenting his own case. he only glanced at the case of defense, and said he would reserve full argument on this, as he might, until he had heard from the other side. as bart arose to commence, the court said: "mr. ridgeley, we will hear you in the morning. mr. sheriff, adjourn the court until to-morrow morning." chapter xlviii. the advocate. at the opening of the court on thursday, the court room was crowded. the interest in the case was general, and the character of the facts, and principal witnesses for the defense, was such as appealed powerfully to the memories and early associations of the people, and there was an earnest desire to hear the speech of the young advocate, whose management of the case had so far, won for him the heartiest admiration. when the jury had answered to their names, "mr. ridgeley, proceed with your argument," said judge humphrey. the young man rose, bowed to the court and jury, and stood silent a moment, with his eyes cast down, and it was at first thought on his rising for his speech, that he was laboring under embarrassment. when he raised his eyes, however, embarrassed as he certainly was, and commenced with a low sweet voice, it was discovered that his faltering was due mainly to the emotions of sensibility. nature had been liberal in bestowing many of the qualifications of a great advocate upon him. he had a strong compelling will, when he chose to exercise it, which in the conflicts of the bar often prevails, and courage of a chivalrous cast, which throws a man impetuously and audaciously upon strong points, and enables him to gain a footing by the boldness and force of his onset. barton was one to lead a forlorn hope, or defend a pass single handed, against a host. without something of this quality, a great advocate is impossible. with a warm, poetic imagination, nature had given him quick perceptive powers, and the faculty of expressing his thoughts without apparent effort, in simple, strong language, as well defined, and sharply cut as a cameo. beyond this, and better than all, was a tender, sympathetic sensibility; which, if it sometimes overmastered him, made him the master of others. the commonest things in his hands took the motion and color of living things. it was not the mere sensuous magnetism of powerful physical nature; but it excited the higher intellectual sympathies, which in turn awoke and captivated the reasoning and reflective organs, that found themselves delightfully conducted along a natural and logical course, that led them unconsciously to inevitable conclusions and convictions, ere the danger was perceived, or an alarm was sounded. on the present occasion, he had not been on his feet five minutes ere it was felt that a real power, of an unusual order, was manifesting itself. the case was not one framed or arranged with any vulgar reference to a forensic display. cases never will get themselves up for any such occasion; and if the lawyer waits for such a case, he will die unknown. cases spring out of dry, hard contentions, with nothing but vulgar surroundings; and it is to these, that the real advocate applies himself, breathes upon them the breath of genius and creative power, and clothes them with life, and interest, and beauty, endows them with his own soul and imagination, and lifts them from the level of the common to the height of the remarkable, the unusual, and sometimes of the wonderful; and endeavors to establish between them, and a jury and himself, the bonds of intense sympathy, upon which their emotions and sensibilities will come and go, as did the angels on the dream-ladder of the patriarch. in the advocate's hour of strength and glory, the formulas of the law burst their mouldy cerements and leap forth into life, tender and beautiful to protect, or awful to warn or punish. mysteries are unfolded, secrets reveal themselves, hidden things are proclaimed, and courts and juries, awed and abashed, yet elevated and inspired, accept and act upon his conclusions as infallible. for one hour he touches the pinnacle of human achievement. after all, the effectiveness of the advocate is not so much in what he says, as in the way he says it. one man with real strength arises outside, and batters and bangs with real power, deals forcible blows, and yet does not carry his point; while another, with less intellect, gets up within the charmed circle of the sympathies, by the warm, human side of a jury, whom they don't think of resisting, and could not if they tried. the speaker usually rises a little outside of the subject, on a sort of neutral ground, and bart made the transit of this, naturally and simply. he graphically explained to the jury those legal phantoms, john doe and richard roe; how richard was always maltreating and dispossessing john, and how john was always going to law with dick, and was hence an immense favorite with lawyers; and how, when dick is sued, he always, having got up a muss, notifies the actual party in possession, and who ought to have been sued; tells him he must look out for himself, and hurries off to find where john has squat himself into other property; and thereupon he thrusts him out again, and so on. it was a fiction invented by the english lawyers to try the right of two parties to the possession of real estate; because they could do it in no other way, and the th of july had not freed us from this relic of antiquity. the issue here was, whether fisk had a better right to the possession of this land, than had cole; and whatever did not in some way help to enlighten them on that issue, had no business to be said at all. in a few happy strokes, he sketched the defendant buying this land, packing up, bidding adieu to the dear down-country home, and his toilsome journey into the woods, arrival, and purchase, and poor, hard life of toil and deprivation: here was his all. he sketched the plaintiff as a well or ill-to-do gentleman, of a speculative turn of mind, whose eye coveted the rich bottom-lands of the defendant; and finding him helpless and poor, searched out the weak place in his title, hunted up obscure relatives, and procured for a song sung by themselves, their signatures to a deed of property of which they had never heard; he had proven that john williams, junior, son of john williams, senior, was born out of wedlock, had gone grubbing back into forgotten burying-places, and disinterred the dead, searched out the weakness of their lives; had raked out a forgotten scandal, carefully gathered it up in its rottenness, and had poured it out, before the jury; and the frailty and infamy of an unhappy woman, and the crime of one wretched man, were the sole virtue and strength of his case--sole source of his title to the land in dispute. and the plaintiff demanded that the law in its honor should now rob poor cole of his homestead, and of the graves of his children, that john fisk--or rather, sam ward--might possess that to which he had just the same moral right, that dr. myers had to the horses he stole. and this learned court, and gentlemen of the jury, pioneers in these receding woods, are to be the instruments of this transfer. the language was simple and plain, the imagery bold and striking, and the closing sentences were pronounced with great fervor. the jury shrank from the issue, which might have a possible conclusion, and looked eagerly for any escape, as jurors will. the young advocate clearly opened out the nature of the defence of adverse possession, and the philosophy upon which it rested; and explained that the defendant, to meet the plaintiff's paper case, must show that he and those under whom he claimed, had been in the open, continued, and notorious possession of the property for twenty years, before suit was brought, claiming to be the owners. this the defendant was to show, at the peril of destruction; and in a few happy sentences he brought the jury to feel an intense anxiety that he should succeed. then he turned back the years, blotted out the highways, re-planted the forests, till the court house dissolved, and a wondrous maple wood crowned the hill on which it stood. and so back, till the indians returned, and elk and panthers roamed at will. then he pointed out a sorrow-stricken, moody, brooding man, seeking a "lodge in the vast wilderness," hunting the spring, and building his shanty, making his clearing, and planting a few apple seeds, brought from his old home; and picking up the section of the tree trunk, he read off from its end, "twenty-nine years ago!" he sketched in rapid, natural lines, the life of the recluse, the necessities of his situation, his keeping cows, and the means of restricting their range; dwelt upon the evidence of the tree fences, and argued that the fact that two of them were used for that purpose, was conclusive that the other sides were also fenced, for without them no enclosure could exist. and he referred to the well known universal custom of that early day. lord! how those old and somewhat mythical tree fences grew, and came out under his hands! the hunters had herded elk in their angles; bears had been trapped in their jungles; the doe hid her fawn in their recesses; wolves and foxes had found lairs in them; birds had built nests in them; men in search of strayed cattle had climbed upon them to listen for the tinkling bell; balm and thyme, wild sun-flowers and celandine had made them fragrant with perfume, and bright with color. basil hall went to that spring, and built and occupied, because he owned it. his very settlement and occupancy was a proclamation of ownership--an assertion of right--the most satisfactory, and so the court would say. here he read from the ohio reports, to show that a parol claim, without any written color of title, was sufficient to make the claim. he then referred to the evidence of bullock, that hall did by word claim such right; that the claim was acknowledged by cole, who bought and paid for it. if hall had been without claim of right, cole would have turned him out; but he acknowledged it, bought, got it, and held it. the word of ward could not be taken; he was interested; if taken, it could not be believed; if believed, it proved nothing, for the admission of hall to him, that he had no right, was made after hall had sold out, and hence not evidence against the purchaser, all of which he forcibly illustrated; and the proposition was conceded to be law. he claimed that this defence under the purchase from hall, was perfect in itself. his defence of bullock from the attack on him, was forcible and beautiful. the old man was a hunter, had been a soldier, etc., and the unforgotten indian battles of the recent war flashed before the jury, and all the sylvan romance of a hunter's life was reproduced as by magic. in the second place he contended that cole made an absolute defense on his claim of title under his deed; no matter though john williams, junior, was the bastard of a bastard; his deed was good to make a claim of title under, by the common law of england, and that of every state of the united states; and he read authorities to the court. he then showed pretty conclusively that cole left connecticut in the spring of , and was not a year and two months on the road; that he came in in , and not in ; and this, he said he would demonstrate. john fowler, hiram fowler's son, had sworn positively that his father worked for cole, repairing the fence on the north. ward swore to the same; he had told this one bit of truth by some unaccountable accident; so that the plaintiff had also proven that hiram fowler had worked for cole on this land, and hence cole was in possession of it in the lifetime of fowler. when did fowler die? "now," said bart, "i will read from this probate record, already put in evidence, but not read," and he opened and read from the record of the court, begun and held in the court house at chardon, for the county of geauga, commencing april , , the appointment of an administrator on the estate of "hiram fowler, late deceased, of the township of newbury, in said county," and closed the book with a clap. "thus this record of absolute verity declares that hiram fowler had died before april, , and the plaintiff and defendant both prove that he was alive, after cole came into this state. beyond the possibility of doubt then, cole came to the possession of this land in , and his title is perfect in law, equity and morality." when he closed this part of his case, a murmur almost of open applause ran through the densely packed house. here he rested the argument. in a rapid _resume_ of the case, he seemed to have stumbled upon the two little grass-grown graves of cole's children, up under the old maples. he paused, hesitated, faltered, and stopped, tears came to his eyes, and his lips quivered. no art could have produced this effect, and a sob broke from many in the court room. suddenly resuming, he finished his grouping in a saddened voice, and paused for a moment, sending his eager glance through the court room, till it finally rested on the face of sam ward. looking at him, in half a dozen sentences, he pilloried him for the scorn and derision of the jury; and then turning to them, in a voice of wonderful sweetness, half sad and regretful, he committed the case to them, and sat down. a great hum like that of swarming bees, ran through the court house, and men who had looked often into each other's eyes, looked again, with a joyous sense of relief. during some parts of his speech, which occupied an hour and a half, men at times leaned from all parts of the room towards him, open-eyed and open-mouthed. at others they swayed gently to and fro, like tree tops in a breeze; and when he sat down, the oldest at the bar--the president on the bench--felt that it was among the best speeches they had ever heard, if not the best. the youthfulness of the orator of course enhanced its effect. it had some faults of redundancy, both of words and imagery, but its tone and manner were admirable. at times his delivery was very rapid and vehement, but his voice, always rich and full, never broke, or seemed strained; while in the moments of excitement, every nerve and fibre of his form quivered with the intensity of his emotion. his form was lithe and elastic, and admitted of easy, rapid and forcible action, which was never more than was allowable to one of his passionate temperament. when he closed, almost everybody supposed the case was ended. wade arose with a radiant face, and said the defense rested the argument on that which had just been delivered. kelly was taken by surprise again, both by the quality and force of bart's speech, and the submission of the case. the first carried him off his feet, and he hoped to recover during the delivery of another on the same side. he was a good chancery and real estate lawyer, but he was not the man to reply to barton's argument. he followed him, however--that is, he spoke after him, and on the other side, for a half hour, and submitted the case. the court gave the case to the jury on the law, as the defense claimed it. indeed there was no dispute about the law. he explained fully and clearly the case, which arose on the defense; and saying, in a very graceful and gracious way, that the merits of the case had been presented with a force and beauty rarely equalled, and which might tend to aid the jury in coming to their conclusion, he submitted it to them, and took a recess for dinner. at the recess, the lawyers crowded about bart to congratulate him for his defense, among whom kelly was the foremost. judge markham came up, and with moisture in his eyes, took him by both hands and drew him away to judge humphrey, who complimented him in the highest terms, and insisted upon his dining with him, which invitation bart accepted. the judge was as much taken with his modest, quiet, gentlemanly manners, and quick, happy wit, as with his splendid speech in the court room. the fact was, his exertions had fully awakened his intellectual forces, and they were all in the field, armed and with blades drawn. he could not eat, and never drank, save water or milk; and now between the two judges, and surrounded by lawyers, with a glass of milk and a plate of honey, petted and lionized for the moment, he gave himself up to sparkling and brilliant answers to the numerous questions and remarks addressed to him, and showed that, whatever draft had been made upon him, he had plenty of resources in reserve. upon a return to the court house, at half past one, the jury, who had made up and sealed their verdict, were called; it was opened and read, and as anticipated, was for the defendant. this announcement was received with scarcely suppressed applause. the verdict was recorded by the clerk, and in due time followed by the judgment of the court, and so ended fisk _vs_. cole. cole went out of the court room, with one exception, the most observed man in the crowd. very naturally barton and his last performance was the common theme of conversation in the region round about for many days. all over newbury, as witnesses and other spectators returned, the whole thing was talked over, with such various eulogies as suited the exaggerated estimate his various admirers put upon his merits. "what do you say now?" said uncle jonah to uncle josh, as the two had just listened to an account of the trial, in parker's bar room. "it does beat hell amazingly!" answered that accomplished rhetorician. "what did i tell you?" said jo, at jugville, to uncle cal, and that set. "oh, i was there," said uncle cal. "i always said, ever since the trial here, that he had the stuff in him. but he went beyond anything i ever hearn," and uncle cal relapsed into admiring silence. chapter xlix. waiting. julia sat alone that evening in an elegantly, and, for that day, luxuriously furnished room, around which she had many times glanced, and in which her own hands had several times arranged and re-arranged the various articles. there was a bed in the room, which was large and airy, a vase filled with wild and hot-house flowers; yet it was evidently not a lady's room, and unoccupied save at this moment by the fair julia, who with an abundance of color in her cheeks and lips, and a liquid light in her eyes, was nevertheless pensive and seemingly not quite at ease. she held two letters in her hands, which she many times re-read. they ran as follows: "chardon, wednesday p.m. "_my dear wife_:--barton reached here on monday p.m. i did not think it best to call upon him, and did not see him till yesterday morning in the court room, when, without looking me in the face save for a second, he bowed to me. he had so changed that i did not at first recognize him, and did not acknowledge his bow as i would. later, when his case was called and he came to make a remark to the court, he looked me in the eye, calmly and steadily, and i thought i could see in his face regret, the shadow of suffering, and a very kindly, but sad expression, which seemed almost like a revelation. "he is much changed and improved. the old boyish recklessness and dash is gone. his face is thinner, has much character, and is disfigured, as i think, with a moustache, which gives him the look of a foreigner. he is, of course, well dressed, and has the quiet, high-bred air of a thorough gentleman. "judge humphrey is immensely taken with him, and he has so far managed his case admirably, and like an experienced lawyer. we cannot keep our eyes from him, but watch every word and movement with great interest. though wade and ford are with him, he tries the case alone, thus far. "i shall see him--if he will see me--as of course he will, the moment he is free from his case. "of course you will show this to julia. "ever yours, edward." "chardon, thursday p.m. "_my dear wife:_--i cannot in sober language express my astonishment and admiration for barton's masterly speech this forenoon. as much as i expected from him, i was completely taken by surprise. judge humphrey is unbounded in his praises of him; but i will tell you about all this when i return. "at the recess, among others i went to congratulate him, which was the second time i had been where i could give him my hand. he held out both of his, and seemed unable to speak. as soon as he could extricate himself from the ovation, he went with me to judge humphrey, who took him to dine with us. his conversation at the dinner table was more brilliant than his speech. he ate nothing but a little honey, and drank a glass of milk. i confess i was a little alarmed at some of his sallies. "on our way back to court, i observed he began to grow serious, and i arranged to see him as soon as his case was at an end. the jury returned a verdict for cole, on the coming in after dinner, and that case, thanks to bart, is finally ended. "after this, i left the bench and was joined by bart. it was difficult for him to escape from the crowd who followed him out; when he did, he joined me, and we walked off down the hill toward newbury. bart was evidently depressed. the re-action had come; the great strain of the last three days was removed, and the poor boy was sad and melancholy. "we went on in silence, i not knowing just how to commence. "' judge markham,' said he, turning frankly to me, 'you know i am a born fool, and just now i feel like breaking entirely down, and crying like a woman. for these last four years i have lived utterly alone, confiding nothing to any one, and i am too weak to go so, always.' "oh, how i wished you had been there, with your sweet woman's heart, and voice, and tact. "'my dear boy,' said i, 'if there is anything in the wide world that i can say and do_ only let me know what it is. i am more anxious to help you, than you are to be helped, if i only may.' "'i don't know how i ought to meet you, judge markham. you wrote me a manly letter, full of kindness, and i answered--god knows what--i was so wretched.' "'i could not blame you,'i said, 'i am much in fault towards you, but it was from my not knowing you. i regret it very much.' "'i don't know,' he answered, 'that you should say that to me. i feel sorry and hurt that anybody should make apologies to me. why should you have known me"? i did not not know myself, and don't now. i know i can not hate or even dislike anybody, and i always liked you, and i do now.' "'barton,' said i, 'god bless you! you never can have cause of complaint against me or mine again: only give us your confidence, and trust us.' "'i am sure you are very kind,' said he, 'and it is very pleasant to hear it said. i want to see mrs. markham, and in some way say how grateful i am for her kind expressions towards me, and she and--and you all, have been very kind to my poor dear mother for the past year.' "'you would not let us be kind to you,' said i. "'no. how could i?' he answered. "'i don't know,'said i. 'i only hope now that there may be no more misunderstandings; that you will now let us--will give julia an opportunity, at least to express her gratitude to you, and that we may all unite in so doing.' "he was silent a moment, and then went on as if thinking aloud: "'julia! good heavens! how can i ever meet her!--pardon me; i mean miss markham. i shall certainly call upon the ladies at a very early day,' he said, coldly. 'the fact is, judge markham,' continued he, 'i have been under a little strain, and i am not used to it. i come back here near home, and see so many old newbury people, who make me forget how they used to dislike me, and all the old, and all the more recent things, come back upon me so strongly, and i find i am as weak and boyish and foolish as ever.' "he did not say much more--he finally asked about you, and after much hesitation, about julia. it is so easy to see that his heart is full of her, that i could not help feeling almost wretched for him. i then asked him when he was going to newbury. he thought of going to-morrow in the stage, but said some parties wanted to see him friday evening. he has finally consented to wait and ride down with us on saturday, after the term closes. "now, my dear wife, come and bring julia, if you think it best. i confess i wish that they might meet at an early day--but be governed by your better judgment in this--and you will show her this letter of course. "ever, with love and kisses to you both, edward." "mother," she said afterwards, "let me suggest that you send up a carriage to-morrow evening, which papa judge may take as an invitation to come early on saturday morning. if mr. ridgeley sees me, had he not better find me in my mother's and father's house?" "_if_ he sees you, julia?" "of course if he wishes to, he will." and she was not conversational, and wandered about, and if possible would have been a little pettish. "are you not glad, julia, that he has acquitted himself so well? he seems to have carried the court and jury and all by storm." "of course he did. does that surprise you? but it is all so stupid, staying there to try that pokey old case." "julia, what under the sun is the matter?" looking at her in surprise. the girl turned and knelt by her mother, and laid her face down in her lap, and burst into violent sobbings. on the morrow julia arose, sweet and composed, with the old light in her eyes, and her wonted color coming and going with the mysterious emotions within. she was almost gay and joyous at breakfast, and then grew fitful and restless, and then became pensive again. the day was a marvel of the forward spring, and the sun filled the whole heavens with its wondrous light. the blue bird called down in his flight, with his trill of gladness, and the robins flooded the leafless trees and the lawn with gushes of purest melody. julia could not remain in the house; she could not remain anywhere; and as the morning deepened, she took a sudden resolution and ordered prince to be saddled at once. "mother," said she, "i have the whole of this long, long day. i must gallop off through the woods, around to wilder's. i haven't been there since last fall; and then i will come around by mrs. ridgeley's and tell her, and so home. don't gay a word, mother; i must go. i cannot stay here. i'll be back in good time." so mounting prince she bounded off. when she felt herself going with the springy, elastic leap of her splendid steed, she thought she had found what she most wanted--to go to that little blessed nook of shelter and repose under the rocks by the running stream, in the sun. something seemed to call her, and the day, the rapid motion, the exhilaration of the atmosphere, as she dashed through it, softened her excitement, and a calm, elevated, half-religious extasy possessed her; and the sky and air, and brown, desolate earth, just warming with the april sun, all glowed with hope. how near to her seemed heaven and all holy, sweet influences; and the centre of it all was one radiant, beautiful face, looking with sad, wistful eyes to her for love and life which she so wanted to give. she felt and knew that to this one in some way, she would be fully revealed, and misconception and absence and doubt would vanish. she should meet him, but just how he would look, or what he would say, or how she should or could answer him, she could not shadow out, and would not try. all that, she was sure, would take care of itself, and he would know and understand her finally. prince seemed fully to appreciate the day, and to be inspired with its subtle and exhilarating elixir; but after a mile or two of over-spirit, he sobered down into his long, easy, springy, untiring gallop. they passed the fields and went along the hard and dry highway, till she reached the diverging trail that struck off through the woods toward the settlement on the other side, the nearest house of which was wilder's. on she went among the trees, past recently deserted sugar camps, away from human habitations, into and through the heart of the forest, joyous and glad in her beauty and young life and hope, and happy thoughts; and finally she came to the creek; here she drew up her still fresh horse, and rode slowly through its clear, rapid waters, and turned down on its other bank. how glad it seemed, gurgling and rippling, and swirling, with liquid music and motion! slowly she rode down and with a half timid feeling, as somehow doubting if she would not return. but it was all silent and quiet; the sunshine and the voice of the stream seemed to re-assure her, and the strange feeling passed away, as she entered the little nook so dear to her memory. how silent and empty it was, in the rich, bright light of the mid-forenoon! she dismounted, and taking her skirt upon her arm, was about to step under the rude shed, with the thought of the birds who had reared their young there the year before, when prince lifted his head with a forward movement of his ears, and turning her eyes down the stream, they fell upon barton, who had just passed around the lower angle of the rocks, and paused in speechless surprise, within a few feet of her. with a little cry of joy, she threw out her hands and sprang towards him. her forgotten skirt tripped her, and she would have fallen, but the quick arms of barton were about her, and for an exquisite moment she abandoned herself fully to him. "oh, arthur, you have come to me!" their lips found each other, the great mass of dark brown hair almost overflowed the light brown curls, and their glad tears mingled. "julia! i am alive--awake! and you are in my arms! your kiss has been on my lips! you love me!" "with my whole heart and soul!" "oh, how blessed to die at this moment!" murmured bart. "would it not be more blessed to live, love?" she whispered. "and you have always loved me?" "always--there--there!" with a touch of her lips at each word. "i thought--" "i know you did. you shall never, never think again--there!" she withdrew from his arms, and adjusted her skirt, and stood by him in her wondrous beauty, radiant with the great happiness that filled her heart. barton was still confused, and looked with eyes wide open with amazement, partly at seeing her at all, partly at her marvellous beauty, which to him was seraphic, and more and most of all, at the revelation of her great love. "oh julia! how was this? how is this--this coming of heaven to me; this marvel of your love?" "did you really think, arthur, that i had no eyes; that i had no ears; that i had no woman's heart? how could you think so meanly of me, and so meanly of yourself?" "but you so scorned me." "hush! that was your word: it was not true; you were even then in my foolish girl's heart. don't speak of that to me now; surely you must have known that that was all a mistake." "and you always loved me? how wonderful that we should meet here and to-day!" he said, unable to take his eyes from her. "you know the place and remember the day? is it more marvellous, than that we should have been here before? i never knew how you found me then, and i am as much puzzled about your being here now. father wrote us that you would come down with him to-morrow." "tell me how _you_ come to be here, to-day, of all the things in the world?" said bart. "am i to tell first? well, you see, i wanted to see mrs. wilder and rose; i have not been to their house since last fall, and so, having nothing else to do, i rode over, and just thought we would come down here--didn't we, prince?" "and so you call him prince?" said bart, who had recognized the horse. "yes, and i will sometime tell you why, if you will tell me how you came here to-day." "i came on purpose, because i wanted to. because you had hallowed the place, i knew that i should find your haunting presence in it. oh, when that case was over, and i got out, all the old dreams, and visions, and memories, and voices came to me. and your face never absent, not with the old look of scorn that it seemed to wear, but sweet, and half reproachful, haunted me, and made me half believe what poor henry's smitten love said to me of you, when i told her my story." "bless her," murmured julia. "and i walked, and mused, and dreamed all the night; and this morning i sent your kind, good father a note, and came off. i came as directly here as i could, and now indeed i believe god sent me." his arm was about her, and he held both her hands. the frank confession, so sweet to her, had its immediate reward from her lips. "arthur," she said, "i, too, came to see this place, with its sweet and sacred memories. i have been here three times before. you may know every thought and feeling of my heart. i could not have got through the day without coming: and how blessed i am for coming. do you remember, when you had done all you could for my rest and comfort, how, on that awful yet precious night, you asked me if i had said a prayer, and i asked you to pray? do you know that my mother and i both believe that that prayer was answered, and that she was impressed with my safety in answer to it? oh, how grateful to our father for his goodness to us we should be. arthur, can you thank him for us, now?" and they knelt in the forest solitude, with god and his blessed sun and blue sky, and their two young, pure, loving hearts joined in a fervent outpouring of gratitude. "our father, for the precious and blessed revelation of our hearts, each to the other, we thank thee. let this love be as pure, and sacred, and holy, and eternal, as we now feel it to be. grant, dear father, that it may be sanctified by holy marriage; and that through thy gracious providence, this union of hearts and souls may ever be ours. hear us, thy young, helpless, yet trusting, believing, and loving children." and she: "sweet and blessed saviour; let thy precious love and presence be also about us, to keep us, help us, and bless us; and father, let the maiden's voice also join in the prayer that thou wilt bless us, as one." they arose, and turned to each other, with sweet, calm, restful, happy faces; with souls full of trust and confidence, that was to know no change or diminution. chapter l. the gospel of love. julia pointed out the bird's nest under the roof, and to a faded garland of flowers, hung upon the rough bark of the old hemlock, against which barton had reclined, and another upon the rock just over where she had rested. in some way these brought to bart's mind the flowers on henry's grave; and in a moment he felt that her hand had placed them there; the precious little hand that lay so willingly in his own. raising it to his lips, he said: "julia, this same blessed hand has strewn my poor dear brother's grave with flowers." "are you glad, arthur?" "oh, so glad, and grateful! and the same hand wrote me the generous warning against that wretched greer?" "yes, arthur. father came home from that first trial distressed about you, and i wrote it. i thought you would not know the hand." "i did not--though when your letter came to me in jefferson, the address reminded me of it. but i did not think you wrote it. and when rumors were abroad of my connection with these men, after i went to albany, who was it who sent somebody to ravenna, to get a contradiction from greer, himself?" "no one sent anybody: some one went," in the lowest little voice. "oh, julia! did you go, yourself?" "yes." "with the love of such a woman, what may not a man do?" cried bart, with enthusiasm. "julia, i suspect more--that i owe all and everything to you." "you saved my life, arthur, and will you not take little things from me?" "i owe you for all the love and happiness of all my future, julia, and for the stimulus that has made me work these three years. you love me; and love takes from love, and gives all it can and has, and is content." "bless you, arthur!" and affecting to notice the passage of the sun towards the meridian--she turned to him a little anxiously--"what time is it, arthur?"--as if she cared! he told her, and she extended her hand and took the watch, and toyed with it a moment; "it is a pretty watch, open it, please," which he did. looking at it intently, with heightened color, she pointed with the rosy tip of a finger, to an almost hidden inscription, which bart had never seen before, and which he saw were letters spelling "julia." he started up amazed, and for the moment trembled. "oh, julia! all that i have and am, the food i have eaten, the clothes i wear, all came from you! old windsor is a fraud--an instrument--and i have carried your blessed name these long months, not knowing it." "arthur, 'you love me, and love takes from love. it gives all it has and can, and is content.' it is a blessed gospel, arthur. think how much i owe you--gladly owe you;--the obligation was not a burthen; but you would not even let me express my gratitude. think of your dreadful letter. when you knelt and prayed for me, i would have put my lips to yours, had you been near me. i let you see my very heart in every line i wrote you, and you turned from me so coldly, and proudly, and blindly, and i could see you were so unhappy. oh, i would not have been worthy to be carried a step in your arms, if i had not done the last thing in my power. i went and saw mr. wade, and father promised me the money, and mr. wade arranged it all for me; and dear, blessed mr. windsor is not a fraud; he loves you himself, and loved your brother." "forgive me, forgive me, julia," said bart, who had sunk on the leaves at her feet, and was resting his head against her bosom, with one arm of hers about his neck; "and this watch?" "that i purchased and had engraved, and perhaps--what would you have done had you seen my name?" "come straight to you at once." "and you are content?" "perfectly; you love me, and i accept the gospel of love," and he looked up with his clear, open brow and honest, transparent eyes, and gazing down into them and into the depths of his soul, seeming to see great happiness, dimmed a little with regret, she bent her head and put her lips to his, and tears fell from her eyes once again upon his face. "arthur," again lifting her head, "how glad i am that this is all told you now, when you are tenderest to me, and i have no secret to carry and fear, nothing to do now but to make you happy, and be so happy. sometime, soon, you will tell me all your precious heart history, keeping nothing from me." "everything, everything, julia! and something i may say now--i don't want to leave this sweet, sacred place, without a word about my letter. it was written in utter hopelessness of your love. the occurrences of that strange night had replaced me within the reach of my own esteem." "how had you ever lost that, arthur?" "by my own folly. i loved you when i came back--before i went away--always. it was a dream, a sweet, delicious dream--that inspired poetry, and kindled ambition, but was purely unselfish. i had not a thought or a hope of a return. this passion came to possess me, to occupy my mind, and absorb my whole being. i knew it could not in the nature of things be returned." "arthur!" "and i rushed into your presence, and declared it, and received what i expected and needed--though it paralyzed me, but my pride came to my rescue, and what strength i had; i went away humiliated, and aroused myself and found places on which i could stand, and strength to work. so far as you were concerned, julia, i only hoped that in the far future, if you ever recalled my mad words--" "that did not fall in the dust under my feet, and were not forgotten, sir," interrupted julia. "thank you, dearest--but if they should come to you, you would feel that they had not insulted you. i avoided you, of course, and had to avoid your mother. i would not see you, but you were ever about me, and became an inspiring power. i burned all the sketches i had made of you, but one, and that i mislaid." "i found it. i am glad you lost it, you naughty child." "did you? well, i went through the winter and spring, and the awful calamity of henry's death, and the next fall and winter, and you wore away, and although i might not see you, your absence made newbury a desert. and i felt it, when you came back. and when i got ready to go i could not. i set the time, sent off my trunk, and lingered. i even went one night past your father's house, only to see where you were, and yet i lingered; i found flowers on my brother's grave, and thought that some maiden loved him." "when she loved you." "that wednesday night i would go, but couldn't." "tell me all that happened to you that night; it is a mystery to us all; you did not even tell your mother." "it is not much. i had abandoned my intention of going that night, and was restless and uneasy, when george rushed in and told me you were lost. he had learned all that was known, and told it very clearly. i knew of the chopping, and where the path led up to it, and i thought you would tarn back to the old road, and might enter the woods, on the other side. everything seemed wonderfully clear to me. my great love kindled and aroused every faculty, and strung every nerve. i was ready in a moment. george brought me two immense hickory torches, that together would burn out a winter night; and with one of our sugar camp tapers. i lighted one, as i went. i must have reached the point where you left the old road, in ten minutes. i was never so strong, i seemed to know that i would find you, and felt that it was for this i had staid, and blamed myself for the selfish joy i felt, that i could serve and perhaps save you. "i examined the old road, and in one wet place, i found your track going north, and a little further was the old path, that led to the slashing. at the entrance to it, the leaves had been disturbed, as if by footsteps; i saw many of them, and thought you had become lost, and would follow the path; so i went on. when i reached the slashing, i knew you would not enter that, but supposed you would skirt around on the east and south side, as the path led southwesterly to it. of course i looked and searched the ground, and could occasionally see where a footfall had disturbed the leaves. "i concluded that sooner or later, you would realize that you were lost; and then--for i knew you were strong and brave--would undertake to strike off toward home, without reference to anything; and i knew, of course, that you would then go exactly the wrong way, because you were lost. after skirting about the slashing, i could find no foot-marks in the leaves; and i struck out southerly, and in a little thicket of young beeches and prickly ash, hanging to a thorn, i found your hood. oh, god! what joy and thankfulness were mine; and there in the deep leaves, going westerly, was your trail." "i thought i saw that awful beast, just before i reached that place, and fled, not knowing where," said julia. "did you call, julia?" "i had called before that, many times." "you were too far to be heard by your father and friends; and i was too late to hear you. i called several times, when i found the hood. of course no answer came, and following the trail where it could be seen, i went on. i missed it often, and circled about until i found it, or something like it, always bearing away deeper and deeper into the wood. then the wind blew awfully, and the snow began to sift down. my first torch was well burned out, and i knew i had been out some hours. i lighted the other and went on; soon i struck this creek, and fancied that you, if you had reached it, would follow it down." "i did." "soon after, at a soft place where a little branch came in, i found your tracks again, several of them; and i knew i was right, and was certain i should find you. in my great joy, i thanked god, with my whole heart. it was storming fearfully; and trees were cracking, and breaking, and falling, in the fury of the wind. i called, but i knew nobody could hear me a dozen rods away. it had become intensely cold, and i feared you would become exhausted and fall down, and perhaps perish ere i could reach you. i hurried on, looked by every tree and log, calling and searching. i don't know where i struck the creek, though i knew every rood of the woods: i am, as you know, a born woodsman, and know all wood craft. although i was certain i would find you, i began to grow fearfully anxious, and almost to doubt. as i went i called your name, and listened. finally a faint sound came back to me, and i sprang forward--when you rose partly up before me. oh, god! oh, god!" and his voice was lost in emotion. "for one moment i was overcome, and did, i know not what, save that i knelt by you and kissed your hands. their chilly touch recalled me. i felt that i had saved you not only for your father and mother, but for your pure self, and to be the bride of some unknown man; and i was resolved that no memory of yours, and no thought of his, should ever occasion a blush for what should occur between us." "how noble and heroic you were--" "you know all that happened after." "and in your anxiety to save me from myself, you would not even let me thank you. and when i slept, you stole away." "what could i do. julia? i had saved you, i had redeemed myself; and found a calm, cold peace and joy in which i could go. in view of what had happened between us before, how hard and embarrassing for you to meet and thank me, and i feared to meet you. it was better that i should go, and with one stolen look at your sweet, sleeping face, i went." "arthur, my poor best will i do to repay you for all your pain and anguish." "am i not more than repaid, proud and happy? it was for the best. i needed to suffer and work; and yet how blessed to have carried the knowledge of your love with me!" "oh, i wanted to whisper it to you, to have you know; and i was unhappy because i knew you were," she murmured. "my poor letter in answer to yours i fear was rude and proud and unmanly. what could i say? the possibility that i could be more than a friend to you never occurred to me, and when ida tried to persuade me that you did love me, her efforts were vain; i could hardly induce her to abandon the idea of writing you." "there is a blessed providence in it all, arthur; and in nothing more blessed than in bringing us together here, where we could meet and speak, with only the sunshine and this bright stream for witnesses." "and what a sweet little story of love and hope and joy it carries murmuring along!" said bart, struck with the poetry of her figure. "but we must not always stay here," said the practical woman. "we must go home, must not we, prince?" addressing the horse, which had stood quietly watching the lovers, and occasionally looking about him. "you have changed his name?" said bart. "yes. you see he is your horse, and i called him prince arthur the very day i received him, which was the day your letter came. i call him prince. he is a prince--and so is his namesake," she added, playfully pulling his moustache. "you don't like that?" said bart; "the moustache? i can cut it away in a moment." "i do like it, and you must not cut it away. stand out there, and let me have a good look at you; please turn your eyes away from me--there so." "you find me changed," he said, "and i find you more lovely than ever," rushing back to her. "you spoilt my view, sir." "you will see enough of me," he said, gaily. "you are changed," she went on, "but i like you better. now, sir, here is your horse. i deliver you, prince, to your true lord and master; and you must love him, and serve him truly." "and i have already dedicated you to your lady and mistress," said bart, "and you must forever serve her." "and the first thing you do, will be to carry wilder down to my dear mother, with a letter--how blessed and happy she will be!--asking her to send up a carriage--unless you have one somewhere?" "me? i haven't anything anywhere, but you. a carriage brought me into this region, and i sent it back. keep and ride the prince, as you call him; i can walk. i've done it before." "you shall never do it again; if you do i will walk with you. we will go to wilder's, and see mrs. wilder, who is a blessed woman, and who knew your secret, and knows mine; and rose, who took me into her bed; and we will have some dinner, unromantic ham and eggs; and when the carriage comes, i will drive you to your mother's, and then you shall drive me home--do you understand?" "perfectly; and shall implicitly obey. do you know, i half suspect this is all a dream, and that i shall wake up in albany, or jefferson, or somewhere? i know i am not in chardon, for i could not sleep long enough to dream there." "why?" "i was too near newbury, and under the spell of old feelings and memories; and i don't care to sleep again." as they were about to leave the dear little nook, "arthur," said julia, "let us buy a bit of this land, and keep this little romantic spot from destruction." so they went out through the trees in the warm sun, bart with prince's bridle in his hand, and julia with her skirt over one arm and the other in that of her lover. "i hold tightly to your arm," said bart, laughing, "so that if you vanish, i may vanish with you." "and i will be careful and not go to sleep while we are at wilder's, for fear you will steal away from me, you bad boy. if you knew how i felt when i woke and found you had gone--" "i should not have gone," interrupted bart. thus all the little sweet nothings that would look merely silly on paper, and sound foolish to other ears, yet so precious to them, passed from one to the other as they went. wilder had eaten his dinner, and lounged out into the sun, with his pipe, as they walked up. he knew julia, of course, and prince, and looked hard at bart, as they passed; when the comely wife came running out. "oh," she exclaimed, taking julia's hand, "and this--this is mr. ridgeley." "it is indeed," said bart, brightly. "and you are not--not--oh! your two hearts are happy i see it in both your faces. i am so glad." julia bent and kissed her. "oh, i knew when he went off so heart-broken, that it wasn't your fault, and i always wished i had kept him." sweet, shy, blushing rose came forward, and bart took her hands and hoped she would look upon him as an older brother long absent, and just returned. and little lisping george, staring at him curiously, "are you plinth arthur?" "prince arthur?" cried bart, catching him up, "do i look like a prince?" "yeth." "take that," said bart, laughing, giving him a gold coin. "he is a prince," said julia, "and you see he gives like a prince." "exactly," answered bart; "princes always give other peoples' gold for flattery." "and now, mr. wilder, i want you to put your saddle on prince, and gallop straight to my mother, and drive back a carriage. i found this unhappy youth wandering about in these same woods, and i am going to take him with me this time." when wilder was ready, she gave him the following note: "_dear mother_:--i am so blessed and happy. arthur and i met this morning in the dear old nook under the rocks, and we are the happiest two in the world. "julia. "p.s. i forgot. send a carriage by wilder. i don't want a driver. we will go round by arthur's mother's, and be with you this evening. j. "p.s. send me a skirt." and whether the sun stood still or journeyed on, they did not note, nor could they remember what mrs. wilder gave them for dinner, or whether they tasted it. at last wilder appeared with a light carriage and pair. julia's saddle was put on board, and the lovers, julia holding the reins, drove away. chapter li. the return. spring came with its new life and promise, sweetly and serenely to the home and heart of barton's mother, who was looking and hoping for his return, with a strong, intense, but silent yearning. for herself, for his brothers, and more for julia, whom she now understood, and tenderly loved, and whose secret was sacred to her woman's heart; and most of all for barton's own sake; for she knew that when these two met, the shadow that had surrounded them would disappear. some pang she felt that there should be to him a dearer one; but she knew that julia did not come between them, and that nothing would chill that side of his heart--the child side--that was next her own. on wednesday morning julia had galloped up and given her bart's letter of tuesday, so that she knew he was in chardon, well and hopeful, and would return to her as soon as he escaped from his trial. thursday evening dr. lyman came all aglow from chardon. he had seen bart and heard his argument, and all the enthusiasm of his nature was fully excited. now on this long, warm friday--the anniversary of his departure--he was to come; and naturally enough she looked to see him come the way he went--from the east. often, even before noon, she turned her eyes wistfully down the road, and until it met the rise the other side of the little valley, so on up past the red school house, and was lost over the summit; but the road was empty and lonely. as the afternoon ran toward evening, she began to grow anxious. suddenly the sound of wheels caught her ear, and she turned as judge markham's grays headed up to her gate. she recognized julia, who, without waiting to be helped, sprang lightly from the carriage, with her face radiant, and bounding to her threw her arms about her neck. "oh, mother--my mother now--he is here. i met him in those blessed woods and brought him to you." then she made room for him, and for a moment the mother's arms encircled them both. how glad and happy she was, no man may know; as no man understands, and no woman can reveal, the depth and strength of mother love. the three in happy tears--tears, that soon vanish, went into the dear old house, into whose every room bart rushed in a moment, calling for the boys, and asking a thousand unanswered questions, and coming back, with a flood of words, half tears and half laughs. "so, bart," said the proud and happy mother, "it is all right," with a look towards julia. "i knew it would be." "and, mother, you knew it, too?" "a woman sees where a man is blind, sometimes," she answered. "and boys must find these things out for themselves. poor boy, i wanted somebody to whisper it to you." "somebody has done so, mother, and i am now so glad that it was left for that one to tell me." the boys came in, and were a little overwhelmed, even george, with the warmth of their brother's reception. julia went straight to george, saying, "now, sir, you belong to me; you are to be my dear youngest brother! what a row of handsome brothers i shall have--there!--there!"--with a kiss for each word. george at first did not quite comprehend: "julia, are you going to be bart's wife?" "yes," with a richer color. "when?" "hush! that isn't a question for you to ask." and she bent over him with another low sweet "hush," that he understood. soon the colonel and his sweet young wife came in, and they all came to know that julia was one of them; and she knew what warm, true hearts had come so suddenly about her with their strong, steady tenderness. then, as the sun fell among the western tree tops, julia said to mrs. ridgeley, "now arthur must drive me home; his other mother has not seen him; and to-morrow i will bring him to you. he is to remain with us, and we will come and go between our two homes for, i don't know how long; until he grows stout and strong, and has run through all the woods, and visited all the dear old places, and grows weary of us, and sighs for blackstone, and all those horrid books." she took her happy place by his side in the carriage, after kissing them all, including ed, and they drove leisurely away. as they went, he told her gaily of the lonely walk, in darkness, when he last went over this road. the sketch brought new tears to the tender eyes at his side. "oh, arthur! if you could have only known! if you had come to me for one moment." "today could never have come," he interrupted. "i like it as it is. how could i ever have had the beautiful revelation of your high and heroic qualities, julia? and we could not have met as we did this morning. the very memory of that meeting equals the hope and blessedness of heaven." down past the quiet houses they rode; through bits of woods that still fringed parts of the road; down past the old saw mill; up over the hill, where they paused to look over the beautiful pond, full to its high banks; then to the state road, and south over the high hills, overlooking the little cemetery, towards which bart looked tenderly. "not to-night, love," said julia; "their beautiful spirits see and love, and go with us." so in the twilight, and with a pensive and serene happiness, they passed up through the straggling village, julia and her lover, to her own home. it had somehow been made known that bart would that evening arrive. his trunk had been received by the stage, at the stage house, and a group of curious persons were on the look out in front of parker's, as they drove past. when bart lifted his hat, they recognized and greeted him with a hearty cheer; which was repeated when the carriage passed the store. bart was deeply touched. "you see," said the happy julia, "that everybody loves you." "you see they greet us on your account," he answered. a little group was also at her father's gate, and as bart sprang out, julia's mother took him by both hands. "so you have come at last, and will be one of us." just how he answered, or how julia alighted, he could never tell. this was the final touch and test, and if the whole did not vanish, he should certainly accept it all as real. "what a sweet and wonderful little romance it all is," said the happy mother; "and to happen to us here, in this new, wild, humdrum region! who shall say that god does not order, and that heroism does not exist; and that faithful love is not still rewarded." "mrs. markham"-- "call me mother!" said that lady; "i have long loved you, and thought of you as my son." "and your husband?" said bart. "is here to answer for himself," said the judge, entering. he came forward and greeted bart warmly. "judge markham," said bart, holding each parent by a hand; "julia and i met by accident this morning, at the place where we were sheltered a year ago. we found that no explanation was needed, and we there asked god to bless our love and marriage. of course we may have taken too much for granted." "no, no!" said the judge, warmly, placing julia's hand within his. "we will now, and always, and ever, ask god to bless your love, and crown it with a true and sacred marriage. such as ours has been, my love, won't we?" "certainly," answered mrs. markham. "and we take him to our home and hearts as our true son." then all knelt, and the father's voice in reverent prayer and thanksgiving, was for a moment lifted to the great father. later, they were quiet and happy, around a tea, or rather a supper table. but bart toyed with his fork, and sparkled with happy, brilliant sallies. julia watched him with real concern. "arthur," she said, "i am a woman; and a woman likes to see even her lover eat. it is the mother part, isn't it, mamma?" blushing and laughing, "that likes to see children feed. now he has not eaten a mouthful to-day; and i shall be anxious." "for that matter he dined on a gill of milk, and one ounce of honey yesterday," said the judge, "don't you ever eat?" "and i shall shock him;" said julia, "he will soon find that i am only common vulgar flesh and blood, to be fed and nourished." "don't fear," said bart; "i like a strong, healthy, deep chested woman, who can live and endure. i am not the least bit of a byron. and now let me get used to this new heaven, into which you have just taken me; let my heart get steady, if it will, in its great happiness. let me have some good runs in the woods, some good rows on the ponds, some hard gallops. let me get tired, and i'll astonish you with a famine." "i shall be glad to see it," said julia. there came pleasant talk of trifles, that only lay about on the surface, and near the great joy of their new happiness; and little pleasantries of the judge. he asked julia, "how she liked the moustache, suggesting that it might be in the way. "i like it," said julia, "and it isn't a bit in the way." then he referred to a certain other grave matter, and wanted to know when? "that isn't for you to ask, papa judge--is it, mamma?" chapter lii. final dream land. later still, when the elders had left the lovers to each other, bart found himself reclining on the sofa, with his head in julia's lap. and those little rosy tipped fingers toyed caressingly with that coveted moustache, and were kissed for it, and went and did it again, and so on; and then tenderly with the long light brown wavy curls. "julia, these blessed moments of love and rest, though they run into days or weeks, will end." "arthur"--reproachfully. "time will not stand and leave us to float, and come and go on a sweet shaded river of delight; sometime i must go out to show that i am not unworthy of you, to find, and to make. you shall have your own sweet way, and will, and yet you will also--will you not?--tell me when this happiness shall be lost in the greater, merely that i may do my man's part." "arthur, i take you at your word. my will is that for two blessed months, of which this shall not be counted as one day, for it must stand forever apart, you shall say nothing of books, or wanting them; or of business, or cases, or location, but shall stay with us, our mothers and father, with me, and run, and ride, and hunt, and fish, and grow strong, and eat, and i will let you go, and alone, when you wish; and at the end of two months, i will tell you when." "and arthur," stooping low over him, "a young girl's heart and ways are curious, and not worth a man's knowing, or thought, perhaps. let me know you, let me be acquainted with you, and i would like you to know me also, though it may not repay you; and let me grow to be your wife. we have such funny notions, such weak girl ways and thoughts. i have not had my lover a full day yet. a young girl wishes to be courted and sought, and made believe that she is supreme; and she likes to have her lover come at a set time, and sit and wait and think the clock has been turned back, and that he won't come, and yet he must come, at the moment; and she will affect to have forgotten it. she likes to be wooed with music, and flowers, and poetry, and to remain coy and only yield when her full heart had gone long before; and then to be engaged, and wear her ring, and be proud of her affianced, and to be envied--oh, it is a thousand, thousand times more to us than to you. it is our all, and we can enjoy it but once, and think what is lost out of the life of the young girl who has not enjoyed it at all. see, arthur, what poor, petty, weak things we are, not worth the understanding, and not worth the winning, as we would be won." arthur had started up, and glided to the floor, on his knees, had clasped his hands about her slender waist, and was looking earnestly and tenderly into her coy, half-averted face, as, half seriously and half in badinage, she made her plaint. "oh, julia!" "nay, arthur, i like it as it is. it was in your nature to have known me, and to have courted me in the old way; but it would have been poor and tame, and made up of a few faded flowers and scraps of verses; and think what i have had--a daring hero between me and a wild beast--a brave, devoted and passionate lover, who, in spite of scorn and rejection, hunted for me through night and tempest, to rescue me from death, who takes me up in his strong arms, carries me over a flood, and nourishes me back to life, and goes proudly away, asking nothing but the great boon of serving me. oh! i had a thousand times rather have this! it is now a beautiful romance. but i am to have my ring, and"-- "be my sweet and blessed sovereign lady; to be served and worshipped, and to hear music and poetry; whose word and wish is to be law in all the realm of love." "from which you are not to depart for two full months of thirty-one days each." then she conducted him to the apartment in which we beheld her the night before. "this," pushing open the door, into the room, warm and sweet with the odor of flowers, "is your own special room, to be yours, always." "always?" a little plaintively. "always--until--until--i--we give you another." "good night, arthur." "good night, julia." she tripped down the hall, and turned her bright face to catch a kiss, and throw it back. with a sweet unrest in her full heart, the young maiden on her couch, set herself to count up the gathered treasures of the wonderful day. how was it? did her riding skirt really get under her feet? would he have caught her in his arms if she had not fallen? she thought he would. and so she mused; and at last in slumber dreamed sweet maiden's dreams of love and heaven. and bart found himself in a marvellous forest, wandering with julia, wondrous in her fresh and tender beauty, on through endless glades, amid the gush of bird-songs, and the fragrance of flowers. and there in the dream land whence i called them, i leave them. why should i awake them again? for them can another day so bright and happy ever dawn? i who love them, could have kept them for a bright brief space longer. i could have heard the sparkling voice of bart, and the answering laugh of julia--and then i should listen and not hear--look anxiously around and not see! i part in real sorrow with these bright children of my fancy, sweet awakeners of old time memories, placed amid far off scenes, to win from others, tenderness and love if they may. and may they be remembered as forever lingering in perennial youth and love, in the land of dreams. this etext was created by judith boss, omaha, nebraska. sherwood anderson winesburg, ohio contents introduction by irving howe the tales and the persons the book of the grotesque hands, concerning wing biddlebaum paper pills, concerning doctor reefy mother, concerning elizabeth willard the philosopher, concerning doctor parcival nobody knows, concerning louise trunnion godliness, a tale in four parts i, concerning jesse bentley ii, also concerning jesse bentley iii surrender, concerning louise bentley iv terror, concerning david hardy a man of ideas, concerning joe welling adventure, concerning alice hindman respectability, concerning wash williams the thinker, concerning seth richmond tandy, concerning tandy hard the strength of god, concerning the reverend curtis hartman the teacher, concerning kate swift loneliness, concerning enoch robinson an awakening, concerning belle carpenter "queer," concerning elmer cowley the untold lie, concerning ray pearson drink, concerning tom foster death, concerning doctor reefy and elizabeth willard sophistication, concerning helen white departure, concerning george willard introduction by irving howe i must have been no more than fifteen or sixteen years old when i first chanced upon winesburg, ohio. gripped by these stories and sketches of sherwood anderson's small-town "grotesques," i felt that he was opening for me new depths of experience, touching upon half-buried truths which nothing in my young life had prepared me for. a new york city boy who never saw the crops grow or spent time in the small towns that lay sprinkled across america, i found myself overwhelmed by the scenes of wasted life, wasted love--was this the "real" america?--that anderson sketched in winesburg. in those days only one other book seemed to offer so powerful a revelation, and that was thomas hardy's jude the obscure. several years later, as i was about to go overseas as a soldier, i spent my last week-end pass on a somewhat quixotic journey to clyde, ohio, the town upon which winesburg was partly modeled. clyde looked, i suppose, not very different from most other american towns, and the few of its residents i tried to engage in talk about anderson seemed quite uninterested. this indifference would not have surprised him; it certainly should not surprise anyone who reads his book. once freed from the army, i started to write literary criticism, and in i published a critical biography of anderson. it came shortly after lionel trilling's influential essay attacking anderson, an attack from which anderson's reputation would never quite recover. trilling charged anderson with indulging a vaporous sentimentalism, a kind of vague emotional meandering in stories that lacked social or spiritual solidity. there was a certain cogency in trilling's attack, at least with regard to anderson's inferior work, most of which he wrote after winesburg, ohio. in my book i tried, somewhat awkwardly, to bring together the kinds of judgment trilling had made with my still keen affection for the best of anderson's writings. by then, i had read writers more complex, perhaps more distinguished than anderson, but his muted stories kept a firm place in my memories, and the book i wrote might be seen as a gesture of thanks for the light--a glow of darkness, you might say--that he had brought to me. decades passed. i no longer read anderson, perhaps fearing i might have to surrender an admiration of youth. (there are some writers one should never return to.) but now, in the fullness of age, when asked to say a few introductory words about anderson and his work, i have again fallen under the spell of winesburg, ohio, again responded to the half-spoken desires, the flickers of longing that spot its pages. naturally, i now have some changes of response: a few of the stories no longer haunt me as once they did, but the long story "godliness," which years ago i considered a failure, i now see as a quaintly effective account of the way religious fanaticism and material acquisitiveness can become intertwined in american experience. * * * sherwood anderson was born in ohio in . his childhood and youth in clyde, a town with perhaps three thousand souls, were scarred by bouts of poverty, but he also knew some of the pleasures of pre-industrial american society. the country was then experiencing what he would later call "a sudden and almost universal turning of men from the old handicrafts towards our modern life of machines." there were still people in clyde who remembered the frontier, and like america itself, the town lived by a mixture of diluted calvinism and a strong belief in "progress," young sherwood, known as "jobby"--the boy always ready to work--showed the kind of entrepreneurial spirit that clyde respected: folks expected him to become a "go-getter," and for a time he did. moving to chicago in his early twenties, he worked in an advertising agency where he proved adept at turning out copy. "i create nothing, i boost, i boost," he said about himself, even as, on the side, he was trying to write short stories. in anderson married and three years later moved to elyria, a town forty miles west of cleveland, where he established a firm that sold paint. "i was going to be a rich man.... next year a bigger house; and after that, presumably, a country estate." later he would say about his years in elyria, "i was a good deal of a babbitt, but never completely one." something drove him to write, perhaps one of those shapeless hungers--a need for self-expression? a wish to find a more authentic kind of experience?--that would become a recurrent motif in his fiction. and then, in , occurred the great turning point in anderson's life. plainly put, he suffered a nervous breakdown, though in his memoirs he would elevate this into a moment of liberation in which he abandoned the sterility of commerce and turned to the rewards of literature. nor was this, i believe, merely a deception on anderson's part, since the breakdown painful as it surely was, did help precipitate a basic change in his life. at the age of , he left behind his business and moved to chicago, becoming one of the rebellious writers and cultural bohemians in the group that has since come to be called the "chicago renaissance." anderson soon adopted the posture of a free, liberated spirit, and like many writers of the time, he presented himself as a sardonic critic of american provincialism and materialism. it was in the freedom of the city, in its readiness to put up with deviant styles of life, that anderson found the strength to settle accounts with--but also to release his affection for--the world of small-town america. the dream of an unconditional personal freedom, that hazy american version of utopia, would remain central throughout anderson's life and work. it was an inspiration; it was a delusion. in and anderson published two novels mostly written in elyria, windy mcpherson's son and marching men, both by now largely forgotten. they show patches of talent but also a crudity of thought and unsteadiness of language. no one reading these novels was likely to suppose that its author could soon produce anything as remarkable as winesburg, ohio. occasionally there occurs in a writer's career a sudden, almost mysterious leap of talent, beyond explanation, perhaps beyond any need for explanation. in - anderson had begun to write and in he published the stories that comprise winesburg, ohio, stories that form, in sum, a sort of loosely-strung episodic novel. the book was an immediate critical success, and soon anderson was being ranked as a significant literary figure. in the distinguished literary magazine the dial awarded him its first annual literary prize of $ , , the significance of which is perhaps best understood if one also knows that the second recipient was t. s. eliot. but anderson's moment of glory was brief, no more than a decade, and sadly, the remaining years until his death in were marked by a sharp decline in his literary standing. somehow, except for an occasional story like the haunting "death in the woods," he was unable to repeat or surpass his early success. still, about winesburg, ohio and a small number of stories like "the egg" and "the man who became a woman" there has rarely been any critical doubt. * * * no sooner did winesburg, ohio make its appearance than a number of critical labels were fixed on it: the revolt against the village, the espousal of sexual freedom, the deepening of american realism. such tags may once have had their point, but by now they seem dated and stale. the revolt against the village (about which anderson was always ambivalent) has faded into history. the espousal of sexual freedom would soon be exceeded in boldness by other writers. and as for the effort to place winesburg, ohio in a tradition of american realism, that now seems dubious. only rarely is the object of anderson's stories social verisimilitude, or the "photographing" of familiar appearances, in the sense, say, that one might use to describe a novel by theodore dreiser or sinclair lewis. only occasionally, and then with a very light touch, does anderson try to fill out the social arrangements of his imaginary town--although the fact that his stories are set in a mid-american place like winesburg does constitute an important formative condition. you might even say, with only slight overstatement, that what anderson is doing in winesburg, ohio could be described as "antirealistic," fictions notable less for precise locale and social detail than for a highly personal, even strange vision of american life. narrow, intense, almost claustrophobic, the result is a book about extreme states of being, the collapse of men and women who have lost their psychic bearings and now hover, at best tolerated, at the edge of the little community in which they live. it would be a gross mistake, though not one likely to occur by now, if we were to take winesburg, ohio as a social photograph of "the typical small town" (whatever that might be.) anderson evokes a depressed landscape in which lost souls wander about; they make their flitting appearances mostly in the darkness of night, these stumps and shades of humanity. this vision has its truth, and at its best it is a terrible if narrow truth--but it is itself also grotesque, with the tone of the authorial voice and the mode of composition forming muted signals of the book's content. figures like dr. parcival, kate swift, and wash williams are not, nor are they meant to be, "fully-rounded" characters such as we can expect in realistic fiction; they are the shards of life, glimpsed for a moment, the debris of suffering and defeat. in each story one of them emerges, shyly or with a false assertiveness, trying to reach out to companionship and love, driven almost mad by the search for human connection. in the economy of winesburg these grotesques matter less in their own right than as agents or symptoms of that "indefinable hunger" for meaning which is anderson's preoccupation. brushing against one another, passing one another in the streets or the fields, they see bodies and hear voices, but it does not really matter--they are disconnected, psychically lost. is this due to the particular circumstances of small-town america as anderson saw it at the turn of the century? or does he feel that he is sketching an inescapable human condition which makes all of us bear the burden of loneliness? alice hindman in the story "adventure" turns her face to the wall and tries "to force herself to face the fact that many people must live and die alone, even in winesburg." or especially in winesburg? such impressions have been put in more general terms in anderson's only successful novel, poor white: all men lead their lives behind a wall of misunderstanding they have themselves built, and most men die in silence and unnoticed behind the walls. now and then a man, cut off from his fellows by the peculiarities of his nature, becomes absorbed in doing something that is personal, useful and beautiful. word of his activities is carried over the walls. these "walls" of misunderstanding are only seldom due to physical deformities (wing biddlebaum in "hands") or oppressive social arrangements (kate swift in "the teacher.") misunderstanding, loneliness, the inability to articulate, are all seen by anderson as virtually a root condition, something deeply set in our natures. nor are these people, the grotesques, simply to be pitied and dismissed; at some point in their lives they have known desire, have dreamt of ambition, have hoped for friendship. in all of them there was once something sweet, "like the twisted little apples that grow in the orchards in winesburg." now, broken and adrift, they clutch at some rigid notion or idea, a "truth" which turns out to bear the stamp of monomania, leaving them helplessly sputtering, desperate to speak out but unable to. winesburg, ohio registers the losses inescapable to life, and it does so with a deep fraternal sadness, a sympathy casting a mild glow over the entire book. "words," as the american writer paula fox has said, "are nets through which all truth escapes." yet what do we have but words? they want, these winesburg grotesques, to unpack their hearts, to release emotions buried and festering. wash williams tries to explain his eccentricity but hardly can; louise bentley "tried to talk but could say nothing"; enoch robinson retreats to a fantasy world, inventing "his own people to whom he could really talk and to whom he explained the things he had been unable to explain to living people." in his own somber way, anderson has here touched upon one of the great themes of american literature, especially midwestern literature, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: the struggle for speech as it entails a search for the self. perhaps the central winesburg story, tracing the basic movements of the book, is "paper pills," in which the old doctor reefy sits "in his empty office close by a window that was covered with cobwebs," writes down some thoughts on slips of paper ("pyramids of truth," he calls them) and then stuffs them into his pockets where they "become round hard balls" soon to be discarded. what dr. reefy's "truths" may be we never know; anderson simply persuades us that to this lonely old man they are utterly precious and thereby incommunicable, forming a kind of blurred moral signature. after a time the attentive reader will notice in these stories a recurrent pattern of theme and incident: the grotesques, gathering up a little courage, venture out into the streets of winesburg, often in the dark, there to establish some initiatory relationship with george willard, the young reporter who hasn't yet lived long enough to become a grotesque. hesitantly, fearfully, or with a sputtering incoherent rage, they approach him, pleading that he listen to their stories in the hope that perhaps they can find some sort of renewal in his youthful voice. upon this sensitive and fragile boy they pour out their desires and frustrations. dr. parcival hopes that george willard "will write the book i may never get written," and for enoch robinson, the boy represents "the youthful sadness, young man's sadness, the sadness of a growing boy in a village at the year's end [which may open] the lips of the old man." what the grotesques really need is each other, but their estrangement is so extreme they cannot establish direct ties--they can only hope for connection through george willard. the burden this places on the boy is more than he can bear. he listens to them attentively, he is sympathetic to their complaints, but finally he is too absorbed in his own dreams. the grotesques turn to him because he seems "different"--younger, more open, not yet hardened--but it is precisely this "difference" that keeps him from responding as warmly as they want. it is hardly the boy's fault; it is simply in the nature of things. for george willard, the grotesques form a moment in his education; for the grotesques, their encounters with george willard come to seem like a stamp of hopelessness. the prose anderson employs in telling these stories may seem at first glance to be simple: short sentences, a sparse vocabulary, uncomplicated syntax. in actuality, anderson developed an artful style in which, following mark twain and preceding ernest hemingway, he tried to use american speech as the base of a tensed rhythmic prose that has an economy and a shapeliness seldom found in ordinary speech or even oral narration. what anderson employs here is a stylized version of the american language, sometimes rising to quite formal rhetorical patterns and sometimes sinking to a self-conscious mannerism. but at its best, anderson's prose style in winesburg, ohio is a supple instrument, yielding that "low fine music" which he admired so much in the stories of turgenev. one of the worst fates that can befall a writer is that of self-imitation: the effort later in life, often desperate, to recapture the tones and themes of youthful beginnings. something of the sort happened with anderson's later writings. most critics and readers grew impatient with the work he did after, say, or ; they felt he was constantly repeating his gestures of emotional "groping"--what he had called in winesburg, ohio the "indefinable hunger" that prods and torments people. it became the critical fashion to see anderson's "gropings" as a sign of delayed adolescence, a failure to develop as a writer. once he wrote a chilling reply to those who dismissed him in this way: "i don't think it matters much, all this calling a man a muddler, a groper, etc.... the very man who throws such words as these knows in his heart that he is also facing a wall." this remark seems to me both dignified and strong, yet it must be admitted that there was some justice in the negative responses to his later work. for what characterized it was not so much "groping" as the imitation of "groping," the self-caricature of a writer who feels driven back upon an earlier self that is, alas, no longer available. but winesburg, ohio remains a vital work, fresh and authentic. most of its stories are composed in a minor key, a tone of subdued pathos--pathos marking both the nature and limit of anderson's talent. (he spoke of himself as a "minor writer.") in a few stories, however, he was able to reach beyond pathos and to strike a tragic note. the single best story in winesburg, ohio is, i think, "the untold lie," in which the urgency of choice becomes an outer sign of a tragic element in the human condition. and in anderson's single greatest story, "the egg," which appeared a few years after winesburg, ohio, he succeeded in bringing together a surface of farce with an undertone of tragedy. "the egg" is an american masterpiece. anderson's influence upon later american writers, especially those who wrote short stories, has been enormous. ernest hemingway and william faulkner both praised him as a writer who brought a new tremor of feeling, a new sense of introspectiveness to the american short story. as faulkner put it, anderson's "was the fumbling for exactitude, the exact word and phrase within the limited scope of a vocabulary controlled and even repressed by what was in him almost a fetish of simplicity ... to seek always to penetrate to thought's uttermost end." and in many younger writers who may not even be aware of the anderson influence, you can see touches of his approach, echoes of his voice. writing about the elizabethan playwright john ford, the poet algernon swinburne once said: "if he touches you once he takes you, and what he takes he keeps hold of; his work becomes part of your thought and parcel of your spiritual furniture forever." so it is, for me and many others, with sherwood anderson. to the memory of my mother, emma smith anderson, whose keen observations on the life about her first awoke in me the hunger to see beneath the surface of lives, this book is dedicated. the tales and the persons the book of the grotesque the writer, an old man with a white mustache, had some difficulty in getting into bed. the windows of the house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look at the trees when he awoke in the morning. a carpenter came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with the window. quite a fuss was made about the matter. the carpenter, who had been a soldier in the civil war, came into the writer's room and sat down to talk of building a platform for the purpose of raising the bed. the writer had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked. for a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed and then they talked of other things. the soldier got on the subject of the war. the writer, in fact, led him to that subject. the carpenter had once been a prisoner in andersonville prison and had lost a brother. the brother had died of starvation, and whenever the carpenter got upon that subject he cried. he, like the old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and down. the weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth was ludicrous. the plan the writer had for the raising of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at night. in his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay quite still. for years he had been beset with notions concerning his heart. he was a hard smoker and his heart fluttered. the idea had got into his mind that he would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got into bed he thought of that. it did not alarm him. the effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily explained. it made him more alive, there in bed, than at any other time. perfectly still he lay and his body was old and not of much use any more, but something inside him was altogether young. he was like a pregnant woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby but a youth. no, it wasn't a youth, it was a woman, young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. it is absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the fluttering of his heart. the thing to get at is what the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was thinking about. the old writer, like all of the people in the world, had got, during his long life, a great many notions in his head. he had once been quite handsome and a number of women had been in love with him. and then, of course, he had known people, many people, known them in a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the way in which you and i know people. at least that is what the writer thought and the thought pleased him. why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts? in the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream. as he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious, figures began to appear before his eyes. he imagined the young indescribable thing within himself was driving a long procession of figures before his eyes. you see the interest in all this lies in the figures that went before the eyes of the writer. they were all grotesques. all of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques. the grotesques were not all horrible. some were amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her grotesqueness. when she passed he made a noise like a small dog whimpering. had you come into the room you might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion. for an hour the procession of grotesques passed before the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to write. some one of the grotesques had made a deep impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it. at his desk the writer worked for an hour. in the end he wrote a book which he called "the book of the grotesque." it was never published, but i saw it once and it made an indelible impression on my mind. the book had one central thought that is very strange and has always remained with me. by remembering it i have been able to understand many people and things that i was never able to understand before. the thought was involved but a simple statement of it would be something like this: that in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. all about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful. the old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his book. i will not try to tell you of all of them. there was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful. and then the people came along. each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them. it was the truths that made the people grotesques. the old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. it was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood. you can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent all of his life writing and was filled with words, would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter. the subject would become so big in his mind that he himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. he didn't, i suppose, for the same reason that he never published the book. it was the young thing inside him that saved the old man. concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the writer, i only mentioned him because he, like many of what are called very common people, became the nearest thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the grotesques in the writer's book. hands upon the half decayed veranda of a small frame house that stood near the edge of a ravine near the town of winesburg, ohio, a fat little old man walked nervously up and down. across a long field that had been seeded for clover but that had produced only a dense crop of yellow mustard weeds, he could see the public highway along which went a wagon filled with berry pickers returning from the fields. the berry pickers, youths and maidens, laughed and shouted boisterously. a boy clad in a blue shirt leaped from the wagon and attempted to drag after him one of the maidens, who screamed and protested shrilly. the feet of the boy in the road kicked up a cloud of dust that floated across the face of the departing sun. over the long field came a thin girlish voice. "oh, you wing biddlebaum, comb your hair, it's falling into your eyes," commanded the voice to the man, who was bald and whose nervous little hands fiddled about the bare white forehead as though arranging a mass of tangled locks. wing biddlebaum, forever frightened and beset by a ghostly band of doubts, did not think of himself as in any way a part of the life of the town where he had lived for twenty years. among all the people of winesburg but one had come close to him. with george willard, son of tom willard, the proprietor of the new willard house, he had formed something like a friendship. george willard was the reporter on the winesburg eagle and sometimes in the evenings he walked out along the highway to wing biddlebaum's house. now as the old man walked up and down on the veranda, his hands moving nervously about, he was hoping that george willard would come and spend the evening with him. after the wagon containing the berry pickers had passed, he went across the field through the tall mustard weeds and climbing a rail fence peered anxiously along the road to the town. for a moment he stood thus, rubbing his hands together and looking up and down the road, and then, fear overcoming him, ran back to walk again upon the porch on his own house. in the presence of george willard, wing biddlebaum, who for twenty years had been the town mystery, lost something of his timidity, and his shadowy personality, submerged in a sea of doubts, came forth to look at the world. with the young reporter at his side, he ventured in the light of day into main street or strode up and down on the rickety front porch of his own house, talking excitedly. the voice that had been low and trembling became shrill and loud. the bent figure straightened. with a kind of wriggle, like a fish returned to the brook by the fisherman, biddlebaum the silent began to talk, striving to put into words the ideas that had been accumulated by his mind during long years of silence. wing biddlebaum talked much with his hands. the slender expressive fingers, forever active, forever striving to conceal themselves in his pockets or behind his back, came forth and became the piston rods of his machinery of expression. the story of wing biddlebaum is a story of hands. their restless activity, like unto the beating of the wings of an imprisoned bird, had given him his name. some obscure poet of the town had thought of it. the hands alarmed their owner. he wanted to keep them hidden away and looked with amazement at the quiet inexpressive hands of other men who worked beside him in the fields, or passed, driving sleepy teams on country roads. when he talked to george willard, wing biddlebaum closed his fists and beat with them upon a table or on the walls of his house. the action made him more comfortable. if the desire to talk came to him when the two were walking in the fields, he sought out a stump or the top board of a fence and with his hands pounding busily talked with renewed ease. the story of wing biddlebaum's hands is worth a book in itself. sympathetically set forth it would tap many strange, beautiful qualities in obscure men. it is a job for a poet. in winesburg the hands had attracted attention merely because of their activity. with them wing biddlebaum had picked as high as a hundred and forty quarts of strawberries in a day. they became his distinguishing feature, the source of his fame. also they made more grotesque an already grotesque and elusive individuality. winesburg was proud of the hands of wing biddlebaum in the same spirit in which it was proud of banker white's new stone house and wesley moyer's bay stallion, tony tip, that had won the two-fifteen trot at the fall races in cleveland. as for george willard, he had many times wanted to ask about the hands. at times an almost overwhelming curiosity had taken hold of him. he felt that there must be a reason for their strange activity and their inclination to keep hidden away and only a growing respect for wing biddlebaum kept him from blurting out the questions that were often in his mind. once he had been on the point of asking. the two were walking in the fields on a summer afternoon and had stopped to sit upon a grassy bank. all afternoon wing biddlebaum had talked as one inspired. by a fence he had stopped and beating like a giant woodpecker upon the top board had shouted at george willard, condemning his tendency to be too much influenced by the people about him, "you are destroying yourself," he cried. "you have the inclination to be alone and to dream and you are afraid of dreams. you want to be like others in town here. you hear them talk and you try to imitate them." on the grassy bank wing biddlebaum had tried again to drive his point home. his voice became soft and reminiscent, and with a sigh of contentment he launched into a long rambling talk, speaking as one lost in a dream. out of the dream wing biddlebaum made a picture for george willard. in the picture men lived again in a kind of pastoral golden age. across a green open country came clean-limbed young men, some afoot, some mounted upon horses. in crowds the young men came to gather about the feet of an old man who sat beneath a tree in a tiny garden and who talked to them. wing biddlebaum became wholly inspired. for once he forgot the hands. slowly they stole forth and lay upon george willard's shoulders. something new and bold came into the voice that talked. "you must try to forget all you have learned," said the old man. "you must begin to dream. from this time on you must shut your ears to the roaring of the voices." pausing in his speech, wing biddlebaum looked long and earnestly at george willard. his eyes glowed. again he raised the hands to caress the boy and then a look of horror swept over his face. with a convulsive movement of his body, wing biddlebaum sprang to his feet and thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets. tears came to his eyes. "i must be getting along home. i can talk no more with you," he said nervously. without looking back, the old man had hurried down the hillside and across a meadow, leaving george willard perplexed and frightened upon the grassy slope. with a shiver of dread the boy arose and went along the road toward town. "i'll not ask him about his hands," he thought, touched by the memory of the terror he had seen in the man's eyes. "there's something wrong, but i don't want to know what it is. his hands have something to do with his fear of me and of everyone." and george willard was right. let us look briefly into the story of the hands. perhaps our talking of them will arouse the poet who will tell the hidden wonder story of the influence for which the hands were but fluttering pennants of promise. in his youth wing biddlebaum had been a school teacher in a town in pennsylvania. he was not then known as wing biddlebaum, but went by the less euphonic name of adolph myers. as adolph myers he was much loved by the boys of his school. adolph myers was meant by nature to be a teacher of youth. he was one of those rare, little-understood men who rule by a power so gentle that it passes as a lovable weakness. in their feeling for the boys under their charge such men are not unlike the finer sort of women in their love of men. and yet that is but crudely stated. it needs the poet there. with the boys of his school, adolph myers had walked in the evening or had sat talking until dusk upon the schoolhouse steps lost in a kind of dream. here and there went his hands, caressing the shoulders of the boys, playing about the tousled heads. as he talked his voice became soft and musical. there was a caress in that also. in a way the voice and the hands, the stroking of the shoulders and the touching of the hair were a part of the schoolmaster's effort to carry a dream into the young minds. by the caress that was in his fingers he expressed himself. he was one of those men in whom the force that creates life is diffused, not centralized. under the caress of his hands doubt and disbelief went out of the minds of the boys and they began also to dream. and then the tragedy. a half-witted boy of the school became enamored of the young master. in his bed at night he imagined unspeakable things and in the morning went forth to tell his dreams as facts. strange, hideous accusations fell from his loosehung lips. through the pennsylvania town went a shiver. hidden, shadowy doubts that had been in men's minds concerning adolph myers were galvanized into beliefs. the tragedy did not linger. trembling lads were jerked out of bed and questioned. "he put his arms about me," said one. "his fingers were always playing in my hair," said another. one afternoon a man of the town, henry bradford, who kept a saloon, came to the schoolhouse door. calling adolph myers into the school yard he began to beat him with his fists. as his hard knuckles beat down into the frightened face of the school-master, his wrath became more and more terrible. screaming with dismay, the children ran here and there like disturbed insects. "i'll teach you to put your hands on my boy, you beast," roared the saloon keeper, who, tired of beating the master, had begun to kick him about the yard. adolph myers was driven from the pennsylvania town in the night. with lanterns in their hands a dozen men came to the door of the house where he lived alone and commanded that he dress and come forth. it was raining and one of the men had a rope in his hands. they had intended to hang the school-master, but something in his figure, so small, white, and pitiful, touched their hearts and they let him escape. as he ran away into the darkness they repented of their weakness and ran after him, swearing and throwing sticks and great balls of soft mud at the figure that screamed and ran faster and faster into the darkness. for twenty years adolph myers had lived alone in winesburg. he was but forty but looked sixty-five. the name of biddlebaum he got from a box of goods seen at a freight station as he hurried through an eastern ohio town. he had an aunt in winesburg, a black-toothed old woman who raised chickens, and with her he lived until she died. he had been ill for a year after the experience in pennsylvania, and after his recovery worked as a day laborer in the fields, going timidly about and striving to conceal his hands. although he did not understand what had happened he felt that the hands must be to blame. again and again the fathers of the boys had talked of the hands. "keep your hands to yourself," the saloon keeper had roared, dancing, with fury in the schoolhouse yard. upon the veranda of his house by the ravine, wing biddlebaum continued to walk up and down until the sun had disappeared and the road beyond the field was lost in the grey shadows. going into his house he cut slices of bread and spread honey upon them. when the rumble of the evening train that took away the express cars loaded with the day's harvest of berries had passed and restored the silence of the summer night, he went again to walk upon the veranda. in the darkness he could not see the hands and they became quiet. although he still hungered for the presence of the boy, who was the medium through which he expressed his love of man, the hunger became again a part of his loneliness and his waiting. lighting a lamp, wing biddlebaum washed the few dishes soiled by his simple meal and, setting up a folding cot by the screen door that led to the porch, prepared to undress for the night. a few stray white bread crumbs lay on the cleanly washed floor by the table; putting the lamp upon a low stool he began to pick up the crumbs, carrying them to his mouth one by one with unbelievable rapidity. in the dense blotch of light beneath the table, the kneeling figure looked like a priest engaged in some service of his church. the nervous expressive fingers, flashing in and out of the light, might well have been mistaken for the fingers of the devotee going swiftly through decade after decade of his rosary. paper pills he was an old man with a white beard and huge nose and hands. long before the time during which we will know him, he was a doctor and drove a jaded white horse from house to house through the streets of winesburg. later he married a girl who had money. she had been left a large fertile farm when her father died. the girl was quiet, tall, and dark, and to many people she seemed very beautiful. everyone in winesburg wondered why she married the doctor. within a year after the marriage she died. the knuckles of the doctor's hands were extraordinarily large. when the hands were closed they looked like clusters of unpainted wooden balls as large as walnuts fastened together by steel rods. he smoked a cob pipe and after his wife's death sat all day in his empty office close by a window that was covered with cobwebs. he never opened the window. once on a hot day in august he tried but found it stuck fast and after that he forgot all about it. winesburg had forgotten the old man, but in doctor reefy there were the seeds of something very fine. alone in his musty office in the heffner block above the paris dry goods company's store, he worked ceaselessly, building up something that he himself destroyed. little pyramids of truth he erected and after erecting knocked them down again that he might have the truths to erect other pyramids. doctor reefy was a tall man who had worn one suit of clothes for ten years. it was frayed at the sleeves and little holes had appeared at the knees and elbows. in the office he wore also a linen duster with huge pockets into which he continually stuffed scraps of paper. after some weeks the scraps of paper became little hard round balls, and when the pockets were filled he dumped them out upon the floor. for ten years he had but one friend, another old man named john spaniard who owned a tree nursery. sometimes, in a playful mood, old doctor reefy took from his pockets a handful of the paper balls and threw them at the nursery man. "that is to confound you, you blathering old sentimentalist," he cried, shaking with laughter. the story of doctor reefy and his courtship of the tall dark girl who became his wife and left her money to him is a very curious story. it is delicious, like the twisted little apples that grow in the orchards of winesburg. in the fall one walks in the orchards and the ground is hard with frost underfoot. the apples have been taken from the trees by the pickers. they have been put in barrels and shipped to the cities where they will be eaten in apartments that are filled with books, magazines, furniture, and people. on the trees are only a few gnarled apples that the pickers have rejected. they look like the knuckles of doctor reefy's hands. one nibbles at them and they are delicious. into a little round place at the side of the apple has been gathered all of its sweetness. one runs from tree to tree over the frosted ground picking the gnarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with them. only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples. the girl and doctor reefy began their courtship on a summer afternoon. he was forty-five then and already he had begun the practice of filling his pockets with the scraps of paper that became hard balls and were thrown away. the habit had been formed as he sat in his buggy behind the jaded white horse and went slowly along country roads. on the papers were written thoughts, ends of thoughts, beginnings of thoughts. one by one the mind of doctor reefy had made the thoughts. out of many of them he formed a truth that arose gigantic in his mind. the truth clouded the world. it became terrible and then faded away and the little thoughts began again. the tall dark girl came to see doctor reefy because she was in the family way and had become frightened. she was in that condition because of a series of circumstances also curious. the death of her father and mother and the rich acres of land that had come down to her had set a train of suitors on her heels. for two years she saw suitors almost every evening. except two they were all alike. they talked to her of passion and there was a strained eager quality in their voices and in their eyes when they looked at her. the two who were different were much unlike each other. one of them, a slender young man with white hands, the son of a jeweler in winesburg, talked continually of virginity. when he was with her he was never off the subject. the other, a black-haired boy with large ears, said nothing at all but always managed to get her into the darkness, where he began to kiss her. for a time the tall dark girl thought she would marry the jeweler's son. for hours she sat in silence listening as he talked to her and then she began to be afraid of something. beneath his talk of virginity she began to think there was a lust greater than in all the others. at times it seemed to her that as he talked he was holding her body in his hands. she imagined him turning it slowly about in the white hands and staring at it. at night she dreamed that he had bitten into her body and that his jaws were dripping. she had the dream three times, then she became in the family way to the one who said nothing at all but who in the moment of his passion actually did bite her shoulder so that for days the marks of his teeth showed. after the tall dark girl came to know doctor reefy it seemed to her that she never wanted to leave him again. she went into his office one morning and without her saying anything he seemed to know what had happened to her. in the office of the doctor there was a woman, the wife of the man who kept the bookstore in winesburg. like all old-fashioned country practitioners, doctor reefy pulled teeth, and the woman who waited held a handkerchief to her teeth and groaned. her husband was with her and when the tooth was taken out they both screamed and blood ran down on the woman's white dress. the tall dark girl did not pay any attention. when the woman and the man had gone the doctor smiled. "i will take you driving into the country with me," he said. for several weeks the tall dark girl and the doctor were together almost every day. the condition that had brought her to him passed in an illness, but she was like one who has discovered the sweetness of the twisted apples, she could not get her mind fixed again upon the round perfect fruit that is eaten in the city apartments. in the fall after the beginning of her acquaintanceship with him she married doctor reefy and in the following spring she died. during the winter he read to her all of the odds and ends of thoughts he had scribbled on the bits of paper. after he had read them he laughed and stuffed them away in his pockets to become round hard balls. mother elizabeth willard, the mother of george willard, was tall and gaunt and her face was marked with smallpox scars. although she was but forty-five, some obscure disease had taken the fire out of her figure. listlessly she went about the disorderly old hotel looking at the faded wall-paper and the ragged carpets and, when she was able to be about, doing the work of a chambermaid among beds soiled by the slumbers of fat traveling men. her husband, tom willard, a slender, graceful man with square shoulders, a quick military step, and a black mustache trained to turn sharply up at the ends, tried to put the wife out of his mind. the presence of the tall ghostly figure, moving slowly through the halls, he took as a reproach to himself. when he thought of her he grew angry and swore. the hotel was unprofitable and forever on the edge of failure and he wished himself out of it. he thought of the old house and the woman who lived there with him as things defeated and done for. the hotel in which he had begun life so hopefully was now a mere ghost of what a hotel should be. as he went spruce and business-like through the streets of winesburg, he sometimes stopped and turned quickly about as though fearing that the spirit of the hotel and of the woman would follow him even into the streets. "damn such a life, damn it!" he sputtered aimlessly. tom willard had a passion for village politics and for years had been the leading democrat in a strongly republican community. some day, he told himself, the tide of things political will turn in my favor and the years of ineffectual service count big in the bestowal of rewards. he dreamed of going to congress and even of becoming governor. once when a younger member of the party arose at a political conference and began to boast of his faithful service, tom willard grew white with fury. "shut up, you," he roared, glaring about. "what do you know of service? what are you but a boy? look at what i've done here! i was a democrat here in winesburg when it was a crime to be a democrat. in the old days they fairly hunted us with guns." between elizabeth and her one son george there was a deep unexpressed bond of sympathy, based on a girlhood dream that had long ago died. in the son's presence she was timid and reserved, but sometimes while he hurried about town intent upon his duties as a reporter, she went into his room and closing the door knelt by a little desk, made of a kitchen table, that sat near a window. in the room by the desk she went through a ceremony that was half a prayer, half a demand, addressed to the skies. in the boyish figure she yearned to see something half forgotten that had once been a part of herself recreated. the prayer concerned that. "even though i die, i will in some way keep defeat from you," she cried, and so deep was her determination that her whole body shook. her eyes glowed and she clenched her fists. "if i am dead and see him becoming a meaningless drab figure like myself, i will come back," she declared. "i ask god now to give me that privilege. i demand it. i will pay for it. god may beat me with his fists. i will take any blow that may befall if but this my boy be allowed to express something for us both." pausing uncertainly, the woman stared about the boy's room. "and do not let him become smart and successful either," she added vaguely. the communion between george willard and his mother was outwardly a formal thing without meaning. when she was ill and sat by the window in her room he sometimes went in the evening to make her a visit. they sat by a window that looked over the roof of a small frame building into main street. by turning their heads they could see through another window, along an alleyway that ran behind the main street stores and into the back door of abner groff's bakery. sometimes as they sat thus a picture of village life presented itself to them. at the back door of his shop appeared abner groff with a stick or an empty milk bottle in his hand. for a long time there was a feud between the baker and a grey cat that belonged to sylvester west, the druggist. the boy and his mother saw the cat creep into the door of the bakery and presently emerge followed by the baker, who swore and waved his arms about. the baker's eyes were small and red and his black hair and beard were filled with flour dust. sometimes he was so angry that, although the cat had disappeared, he hurled sticks, bits of broken glass, and even some of the tools of his trade about. once he broke a window at the back of sinning's hardware store. in the alley the grey cat crouched behind barrels filled with torn paper and broken bottles above which flew a black swarm of flies. once when she was alone, and after watching a prolonged and ineffectual outburst on the part of the baker, elizabeth willard put her head down on her long white hands and wept. after that she did not look along the alleyway any more, but tried to forget the contest between the bearded man and the cat. it seemed like a rehearsal of her own life, terrible in its vividness. in the evening when the son sat in the room with his mother, the silence made them both feel awkward. darkness came on and the evening train came in at the station. in the street below feet tramped up and down upon a board sidewalk. in the station yard, after the evening train had gone, there was a heavy silence. perhaps skinner leason, the express agent, moved a truck the length of the station platform. over on main street sounded a man's voice, laughing. the door of the express office banged. george willard arose and crossing the room fumbled for the doorknob. sometimes he knocked against a chair, making it scrape along the floor. by the window sat the sick woman, perfectly still, listless. her long hands, white and bloodless, could be seen drooping over the ends of the arms of the chair. "i think you had better be out among the boys. you are too much indoors," she said, striving to relieve the embarrassment of the departure. "i thought i would take a walk," replied george willard, who felt awkward and confused. one evening in july, when the transient guests who made the new willard house their temporary home had become scarce, and the hallways, lighted only by kerosene lamps turned low, were plunged in gloom, elizabeth willard had an adventure. she had been ill in bed for several days and her son had not come to visit her. she was alarmed. the feeble blaze of life that remained in her body was blown into a flame by her anxiety and she crept out of bed, dressed and hurried along the hallway toward her son's room, shaking with exaggerated fears. as she went along she steadied herself with her hand, slipped along the papered walls of the hall and breathed with difficulty. the air whistled through her teeth. as she hurried forward she thought how foolish she was. "he is concerned with boyish affairs," she told herself. "perhaps he has now begun to walk about in the evening with girls." elizabeth willard had a dread of being seen by guests in the hotel that had once belonged to her father and the ownership of which still stood recorded in her name in the county courthouse. the hotel was continually losing patronage because of its shabbiness and she thought of herself as also shabby. her own room was in an obscure corner and when she felt able to work she voluntarily worked among the beds, preferring the labor that could be done when the guests were abroad seeking trade among the merchants of winesburg. by the door of her son's room the mother knelt upon the floor and listened for some sound from within. when she heard the boy moving about and talking in low tones a smile came to her lips. george willard had a habit of talking aloud to himself and to hear him doing so had always given his mother a peculiar pleasure. the habit in him, she felt, strengthened the secret bond that existed between them. a thousand times she had whispered to herself of the matter. "he is groping about, trying to find himself," she thought. "he is not a dull clod, all words and smartness. within him there is a secret something that is striving to grow. it is the thing i let be killed in myself." in the darkness in the hallway by the door the sick woman arose and started again toward her own room. she was afraid that the door would open and the boy come upon her. when she had reached a safe distance and was about to turn a corner into a second hallway she stopped and bracing herself with her hands waited, thinking to shake off a trembling fit of weakness that had come upon her. the presence of the boy in the room had made her happy. in her bed, during the long hours alone, the little fears that had visited her had become giants. now they were all gone. "when i get back to my room i shall sleep," she murmured gratefully. but elizabeth willard was not to return to her bed and to sleep. as she stood trembling in the darkness the door of her son's room opened and the boy's father, tom willard, stepped out. in the light that steamed out at the door he stood with the knob in his hand and talked. what he said infuriated the woman. tom willard was ambitious for his son. he had always thought of himself as a successful man, although nothing he had ever done had turned out successfully. however, when he was out of sight of the new willard house and had no fear of coming upon his wife, he swaggered and began to dramatize himself as one of the chief men of the town. he wanted his son to succeed. he it was who had secured for the boy the position on the winesburg eagle. now, with a ring of earnestness in his voice, he was advising concerning some course of conduct. "i tell you what, george, you've got to wake up," he said sharply. "will henderson has spoken to me three times concerning the matter. he says you go along for hours not hearing when you are spoken to and acting like a gawky girl. what ails you?" tom willard laughed good-naturedly. "well, i guess you'll get over it," he said. "i told will that. you're not a fool and you're not a woman. you're tom willard's son and you'll wake up. i'm not afraid. what you say clears things up. if being a newspaper man had put the notion of becoming a writer into your mind that's all right. only i guess you'll have to wake up to do that too, eh?" tom willard went briskly along the hallway and down a flight of stairs to the office. the woman in the darkness could hear him laughing and talking with a guest who was striving to wear away a dull evening by dozing in a chair by the office door. she returned to the door of her son's room. the weakness had passed from her body as by a miracle and she stepped boldly along. a thousand ideas raced through her head. when she heard the scraping of a chair and the sound of a pen scratching upon paper, she again turned and went back along the hallway to her own room. a definite determination had come into the mind of the defeated wife of the winesburg hotel keeper. the determination was the result of long years of quiet and rather ineffectual thinking. "now," she told herself, "i will act. there is something threatening my boy and i will ward it off." the fact that the conversation between tom willard and his son had been rather quiet and natural, as though an understanding existed between them, maddened her. although for years she had hated her husband, her hatred had always before been a quite impersonal thing. he had been merely a part of something else that she hated. now, and by the few words at the door, he had become the thing personified. in the darkness of her own room she clenched her fists and glared about. going to a cloth bag that hung on a nail by the wall she took out a long pair of sewing scissors and held them in her hand like a dagger. "i will stab him," she said aloud. "he has chosen to be the voice of evil and i will kill him. when i have killed him something will snap within myself and i will die also. it will be a release for all of us." in her girlhood and before her marriage with tom willard, elizabeth had borne a somewhat shaky reputation in winesburg. for years she had been what is called "stage-struck" and had paraded through the streets with traveling men guests at her father's hotel, wearing loud clothes and urging them to tell her of life in the cities out of which they had come. once she startled the town by putting on men's clothes and riding a bicycle down main street. in her own mind the tall dark girl had been in those days much confused. a great restlessness was in her and it expressed itself in two ways. first there was an uneasy desire for change, for some big definite movement to her life. it was this feeling that had turned her mind to the stage. she dreamed of joining some company and wandering over the world, seeing always new faces and giving something out of herself to all people. sometimes at night she was quite beside herself with the thought, but when she tried to talk of the matter to the members of the theatrical companies that came to winesburg and stopped at her father's hotel, she got nowhere. they did not seem to know what she meant, or if she did get something of her passion expressed, they only laughed. "it's not like that," they said. "it's as dull and uninteresting as this here. nothing comes of it." with the traveling men when she walked about with them, and later with tom willard, it was quite different. always they seemed to understand and sympathize with her. on the side streets of the village, in the darkness under the trees, they took hold of her hand and she thought that something unexpressed in herself came forth and became a part of an unexpressed something in them. and then there was the second expression of her restlessness. when that came she felt for a time released and happy. she did not blame the men who walked with her and later she did not blame tom willard. it was always the same, beginning with kisses and ending, after strange wild emotions, with peace and then sobbing repentance. when she sobbed she put her hand upon the face of the man and had always the same thought. even though he were large and bearded she thought he had become suddenly a little boy. she wondered why he did not sob also. in her room, tucked away in a corner of the old willard house, elizabeth willard lighted a lamp and put it on a dressing table that stood by the door. a thought had come into her mind and she went to a closet and brought out a small square box and set it on the table. the box contained material for make-up and had been left with other things by a theatrical company that had once been stranded in winesburg. elizabeth willard had decided that she would be beautiful. her hair was still black and there was a great mass of it braided and coiled about her head. the scene that was to take place in the office below began to grow in her mind. no ghostly worn-out figure should confront tom willard, but something quite unexpected and startling. tall and with dusky cheeks and hair that fell in a mass from her shoulders, a figure should come striding down the stairway before the startled loungers in the hotel office. the figure would be silent--it would be swift and terrible. as a tigress whose cub had been threatened would she appear, coming out of the shadows, stealing noiselessly along and holding the long wicked scissors in her hand. with a little broken sob in her throat, elizabeth willard blew out the light that stood upon the table and stood weak and trembling in the darkness. the strength that had been as a miracle in her body left and she half reeled across the floor, clutching at the back of the chair in which she had spent so many long days staring out over the tin roofs into the main street of winesburg. in the hallway there was the sound of footsteps and george willard came in at the door. sitting in a chair beside his mother he began to talk. "i'm going to get out of here," he said. "i don't know where i shall go or what i shall do but i am going away." the woman in the chair waited and trembled. an impulse came to her. "i suppose you had better wake up," she said. "you think that? you will go to the city and make money, eh? it will be better for you, you think, to be a business man, to be brisk and smart and alive?" she waited and trembled. the son shook his head. "i suppose i can't make you understand, but oh, i wish i could," he said earnestly. "i can't even talk to father about it. i don't try. there isn't any use. i don't know what i shall do. i just want to go away and look at people and think." silence fell upon the room where the boy and woman sat together. again, as on the other evenings, they were embarrassed. after a time the boy tried again to talk. "i suppose it won't be for a year or two but i've been thinking about it," he said, rising and going toward the door. "something father said makes it sure that i shall have to go away." he fumbled with the doorknob. in the room the silence became unbearable to the woman. she wanted to cry out with joy because of the words that had come from the lips of her son, but the expression of joy had become impossible to her. "i think you had better go out among the boys. you are too much indoors," she said. "i thought i would go for a little walk," replied the son stepping awkwardly out of the room and closing the door. the philosopher doctor parcival was a large man with a drooping mouth covered by a yellow mustache. he always wore a dirty white waistcoat out of the pockets of which protruded a number of the kind of black cigars known as stogies. his teeth were black and irregular and there was something strange about his eyes. the lid of the left eye twitched; it fell down and snapped up; it was exactly as though the lid of the eye were a window shade and someone stood inside the doctor's head playing with the cord. doctor parcival had a liking for the boy, george willard. it began when george had been working for a year on the winesburg eagle and the acquaintanceship was entirely a matter of the doctor's own making. in the late afternoon will henderson, owner and editor of the eagle, went over to tom willy's saloon. along an alleyway he went and slipping in at the back door of the saloon began drinking a drink made of a combination of sloe gin and soda water. will henderson was a sensualist and had reached the age of forty-five. he imagined the gin renewed the youth in him. like most sensualists he enjoyed talking of women, and for an hour he lingered about gossiping with tom willy. the saloon keeper was a short, broad-shouldered man with peculiarly marked hands. that flaming kind of birthmark that sometimes paints with red the faces of men and women had touched with red tom willy's fingers and the backs of his hands. as he stood by the bar talking to will henderson he rubbed the hands together. as he grew more and more excited the red of his fingers deepened. it was as though the hands had been dipped in blood that had dried and faded. as will henderson stood at the bar looking at the red hands and talking of women, his assistant, george willard, sat in the office of the winesburg eagle and listened to the talk of doctor parcival. doctor parcival appeared immediately after will henderson had disappeared. one might have supposed that the doctor had been watching from his office window and had seen the editor going along the alleyway. coming in at the front door and finding himself a chair, he lighted one of the stogies and crossing his legs began to talk. he seemed intent upon convincing the boy of the advisability of adopting a line of conduct that he was himself unable to define. "if you have your eyes open you will see that although i call myself a doctor i have mighty few patients," he began. "there is a reason for that. it is not an accident and it is not because i do not know as much of medicine as anyone here. i do not want patients. the reason, you see, does not appear on the surface. it lies in fact in my character, which has, if you think about it, many strange turns. why i want to talk to you of the matter i don't know. i might keep still and get more credit in your eyes. i have a desire to make you admire me, that's a fact. i don't know why. that's why i talk. it's very amusing, eh?" sometimes the doctor launched into long tales concerning himself. to the boy the tales were very real and full of meaning. he began to admire the fat unclean-looking man and, in the afternoon when will henderson had gone, looked forward with keen interest to the doctor's coming. doctor parcival had been in winesburg about five years. he came from chicago and when he arrived was drunk and got into a fight with albert longworth, the baggageman. the fight concerned a trunk and ended by the doctor's being escorted to the village lockup. when he was released he rented a room above a shoe-repairing shop at the lower end of main street and put out the sign that announced himself as a doctor. although he had but few patients and these of the poorer sort who were unable to pay, he seemed to have plenty of money for his needs. he slept in the office that was unspeakably dirty and dined at biff carter's lunch room in a small frame building opposite the railroad station. in the summer the lunch room was filled with flies and biff carter's white apron was more dirty than his floor. doctor parcival did not mind. into the lunch room he stalked and deposited twenty cents upon the counter. "feed me what you wish for that," he said laughing. "use up food that you wouldn't otherwise sell. it makes no difference to me. i am a man of distinction, you see. why should i concern myself with what i eat." the tales that doctor parcival told george willard began nowhere and ended nowhere. sometimes the boy thought they must all be inventions, a pack of lies. and then again he was convinced that they contained the very essence of truth. "i was a reporter like you here," doctor parcival began. "it was in a town in iowa--or was it in illinois? i don't remember and anyway it makes no difference. perhaps i am trying to conceal my identity and don't want to be very definite. have you ever thought it strange that i have money for my needs although i do nothing? i may have stolen a great sum of money or been involved in a murder before i came here. there is food for thought in that, eh? if you were a really smart newspaper reporter you would look me up. in chicago there was a doctor cronin who was murdered. have you heard of that? some men murdered him and put him in a trunk. in the early morning they hauled the trunk across the city. it sat on the back of an express wagon and they were on the seat as unconcerned as anything. along they went through quiet streets where everyone was asleep. the sun was just coming up over the lake. funny, eh--just to think of them smoking pipes and chattering as they drove along as unconcerned as i am now. perhaps i was one of those men. that would be a strange turn of things, now wouldn't it, eh?" again doctor parcival began his tale: "well, anyway there i was, a reporter on a paper just as you are here, running about and getting little items to print. my mother was poor. she took in washing. her dream was to make me a presbyterian minister and i was studying with that end in view. "my father had been insane for a number of years. he was in an asylum over at dayton, ohio. there you see i have let it slip out! all of this took place in ohio, right here in ohio. there is a clew if you ever get the notion of looking me up. "i was going to tell you of my brother. that's the object of all this. that's what i'm getting at. my brother was a railroad painter and had a job on the big four. you know that road runs through ohio here. with other men he lived in a box car and away they went from town to town painting the railroad property-switches, crossing gates, bridges, and stations. "the big four paints its stations a nasty orange color. how i hated that color! my brother was always covered with it. on pay days he used to get drunk and come home wearing his paint-covered clothes and bringing his money with him. he did not give it to mother but laid it in a pile on our kitchen table. "about the house he went in the clothes covered with the nasty orange colored paint. i can see the picture. my mother, who was small and had red, sad-looking eyes, would come into the house from a little shed at the back. that's where she spent her time over the washtub scrubbing people's dirty clothes. in she would come and stand by the table, rubbing her eyes with her apron that was covered with soap-suds. "'don't touch it! don't you dare touch that money,' my brother roared, and then he himself took five or ten dollars and went tramping off to the saloons. when he had spent what he had taken he came back for more. he never gave my mother any money at all but stayed about until he had spent it all, a little at a time. then he went back to his job with the painting crew on the railroad. after he had gone things began to arrive at our house, groceries and such things. sometimes there would be a dress for mother or a pair of shoes for me. "strange, eh? my mother loved my brother much more than she did me, although he never said a kind word to either of us and always raved up and down threatening us if we dared so much as touch the money that sometimes lay on the table three days. "we got along pretty well. i studied to be a minister and prayed. i was a regular ass about saying prayers. you should have heard me. when my father died i prayed all night, just as i did sometimes when my brother was in town drinking and going about buying the things for us. in the evening after supper i knelt by the table where the money lay and prayed for hours. when no one was looking i stole a dollar or two and put it in my pocket. that makes me laugh now but then it was terrible. it was on my mind all the time. i got six dollars a week from my job on the paper and always took it straight home to mother. the few dollars i stole from my brother's pile i spent on myself, you know, for trifles, candy and cigarettes and such things. "when my father died at the asylum over at dayton, i went over there. i borrowed some money from the man for whom i worked and went on the train at night. it was raining. in the asylum they treated me as though i were a king. "the men who had jobs in the asylum had found out i was a newspaper reporter. that made them afraid. there had been some negligence, some carelessness, you see, when father was ill. they thought perhaps i would write it up in the paper and make a fuss. i never intended to do anything of the kind. "anyway, in i went to the room where my father lay dead and blessed the dead body. i wonder what put that notion into my head. wouldn't my brother, the painter, have laughed, though. there i stood over the dead body and spread out my hands. the superintendent of the asylum and some of his helpers came in and stood about looking sheepish. it was very amusing. i spread out my hands and said, 'let peace brood over this carcass.' that's what i said." jumping to his feet and breaking off the tale, doctor parcival began to walk up and down in the office of the winesburg eagle where george willard sat listening. he was awkward and, as the office was small, continually knocked against things. "what a fool i am to be talking," he said. "that is not my object in coming here and forcing my acquaintanceship upon you. i have something else in mind. you are a reporter just as i was once and you have attracted my attention. you may end by becoming just such another fool. i want to warn you and keep on warning you. that's why i seek you out." doctor parcival began talking of george willard's attitude toward men. it seemed to the boy that the man had but one object in view, to make everyone seem despicable. "i want to fill you with hatred and contempt so that you will be a superior being," he declared. "look at my brother. there was a fellow, eh? he despised everyone, you see. you have no idea with what contempt he looked upon mother and me. and was he not our superior? you know he was. you have not seen him and yet i have made you feel that. i have given you a sense of it. he is dead. once when he was drunk he lay down on the tracks and the car in which he lived with the other painters ran over him." * * * one day in august doctor parcival had an adventure in winesburg. for a month george willard had been going each morning to spend an hour in the doctor's office. the visits came about through a desire on the part of the doctor to read to the boy from the pages of a book he was in the process of writing. to write the book doctor parcival declared was the object of his coming to winesburg to live. on the morning in august before the coming of the boy, an incident had happened in the doctor's office. there had been an accident on main street. a team of horses had been frightened by a train and had run away. a little girl, the daughter of a farmer, had been thrown from a buggy and killed. on main street everyone had become excited and a cry for doctors had gone up. all three of the active practitioners of the town had come quickly but had found the child dead. from the crowd someone had run to the office of doctor parcival who had bluntly refused to go down out of his office to the dead child. the useless cruelty of his refusal had passed unnoticed. indeed, the man who had come up the stairway to summon him had hurried away without hearing the refusal. all of this, doctor parcival did not know and when george willard came to his office he found the man shaking with terror. "what i have done will arouse the people of this town," he declared excitedly. "do i not know human nature? do i not know what will happen? word of my refusal will be whispered about. presently men will get together in groups and talk of it. they will come here. we will quarrel and there will be talk of hanging. then they will come again bearing a rope in their hands." doctor parcival shook with fright. "i have a presentiment," he declared emphatically. "it may be that what i am talking about will not occur this morning. it may be put off until tonight but i will be hanged. everyone will get excited. i will be hanged to a lamp-post on main street." going to the door of his dirty office, doctor parcival looked timidly down the stairway leading to the street. when he returned the fright that had been in his eyes was beginning to be replaced by doubt. coming on tiptoe across the room he tapped george willard on the shoulder. "if not now, sometime," he whispered, shaking his head. "in the end i will be crucified, uselessly crucified." doctor parcival began to plead with george willard. "you must pay attention to me," he urged. "if something happens perhaps you will be able to write the book that i may never get written. the idea is very simple, so simple that if you are not careful you will forget it. it is this--that everyone in the world is christ and they are all crucified. that's what i want to say. don't you forget that. whatever happens, don't you dare let yourself forget." nobody knows looking cautiously about, george willard arose from his desk in the office of the winesburg eagle and went hurriedly out at the back door. the night was warm and cloudy and although it was not yet eight o'clock, the alleyway back of the eagle office was pitch dark. a team of horses tied to a post somewhere in the darkness stamped on the hard-baked ground. a cat sprang from under george willard's feet and ran away into the night. the young man was nervous. all day he had gone about his work like one dazed by a blow. in the alleyway he trembled as though with fright. in the darkness george willard walked along the alleyway, going carefully and cautiously. the back doors of the winesburg stores were open and he could see men sitting about under the store lamps. in myerbaum's notion store mrs. willy the saloon keeper's wife stood by the counter with a basket on her arm. sid green the clerk was waiting on her. he leaned over the counter and talked earnestly. george willard crouched and then jumped through the path of light that came out at the door. he began to run forward in the darkness. behind ed griffith's saloon old jerry bird the town drunkard lay asleep on the ground. the runner stumbled over the sprawling legs. he laughed brokenly. george willard had set forth upon an adventure. all day he had been trying to make up his mind to go through with the adventure and now he was acting. in the office of the winesburg eagle he had been sitting since six o'clock trying to think. there had been no decision. he had just jumped to his feet, hurried past will henderson who was reading proof in the printshop and started to run along the alleyway. through street after street went george willard, avoiding the people who passed. he crossed and recrossed the road. when he passed a street lamp he pulled his hat down over his face. he did not dare think. in his mind there was a fear but it was a new kind of fear. he was afraid the adventure on which he had set out would be spoiled, that he would lose courage and turn back. george willard found louise trunnion in the kitchen of her father's house. she was washing dishes by the light of a kerosene lamp. there she stood behind the screen door in the little shedlike kitchen at the back of the house. george willard stopped by a picket fence and tried to control the shaking of his body. only a narrow potato patch separated him from the adventure. five minutes passed before he felt sure enough of himself to call to her. "louise! oh, louise!" he called. the cry stuck in his throat. his voice became a hoarse whisper. louise trunnion came out across the potato patch holding the dish cloth in her hand. "how do you know i want to go out with you," she said sulkily. "what makes you so sure?" george willard did not answer. in silence the two stood in the darkness with the fence between them. "you go on along," she said. "pa's in there. i'll come along. you wait by williams' barn." the young newspaper reporter had received a letter from louise trunnion. it had come that morning to the office of the winesburg eagle. the letter was brief. "i'm yours if you want me," it said. he thought it annoying that in the darkness by the fence she had pretended there was nothing between them. "she has a nerve! well, gracious sakes, she has a nerve," he muttered as he went along the street and passed a row of vacant lots where corn grew. the corn was shoulder high and had been planted right down to the sidewalk. when louise trunnion came out of the front door of her house she still wore the gingham dress in which she had been washing dishes. there was no hat on her head. the boy could see her standing with the doorknob in her hand talking to someone within, no doubt to old jake trunnion, her father. old jake was half deaf and she shouted. the door closed and everything was dark and silent in the little side street. george willard trembled more violently than ever. in the shadows by williams' barn george and louise stood, not daring to talk. she was not particularly comely and there was a black smudge on the side of her nose. george thought she must have rubbed her nose with her finger after she had been handling some of the kitchen pots. the young man began to laugh nervously. "it's warm," he said. he wanted to touch her with his hand. "i'm not very bold," he thought. just to touch the folds of the soiled gingham dress would, he decided, be an exquisite pleasure. she began to quibble. "you think you're better than i am. don't tell me, i guess i know," she said drawing closer to him. a flood of words burst from george willard. he remembered the look that had lurked in the girl's eyes when they had met on the streets and thought of the note she had written. doubt left him. the whispered tales concerning her that had gone about town gave him confidence. he became wholly the male, bold and aggressive. in his heart there was no sympathy for her. "ah, come on, it'll be all right. there won't be anyone know anything. how can they know?" he urged. they began to walk along a narrow brick sidewalk between the cracks of which tall weeds grew. some of the bricks were missing and the sidewalk was rough and irregular. he took hold of her hand that was also rough and thought it delightfully small. "i can't go far," she said and her voice was quiet, unperturbed. they crossed a bridge that ran over a tiny stream and passed another vacant lot in which corn grew. the street ended. in the path at the side of the road they were compelled to walk one behind the other. will overton's berry field lay beside the road and there was a pile of boards. "will is going to build a shed to store berry crates here," said george and they sat down upon the boards. * * * when george willard got back into main street it was past ten o'clock and had begun to rain. three times he walked up and down the length of main street. sylvester west's drug store was still open and he went in and bought a cigar. when shorty crandall the clerk came out at the door with him he was pleased. for five minutes the two stood in the shelter of the store awning and talked. george willard felt satisfied. he had wanted more than anything else to talk to some man. around a corner toward the new willard house he went whistling softly. on the sidewalk at the side of winney's dry goods store where there was a high board fence covered with circus pictures, he stopped whistling and stood perfectly still in the darkness, attentive, listening as though for a voice calling his name. then again he laughed nervously. "she hasn't got anything on me. nobody knows," he muttered doggedly and went on his way. godliness a tale in four parts there were always three or four old people sitting on the front porch of the house or puttering about the garden of the bentley farm. three of the old people were women and sisters to jesse. they were a colorless, soft voiced lot. then there was a silent old man with thin white hair who was jesse's uncle. the farmhouse was built of wood, a board outer-covering over a framework of logs. it was in reality not one house but a cluster of houses joined together in a rather haphazard manner. inside, the place was full of surprises. one went up steps from the living room into the dining room and there were always steps to be ascended or descended in passing from one room to another. at meal times the place was like a beehive. at one moment all was quiet, then doors began to open, feet clattered on stairs, a murmur of soft voices arose and people appeared from a dozen obscure corners. besides the old people, already mentioned, many others lived in the bentley house. there were four hired men, a woman named aunt callie beebe, who was in charge of the housekeeping, a dull-witted girl named eliza stoughton, who made beds and helped with the milking, a boy who worked in the stables, and jesse bentley himself, the owner and overlord of it all. by the time the american civil war had been over for twenty years, that part of northern ohio where the bentley farms lay had begun to emerge from pioneer life. jesse then owned machinery for harvesting grain. he had built modern barns and most of his land was drained with carefully laid tile drain, but in order to understand the man we will have to go back to an earlier day. the bentley family had been in northern ohio for several generations before jesse's time. they came from new york state and took up land when the country was new and land could be had at a low price. for a long time they, in common with all the other middle western people, were very poor. the land they had settled upon was heavily wooded and covered with fallen logs and underbrush. after the long hard labor of clearing these away and cutting the timber, there were still the stumps to be reckoned with. plows run through the fields caught on hidden roots, stones lay all about, on the low places water gathered, and the young corn turned yellow, sickened and died. when jesse bentley's father and brothers had come into their ownership of the place, much of the harder part of the work of clearing had been done, but they clung to old traditions and worked like driven animals. they lived as practically all of the farming people of the time lived. in the spring and through most of the winter the highways leading into the town of winesburg were a sea of mud. the four young men of the family worked hard all day in the fields, they ate heavily of coarse, greasy food, and at night slept like tired beasts on beds of straw. into their lives came little that was not coarse and brutal and outwardly they were themselves coarse and brutal. on saturday afternoons they hitched a team of horses to a three-seated wagon and went off to town. in town they stood about the stoves in the stores talking to other farmers or to the store keepers. they were dressed in overalls and in the winter wore heavy coats that were flecked with mud. their hands as they stretched them out to the heat of the stoves were cracked and red. it was difficult for them to talk and so they for the most part kept silent. when they had bought meat, flour, sugar, and salt, they went into one of the winesburg saloons and drank beer. under the influence of drink the naturally strong lusts of their natures, kept suppressed by the heroic labor of breaking up new ground, were released. a kind of crude and animal-like poetic fervor took possession of them. on the road home they stood up on the wagon seats and shouted at the stars. sometimes they fought long and bitterly and at other times they broke forth into songs. once enoch bentley, the older one of the boys, struck his father, old tom bentley, with the butt of a teamster's whip, and the old man seemed likely to die. for days enoch lay hid in the straw in the loft of the stable ready to flee if the result of his momentary passion turned out to be murder. he was kept alive with food brought by his mother, who also kept him informed of the injured man's condition. when all turned out well he emerged from his hiding place and went back to the work of clearing land as though nothing had happened. * * * the civil war brought a sharp turn to the fortunes of the bentleys and was responsible for the rise of the youngest son, jesse. enoch, edward, harry, and will bentley all enlisted and before the long war ended they were all killed. for a time after they went away to the south, old tom tried to run the place, but he was not successful. when the last of the four had been killed he sent word to jesse that he would have to come home. then the mother, who had not been well for a year, died suddenly, and the father became altogether discouraged. he talked of selling the farm and moving into town. all day he went about shaking his head and muttering. the work in the fields was neglected and weeds grew high in the corn. old tom hired men but he did not use them intelligently. when they had gone away to the fields in the morning he wandered into the woods and sat down on a log. sometimes he forgot to come home at night and one of the daughters had to go in search of him. when jesse bentley came home to the farm and began to take charge of things he was a slight, sensitive-looking man of twenty-two. at eighteen he had left home to go to school to become a scholar and eventually to become a minister of the presbyterian church. all through his boyhood he had been what in our country was called an "odd sheep" and had not got on with his brothers. of all the family only his mother had understood him and she was now dead. when he came home to take charge of the farm, that had at that time grown to more than six hundred acres, everyone on the farms about and in the nearby town of winesburg smiled at the idea of his trying to handle the work that had been done by his four strong brothers. there was indeed good cause to smile. by the standards of his day jesse did not look like a man at all. he was small and very slender and womanish of body and, true to the traditions of young ministers, wore a long black coat and a narrow black string tie. the neighbors were amused when they saw him, after the years away, and they were even more amused when they saw the woman he had married in the city. as a matter of fact, jesse's wife did soon go under. that was perhaps jesse's fault. a farm in northern ohio in the hard years after the civil war was no place for a delicate woman, and katherine bentley was delicate. jesse was hard with her as he was with everybody about him in those days. she tried to do such work as all the neighbor women about her did and he let her go on without interference. she helped to do the milking and did part of the housework; she made the beds for the men and prepared their food. for a year she worked every day from sunrise until late at night and then after giving birth to a child she died. as for jesse bentley--although he was a delicately built man there was something within him that could not easily be killed. he had brown curly hair and grey eyes that were at times hard and direct, at times wavering and uncertain. not only was he slender but he was also short of stature. his mouth was like the mouth of a sensitive and very determined child. jesse bentley was a fanatic. he was a man born out of his time and place and for this he suffered and made others suffer. never did he succeed in getting what he wanted out of life and he did not know what he wanted. within a very short time after he came home to the bentley farm he made everyone there a little afraid of him, and his wife, who should have been close to him as his mother had been, was afraid also. at the end of two weeks after his coming, old tom bentley made over to him the entire ownership of the place and retired into the background. everyone retired into the background. in spite of his youth and inexperience, jesse had the trick of mastering the souls of his people. he was so in earnest in everything he did and said that no one understood him. he made everyone on the farm work as they had never worked before and yet there was no joy in the work. if things went well they went well for jesse and never for the people who were his dependents. like a thousand other strong men who have come into the world here in america in these later times, jesse was but half strong. he could master others but he could not master himself. the running of the farm as it had never been run before was easy for him. when he came home from cleveland where he had been in school, he shut himself off from all of his people and began to make plans. he thought about the farm night and day and that made him successful. other men on the farms about him worked too hard and were too fired to think, but to think of the farm and to be everlastingly making plans for its success was a relief to jesse. it partially satisfied something in his passionate nature. immediately after he came home he had a wing built on to the old house and in a large room facing the west he had windows that looked into the barnyard and other windows that looked off across the fields. by the window he sat down to think. hour after hour and day after day he sat and looked over the land and thought out his new place in life. the passionate burning thing in his nature flamed up and his eyes became hard. he wanted to make the farm produce as no farm in his state had ever produced before and then he wanted something else. it was the indefinable hunger within that made his eyes waver and that kept him always more and more silent before people. he would have given much to achieve peace and in him was a fear that peace was the thing he could not achieve. all over his body jesse bentley was alive. in his small frame was gathered the force of a long line of strong men. he had always been extraordinarily alive when he was a small boy on the farm and later when he was a young man in school. in the school he had studied and thought of god and the bible with his whole mind and heart. as time passed and he grew to know people better, he began to think of himself as an extraordinary man, one set apart from his fellows. he wanted terribly to make his life a thing of great importance, and as he looked about at his fellow men and saw how like clods they lived it seemed to him that he could not bear to become also such a clod. although in his absorption in himself and in his own destiny he was blind to the fact that his young wife was doing a strong woman's work even after she had become large with child and that she was killing herself in his service, he did not intend to be unkind to her. when his father, who was old and twisted with toil, made over to him the ownership of the farm and seemed content to creep away to a corner and wait for death, he shrugged his shoulders and dismissed the old man from his mind. in the room by the window overlooking the land that had come down to him sat jesse thinking of his own affairs. in the stables he could hear the tramping of his horses and the restless movement of his cattle. away in the fields he could see other cattle wandering over green hills. the voices of men, his men who worked for him, came in to him through the window. from the milkhouse there was the steady thump, thump of a churn being manipulated by the half-witted girl, eliza stoughton. jesse's mind went back to the men of old testament days who had also owned lands and herds. he remembered how god had come down out of the skies and talked to these men and he wanted god to notice and to talk to him also. a kind of feverish boyish eagerness to in some way achieve in his own life the flavor of significance that had hung over these men took possession of him. being a prayerful man he spoke of the matter aloud to god and the sound of his own words strengthened and fed his eagerness. "i am a new kind of man come into possession of these fields," he declared. "look upon me, o god, and look thou also upon my neighbors and all the men who have gone before me here! o god, create in me another jesse, like that one of old, to rule over men and to be the father of sons who shall be rulers!" jesse grew excited as he talked aloud and jumping to his feet walked up and down in the room. in fancy he saw himself living in old times and among old peoples. the land that lay stretched out before him became of vast significance, a place peopled by his fancy with a new race of men sprung from himself. it seemed to him that in his day as in those other and older days, kingdoms might be created and new impulses given to the lives of men by the power of god speaking through a chosen servant. he longed to be such a servant. "it is god's work i have come to the land to do," he declared in a loud voice and his short figure straightened and he thought that something like a halo of godly approval hung over him. * * * it will perhaps be somewhat difficult for the men and women of a later day to understand jesse bentley. in the last fifty years a vast change has taken place in the lives of our people. a revolution has in fact taken place. the coming of industrialism, attended by all the roar and rattle of affairs, the shrill cries of millions of new voices that have come among us from overseas, the going and coming of trains, the growth of cities, the building of the inter-urban car lines that weave in and out of towns and past farmhouses, and now in these later days the coming of the automobiles has worked a tremendous change in the lives and in the habits of thought of our people of mid-america. books, badly imagined and written though they may be in the hurry of our times, are in every household, magazines circulate by the millions of copies, newspapers are everywhere. in our day a farmer standing by the stove in the store in his village has his mind filled to overflowing with the words of other men. the newspapers and the magazines have pumped him full. much of the old brutal ignorance that had in it also a kind of beautiful childlike innocence is gone forever. the farmer by the stove is brother to the men of the cities, and if you listen you will find him talking as glibly and as senselessly as the best city man of us all. in jesse bentley's time and in the country districts of the whole middle west in the years after the civil war it was not so. men labored too hard and were too tired to read. in them was no desire for words printed upon paper. as they worked in the fields, vague, half-formed thoughts took possession of them. they believed in god and in god's power to control their lives. in the little protestant churches they gathered on sunday to hear of god and his works. the churches were the center of the social and intellectual life of the times. the figure of god was big in the hearts of men. and so, having been born an imaginative child and having within him a great intellectual eagerness, jesse bentley had turned wholeheartedly toward god. when the war took his brothers away, he saw the hand of god in that. when his father became ill and could no longer attend to the running of the farm, he took that also as a sign from god. in the city, when the word came to him, he walked about at night through the streets thinking of the matter and when he had come home and had got the work on the farm well under way, he went again at night to walk through the forests and over the low hills and to think of god. as he walked the importance of his own figure in some divine plan grew in his mind. he grew avaricious and was impatient that the farm contained only six hundred acres. kneeling in a fence corner at the edge of some meadow, he sent his voice abroad into the silence and looking up he saw the stars shining down at him. one evening, some months after his father's death, and when his wife katherine was expecting at any moment to be laid abed of childbirth, jesse left his house and went for a long walk. the bentley farm was situated in a tiny valley watered by wine creek, and jesse walked along the banks of the stream to the end of his own land and on through the fields of his neighbors. as he walked the valley broadened and then narrowed again. great open stretches of field and wood lay before him. the moon came out from behind clouds, and, climbing a low hill, he sat down to think. jesse thought that as the true servant of god the entire stretch of country through which he had walked should have come into his possession. he thought of his dead brothers and blamed them that they had not worked harder and achieved more. before him in the moonlight the tiny stream ran down over stones, and he began to think of the men of old times who like himself had owned flocks and lands. a fantastic impulse, half fear, half greediness, took possession of jesse bentley. he remembered how in the old bible story the lord had appeared to that other jesse and told him to send his son david to where saul and the men of israel were fighting the philistines in the valley of elah. into jesse's mind came the conviction that all of the ohio farmers who owned land in the valley of wine creek were philistines and enemies of god. "suppose," he whispered to himself, "there should come from among them one who, like goliath the philistine of gath, could defeat me and take from me my possessions." in fancy he felt the sickening dread that he thought must have lain heavy on the heart of saul before the coming of david. jumping to his feet, he began to run through the night. as he ran he called to god. his voice carried far over the low hills. "jehovah of hosts," he cried, "send to me this night out of the womb of katherine, a son. let thy grace alight upon me. send me a son to be called david who shall help me to pluck at last all of these lands out of the hands of the philistines and turn them to thy service and to the building of thy kingdom on earth." ii david hardy of winesburg, ohio, was the grandson of jesse bentley, the owner of bentley farms. when he was twelve years old he went to the old bentley place to live. his mother, louise bentley, the girl who came into the world on that night when jesse ran through the fields crying to god that he be given a son, had grown to womanhood on the farm and had married young john hardy of winesburg, who became a banker. louise and her husband did not live happily together and everyone agreed that she was to blame. she was a small woman with sharp grey eyes and black hair. from childhood she had been inclined to fits of temper and when not angry she was often morose and silent. in winesburg it was said that she drank. her husband, the banker, who was a careful, shrewd man, tried hard to make her happy. when he began to make money he bought for her a large brick house on elm street in winesburg and he was the first man in that town to keep a manservant to drive his wife's carriage. but louise could not be made happy. she flew into half insane fits of temper during which she was sometimes silent, sometimes noisy and quarrelsome. she swore and cried out in her anger. she got a knife from the kitchen and threatened her husband's life. once she deliberately set fire to the house, and often she hid herself away for days in her own room and would see no one. her life, lived as a half recluse, gave rise to all sorts of stories concerning her. it was said that she took drugs and that she hid herself away from people because she was often so under the influence of drink that her condition could not be concealed. sometimes on summer afternoons she came out of the house and got into her carriage. dismissing the driver she took the reins in her own hands and drove off at top speed through the streets. if a pedestrian got in her way she drove straight ahead and the frightened citizen had to escape as best he could. to the people of the town it seemed as though she wanted to run them down. when she had driven through several streets, tearing around corners and beating the horses with the whip, she drove off into the country. on the country roads after she had gotten out of sight of the houses she let the horses slow down to a walk and her wild, reckless mood passed. she became thoughtful and muttered words. sometimes tears came into her eyes. and then when she came back into town she again drove furiously through the quiet streets. but for the influence of her husband and the respect he inspired in people's minds she would have been arrested more than once by the town marshal. young david hardy grew up in the house with this woman and as can well be imagined there was not much joy in his childhood. he was too young then to have opinions of his own about people, but at times it was difficult for him not to have very definite opinions about the woman who was his mother. david was always a quiet, orderly boy and for a long time was thought by the people of winesburg to be something of a dullard. his eyes were brown and as a child he had a habit of looking at things and people a long time without appearing to see what he was looking at. when he heard his mother spoken of harshly or when he overheard her berating his father, he was frightened and ran away to hide. sometimes he could not find a hiding place and that confused him. turning his face toward a tree or if he was indoors toward the wall, he closed his eyes and tried not to think of anything. he had a habit of talking aloud to himself, and early in life a spirit of quiet sadness often took possession of him. on the occasions when david went to visit his grandfather on the bentley farm, he was altogether contented and happy. often he wished that he would never have to go back to town and once when he had come home from the farm after a long visit, something happened that had a lasting effect on his mind. david had come back into town with one of the hired men. the man was in a hurry to go about his own affairs and left the boy at the head of the street in which the hardy house stood. it was early dusk of a fall evening and the sky was overcast with clouds. something happened to david. he could not bear to go into the house where his mother and father lived, and on an impulse he decided to run away from home. he intended to go back to the farm and to his grandfather, but lost his way and for hours he wandered weeping and frightened on country roads. it started to rain and lightning flashed in the sky. the boy's imagination was excited and he fancied that he could see and hear strange things in the darkness. into his mind came the conviction that he was walking and running in some terrible void where no one had ever been before. the darkness about him seemed limitless. the sound of the wind blowing in trees was terrifying. when a team of horses approached along the road in which he walked he was frightened and climbed a fence. through a field he ran until he came into another road and getting upon his knees felt of the soft ground with his fingers. but for the figure of his grandfather, whom he was afraid he would never find in the darkness, he thought the world must be altogether empty. when his cries were heard by a farmer who was walking home from town and he was brought back to his father's house, he was so tired and excited that he did not know what was happening to him. by chance david's father knew that he had disappeared. on the street he had met the farm hand from the bentley place and knew of his son's return to town. when the boy did not come home an alarm was set up and john hardy with several men of the town went to search the country. the report that david had been kidnapped ran about through the streets of winesburg. when he came home there were no lights in the house, but his mother appeared and clutched him eagerly in her arms. david thought she had suddenly become another woman. he could not believe that so delightful a thing had happened. with her own hands louise hardy bathed his tired young body and cooked him food. she would not let him go to bed but, when he had put on his nightgown, blew out the lights and sat down in a chair to hold him in her arms. for an hour the woman sat in the darkness and held her boy. all the time she kept talking in a low voice. david could not understand what had so changed her. her habitually dissatisfied face had become, he thought, the most peaceful and lovely thing he had ever seen. when he began to weep she held him more and more tightly. on and on went her voice. it was not harsh or shrill as when she talked to her husband, but was like rain falling on trees. presently men began coming to the door to report that he had not been found, but she made him hide and be silent until she had sent them away. he thought it must be a game his mother and the men of the town were playing with him and laughed joyously. into his mind came the thought that his having been lost and frightened in the darkness was an altogether unimportant matter. he thought that he would have been willing to go through the frightful experience a thousand times to be sure of finding at the end of the long black road a thing so lovely as his mother had suddenly become. * * * during the last years of young david's boyhood he saw his mother but seldom and she became for him just a woman with whom he had once lived. still he could not get her figure out of his mind and as he grew older it became more definite. when he was twelve years old he went to the bentley farm to live. old jesse came into town and fairly demanded that he be given charge of the boy. the old man was excited and determined on having his own way. he talked to john hardy in the office of the winesburg savings bank and then the two men went to the house on elm street to talk with louise. they both expected her to make trouble but were mistaken. she was very quiet and when jesse had explained his mission and had gone on at some length about the advantages to come through having the boy out of doors and in the quiet atmosphere of the old farmhouse, she nodded her head in approval. "it is an atmosphere not corrupted by my presence," she said sharply. her shoulders shook and she seemed about to fly into a fit of temper. "it is a place for a man child, although it was never a place for me," she went on. "you never wanted me there and of course the air of your house did me no good. it was like poison in my blood but it will be different with him." louise turned and went out of the room, leaving the two men to sit in embarrassed silence. as very often happened she later stayed in her room for days. even when the boy's clothes were packed and he was taken away she did not appear. the loss of her son made a sharp break in her life and she seemed less inclined to quarrel with her husband. john hardy thought it had all turned out very well indeed. and so young david went to live in the bentley farmhouse with jesse. two of the old farmer's sisters were alive and still lived in the house. they were afraid of jesse and rarely spoke when he was about. one of the women who had been noted for her flaming red hair when she was younger was a born mother and became the boy's caretaker. every night when he had gone to bed she went into his room and sat on the floor until he fell asleep. when he became drowsy she became bold and whispered things that he later thought he must have dreamed. her soft low voice called him endearing names and he dreamed that his mother had come to him and that she had changed so that she was always as she had been that time after he ran away. he also grew bold and reaching out his hand stroked the face of the woman on the floor so that she was ecstatically happy. everyone in the old house became happy after the boy went there. the hard insistent thing in jesse bentley that had kept the people in the house silent and timid and that had never been dispelled by the presence of the girl louise was apparently swept away by the coming of the boy. it was as though god had relented and sent a son to the man. the man who had proclaimed himself the only true servant of god in all the valley of wine creek, and who had wanted god to send him a sign of approval by way of a son out of the womb of katherine, began to think that at last his prayers had been answered. although he was at that time only fifty-five years old he looked seventy and was worn out with much thinking and scheming. the effort he had made to extend his land holdings had been successful and there were few farms in the valley that did not belong to him, but until david came he was a bitterly disappointed man. there were two influences at work in jesse bentley and all his life his mind had been a battleground for these influences. first there was the old thing in him. he wanted to be a man of god and a leader among men of god. his walking in the fields and through the forests at night had brought him close to nature and there were forces in the passionately religious man that ran out to the forces in nature. the disappointment that had come to him when a daughter and not a son had been born to katherine had fallen upon him like a blow struck by some unseen hand and the blow had somewhat softened his egotism. he still believed that god might at any moment make himself manifest out of the winds or the clouds, but he no longer demanded such recognition. instead he prayed for it. sometimes he was altogether doubtful and thought god had deserted the world. he regretted the fate that had not let him live in a simpler and sweeter time when at the beckoning of some strange cloud in the sky men left their lands and houses and went forth into the wilderness to create new races. while he worked night and day to make his farms more productive and to extend his holdings of land, he regretted that he could not use his own restless energy in the building of temples, the slaying of unbelievers and in general in the work of glorifying god's name on earth. that is what jesse hungered for and then also he hungered for something else. he had grown into maturity in america in the years after the civil war and he, like all men of his time, had been touched by the deep influences that were at work in the country during those years when modern industrialism was being born. he began to buy machines that would permit him to do the work of the farms while employing fewer men and he sometimes thought that if he were a younger man he would give up farming altogether and start a factory in winesburg for the making of machinery. jesse formed the habit of reading newspapers and magazines. he invented a machine for the making of fence out of wire. faintly he realized that the atmosphere of old times and places that he had always cultivated in his own mind was strange and foreign to the thing that was growing up in the minds of others. the beginning of the most materialistic age in the history of the world, when wars would be fought without patriotism, when men would forget god and only pay attention to moral standards, when the will to power would replace the will to serve and beauty would be well-nigh forgotten in the terrible headlong rush of mankind toward the acquiring of possessions, was telling its story to jesse the man of god as it was to the men about him. the greedy thing in him wanted to make money faster than it could be made by tilling the land. more than once he went into winesburg to talk with his son-in-law john hardy about it. "you are a banker and you will have chances i never had," he said and his eyes shone. "i am thinking about it all the time. big things are going to be done in the country and there will be more money to be made than i ever dreamed of. you get into it. i wish i were younger and had your chance." jesse bentley walked up and down in the bank office and grew more and more excited as he talked. at one time in his life he had been threatened with paralysis and his left side remained somewhat weakened. as he talked his left eyelid twitched. later when he drove back home and when night came on and the stars came out it was harder to get back the old feeling of a close and personal god who lived in the sky overhead and who might at any moment reach out his hand, touch him on the shoulder, and appoint for him some heroic task to be done. jesse's mind was fixed upon the things read in newspapers and magazines, on fortunes to be made almost without effort by shrewd men who bought and sold. for him the coming of the boy david did much to bring back with renewed force the old faith and it seemed to him that god had at last looked with favor upon him. as for the boy on the farm, life began to reveal itself to him in a thousand new and delightful ways. the kindly attitude of all about him expanded his quiet nature and he lost the half timid, hesitating manner he had always had with his people. at night when he went to bed after a long day of adventures in the stables, in the fields, or driving about from farm to farm with his grandfather, he wanted to embrace everyone in the house. if sherley bentley, the woman who came each night to sit on the floor by his bedside, did not appear at once, he went to the head of the stairs and shouted, his young voice ringing through the narrow halls where for so long there had been a tradition of silence. in the morning when he awoke and lay still in bed, the sounds that came in to him through the windows filled him with delight. he thought with a shudder of the life in the house in winesburg and of his mother's angry voice that had always made him tremble. there in the country all sounds were pleasant sounds. when he awoke at dawn the barnyard back of the house also awoke. in the house people stirred about. eliza stoughton the half-witted girl was poked in the ribs by a farm hand and giggled noisily, in some distant field a cow bawled and was answered by the cattle in the stables, and one of the farm hands spoke sharply to the horse he was grooming by the stable door. david leaped out of bed and ran to a window. all of the people stirring about excited his mind, and he wondered what his mother was doing in the house in town. from the windows of his own room he could not see directly into the barnyard where the farm hands had now all assembled to do the morning shores, but he could hear the voices of the men and the neighing of the horses. when one of the men laughed, he laughed also. leaning out at the open window, he looked into an orchard where a fat sow wandered about with a litter of tiny pigs at her heels. every morning he counted the pigs. "four, five, six, seven," he said slowly, wetting his finger and making straight up and down marks on the window ledge. david ran to put on his trousers and shirt. a feverish desire to get out of doors took possession of him. every morning he made such a noise coming down stairs that aunt callie, the housekeeper, declared he was trying to tear the house down. when he had run through the long old house, shutting the doors behind him with a bang, he came into the barnyard and looked about with an amazed air of expectancy. it seemed to him that in such a place tremendous things might have happened during the night. the farm hands looked at him and laughed. henry strader, an old man who had been on the farm since jesse came into possession and who before david's time had never been known to make a joke, made the same joke every morning. it amused david so that he laughed and clapped his hands. "see, come here and look," cried the old man. "grandfather jesse's white mare has torn the black stocking she wears on her foot." day after day through the long summer, jesse bentley drove from farm to farm up and down the valley of wine creek, and his grandson went with him. they rode in a comfortable old phaeton drawn by the white horse. the old man scratched his thin white beard and talked to himself of his plans for increasing the productiveness of the fields they visited and of god's part in the plans all men made. sometimes he looked at david and smiled happily and then for a long time he appeared to forget the boy's existence. more and more every day now his mind turned back again to the dreams that had filled his mind when he had first come out of the city to live on the land. one afternoon he startled david by letting his dreams take entire possession of him. with the boy as a witness, he went through a ceremony and brought about an accident that nearly destroyed the companionship that was growing up between them. jesse and his grandson were driving in a distant part of the valley some miles from home. a forest came down to the road and through the forest wine creek wriggled its way over stones toward a distant river. all the afternoon jesse had been in a meditative mood and now he began to talk. his mind went back to the night when he had been frightened by thoughts of a giant that might come to rob and plunder him of his possessions, and again as on that night when he had run through the fields crying for a son, he became excited to the edge of insanity. stopping the horse he got out of the buggy and asked david to get out also. the two climbed over a fence and walked along the bank of the stream. the boy paid no attention to the muttering of his grandfather, but ran along beside him and wondered what was going to happen. when a rabbit jumped up and ran away through the woods, he clapped his hands and danced with delight. he looked at the tall trees and was sorry that he was not a little animal to climb high in the air without being frightened. stooping, he picked up a small stone and threw it over the head of his grandfather into a clump of bushes. "wake up, little animal. go and climb to the top of the trees," he shouted in a shrill voice. jesse bentley went along under the trees with his head bowed and with his mind in a ferment. his earnestness affected the boy, who presently became silent and a little alarmed. into the old man's mind had come the notion that now he could bring from god a word or a sign out of the sky, that the presence of the boy and man on their knees in some lonely spot in the forest would make the miracle he had been waiting for almost inevitable. "it was in just such a place as this that other david tended the sheep when his father came and told him to go down unto saul," he muttered. taking the boy rather roughly by the shoulder, he climbed over a fallen log and when he had come to an open place among the trees he dropped upon his knees and began to pray in a loud voice. a kind of terror he had never known before took possession of david. crouching beneath a tree he watched the man on the ground before him and his own knees began to tremble. it seemed to him that he was in the presence not only of his grandfather but of someone else, someone who might hurt him, someone who was not kindly but dangerous and brutal. he began to cry and reaching down picked up a small stick, which he held tightly gripped in his fingers. when jesse bentley, absorbed in his own idea, suddenly arose and advanced toward him, his terror grew until his whole body shook. in the woods an intense silence seemed to lie over everything and suddenly out of the silence came the old man's harsh and insistent voice. gripping the boy's shoulders, jesse turned his face to the sky and shouted. the whole left side of his face twitched and his hand on the boy's shoulder twitched also. "make a sign to me, god," he cried. "here i stand with the boy david. come down to me out of the sky and make thy presence known to me." with a cry of fear, david turned and, shaking himself loose from the hands that held him, ran away through the forest. he did not believe that the man who turned up his face and in a harsh voice shouted at the sky was his grandfather at all. the man did not look like his grandfather. the conviction that something strange and terrible had happened, that by some miracle a new and dangerous person had come into the body of the kindly old man, took possession of him. on and on he ran down the hillside, sobbing as he ran. when he fell over the roots of a tree and in falling struck his head, he arose and tried to run on again. his head hurt so that presently he fell down and lay still, but it was only after jesse had carried him to the buggy and he awoke to find the old man's hand stroking his head tenderly that the terror left him. "take me away. there is a terrible man back there in the woods," he declared firmly, while jesse looked away over the tops of the trees and again his lips cried out to god. "what have i done that thou dost not approve of me," he whispered softly, saying the words over and over as he drove rapidly along the road with the boy's cut and bleeding head held tenderly against his shoulder. iii surrender the story of louise bentley, who became mrs. john hardy and lived with her husband in a brick house on elm street in winesburg, is a story of misunderstanding. before such women as louise can be understood and their lives made livable, much will have to be done. thoughtful books will have to be written and thoughtful lives lived by people about them. born of a delicate and overworked mother, and an impulsive, hard, imaginative father, who did not look with favor upon her coming into the world, louise was from childhood a neurotic, one of the race of over-sensitive women that in later days industrialism was to bring in such great numbers into the world. during her early years she lived on the bentley farm, a silent, moody child, wanting love more than anything else in the world and not getting it. when she was fifteen she went to live in winesburg with the family of albert hardy, who had a store for the sale of buggies and wagons, and who was a member of the town board of education. louise went into town to be a student in the winesburg high school and she went to live at the hardys' because albert hardy and her father were friends. hardy, the vehicle merchant of winesburg, like thousands of other men of his times, was an enthusiast on the subject of education. he had made his own way in the world without learning got from books, but he was convinced that had he but known books things would have gone better with him. to everyone who came into his shop he talked of the matter, and in his own household he drove his family distracted by his constant harping on the subject. he had two daughters and one son, john hardy, and more than once the daughters threatened to leave school altogether. as a matter of principle they did just enough work in their classes to avoid punishment. "i hate books and i hate anyone who likes books," harriet, the younger of the two girls, declared passionately. in winesburg as on the farm louise was not happy. for years she had dreamed of the time when she could go forth into the world, and she looked upon the move into the hardy household as a great step in the direction of freedom. always when she had thought of the matter, it had seemed to her that in town all must be gaiety and life, that there men and women must live happily and freely, giving and taking friendship and affection as one takes the feel of a wind on the cheek. after the silence and the cheerlessness of life in the bentley house, she dreamed of stepping forth into an atmosphere that was warm and pulsating with life and reality. and in the hardy household louise might have got something of the thing for which she so hungered but for a mistake she made when she had just come to town. louise won the disfavor of the two hardy girls, mary and harriet, by her application to her studies in school. she did not come to the house until the day when school was to begin and knew nothing of the feeling they had in the matter. she was timid and during the first month made no acquaintances. every friday afternoon one of the hired men from the farm drove into winesburg and took her home for the week-end, so that she did not spend the saturday holiday with the town people. because she was embarrassed and lonely she worked constantly at her studies. to mary and harriet, it seemed as though she tried to make trouble for them by her proficiency. in her eagerness to appear well louise wanted to answer every question put to the class by the teacher. she jumped up and down and her eyes flashed. then when she had answered some question the others in the class had been unable to answer, she smiled happily. "see, i have done it for you," her eyes seemed to say. "you need not bother about the matter. i will answer all questions. for the whole class it will be easy while i am here." in the evening after supper in the hardy house, albert hardy began to praise louise. one of the teachers had spoken highly of her and he was delighted. "well, again i have heard of it," he began, looking hard at his daughters and then turning to smile at louise. "another of the teachers has told me of the good work louise is doing. everyone in winesburg is telling me how smart she is. i am ashamed that they do not speak so of my own girls." arising, the merchant marched about the room and lighted his evening cigar. the two girls looked at each other and shook their heads wearily. seeing their indifference the father became angry. "i tell you it is something for you two to be thinking about," he cried, glaring at them. "there is a big change coming here in america and in learning is the only hope of the coming generations. louise is the daughter of a rich man but she is not ashamed to study. it should make you ashamed to see what she does." the merchant took his hat from a rack by the door and prepared to depart for the evening. at the door he stopped and glared back. so fierce was his manner that louise was frightened and ran upstairs to her own room. the daughters began to speak of their own affairs. "pay attention to me," roared the merchant. "your minds are lazy. your indifference to education is affecting your characters. you will amount to nothing. now mark what i say--louise will be so far ahead of you that you will never catch up." the distracted man went out of the house and into the street shaking with wrath. he went along muttering words and swearing, but when he got into main street his anger passed. he stopped to talk of the weather or the crops with some other merchant or with a farmer who had come into town and forgot his daughters altogether or, if he thought of them, only shrugged his shoulders. "oh, well, girls will be girls," he muttered philosophically. in the house when louise came down into the room where the two girls sat, they would have nothing to do with her. one evening after she had been there for more than six weeks and was heartbroken because of the continued air of coldness with which she was always greeted, she burst into tears. "shut up your crying and go back to your own room and to your books," mary hardy said sharply. * * * the room occupied by louise was on the second floor of the hardy house, and her window looked out upon an orchard. there was a stove in the room and every evening young john hardy carried up an armful of wood and put it in a box that stood by the wall. during the second month after she came to the house, louise gave up all hope of getting on a friendly footing with the hardy girls and went to her own room as soon as the evening meal was at an end. her mind began to play with thoughts of making friends with john hardy. when he came into the room with the wood in his arms, she pretended to be busy with her studies but watched him eagerly. when he had put the wood in the box and turned to go out, she put down her head and blushed. she tried to make talk but could say nothing, and after he had gone she was angry at herself for her stupidity. the mind of the country girl became filled with the idea of drawing close to the young man. she thought that in him might be found the quality she had all her life been seeking in people. it seemed to her that between herself and all the other people in the world, a wall had been built up and that she was living just on the edge of some warm inner circle of life that must be quite open and understandable to others. she became obsessed with the thought that it wanted but a courageous act on her part to make all of her association with people something quite different, and that it was possible by such an act to pass into a new life as one opens a door and goes into a room. day and night she thought of the matter, but although the thing she wanted so earnestly was something very warm and close it had as yet no conscious connection with sex. it had not become that definite, and her mind had only alighted upon the person of john hardy because he was at hand and unlike his sisters had not been unfriendly to her. the hardy sisters, mary and harriet, were both older than louise. in a certain kind of knowledge of the world they were years older. they lived as all of the young women of middle western towns lived. in those days young women did not go out of our towns to eastern colleges and ideas in regard to social classes had hardly begun to exist. a daughter of a laborer was in much the same social position as a daughter of a farmer or a merchant, and there were no leisure classes. a girl was "nice" or she was "not nice." if a nice girl, she had a young man who came to her house to see her on sunday and on wednesday evenings. sometimes she went with her young man to a dance or a church social. at other times she received him at the house and was given the use of the parlor for that purpose. no one intruded upon her. for hours the two sat behind closed doors. sometimes the lights were turned low and the young man and woman embraced. cheeks became hot and hair disarranged. after a year or two, if the impulse within them became strong and insistent enough, they married. one evening during her first winter in winesburg, louise had an adventure that gave a new impulse to her desire to break down the wall that she thought stood between her and john hardy. it was wednesday and immediately after the evening meal albert hardy put on his hat and went away. young john brought the wood and put it in the box in louise's room. "you do work hard, don't you?" he said awkwardly, and then before she could answer he also went away. louise heard him go out of the house and had a mad desire to run after him. opening her window she leaned out and called softly, "john, dear john, come back, don't go away." the night was cloudy and she could not see far into the darkness, but as she waited she fancied she could hear a soft little noise as of someone going on tiptoes through the trees in the orchard. she was frightened and closed the window quickly. for an hour she moved about the room trembling with excitement and when she could not longer bear the waiting, she crept into the hall and down the stairs into a closet-like room that opened off the parlor. louise had decided that she would perform the courageous act that had for weeks been in her mind. she was convinced that john hardy had concealed himself in the orchard beneath her window and she was determined to find him and tell him that she wanted him to come close to her, to hold her in his arms, to tell her of his thoughts and dreams and to listen while she told him her thoughts and dreams. "in the darkness it will be easier to say things," she whispered to herself, as she stood in the little room groping for the door. and then suddenly louise realized that she was not alone in the house. in the parlor on the other side of the door a man's voice spoke softly and the door opened. louise just had time to conceal herself in a little opening beneath the stairway when mary hardy, accompanied by her young man, came into the little dark room. for an hour louise sat on the floor in the darkness and listened. without words mary hardy, with the aid of the man who had come to spend the evening with her, brought to the country girl a knowledge of men and women. putting her head down until she was curled into a little ball she lay perfectly still. it seemed to her that by some strange impulse of the gods, a great gift had been brought to mary hardy and she could not understand the older woman's determined protest. the young man took mary hardy into his arms and kissed her. when she struggled and laughed, he but held her the more tightly. for an hour the contest between them went on and then they went back into the parlor and louise escaped up the stairs. "i hope you were quiet out there. you must not disturb the little mouse at her studies," she heard harriet saying to her sister as she stood by her own door in the hallway above. louise wrote a note to john hardy and late that night, when all in the house were asleep, she crept downstairs and slipped it under his door. she was afraid that if she did not do the thing at once her courage would fail. in the note she tried to be quite definite about what she wanted. "i want someone to love me and i want to love someone," she wrote. "if you are the one for me i want you to come into the orchard at night and make a noise under my window. it will be easy for me to crawl down over the shed and come to you. i am thinking about it all the time, so if you are to come at all you must come soon." for a long time louise did not know what would be the outcome of her bold attempt to secure for herself a lover. in a way she still did not know whether or not she wanted him to come. sometimes it seemed to her that to be held tightly and kissed was the whole secret of life, and then a new impulse came and she was terribly afraid. the age-old woman's desire to be possessed had taken possession of her, but so vague was her notion of life that it seemed to her just the touch of john hardy's hand upon her own hand would satisfy. she wondered if he would understand that. at the table next day while albert hardy talked and the two girls whispered and laughed, she did not look at john but at the table and as soon as possible escaped. in the evening she went out of the house until she was sure he had taken the wood to her room and gone away. when after several evenings of intense listening she heard no call from the darkness in the orchard, she was half beside herself with grief and decided that for her there was no way to break through the wall that had shut her off from the joy of life. and then on a monday evening two or three weeks after the writing of the note, john hardy came for her. louise had so entirely given up the thought of his coming that for a long time she did not hear the call that came up from the orchard. on the friday evening before, as she was being driven back to the farm for the week-end by one of the hired men, she had on an impulse done a thing that had startled her, and as john hardy stood in the darkness below and called her name softly and insistently, she walked about in her room and wondered what new impulse had led her to commit so ridiculous an act. the farm hand, a young fellow with black curly hair, had come for her somewhat late on that friday evening and they drove home in the darkness. louise, whose mind was filled with thoughts of john hardy, tried to make talk but the country boy was embarrassed and would say nothing. her mind began to review the loneliness of her childhood and she remembered with a pang the sharp new loneliness that had just come to her. "i hate everyone," she cried suddenly, and then broke forth into a tirade that frightened her escort. "i hate father and the old man hardy, too," she declared vehemently. "i get my lessons there in the school in town but i hate that also." louise frightened the farm hand still more by turning and putting her cheek down upon his shoulder. vaguely she hoped that he like that young man who had stood in the darkness with mary would put his arms about her and kiss her, but the country boy was only alarmed. he struck the horse with the whip and began to whistle. "the road is rough, eh?" he said loudly. louise was so angry that reaching up she snatched his hat from his head and threw it into the road. when he jumped out of the buggy and went to get it, she drove off and left him to walk the rest of the way back to the farm. louise bentley took john hardy to be her lover. that was not what she wanted but it was so the young man had interpreted her approach to him, and so anxious was she to achieve something else that she made no resistance. when after a few months they were both afraid that she was about to become a mother, they went one evening to the county seat and were married. for a few months they lived in the hardy house and then took a house of their own. all during the first year louise tried to make her husband understand the vague and intangible hunger that had led to the writing of the note and that was still unsatisfied. again and again she crept into his arms and tried to talk of it, but always without success. filled with his own notions of love between men and women, he did not listen but began to kiss her upon the lips. that confused her so that in the end she did not want to be kissed. she did not know what she wanted. when the alarm that had tricked them into marriage proved to be groundless, she was angry and said bitter, hurtful things. later when her son david was born, she could not nurse him and did not know whether she wanted him or not. sometimes she stayed in the room with him all day, walking about and occasionally creeping close to touch him tenderly with her hands, and then other days came when she did not want to see or be near the tiny bit of humanity that had come into the house. when john hardy reproached her for her cruelty, she laughed. "it is a man child and will get what it wants anyway," she said sharply. "had it been a woman child there is nothing in the world i would not have done for it." iv terror when david hardy was a tall boy of fifteen, he, like his mother, had an adventure that changed the whole current of his life and sent him out of his quiet corner into the world. the shell of the circumstances of his life was broken and he was compelled to start forth. he left winesburg and no one there ever saw him again. after his disappearance, his mother and grandfather both died and his father became very rich. he spent much money in trying to locate his son, but that is no part of this story. it was in the late fall of an unusual year on the bentley farms. everywhere the crops had been heavy. that spring, jesse had bought part of a long strip of black swamp land that lay in the valley of wine creek. he got the land at a low price but had spent a large sum of money to improve it. great ditches had to be dug and thousands of tile laid. neighboring farmers shook their heads over the expense. some of them laughed and hoped that jesse would lose heavily by the venture, but the old man went silently on with the work and said nothing. when the land was drained he planted it to cabbages and onions, and again the neighbors laughed. the crop was, however, enormous and brought high prices. in the one year jesse made enough money to pay for all the cost of preparing the land and had a surplus that enabled him to buy two more farms. he was exultant and could not conceal his delight. for the first time in all the history of his ownership of the farms, he went among his men with a smiling face. jesse bought a great many new machines for cutting down the cost of labor and all of the remaining acres in the strip of black fertile swamp land. one day he went into winesburg and bought a bicycle and a new suit of clothes for david and he gave his two sisters money with which to go to a religious convention at cleveland, ohio. in the fall of that year when the frost came and the trees in the forests along wine creek were golden brown, david spent every moment when he did not have to attend school, out in the open. alone or with other boys he went every afternoon into the woods to gather nuts. the other boys of the countryside, most of them sons of laborers on the bentley farms, had guns with which they went hunting rabbits and squirrels, but david did not go with them. he made himself a sling with rubber bands and a forked stick and went off by himself to gather nuts. as he went about thoughts came to him. he realized that he was almost a man and wondered what he would do in life, but before they came to anything, the thoughts passed and he was a boy again. one day he killed a squirrel that sat on one of the lower branches of a tree and chattered at him. home he ran with the squirrel in his hand. one of the bentley sisters cooked the little animal and he ate it with great gusto. the skin he tacked on a board and suspended the board by a string from his bedroom window. that gave his mind a new turn. after that he never went into the woods without carrying the sling in his pocket and he spent hours shooting at imaginary animals concealed among the brown leaves in the trees. thoughts of his coming manhood passed and he was content to be a boy with a boy's impulses. one saturday morning when he was about to set off for the woods with the sling in his pocket and a bag for nuts on his shoulder, his grandfather stopped him. in the eyes of the old man was the strained serious look that always a little frightened david. at such times jesse bentley's eyes did not look straight ahead but wavered and seemed to be looking at nothing. something like an invisible curtain appeared to have come between the man and all the rest of the world. "i want you to come with me," he said briefly, and his eyes looked over the boy's head into the sky. "we have something important to do today. you may bring the bag for nuts if you wish. it does not matter and anyway we will be going into the woods." jesse and david set out from the bentley farmhouse in the old phaeton that was drawn by the white horse. when they had gone along in silence for a long way they stopped at the edge of a field where a flock of sheep were grazing. among the sheep was a lamb that had been born out of season, and this david and his grandfather caught and tied so tightly that it looked like a little white ball. when they drove on again jesse let david hold the lamb in his arms. "i saw it yesterday and it put me in mind of what i have long wanted to do," he said, and again he looked away over the head of the boy with the wavering, uncertain stare in his eyes. after the feeling of exaltation that had come to the farmer as a result of his successful year, another mood had taken possession of him. for a long time he had been going about feeling very humble and prayerful. again he walked alone at night thinking of god and as he walked he again connected his own figure with the figures of old days. under the stars he knelt on the wet grass and raised up his voice in prayer. now he had decided that like the men whose stories filled the pages of the bible, he would make a sacrifice to god. "i have been given these abundant crops and god has also sent me a boy who is called david," he whispered to himself. "perhaps i should have done this thing long ago." he was sorry the idea had not come into his mind in the days before his daughter louise had been born and thought that surely now when he had erected a pile of burning sticks in some lonely place in the woods and had offered the body of a lamb as a burnt offering, god would appear to him and give him a message. more and more as he thought of the matter, he thought also of david and his passionate self-love was partially forgotten. "it is time for the boy to begin thinking of going out into the world and the message will be one concerning him," he decided. "god will make a pathway for him. he will tell me what place david is to take in life and when he shall set out on his journey. it is right that the boy should be there. if i am fortunate and an angel of god should appear, david will see the beauty and glory of god made manifest to man. it will make a true man of god of him also." in silence jesse and david drove along the road until they came to that place where jesse had once before appealed to god and had frightened his grandson. the morning had been bright and cheerful, but a cold wind now began to blow and clouds hid the sun. when david saw the place to which they had come he began to tremble with fright, and when they stopped by the bridge where the creek came down from among the trees, he wanted to spring out of the phaeton and run away. a dozen plans for escape ran through david's head, but when jesse stopped the horse and climbed over the fence into the wood, he followed. "it is foolish to be afraid. nothing will happen," he told himself as he went along with the lamb in his arms. there was something in the helplessness of the little animal held so tightly in his arms that gave him courage. he could feel the rapid beating of the beast's heart and that made his own heart beat less rapidly. as he walked swiftly along behind his grandfather, he untied the string with which the four legs of the lamb were fastened together. "if anything happens we will run away together," he thought. in the woods, after they had gone a long way from the road, jesse stopped in an opening among the trees where a clearing, overgrown with small bushes, ran up from the creek. he was still silent but began at once to erect a heap of dry sticks which he presently set afire. the boy sat on the ground with the lamb in his arms. his imagination began to invest every movement of the old man with significance and he became every moment more afraid. "i must put the blood of the lamb on the head of the boy," jesse muttered when the sticks had begun to blaze greedily, and taking a long knife from his pocket he turned and walked rapidly across the clearing toward david. terror seized upon the soul of the boy. he was sick with it. for a moment he sat perfectly still and then his body stiffened and he sprang to his feet. his face became as white as the fleece of the lamb that, now finding itself suddenly released, ran down the hill. david ran also. fear made his feet fly. over the low bushes and logs he leaped frantically. as he ran he put his hand into his pocket and took out the branched stick from which the sling for shooting squirrels was suspended. when he came to the creek that was shallow and splashed down over the stones, he dashed into the water and turned to look back, and when he saw his grandfather still running toward him with the long knife held tightly in his hand he did not hesitate, but reaching down, selected a stone and put it in the sling. with all his strength he drew back the heavy rubber bands and the stone whistled through the air. it hit jesse, who had entirely forgotten the boy and was pursuing the lamb, squarely in the head. with a groan he pitched forward and fell almost at the boy's feet. when david saw that he lay still and that he was apparently dead, his fright increased immeasurably. it became an insane panic. with a cry he turned and ran off through the woods weeping convulsively. "i don't care--i killed him, but i don't care," he sobbed. as he ran on and on he decided suddenly that he would never go back again to the bentley farms or to the town of winesburg. "i have killed the man of god and now i will myself be a man and go into the world," he said stoutly as he stopped running and walked rapidly down a road that followed the windings of wine creek as it ran through fields and forests into the west. on the ground by the creek jesse bentley moved uneasily about. he groaned and opened his eyes. for a long time he lay perfectly still and looked at the sky. when at last he got to his feet, his mind was confused and he was not surprised by the boy's disappearance. by the roadside he sat down on a log and began to talk about god. that is all they ever got out of him. whenever david's name was mentioned he looked vaguely at the sky and said that a messenger from god had taken the boy. "it happened because i was too greedy for glory," he declared, and would have no more to say in the matter. a man of ideas he lived with his mother, a grey, silent woman with a peculiar ashy complexion. the house in which they lived stood in a little grove of trees beyond where the main street of winesburg crossed wine creek. his name was joe welling, and his father had been a man of some dignity in the community, a lawyer, and a member of the state legislature at columbus. joe himself was small of body and in his character unlike anyone else in town. he was like a tiny little volcano that lies silent for days and then suddenly spouts fire. no, he wasn't like that--he was like a man who is subject to fits, one who walks among his fellow men inspiring fear because a fit may come upon him suddenly and blow him away into a strange uncanny physical state in which his eyes roll and his legs and arms jerk. he was like that, only that the visitation that descended upon joe welling was a mental and not a physical thing. he was beset by ideas and in the throes of one of his ideas was uncontrollable. words rolled and tumbled from his mouth. a peculiar smile came upon his lips. the edges of his teeth that were tipped with gold glistened in the light. pouncing upon a bystander he began to talk. for the bystander there was no escape. the excited man breathed into his face, peered into his eyes, pounded upon his chest with a shaking forefinger, demanded, compelled attention. in those days the standard oil company did not deliver oil to the consumer in big wagons and motor trucks as it does now, but delivered instead to retail grocers, hardware stores, and the like. joe was the standard oil agent in winesburg and in several towns up and down the railroad that went through winesburg. he collected bills, booked orders, and did other things. his father, the legislator, had secured the job for him. in and out of the stores of winesburg went joe welling--silent, excessively polite, intent upon his business. men watched him with eyes in which lurked amusement tempered by alarm. they were waiting for him to break forth, preparing to flee. although the seizures that came upon him were harmless enough, they could not be laughed away. they were overwhelming. astride an idea, joe was overmastering. his personality became gigantic. it overrode the man to whom he talked, swept him away, swept all away, all who stood within sound of his voice. in sylvester west's drug store stood four men who were talking of horse racing. wesley moyer's stallion, tony tip, was to race at the june meeting at tiffin, ohio, and there was a rumor that he would meet the stiffest competition of his career. it was said that pop geers, the great racing driver, would himself be there. a doubt of the success of tony tip hung heavy in the air of winesburg. into the drug store came joe welling, brushing the screen door violently aside. with a strange absorbed light in his eyes he pounced upon ed thomas, he who knew pop geers and whose opinion of tony tip's chances was worth considering. "the water is up in wine creek," cried joe welling with the air of pheidippides bringing news of the victory of the greeks in the struggle at marathon. his finger beat a tattoo upon ed thomas's broad chest. "by trunion bridge it is within eleven and a half inches of the flooring," he went on, the words coming quickly and with a little whistling noise from between his teeth. an expression of helpless annoyance crept over the faces of the four. "i have my facts correct. depend upon that. i went to sinnings' hardware store and got a rule. then i went back and measured. i could hardly believe my own eyes. it hasn't rained you see for ten days. at first i didn't know what to think. thoughts rushed through my head. i thought of subterranean passages and springs. down under the ground went my mind, delving about. i sat on the floor of the bridge and rubbed my head. there wasn't a cloud in the sky, not one. come out into the street and you'll see. there wasn't a cloud. there isn't a cloud now. yes, there was a cloud. i don't want to keep back any facts. there was a cloud in the west down near the horizon, a cloud no bigger than a man's hand. "not that i think that has anything to do with it. there it is, you see. you understand how puzzled i was. "then an idea came to me. i laughed. you'll laugh, too. of course it rained over in medina county. that's interesting, eh? if we had no trains, no mails, no telegraph, we would know that it rained over in medina county. that's where wine creek comes from. everyone knows that. little old wine creek brought us the news. that's interesting. i laughed. i thought i'd tell you--it's interesting, eh?" joe welling turned and went out at the door. taking a book from his pocket, he stopped and ran a finger down one of the pages. again he was absorbed in his duties as agent of the standard oil company. "hern's grocery will be getting low on coal oil. i'll see them," he muttered, hurrying along the street, and bowing politely to the right and left at the people walking past. when george willard went to work for the winesburg eagle he was besieged by joe welling. joe envied the boy. it seemed to him that he was meant by nature to be a reporter on a newspaper. "it is what i should be doing, there is no doubt of that," he declared, stopping george willard on the sidewalk before daugherty's feed store. his eyes began to glisten and his forefinger to tremble. "of course i make more money with the standard oil company and i'm only telling you," he added. "i've got nothing against you but i should have your place. i could do the work at odd moments. here and there i would run finding out things you'll never see." becoming more excited joe welling crowded the young reporter against the front of the feed store. he appeared to be lost in thought, rolling his eyes about and running a thin nervous hand through his hair. a smile spread over his face and his gold teeth glittered. "you get out your note book," he commanded. "you carry a little pad of paper in your pocket, don't you? i knew you did. well, you set this down. i thought of it the other day. let's take decay. now what is decay? it's fire. it burns up wood and other things. you never thought of that? of course not. this sidewalk here and this feed store, the trees down the street there--they're all on fire. they're burning up. decay you see is always going on. it doesn't stop. water and paint can't stop it. if a thing is iron, then what? it rusts, you see. that's fire, too. the world is on fire. start your pieces in the paper that way. just say in big letters 'the world is on fire.' that will make 'em look up. they'll say you're a smart one. i don't care. i don't envy you. i just snatched that idea out of the air. i would make a newspaper hum. you got to admit that."' turning quickly, joe welling walked rapidly away. when he had taken several steps he stopped and looked back. "i'm going to stick to you," he said. "i'm going to make you a regular hummer. i should start a newspaper myself, that's what i should do. i'd be a marvel. everybody knows that." when george willard had been for a year on the winesburg eagle, four things happened to joe welling. his mother died, he came to live at the new willard house, he became involved in a love affair, and he organized the winesburg baseball club. joe organized the baseball club because he wanted to be a coach and in that position he began to win the respect of his townsmen. "he is a wonder," they declared after joe's team had whipped the team from medina county. "he gets everybody working together. you just watch him." upon the baseball field joe welling stood by first base, his whole body quivering with excitement. in spite of themselves all the players watched him closely. the opposing pitcher became confused. "now! now! now! now!" shouted the excited man. "watch me! watch me! watch my fingers! watch my hands! watch my feet! watch my eyes! let's work together here! watch me! in me you see all the movements of the game! work with me! work with me! watch me! watch me! watch me!" with runners of the winesburg team on bases, joe welling became as one inspired. before they knew what had come over them, the base runners were watching the man, edging off the bases, advancing, retreating, held as by an invisible cord. the players of the opposing team also watched joe. they were fascinated. for a moment they watched and then, as though to break a spell that hung over them, they began hurling the ball wildly about, and amid a series of fierce animal-like cries from the coach, the runners of the winesburg team scampered home. joe welling's love affair set the town of winesburg on edge. when it began everyone whispered and shook his head. when people tried to laugh, the laughter was forced and unnatural. joe fell in love with sarah king, a lean, sad-looking woman who lived with her father and brother in a brick house that stood opposite the gate leading to the winesburg cemetery. the two kings, edward the father, and tom the son, were not popular in winesburg. they were called proud and dangerous. they had come to winesburg from some place in the south and ran a cider mill on the trunion pike. tom king was reported to have killed a man before he came to winesburg. he was twenty-seven years old and rode about town on a grey pony. also he had a long yellow mustache that dropped down over his teeth, and always carried a heavy, wicked-looking walking stick in his hand. once he killed a dog with the stick. the dog belonged to win pawsey, the shoe merchant, and stood on the sidewalk wagging its tail. tom king killed it with one blow. he was arrested and paid a fine of ten dollars. old edward king was small of stature and when he passed people in the street laughed a queer unmirthful laugh. when he laughed he scratched his left elbow with his right hand. the sleeve of his coat was almost worn through from the habit. as he walked along the street, looking nervously about and laughing, he seemed more dangerous than his silent, fierce-looking son. when sarah king began walking out in the evening with joe welling, people shook their heads in alarm. she was tall and pale and had dark rings under her eyes. the couple looked ridiculous together. under the trees they walked and joe talked. his passionate eager protestations of love, heard coming out of the darkness by the cemetery wall, or from the deep shadows of the trees on the hill that ran up to the fair grounds from waterworks pond, were repeated in the stores. men stood by the bar in the new willard house laughing and talking of joe's courtship. after the laughter came the silence. the winesburg baseball team, under his management, was winning game after game, and the town had begun to respect him. sensing a tragedy, they waited, laughing nervously. late on a saturday afternoon the meeting between joe welling and the two kings, the anticipation of which had set the town on edge, took place in joe welling's room in the new willard house. george willard was a witness to the meeting. it came about in this way: when the young reporter went to his room after the evening meal he saw tom king and his father sitting in the half darkness in joe's room. the son had the heavy walking stick in his hand and sat near the door. old edward king walked nervously about, scratching his left elbow with his right hand. the hallways were empty and silent. george willard went to his own room and sat down at his desk. he tried to write but his hand trembled so that he could not hold the pen. he also walked nervously up and down. like the rest of the town of winesburg he was perplexed and knew not what to do. it was seven-thirty and fast growing dark when joe welling came along the station platform toward the new willard house. in his arms he held a bundle of weeds and grasses. in spite of the terror that made his body shake, george willard was amused at the sight of the small spry figure holding the grasses and half running along the platform. shaking with fright and anxiety, the young reporter lurked in the hallway outside the door of the room in which joe welling talked to the two kings. there had been an oath, the nervous giggle of old edward king, and then silence. now the voice of joe welling, sharp and clear, broke forth. george willard began to laugh. he understood. as he had swept all men before him, so now joe welling was carrying the two men in the room off their feet with a tidal wave of words. the listener in the hall walked up and down, lost in amazement. inside the room joe welling had paid no attention to the grumbled threat of tom king. absorbed in an idea he closed the door and, lighting a lamp, spread the handful of weeds and grasses upon the floor. "i've got something here," he announced solemnly. "i was going to tell george willard about it, let him make a piece out of it for the paper. i'm glad you're here. i wish sarah were here also. i've been going to come to your house and tell you of some of my ideas. they're interesting. sarah wouldn't let me. she said we'd quarrel. that's foolish." running up and down before the two perplexed men, joe welling began to explain. "don't you make a mistake now," he cried. "this is something big." his voice was shrill with excitement. "you just follow me, you'll be interested. i know you will. suppose this--suppose all of the wheat, the corn, the oats, the peas, the potatoes, were all by some miracle swept away. now here we are, you see, in this county. there is a high fence built all around us. we'll suppose that. no one can get over the fence and all the fruits of the earth are destroyed, nothing left but these wild things, these grasses. would we be done for? i ask you that. would we be done for?" again tom king growled and for a moment there was silence in the room. then again joe plunged into the exposition of his idea. "things would go hard for a time. i admit that. i've got to admit that. no getting around it. we'd be hard put to it. more than one fat stomach would cave in. but they couldn't down us. i should say not." tom king laughed good naturedly and the shivery, nervous laugh of edward king rang through the house. joe welling hurried on. "we'd begin, you see, to breed up new vegetables and fruits. soon we'd regain all we had lost. mind, i don't say the new things would be the same as the old. they wouldn't. maybe they'd be better, maybe not so good. that's interesting, eh? you can think about that. it starts your mind working, now don't it?" in the room there was silence and then again old edward king laughed nervously. "say, i wish sarah was here," cried joe welling. "let's go up to your house. i want to tell her of this." there was a scraping of chairs in the room. it was then that george willard retreated to his own room. leaning out at the window he saw joe welling going along the street with the two kings. tom king was forced to take extraordinary long strides to keep pace with the little man. as he strode along, he leaned over, listening--absorbed, fascinated. joe welling again talked excitedly. "take milkweed now," he cried. "a lot might be done with milkweed, eh? it's almost unbelievable. i want you to think about it. i want you two to think about it. there would be a new vegetable kingdom you see. it's interesting, eh? it's an idea. wait till you see sarah, she'll get the idea. she'll be interested. sarah is always interested in ideas. you can't be too smart for sarah, now can you? of course you can't. you know that." adventure alice hindman, a woman of twenty-seven when george willard was a mere boy, had lived in winesburg all her life. she clerked in winney's dry goods store and lived with her mother, who had married a second husband. alice's step-father was a carriage painter, and given to drink. his story is an odd one. it will be worth telling some day. at twenty-seven alice was tall and somewhat slight. her head was large and overshadowed her body. her shoulders were a little stooped and her hair and eyes brown. she was very quiet but beneath a placid exterior a continual ferment went on. when she was a girl of sixteen and before she began to work in the store, alice had an affair with a young man. the young man, named ned currie, was older than alice. he, like george willard, was employed on the winesburg eagle and for a long time he went to see alice almost every evening. together the two walked under the trees through the streets of the town and talked of what they would do with their lives. alice was then a very pretty girl and ned currie took her into his arms and kissed her. he became excited and said things he did not intend to say and alice, betrayed by her desire to have something beautiful come into her rather narrow life, also grew excited. she also talked. the outer crust of her life, all of her natural diffidence and reserve, was torn away and she gave herself over to the emotions of love. when, late in the fall of her sixteenth year, ned currie went away to cleveland where he hoped to get a place on a city newspaper and rise in the world, she wanted to go with him. with a trembling voice she told him what was in her mind. "i will work and you can work," she said. "i do not want to harness you to a needless expense that will prevent your making progress. don't marry me now. we will get along without that and we can be together. even though we live in the same house no one will say anything. in the city we will be unknown and people will pay no attention to us." ned currie was puzzled by the determination and abandon of his sweetheart and was also deeply touched. he had wanted the girl to become his mistress but changed his mind. he wanted to protect and care for her. "you don't know what you're talking about," he said sharply; "you may be sure i'll let you do no such thing. as soon as i get a good job i'll come back. for the present you'll have to stay here. it's the only thing we can do." on the evening before he left winesburg to take up his new life in the city, ned currie went to call on alice. they walked about through the streets for an hour and then got a rig from wesley moyer's livery and went for a drive in the country. the moon came up and they found themselves unable to talk. in his sadness the young man forgot the resolutions he had made regarding his conduct with the girl. they got out of the buggy at a place where a long meadow ran down to the bank of wine creek and there in the dim light became lovers. when at midnight they returned to town they were both glad. it did not seem to them that anything that could happen in the future could blot out the wonder and beauty of the thing that had happened. "now we will have to stick to each other, whatever happens we will have to do that," ned currie said as he left the girl at her father's door. the young newspaper man did not succeed in getting a place on a cleveland paper and went west to chicago. for a time he was lonely and wrote to alice almost every day. then he was caught up by the life of the city; he began to make friends and found new interests in life. in chicago he boarded at a house where there were several women. one of them attracted his attention and he forgot alice in winesburg. at the end of a year he had stopped writing letters, and only once in a long time, when he was lonely or when he went into one of the city parks and saw the moon shining on the grass as it had shone that night on the meadow by wine creek, did he think of her at all. in winesburg the girl who had been loved grew to be a woman. when she was twenty-two years old her father, who owned a harness repair shop, died suddenly. the harness maker was an old soldier, and after a few months his wife received a widow's pension. she used the first money she got to buy a loom and became a weaver of carpets, and alice got a place in winney's store. for a number of years nothing could have induced her to believe that ned currie would not in the end return to her. she was glad to be employed because the daily round of toil in the store made the time of waiting seem less long and uninteresting. she began to save money, thinking that when she had saved two or three hundred dollars she would follow her lover to the city and try if her presence would not win back his affections. alice did not blame ned currie for what had happened in the moonlight in the field, but felt that she could never marry another man. to her the thought of giving to another what she still felt could belong only to ned seemed monstrous. when other young men tried to attract her attention she would have nothing to do with them. "i am his wife and shall remain his wife whether he comes back or not," she whispered to herself, and for all of her willingness to support herself could not have understood the growing modern idea of a woman's owning herself and giving and taking for her own ends in life. alice worked in the dry goods store from eight in the morning until six at night and on three evenings a week went back to the store to stay from seven until nine. as time passed and she became more and more lonely she began to practice the devices common to lonely people. when at night she went upstairs into her own room she knelt on the floor to pray and in her prayers whispered things she wanted to say to her lover. she became attached to inanimate objects, and because it was her own, could not bare to have anyone touch the furniture of her room. the trick of saving money, begun for a purpose, was carried on after the scheme of going to the city to find ned currie had been given up. it became a fixed habit, and when she needed new clothes she did not get them. sometimes on rainy afternoons in the store she got out her bank book and, letting it lie open before her, spent hours dreaming impossible dreams of saving money enough so that the interest would support both herself and her future husband. "ned always liked to travel about," she thought. "i'll give him the chance. some day when we are married and i can save both his money and my own, we will be rich. then we can travel together all over the world." in the dry goods store weeks ran into months and months into years as alice waited and dreamed of her lover's return. her employer, a grey old man with false teeth and a thin grey mustache that drooped down over his mouth, was not given to conversation, and sometimes, on rainy days and in the winter when a storm raged in main street, long hours passed when no customers came in. alice arranged and rearranged the stock. she stood near the front window where she could look down the deserted street and thought of the evenings when she had walked with ned currie and of what he had said. "we will have to stick to each other now." the words echoed and re-echoed through the mind of the maturing woman. tears came into her eyes. sometimes when her employer had gone out and she was alone in the store she put her head on the counter and wept. "oh, ned, i am waiting," she whispered over and over, and all the time the creeping fear that he would never come back grew stronger within her. in the spring when the rains have passed and before the long hot days of summer have come, the country about winesburg is delightful. the town lies in the midst of open fields, but beyond the fields are pleasant patches of woodlands. in the wooded places are many little cloistered nooks, quiet places where lovers go to sit on sunday afternoons. through the trees they look out across the fields and see farmers at work about the barns or people driving up and down on the roads. in the town bells ring and occasionally a train passes, looking like a toy thing in the distance. for several years after ned currie went away alice did not go into the wood with the other young people on sunday, but one day after he had been gone for two or three years and when her loneliness seemed unbearable, she put on her best dress and set out. finding a little sheltered place from which she could see the town and a long stretch of the fields, she sat down. fear of age and ineffectuality took possession of her. she could not sit still, and arose. as she stood looking out over the land something, perhaps the thought of never ceasing life as it expresses itself in the flow of the seasons, fixed her mind on the passing years. with a shiver of dread, she realized that for her the beauty and freshness of youth had passed. for the first time she felt that she had been cheated. she did not blame ned currie and did not know what to blame. sadness swept over her. dropping to her knees, she tried to pray, but instead of prayers words of protest came to her lips. "it is not going to come to me. i will never find happiness. why do i tell myself lies?" she cried, and an odd sense of relief came with this, her first bold attempt to face the fear that had become a part of her everyday life. in the year when alice hindman became twenty-five two things happened to disturb the dull uneventfulness of her days. her mother married bush milton, the carriage painter of winesburg, and she herself became a member of the winesburg methodist church. alice joined the church because she had become frightened by the loneliness of her position in life. her mother's second marriage had emphasized her isolation. "i am becoming old and queer. if ned comes he will not want me. in the city where he is living men are perpetually young. there is so much going on that they do not have time to grow old," she told herself with a grim little smile, and went resolutely about the business of becoming acquainted with people. every thursday evening when the store had closed she went to a prayer meeting in the basement of the church and on sunday evening attended a meeting of an organization called the epworth league. when will hurley, a middle-aged man who clerked in a drug store and who also belonged to the church, offered to walk home with her she did not protest. "of course i will not let him make a practice of being with me, but if he comes to see me once in a long time there can be no harm in that," she told herself, still determined in her loyalty to ned currie. without realizing what was happening, alice was trying feebly at first, but with growing determination, to get a new hold upon life. beside the drug clerk she walked in silence, but sometimes in the darkness as they went stolidly along she put out her hand and touched softly the folds of his coat. when he left her at the gate before her mother's house she did not go indoors, but stood for a moment by the door. she wanted to call to the drug clerk, to ask him to sit with her in the darkness on the porch before the house, but was afraid he would not understand. "it is not him that i want," she told herself; "i want to avoid being so much alone. if i am not careful i will grow unaccustomed to being with people." * * * during the early fall of her twenty-seventh year a passionate restlessness took possession of alice. she could not bear to be in the company of the drug clerk, and when, in the evening, he came to walk with her she sent him away. her mind became intensely active and when, weary from the long hours of standing behind the counter in the store, she went home and crawled into bed, she could not sleep. with staring eyes she looked into the darkness. her imagination, like a child awakened from long sleep, played about the room. deep within her there was something that would not be cheated by phantasies and that demanded some definite answer from life. alice took a pillow into her arms and held it tightly against her breasts. getting out of bed, she arranged a blanket so that in the darkness it looked like a form lying between the sheets and, kneeling beside the bed, she caressed it, whispering words over and over, like a refrain. "why doesn't something happen? why am i left here alone?" she muttered. although she sometimes thought of ned currie, she no longer depended on him. her desire had grown vague. she did not want ned currie or any other man. she wanted to be loved, to have something answer the call that was growing louder and louder within her. and then one night when it rained alice had an adventure. it frightened and confused her. she had come home from the store at nine and found the house empty. bush milton had gone off to town and her mother to the house of a neighbor. alice went upstairs to her room and undressed in the darkness. for a moment she stood by the window hearing the rain beat against the glass and then a strange desire took possession of her. without stopping to think of what she intended to do, she ran downstairs through the dark house and out into the rain. as she stood on the little grass plot before the house and felt the cold rain on her body a mad desire to run naked through the streets took possession of her. she thought that the rain would have some creative and wonderful effect on her body. not for years had she felt so full of youth and courage. she wanted to leap and run, to cry out, to find some other lonely human and embrace him. on the brick sidewalk before the house a man stumbled homeward. alice started to run. a wild, desperate mood took possession of her. "what do i care who it is. he is alone, and i will go to him," she thought; and then without stopping to consider the possible result of her madness, called softly. "wait!" she cried. "don't go away. whoever you are, you must wait." the man on the sidewalk stopped and stood listening. he was an old man and somewhat deaf. putting his hand to his mouth, he shouted. "what? what say?" he called. alice dropped to the ground and lay trembling. she was so frightened at the thought of what she had done that when the man had gone on his way she did not dare get to her feet, but crawled on hands and knees through the grass to the house. when she got to her own room she bolted the door and drew her dressing table across the doorway. her body shook as with a chill and her hands trembled so that she had difficulty getting into her nightdress. when she got into bed she buried her face in the pillow and wept brokenheartedly. "what is the matter with me? i will do something dreadful if i am not careful," she thought, and turning her face to the wall, began trying to force herself to face bravely the fact that many people must live and die alone, even in winesburg. respectability if you have lived in cities and have walked in the park on a summer afternoon, you have perhaps seen, blinking in a corner of his iron cage, a huge, grotesque kind of monkey, a creature with ugly, sagging, hairless skin below his eyes and a bright purple underbody. this monkey is a true monster. in the completeness of his ugliness he achieved a kind of perverted beauty. children stopping before the cage are fascinated, men turn away with an air of disgust, and women linger for a moment, trying perhaps to remember which one of their male acquaintances the thing in some faint way resembles. had you been in the earlier years of your life a citizen of the village of winesburg, ohio, there would have been for you no mystery in regard to the beast in his cage. "it is like wash williams," you would have said. "as he sits in the corner there, the beast is exactly like old wash sitting on the grass in the station yard on a summer evening after he has closed his office for the night." wash williams, the telegraph operator of winesburg, was the ugliest thing in town. his girth was immense, his neck thin, his legs feeble. he was dirty. everything about him was unclean. even the whites of his eyes looked soiled. i go too fast. not everything about wash was unclean. he took care of his hands. his fingers were fat, but there was something sensitive and shapely in the hand that lay on the table by the instrument in the telegraph office. in his youth wash williams had been called the best telegraph operator in the state, and in spite of his degradement to the obscure office at winesburg, he was still proud of his ability. wash williams did not associate with the men of the town in which he lived. "i'll have nothing to do with them," he said, looking with bleary eyes at the men who walked along the station platform past the telegraph office. up along main street he went in the evening to ed griffith's saloon, and after drinking unbelievable quantities of beer staggered off to his room in the new willard house and to his bed for the night. wash williams was a man of courage. a thing had happened to him that made him hate life, and he hated it wholeheartedly, with the abandon of a poet. first of all, he hated women. "bitches," he called them. his feeling toward men was somewhat different. he pitied them. "does not every man let his life be managed for him by some bitch or another?" he asked. in winesburg no attention was paid to wash williams and his hatred of his fellows. once mrs. white, the banker's wife, complained to the telegraph company, saying that the office in winesburg was dirty and smelled abominably, but nothing came of her complaint. here and there a man respected the operator. instinctively the man felt in him a glowing resentment of something he had not the courage to resent. when wash walked through the streets such a one had an instinct to pay him homage, to raise his hat or to bow before him. the superintendent who had supervision over the telegraph operators on the railroad that went through winesburg felt that way. he had put wash into the obscure office at winesburg to avoid discharging him, and he meant to keep him there. when he received the letter of complaint from the banker's wife, he tore it up and laughed unpleasantly. for some reason he thought of his own wife as he tore up the letter. wash williams once had a wife. when he was still a young man he married a woman at dayton, ohio. the woman was tall and slender and had blue eyes and yellow hair. wash was himself a comely youth. he loved the woman with a love as absorbing as the hatred he later felt for all women. in all of winesburg there was but one person who knew the story of the thing that had made ugly the person and the character of wash williams. he once told the story to george willard and the telling of the tale came about in this way: george willard went one evening to walk with belle carpenter, a trimmer of women's hats who worked in a millinery shop kept by mrs. kate mchugh. the young man was not in love with the woman, who, in fact, had a suitor who worked as bartender in ed griffith's saloon, but as they walked about under the trees they occasionally embraced. the night and their own thoughts had aroused something in them. as they were returning to main street they passed the little lawn beside the railroad station and saw wash williams apparently asleep on the grass beneath a tree. on the next evening the operator and george willard walked out together. down the railroad they went and sat on a pile of decaying railroad ties beside the tracks. it was then that the operator told the young reporter his story of hate. perhaps a dozen times george willard and the strange, shapeless man who lived at his father's hotel had been on the point of talking. the young man looked at the hideous, leering face staring about the hotel dining room and was consumed with curiosity. something he saw lurking in the staring eyes told him that the man who had nothing to say to others had nevertheless something to say to him. on the pile of railroad ties on the summer evening, he waited expectantly. when the operator remained silent and seemed to have changed his mind about talking, he tried to make conversation. "were you ever married, mr. williams?" he began. "i suppose you were and your wife is dead, is that it?" wash williams spat forth a succession of vile oaths. "yes, she is dead," he agreed. "she is dead as all women are dead. she is a living-dead thing, walking in the sight of men and making the earth foul by her presence." staring into the boy's eyes, the man became purple with rage. "don't have fool notions in your head," he commanded. "my wife, she is dead; yes, surely. i tell you, all women are dead, my mother, your mother, that tall dark woman who works in the millinery store and with whom i saw you walking about yesterday--all of them, they are all dead. i tell you there is something rotten about them. i was married, sure. my wife was dead before she married me, she was a foul thing come out a woman more foul. she was a thing sent to make life unbearable to me. i was a fool, do you see, as you are now, and so i married this woman. i would like to see men a little begin to understand women. they are sent to prevent men making the world worth while. it is a trick in nature. ugh! they are creeping, crawling, squirming things, they with their soft hands and their blue eyes. the sight of a woman sickens me. why i don't kill every woman i see i don't know." half frightened and yet fascinated by the light burning in the eyes of the hideous old man, george willard listened, afire with curiosity. darkness came on and he leaned forward trying to see the face of the man who talked. when, in the gathering darkness, he could no longer see the purple, bloated face and the burning eyes, a curious fancy came to him. wash williams talked in low even tones that made his words seem the more terrible. in the darkness the young reporter found himself imagining that he sat on the railroad ties beside a comely young man with black hair and black shining eyes. there was something almost beautiful in the voice of wash williams, the hideous, telling his story of hate. the telegraph operator of winesburg, sitting in the darkness on the railroad ties, had become a poet. hatred had raised him to that elevation. "it is because i saw you kissing the lips of that belle carpenter that i tell you my story," he said. "what happened to me may next happen to you. i want to put you on your guard. already you may be having dreams in your head. i want to destroy them." wash williams began telling the story of his married life with the tall blonde girl with the blue eyes whom he had met when he was a young operator at dayton, ohio. here and there his story was touched with moments of beauty intermingled with strings of vile curses. the operator had married the daughter of a dentist who was the youngest of three sisters. on his marriage day, because of his ability, he was promoted to a position as dispatcher at an increased salary and sent to an office at columbus, ohio. there he settled down with his young wife and began buying a house on the installment plan. the young telegraph operator was madly in love. with a kind of religious fervor he had managed to go through the pitfalls of his youth and to remain virginal until after his marriage. he made for george willard a picture of his life in the house at columbus, ohio, with the young wife. "in the garden back of our house we planted vegetables," he said, "you know, peas and corn and such things. we went to columbus in early march and as soon as the days became warm i went to work in the garden. with a spade i turned up the black ground while she ran about laughing and pretending to be afraid of the worms i uncovered. late in april came the planting. in the little paths among the seed beds she stood holding a paper bag in her hand. the bag was filled with seeds. a few at a time she handed me the seeds that i might thrust them into the warm, soft ground." for a moment there was a catch in the voice of the man talking in the darkness. "i loved her," he said. "i don't claim not to be a fool. i love her yet. there in the dusk in the spring evening i crawled along the black ground to her feet and groveled before her. i kissed her shoes and the ankles above her shoes. when the hem of her garment touched my face i trembled. when after two years of that life i found she had managed to acquire three other lovers who came regularly to our house when i was away at work, i didn't want to touch them or her. i just sent her home to her mother and said nothing. there was nothing to say. i had four hundred dollars in the bank and i gave her that. i didn't ask her reasons. i didn't say anything. when she had gone i cried like a silly boy. pretty soon i had a chance to sell the house and i sent that money to her." wash williams and george willard arose from the pile of railroad ties and walked along the tracks toward town. the operator finished his tale quickly, breathlessly. "her mother sent for me," he said. "she wrote me a letter and asked me to come to their house at dayton. when i got there it was evening about this time." wash williams' voice rose to a half scream. "i sat in the parlor of that house two hours. her mother took me in there and left me. their house was stylish. they were what is called respectable people. there were plush chairs and a couch in the room. i was trembling all over. i hated the men i thought had wronged her. i was sick of living alone and wanted her back. the longer i waited the more raw and tender i became. i thought that if she came in and just touched me with her hand i would perhaps faint away. i ached to forgive and forget." wash williams stopped and stood staring at george willard. the boy's body shook as from a chill. again the man's voice became soft and low. "she came into the room naked," he went on. "her mother did that. while i sat there she was taking the girl's clothes off, perhaps coaxing her to do it. first i heard voices at the door that led into a little hallway and then it opened softly. the girl was ashamed and stood perfectly still staring at the floor. the mother didn't come into the room. when she had pushed the girl in through the door she stood in the hallway waiting, hoping we would--well, you see--waiting." george willard and the telegraph operator came into the main street of winesburg. the lights from the store windows lay bright and shining on the sidewalks. people moved about laughing and talking. the young reporter felt ill and weak. in imagination, he also became old and shapeless. "i didn't get the mother killed," said wash williams, staring up and down the street. "i struck her once with a chair and then the neighbors came in and took it away. she screamed so loud you see. i won't ever have a chance to kill her now. she died of a fever a month after that happened." the thinker the house in which seth richmond of winesburg lived with his mother had been at one time the show place of the town, but when young seth lived there its glory had become somewhat dimmed. the huge brick house which banker white had built on buckeye street had overshadowed it. the richmond place was in a little valley far out at the end of main street. farmers coming into town by a dusty road from the south passed by a grove of walnut trees, skirted the fair ground with its high board fence covered with advertisements, and trotted their horses down through the valley past the richmond place into town. as much of the country north and south of winesburg was devoted to fruit and berry raising, seth saw wagon-loads of berry pickers--boys, girls, and women--going to the fields in the morning and returning covered with dust in the evening. the chattering crowd, with their rude jokes cried out from wagon to wagon, sometimes irritated him sharply. he regretted that he also could not laugh boisterously, shout meaningless jokes and make of himself a figure in the endless stream of moving, giggling activity that went up and down the road. the richmond house was built of limestone, and, although it was said in the village to have become run down, had in reality grown more beautiful with every passing year. already time had begun a little to color the stone, lending a golden richness to its surface and in the evening or on dark days touching the shaded places beneath the eaves with wavering patches of browns and blacks. the house had been built by seth's grandfather, a stone quarryman, and it, together with the stone quarries on lake erie eighteen miles to the north, had been left to his son, clarence richmond, seth's father. clarence richmond, a quiet passionate man extraordinarily admired by his neighbors, had been killed in a street fight with the editor of a newspaper in toledo, ohio. the fight concerned the publication of clarence richmond's name coupled with that of a woman school teacher, and as the dead man had begun the row by firing upon the editor, the effort to punish the slayer was unsuccessful. after the quarryman's death it was found that much of the money left to him had been squandered in speculation and in insecure investments made through the influence of friends. left with but a small income, virginia richmond had settled down to a retired life in the village and to the raising of her son. although she had been deeply moved by the death of the husband and father, she did not at all believe the stories concerning him that ran about after his death. to her mind, the sensitive, boyish man whom all had instinctively loved, was but an unfortunate, a being too fine for everyday life. "you'll be hearing all sorts of stories, but you are not to believe what you hear," she said to her son. "he was a good man, full of tenderness for everyone, and should not have tried to be a man of affairs. no matter how much i were to plan and dream of your future, i could not imagine anything better for you than that you turn out as good a man as your father." several years after the death of her husband, virginia richmond had become alarmed at the growing demands upon her income and had set herself to the task of increasing it. she had learned stenography and through the influence of her husband's friends got the position of court stenographer at the county seat. there she went by train each morning during the sessions of the court, and when no court sat, spent her days working among the rosebushes in her garden. she was a tall, straight figure of a woman with a plain face and a great mass of brown hair. in the relationship between seth richmond and his mother, there was a quality that even at eighteen had begun to color all of his traffic with men. an almost unhealthy respect for the youth kept the mother for the most part silent in his presence. when she did speak sharply to him he had only to look steadily into her eyes to see dawning there the puzzled look he had already noticed in the eyes of others when he looked at them. the truth was that the son thought with remarkable clearness and the mother did not. she expected from all people certain conventional reactions to life. a boy was your son, you scolded him and he trembled and looked at the floor. when you had scolded enough he wept and all was forgiven. after the weeping and when he had gone to bed, you crept into his room and kissed him. virginia richmond could not understand why her son did not do these things. after the severest reprimand, he did not tremble and look at the floor but instead looked steadily at her, causing uneasy doubts to invade her mind. as for creeping into his room--after seth had passed his fifteenth year, she would have been half afraid to do anything of the kind. once when he was a boy of sixteen, seth in company with two other boys ran away from home. the three boys climbed into the open door of an empty freight car and rode some forty miles to a town where a fair was being held. one of the boys had a bottle filled with a combination of whiskey and blackberry wine, and the three sat with legs dangling out of the car door drinking from the bottle. seth's two companions sang and waved their hands to idlers about the stations of the towns through which the train passed. they planned raids upon the baskets of farmers who had come with their families to the fair. "we will live like kings and won't have to spend a penny to see the fair and horse races," they declared boastfully. after the disappearance of seth, virginia richmond walked up and down the floor of her home filled with vague alarms. although on the next day she discovered, through an inquiry made by the town marshal, on what adventure the boys had gone, she could not quiet herself. all through the night she lay awake hearing the clock tick and telling herself that seth, like his father, would come to a sudden and violent end. so determined was she that the boy should this time feel the weight of her wrath that, although she would not allow the marshal to interfere with his adventure, she got out a pencil and paper and wrote down a series of sharp, stinging reproofs she intended to pour out upon him. the reproofs she committed to memory, going about the garden and saying them aloud like an actor memorizing his part. and when, at the end of the week, seth returned, a little weary and with coal soot in his ears and about his eyes, she again found herself unable to reprove him. walking into the house he hung his cap on a nail by the kitchen door and stood looking steadily at her. "i wanted to turn back within an hour after we had started," he explained. "i didn't know what to do. i knew you would be bothered, but i knew also that if i didn't go on i would be ashamed of myself. i went through with the thing for my own good. it was uncomfortable, sleeping on wet straw, and two drunken negroes came and slept with us. when i stole a lunch basket out of a farmer's wagon i couldn't help thinking of his children going all day without food. i was sick of the whole affair, but i was determined to stick it out until the other boys were ready to come back." "i'm glad you did stick it out," replied the mother, half resentfully, and kissing him upon the forehead pretended to busy herself with the work about the house. on a summer evening seth richmond went to the new willard house to visit his friend, george willard. it had rained during the afternoon, but as he walked through main street, the sky had partially cleared and a golden glow lit up the west. going around a corner, he turned in at the door of the hotel and began to climb the stairway leading up to his friend's room. in the hotel office the proprietor and two traveling men were engaged in a discussion of politics. on the stairway seth stopped and listened to the voices of the men below. they were excited and talked rapidly. tom willard was berating the traveling men. "i am a democrat but your talk makes me sick," he said. "you don't understand mckinley. mckinley and mark hanna are friends. it is impossible perhaps for your mind to grasp that. if anyone tells you that a friendship can be deeper and bigger and more worth while than dollars and cents, or even more worth while than state politics, you snicker and laugh." the landlord was interrupted by one of the guests, a tall, grey-mustached man who worked for a wholesale grocery house. "do you think that i've lived in cleveland all these years without knowing mark hanna?" he demanded. "your talk is piffle. hanna is after money and nothing else. this mckinley is his tool. he has mckinley bluffed and don't you forget it." the young man on the stairs did not linger to hear the rest of the discussion, but went on up the stairway and into the little dark hall. something in the voices of the men talking in the hotel office started a chain of thoughts in his mind. he was lonely and had begun to think that loneliness was a part of his character, something that would always stay with him. stepping into a side hall he stood by a window that looked into an alleyway. at the back of his shop stood abner groff, the town baker. his tiny bloodshot eyes looked up and down the alleyway. in his shop someone called the baker, who pretended not to hear. the baker had an empty milk bottle in his hand and an angry sullen look in his eyes. in winesburg, seth richmond was called the "deep one." "he's like his father," men said as he went through the streets. "he'll break out some of these days. you wait and see." the talk of the town and the respect with which men and boys instinctively greeted him, as all men greet silent people, had affected seth richmond's outlook on life and on himself. he, like most boys, was deeper than boys are given credit for being, but he was not what the men of the town, and even his mother, thought him to be. no great underlying purpose lay back of his habitual silence, and he had no definite plan for his life. when the boys with whom he associated were noisy and quarrelsome, he stood quietly at one side. with calm eyes he watched the gesticulating lively figures of his companions. he wasn't particularly interested in what was going on, and sometimes wondered if he would ever be particularly interested in anything. now, as he stood in the half-darkness by the window watching the baker, he wished that he himself might become thoroughly stirred by something, even by the fits of sullen anger for which baker groff was noted. "it would be better for me if i could become excited and wrangle about politics like windy old tom willard," he thought, as he left the window and went again along the hallway to the room occupied by his friend, george willard. george willard was older than seth richmond, but in the rather odd friendship between the two, it was he who was forever courting and the younger boy who was being courted. the paper on which george worked had one policy. it strove to mention by name in each issue, as many as possible of the inhabitants of the village. like an excited dog, george willard ran here and there, noting on his pad of paper who had gone on business to the county seat or had returned from a visit to a neighboring village. all day he wrote little facts upon the pad. "a. p. wringlet had received a shipment of straw hats. ed byerbaum and tom marshall were in cleveland friday. uncle tom sinnings is building a new barn on his place on the valley road." the idea that george willard would some day become a writer had given him a place of distinction in winesburg, and to seth richmond he talked continually of the matter, "it's the easiest of all lives to live," he declared, becoming excited and boastful. "here and there you go and there is no one to boss you. though you are in india or in the south seas in a boat, you have but to write and there you are. wait till i get my name up and then see what fun i shall have." in george willard's room, which had a window looking down into an alleyway and one that looked across railroad tracks to biff carter's lunch room facing the railroad station, seth richmond sat in a chair and looked at the floor. george willard, who had been sitting for an hour idly playing with a lead pencil, greeted him effusively. "i've been trying to write a love story," he explained, laughing nervously. lighting a pipe he began walking up and down the room. "i know what i'm going to do. i'm going to fall in love. i've been sitting here and thinking it over and i'm going to do it." as though embarrassed by his declaration, george went to a window and turning his back to his friend leaned out. "i know who i'm going to fall in love with," he said sharply. "it's helen white. she is the only girl in town with any 'get-up' to her." struck with a new idea, young willard turned and walked toward his visitor. "look here," he said. "you know helen white better than i do. i want you to tell her what i said. you just get to talking to her and say that i'm in love with her. see what she says to that. see how she takes it, and then you come and tell me." seth richmond arose and went toward the door. the words of his comrade irritated him unbearably. "well, good-bye," he said briefly. george was amazed. running forward he stood in the darkness trying to look into seth's face. "what's the matter? what are you going to do? you stay here and let's talk," he urged. a wave of resentment directed against his friend, the men of the town who were, he thought, perpetually talking of nothing, and most of all, against his own habit of silence, made seth half desperate. "aw, speak to her yourself," he burst forth and then, going quickly through the door, slammed it sharply in his friend's face. "i'm going to find helen white and talk to her, but not about him," he muttered. seth went down the stairway and out at the front door of the hotel muttering with wrath. crossing a little dusty street and climbing a low iron railing, he went to sit upon the grass in the station yard. george willard he thought a profound fool, and he wished that he had said so more vigorously. although his acquaintanceship with helen white, the banker's daughter, was outwardly but casual, she was often the subject of his thoughts and he felt that she was something private and personal to himself. "the busy fool with his love stories," he muttered, staring back over his shoulder at george willard's room, "why does he never tire of his eternal talking." it was berry harvest time in winesburg and upon the station platform men and boys loaded the boxes of red, fragrant berries into two express cars that stood upon the siding. a june moon was in the sky, although in the west a storm threatened, and no street lamps were lighted. in the dim light the figures of the men standing upon the express truck and pitching the boxes in at the doors of the cars were but dimly discernible. upon the iron railing that protected the station lawn sat other men. pipes were lighted. village jokes went back and forth. away in the distance a train whistled and the men loading the boxes into the cars worked with renewed activity. seth arose from his place on the grass and went silently past the men perched upon the railing and into main street. he had come to a resolution. "i'll get out of here," he told himself. "what good am i here? i'm going to some city and go to work. i'll tell mother about it tomorrow." seth richmond went slowly along main street, past wacker's cigar store and the town hall, and into buckeye street. he was depressed by the thought that he was not a part of the life in his own town, but the depression did not cut deeply as he did not think of himself as at fault. in the heavy shadows of a big tree before doctor welling's house, he stopped and stood watching half-witted turk smollet, who was pushing a wheelbarrow in the road. the old man with his absurdly boyish mind had a dozen long boards on the wheelbarrow, and, as he hurried along the road, balanced the load with extreme nicety. "easy there, turk! steady now, old boy!" the old man shouted to himself, and laughed so that the load of boards rocked dangerously. seth knew turk smollet, the half dangerous old wood chopper whose peculiarities added so much of color to the life of the village. he knew that when turk got into main street he would become the center of a whirlwind of cries and comments, that in truth the old man was going far out of his way in order to pass through main street and exhibit his skill in wheeling the boards. "if george willard were here, he'd have something to say," thought seth. "george belongs to this town. he'd shout at turk and turk would shout at him. they'd both be secretly pleased by what they had said. it's different with me. i don't belong. i'll not make a fuss about it, but i'm going to get out of here." seth stumbled forward through the half-darkness, feeling himself an outcast in his own town. he began to pity himself, but a sense of the absurdity of his thoughts made him smile. in the end he decided that he was simply old beyond his years and not at all a subject for self-pity. "i'm made to go to work. i may be able to make a place for myself by steady working, and i might as well be at it," he decided. seth went to the house of banker white and stood in the darkness by the front door. on the door hung a heavy brass knocker, an innovation introduced into the village by helen white's mother, who had also organized a women's club for the study of poetry. seth raised the knocker and let it fall. its heavy clatter sounded like a report from distant guns. "how awkward and foolish i am," he thought. "if mrs. white comes to the door, i won't know what to say." it was helen white who came to the door and found seth standing at the edge of the porch. blushing with pleasure, she stepped forward, closing the door softly. "i'm going to get out of town. i don't know what i'll do, but i'm going to get out of here and go to work. i think i'll go to columbus," he said. "perhaps i'll get into the state university down there. anyway, i'm going. i'll tell mother tonight." he hesitated and looked doubtfully about. "perhaps you wouldn't mind coming to walk with me?" seth and helen walked through the streets beneath the trees. heavy clouds had drifted across the face of the moon, and before them in the deep twilight went a man with a short ladder upon his shoulder. hurrying forward, the man stopped at the street crossing and, putting the ladder against the wooden lamp-post, lighted the village lights so that their way was half lighted, half darkened, by the lamps and by the deepening shadows cast by the low-branched trees. in the tops of the trees the wind began to play, disturbing the sleeping birds so that they flew about calling plaintively. in the lighted space before one of the lamps, two bats wheeled and circled, pursuing the gathering swarm of night flies. since seth had been a boy in knee trousers there had been a half expressed intimacy between him and the maiden who now for the first time walked beside him. for a time she had been beset with a madness for writing notes which she addressed to seth. he had found them concealed in his books at school and one had been given him by a child met in the street, while several had been delivered through the village post office. the notes had been written in a round, boyish hand and had reflected a mind inflamed by novel reading. seth had not answered them, although he had been moved and flattered by some of the sentences scrawled in pencil upon the stationery of the banker's wife. putting them into the pocket of his coat, he went through the street or stood by the fence in the school yard with something burning at his side. he thought it fine that he should be thus selected as the favorite of the richest and most attractive girl in town. helen and seth stopped by a fence near where a low dark building faced the street. the building had once been a factory for the making of barrel staves but was now vacant. across the street upon the porch of a house a man and woman talked of their childhood, their voices coming dearly across to the half-embarrassed youth and maiden. there was the sound of scraping chairs and the man and woman came down the gravel path to a wooden gate. standing outside the gate, the man leaned over and kissed the woman. "for old times' sake," he said and, turning, walked rapidly away along the sidewalk. "that's belle turner," whispered helen, and put her hand boldly into seth's hand. "i didn't know she had a fellow. i thought she was too old for that." seth laughed uneasily. the hand of the girl was warm and a strange, dizzy feeling crept over him. into his mind came a desire to tell her something he had been determined not to tell. "george willard's in love with you," he said, and in spite of his agitation his voice was low and quiet. "he's writing a story, and he wants to be in love. he wants to know how it feels. he wanted me to tell you and see what you said." again helen and seth walked in silence. they came to the garden surrounding the old richmond place and going through a gap in the hedge sat on a wooden bench beneath a bush. on the street as he walked beside the girl new and daring thoughts had come into seth richmond's mind. he began to regret his decision to get out of town. "it would be something new and altogether delightful to remain and walk often through the streets with helen white," he thought. in imagination he saw himself putting his arm about her waist and feeling her arms clasped tightly about his neck. one of those odd combinations of events and places made him connect the idea of love-making with this girl and a spot he had visited some days before. he had gone on an errand to the house of a farmer who lived on a hillside beyond the fair ground and had returned by a path through a field. at the foot of the hill below the farmer's house seth had stopped beneath a sycamore tree and looked about him. a soft humming noise had greeted his ears. for a moment he had thought the tree must be the home of a swarm of bees. and then, looking down, seth had seen the bees everywhere all about him in the long grass. he stood in a mass of weeds that grew waist-high in the field that ran away from the hillside. the weeds were abloom with tiny purple blossoms and gave forth an overpowering fragrance. upon the weeds the bees were gathered in armies, singing as they worked. seth imagined himself lying on a summer evening, buried deep among the weeds beneath the tree. beside him, in the scene built in his fancy, lay helen white, her hand lying in his hand. a peculiar reluctance kept him from kissing her lips, but he felt he might have done that if he wished. instead, he lay perfectly still, looking at her and listening to the army of bees that sang the sustained masterful song of labor above his head. on the bench in the garden seth stirred uneasily. releasing the hand of the girl, he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. a desire to impress the mind of his companion with the importance of the resolution he had made came over him and he nodded his head toward the house. "mother'll make a fuss, i suppose," he whispered. "she hasn't thought at all about what i'm going to do in life. she thinks i'm going to stay on here forever just being a boy." seth's voice became charged with boyish earnestness. "you see, i've got to strike out. i've got to get to work. it's what i'm good for." helen white was impressed. she nodded her head and a feeling of admiration swept over her. "this is as it should be," she thought. "this boy is not a boy at all, but a strong, purposeful man." certain vague desires that had been invading her body were swept away and she sat up very straight on the bench. the thunder continued to rumble and flashes of heat lightning lit up the eastern sky. the garden that had been so mysterious and vast, a place that with seth beside her might have become the background for strange and wonderful adventures, now seemed no more than an ordinary winesburg back yard, quite definite and limited in its outlines. "what will you do up there?" she whispered. seth turned half around on the bench, striving to see her face in the darkness. he thought her infinitely more sensible and straightforward than george willard, and was glad he had come away from his friend. a feeling of impatience with the town that had been in his mind returned, and he tried to tell her of it. "everyone talks and talks," he began. "i'm sick of it. i'll do something, get into some kind of work where talk don't count. maybe i'll just be a mechanic in a shop. i don't know. i guess i don't care much. i just want to work and keep quiet. that's all i've got in my mind." seth arose from the bench and put out his hand. he did not want to bring the meeting to an end but could not think of anything more to say. "it's the last time we'll see each other," he whispered. a wave of sentiment swept over helen. putting her hand upon seth's shoulder, she started to draw his face down toward her own upturned face. the act was one of pure affection and cutting regret that some vague adventure that had been present in the spirit of the night would now never be realized. "i think i'd better be going along," she said, letting her hand fall heavily to her side. a thought came to her. "don't you go with me; i want to be alone," she said. "you go and talk with your mother. you'd better do that now." seth hesitated and, as he stood waiting, the girl turned and ran away through the hedge. a desire to run after her came to him, but he only stood staring, perplexed and puzzled by her action as he had been perplexed and puzzled by all of the life of the town out of which she had come. walking slowly toward the house, he stopped in the shadow of a large tree and looked at his mother sitting by a lighted window busily sewing. the feeling of loneliness that had visited him earlier in the evening returned and colored his thoughts of the adventure through which he had just passed. "huh!" he exclaimed, turning and staring in the direction taken by helen white. "that's how things'll turn out. she'll be like the rest. i suppose she'll begin now to look at me in a funny way." he looked at the ground and pondered this thought. "she'll be embarrassed and feel strange when i'm around," he whispered to himself. "that's how it'll be. that's how everything'll turn out. when it comes to loving someone, it won't never be me. it'll be someone else--some fool--someone who talks a lot--someone like that george willard." tandy until she was seven years old she lived in an old unpainted house on an unused road that led off trunion pike. her father gave her but little attention and her mother was dead. the father spent his time talking and thinking of religion. he proclaimed himself an agnostic and was so absorbed in destroying the ideas of god that had crept into the minds of his neighbors that he never saw god manifesting himself in the little child that, half forgotten, lived here and there on the bounty of her dead mother's relatives. a stranger came to winesburg and saw in the child what the father did not see. he was a tall, redhaired young man who was almost always drunk. sometimes he sat in a chair before the new willard house with tom hard, the father. as tom talked, declaring there could be no god, the stranger smiled and winked at the bystanders. he and tom became friends and were much together. the stranger was the son of a rich merchant of cleveland and had come to winesburg on a mission. he wanted to cure himself of the habit of drink, and thought that by escaping from his city associates and living in a rural community he would have a better chance in the struggle with the appetite that was destroying him. his sojourn in winesburg was not a success. the dullness of the passing hours led to his drinking harder than ever. but he did succeed in doing something. he gave a name rich with meaning to tom hard's daughter. one evening when he was recovering from a long debauch the stranger came reeling along the main street of the town. tom hard sat in a chair before the new willard house with his daughter, then a child of five, on his knees. beside him on the board sidewalk sat young george willard. the stranger dropped into a chair beside them. his body shook and when he tried to talk his voice trembled. it was late evening and darkness lay over the town and over the railroad that ran along the foot of a little incline before the hotel. somewhere in the distance, off to the west, there was a prolonged blast from the whistle of a passenger engine. a dog that had been sleeping in the roadway arose and barked. the stranger began to babble and made a prophecy concerning the child that lay in the arms of the agnostic. "i came here to quit drinking," he said, and tears began to run down his cheeks. he did not look at tom hard, but leaned forward and stared into the darkness as though seeing a vision. "i ran away to the country to be cured, but i am not cured. there is a reason." he turned to look at the child who sat up very straight on her father's knee and returned the look. the stranger touched tom hard on the arm. "drink is not the only thing to which i am addicted," he said. "there is something else. i am a lover and have not found my thing to love. that is a big point if you know enough to realize what i mean. it makes my destruction inevitable, you see. there are few who understand that." the stranger became silent and seemed overcome with sadness, but another blast from the whistle of the passenger engine aroused him. "i have not lost faith. i proclaim that. i have only been brought to the place where i know my faith will not be realized," he declared hoarsely. he looked hard at the child and began to address her, paying no more attention to the father. "there is a woman coming," he said, and his voice was now sharp and earnest. "i have missed her, you see. she did not come in my time. you may be the woman. it would be like fate to let me stand in her presence once, on such an evening as this, when i have destroyed myself with drink and she is as yet only a child." the shoulders of the stranger shook violently, and when he tried to roll a cigarette the paper fell from his trembling fingers. he grew angry and scolded. "they think it's easy to be a woman, to be loved, but i know better," he declared. again he turned to the child. "i understand," he cried. "perhaps of all men i alone understand." his glance again wandered away to the darkened street. "i know about her, although she has never crossed my path," he said softly. "i know about her struggles and her defeats. it is because of her defeats that she is to me the lovely one. out of her defeats has been born a new quality in woman. i have a name for it. i call it tandy. i made up the name when i was a true dreamer and before my body became vile. it is the quality of being strong to be loved. it is something men need from women and that they do not get." the stranger arose and stood before tom hard. his body rocked back and forth and he seemed about to fall, but instead he dropped to his knees on the sidewalk and raised the hands of the little girl to his drunken lips. he kissed them ecstatically. "be tandy, little one," he pleaded. "dare to be strong and courageous. that is the road. venture anything. be brave enough to dare to be loved. be something more than man or woman. be tandy." the stranger arose and staggered off down the street. a day or two later he got aboard a train and returned to his home in cleveland. on the summer evening, after the talk before the hotel, tom hard took the girl child to the house of a relative where she had been invited to spend the night. as he went along in the darkness under the trees he forgot the babbling voice of the stranger and his mind returned to the making of arguments by which he might destroy men's faith in god. he spoke his daughter's name and she began to weep. "i don't want to be called that," she declared. "i want to be called tandy--tandy hard." the child wept so bitterly that tom hard was touched and tried to comfort her. he stopped beneath a tree and, taking her into his arms, began to caress her. "be good, now," he said sharply; but she would not be quieted. with childish abandon she gave herself over to grief, her voice breaking the evening stillness of the street. "i want to be tandy. i want to be tandy. i want to be tandy hard," she cried, shaking her head and sobbing as though her young strength were not enough to bear the vision the words of the drunkard had brought to her. the strength of god the reverend curtis hartman was pastor of the presbyterian church of winesburg, and had been in that position ten years. he was forty years old, and by his nature very silent and reticent. to preach, standing in the pulpit before the people, was always a hardship for him and from wednesday morning until saturday evening he thought of nothing but the two sermons that must be preached on sunday. early on sunday morning he went into a little room called a study in the bell tower of the church and prayed. in his prayers there was one note that always predominated. "give me strength and courage for thy work, o lord!" he pleaded, kneeling on the bare floor and bowing his head in the presence of the task that lay before him. the reverend hartman was a tall man with a brown beard. his wife, a stout, nervous woman, was the daughter of a manufacturer of underwear at cleveland, ohio. the minister himself was rather a favorite in the town. the elders of the church liked him because he was quiet and unpretentious and mrs. white, the banker's wife, thought him scholarly and refined. the presbyterian church held itself somewhat aloof from the other churches of winesburg. it was larger and more imposing and its minister was better paid. he even had a carriage of his own and on summer evenings sometimes drove about town with his wife. through main street and up and down buckeye street he went, bowing gravely to the people, while his wife, afire with secret pride, looked at him out of the corners of her eyes and worried lest the horse become frightened and run away. for a good many years after he came to winesburg things went well with curtis hartman. he was not one to arouse keen enthusiasm among the worshippers in his church but on the other hand he made no enemies. in reality he was much in earnest and sometimes suffered prolonged periods of remorse because he could not go crying the word of god in the highways and byways of the town. he wondered if the flame of the spirit really burned in him and dreamed of a day when a strong sweet new current of power would come like a great wind into his voice and his soul and the people would tremble before the spirit of god made manifest in him. "i am a poor stick and that will never really happen to me," he mused dejectedly, and then a patient smile lit up his features. "oh well, i suppose i'm doing well enough," he added philosophically. the room in the bell tower of the church, where on sunday mornings the minister prayed for an increase in him of the power of god, had but one window. it was long and narrow and swung outward on a hinge like a door. on the window, made of little leaded panes, was a design showing the christ laying his hand upon the head of a child. one sunday morning in the summer as he sat by his desk in the room with a large bible opened before him, and the sheets of his sermon scattered about, the minister was shocked to see, in the upper room of the house next door, a woman lying in her bed and smoking a cigarette while she read a book. curtis hartman went on tiptoe to the window and closed it softly. he was horror stricken at the thought of a woman smoking and trembled also to think that his eyes, just raised from the pages of the book of god, had looked upon the bare shoulders and white throat of a woman. with his brain in a whirl he went down into the pulpit and preached a long sermon without once thinking of his gestures or his voice. the sermon attracted unusual attention because of its power and clearness. "i wonder if she is listening, if my voice is carrying a message into her soul," he thought and began to hope that on future sunday mornings he might be able to say words that would touch and awaken the woman apparently far gone in secret sin. the house next door to the presbyterian church, through the windows of which the minister had seen the sight that had so upset him, was occupied by two women. aunt elizabeth swift, a grey competent-looking widow with money in the winesburg national bank, lived there with her daughter kate swift, a school teacher. the school teacher was thirty years old and had a neat trim-looking figure. she had few friends and bore a reputation of having a sharp tongue. when he began to think about her, curtis hartman remembered that she had been to europe and had lived for two years in new york city. "perhaps after all her smoking means nothing," he thought. he began to remember that when he was a student in college and occasionally read novels, good although somewhat worldly women, had smoked through the pages of a book that had once fallen into his hands. with a rush of new determination he worked on his sermons all through the week and forgot, in his zeal to reach the ears and the soul of this new listener, both his embarrassment in the pulpit and the necessity of prayer in the study on sunday mornings. reverend hartman's experience with women had been somewhat limited. he was the son of a wagon maker from muncie, indiana, and had worked his way through college. the daughter of the underwear manufacturer had boarded in a house where he lived during his school days and he had married her after a formal and prolonged courtship, carried on for the most part by the girl herself. on his marriage day the underwear manufacturer had given his daughter five thousand dollars and he promised to leave her at least twice that amount in his will. the minister had thought himself fortunate in marriage and had never permitted himself to think of other women. he did not want to think of other women. what he wanted was to do the work of god quietly and earnestly. in the soul of the minister a struggle awoke. from wanting to reach the ears of kate swift, and through his sermons to delve into her soul, he began to want also to look again at the figure lying white and quiet in the bed. on a sunday morning when he could not sleep because of his thoughts he arose and went to walk in the streets. when he had gone along main street almost to the old richmond place he stopped and picking up a stone rushed off to the room in the bell tower. with the stone he broke out a corner of the window and then locked the door and sat down at the desk before the open bible to wait. when the shade of the window to kate swift's room was raised he could see, through the hole, directly into her bed, but she was not there. she also had arisen and had gone for a walk and the hand that raised the shade was the hand of aunt elizabeth swift. the minister almost wept with joy at this deliverance from the carnal desire to "peep" and went back to his own house praising god. in an ill moment he forgot, however, to stop the hole in the window. the piece of glass broken out at the corner of the window just nipped off the bare heel of the boy standing motionless and looking with rapt eyes into the face of the christ. curtis hartman forgot his sermon on that sunday morning. he talked to his congregation and in his talk said that it was a mistake for people to think of their minister as a man set aside and intended by nature to lead a blameless life. "out of my own experience i know that we, who are the ministers of god's word, are beset by the same temptations that assail you," he declared. "i have been tempted and have surrendered to temptation. it is only the hand of god, placed beneath my head, that has raised me up. as he has raised me so also will he raise you. do not despair. in your hour of sin raise your eyes to the skies and you will be again and again saved." resolutely the minister put the thoughts of the woman in the bed out of his mind and began to be something like a lover in the presence of his wife. one evening when they drove out together he turned the horse out of buckeye street and in the darkness on gospel hill, above waterworks pond, put his arm about sarah hartman's waist. when he had eaten breakfast in the morning and was ready to retire to his study at the back of his house he went around the table and kissed his wife on the cheek. when thoughts of kate swift came into his head, he smiled and raised his eyes to the skies. "intercede for me, master," he muttered, "keep me in the narrow path intent on thy work." and now began the real struggle in the soul of the brown-bearded minister. by chance he discovered that kate swift was in the habit of lying in her bed in the evenings and reading a book. a lamp stood on a table by the side of the bed and the light streamed down upon her white shoulders and bare throat. on the evening when he made the discovery the minister sat at the desk in the dusty room from nine until after eleven and when her light was put out stumbled out of the church to spend two more hours walking and praying in the streets. he did not want to kiss the shoulders and the throat of kate swift and had not allowed his mind to dwell on such thoughts. he did not know what he wanted. "i am god's child and he must save me from myself," he cried, in the darkness under the trees as he wandered in the streets. by a tree he stood and looked at the sky that was covered with hurrying clouds. he began to talk to god intimately and closely. "please, father, do not forget me. give me power to go tomorrow and repair the hole in the window. lift my eyes again to the skies. stay with me, thy servant, in his hour of need." up and down through the silent streets walked the minister and for days and weeks his soul was troubled. he could not understand the temptation that had come to him nor could he fathom the reason for its coming. in a way he began to blame god, saying to himself that he had tried to keep his feet in the true path and had not run about seeking sin. "through my days as a young man and all through my life here i have gone quietly about my work," he declared. "why now should i be tempted? what have i done that this burden should be laid on me?" three times during the early fall and winter of that year curtis hartman crept out of his house to the room in the bell tower to sit in the darkness looking at the figure of kate swift lying in her bed and later went to walk and pray in the streets. he could not understand himself. for weeks he would go along scarcely thinking of the school teacher and telling himself that he had conquered the carnal desire to look at her body. and then something would happen. as he sat in the study of his own house, hard at work on a sermon, he would become nervous and begin to walk up and down the room. "i will go out into the streets," he told himself and even as he let himself in at the church door he persistently denied to himself the cause of his being there. "i will not repair the hole in the window and i will train myself to come here at night and sit in the presence of this woman without raising my eyes. i will not be defeated in this thing. the lord has devised this temptation as a test of my soul and i will grope my way out of darkness into the light of righteousness." one night in january when it was bitter cold and snow lay deep on the streets of winesburg curtis hartman paid his last visit to the room in the bell tower of the church. it was past nine o'clock when he left his own house and he set out so hurriedly that he forgot to put on his overshoes. in main street no one was abroad but hop higgins the night watchman and in the whole town no one was awake but the watchman and young george willard, who sat in the office of the winesburg eagle trying to write a story. along the street to the church went the minister, plowing through the drifts and thinking that this time he would utterly give way to sin. "i want to look at the woman and to think of kissing her shoulders and i am going to let myself think what i choose," he declared bitterly and tears came into his eyes. he began to think that he would get out of the ministry and try some other way of life. "i shall go to some city and get into business," he declared. "if my nature is such that i cannot resist sin, i shall give myself over to sin. at least i shall not be a hypocrite, preaching the word of god with my mind thinking of the shoulders and neck of a woman who does not belong to me." it was cold in the room of the bell tower of the church on that january night and almost as soon as he came into the room curtis hartman knew that if he stayed he would be ill. his feet were wet from tramping in the snow and there was no fire. in the room in the house next door kate swift had not yet appeared. with grim determination the man sat down to wait. sitting in the chair and gripping the edge of the desk on which lay the bible he stared into the darkness thinking the blackest thoughts of his life. he thought of his wife and for the moment almost hated her. "she has always been ashamed of passion and has cheated me," he thought. "man has a right to expect living passion and beauty in a woman. he has no right to forget that he is an animal and in me there is something that is greek. i will throw off the woman of my bosom and seek other women. i will besiege this school teacher. i will fly in the face of all men and if i am a creature of carnal lusts i will live then for my lusts." the distracted man trembled from head to foot, partly from cold, partly from the struggle in which he was engaged. hours passed and a fever assailed his body. his throat began to hurt and his teeth chattered. his feet on the study floor felt like two cakes of ice. still he would not give up. "i will see this woman and will think the thoughts i have never dared to think," he told himself, gripping the edge of the desk and waiting. curtis hartman came near dying from the effects of that night of waiting in the church, and also he found in the thing that happened what he took to be the way of life for him. on other evenings when he had waited he had not been able to see, through the little hole in the glass, any part of the school teacher's room except that occupied by her bed. in the darkness he had waited until the woman suddenly appeared sitting in the bed in her white nightrobe. when the light was turned up she propped herself up among the pillows and read a book. sometimes she smoked one of the cigarettes. only her bare shoulders and throat were visible. on the january night, after he had come near dying with cold and after his mind had two or three times actually slipped away into an odd land of fantasy so that he had by an exercise of will power to force himself back into consciousness, kate swift appeared. in the room next door a lamp was lighted and the waiting man stared into an empty bed. then upon the bed before his eyes a naked woman threw herself. lying face downward she wept and beat with her fists upon the pillow. with a final outburst of weeping she half arose, and in the presence of the man who had waited to look and not to think thoughts the woman of sin began to pray. in the lamplight her figure, slim and strong, looked like the figure of the boy in the presence of the christ on the leaded window. curtis hartman never remembered how he got out of the church. with a cry he arose, dragging the heavy desk along the floor. the bible fell, making a great clatter in the silence. when the light in the house next door went out he stumbled down the stairway and into the street. along the street he went and ran in at the door of the winesburg eagle. to george willard, who was tramping up and down in the office undergoing a struggle of his own, he began to talk half incoherently. "the ways of god are beyond human understanding," he cried, running in quickly and closing the door. he began to advance upon the young man, his eyes glowing and his voice ringing with fervor. "i have found the light," he cried. "after ten years in this town, god has manifested himself to me in the body of a woman." his voice dropped and he began to whisper. "i did not understand," he said. "what i took to be a trial of my soul was only a preparation for a new and more beautiful fervor of the spirit. god has appeared to me in the person of kate swift, the school teacher, kneeling naked on a bed. do you know kate swift? although she may not be aware of it, she is an instrument of god, bearing the message of truth." reverend curtis hartman turned and ran out of the office. at the door he stopped, and after looking up and down the deserted street, turned again to george willard. "i am delivered. have no fear." he held up a bleeding fist for the young man to see. "i smashed the glass of the window," he cried. "now it will have to be wholly replaced. the strength of god was in me and i broke it with my fist." the teacher snow lay deep in the streets of winesburg. it had begun to snow about ten o'clock in the morning and a wind sprang up and blew the snow in clouds along main street. the frozen mud roads that led into town were fairly smooth and in places ice covered the mud. "there will be good sleighing," said will henderson, standing by the bar in ed griffith's saloon. out of the saloon he went and met sylvester west the druggist stumbling along in the kind of heavy overshoes called arctics. "snow will bring the people into town on saturday," said the druggist. the two men stopped and discussed their affairs. will henderson, who had on a light overcoat and no overshoes, kicked the heel of his left foot with the toe of the right. "snow will be good for the wheat," observed the druggist sagely. young george willard, who had nothing to do, was glad because he did not feel like working that day. the weekly paper had been printed and taken to the post office wednesday evening and the snow began to fall on thursday. at eight o'clock, after the morning train had passed, he put a pair of skates in his pocket and went up to waterworks pond but did not go skating. past the pond and along a path that followed wine creek he went until he came to a grove of beech trees. there he built a fire against the side of a log and sat down at the end of the log to think. when the snow began to fall and the wind to blow he hurried about getting fuel for the fire. the young reporter was thinking of kate swift, who had once been his school teacher. on the evening before he had gone to her house to get a book she wanted him to read and had been alone with her for an hour. for the fourth or fifth time the woman had talked to him with great earnestness and he could not make out what she meant by her talk. he began to believe she must be in love with him and the thought was both pleasing and annoying. up from the log he sprang and began to pile sticks on the fire. looking about to be sure he was alone he talked aloud pretending he was in the presence of the woman, "oh, you're just letting on, you know you are," he declared. "i am going to find out about you. you wait and see." the young man got up and went back along the path toward town leaving the fire blazing in the wood. as he went through the streets the skates clanked in his pocket. in his own room in the new willard house he built a fire in the stove and lay down on top of the bed. he began to have lustful thoughts and pulling down the shade of the window closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. he took a pillow into his arms and embraced it thinking first of the school teacher, who by her words had stirred something within him, and later of helen white, the slim daughter of the town banker, with whom he had been for a long time half in love. by nine o'clock of that evening snow lay deep in the streets and the weather had become bitter cold. it was difficult to walk about. the stores were dark and the people had crawled away to their houses. the evening train from cleveland was very late but nobody was interested in its arrival. by ten o'clock all but four of the eighteen hundred citizens of the town were in bed. hop higgins, the night watchman, was partially awake. he was lame and carried a heavy stick. on dark nights he carried a lantern. between nine and ten o'clock he went his rounds. up and down main street he stumbled through the drifts trying the doors of the stores. then he went into alleyways and tried the back doors. finding all tight he hurried around the corner to the new willard house and beat on the door. through the rest of the night he intended to stay by the stove. "you go to bed. i'll keep the stove going," he said to the boy who slept on a cot in the hotel office. hop higgins sat down by the stove and took off his shoes. when the boy had gone to sleep he began to think of his own affairs. he intended to paint his house in the spring and sat by the stove calculating the cost of paint and labor. that led him into other calculations. the night watchman was sixty years old and wanted to retire. he had been a soldier in the civil war and drew a small pension. he hoped to find some new method of making a living and aspired to become a professional breeder of ferrets. already he had four of the strangely shaped savage little creatures, that are used by sportsmen in the pursuit of rabbits, in the cellar of his house. "now i have one male and three females," he mused. "if i am lucky by spring i shall have twelve or fifteen. in another year i shall be able to begin advertising ferrets for sale in the sporting papers." the nightwatchman settled into his chair and his mind became a blank. he did not sleep. by years of practice he had trained himself to sit for hours through the long nights neither asleep nor awake. in the morning he was almost as refreshed as though he had slept. with hop higgins safely stowed away in the chair behind the stove only three people were awake in winesburg. george willard was in the office of the eagle pretending to be at work on the writing of a story but in reality continuing the mood of the morning by the fire in the wood. in the bell tower of the presbyterian church the reverend curtis hartman was sitting in the darkness preparing himself for a revelation from god, and kate swift, the school teacher, was leaving her house for a walk in the storm. it was past ten o'clock when kate swift set out and the walk was unpremeditated. it was as though the man and the boy, by thinking of her, had driven her forth into the wintry streets. aunt elizabeth swift had gone to the county seat concerning some business in connection with mortgages in which she had money invested and would not be back until the next day. by a huge stove, called a base burner, in the living room of the house sat the daughter reading a book. suddenly she sprang to her feet and, snatching a cloak from a rack by the front door, ran out of the house. at the age of thirty kate swift was not known in winesburg as a pretty woman. her complexion was not good and her face was covered with blotches that indicated ill health. alone in the night in the winter streets she was lovely. her back was straight, her shoulders square, and her features were as the features of a tiny goddess on a pedestal in a garden in the dim light of a summer evening. during the afternoon the school teacher had been to see doctor welling concerning her health. the doctor had scolded her and had declared she was in danger of losing her hearing. it was foolish for kate swift to be abroad in the storm, foolish and perhaps dangerous. the woman in the streets did not remember the words of the doctor and would not have turned back had she remembered. she was very cold but after walking for five minutes no longer minded the cold. first she went to the end of her own street and then across a pair of hay scales set in the ground before a feed barn and into trunion pike. along trunion pike she went to ned winters' barn and turning east followed a street of low frame houses that led over gospel hill and into sucker road that ran down a shallow valley past ike smead's chicken farm to waterworks pond. as she went along, the bold, excited mood that had driven her out of doors passed and then returned again. there was something biting and forbidding in the character of kate swift. everyone felt it. in the schoolroom she was silent, cold, and stern, and yet in an odd way very close to her pupils. once in a long while something seemed to have come over her and she was happy. all of the children in the schoolroom felt the effect of her happiness. for a time they did not work but sat back in their chairs and looked at her. with hands clasped behind her back the school teacher walked up and down in the schoolroom and talked very rapidly. it did not seem to matter what subject came into her mind. once she talked to the children of charles lamb and made up strange, intimate little stories concerning the life of the dead writer. the stories were told with the air of one who had lived in a house with charles lamb and knew all the secrets of his private life. the children were somewhat confused, thinking charles lamb must be someone who had once lived in winesburg. on another occasion the teacher talked to the children of benvenuto cellini. that time they laughed. what a bragging, blustering, brave, lovable fellow she made of the old artist! concerning him also she invented anecdotes. there was one of a german music teacher who had a room above cellini's lodgings in the city of milan that made the boys guffaw. sugars mcnutts, a fat boy with red cheeks, laughed so hard that he became dizzy and fell off his seat and kate swift laughed with him. then suddenly she became again cold and stern. on the winter night when she walked through the deserted snow-covered streets, a crisis had come into the life of the school teacher. although no one in winesburg would have suspected it, her life had been very adventurous. it was still adventurous. day by day as she worked in the schoolroom or walked in the streets, grief, hope, and desire fought within her. behind a cold exterior the most extraordinary events transpired in her mind. the people of the town thought of her as a confirmed old maid and because she spoke sharply and went her own way thought her lacking in all the human feeling that did so much to make and mar their own lives. in reality she was the most eagerly passionate soul among them, and more than once, in the five years since she had come back from her travels to settle in winesburg and become a school teacher, had been compelled to go out of the house and walk half through the night fighting out some battle raging within. once on a night when it rained she had stayed out six hours and when she came home had a quarrel with aunt elizabeth swift. "i am glad you're not a man," said the mother sharply. "more than once i've waited for your father to come home, not knowing what new mess he had got into. i've had my share of uncertainty and you cannot blame me if i do not want to see the worst side of him reproduced in you." * * * kate swift's mind was ablaze with thoughts of george willard. in something he had written as a school boy she thought she had recognized the spark of genius and wanted to blow on the spark. one day in the summer she had gone to the eagle office and finding the boy unoccupied had taken him out main street to the fair ground, where the two sat on a grassy bank and talked. the school teacher tried to bring home to the mind of the boy some conception of the difficulties he would have to face as a writer. "you will have to know life," she declared, and her voice trembled with earnestness. she took hold of george willard's shoulders and turned him about so that she could look into his eyes. a passer-by might have thought them about to embrace. "if you are to become a writer you'll have to stop fooling with words," she explained. "it would be better to give up the notion of writing until you are better prepared. now it's time to be living. i don't want to frighten you, but i would like to make you understand the import of what you think of attempting. you must not become a mere peddler of words. the thing to learn is to know what people are thinking about, not what they say." on the evening before that stormy thursday night when the reverend curtis hartman sat in the bell tower of the church waiting to look at her body, young willard had gone to visit the teacher and to borrow a book. it was then the thing happened that confused and puzzled the boy. he had the book under his arm and was preparing to depart. again kate swift talked with great earnestness. night was coming on and the light in the room grew dim. as he turned to go she spoke his name softly and with an impulsive movement took hold of his hand. because the reporter was rapidly becoming a man something of his man's appeal, combined with the winsomeness of the boy, stirred the heart of the lonely woman. a passionate desire to have him understand the import of life, to learn to interpret it truly and honestly, swept over her. leaning forward, her lips brushed his cheek. at the same moment he for the first time became aware of the marked beauty of her features. they were both embarrassed, and to relieve her feeling she became harsh and domineering. "what's the use? it will be ten years before you begin to understand what i mean when i talk to you," she cried passionately. * * * on the night of the storm and while the minister sat in the church waiting for her, kate swift went to the office of the winesburg eagle, intending to have another talk with the boy. after the long walk in the snow she was cold, lonely, and tired. as she came through main street she saw the light from the printshop window shining on the snow and on an impulse opened the door and went in. for an hour she sat by the stove in the office talking of life. she talked with passionate earnestness. the impulse that had driven her out into the snow poured itself out into talk. she became inspired as she sometimes did in the presence of the children in school. a great eagerness to open the door of life to the boy, who had been her pupil and who she thought might possess a talent for the understanding of life, had possession of her. so strong was her passion that it became something physical. again her hands took hold of his shoulders and she turned him about. in the dim light her eyes blazed. she arose and laughed, not sharply as was customary with her, but in a queer, hesitating way. "i must be going," she said. "in a moment, if i stay, i'll be wanting to kiss you." in the newspaper office a confusion arose. kate swift turned and walked to the door. she was a teacher but she was also a woman. as she looked at george willard, the passionate desire to be loved by a man, that had a thousand times before swept like a storm over her body, took possession of her. in the lamplight george willard looked no longer a boy, but a man ready to play the part of a man. the school teacher let george willard take her into his arms. in the warm little office the air became suddenly heavy and the strength went out of her body. leaning against a low counter by the door she waited. when he came and put a hand on her shoulder she turned and let her body fall heavily against him. for george willard the confusion was immediately increased. for a moment he held the body of the woman tightly against his body and then it stiffened. two sharp little fists began to beat on his face. when the school teacher had run away and left him alone, he walked up and down the office swearing furiously. it was into this confusion that the reverend curtis hartman protruded himself. when he came in george willard thought the town had gone mad. shaking a bleeding fist in the air, the minister proclaimed the woman george had only a moment before held in his arms an instrument of god bearing a message of truth. * * * george blew out the lamp by the window and locking the door of the printshop went home. through the hotel office, past hop higgins lost in his dream of the raising of ferrets, he went and up into his own room. the fire in the stove had gone out and he undressed in the cold. when he got into bed the sheets were like blankets of dry snow. george willard rolled about in the bed on which he had lain in the afternoon hugging the pillow and thinking thoughts of kate swift. the words of the minister, who he thought had gone suddenly insane, rang in his ears. his eyes stared about the room. the resentment, natural to the baffled male, passed and he tried to understand what had happened. he could not make it out. over and over he turned the matter in his mind. hours passed and he began to think it must be time for another day to come. at four o'clock he pulled the covers up about his neck and tried to sleep. when he became drowsy and closed his eyes, he raised a hand and with it groped about in the darkness. "i have missed something. i have missed something kate swift was trying to tell me," he muttered sleepily. then he slept and in all winesburg he was the last soul on that winter night to go to sleep. loneliness he was the son of mrs. al robinson who once owned a farm on a side road leading off trunion pike, east of winesburg and two miles beyond the town limits. the farmhouse was painted brown and the blinds to all of the windows facing the road were kept closed. in the road before the house a flock of chickens, accompanied by two guinea hens, lay in the deep dust. enoch lived in the house with his mother in those days and when he was a young boy went to school at the winesburg high school. old citizens remembered him as a quiet, smiling youth inclined to silence. he walked in the middle of the road when he came into town and sometimes read a book. drivers of teams had to shout and swear to make him realize where he was so that he would turn out of the beaten track and let them pass. when he was twenty-one years old enoch went to new york city and was a city man for fifteen years. he studied french and went to an art school, hoping to develop a faculty he had for drawing. in his own mind he planned to go to paris and to finish his art education among the masters there, but that never turned out. nothing ever turned out for enoch robinson. he could draw well enough and he had many odd delicate thoughts hidden away in his brain that might have expressed themselves through the brush of a painter, but he was always a child and that was a handicap to his worldly development. he never grew up and of course he couldn't understand people and he couldn't make people understand him. the child in him kept bumping against things, against actualities like money and sex and opinions. once he was hit by a street car and thrown against an iron post. that made him lame. it was one of the many things that kept things from turning out for enoch robinson. in new york city, when he first went there to live and before he became confused and disconcerted by the facts of life, enoch went about a good deal with young men. he got into a group of other young artists, both men and women, and in the evenings they sometimes came to visit him in his room. once he got drunk and was taken to a police station where a police magistrate frightened him horribly, and once he tried to have an affair with a woman of the town met on the sidewalk before his lodging house. the woman and enoch walked together three blocks and then the young man grew afraid and ran away. the woman had been drinking and the incident amused her. she leaned against the wall of a building and laughed so heartily that another man stopped and laughed with her. the two went away together, still laughing, and enoch crept off to his room trembling and vexed. the room in which young robinson lived in new york faced washington square and was long and narrow like a hallway. it is important to get that fixed in your mind. the story of enoch is in fact the story of a room almost more than it is the story of a man. and so into the room in the evening came young enoch's friends. there was nothing particularly striking about them except that they were artists of the kind that talk. everyone knows of the talking artists. throughout all of the known history of the world they have gathered in rooms and talked. they talk of art and are passionately, almost feverishly, in earnest about it. they think it matters much more than it does. and so these people gathered and smoked cigarettes and talked and enoch robinson, the boy from the farm near winesburg, was there. he stayed in a corner and for the most part said nothing. how his big blue childlike eyes stared about! on the walls were pictures he had made, crude things, half finished. his friends talked of these. leaning back in their chairs, they talked and talked with their heads rocking from side to side. words were said about line and values and composition, lots of words, such as are always being said. enoch wanted to talk too but he didn't know how. he was too excited to talk coherently. when he tried he sputtered and stammered and his voice sounded strange and squeaky to him. that made him stop talking. he knew what he wanted to say, but he knew also that he could never by any possibility say it. when a picture he had painted was under discussion, he wanted to burst out with something like this: "you don't get the point," he wanted to explain; "the picture you see doesn't consist of the things you see and say words about. there is something else, something you don't see at all, something you aren't intended to see. look at this one over here, by the door here, where the light from the window falls on it. the dark spot by the road that you might not notice at all is, you see, the beginning of everything. there is a clump of elders there such as used to grow beside the road before our house back in winesburg, ohio, and in among the elders there is something hidden. it is a woman, that's what it is. she has been thrown from a horse and the horse has run away out of sight. do you not see how the old man who drives a cart looks anxiously about? that is thad grayback who has a farm up the road. he is taking corn to winesburg to be ground into meal at comstock's mill. he knows there is something in the elders, something hidden away, and yet he doesn't quite know. "it's a woman you see, that's what it is! it's a woman and, oh, she is lovely! she is hurt and is suffering but she makes no sound. don't you see how it is? she lies quite still, white and still, and the beauty comes out from her and spreads over everything. it is in the sky back there and all around everywhere. i didn't try to paint the woman, of course. she is too beautiful to be painted. how dull to talk of composition and such things! why do you not look at the sky and then run away as i used to do when i was a boy back there in winesburg, ohio?" that is the kind of thing young enoch robinson trembled to say to the guests who came into his room when he was a young fellow in new york city, but he always ended by saying nothing. then he began to doubt his own mind. he was afraid the things he felt were not getting expressed in the pictures he painted. in a half indignant mood he stopped inviting people into his room and presently got into the habit of locking the door. he began to think that enough people had visited him, that he did not need people any more. with quick imagination he began to invent his own people to whom he could really talk and to whom he explained the things he had been unable to explain to living people. his room began to be inhabited by the spirits of men and women among whom he went, in his turn saying words. it was as though everyone enoch robinson had ever seen had left with him some essence of himself, something he could mould and change to suit his own fancy, something that understood all about such things as the wounded woman behind the elders in the pictures. the mild, blue-eyed young ohio boy was a complete egotist, as all children are egotists. he did not want friends for the quite simple reason that no child wants friends. he wanted most of all the people of his own mind, people with whom he could really talk, people he could harangue and scold by the hour, servants, you see, to his fancy. among these people he was always self-confident and bold. they might talk, to be sure, and even have opinions of their own, but always he talked last and best. he was like a writer busy among the figures of his brain, a kind of tiny blue-eyed king he was, in a six-dollar room facing washington square in the city of new york. then enoch robinson got married. he began to get lonely and to want to touch actual flesh-and-bone people with his hands. days passed when his room seemed empty. lust visited his body and desire grew in his mind. at night strange fevers, burning within, kept him awake. he married a girl who sat in a chair next to his own in the art school and went to live in an apartment house in brooklyn. two children were born to the woman he married, and enoch got a job in a place where illustrations are made for advertisements. that began another phase of enoch's life. he began to play at a new game. for a while he was very proud of himself in the role of producing citizen of the world. he dismissed the essence of things and played with realities. in the fall he voted at an election and he had a newspaper thrown on his porch each morning. when in the evening he came home from work he got off a streetcar and walked sedately along behind some business man, striving to look very substantial and important. as a payer of taxes he thought he should post himself on how things are run. "i'm getting to be of some moment, a real part of things, of the state and the city and all that," he told himself with an amusing miniature air of dignity. once, coming home from philadelphia, he had a discussion with a man met on a train. enoch talked about the advisability of the government's owning and operating the railroads and the man gave him a cigar. it was enoch's notion that such a move on the part of the government would be a good thing, and he grew quite excited as he talked. later he remembered his own words with pleasure. "i gave him something to think about, that fellow," he muttered to himself as he climbed the stairs to his brooklyn apartment. to be sure, enoch's marriage did not turn out. he himself brought it to an end. he began to feel choked and walled in by the life in the apartment, and to feel toward his wife and even toward his children as he had felt concerning the friends who once came to visit him. he began to tell little lies about business engagements that would give him freedom to walk alone in the street at night and, the chance offering, he secretly re-rented the room facing washington square. then mrs. al robinson died on the farm near winesburg, and he got eight thousand dollars from the bank that acted as trustee of her estate. that took enoch out of the world of men altogether. he gave the money to his wife and told her he could not live in the apartment any more. she cried and was angry and threatened, but he only stared at her and went his own way. in reality the wife did not care much. she thought enoch slightly insane and was a little afraid of him. when it was quite sure that he would never come back, she took the two children and went to a village in connecticut where she had lived as a girl. in the end she married a man who bought and sold real estate and was contented enough. and so enoch robinson stayed in the new york room among the people of his fancy, playing with them, talking to them, happy as a child is happy. they were an odd lot, enoch's people. they were made, i suppose, out of real people he had seen and who had for some obscure reason made an appeal to him. there was a woman with a sword in her hand, an old man with a long white beard who went about followed by a dog, a young girl whose stockings were always coming down and hanging over her shoe tops. there must have been two dozen of the shadow people, invented by the child-mind of enoch robinson, who lived in the room with him. and enoch was happy. into the room he went and locked the door. with an absurd air of importance he talked aloud, giving instructions, making comments on life. he was happy and satisfied to go on making his living in the advertising place until something happened. of course something did happen. that is why he went back to live in winesburg and why we know about him. the thing that happened was a woman. it would be that way. he was too happy. something had to come into his world. something had to drive him out of the new york room to live out his life an obscure, jerky little figure, bobbing up and down on the streets of an ohio town at evening when the sun was going down behind the roof of wesley moyer's livery barn. about the thing that happened. enoch told george willard about it one night. he wanted to talk to someone, and he chose the young newspaper reporter because the two happened to be thrown together at a time when the younger man was in a mood to understand. youthful sadness, young man's sadness, the sadness of a growing boy in a village at the year's end, opened the lips of the old man. the sadness was in the heart of george willard and was without meaning, but it appealed to enoch robinson. it rained on the evening when the two met and talked, a drizzly wet october rain. the fruition of the year had come and the night should have been fine with a moon in the sky and the crisp sharp promise of frost in the air, but it wasn't that way. it rained and little puddles of water shone under the street lamps on main street. in the woods in the darkness beyond the fair ground water dripped from the black trees. beneath the trees wet leaves were pasted against tree roots that protruded from the ground. in gardens back of houses in winesburg dry shriveled potato vines lay sprawling on the ground. men who had finished the evening meal and who had planned to go uptown to talk the evening away with other men at the back of some store changed their minds. george willard tramped about in the rain and was glad that it rained. he felt that way. he was like enoch robinson on the evenings when the old man came down out of his room and wandered alone in the streets. he was like that only that george willard had become a tall young man and did not think it manly to weep and carry on. for a month his mother had been very ill and that had something to do with his sadness, but not much. he thought about himself and to the young that always brings sadness. enoch robinson and george willard met beneath a wooden awning that extended out over the sidewalk before voight's wagon shop on maumee street just off the main street of winesburg. they went together from there through the rain-washed streets to the older man's room on the third floor of the heffner block. the young reporter went willingly enough. enoch robinson asked him to go after the two had talked for ten minutes. the boy was a little afraid but had never been more curious in his life. a hundred times he had heard the old man spoken of as a little off his head and he thought himself rather brave and manly to go at all. from the very beginning, in the street in the rain, the old man talked in a queer way, trying to tell the story of the room in washington square and of his life in the room. "you'll understand if you try hard enough," he said conclusively. "i have looked at you when you went past me on the street and i think you can understand. it isn't hard. all you have to do is to believe what i say, just listen and believe, that's all there is to it." it was past eleven o'clock that evening when old enoch, talking to george willard in the room in the heffner block, came to the vital thing, the story of the woman and of what drove him out of the city to live out his life alone and defeated in winesburg. he sat on a cot by the window with his head in his hand and george willard was in a chair by a table. a kerosene lamp sat on the table and the room, although almost bare of furniture, was scrupulously clean. as the man talked george willard began to feel that he would like to get out of the chair and sit on the cot also. he wanted to put his arms about the little old man. in the half darkness the man talked and the boy listened, filled with sadness. "she got to coming in there after there hadn't been anyone in the room for years," said enoch robinson. "she saw me in the hallway of the house and we got acquainted. i don't know just what she did in her own room. i never went there. i think she was a musician and played a violin. every now and then she came and knocked at the door and i opened it. in she came and sat down beside me, just sat and looked about and said nothing. anyway, she said nothing that mattered." the old man arose from the cot and moved about the room. the overcoat he wore was wet from the rain and drops of water kept falling with a soft thump on the floor. when he again sat upon the cot george willard got out of the chair and sat beside him. "i had a feeling about her. she sat there in the room with me and she was too big for the room. i felt that she was driving everything else away. we just talked of little things, but i couldn't sit still. i wanted to touch her with my fingers and to kiss her. her hands were so strong and her face was so good and she looked at me all the time." the trembling voice of the old man became silent and his body shook as from a chill. "i was afraid," he whispered. "i was terribly afraid. i didn't want to let her come in when she knocked at the door but i couldn't sit still. 'no, no,' i said to myself, but i got up and opened the door just the same. she was so grown up, you see. she was a woman. i thought she would be bigger than i was there in that room." enoch robinson stared at george willard, his childlike blue eyes shining in the lamplight. again he shivered. "i wanted her and all the time i didn't want her," he explained. "then i began to tell her about my people, about everything that meant anything to me. i tried to keep quiet, to keep myself to myself, but i couldn't. i felt just as i did about opening the door. sometimes i ached to have her go away and never come back any more." the old man sprang to his feet and his voice shook with excitement. "one night something happened. i became mad to make her understand me and to know what a big thing i was in that room. i wanted her to see how important i was. i told her over and over. when she tried to go away, i ran and locked the door. i followed her about. i talked and talked and then all of a sudden things went to smash. a look came into her eyes and i knew she did understand. maybe she had understood all the time. i was furious. i couldn't stand it. i wanted her to understand but, don't you see, i couldn't let her understand. i felt that then she would know everything, that i would be submerged, drowned out, you see. that's how it is. i don't know why." the old man dropped into a chair by the lamp and the boy listened, filled with awe. "go away, boy," said the man. "don't stay here with me any more. i thought it might be a good thing to tell you but it isn't. i don't want to talk any more. go away." george willard shook his head and a note of command came into his voice. "don't stop now. tell me the rest of it," he commanded sharply. "what happened? tell me the rest of the story." enoch robinson sprang to his feet and ran to the window that looked down into the deserted main street of winesburg. george willard followed. by the window the two stood, the tall awkward boy-man and the little wrinkled man-boy. the childish, eager voice carried forward the tale. "i swore at her," he explained. "i said vile words. i ordered her to go away and not to come back. oh, i said terrible things. at first she pretended not to understand but i kept at it. i screamed and stamped on the floor. i made the house ring with my curses. i didn't want ever to see her again and i knew, after some of the things i said, that i never would see her again." the old man's voice broke and he shook his head. "things went to smash," he said quietly and sadly. "out she went through the door and all the life there had been in the room followed her out. she took all of my people away. they all went out through the door after her. that's the way it was." george willard turned and went out of enoch robinson's room. in the darkness by the window, as he went through the door, he could hear the thin old voice whimpering and complaining. "i'm alone, all alone here," said the voice. "it was warm and friendly in my room but now i'm all alone." an awakening belle carpenter had a dark skin, grey eyes, and thick lips. she was tall and strong. when black thoughts visited her she grew angry and wished she were a man and could fight someone with her fists. she worked in the millinery shop kept by mrs. kate mchugh and during the day sat trimming hats by a window at the rear of the store. she was the daughter of henry carpenter, bookkeeper in the first national bank of winesburg, and lived with him in a gloomy old house far out at the end of buckeye street. the house was surrounded by pine trees and there was no grass beneath the trees. a rusty tin eaves-trough had slipped from its fastenings at the back of the house and when the wind blew it beat against the roof of a small shed, making a dismal drumming noise that sometimes persisted all through the night. when she was a young girl henry carpenter made life almost unbearable for belle, but as she emerged from girlhood into womanhood he lost his power over her. the bookkeeper's life was made up of innumerable little pettinesses. when he went to the bank in the morning he stepped into a closet and put on a black alpaca coat that had become shabby with age. at night when he returned to his home he donned another black alpaca coat. every evening he pressed the clothes worn in the streets. he had invented an arrangement of boards for the purpose. the trousers to his street suit were placed between the boards and the boards were clamped together with heavy screws. in the morning he wiped the boards with a damp cloth and stood them upright behind the dining room door. if they were moved during the day he was speechless with anger and did not recover his equilibrium for a week. the bank cashier was a little bully and was afraid of his daughter. she, he realized, knew the story of his brutal treatment of her mother and hated him for it. one day she went home at noon and carried a handful of soft mud, taken from the road, into the house. with the mud she smeared the face of the boards used for the pressing of trousers and then went back to her work feeling relieved and happy. belle carpenter occasionally walked out in the evening with george willard. secretly she loved another man, but her love affair, about which no one knew, caused her much anxiety. she was in love with ed handby, bartender in ed griffith's saloon, and went about with the young reporter as a kind of relief to her feelings. she did not think that her station in life would permit her to be seen in the company of the bartender and walked about under the trees with george willard and let him kiss her to relieve a longing that was very insistent in her nature. she felt that she could keep the younger man within bounds. about ed handby she was somewhat uncertain. handby, the bartender, was a tall, broad-shouldered man of thirty who lived in a room upstairs above griffith's saloon. his fists were large and his eyes unusually small, but his voice, as though striving to conceal the power back of his fists, was soft and quiet. at twenty-five the bartender had inherited a large farm from an uncle in indiana. when sold, the farm brought in eight thousand dollars, which ed spent in six months. going to sandusky, on lake erie, he began an orgy of dissipation, the story of which afterward filled his home town with awe. here and there he went throwing the money about, driving carriages through the streets, giving wine parties to crowds of men and women, playing cards for high stakes and keeping mistresses whose wardrobes cost him hundreds of dollars. one night at a resort called cedar point, he got into a fight and ran amuck like a wild thing. with his fist he broke a large mirror in the wash room of a hotel and later went about smashing windows and breaking chairs in dance halls for the joy of hearing the glass rattle on the floor and seeing the terror in the eyes of clerks who had come from sandusky to spend the evening at the resort with their sweethearts. the affair between ed handby and belle carpenter on the surface amounted to nothing. he had succeeded in spending but one evening in her company. on that evening he hired a horse and buggy at wesley moyer's livery barn and took her for a drive. the conviction that she was the woman his nature demanded and that he must get her settled upon him and he told her of his desires. the bartender was ready to marry and to begin trying to earn money for the support of his wife, but so simple was his nature that he found it difficult to explain his intentions. his body ached with physical longing and with his body he expressed himself. taking the milliner into his arms and holding her tightly in spite of her struggles, he kissed her until she became helpless. then he brought her back to town and let her out of the buggy. "when i get hold of you again i'll not let you go. you can't play with me," he declared as he turned to drive away. then, jumping out of the buggy, he gripped her shoulders with his strong hands. "i'll keep you for good the next time," he said. "you might as well make up your mind to that. it's you and me for it and i'm going to have you before i get through." one night in january when there was a new moon george willard, who was in ed handby's mind the only obstacle to his getting belle carpenter, went for a walk. early that evening george went into ransom surbeck's pool room with seth richmond and art wilson, son of the town butcher. seth richmond stood with his back against the wall and remained silent, but george willard talked. the pool room was filled with winesburg boys and they talked of women. the young reporter got into that vein. he said that women should look out for themselves, that the fellow who went out with a girl was not responsible for what happened. as he talked he looked about, eager for attention. he held the floor for five minutes and then art wilson began to talk. art was learning the barber's trade in cal prouse's shop and already began to consider himself an authority in such matters as baseball, horse racing, drinking, and going about with women. he began to tell of a night when he with two men from winesburg went into a house of prostitution at the county seat. the butcher's son held a cigar in the side of his mouth and as he talked spat on the floor. "the women in the place couldn't embarrass me although they tried hard enough," he boasted. "one of the girls in the house tried to get fresh, but i fooled her. as soon as she began to talk i went and sat in her lap. everyone in the room laughed when i kissed her. i taught her to let me alone." george willard went out of the pool room and into main street. for days the weather had been bitter cold with a high wind blowing down on the town from lake erie, eighteen miles to the north, but on that night the wind had died away and a new moon made the night unusually lovely. without thinking where he was going or what he wanted to do, george went out of main street and began walking in dimly lighted streets filled with frame houses. out of doors under the black sky filled with stars he forgot his companions of the pool room. because it was dark and he was alone he began to talk aloud. in a spirit of play he reeled along the street imitating a drunken man and then imagined himself a soldier clad in shining boots that reached to the knees and wearing a sword that jingled as he walked. as a soldier he pictured himself as an inspector, passing before a long line of men who stood at attention. he began to examine the accoutrements of the men. before a tree he stopped and began to scold. "your pack is not in order," he said sharply. "how many times will i have to speak of this matter? everything must be in order here. we have a difficult task before us and no difficult task can be done without order." hypnotized by his own words, the young man stumbled along the board sidewalk saying more words. "there is a law for armies and for men too," he muttered, lost in reflection. "the law begins with little things and spreads out until it covers everything. in every little thing there must be order, in the place where men work, in their clothes, in their thoughts. i myself must be orderly. i must learn that law. i must get myself into touch with something orderly and big that swings through the night like a star. in my little way i must begin to learn something, to give and swing and work with life, with the law." george willard stopped by a picket fence near a street lamp and his body began to tremble. he had never before thought such thoughts as had just come into his head and he wondered where they had come from. for the moment it seemed to him that some voice outside of himself had been talking as he walked. he was amazed and delighted with his own mind and when he walked on again spoke of the matter with fervor. "to come out of ransom surbeck's pool room and think things like that," he whispered. "it is better to be alone. if i talked like art wilson the boys would understand me but they wouldn't understand what i've been thinking down here." in winesburg, as in all ohio towns of twenty years ago, there was a section in which lived day laborers. as the time of factories had not yet come, the laborers worked in the fields or were section hands on the railroads. they worked twelve hours a day and received one dollar for the long day of toil. the houses in which they lived were small cheaply constructed wooden affairs with a garden at the back. the more comfortable among them kept cows and perhaps a pig, housed in a little shed at the rear of the garden. with his head filled with resounding thoughts, george willard walked into such a street on the clear january night. the street was dimly lighted and in places there was no sidewalk. in the scene that lay about him there was something that excited his already aroused fancy. for a year he had been devoting all of his odd moments to the reading of books and now some tale he had read concerning life in old world towns of the middle ages came sharply back to his mind so that he stumbled forward with the curious feeling of one revisiting a place that had been a part of some former existence. on an impulse he turned out of the street and went into a little dark alleyway behind the sheds in which lived the cows and pigs. for a half hour he stayed in the alleyway, smelling the strong smell of animals too closely housed and letting his mind play with the strange new thoughts that came to him. the very rankness of the smell of manure in the clear sweet air awoke something heady in his brain. the poor little houses lighted by kerosene lamps, the smoke from the chimneys mounting straight up into the clear air, the grunting of pigs, the women clad in cheap calico dresses and washing dishes in the kitchens, the footsteps of men coming out of the houses and going off to the stores and saloons of main street, the dogs barking and the children crying--all of these things made him seem, as he lurked in the darkness, oddly detached and apart from all life. the excited young man, unable to bear the weight of his own thoughts, began to move cautiously along the alleyway. a dog attacked him and had to be driven away with stones, and a man appeared at the door of one of the houses and swore at the dog. george went into a vacant lot and throwing back his head looked up at the sky. he felt unutterably big and remade by the simple experience through which he had been passing and in a kind of fervor of emotion put up his hands, thrusting them into the darkness above his head and muttering words. the desire to say words overcame him and he said words without meaning, rolling them over on his tongue and saying them because they were brave words, full of meaning. "death," he muttered, "night, the sea, fear, loveliness." george willard came out of the vacant lot and stood again on the sidewalk facing the houses. he felt that all of the people in the little street must be brothers and sisters to him and he wished he had the courage to call them out of their houses and to shake their hands. "if there were only a woman here i would take hold of her hand and we would run until we were both tired out," he thought. "that would make me feel better." with the thought of a woman in his mind he walked out of the street and went toward the house where belle carpenter lived. he thought she would understand his mood and that he could achieve in her presence a position he had long been wanting to achieve. in the past when he had been with her and had kissed her lips he had come away filled with anger at himself. he had felt like one being used for some obscure purpose and had not enjoyed the feeling. now he thought he had suddenly become too big to be used. when george got to belle carpenter's house there had already been a visitor there before him. ed handby had come to the door and calling belle out of the house had tried to talk to her. he had wanted to ask the woman to come away with him and to be his wife, but when she came and stood by the door he lost his self-assurance and became sullen. "you stay away from that kid," he growled, thinking of george willard, and then, not knowing what else to say, turned to go away. "if i catch you together i will break your bones and his too," he added. the bartender had come to woo, not to threaten, and was angry with himself because of his failure. when her lover had departed belle went indoors and ran hurriedly upstairs. from a window at the upper part of the house she saw ed handby cross the street and sit down on a horse block before the house of a neighbor. in the dim light the man sat motionless holding his head in his hands. she was made happy by the sight, and when george willard came to the door she greeted him effusively and hurriedly put on her hat. she thought that, as she walked through the streets with young willard, ed handby would follow and she wanted to make him suffer. for an hour belle carpenter and the young reporter walked about under the trees in the sweet night air. george willard was full of big words. the sense of power that had come to him during the hour in the darkness in the alleyway remained with him and he talked boldly, swaggering along and swinging his arms about. he wanted to make belle carpenter realize that he was aware of his former weakness and that he had changed. "you'll find me different," he declared, thrusting his hands into his pockets and looking boldly into her eyes. "i don't know why but it is so. you've got to take me for a man or let me alone. that's how it is." up and down the quiet streets under the new moon went the woman and the boy. when george had finished talking they turned down a side street and went across a bridge into a path that ran up the side of a hill. the hill began at waterworks pond and climbed upward to the winesburg fair grounds. on the hillside grew dense bushes and small trees and among the bushes were little open spaces carpeted with long grass, now stiff and frozen. as he walked behind the woman up the hill george willard's heart began to beat rapidly and his shoulders straightened. suddenly he decided that belle carpenter was about to surrender herself to him. the new force that had manifested itself in him had, he felt, been at work upon her and had led to her conquest. the thought made him half drunk with the sense of masculine power. although he had been annoyed that as they walked about she had not seemed to be listening to his words, the fact that she had accompanied him to this place took all his doubts away. "it is different. everything has become different," he thought and taking hold of her shoulder turned her about and stood looking at her, his eyes shining with pride. belle carpenter did not resist. when he kissed her upon the lips she leaned heavily against him and looked over his shoulder into the darkness. in her whole attitude there was a suggestion of waiting. again, as in the alleyway, george willard's mind ran off into words and, holding the woman tightly he whispered the words into the still night. "lust," he whispered, "lust and night and women." george willard did not understand what happened to him that night on the hillside. later, when he got to his own room, he wanted to weep and then grew half insane with anger and hate. he hated belle carpenter and was sure that all his life he would continue to hate her. on the hillside he had led the woman to one of the little open spaces among the bushes and had dropped to his knees beside her. as in the vacant lot, by the laborers' houses, he had put up his hands in gratitude for the new power in himself and was waiting for the woman to speak when ed handby appeared. the bartender did not want to beat the boy, who he thought had tried to take his woman away. he knew that beating was unnecessary, that he had power within himself to accomplish his purpose without using his fists. gripping george by the shoulder and pulling him to his feet, he held him with one hand while he looked at belle carpenter seated on the grass. then with a quick wide movement of his arm he sent the younger man sprawling away into the bushes and began to bully the woman, who had risen to her feet. "you're no good," he said roughly. "i've half a mind not to bother with you. i'd let you alone if i didn't want you so much." on his hands and knees in the bushes george willard stared at the scene before him and tried hard to think. he prepared to spring at the man who had humiliated him. to be beaten seemed to be infinitely better than to be thus hurled ignominiously aside. three times the young reporter sprang at ed handby and each time the bartender, catching him by the shoulder, hurled him back into the bushes. the older man seemed prepared to keep the exercise going indefinitely but george willard's head struck the root of a tree and he lay still. then ed handby took belle carpenter by the arm and marched her away. george heard the man and woman making their way through the bushes. as he crept down the hillside his heart was sick within him. he hated himself and he hated the fate that had brought about his humiliation. when his mind went back to the hour alone in the alleyway he was puzzled and stopping in the darkness listened, hoping to hear again the voice outside himself that had so short a time before put new courage into his heart. when his way homeward led him again into the street of frame houses he could not bear the sight and began to run, wanting to get quickly out of the neighborhood that now seemed to him utterly squalid and commonplace. "queer" from his seat on a box in the rough board shed that stuck like a burr on the rear of cowley & son's store in winesburg, elmer cowley, the junior member of the firm, could see through a dirty window into the printshop of the winesburg eagle. elmer was putting new shoelaces in his shoes. they did not go in readily and he had to take the shoes off. with the shoes in his hand he sat looking at a large hole in the heel of one of his stockings. then looking quickly up he saw george willard, the only newspaper reporter in winesburg, standing at the back door of the eagle printshop and staring absentmindedly about. "well, well, what next!" exclaimed the young man with the shoes in his hand, jumping to his feet and creeping away from the window. a flush crept into elmer cowley's face and his hands began to tremble. in cowley & son's store a jewish traveling salesman stood by the counter talking to his father. he imagined the reporter could hear what was being said and the thought made him furious. with one of the shoes still held in his hand he stood in a corner of the shed and stamped with a stockinged foot upon the board floor. cowley & son's store did not face the main street of winesburg. the front was on maumee street and beyond it was voight's wagon shop and a shed for the sheltering of farmers' horses. beside the store an alleyway ran behind the main street stores and all day drays and delivery wagons, intent on bringing in and taking out goods, passed up and down. the store itself was indescribable. will henderson once said of it that it sold everything and nothing. in the window facing maumee street stood a chunk of coal as large as an apple barrel, to indicate that orders for coal were taken, and beside the black mass of the coal stood three combs of honey grown brown and dirty in their wooden frames. the honey had stood in the store window for six months. it was for sale as were also the coat hangers, patent suspender buttons, cans of roof paint, bottles of rheumatism cure, and a substitute for coffee that companioned the honey in its patient willingness to serve the public. ebenezer cowley, the man who stood in the store listening to the eager patter of words that fell from the lips of the traveling man, was tall and lean and looked unwashed. on his scrawny neck was a large wen partially covered by a grey beard. he wore a long prince albert coat. the coat had been purchased to serve as a wedding garment. before he became a merchant ebenezer was a farmer and after his marriage he wore the prince albert coat to church on sundays and on saturday afternoons when he came into town to trade. when he sold the farm to become a merchant he wore the coat constantly. it had become brown with age and was covered with grease spots, but in it ebenezer always felt dressed up and ready for the day in town. as a merchant ebenezer was not happily placed in life and he had not been happily placed as a farmer. still he existed. his family, consisting of a daughter named mabel and the son, lived with him in rooms above the store and it did not cost them much to live. his troubles were not financial. his unhappiness as a merchant lay in the fact that when a traveling man with wares to be sold came in at the front door he was afraid. behind the counter he stood shaking his head. he was afraid, first that he would stubbornly refuse to buy and thus lose the opportunity to sell again; second that he would not be stubborn enough and would in a moment of weakness buy what could not be sold. in the store on the morning when elmer cowley saw george willard standing and apparently listening at the back door of the eagle printshop, a situation had arisen that always stirred the son's wrath. the traveling man talked and ebenezer listened, his whole figure expressing uncertainty. "you see how quickly it is done," said the traveling man, who had for sale a small flat metal substitute for collar buttons. with one hand he quickly unfastened a collar from his shirt and then fastened it on again. he assumed a flattering wheedling tone. "i tell you what, men have come to the end of all this fooling with collar buttons and you are the man to make money out of the change that is coming. i am offering you the exclusive agency for this town. take twenty dozen of these fasteners and i'll not visit any other store. i'll leave the field to you." the traveling man leaned over the counter and tapped with his finger on ebenezer's breast. "it's an opportunity and i want you to take it," he urged. "a friend of mine told me about you. 'see that man cowley,' he said. 'he's a live one.'" the traveling man paused and waited. taking a book from his pocket he began writing out the order. still holding the shoe in his hand elmer cowley went through the store, past the two absorbed men, to a glass showcase near the front door. he took a cheap revolver from the case and began to wave it about. "you get out of here!" he shrieked. "we don't want any collar fasteners here." an idea came to him. "mind, i'm not making any threat," he added. "i don't say i'll shoot. maybe i just took this gun out of the case to look at it. but you better get out. yes sir, i'll say that. you better grab up your things and get out." the young storekeeper's voice rose to a scream and going behind the counter he began to advance upon the two men. "we're through being fools here!" he cried. "we ain't going to buy any more stuff until we begin to sell. we ain't going to keep on being queer and have folks staring and listening. you get out of here!" the traveling man left. raking the samples of collar fasteners off the counter into a black leather bag, he ran. he was a small man and very bow-legged and he ran awkwardly. the black bag caught against the door and he stumbled and fell. "crazy, that's what he is--crazy!" he sputtered as he arose from the sidewalk and hurried away. in the store elmer cowley and his father stared at each other. now that the immediate object of his wrath had fled, the younger man was embarrassed. "well, i meant it. i think we've been queer long enough," he declared, going to the showcase and replacing the revolver. sitting on a barrel he pulled on and fastened the shoe he had been holding in his hand. he was waiting for some word of understanding from his father but when ebenezer spoke his words only served to reawaken the wrath in the son and the young man ran out of the store without replying. scratching his grey beard with his long dirty fingers, the merchant looked at his son with the same wavering uncertain stare with which he had confronted the traveling man. "i'll be starched," he said softly. "well, well, i'll be washed and ironed and starched!" elmer cowley went out of winesburg and along a country road that paralleled the railroad track. he did not know where he was going or what he was going to do. in the shelter of a deep cut where the road, after turning sharply to the right, dipped under the tracks he stopped and the passion that had been the cause of his outburst in the store began to again find expression. "i will not be queer--one to be looked at and listened to," he declared aloud. "i'll be like other people. i'll show that george willard. he'll find out. i'll show him!" the distraught young man stood in the middle of the road and glared back at the town. he did not know the reporter george willard and had no special feeling concerning the tall boy who ran about town gathering the town news. the reporter had merely come, by his presence in the office and in the printshop of the winesburg eagle, to stand for something in the young merchant's mind. he thought the boy who passed and repassed cowley & son's store and who stopped to talk to people in the street must be thinking of him and perhaps laughing at him. george willard, he felt, belonged to the town, typified the town, represented in his person the spirit of the town. elmer cowley could not have believed that george willard had also his days of unhappiness, that vague hungers and secret unnamable desires visited also his mind. did he not represent public opinion and had not the public opinion of winesburg condemned the cowleys to queerness? did he not walk whistling and laughing through main street? might not one by striking his person strike also the greater enemy--the thing that smiled and went its own way--the judgment of winesburg? elmer cowley was extraordinarily tall and his arms were long and powerful. his hair, his eyebrows, and the downy beard that had begun to grow upon his chin, were pale almost to whiteness. his teeth protruded from between his lips and his eyes were blue with the colorless blueness of the marbles called "aggies" that the boys of winesburg carried in their pockets. elmer had lived in winesburg for a year and had made no friends. he was, he felt, one condemned to go through life without friends and he hated the thought. sullenly the tall young man tramped along the road with his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. the day was cold with a raw wind, but presently the sun began to shine and the road became soft and muddy. the tops of the ridges of frozen mud that formed the road began to melt and the mud clung to elmer's shoes. his feet became cold. when he had gone several miles he turned off the road, crossed a field and entered a wood. in the wood he gathered sticks to build a fire, by which he sat trying to warm himself, miserable in body and in mind. for two hours he sat on the log by the fire and then, arising and creeping cautiously through a mass of underbrush, he went to a fence and looked across fields to a small farmhouse surrounded by low sheds. a smile came to his lips and he began making motions with his long arms to a man who was husking corn in one of the fields. in his hour of misery the young merchant had returned to the farm where he had lived through boyhood and where there was another human being to whom he felt he could explain himself. the man on the farm was a half-witted old fellow named mook. he had once been employed by ebenezer cowley and had stayed on the farm when it was sold. the old man lived in one of the unpainted sheds back of the farmhouse and puttered about all day in the fields. mook the half-wit lived happily. with childlike faith he believed in the intelligence of the animals that lived in the sheds with him, and when he was lonely held long conversations with the cows, the pigs, and even with the chickens that ran about the barnyard. he it was who had put the expression regarding being "laundered" into the mouth of his former employer. when excited or surprised by anything he smiled vaguely and muttered: "i'll be washed and ironed. well, well, i'll be washed and ironed and starched." when the half-witted old man left his husking of corn and came into the wood to meet elmer cowley, he was neither surprised nor especially interested in the sudden appearance of the young man. his feet also were cold and he sat on the log by the fire, grateful for the warmth and apparently indifferent to what elmer had to say. elmer talked earnestly and with great freedom, walking up and down and waving his arms about. "you don't understand what's the matter with me so of course you don't care," he declared. "with me it's different. look how it has always been with me. father is queer and mother was queer, too. even the clothes mother used to wear were not like other people's clothes, and look at that coat in which father goes about there in town, thinking he's dressed up, too. why don't he get a new one? it wouldn't cost much. i'll tell you why. father doesn't know and when mother was alive she didn't know either. mabel is different. she knows but she won't say anything. i will, though. i'm not going to be stared at any longer. why look here, mook, father doesn't know that his store there in town is just a queer jumble, that he'll never sell the stuff he buys. he knows nothing about it. sometimes he's a little worried that trade doesn't come and then he goes and buys something else. in the evenings he sits by the fire upstairs and says trade will come after a while. he isn't worried. he's queer. he doesn't know enough to be worried." the excited young man became more excited. "he don't know but i know," he shouted, stopping to gaze down into the dumb, unresponsive face of the half-wit. "i know too well. i can't stand it. when we lived out here it was different. i worked and at night i went to bed and slept. i wasn't always seeing people and thinking as i am now. in the evening, there in town, i go to the post office or to the depot to see the train come in, and no one says anything to me. everyone stands around and laughs and they talk but they say nothing to me. then i feel so queer that i can't talk either. i go away. i don't say anything. i can't." the fury of the young man became uncontrollable. "i won't stand it," he yelled, looking up at the bare branches of the trees. "i'm not made to stand it." maddened by the dull face of the man on the log by the fire, elmer turned and glared at him as he had glared back along the road at the town of winesburg. "go on back to work," he screamed. "what good does it do me to talk to you?" a thought came to him and his voice dropped. "i'm a coward too, eh?" he muttered. "do you know why i came clear out here afoot? i had to tell someone and you were the only one i could tell. i hunted out another queer one, you see. i ran away, that's what i did. i couldn't stand up to someone like that george willard. i had to come to you. i ought to tell him and i will." again his voice arose to a shout and his arms flew about. "i will tell him. i won't be queer. i don't care what they think. i won't stand it." elmer cowley ran out of the woods leaving the half-wit sitting on the log before the fire. presently the old man arose and climbing over the fence went back to his work in the corn. "i'll be washed and ironed and starched," he declared. "well, well, i'll be washed and ironed." mook was interested. he went along a lane to a field where two cows stood nibbling at a straw stack. "elmer was here," he said to the cows. "elmer is crazy. you better get behind the stack where he don't see you. he'll hurt someone yet, elmer will." at eight o'clock that evening elmer cowley put his head in at the front door of the office of the winesburg eagle where george willard sat writing. his cap was pulled down over his eyes and a sullen determined look was on his face. "you come on outside with me," he said, stepping in and closing the door. he kept his hand on the knob as though prepared to resist anyone else coming in. "you just come along outside. i want to see you." george willard and elmer cowley walked through the main street of winesburg. the night was cold and george willard had on a new overcoat and looked very spruce and dressed up. he thrust his hands into the overcoat pockets and looked inquiringly at his companion. he had long been wanting to make friends with the young merchant and find out what was in his mind. now he thought he saw a chance and was delighted. "i wonder what he's up to? perhaps he thinks he has a piece of news for the paper. it can't be a fire because i haven't heard the fire bell and there isn't anyone running," he thought. in the main street of winesburg, on the cold november evening, but few citizens appeared and these hurried along bent on getting to the stove at the back of some store. the windows of the stores were frosted and the wind rattled the tin sign that hung over the entrance to the stairway leading to doctor welling's office. before hern's grocery a basket of apples and a rack filled with new brooms stood on the sidewalk. elmer cowley stopped and stood facing george willard. he tried to talk and his arms began to pump up and down. his face worked spasmodically. he seemed about to shout. "oh, you go on back," he cried. "don't stay out here with me. i ain't got anything to tell you. i don't want to see you at all." for three hours the distracted young merchant wandered through the resident streets of winesburg blind with anger, brought on by his failure to declare his determination not to be queer. bitterly the sense of defeat settled upon him and he wanted to weep. after the hours of futile sputtering at nothingness that had occupied the afternoon and his failure in the presence of the young reporter, he thought he could see no hope of a future for himself. and then a new idea dawned for him. in the darkness that surrounded him he began to see a light. going to the now darkened store, where cowley & son had for over a year waited vainly for trade to come, he crept stealthily in and felt about in a barrel that stood by the stove at the rear. in the barrel beneath shavings lay a tin box containing cowley & son's cash. every evening ebenezer cowley put the box in the barrel when he closed the store and went upstairs to bed. "they wouldn't never think of a careless place like that," he told himself, thinking of robbers. elmer took twenty dollars, two ten-dollar bills, from the little roll containing perhaps four hundred dollars, the cash left from the sale of the farm. then replacing the box beneath the shavings he went quietly out at the front door and walked again in the streets. the idea that he thought might put an end to all of his unhappiness was very simple. "i will get out of here, run away from home," he told himself. he knew that a local freight train passed through winesburg at midnight and went on to cleveland, where it arrived at dawn. he would steal a ride on the local and when he got to cleveland would lose himself in the crowds there. he would get work in some shop and become friends with the other workmen and would be indistinguishable. then he could talk and laugh. he would no longer be queer and would make friends. life would begin to have warmth and meaning for him as it had for others. the tall awkward young man, striding through the streets, laughed at himself because he had been angry and had been half afraid of george willard. he decided he would have his talk with the young reporter before he left town, that he would tell him about things, perhaps challenge him, challenge all of winesburg through him. aglow with new confidence elmer went to the office of the new willard house and pounded on the door. a sleep-eyed boy slept on a cot in the office. he received no salary but was fed at the hotel table and bore with pride the title of "night clerk." before the boy elmer was bold, insistent. "you 'wake him up," he commanded. "you tell him to come down by the depot. i got to see him and i'm going away on the local. tell him to dress and come on down. i ain't got much time." the midnight local had finished its work in winesburg and the trainsmen were coupling cars, swinging lanterns and preparing to resume their flight east. george willard, rubbing his eyes and again wearing the new overcoat, ran down to the station platform afire with curiosity. "well, here i am. what do you want? you've got something to tell me, eh?" he said. elmer tried to explain. he wet his lips with his tongue and looked at the train that had begun to groan and get under way. "well, you see," he began, and then lost control of his tongue. "i'll be washed and ironed. i'll be washed and ironed and starched," he muttered half incoherently. elmer cowley danced with fury beside the groaning train in the darkness on the station platform. lights leaped into the air and bobbed up and down before his eyes. taking the two ten-dollar bills from his pocket he thrust them into george willard's hand. "take them," he cried. "i don't want them. give them to father. i stole them." with a snarl of rage he turned and his long arms began to flay the air. like one struggling for release from hands that held him he struck out, hitting george willard blow after blow on the breast, the neck, the mouth. the young reporter rolled over on the platform half unconscious, stunned by the terrific force of the blows. springing aboard the passing train and running over the tops of cars, elmer sprang down to a flat car and lying on his face looked back, trying to see the fallen man in the darkness. pride surged up in him. "i showed him," he cried. "i guess i showed him. i ain't so queer. i guess i showed him i ain't so queer." the untold lie ray pearson and hal winters were farm hands employed on a farm three miles north of winesburg. on saturday afternoons they came into town and wandered about through the streets with other fellows from the country. ray was a quiet, rather nervous man of perhaps fifty with a brown beard and shoulders rounded by too much and too hard labor. in his nature he was as unlike hal winters as two men can be unlike. ray was an altogether serious man and had a little sharp-featured wife who had also a sharp voice. the two, with half a dozen thin-legged children, lived in a tumble-down frame house beside a creek at the back end of the wills farm where ray was employed. hal winters, his fellow employee, was a young fellow. he was not of the ned winters family, who were very respectable people in winesburg, but was one of the three sons of the old man called windpeter winters who had a sawmill near unionville, six miles away, and who was looked upon by everyone in winesburg as a confirmed old reprobate. people from the part of northern ohio in which winesburg lies will remember old windpeter by his unusual and tragic death. he got drunk one evening in town and started to drive home to unionville along the railroad tracks. henry brattenburg, the butcher, who lived out that way, stopped him at the edge of the town and told him he was sure to meet the down train but windpeter slashed at him with his whip and drove on. when the train struck and killed him and his two horses a farmer and his wife who were driving home along a nearby road saw the accident. they said that old windpeter stood up on the seat of his wagon, raving and swearing at the onrushing locomotive, and that he fairly screamed with delight when the team, maddened by his incessant slashing at them, rushed straight ahead to certain death. boys like young george willard and seth richmond will remember the incident quite vividly because, although everyone in our town said that the old man would go straight to hell and that the community was better off without him, they had a secret conviction that he knew what he was doing and admired his foolish courage. most boys have seasons of wishing they could die gloriously instead of just being grocery clerks and going on with their humdrum lives. but this is not the story of windpeter winters nor yet of his son hal who worked on the wills farm with ray pearson. it is ray's story. it will, however, be necessary to talk a little of young hal so that you will get into the spirit of it. hal was a bad one. everyone said that. there were three of the winters boys in that family, john, hal, and edward, all broad-shouldered big fellows like old windpeter himself and all fighters and woman-chasers and generally all-around bad ones. hal was the worst of the lot and always up to some devilment. he once stole a load of boards from his father's mill and sold them in winesburg. with the money he bought himself a suit of cheap, flashy clothes. then he got drunk and when his father came raving into town to find him, they met and fought with their fists on main street and were arrested and put into jail together. hal went to work on the wills farm because there was a country school teacher out that way who had taken his fancy. he was only twenty-two then but had already been in two or three of what were spoken of in winesburg as "women scrapes." everyone who heard of his infatuation for the school teacher was sure it would turn out badly. "he'll only get her into trouble, you'll see," was the word that went around. and so these two men, ray and hal, were at work in a field on a day in the late october. they were husking corn and occasionally something was said and they laughed. then came silence. ray, who was the more sensitive and always minded things more, had chapped hands and they hurt. he put them into his coat pockets and looked away across the fields. he was in a sad, distracted mood and was affected by the beauty of the country. if you knew the winesburg country in the fall and how the low hills are all splashed with yellows and reds you would understand his feeling. he began to think of the time, long ago when he was a young fellow living with his father, then a baker in winesburg, and how on such days he had wandered away into the woods to gather nuts, hunt rabbits, or just to loaf about and smoke his pipe. his marriage had come about through one of his days of wandering. he had induced a girl who waited on trade in his father's shop to go with him and something had happened. he was thinking of that afternoon and how it had affected his whole life when a spirit of protest awoke in him. he had forgotten about hal and muttered words. "tricked by gad, that's what i was, tricked by life and made a fool of," he said in a low voice. as though understanding his thoughts, hal winters spoke up. "well, has it been worth while? what about it, eh? what about marriage and all that?" he asked and then laughed. hal tried to keep on laughing but he too was in an earnest mood. he began to talk earnestly. "has a fellow got to do it?" he asked. "has he got to be harnessed up and driven through life like a horse?" hal didn't wait for an answer but sprang to his feet and began to walk back and forth between the corn shocks. he was getting more and more excited. bending down suddenly he picked up an ear of the yellow corn and threw it at the fence. "i've got nell gunther in trouble," he said. "i'm telling you, but you keep your mouth shut." ray pearson arose and stood staring. he was almost a foot shorter than hal, and when the younger man came and put his two hands on the older man's shoulders they made a picture. there they stood in the big empty field with the quiet corn shocks standing in rows behind them and the red and yellow hills in the distance, and from being just two indifferent workmen they had become all alive to each other. hal sensed it and because that was his way he laughed. "well, old daddy," he said awkwardly, "come on, advise me. i've got nell in trouble. perhaps you've been in the same fix yourself. i know what everyone would say is the right thing to do, but what do you say? shall i marry and settle down? shall i put myself into the harness to be worn out like an old horse? you know me, ray. there can't anyone break me but i can break myself. shall i do it or shall i tell nell to go to the devil? come on, you tell me. whatever you say, ray, i'll do." ray couldn't answer. he shook hal's hands loose and turning walked straight away toward the barn. he was a sensitive man and there were tears in his eyes. he knew there was only one thing to say to hal winters, son of old windpeter winters, only one thing that all his own training and all the beliefs of the people he knew would approve, but for his life he couldn't say what he knew he should say. at half-past four that afternoon ray was puttering about the barnyard when his wife came up the lane along the creek and called him. after the talk with hal he hadn't returned to the cornfield but worked about the barn. he had already done the evening chores and had seen hal, dressed and ready for a roistering night in town, come out of the farmhouse and go into the road. along the path to his own house he trudged behind his wife, looking at the ground and thinking. he couldn't make out what was wrong. every time he raised his eyes and saw the beauty of the country in the failing light he wanted to do something he had never done before, shout or scream or hit his wife with his fists or something equally unexpected and terrifying. along the path he went scratching his head and trying to make it out. he looked hard at his wife's back but she seemed all right. she only wanted him to go into town for groceries and as soon as she had told him what she wanted began to scold. "you're always puttering," she said. "now i want you to hustle. there isn't anything in the house for supper and you've got to get to town and back in a hurry." ray went into his own house and took an overcoat from a hook back of the door. it was torn about the pockets and the collar was shiny. his wife went into the bedroom and presently came out with a soiled cloth in one hand and three silver dollars in the other. somewhere in the house a child wept bitterly and a dog that had been sleeping by the stove arose and yawned. again the wife scolded. "the children will cry and cry. why are you always puttering?" she asked. ray went out of the house and climbed the fence into a field. it was just growing dark and the scene that lay before him was lovely. all the low hills were washed with color and even the little clusters of bushes in the corners of the fences were alive with beauty. the whole world seemed to ray pearson to have become alive with something just as he and hal had suddenly become alive when they stood in the corn field staring into each other's eyes. the beauty of the country about winesburg was too much for ray on that fall evening. that is all there was to it. he could not stand it. of a sudden he forgot all about being a quiet old farm hand and throwing off the torn overcoat began to run across the field. as he ran he shouted a protest against his life, against all life, against everything that makes life ugly. "there was no promise made," he cried into the empty spaces that lay about him. "i didn't promise my minnie anything and hal hasn't made any promise to nell. i know he hasn't. she went into the woods with him because she wanted to go. what he wanted she wanted. why should i pay? why should hal pay? why should anyone pay? i don't want hal to become old and worn out. i'll tell him. i won't let it go on. i'll catch hal before he gets to town and i'll tell him." ray ran clumsily and once he stumbled and fell down. "i must catch hal and tell him," he kept thinking, and although his breath came in gasps he kept running harder and harder. as he ran he thought of things that hadn't come into his mind for years--how at the time he married he had planned to go west to his uncle in portland, oregon--how he hadn't wanted to be a farm hand, but had thought when he got out west he would go to sea and be a sailor or get a job on a ranch and ride a horse into western towns, shouting and laughing and waking the people in the houses with his wild cries. then as he ran he remembered his children and in fancy felt their hands clutching at him. all of his thoughts of himself were involved with the thoughts of hal and he thought the children were clutching at the younger man also. "they are the accidents of life, hal," he cried. "they are not mine or yours. i had nothing to do with them." darkness began to spread over the fields as ray pearson ran on and on. his breath came in little sobs. when he came to the fence at the edge of the road and confronted hal winters, all dressed up and smoking a pipe as he walked jauntily along, he could not have told what he thought or what he wanted. ray pearson lost his nerve and this is really the end of the story of what happened to him. it was almost dark when he got to the fence and he put his hands on the top bar and stood staring. hal winters jumped a ditch and coming up close to ray put his hands into his pockets and laughed. he seemed to have lost his own sense of what had happened in the corn field and when he put up a strong hand and took hold of the lapel of ray's coat he shook the old man as he might have shaken a dog that had misbehaved. "you came to tell me, eh?" he said. "well, never mind telling me anything. i'm not a coward and i've already made up my mind." he laughed again and jumped back across the ditch. "nell ain't no fool," he said. "she didn't ask me to marry her. i want to marry her. i want to settle down and have kids." ray pearson also laughed. he felt like laughing at himself and all the world. as the form of hal winters disappeared in the dusk that lay over the road that led to winesburg, he turned and walked slowly back across the fields to where he had left his torn overcoat. as he went some memory of pleasant evenings spent with the thin-legged children in the tumble-down house by the creek must have come into his mind, for he muttered words. "it's just as well. whatever i told him would have been a lie," he said softly, and then his form also disappeared into the darkness of the fields. drink tom foster came to winesburg from cincinnati when he was still young and could get many new impressions. his grandmother had been raised on a farm near the town and as a young girl had gone to school there when winesburg was a village of twelve or fifteen houses clustered about a general store on the trunion pike. what a life the old woman had led since she went away from the frontier settlement and what a strong, capable little old thing she was! she had been in kansas, in canada, and in new york city, traveling about with her husband, a mechanic, before he died. later she went to stay with her daughter, who had also married a mechanic and lived in covington, kentucky, across the river from cincinnati. then began the hard years for tom foster's grandmother. first her son-in-law was killed by a policeman during a strike and then tom's mother became an invalid and died also. the grandmother had saved a little money, but it was swept away by the illness of the daughter and by the cost of the two funerals. she became a half worn-out old woman worker and lived with the grandson above a junk shop on a side street in cincinnati. for five years she scrubbed the floors in an office building and then got a place as dish washer in a restaurant. her hands were all twisted out of shape. when she took hold of a mop or a broom handle the hands looked like the dried stems of an old creeping vine clinging to a tree. the old woman came back to winesburg as soon as she got the chance. one evening as she was coming home from work she found a pocket-book containing thirty-seven dollars, and that opened the way. the trip was a great adventure for the boy. it was past seven o'clock at night when the grandmother came home with the pocket-book held tightly in her old hands and she was so excited she could scarcely speak. she insisted on leaving cincinnati that night, saying that if they stayed until morning the owner of the money would be sure to find them out and make trouble. tom, who was then sixteen years old, had to go trudging off to the station with the old woman, bearing all of their earthly belongings done up in a worn-out blanket and slung across his back. by his side walked the grandmother urging him forward. her toothless old mouth twitched nervously, and when tom grew weary and wanted to put the pack down at a street crossing, she snatched it up and if he had not prevented would have slung it across her own back. when they got into the train and it had run out of the city she was as delighted as a girl and talked as the boy had never heard her talk before. all through the night as the train rattled along, the grandmother told tom tales of winesburg and of how he would enjoy his life working in the fields and shooting wild things in the woods there. she could not believe that the tiny village of fifty years before had grown into a thriving town in her absence, and in the morning when the train came to winesburg did not want to get off. "it isn't what i thought. it may be hard for you here," she said, and then the train went on its way and the two stood confused, not knowing where to turn, in the presence of albert longworth, the winesburg baggage master. but tom foster did get along all right. he was one to get along anywhere. mrs. white, the banker's wife, employed his grandmother to work in the kitchen and he got a place as stable boy in the banker's new brick barn. in winesburg servants were hard to get. the woman who wanted help in her housework employed a "hired girl" who insisted on sitting at the table with the family. mrs. white was sick of hired girls and snatched at the chance to get hold of the old city woman. she furnished a room for the boy tom upstairs in the barn. "he can mow the lawn and run errands when the horses do not need attention," she explained to her husband. tom foster was rather small for his age and had a large head covered with stiff black hair that stood straight up. the hair emphasized the bigness of his head. his voice was the softest thing imaginable, and he was himself so gentle and quiet that he slipped into the life of the town without attracting the least bit of attention. one could not help wondering where tom foster got his gentleness. in cincinnati he had lived in a neighborhood where gangs of tough boys prowled through the streets, and all through his early formative years he ran about with tough boys. for a while he was a messenger for a telegraph company and delivered messages in a neighborhood sprinkled with houses of prostitution. the women in the houses knew and loved tom foster and the tough boys in the gangs loved him also. he never asserted himself. that was one thing that helped him escape. in an odd way he stood in the shadow of the wall of life, was meant to stand in the shadow. he saw the men and women in the houses of lust, sensed their casual and horrible love affairs, saw boys fighting and listened to their tales of thieving and drunkenness, unmoved and strangely unaffected. once tom did steal. that was while he still lived in the city. the grandmother was ill at the time and he himself was out of work. there was nothing to eat in the house, and so he went into a harness shop on a side street and stole a dollar and seventy-five cents out of the cash drawer. the harness shop was run by an old man with a long mustache. he saw the boy lurking about and thought nothing of it. when he went out into the street to talk to a teamster tom opened the cash drawer and taking the money walked away. later he was caught and his grandmother settled the matter by offering to come twice a week for a month and scrub the shop. the boy was ashamed, but he was rather glad, too. "it is all right to be ashamed and makes me understand new things," he said to the grandmother, who didn't know what the boy was talking about but loved him so much that it didn't matter whether she understood or not. for a year tom foster lived in the banker's stable and then lost his place there. he didn't take very good care of the horses and he was a constant source of irritation to the banker's wife. she told him to mow the lawn and he forgot. then she sent him to the store or to the post office and he did not come back but joined a group of men and boys and spent the whole afternoon with them, standing about, listening and occasionally, when addressed, saying a few words. as in the city in the houses of prostitution and with the rowdy boys running through the streets at night, so in winesburg among its citizens he had always the power to be a part of and yet distinctly apart from the life about him. after tom lost his place at banker white's he did not live with his grandmother, although often in the evening she came to visit him. he rented a room at the rear of a little frame building belonging to old rufus whiting. the building was on duane street, just off main street, and had been used for years as a law office by the old man, who had become too feeble and forgetful for the practice of his profession but did not realize his inefficiency. he liked tom and let him have the room for a dollar a month. in the late afternoon when the lawyer had gone home the boy had the place to himself and spent hours lying on the floor by the stove and thinking of things. in the evening the grandmother came and sat in the lawyer's chair to smoke a pipe while tom remained silent, as he always did in the presence of everyone. often the old woman talked with great vigor. sometimes she was angry about some happening at the banker's house and scolded away for hours. out of her own earnings she bought a mop and regularly scrubbed the lawyer's office. then when the place was spotlessly clean and smelled clean she lighted her clay pipe and she and tom had a smoke together. "when you get ready to die then i will die also," she said to the boy lying on the floor beside her chair. tom foster enjoyed life in winesburg. he did odd jobs, such as cutting wood for kitchen stoves and mowing the grass before houses. in late may and early june he picked strawberries in the fields. he had time to loaf and he enjoyed loafing. banker white had given him a cast-off coat which was too large for him, but his grandmother cut it down, and he had also an overcoat, got at the same place, that was lined with fur. the fur was worn away in spots, but the coat was warm and in the winter tom slept in it. he thought his method of getting along good enough and was happy and satisfied with the way life in winesburg had turned out for him. the most absurd little things made tom foster happy. that, i suppose, was why people loved him. in hern's grocery they would be roasting coffee on friday afternoon, preparatory to the saturday rush of trade, and the rich odor invaded lower main street. tom foster appeared and sat on a box at the rear of the store. for an hour he did not move but sat perfectly still, filling his being with the spicy odor that made him half drunk with happiness. "i like it," he said gently. "it makes me think of things far away, places and things like that." one night tom foster got drunk. that came about in a curious way. he never had been drunk before, and indeed in all his life had never taken a drink of anything intoxicating, but he felt he needed to be drunk that one time and so went and did it. in cincinnati, when he lived there, tom had found out many things, things about ugliness and crime and lust. indeed, he knew more of these things than anyone else in winesburg. the matter of sex in particular had presented itself to him in a quite horrible way and had made a deep impression on his mind. he thought, after what he had seen of the women standing before the squalid houses on cold nights and the look he had seen in the eyes of the men who stopped to talk to them, that he would put sex altogether out of his own life. one of the women of the neighborhood tempted him once and he went into a room with her. he never forgot the smell of the room nor the greedy look that came into the eyes of the woman. it sickened him and in a very terrible way left a scar on his soul. he had always before thought of women as quite innocent things, much like his grandmother, but after that one experience in the room he dismissed women from his mind. so gentle was his nature that he could not hate anything and not being able to understand he decided to forget. and tom did forget until he came to winesburg. after he had lived there for two years something began to stir in him. on all sides he saw youth making love and he was himself a youth. before he knew what had happened he was in love also. he fell in love with helen white, daughter of the man for whom he had worked, and found himself thinking of her at night. that was a problem for tom and he settled it in his own way. he let himself think of helen white whenever her figure came into his mind and only concerned himself with the manner of his thoughts. he had a fight, a quiet determined little fight of his own, to keep his desires in the channel where he thought they belonged, but on the whole he was victorious. and then came the spring night when he got drunk. tom was wild on that night. he was like an innocent young buck of the forest that has eaten of some maddening weed. the thing began, ran its course, and was ended in one night, and you may be sure that no one in winesburg was any the worse for tom's outbreak. in the first place, the night was one to make a sensitive nature drunk. the trees along the residence streets of the town were all newly clothed in soft green leaves, in the gardens behind the houses men were puttering about in vegetable gardens, and in the air there was a hush, a waiting kind of silence very stirring to the blood. tom left his room on duane street just as the young night began to make itself felt. first he walked through the streets, going softly and quietly along, thinking thoughts that he tried to put into words. he said that helen white was a flame dancing in the air and that he was a little tree without leaves standing out sharply against the sky. then he said that she was a wind, a strong terrible wind, coming out of the darkness of a stormy sea and that he was a boat left on the shore of the sea by a fisherman. that idea pleased the boy and he sauntered along playing with it. he went into main street and sat on the curbing before wacker's tobacco store. for an hour he lingered about listening to the talk of men, but it did not interest him much and he slipped away. then he decided to get drunk and went into willy's saloon and bought a bottle of whiskey. putting the bottle into his pocket, he walked out of town, wanting to be alone to think more thoughts and to drink the whiskey. tom got drunk sitting on a bank of new grass beside the road about a mile north of town. before him was a white road and at his back an apple orchard in full bloom. he took a drink out of the bottle and then lay down on the grass. he thought of mornings in winesburg and of how the stones in the graveled driveway by banker white's house were wet with dew and glistened in the morning light. he thought of the nights in the barn when it rained and he lay awake hearing the drumming of the raindrops and smelling the warm smell of horses and of hay. then he thought of a storm that had gone roaring through winesburg several days before and, his mind going back, he relived the night he had spent on the train with his grandmother when the two were coming from cincinnati. sharply he remembered how strange it had seemed to sit quietly in the coach and to feel the power of the engine hurling the train along through the night. tom got drunk in a very short time. he kept taking drinks from the bottle as the thoughts visited him and when his head began to reel got up and walked along the road going away from winesburg. there was a bridge on the road that ran out of winesburg north to lake erie and the drunken boy made his way along the road to the bridge. there he sat down. he tried to drink again, but when he had taken the cork out of the bottle he became ill and put it quickly back. his head was rocking back and forth and so he sat on the stone approach to the bridge and sighed. his head seemed to be flying about like a pinwheel and then projecting itself off into space and his arms and legs flopped helplessly about. at eleven o'clock tom got back into town. george willard found him wandering about and took him into the eagle printshop. then he became afraid that the drunken boy would make a mess on the floor and helped him into the alleyway. the reporter was confused by tom foster. the drunken boy talked of helen white and said he had been with her on the shore of a sea and had made love to her. george had seen helen white walking in the street with her father during the evening and decided that tom was out of his head. a sentiment concerning helen white that lurked in his own heart flamed up and he became angry. "now you quit that," he said. "i won't let helen white's name be dragged into this. i won't let that happen." he began shaking tom's shoulder, trying to make him understand. "you quit it," he said again. for three hours the two young men, thus strangely thrown together, stayed in the printshop. when he had a little recovered george took tom for a walk. they went into the country and sat on a log near the edge of a wood. something in the still night drew them together and when the drunken boy's head began to clear they talked. "it was good to be drunk," tom foster said. "it taught me something. i won't have to do it again. i will think more dearly after this. you see how it is." george willard did not see, but his anger concerning helen white passed and he felt drawn toward the pale, shaken boy as he had never before been drawn toward anyone. with motherly solicitude, he insisted that tom get to his feet and walk about. again they went back to the printshop and sat in silence in the darkness. the reporter could not get the purpose of tom foster's action straightened out in his mind. when tom spoke again of helen white he again grew angry and began to scold. "you quit that," he said sharply. "you haven't been with her. what makes you say you have? what makes you keep saying such things? now you quit it, do you hear?" tom was hurt. he couldn't quarrel with george willard because he was incapable of quarreling, so he got up to go away. when george willard was insistent he put out his hand, laying it on the older boy's arm, and tried to explain. "well," he said softly, "i don't know how it was. i was happy. you see how that was. helen white made me happy and the night did too. i wanted to suffer, to be hurt somehow. i thought that was what i should do. i wanted to suffer, you see, because everyone suffers and does wrong. i thought of a lot of things to do, but they wouldn't work. they all hurt someone else." tom foster's voice arose, and for once in his life he became almost excited. "it was like making love, that's what i mean," he explained. "don't you see how it is? it hurt me to do what i did and made everything strange. that's why i did it. i'm glad, too. it taught me something, that's it, that's what i wanted. don't you understand? i wanted to learn things, you see. that's why i did it." death the stairway leading up to doctor reefy's office, in the heffner block above the paris dry goods store, was but dimly lighted. at the head of the stairway hung a lamp with a dirty chimney that was fastened by a bracket to the wall. the lamp had a tin reflector, brown with rust and covered with dust. the people who went up the stairway followed with their feet the feet of many who had gone before. the soft boards of the stairs had yielded under the pressure of feet and deep hollows marked the way. at the top of the stairway a turn to the right brought you to the doctor's door. to the left was a dark hallway filled with rubbish. old chairs, carpenter's horses, step ladders and empty boxes lay in the darkness waiting for shins to be barked. the pile of rubbish belonged to the paris dry goods company. when a counter or a row of shelves in the store became useless, clerks carried it up the stairway and threw it on the pile. doctor reefy's office was as large as a barn. a stove with a round paunch sat in the middle of the room. around its base was piled sawdust, held in place by heavy planks nailed to the floor. by the door stood a huge table that had once been a part of the furniture of herrick's clothing store and that had been used for displaying custom-made clothes. it was covered with books, bottles, and surgical instruments. near the edge of the table lay three or four apples left by john spaniard, a tree nurseryman who was doctor reefy's friend, and who had slipped the apples out of his pocket as he came in at the door. at middle age doctor reefy was tall and awkward. the grey beard he later wore had not yet appeared, but on the upper lip grew a brown mustache. he was not a graceful man, as when he grew older, and was much occupied with the problem of disposing of his hands and feet. on summer afternoons, when she had been married many years and when her son george was a boy of twelve or fourteen, elizabeth willard sometimes went up the worn steps to doctor reefy's office. already the woman's naturally tall figure had begun to droop and to drag itself listlessly about. ostensibly she went to see the doctor because of her health, but on the half dozen occasions when she had been to see him the outcome of the visits did not primarily concern her health. she and the doctor talked of that but they talked most of her life, of their two lives and of the ideas that had come to them as they lived their lives in winesburg. in the big empty office the man and the woman sat looking at each other and they were a good deal alike. their bodies were different, as were also the color of their eyes, the length of their noses, and the circumstances of their existence, but something inside them meant the same thing, wanted the same release, would have left the same impression on the memory of an onlooker. later, and when he grew older and married a young wife, the doctor often talked to her of the hours spent with the sick woman and expressed a good many things he had been unable to express to elizabeth. he was almost a poet in his old age and his notion of what happened took a poetic turn. "i had come to the time in my life when prayer became necessary and so i invented gods and prayed to them," he said. "i did not say my prayers in words nor did i kneel down but sat perfectly still in my chair. in the late afternoon when it was hot and quiet on main street or in the winter when the days were gloomy, the gods came into the office and i thought no one knew about them. then i found that this woman elizabeth knew, that she worshipped also the same gods. i have a notion that she came to the office because she thought the gods would be there but she was happy to find herself not alone just the same. it was an experience that cannot be explained, although i suppose it is always happening to men and women in all sorts of places." * * * on the summer afternoons when elizabeth and the doctor sat in the office and talked of their two lives they talked of other lives also. sometimes the doctor made philosophic epigrams. then he chuckled with amusement. now and then after a period of silence, a word was said or a hint given that strangely illuminated the life of the speaker, a wish became a desire, or a dream, half dead, flared suddenly into life. for the most part the words came from the woman and she said them without looking at the man. each time she came to see the doctor the hotel keeper's wife talked a little more freely and after an hour or two in his presence went down the stairway into main street feeling renewed and strengthened against the dullness of her days. with something approaching a girlhood swing to her body she walked along, but when she had got back to her chair by the window of her room and when darkness had come on and a girl from the hotel dining room brought her dinner on a tray, she let it grow cold. her thoughts ran away to her girlhood with its passionate longing for adventure and she remembered the arms of men that had held her when adventure was a possible thing for her. particularly she remembered one who had for a time been her lover and who in the moment of his passion had cried out to her more than a hundred times, saying the same words madly over and over: "you dear! you dear! you lovely dear!" the words, she thought, expressed something she would have liked to have achieved in life. in her room in the shabby old hotel the sick wife of the hotel keeper began to weep and, putting her hands to her face, rocked back and forth. the words of her one friend, doctor reefy, rang in her ears. "love is like a wind stirring the grass beneath trees on a black night," he had said. "you must not try to make love definite. it is the divine accident of life. if you try to be definite and sure about it and to live beneath the trees, where soft night winds blow, the long hot day of disappointment comes swiftly and the gritty dust from passing wagons gathers upon lips inflamed and made tender by kisses." elizabeth willard could not remember her mother who had died when she was but five years old. her girlhood had been lived in the most haphazard manner imaginable. her father was a man who had wanted to be let alone and the affairs of the hotel would not let him alone. he also had lived and died a sick man. every day he arose with a cheerful face, but by ten o'clock in the morning all the joy had gone out of his heart. when a guest complained of the fare in the hotel dining room or one of the girls who made up the beds got married and went away, he stamped on the floor and swore. at night when he went to bed he thought of his daughter growing up among the stream of people that drifted in and out of the hotel and was overcome with sadness. as the girl grew older and began to walk out in the evening with men he wanted to talk to her, but when he tried was not successful. he always forgot what he wanted to say and spent the time complaining of his own affairs. in her girlhood and young womanhood elizabeth had tried to be a real adventurer in life. at eighteen life had so gripped her that she was no longer a virgin but, although she had a half dozen lovers before she married tom willard, she had never entered upon an adventure prompted by desire alone. like all the women in the world, she wanted a real lover. always there was something she sought blindly, passionately, some hidden wonder in life. the tall beautiful girl with the swinging stride who had walked under the trees with men was forever putting out her hand into the darkness and trying to get hold of some other hand. in all the babble of words that fell from the lips of the men with whom she adventured she was trying to find what would be for her the true word. elizabeth had married tom willard, a clerk in her father's hotel, because he was at hand and wanted to marry at the time when the determination to marry came to her. for a while, like most young girls, she thought marriage would change the face of life. if there was in her mind a doubt of the outcome of the marriage with tom she brushed it aside. her father was ill and near death at the time and she was perplexed because of the meaningless outcome of an affair in which she had just been involved. other girls of her age in winesburg were marrying men she had always known, grocery clerks or young farmers. in the evening they walked in main street with their husbands and when she passed they smiled happily. she began to think that the fact of marriage might be full of some hidden significance. young wives with whom she talked spoke softly and shyly. "it changes things to have a man of your own," they said. on the evening before her marriage the perplexed girl had a talk with her father. later she wondered if the hours alone with the sick man had not led to her decision to marry. the father talked of his life and advised the daughter to avoid being led into another such muddle. he abused tom willard, and that led elizabeth to come to the clerk's defense. the sick man became excited and tried to get out of bed. when she would not let him walk about he began to complain. "i've never been let alone," he said. "although i've worked hard i've not made the hotel pay. even now i owe money at the bank. you'll find that out when i'm gone." the voice of the sick man became tense with earnestness. being unable to arise, he put out his hand and pulled the girl's head down beside his own. "there's a way out," he whispered. "don't marry tom willard or anyone else here in winesburg. there is eight hundred dollars in a tin box in my trunk. take it and go away." again the sick man's voice became querulous. "you've got to promise," he declared. "if you won't promise not to marry, give me your word that you'll never tell tom about the money. it is mine and if i give it to you i've the right to make that demand. hide it away. it is to make up to you for my failure as a father. some time it may prove to be a door, a great open door to you. come now, i tell you i'm about to die, give me your promise." * * * in doctor reefy's office, elizabeth, a tired gaunt old woman at forty-one, sat in a chair near the stove and looked at the floor. by a small desk near the window sat the doctor. his hands played with a lead pencil that lay on the desk. elizabeth talked of her life as a married woman. she became impersonal and forgot her husband, only using him as a lay figure to give point to her tale. "and then i was married and it did not turn out at all," she said bitterly. "as soon as i had gone into it i began to be afraid. perhaps i knew too much before and then perhaps i found out too much during my first night with him. i don't remember. "what a fool i was. when father gave me the money and tried to talk me out of the thought of marriage, i would not listen. i thought of what the girls who were married had said of it and i wanted marriage also. it wasn't tom i wanted, it was marriage. when father went to sleep i leaned out of the window and thought of the life i had led. i didn't want to be a bad woman. the town was full of stories about me. i even began to be afraid tom would change his mind." the woman's voice began to quiver with excitement. to doctor reefy, who without realizing what was happening had begun to love her, there came an odd illusion. he thought that as she talked the woman's body was changing, that she was becoming younger, straighter, stronger. when he could not shake off the illusion his mind gave it a professional twist. "it is good for both her body and her mind, this talking," he muttered. the woman began telling of an incident that had happened one afternoon a few months after her marriage. her voice became steadier. "in the late afternoon i went for a drive alone," she said. "i had a buggy and a little grey pony i kept in moyer's livery. tom was painting and repapering rooms in the hotel. he wanted money and i was trying to make up my mind to tell him about the eight hundred dollars father had given to me. i couldn't decide to do it. i didn't like him well enough. there was always paint on his hands and face during those days and he smelled of paint. he was trying to fix up the old hotel, and make it new and smart." the excited woman sat up very straight in her chair and made a quick girlish movement with her hand as she told of the drive alone on the spring afternoon. "it was cloudy and a storm threatened," she said. "black clouds made the green of the trees and the grass stand out so that the colors hurt my eyes. i went out trunion pike a mile or more and then turned into a side road. the little horse went quickly along up hill and down. i was impatient. thoughts came and i wanted to get away from my thoughts. i began to beat the horse. the black clouds settled down and it began to rain. i wanted to go at a terrible speed, to drive on and on forever. i wanted to get out of town, out of my clothes, out of my marriage, out of my body, out of everything. i almost killed the horse, making him run, and when he could not run any more i got out of the buggy and ran afoot into the darkness until i fell and hurt my side. i wanted to run away from everything but i wanted to run towards something too. don't you see, dear, how it was?" elizabeth sprang out of the chair and began to walk about in the office. she walked as doctor reefy thought he had never seen anyone walk before. to her whole body there was a swing, a rhythm that intoxicated him. when she came and knelt on the floor beside his chair he took her into his arms and began to kiss her passionately. "i cried all the way home," she said, as she tried to continue the story of her wild ride, but he did not listen. "you dear! you lovely dear! oh you lovely dear!" he muttered and thought he held in his arms not the tired-out woman of forty-one but a lovely and innocent girl who had been able by some miracle to project herself out of the husk of the body of the tired-out woman. doctor reefy did not see the woman he had held in his arms again until after her death. on the summer afternoon in the office when he was on the point of becoming her lover a half grotesque little incident brought his love-making quickly to an end. as the man and woman held each other tightly heavy feet came tramping up the office stairs. the two sprang to their feet and stood listening and trembling. the noise on the stairs was made by a clerk from the paris dry goods company. with a loud bang he threw an empty box on the pile of rubbish in the hallway and then went heavily down the stairs. elizabeth followed him almost immediately. the thing that had come to life in her as she talked to her one friend died suddenly. she was hysterical, as was also doctor reefy, and did not want to continue the talk. along the street she went with the blood still singing in her body, but when she turned out of main street and saw ahead the lights of the new willard house, she began to tremble and her knees shook so that for a moment she thought she would fall in the street. the sick woman spent the last few months of her life hungering for death. along the road of death she went, seeking, hungering. she personified the figure of death and made him now a strong black-haired youth running over hills, now a stern quiet man marked and scarred by the business of living. in the darkness of her room she put out her hand, thrusting it from under the covers of her bed, and she thought that death like a living thing put out his hand to her. "be patient, lover," she whispered. "keep yourself young and beautiful and be patient." on the evening when disease laid its heavy hand upon her and defeated her plans for telling her son george of the eight hundred dollars hidden away, she got out of bed and crept half across the room pleading with death for another hour of life. "wait, dear! the boy! the boy! the boy!" she pleaded as she tried with all of her strength to fight off the arms of the lover she had wanted so earnestly. * * * elizabeth died one day in march in the year when her son george became eighteen, and the young man had but little sense of the meaning of her death. only time could give him that. for a month he had seen her lying white and still and speechless in her bed, and then one afternoon the doctor stopped him in the hallway and said a few words. the young man went into his own room and closed the door. he had a queer empty feeling in the region of his stomach. for a moment he sat staring at, the floor and then jumping up went for a walk. along the station platform he went, and around through residence streets past the high-school building, thinking almost entirely of his own affairs. the notion of death could not get hold of him and he was in fact a little annoyed that his mother had died on that day. he had just received a note from helen white, the daughter of the town banker, in answer to one from him. "tonight i could have gone to see her and now it will have to be put off," he thought half angrily. elizabeth died on a friday afternoon at three o'clock. it had been cold and rainy in the morning but in the afternoon the sun came out. before she died she lay paralyzed for six days unable to speak or move and with only her mind and her eyes alive. for three of the six days she struggled, thinking of her boy, trying to say some few words in regard to his future, and in her eyes there was an appeal so touching that all who saw it kept the memory of the dying woman in their minds for years. even tom willard, who had always half resented his wife, forgot his resentment and the tears ran out of his eyes and lodged in his mustache. the mustache had begun to turn grey and tom colored it with dye. there was oil in the preparation he used for the purpose and the tears, catching in the mustache and being brushed away by his hand, formed a fine mist-like vapor. in his grief tom willard's face looked like the face of a little dog that has been out a long time in bitter weather. george came home along main street at dark on the day of his mother's death and, after going to his own room to brush his hair and clothes, went along the hallway and into the room where the body lay. there was a candle on the dressing table by the door and doctor reefy sat in a chair by the bed. the doctor arose and started to go out. he put out his hand as though to greet the younger man and then awkwardly drew it back again. the air of the room was heavy with the presence of the two self-conscious human beings, and the man hurried away. the dead woman's son sat down in a chair and looked at the floor. he again thought of his own affairs and definitely decided he would make a change in his life, that he would leave winesburg. "i will go to some city. perhaps i can get a job on some newspaper," he thought, and then his mind turned to the girl with whom he was to have spent this evening and again he was half angry at the turn of events that had prevented his going to her. in the dimly lighted room with the dead woman the young man began to have thoughts. his mind played with thoughts of life as his mother's mind had played with the thought of death. he closed his eyes and imagined that the red young lips of helen white touched his own lips. his body trembled and his hands shook. and then something happened. the boy sprang to his feet and stood stiffly. he looked at the figure of the dead woman under the sheets and shame for his thoughts swept over him so that he began to weep. a new notion came into his mind and he turned and looked guiltily about as though afraid he would be observed. george willard became possessed of a madness to lift the sheet from the body of his mother and look at her face. the thought that had come into his mind gripped him terribly. he became convinced that not his mother but someone else lay in the bed before him. the conviction was so real that it was almost unbearable. the body under the sheets was long and in death looked young and graceful. to the boy, held by some strange fancy, it was unspeakably lovely. the feeling that the body before him was alive, that in another moment a lovely woman would spring out of the bed and confront him, became so overpowering that he could not bear the suspense. again and again he put out his hand. once he touched and half lifted the white sheet that covered her, but his courage failed and he, like doctor reefy, turned and went out of the room. in the hallway outside the door he stopped and trembled so that he had to put a hand against the wall to support himself. "that's not my mother. that's not my mother in there," he whispered to himself and again his body shook with fright and uncertainty. when aunt elizabeth swift, who had come to watch over the body, came out of an adjoining room he put his hand into hers and began to sob, shaking his head from side to side, half blind with grief. "my mother is dead," he said, and then forgetting the woman he turned and stared at the door through which he had just come. "the dear, the dear, oh the lovely dear," the boy, urged by some impulse outside himself, muttered aloud. as for the eight hundred dollars the dead woman had kept hidden so long and that was to give george willard his start in the city, it lay in the tin box behind the plaster by the foot of his mother's bed. elizabeth had put it there a week after her marriage, breaking the plaster away with a stick. then she got one of the workmen her husband was at that time employing about the hotel to mend the wall. "i jammed the corner of the bed against it," she had explained to her husband, unable at the moment to give up her dream of release, the release that after all came to her but twice in her life, in the moments when her lovers death and doctor reefy held her in their arms. sophistication it was early evening of a day in the late fall and the winesburg county fair had brought crowds of country people into town. the day had been clear and the night came on warm and pleasant. on the trunion pike, where the road after it left town stretched away between berry fields now covered with dry brown leaves, the dust from passing wagons arose in clouds. children, curled into little balls, slept on the straw scattered on wagon beds. their hair was full of dust and their fingers black and sticky. the dust rolled away over the fields and the departing sun set it ablaze with colors. in the main street of winesburg crowds filled the stores and the sidewalks. night came on, horses whinnied, the clerks in the stores ran madly about, children became lost and cried lustily, an american town worked terribly at the task of amusing itself. pushing his way through the crowds in main street, young george willard concealed himself in the stairway leading to doctor reefy's office and looked at the people. with feverish eyes he watched the faces drifting past under the store lights. thoughts kept coming into his head and he did not want to think. he stamped impatiently on the wooden steps and looked sharply about. "well, is she going to stay with him all day? have i done all this waiting for nothing?" he muttered. george willard, the ohio village boy, was fast growing into manhood and new thoughts had been coming into his mind. all that day, amid the jam of people at the fair, he had gone about feeling lonely. he was about to leave winesburg to go away to some city where he hoped to get work on a city newspaper and he felt grown up. the mood that had taken possession of him was a thing known to men and unknown to boys. he felt old and a little tired. memories awoke in him. to his mind his new sense of maturity set him apart, made of him a half-tragic figure. he wanted someone to understand the feeling that had taken possession of him after his mother's death. there is a time in the life of every boy when he for the first time takes the backward view of life. perhaps that is the moment when he crosses the line into manhood. the boy is walking through the street of his town. he is thinking of the future and of the figure he will cut in the world. ambitions and regrets awake within him. suddenly something happens; he stops under a tree and waits as for a voice calling his name. ghosts of old things creep into his consciousness; the voices outside of himself whisper a message concerning the limitations of life. from being quite sure of himself and his future he becomes not at all sure. if he be an imaginative boy a door is torn open and for the first time he looks out upon the world, seeing, as though they marched in procession before him, the countless figures of men who before his time have come out of nothingness into the world, lived their lives and again disappeared into nothingness. the sadness of sophistication has come to the boy. with a little gasp he sees himself as merely a leaf blown by the wind through the streets of his village. he knows that in spite of all the stout talk of his fellows he must live and die in uncertainty, a thing blown by the winds, a thing destined like corn to wilt in the sun. he shivers and looks eagerly about. the eighteen years he has lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long march of humanity. already he hears death calling. with all his heart he wants to come close to some other human, touch someone with his hands, be touched by the hand of another. if he prefers that the other be a woman, that is because he believes that a woman will be gentle, that she will understand. he wants, most of all, understanding. when the moment of sophistication came to george willard his mind turned to helen white, the winesburg banker's daughter. always he had been conscious of the girl growing into womanhood as he grew into manhood. once on a summer night when he was eighteen, he had walked with her on a country road and in her presence had given way to an impulse to boast, to make himself appear big and significant in her eyes. now he wanted to see her for another purpose. he wanted to tell her of the new impulses that had come to him. he had tried to make her think of him as a man when he knew nothing of manhood and now he wanted to be with her and to try to make her feel the change he believed had taken place in his nature. as for helen white, she also had come to a period of change. what george felt, she in her young woman's way felt also. she was no longer a girl and hungered to reach into the grace and beauty of womanhood. she had come home from cleveland, where she was attending college, to spend a day at the fair. she also had begun to have memories. during the day she sat in the grand-stand with a young man, one of the instructors from the college, who was a guest of her mother's. the young man was of a pedantic turn of mind and she felt at once he would not do for her purpose. at the fair she was glad to be seen in his company as he was well dressed and a stranger. she knew that the fact of his presence would create an impression. during the day she was happy, but when night came on she began to grow restless. she wanted to drive the instructor away, to get out of his presence. while they sat together in the grand-stand and while the eyes of former schoolmates were upon them, she paid so much attention to her escort that he grew interested. "a scholar needs money. i should marry a woman with money," he mused. helen white was thinking of george willard even as he wandered gloomily through the crowds thinking of her. she remembered the summer evening when they had walked together and wanted to walk with him again. she thought that the months she had spent in the city, the going to theaters and the seeing of great crowds wandering in lighted thoroughfares, had changed her profoundly. she wanted him to feel and be conscious of the change in her nature. the summer evening together that had left its mark on the memory of both the young man and woman had, when looked at quite sensibly, been rather stupidly spent. they had walked out of town along a country road. then they had stopped by a fence near a field of young corn and george had taken off his coat and let it hang on his arm. "well, i've stayed here in winesburg--yes--i've not yet gone away but i'm growing up," he had said. "i've been reading books and i've been thinking. i'm going to try to amount to something in life. "well," he explained, "that isn't the point. perhaps i'd better quit talking." the confused boy put his hand on the girl's arm. his voice trembled. the two started to walk back along the road toward town. in his desperation george boasted, "i'm going to be a big man, the biggest that ever lived here in winesburg," he declared. "i want you to do something, i don't know what. perhaps it is none of my business. i want you to try to be different from other women. you see the point. it's none of my business i tell you. i want you to be a beautiful woman. you see what i want." the boy's voice failed and in silence the two came back into town and went along the street to helen white's house. at the gate he tried to say something impressive. speeches he had thought out came into his head, but they seemed utterly pointless. "i thought--i used to think--i had it in my mind you would marry seth richmond. now i know you won't," was all he could find to say as she went through the gate and toward the door of her house. on the warm fall evening as he stood in the stairway and looked at the crowd drifting through main street, george thought of the talk beside the field of young corn and was ashamed of the figure he had made of himself. in the street the people surged up and down like cattle confined in a pen. buggies and wagons almost filled the narrow thoroughfare. a band played and small boys raced along the sidewalk, diving between the legs of men. young men with shining red faces walked awkwardly about with girls on their arms. in a room above one of the stores, where a dance was to be held, the fiddlers tuned their instruments. the broken sounds floated down through an open window and out across the murmur of voices and the loud blare of the horns of the band. the medley of sounds got on young willard's nerves. everywhere, on all sides, the sense of crowding, moving life closed in about him. he wanted to run away by himself and think. "if she wants to stay with that fellow she may. why should i care? what difference does it make to me?" he growled and went along main street and through hern's grocery into a side street. george felt so utterly lonely and dejected that he wanted to weep but pride made him walk rapidly along, swinging his arms. he came to wesley moyer's livery barn and stopped in the shadows to listen to a group of men who talked of a race wesley's stallion, tony tip, had won at the fair during the afternoon. a crowd had gathered in front of the barn and before the crowd walked wesley, prancing up and down boasting. he held a whip in his hand and kept tapping the ground. little puffs of dust arose in the lamplight. "hell, quit your talking," wesley exclaimed. "i wasn't afraid, i knew i had 'em beat all the time. i wasn't afraid." ordinarily george willard would have been intensely interested in the boasting of moyer, the horseman. now it made him angry. he turned and hurried away along the street. "old windbag," he sputtered. "why does he want to be bragging? why don't he shut up?" george went into a vacant lot and, as he hurried along, fell over a pile of rubbish. a nail protruding from an empty barrel tore his trousers. he sat down on the ground and swore. with a pin he mended the torn place and then arose and went on. "i'll go to helen white's house, that's what i'll do. i'll walk right in. i'll say that i want to see her. i'll walk right in and sit down, that's what i'll do," he declared, climbing over a fence and beginning to run. * * * on the veranda of banker white's house helen was restless and distraught. the instructor sat between the mother and daughter. his talk wearied the girl. although he had also been raised in an ohio town, the instructor began to put on the airs of the city. he wanted to appear cosmopolitan. "i like the chance you have given me to study the background out of which most of our girls come," he declared. "it was good of you, mrs. white, to have me down for the day." he turned to helen and laughed. "your life is still bound up with the life of this town?" he asked. "there are people here in whom you are interested?" to the girl his voice sounded pompous and heavy. helen arose and went into the house. at the door leading to a garden at the back she stopped and stood listening. her mother began to talk. "there is no one here fit to associate with a girl of helen's breeding," she said. helen ran down a flight of stairs at the back of the house and into the garden. in the darkness she stopped and stood trembling. it seemed to her that the world was full of meaningless people saying words. afire with eagerness she ran through a garden gate and, turning a corner by the banker's barn, went into a little side street. "george! where are you, george?" she cried, filled with nervous excitement. she stopped running, and leaned against a tree to laugh hysterically. along the dark little street came george willard, still saying words. "i'm going to walk right into her house. i'll go right in and sit down," he declared as he came up to her. he stopped and stared stupidly. "come on," he said and took hold of her hand. with hanging heads they walked away along the street under the trees. dry leaves rustled under foot. now that he had found her george wondered what he had better do and say. * * * at the upper end of the fair ground, in winesburg, there is a half decayed old grand-stand. it has never been painted and the boards are all warped out of shape. the fair ground stands on top of a low hill rising out of the valley of wine creek and from the grand-stand one can see at night, over a cornfield, the lights of the town reflected against the sky. george and helen climbed the hill to the fair ground, coming by the path past waterworks pond. the feeling of loneliness and isolation that had come to the young man in the crowded streets of his town was both broken and intensified by the presence of helen. what he felt was reflected in her. in youth there are always two forces fighting in people. the warm unthinking little animal struggles against the thing that reflects and remembers, and the older, the more sophisticated thing had possession of george willard. sensing his mood, helen walked beside him filled with respect. when they got to the grand-stand they climbed up under the roof and sat down on one of the long bench-like seats. there is something memorable in the experience to be had by going into a fair ground that stands at the edge of a middle western town on a night after the annual fair has been held. the sensation is one never to be forgotten. on all sides are ghosts, not of the dead, but of living people. here, during the day just passed, have come the people pouring in from the town and the country around. farmers with their wives and children and all the people from the hundreds of little frame houses have gathered within these board walls. young girls have laughed and men with beards have talked of the affairs of their lives. the place has been filled to overflowing with life. it has itched and squirmed with life and now it is night and the life has all gone away. the silence is almost terrifying. one conceals oneself standing silently beside the trunk of a tree and what there is of a reflective tendency in his nature is intensified. one shudders at the thought of the meaninglessness of life while at the same instant, and if the people of the town are his people, one loves life so intensely that tears come into the eyes. in the darkness under the roof of the grand-stand, george willard sat beside helen white and felt very keenly his own insignificance in the scheme of existence. now that he had come out of town where the presence of the people stirring about, busy with a multitude of affairs, had been so irritating, the irritation was all gone. the presence of helen renewed and refreshed him. it was as though her woman's hand was assisting him to make some minute readjustment of the machinery of his life. he began to think of the people in the town where he had always lived with something like reverence. he had reverence for helen. he wanted to love and to be loved by her, but he did not want at the moment to be confused by her womanhood. in the darkness he took hold of her hand and when she crept close put a hand on her shoulder. a wind began to blow and he shivered. with all his strength he tried to hold and to understand the mood that had come upon him. in that high place in the darkness the two oddly sensitive human atoms held each other tightly and waited. in the mind of each was the same thought. "i have come to this lonely place and here is this other," was the substance of the thing felt. in winesburg the crowded day had run itself out into the long night of the late fall. farm horses jogged away along lonely country roads pulling their portion of weary people. clerks began to bring samples of goods in off the sidewalks and lock the doors of stores. in the opera house a crowd had gathered to see a show and further down main street the fiddlers, their instruments tuned, sweated and worked to keep the feet of youth flying over a dance floor. in the darkness in the grand-stand helen white and george willard remained silent. now and then the spell that held them was broken and they turned and tried in the dim light to see into each other's eyes. they kissed but that impulse did not last. at the upper end of the fair ground a half dozen men worked over horses that had raced during the afternoon. the men had built a fire and were heating kettles of water. only their legs could be seen as they passed back and forth in the light. when the wind blew the little flames of the fire danced crazily about. george and helen arose and walked away into the darkness. they went along a path past a field of corn that had not yet been cut. the wind whispered among the dry corn blades. for a moment during the walk back into town the spell that held them was broken. when they had come to the crest of waterworks hill they stopped by a tree and george again put his hands on the girl's shoulders. she embraced him eagerly and then again they drew quickly back from that impulse. they stopped kissing and stood a little apart. mutual respect grew big in them. they were both embarrassed and to relieve their embarrassment dropped into the animalism of youth. they laughed and began to pull and haul at each other. in some way chastened and purified by the mood they had been in, they became, not man and woman, not boy and girl, but excited little animals. it was so they went down the hill. in the darkness they played like two splendid young things in a young world. once, running swiftly forward, helen tripped george and he fell. he squirmed and shouted. shaking with laughter, he roiled down the hill. helen ran after him. for just a moment she stopped in the darkness. there was no way of knowing what woman's thoughts went through her mind but, when the bottom of the hill was reached and she came up to the boy, she took his arm and walked beside him in dignified silence. for some reason they could not have explained they had both got from their silent evening together the thing needed. man or boy, woman or girl, they had for a moment taken hold of the thing that makes the mature life of men and women in the modern world possible. departure young george willard got out of bed at four in the morning. it was april and the young tree leaves were just coming out of their buds. the trees along the residence streets in winesburg are maple and the seeds are winged. when the wind blows they whirl crazily about, filling the air and making a carpet underfoot. george came downstairs into the hotel office carrying a brown leather bag. his trunk was packed for departure. since two o'clock he had been awake thinking of the journey he was about to take and wondering what he would find at the end of his journey. the boy who slept in the hotel office lay on a cot by the door. his mouth was open and he snored lustily. george crept past the cot and went out into the silent deserted main street. the east was pink with the dawn and long streaks of light climbed into the sky where a few stars still shone. beyond the last house on trunion pike in winesburg there is a great stretch of open fields. the fields are owned by farmers who live in town and drive homeward at evening along trunion pike in light creaking wagons. in the fields are planted berries and small fruits. in the late afternoon in the hot summers when the road and the fields are covered with dust, a smoky haze lies over the great flat basin of land. to look across it is like looking out across the sea. in the spring when the land is green the effect is somewhat different. the land becomes a wide green billiard table on which tiny human insects toil up and down. all through his boyhood and young manhood george willard had been in the habit of walking on trunion pike. he had been in the midst of the great open place on winter nights when it was covered with snow and only the moon looked down at him; he had been there in the fall when bleak winds blew and on summer evenings when the air vibrated with the song of insects. on the april morning he wanted to go there again, to walk again in the silence. he did walk to where the road dipped down by a little stream two miles from town and then turned and walked silently back again. when he got to main street clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the stores. "hey, you george. how does it feel to be going away?" they asked. the westbound train leaves winesburg at seven forty-five in the morning. tom little is conductor. his train runs from cleveland to where it connects with a great trunk line railroad with terminals in chicago and new york. tom has what in railroad circles is called an "easy run." every evening he returns to his family. in the fall and spring he spends his sundays fishing in lake erie. he has a round red face and small blue eyes. he knows the people in the towns along his railroad better than a city man knows the people who live in his apartment building. george came down the little incline from the new willard house at seven o'clock. tom willard carried his bag. the son had become taller than the father. on the station platform everyone shook the young man's hand. more than a dozen people waited about. then they talked of their own affairs. even will henderson, who was lazy and often slept until nine, had got out of bed. george was embarrassed. gertrude wilmot, a tall thin woman of fifty who worked in the winesburg post office, came along the station platform. she had never before paid any attention to george. now she stopped and put out her hand. in two words she voiced what everyone felt. "good luck," she said sharply and then turning went on her way. when the train came into the station george felt relieved. he scampered hurriedly aboard. helen white came running along main street hoping to have a parting word with him, but he had found a seat and did not see her. when the train started tom little punched his ticket, grinned and, although he knew george well and knew on what adventure he was just setting out, made no comment. tom had seen a thousand george willards go out of their towns to the city. it was a commonplace enough incident with him. in the smoking car there was a man who had just invited tom to go on a fishing trip to sandusky bay. he wanted to accept the invitation and talk over details. george glanced up and down the car to be sure no one was looking, then took out his pocket-book and counted his money. his mind was occupied with a desire not to appear green. almost the last words his father had said to him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got to the city. "be a sharp one," tom willard had said. "keep your eyes on your money. be awake. that's the ticket. don't let anyone think you're a greenhorn." after george counted his money he looked out of the window and was surprised to see that the train was still in winesburg. the young man, going out of his town to meet the adventure of life, began to think but he did not think of anything very big or dramatic. things like his mother's death, his departure from winesburg, the uncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious and larger aspects of his life did not come into his mind. he thought of little things--turk smollet wheeling boards through the main street of his town in the morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, who had once stayed overnight at his father's hotel, butch wheeler the lamp lighter of winesburg hurrying through the streets on a summer evening and holding a torch in his hand, helen white standing by a window in the winesburg post office and putting a stamp on an envelope. the young man's mind was carried away by his growing passion for dreams. one looking at him would not have thought him particularly sharp. with the recollection of little things occupying his mind he closed his eyes and leaned back in the car seat. he stayed that way for a long time and when he aroused himself and again looked out of the car window the town of winesburg had disappeared and his life there had become but a background on which to paint the dreams of his manhood. transcriber's note: this book was originally printed using variously both italic and bold fonts for emphasis. the underline character (_) has been used here to delimit text originally in _italic_ font and the equals symbol (=) to delimit text originally in =bold= font. * * * * * mining laws of ohio compiled by the department of industrial relations columbus, ohio the f.j. heer printing co. bound at the state bindery =foreword.= =the department of industrial relations.= the act of the eighty-fourth general assembly, known as house bill two hundred forty-nine, found in ohio laws at page , became effective on july , . this law provides for the reorganization of the executive department of the state government and is an administrative code centralizing related executive functions and activities for better administrative care and control. all duties, rights, liabilities, authority and privileges relating to mines and mining, formerly had and exercised under the law by the industrial commission of ohio, was, by the above mentioned law, conferred upon and imposed in the department of industrial relations to be administered by the director of industrial relations. this pamphlet contains all the provisions of the general code of ohio directly relating to mines and mining, their operation, control and management, put into convenient form for the information and guidance of employers, employes and the general public, for whose benefit and observance they have been enacted. in any section of the law herein given where the phrase "industrial commission" or "the industrial commission of ohio," or "chief inspector of mines" is found, the phrase "the department of industrial relations" is to be read, because such department has, by the law first above mentioned, been given the powers and duties before had by such commission. all the statutes printed in this pamphlet are in full force and effect. the department of industrial relations, william robinett, _chief, division of mines_. =notice.= where there is more than one section relating to the same subject matter, the additional section references have been placed at the end of these sections in parenthesis. persons are also requested to consult the table of contents as well as the classified index which is given in minute detail. also read carefully the _penalties_ which are provided in section for violation of all laws commencing with duty of county coroner in section , and ending with section , with the exception of sections , and , for which no penalties are provided. table of contents. sections. relating to chief and district inspectors - relating to county recorder and county coroner relating to owner, lessee or agent - relating to superintendent, mine-foreman and over-seer - relating to stableman and fire-boss relating to employes generally - relating to persons not employes general provisions - relating to oil and gas well through coal measures relating to illuminating oil for mines - relating to penalties relating to fines collected, prosecutions, when act takes effect, and repeals - regulating and prohibiting solid shooting - - regulation of weighing of coal - - relating to employment of minors - relating to department of industrial relations - - - relating to chief inspector of mines and district inspectors of mines. mining laws of ohio sec. . repealed. (appointment of chief.) sec. . [=qualifications of chief inspector of mines.=] no person shall be appointed chief inspector of mines unless he has a competent knowledge, insofar as such sciences relate to mining, of chemistry, the mineralogy and geology of this state, a practical knowledge of the different systems of working and ventilating mines, the nature and properties of the noxious and poisonous gases in mines, particularly fire-damp, the best means of preventing the accumulation of such gases, and the best means of removing the same. he shall also have had at least five years actual practical experience in mining in this state, shall have a knowledge of mine engineering, and shall have a practical knowledge of the uses and dangers of electricity as applied at, in, and around mines. sec. . the industrial commission of ohio shall appoint, with the approval of the governor, and upon recommendation of the chief deputy of the division of mines and mining, five district inspectors of mines in addition to those now in such service, making in all the number of district inspectors of mines seventeen. sec. . [=qualifications of district inspectors of mines.=] no person shall be appointed district inspector of mines unless he has been a resident of the district for which he is appointed, for at least two years, has had at least five years' actual practical experience in mining in this state, has a practical knowledge of the best methods of working and ventilating mines, of the nature and properties of noxious and poisonous gases, particularly fire-damp, of the best means of detecting the presence of and preventing accumulation of such gases and the best means of removing the same, and has a practical knowledge of the uses and dangers of electricity as applied at, in and around mines. sec. . repealed. (devoting entire time to duties.) sec. . repealed. (bond.) sec. . [=offices of inspectors.=] the chief inspector of mines shall have an office at the seat of government, in which he shall keep the maps and plans of all mines in the state, and all records, correspondence, papers, apparatus, and other property belonging to the state, pertaining to his office, in accessible and convenient form for reference by persons entitled to examine them, all of which he shall deliver to his successor in office. the persons entitled to examine maps, plans, records and papers of a mine, shall be the owner, lessee or agent of such mine; the persons financially interested in such mine; the owner, or owners, of land adjoining such mine; the owner, or owners, of land adjacent to such mine; the owner, lessee or agent of a mine adjacent to such mine; and the authorized representatives of the employes of such mine. the chief inspector of mines shall not permit such maps, plans, records and papers to be removed from his office, and shall not furnish copies thereof to any persons, except by request of the owner, lessee or agent of the mine to which such maps, plans, records and papers pertain. each district inspector shall keep his office in such place in his district as is central and convenient. sec. . repealed. h.b. --sec. , o.l.; . (salaries and expenses of inspectors.) sec. . [=duties of chief inspector.=] the chief inspector of mines shall designate the counties, or portions thereof, which shall compose the different districts, and may change such districts whenever in his judgment the best interests of the service so require. he shall issue such instructions, and make such rules and regulations for the government of the district inspectors of mines consistent with the powers and duties vested in them by law, as will secure uniformity of action and proceedings throughout all the districts. the chief inspector of mines may order one district inspector of mines to the assistance of any other, or may make temporary transfers of district inspectors of mines, when, in his judgment, the efficiency of the service demands or permits, and with the consent of the governor, may remove any district inspector of mines for reasonable cause. the chief inspector of mines shall give such personal assistance to the district inspectors of mines as they may need, and make such personal inspection of the mines as he deems necessary and his other duties permit. he shall keep in his office and carefully preserve all maps, surveys, reports and other papers, required by law to be filed with him, and arrange and preserve them as a permanent record of ready, convenient and connected reference. he shall, upon receipt of a report of the district inspector of mines, or of a committee of miners, covering the conditions of a mine, promptly mail a copy thereof to the general office of the owner, lessee or agent of such mine. (sec. .) sec. . [=duty in case of fatal accident.=] upon receiving notice from the owner, lessee or agent that a fatal accident has occurred at a mine, the chief inspector of mines shall go, or order one of the district inspectors of mines to go, at once to the mine at which such accident occurred, inquire into its cause, and make a written report setting forth fully the condition of that part of the mine wherein the accident occurred, and the cause thereof. such report shall be filed by the chief inspector of mines in his office, and a copy mailed to the general office of the owner, lessee or agent of such mine. (sec. , , , .) sec. . repealed. (annual report.) sec. . [=duties of district inspectors of mines.=] each district inspector of mines shall examine each mine in his district, in which men are employed, as often as practicable, and mines employing more than ten persons, at intervals not exceeding three months between examinations, noting particularly the condition of the boilers and machinery, the location and condition of the buildings, the condition of the workings of the mine, the condition of the traveling and haulways, the circulation and condition of the air and drainage, and shall see that the provisions of this act are complied with. upon the completion of the examination of a mine, he shall within a reasonable time thereafter, report in writing to the chief inspector of mines, the conditions of the mine, showing the extent to which the provisions of this act are complied with or violated. (sec. .) sec. . [=district inspectors as sealers of weights and measures.=] the district inspectors of mines are hereby vested with all the powers and authority of county auditors as sealers of weights and measures in the different counties of this state, but shall exercise such authority in connection with weights and measures at mines, only. each district inspector of mines may upon his regular examination of a mine, and shall, upon the written request of the duly authorized representatives of the miners, the owner, lessee, or agent, or the interested land owner, test the accuracy of the scales at any time, and post in the weight house a certificate provided by the chief inspector of mines, certifying the condition of the scales, provided that such tests be made at a reasonable time without unnecessary inference with the use of such scales. (sec. .) [=duty of district inspectors in case of controversy.=] in case of a controversy or disagreement between the district inspector of mines, and the owner, lessee or agent of a mine, or persons working therein, or in case of emergency requiring counsel, the district inspector of mines may call upon the chief inspector of mines for such assistance and counsel as is necessary. sec. . [=inspectors shall exercise discretion.=] each inspector shall exercise discretion in the enforcement of the provisions of this act. if he finds that any matter, thing or practice, connected with any mine, and not prohibited by law, is dangerous or defective, (or that from a rigid enforcement of any of the express provisions of this act, such matter, thing or practice would become dangerous or defective), so as in his opinion to tend to the bodily injury of any person, such inspector shall give notice in writing to the owner, lessee, or agent of the mine, of the particulars in which such mine or any matter, thing, or practice connected therewith is dangerous or defective, and require it to be remedied by making such changes as the conditions may require. provided, however, that in the exercise of the foregoing provisions relating to the application of electricity or electric wires, the judgment of the chief inspector of mines and the district inspector of mines, jointly shall be required. (sec. - .) sec. . [=inspectors shall have access to mines.=] for the purpose of making the examinations provided for in this act, the chief inspector of mines, and each district inspector of mines, may enter any mine at reasonable times, by day or night, but in such manner as will not unnecessarily impede the working of the mine, and the owner, lessee or agent thereof shall furnish the means necessary for such entry and examination. [=examination of record of minors employed.=] the district inspector of mines shall examine the record kept by the mine foreman, of boys under sixteen years of age employed in each mine, and report to the chief inspector of mines, the number of such person employed in and about each mine, and enforce the provisions of this act relative to their employment. (sec. - .) "the provisions of section , and g.c. do not permit the employment of children under years of age in, about or in connection with any mine. such employment is governed by the provisions of section g.c." opinion no. office of the attorney general, state of ohio, december , . sec. . [=report of district inspector to chief inspector.=] on or before each monday, each district inspector of mines shall make and file in the office of the chief inspector of mines, a record showing the number of mines in the district examined by him during the preceding week, the number of persons employed in and about such mines, the date of each examination, condition of each mine examined, whether the laws relating to mines and mining are being observed or violated, and, if violated, the nature and extent of such violations, progress made in safeguarding the lives and protecting the health of the employes in and about the mines, together with such other facts of public interest concerning the condition of mines and the development and progress in mining, as he deems proper. (sec. .) sec. . [=duties of chief inspector and oil and gas well inspector.=] the chief deputy inspector of mines and the oil and gas well inspector shall designate the townships in the various coal producing counties of ohio, which shall be considered coal bearing or coal producing townships, to be included under the regulations as prescribed in section relating to the mapping, drilling and abandonment of oil, gas or test wells. the chief deputy inspector of mines shall allow all matter pertaining to the mapping and drilling of oil and gas wells to be under the direct supervision of the oil and gas well inspector, except when wells are to be drilled, or have been drilled directly adjacent to some mining operation, or in case any arrangement for the drilling of an oil or gas well must necessarily be made in mutual understanding and consideration with some mining operation, or whenever the proper protection of the coal deposits is in question. the oil and gas well inspector shall supervise the granting of permits to drill or abandon a well, the filing and reprinting of maps of oil, gas or test wells, and see that all the provisions relating to the mapping, drilling, and abandonment of such wells are strictly complied with. in any case where the plugging method as outlined in section cannot be applied, or if applied, would be found ineffective in carrying out the intended protection, which the law is meant to give, the oil and gas well inspector may designate the method of plugging to be used, in all such cases causing the abandonment report to show the manner in which the work was done. the oil and gas well inspector shall designate the counties or townships thereof which shall compose the different districts of the respective deputy oil and gas well inspectors, or change such districts whenever in his judgment the best interests of the service so demands. he shall issue instructions and regulations for the government of the deputy inspectors as will be consistent with the powers and duties vested in them by law, and secure the proper protection which the law intended. the oil and gas well inspector shall give such personal assistance to the deputy inspectors as they may need and make such personal inspection as he deems necessary throughout all the districts, at any time. each deputy oil and gas well inspector shall carry out the instructions of the oil and gas well inspector with reference to the enforcement of the regulations provided in section , or other regulations that are deemed necessary to insure the protection which this section intends. any person, firm or corporation dissatisfied with the ruling of the chief deputy inspector of mines, or the oil and gas well inspector under the provisions of this section shall have the right of appeal to the industrial commission of ohio within ten days from the date of such ruling. =chief inspector of mines shall provide and maintain rescue apparatus.= sec. . the chief inspector of mines shall provide and maintain, at the expense of the state, one rescue car fully equipped with not less than twelve approved oxygen breathing devices complete, one recharging equipment for recharging oxygen cylinders, twelve extra oxygen cylinders, two resuscitating outfits complete, forty approved safety lamps, one naphtha tank, twenty portable electric lamps complete, with storage batteries, and all necessary instruments and chemical tests, together with all necessary supplies and appliances therefor. the rescue car with its equipment, shall be stationed at such point as may be designated by the chief inspector of mines, and may be transferred, by his direction, at any time to any point within the state for the purpose of facilitating the efficient inspection of mines and conducting rescue work, and to demonstrate the various appliances and instruct persons in their use in first aid and rescue work. the rescue car with its equipment shall be continuously in charge of one person who shall be appointed by the chief inspector of mines, with the approval of the governor, and who shall receive a salary of twelve hundred dollars per annum, together with all necessary expenses incurred in the discharge of his duties. the person in charge of said rescue car shall, before entering upon the discharge of the duties connected therewith, give a bond to the state in the sum of two thousand dollars with two or more sureties approved by the governor conditioned for the faithful discharge of the duties of his office. such bond with the approval of the governor and the oath of office endorsed thereon shall be deposited with the secretary of state and kept in his office. ( o.l. .) =five rescue stations to be provided and maintained; equipment of same.= sec. - . the industrial commission of ohio shall provide and maintain at the expense of the state, five rescue stations, each station to be equipped with not less than five approved breathing devices complete, one recharging or refilling pump for recharging oxygen cylinders, five extra oxygen cylinders, one resuscitating outfit, five approved mine safety lamps, five approved electric mine safety lamps complete, one lamp testing cabinet, not less than one thousand feet of three inch hose with standard connection and nozzles complete, one anemometer, one first aid cabinet and supplies, six stretchers with woolen blankets for each, and one automobile truck of sufficient capacity to transport equipment from station to any mine located within the district in which the rescue station is located. =location of stations; superintendent; salary.= such rescue stations shall be centrally located within the coal producing counties, so as to cover the largest number of mines within the shortest period of time, and each rescue station shall be continually in charge of a superintendent who shall be appointed by the industrial commission of ohio with the approval of the governor, who shall receive a salary in a sum equal to that provided for district inspectors of mines, together with all necessary expenses incurred in the discharge of his duties. =qualifications of superintendent.= the qualifications of superintendents of rescue stations shall be the same as that of district inspector of mines, namely, that no person shall be appointed superintendent of rescue stations unless he has been a resident of the district for which he is appointed for at least two years, has had at least five years' actual practical experience in mining in this state, has a practical knowledge of the best methods of working and ventilating mines of the nature and properties of noxious and poisonous gases, particularly fire damp, of the best means of detecting the presence of and preventing accumulation of such gases and the best means of removing the same, and has a practical knowledge of the uses and dangers of electricity as applied at, in and around mines. =duties of superintendent.= each superintendent of rescue station shall devote his entire time to the duties of his office, and shall at all times keep the equipment of such station in constant state of repair and be ready to meet any emergency that may arise at any mine at any time, either day or night. he shall teach and train first aid and rescue crews in the use of first aid and rescue equipment and shall be required to keep his station at all times in a clean and sanitary condition, and subject to such rules and regulations as the industrial commission of ohio may from time to time establish. ( o.l. .) sec. . [=action for non-compliance with provisions of this act.=] if the appliances of a mine for the safety of the persons working therein do not conform to the provisions of this act, or if the owner, lessee or agent disregards the requirements thereof, on application by the chief inspector of mines in the name of the state, any court of competent jurisdiction may enjoin or restrain the owner, lessee or agent from operating such mine, until it is made to conform to the provisions of this act. such remedy shall be cumulative, and shall not affect any other proceedings authorized by law against such owner, lessee or agent for the matter complained of in the action. (sec. - .) sec. . [=failure to make map and forfeiture.=] upon the refusal or neglect of the owner, lessee or agent of a mine to make and file a map, or any addition thereto, within sixty days after being directed to do so by the chief inspector of mines, as provided for in this act, the chief inspector of mines may cause such map or addition thereto to be made in duplicate at the expense of such owner, lessee or agent, the cost of which shall be recoverable against such owner, lessee or agent, in the name of the chief inspector of mines in any court of competent jurisdiction in the county in which such mine is located, or in franklin county. (sec. , , , .) sec. . [=complaint against district inspector; how made.=] when written charges of neglect of duty, incompetency, or malfeasance in office against any district inspector of mines, are made and filed with the chief inspector of mines, signed by not less than fifteen employes, or an owner, lessee or agent of a mine, the chief inspector of mines shall promptly investigate such charges, and advise in writing, addressed to the complainant whose name appears first in the charges, the result of such investigation. [=complaint against chief inspector, how made; appeal.=] when written charges of neglect of duty, incompetency or malfeasance in office against the chief inspector of mines, are made and filed with the governor, signed by not less than fifteen employes, or the owner, lessee or agent of a mine, or if not less than fifteen employes, or the owner, lessee or agent of a mine, having filed charges against a district inspector of mines with the chief inspector of mines, are dissatisfied with the result of the investigation made by him, and appealed to the governor by filing the same charges against such district inspector of mines with the governor, he shall make, or cause to be made, an investigation of such charges, and advise in writing, addressed to the complainant whose name appears first in the charges, the result of such investigation. sec. . [=appeal and hoard of examiners.=] after such appeal from the decision of the chief inspector of mines, or after charges have been filed against the chief inspector of mines with the governor, and the result of the investigation made by him, or at his instance, is unsatisfactory to the complainant, and notice thereof is given to the governor in writing by said complainant, accompanied with a bond in the sum of five hundred dollars, payable to the state, conditioned for the payment of all costs and expenses of the investigation of such charges, in the event such charges are not sustained, and signed by two or more responsible freeholders, the governor shall convene a board of examiners, consisting of two practical miners, one chemist, one mining engineer, and one mine operator at such time and place as he directs, giving ten days' notice thereof to the inspector against whom the charges are made, and also to the person whose name appears first in the charges. [=duties of board.=] when so convened, and being duly sworn truly to try and decide upon the charges made, the board of examiners shall summon any witnesses desired by either party, and examine them, on oath, administered by a member of the board. depositions may be read on such examination as in other cases. the board shall examine fully into the truth of such charges and report the result of its investigation to the governor; and, according to its finding, award the costs and expenses of such investigation against the inspector or the persons signing the bond. the costs and expenses of such investigation shall include a compensation of five dollars per day for each member of the board, for the time occupied in the trial, and in traveling to and from his home, together with all legitimate expenses which shall be paid from the state treasury on the certificate of the president of such board. the attorney general shall proceed to collect such costs and expenses, and pay them into the state treasury. sec. . [=this act shall not create new office or displace any officer.=] no change herein made in the name of an office existing when this act takes effect shall create a new office. the incumbents of offices when this act takes effect, the duties of which are herein defined, or the filling of which is herein provided for, shall hold their respective offices for the full term for which they were severally elected or appointed, the same as if this act had not been passed. =relating to county recorder and county coroner.= sec. . [=duty of recorder.=] the recorder of the county, when presented with a map of an abandoned mine, by the owner, lessee or agent thereof, as provided for in this act, shall properly label, file and preserve the same as a part of the records of the land upon which said mine is located. (sec. .) [=duty of coroner.=] upon receiving notice of a death occurring at a mine, as provided for in this act, the coroner shall hold an inquest forthwith upon the body of such person, inquire carefully into the cause of his death, and within ten days after such inquest, return a copy of his findings, with a description of the body, and all the testimony before him, to the chief inspector of mines. upon request of the owner, lessee or agent of the mine where such person was employed, shall furnish a copy thereof to such owner, lessee or agent, for which such coroner shall be entitled to a fee of ten cents per legal cap page, but in no case more than five dollars for any one inquest, for copy furnished owner or lessee. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) =relating to owner, lessee or agent.= sec. . [=ventilation of mines.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine, shall provide and maintain the necessary artificial means of capacity and power capable of supplying the required ventilation, and shall maintain a sufficient volume of air, not less per minute than one hundred and fifty cubic feet for each person, and five hundred cubic feet for each animal working therein, measured at the intake, and distributed so as to expel or dilute and render harmless, explosive, poisonous and noxious gases. [=additional requirements where fire-damp is present.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine generating fire-damp, so as to be detected by a safety lamp, shall, in addition to the foregoing, provide and maintain not less than fifty cubic feet of air per minute for each person working therein. (sec. , , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=ventilating appliances.=] in each mine, the doors used in assisting or directing the ventilation thereof, shall be hung so that they will close themselves, and shall be kept closed except while persons or cars are passing through same. each door, not operated automatically, through which cars are required to pass, shall have an attendant, whose first duty shall be to open it for transportation, and prevent it from standing open longer than necessary for cars to pass through, and, persons in charge of cars passing through automatic doors shall be required to keep a close watch over such doors, and if any such door fails to close, they shall promptly close same and report such fact to the mine foreman. this shall not prevent the attendant from performing other duties, provided the door is not kept open longer than is necessary for cars to pass through. where necessary, a refuge place shall be provided at each door for the safety of the attendant. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=ventilation of mines while persons working therein.=] at each mine where the ventilation is not continuous, it shall be started a sufficient length of time prior to the appointed time for any person, or persons, working therein to enter, to clear the mine of explosive, poisonous and noxious gases, and shall be kept in operation a sufficient length of time after the appointed time for such employes to leave their working places, for all persons to be out of the mine. (sec. , , ; penalty, sec. .) [=pressure gauges.=] at each mine generating fire-damp so as to be detected by a safety lamp, and wherein twenty or more persons are employed, a recording pressure gauge for the purpose of recording the pressure or vacuum of the main air current, shall be provided and maintained, which shall be kept in constant use, and records preserved for ninety days, subject to the inspection of the chief inspector of mines and the district inspector of mines. (penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=competent person or persons shall be designated as fire-boss.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine generating fire-damp so as to be detected by a safety lamp, shall designate a competent person or persons as fire boss or fire bosses, who shall make a thorough examination of each working place in the mine every morning with a standard safety lamp, not more than three hours prior to the appointed time for the employes to enter the mine. as evidence of such examination, the fire boss shall mark with chalk upon the face of the coal, or in some other conspicuous place, his initials and date of the month upon which the examination is made. if there is any standing gas discovered, he must leave a danger signal across every entrance to such place. [=examination of other than working places.=] each mine generating fire-damp so as to be detected by a safety lamp, shall be kept free from standing gas. all traveling ways, entrances to old workings, and places not in the actual course of working, shall be carefully examined with a safety lamp by the fire boss not more than three hours before the appointed time for persons employed therein to enter. parts of the mine not in the actual course of working and available, shall be examined not less than once each three days, and shall be so fenced as to prevent persons from inadvertently entering therein. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=breakthroughs and brattices.=] from a point where the seam is reached in the opening of a mine, to a point not exceeding a distance of four hundred feet therefrom, breakthroughs shall be made between main entries, where there are no rooms worked, not more than one hundred feet apart, provided such entries are not advanced beyond the point where the breakthrough will be made until the breakthrough is complete. breakthroughs between entries, except as hereinbefore provided, shall be made not exceeding sixty feet apart. where there is a solid block on one side of a room, breakthroughs shall be made between such room and the adjacent room not to exceed sixty feet apart; where there is a breast or group of rooms, a breakthrough shall be made on one side or the other of each room, except the room adjoining said block, not to exceed forty feet from the outside corner of the breakthrough to the nearest corner of the entrance to the room, and on the opposite side of the same room a breakthrough shall be made, not to exceed eighty feet from the outside corner of the breakthrough to the nearest corner of the entrance to the room, and thereafter breakthroughs shall be made not to exceed eighty feet apart on each side of the room. no working place, except those provided for within a distance of four hundred feet of the principal openings of a mine, shall be driven more than eighty feet in advance of a breakthrough or air-way. the required air current shall be conducted to the breakthrough nearest the face of such entry or room. all breakthroughs between entries, and when necessary between rooms, except the one nearest the working face, shall be closed and made air-tight by brattice, trap doors or other means, so that the current of air in circulation may sweep to the interior of the mine. brattices between permanent inlet and outlet airways shall be constructed in a substantial manner of brick, masonry, concrete, or non-perishable material. in mines generating fire-damp, so as to be detected by a safety lamp, the air current shall be conducted by brattice, or other means, near enough to the working face to expel the fire-damp, and prevent the accumulation of the same. (penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=safe appliances for hoisting persons.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine shall provide and maintain safe appliances, approved by the district inspector of mines, for the ingress and egress of persons in each shaft, designated by such owner, lessee or agent as a means of ingress and egress for persons employed therein. when there is but one shaft available for ingress and egress from any unavoidable cause, the appliances therein shall be kept available to persons therein employed at all times. when such appliances in any shaft are rendered unavailable from any cause, the same shall be restored without delay. [=emergency appliances.=] when the only means of egress is by vertical shaft, in which cages or elevators are used as a means of hoisting persons therein employed, and the power for operating same is derived from but one source, the owner, lessee or agent shall provide and keep on hand for use in the event of an accident to the hoisting apparatus or the power by which same is operated, a suitable windlass, capable of hoisting the persons from the mine. [=competent engineers.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine worked by a shaft or slope, shall put in charge of an engine used for lowering into or hoisting out of such mine persons employed therein, only experienced, competent and sober engineers. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=metal speaking tube and safety appliances.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine operated by shaft, shall provide and maintain a metal tube suitable for conversation between persons, connecting the engine room with the top and bottom of such shaft; an approved safety catch, a sufficient cover, and rings or other adequate handholds for ten persons, on all cages used for lowering and hoisting persons: such cages to be protected on each side by a boiler plate not less than one-fourth inch in thickness, and not less than three feet high, and shall provide an approved safety gate at the top of each shaft, an adequate brake to control the drum used for lowering or hoisting persons in shafts or slopes, and an indicator on all machines used for such purpose, to show the location of cages in shaft or slope. no cage having an unstable or self-dumping platform shall be used for the carriage of persons unless such platform is securely locked. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=hoisting and lowering of persons.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine, at which the only means of ingress and egress for the persons employed therein is by a vertical shaft or shafts, of fifty feet or more in depth, shall designate one or more persons whose duty shall be to attend to the lowering and hoisting of persons into and out of such mine, and give and receive the proper signals, governing the movement of the cage while engaged in handling men. not more than ten persons shall be lowered or hoisted at any one time. the lowering of persons shall begin in time for persons to reach their working places by hour appointed for mine to commence work and continue until starting time. hoisting of persons shall commence at time for mine to cease work, and continue until all have had time to be hoisted. persons may be hoisted at such other times as will not interfere with the hoisting of coal, or other products. no person shall be lowered into or hoisted out of a mine, with powder, explosives, tools or material on any cage, in the same shaft, and no person shall be lowered or hoisted in a vertical shaft in a mine car. when the vertical shaft is less than fifty feet in depth, and a stairway approved by the district inspector of mines is not provided, the owner, lessee or agent shall be required to lower or hoist persons, as above prescribed, but when such stairway is provided, the hoisting of persons shall not be required. sec. . [=owner, lessee or agent shall provide second opening.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine shall not employ or permit any person to work therein except as hereinafter provided, unless to every seam worked in such mine there are at least two openings, separated by natural strata of not less than one hundred feet in breadth at any point, by which distinct means of ingress and egress are always available to the persons therein employed. such openings need not belong to the same mine so long as the persons employed therein have safe, ready and available means of ingress and egress, by not less than two openings, provided, however, that no air shaft with a ventilating furnace at the bottom be designated or used as a means of ingress or egress. the provisions of this section shall not apply to opening a new mine while being worked for the purpose of making the second opening and the communication therewith, and the making of the landing or bottom and extending of the main entries one hundred feet while such communication is being made; to a mine in which the second opening has become unavailable from any cause while said second opening is being restored or another is being made; nor to a mine in which the second opening has become unavailable by reason of the final robbing of the pillars previous to abandonment, so long as not more than twenty persons in either case are employed therein at one time. [=fire protection to shafts.=] at each mine at which the only means of egress is by vertical shaft, the owner, lessee or agent shall provide adequate fire protection to secure the safety of such shaft, or shafts, and, when but one shaft is the only available means of egress, shall keep in attendance a competent person at all times while persons are inside of such mine. (penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=separate traveling ways.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine shall provide and maintain, in safe condition for the purpose provided, two separate and distinct traveling ways from the interior workings of the mine, each of which shall be available to not less than one opening to the surface. one of such traveling ways may be designated by such owner, lessee or agent as the principal traveling way. one of such traveling ways may be designated as the escapement way. the provisions of this section shall not prohibit such owner, lessee or agent from designating more than one principal traveling way, or more than one escapement way, so long as the provisions hereof are complied with. [=traveling ways and refuge holes.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine worked by shaft, shall provide and keep free from obstruction, a traveling or passage way from one side of the shaft bottom to the other. slopes and mechanical haulage ways used as traveling ways by persons employed in a mine shall be made of a sufficient width to give not less than three feet of space between the rib and adjacent rail of track to permit persons to pass moving cars with safety. if found impracticable to make such slopes or mechanical haulage ways of sufficient width as provided, refuge holes not less than six feet in width and clearing the adjacent rail of the track not less than four feet, and not more than sixty feet apart, shall be made on one side of the slope or mechanical haulage way and whitewashed. the refuge holes shall be kept free from obstruction, and the roof and sides made secure. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=detached locomotive from moving train. traveling way where locomotive is detached.=] at a mine, or in any part thereof, where a locomotive is detached from a moving train of cars for the purpose of dropping such cars past the locomotive, and the haulage way at such point is designated as the principal traveling way, a traveling way, not less than three feet wide and separated from the track by a pillar of coal or substantial fence, shall be provided at one side of that portion of the track from where the locomotive will be detached to the switch of the siding. such traveling way shall be made on the same side of the track as the refuge holes. in no case shall a locomotive be detached from a train of moving cars, for the purpose of making a drop thereof, more than one hundred feet from the switch of the siding. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) [=additional means of egress when inundation is probable.=] at any mine where there is a stream or body of water on the surface, or in the workings of a mine, at a higher level, which is likely to break through into such mine and inundate either the traveling or escapement way of such mine, so as to prevent the egress of persons employed therein, the owner, lessee or agent, shall, upon the written order of the chief inspector of mines, provide and maintain an additional opening by means of which such persons may escape without using the traveling or escapement way likely to be inundated. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=duties of owner, lessee or agent relating to supplying timber.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine shall keep an adequate supply of suitable timber constantly on hand, and deliver to the working place of each miner, the props of approximate length, caps and other timbers necessary to securely prop the roof thereof: such props, caps, and other timbers, shall be delivered in mine cars at point where the miner receives his empty cars, or unloaded at the entrance to the room. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=provisions for persons injured at mines.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine at, in or around which, more than ten persons are employed, shall furnish for each thirty-five men so employed a properly constructed stretcher, a woolen blanket, a waterproof blanket, a sufficient quantity of bandages and linen and such other necessary requisites for use in case of accident as may from time to time be prescribed by the industrial commission of ohio. at mines generating fire-damp so as to be detected by a safety lamp, a sufficient quantity of olive or linseed oil shall be kept for use in emergencies. it shall be the duty of each mine foreman to keep in a safe and dry place in the territory over which he has charge such stretchers, woolen and waterproof blankets and other supplies. he shall care for the same and keep them in a dry and sanitary condition always ready for use. (sec. , , , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. - . [=owner, lessee or agent shall provide and maintain wash room.=] every owner, operator, lessee or agent of a coal mine, where ten or more persons are employed, shall provide and keep in repair a wash room, convenient to the principal mine entrance, adequate for the accommodation of the employes, for the purpose of washing and changing their clothes when entering and returning from the mine. such wash room shall be properly lighted and heated, supplied with warm and cold water and adequate and proper facilities for washing purposes. sec. - a. [=penalty.=] whoever, being the owner, operator, lessee or agent of a coal mine where ten or more persons are employed, fails or neglects, after ninety days from the taking effect of this act, to comply with the provisions of section - of the general code, or violates any of the provisions thereof, shall be fined not less than two hundred nor more than five hundred dollars. (this act became effective june , .) ( o.l. .) sec. - . [=owner, lessee or agent shall install telephone system.=] every owner, operator, lessee or agent of a coal mine, where twenty or more persons are employed, shall install, and maintain in efficient working condition, a telephone connecting each main switch of such mine with an outside telephone so connected and maintained as to permit communication with persons outside of the mine with persons on the main switch or switches or other points inside of the mine that may be designated by the district mine inspector. sec. - . [=penalty.=] whoever, being the owner, operator, lessee or agent of a coal mine, where twenty or more persons are employed, fails or neglects, after six months from the taking effect of this act, to comply with the provisions of section - of the general code, or violates any of the provisions thereof, shall be fined not less than two hundred nor more than one thousand dollars. (this act became effective june , .) ( o.l. - .) sec. . [=owner or lessee shall make map of mine.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine having an excavation of fifteen thousand cubic yards, or more, shall cause to be made, on a scale of not less than two hundred feet per inch, an accurate map thereof, which shall show the following: the boundary lines and names of the owners of the surface of each tract under which excavation is made, and for not less than five hundred feet contiguous thereto, and under which excavations are likely to be made during the ensuing year, together with all streams and bodies of standing water; the township and county lines coming within the limits of such map, with the name of each plainly marked close to and parallel with such lines; the title, the name or number of the mine, or both, the township and county in which located; the section lines, with the number of each, marked plainly within the sections; the location of the mine openings, railroad tracks, public highways, oil and gas wells, magazines and buildings, and plainly marked with name of each; the location and extent of the excavations and connection with the surface survey; the direction of the air current, or air currents by arrows; the location and extent, so far as known or obtainable, of the excavation of any other mine or mines within the limits of the map; the boundary lines of the tracts of coal owned or leased within the limits of the map; the elevation of the floor of the excavation, above mean tide at sandy hook, at or near the boundary line or lines of the coal owned or leased where the coal is adjacent to coal owned by a person, firm or corporation, other than the owner or lessee of such mine, and where the excavations of such mine cease or may be approached by another mine, at points not exceeding three hundred feet apart, and referenced to some permanent monument near the main opening of such mine, and shown on the map and plainly marked bench mark, with the elevation of same. (sec. , , , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=addition to map, and certificate of engineer and mine-foreman.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine shall cause to be made, a map or an addition to the next previous map thereof, annually, and semi-annually if so directed in writing by the chief inspector of mines, showing the excavations and the information required by the preceding section, to date of survey. the map, or maps, required by this and the preceding section, and any addition thereto, shall have the certificate of the engineer making same, and of the mine-foreman in charge of the mine at the time of the survey, acknowledged before, a notary public or justice of the peace, thereon in the following form: i, the undersigned, hereby certify that this map is correct, and shows all the information required by section nine hundred and thirty-five of the general code, and covers the period ending .............................................. ............................. engineer. acknowledged before me a ...................... this .............. day of ...................................... ............................. i, the undersigned, hereby certify that i am a mine-foreman at the mine represented by this map, and to the best of my knowledge and belief the same correctly represents the excavations of the mine for the period ending ............................................................ ............................. mine-foreman. acknowledged before me a ....................... this ................ day of .................................... ............................. (sec. , , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=owner, lessee or agent shall file map of abandoned mine with county recorder and chief inspector of mines.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine, before the pillars are drawn previous to the abandonment of a mine, or any part thereof, shall cause to be made a correct map of such mine, or part thereof, showing its area and workings to the day of the abandonment; the pillars drawn previous to abandonment; and file such map within ninety days after the abandonment of such mine, in the office of the recorder of the county where such mine is located, and with the chief inspector of mines at his office. such map shall have attached thereto the usual certificate of the mining engineer making it, and the mine-foreman in charge of the underground workings of the mine, and such owner, lessee or agent shall pay to the recorder for filing such map, a fee of fifty cents. (sec. .) [=copy of map to be filed with chief inspector.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine shall keep at the office thereof, open to the inspection of the chief inspector of mines, and the district inspector of mines, a copy of the latest map of such mine, with any addition thereto, and shall furnish a copy thereto to the chief inspector of mines at his office. (sec. , , , ; penalty, sec. .) =precaution when approaching abandoned mine.= sec. . whenever any working place of a mine approaches within one hundred feet of the abandoned workings of another mine, as indicated by an accurate survey, or while driving any working place within a distance of one hundred feet thereof, and such abandoned, mine cannot be explored, or when same contains fire-damp, or water which may inundate such working place, the mine-foreman shall not permit such working place to be advanced until a drill hole has been extended not less than twelve feet in the center of such working place, and a flank hole not less than twelve feet extended on each rib, starting at the working place after taking out each cut or crossing. whenever the limits of the workings of an abandoned mine are not known by actual survey, the above rule shall apply whenever any working place approaches within one hundred and fifty feet of the supposed limits of such abandoned mine. in addition to the precautions provided for in this act when approaching or working parallel with such an abandoned mine, the owner, lessee or agent shall, upon the demand of the chief inspector or district inspector of mines, provide competent shot firers to do the shot firing in all the working places advancing or running parallel with such abandoned mine; the shot firing to be done when all other workmen are out of the mine. the chief inspector or district inspector of mines shall order shot firers at any mine when in their judgment the safety of property or employes require same. ( o.l. .) sec. . [=notice must be sent to chief inspector in certain cases.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine shall give notice to the chief inspector of mines in the following cases: when a change occurs in the name of the mine, in the name of the owner, lessee or agent thereof, or in the officers of an incorporated company owning or operating such mine; when a working is commenced for the opening of a new shaft, slope or mine; when a mine is abandoned, or the working thereof discontinued; when the working of a mine is commenced, after an abandonment or discontinuance thereof for a period of more than three months; when the pillars of a mine are about to be removed or robbed; when a squeeze, crush, or fire occurs, or a dangerous body of gas is found, or any cause or change that may seem to affect the safety of persons employed therein. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=notice of accidents.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine at which loss of life occurs by accident, shall give notice thereof, by telegram, forthwith, to the office of the chief inspector of mines, and to the coroner of the county in which such accident occurs; and, within twenty-four hours next after loss of life or personal injury has occurred, the owner, lessee or agent of the mine shall send to the chief inspector of mines a report in writing, of the accident, specifying the character and cause thereof, the names of the persons killed or injured, and the nature of the injuries. if a personal injury thereafter results in the death of the person injured, as soon as such death comes to his knowledge, the owner, lessee or agent shall give notice thereof forthwith, in writing, to the chief inspector of mines, and to the coroner of the county in which such accident occurred. (sec. , , , ; penalty, sec. .) [=return of owner, lessee or agent.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine, shall, on or before the thirty-first day of january of each year, send to the office of the chief inspector of mines, upon blanks furnished by him, a correct return, specifying with respect to the year ending on the preceding thirty-first of december, the quantity of coal mined, and the number of persons ordinarily employed at, in, and around such mine, distinguishing the persons below and above ground, and give such other information as required by such blanks. (penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=test weights to be provided.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a coal mine, at which the earnings of ten or more persons depend upon the weights of coal mined, shall provide and keep accessible for the purpose of testing the weigh scales as provided elsewhere in this act, the following standard test weights, properly sealed: where the coal mined is weighed upon hopper or pan scales, two standard test weights of fifty pounds each; where the coal mined is weighed upon railroad track scales, ten standard test weights of fifty pounds each. (sec. .) [=owner, lessee or agent shall provide safety lamps.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine generating fire-damp, so as to be detected by a safety lamp, shall keep on hand in proper condition for use, not less than four approved safety lamps, and upon request of the district inspector of mines, shall provide such additional safety lamps as in his judgment may be required to meet any probable emergency. [=owner, lessee or agent shall provide shields on mining machines.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine, shall provide and maintain a sufficient shield on each mining machine used in such mine, as may be authorized by the chief inspector of mines, or the district inspector of mines, for the protection of those employed in operating same. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) =signal code.= sec. . [=signals at mines, how conducted; devices to be used.=] at each mine operated by shaft, the means of signaling to and from the bottom man, the top man, and the engineer shall consist of a tube, or tubes, or wire encased in wood or iron pipes, through which signals shall be communicated by electricity, compressed air, or other devices. the following signals are provided for use at mines where signals are required: =signal code.= =from the bottom to the top.= [=one ring or whistle.=] one ring or whistle from the bottom to the top shall signify to hoist coal or the empty cage, and also to stop either when in motion. [=two rings or whistles.=] two rings or whistles shall signify to lower cage. [=three rings or whistles.=] three rings or whistles shall signify that men are coming up; when return signal is received from the engineer, men will get on the cage, and cager shall ring or whistle one to start. [=four rings or whistles.=] four rings or whistles shall signify to hoist slowly, implying danger. [=five rings or whistles.=] five rings or whistles shall signify accident in the mine and a call for a stretcher. =from the top to the bottom.= [=one ring or whistle.=] one ring or whistle from the top to the bottom shall signify: all ready, get on cage. [=two rings or whistles.=] two rings or whistles shall signify: send away empty cage. [=addition to code, when allowed; code must be posted at top and bottom.=] provided, that the management of any mine, may, with the consent of the district inspector of mines, add to this code of signals in his discretion, for the purpose of increasing its efficiency, or of promoting the safety of the men in said mine, but whatever code may be established and in use at any mine must be furnished by the mining department, conspicuously posted at the top and at the bottom and in the engine room, for the information and instruction of all persons concerned. [=emergency signal in shafts.=] at each mine where persons are hoisted in a vertical shaft, an emergency signal shall be provided in such manner that persons can give signals from the cage, in the event that cage is stopped between the top and bottom landings. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=lights in mines.=] the owner, lessee or agent of each mine shall provide an enclosed lard or signal oil lamp or lantern or incandescent electric light at such point or points in the mine as may be necessary for the proper safety of persons, especially at the top of extreme grades. no open light shall be used for fixed or stationary purposes; no open torches or lamps larger than the lamps provided for in this act for use as open lights, and no coal oil or kerosene lamp or lanterns, shall be used in a mine. this, however, shall not prevent the use of a torch or blow-torch for mechanical purposes other than illumination. (sec. .) [=light or signal on locomotives and trains.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine at which locomotives are used for hauling the coal, shall keep a light on the front end of the locomotive when it is in use, and when the locomotive is run ahead of the trip, and the trip-rider is not required to ride the rear car of the trip, a signal, light or marker, approved by the district inspector of mines, shall be carried on the rear end of the trip to indicate when the trip has passed. cars shall not be pushed ahead of the locomotive where it can be avoided, and when cars are run ahead of the locomotive a light shall be carried on the front end of the trip and the cars shall not be moved at a speed greater than four miles per hour. when rope haulage is used, an enclosed light shall be carried on the front end of each train so hauled. when a mechanical haulage trip passes through an automatic door having no attendant other than persons in charge of such trip, the trip-rider shall be required to ride the rear car of the trip while passing though such door, and see that it closes after the trip passes through. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=employment of minors.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine shall not employ, or permit to work therein, any boy under fourteen years of age; nor employ, or permit to work therein, any boy under fifteen years of age during a term of the public schools, in the district in which he resides. (sec. , .) (see child labor law, sec. , page ----). "the provisions of section , and g.c. do not permit the employment of children under years of age in, about or in connection with any mine. such employment is governed by the provisions of section g.c." opinion no. office of the attorney general, state of ohio, december , . [=removal of combustible matter.=] whenever an entry or air-way becomes so dry that the air becomes charged with dust, the owner, lessee or agent shall cause such entry or air-way to be sprinkled, and all accumulated matter, explosive in its nature, shall be removed from the mine. (sec. .) [=quantity of oil in mine restricted.=] no oil shall be taken into or stored in a mine except as may be required to be opened for use within two days thereafter; and in no case shall more than two barrels of oil be kept at any one place, and not more than ten barrels of oil shall be had in a mine at any one time. all waste oil and empty barrels shall be promptly removed from the mine. (sec. , .) [=location of boilers at mine.=] the permanent boilers used for generating steam, and the buildings containing the boilers, shall not be nearer than sixty feet to any mine opening or to a building or inflammable structure connected with or surrounding such opening. (penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=relating to underground stables.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a coal mine at which the live stock is kept underground, shall observe the following: the stable or stall shall be separated from the main inlet and main outlet air-courses by not less than twenty feet of solid strata or a solid wall of brick or masonry not less than twelve inches in thickness, except at two doors not more than five feet wide, which shall be made of steel plate not less than one-quarter inch in thickness and hinged to the solid strata or masonry without the use of wood; the ventilation for the stable shall be taken from main inlet air-course by a by-pass or separate split and returned to the main outlet air-course so that the air passing the stables will not enter the inward working places of the mine, and arranged so that the by-pass or split can readily be closed at both inlet and outlet sides of the stable by steel doors hinged to the solid strata or masonry without the use of wood; the construction of the stable inside shall be free from pine or light lumber; shall be of brick or masonry as much as practicable, and any timber used shall be of hardwood of a cross section not less than three by six inches; no hay or straw shall be taken into the mine or stable unless same be compressed into compact bales, and then only from time to time in such quantities as will be required for two days' use; no greater quantity of hay or straw shall be stored in the mine or stable, and when such is taken into the mine it shall be taken inside the stable at once; the lights used in the stable shall be incandescent electric lamps, placed so that same will not be injured by the stock or by persons required to enter the stable, or lanterns of railroad type suitable for using lard or signal oil, and only such oil shall be used therein; all refuse and waste shall be promptly removed from the stable and the mine, and shall not be allowed to accumulate. stables constructed underground after the passage and approval of this act, shall be located not nearer than one hundred and fifty feet of any opening to the mine used as a means of ingress or egress. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=relating to use of gasoline in mines.=] no gasoline, naphtha or kerosene engine shall be used in a mine, except for operating pumping machinery where electric, compressed air or steam power is not available or cannot be transmitted to the pump, and then the owner, lessee or agent shall observe the following: notice shall be made to the chief inspector of mines before installing, and the installation and operation shall be subject to his approval: no wood or inflammable material shall be permitted nearer than twenty-five feet of the engine: the supply tank from which the gasoline, naphtha or kerosene is fed to the engine, shall be of metal, with a suitable screw cap opening, fitted with a gasket, so as to make the tank air-tight and prevent the escape of gas into the atmosphere, and the tank kept free from leaks: the gasoline, naphtha or kerosene shall be fed from a tank to the carburetor or mixer by metal tubes securely connected so as to reduce the possibility of leaks to a minimum: the exhaust from the engine shall be conducted by means of metal pipes into the return air current, so that the fumes of combustion will not enter the workings of the mine where the men are required to work, or be conducted in an upcast shaft or slope not used as a means of ingress or egress, or through metal pipes to the surface: at no time shall there be more than five gallons of gasoline, naphtha or kerosene in the supply tank; at no time shall more than five gallons of same be taken into the mine at any one time, and at no time shall there be more than ten gallons in the mine, including that in the supply tank: no gasoline, naphtha or kerosene shall be taken into the mine except in metallic cans, with a screw cap opening at the top, fitted with a suitable gasket: no package or can, or the supply tank of an engine, containing gasoline, naphtha or kerosene, shall be opened until ready to make the transfer from the package or can to the supply tank, and in transferring, a funnel shall be used so as to avoid spilling the gasoline, naphtha or kerosene, and the cap on the supply tank shall be immediately closed: in no case shall the package, can, or the supply tank, be opened, with any open light or other thing containing fire within twenty-five feet of same. (penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=relating to use of electricity in mines.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine in which electricity is used as a means of power, shall observe the following in the application thereof: [=trolley wires.=] all trolley wires shall be carried at least six inches outside of and parallel with the track rail on the side the trolley wire is located. when regular height is less than six feet six inches from top of rail, the lower side of trolley wire must not exceed six inches from the roof or cross-timber with hangers now in use, with hangers not to exceed twenty-five feet between centers, and the tension sufficient to keep all wires from sagging and to prevent trolley wheel from coming in contact with roof or cross-timbers. all new hangers hereafter installed shall not exceed five inches in depth from lower side of the trolley wire to the roof or cross-timbers. [=wires crossing traveling ways.=] all trolley and positive feed wires crossing places where persons or animals are required to travel, shall be safely guarded or protected from such persons or animals coming in contact therewith. [=wires opposite rooms and refuge holes.=] all trolley and positive feed wires shall be placed on opposite side of track from refuge holes or necks of rooms. [=bare wires; when not to extend into working places.=] no trolley wire shall be extended into or maintained in any room while being used as a working place; no trolley or feed wire shall be extended into any entry beyond the outside corner of the last breakthrough. [=switches and circuit-breakers.=] switches or circuit-breakers shall be provided to control the current at the mine, and at all important points in the mine. [=machine feed wires and insulators.=] all machine feed wires shall be placed as near the rib and roof or cross-timbers as practicable; the positive wire to be carried not to exceed three inches from the rib and roof or cross-timbers, measured at the insulators, which shall be so placed as to keep the wire at least six inches outside of the track rail on the side the wire is located. insulators shall be placed not exceeding fifty feet apart, and all wires shall be carried so that same will be not less than six inches outside of the track rail at any point on the side the wire is located. all positive wires shall be carried on glass or porcelain insulators, or insulators equally efficient. all negative wires shall be carried on suitable fixtures, and when carried in same entry as the positive wire, shall be carried on the same side of the entry as the positive wire, and as close to it as practicable. when machine or feed wires are carried in same entry as trolley wire, they shall be placed on the same side as the trolley wire, between trolley wire and rib. nothing in the foregoing shall require negative wires being carried in same entry with positive wire. [=wires in shafts or slopes.=] when necessary to carry wires down shafts or slopes used as travelways, the wires must be thoroughly cased or protected, so that persons cannot be shocked therefrom. [=wires; how placed in rooms.=] positive machine feed wires, when extended into rooms, shall be placed not nearer than four feet of the track, where the room is of sufficient width, and the same shall only be connected to the positive wire or wires on the entry while in actual use. the material used for making such connection shall be of sufficient length to reach across the entry, and when same is disconnected, it shall be kept with the machine operating at such point or working place. no electric wires shall be extended into any room unless a one hundred and fifty foot cable will not reach the face of the room, and then not beyond the outside corner of the last breakthrough. [=protection of terminal ends.=] all terminal ends of positive wires shall be guarded so as to prevent persons inadvertently coming in contact therewith. [=connection of negative wires, pipe lines and track. bonding of track.=] the bonded track, the negative wires and metallic pipe lines, when coming near each other, may be connected together at intervals not exceeding five hundred feet, and any track used as the return or earth system shall be properly bonded. in no case shall a pipe line, or any part thereof, be used exclusively as the return, and when connected to the earth system, the negative wire or bonded track shall be of ample capacity, exclusive of the pipe line, to carry the current. [=trolley wires; how erected.=] the trolley wire shall be carried upon hangers or other fixtures which will properly insulate it from contact with the roof or other substances, and so the trolley wheel can trail without the necessity of being constantly attended for that purpose, and no trolley shall be run on any wire not so carried. [=locomotive must not be operated improperly.=] no locomotive shall be operated by means of a person holding and sliding upon or frequently making contact with the positive wire with any device attached to the cable as a substitute for a trolley, but these provisions shall not prohibit the operation of a locomotive by means of a cable without the use of the trolley, provided the cable be connected to and disconnected from the positive wire when the locomotive is not in motion. [=protection to machine cable crossing entry track.=] means shall be provided by which machine runners may readily carry the machine cable from the machine to the feed wires on one side of the entry, either under or over the track rails, in the entry where such wires are located, and so the cable will not come in contact with such track rails, thereby reducing the danger of shock to persons or animals required to travel such entry, to the minimum. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=voltage at mines hereafter electrically equipped.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a mine at which electricity with a pressure or potential of more than three hundred and twenty-five volts, or alternating current, is used, shall in addition to the provisions of the preceding section, observe the following: [=limit to voltage in or about working places.=] at each mine equipped with electric power after the passage and approval of this act, the current used to operate gathering locomotives, mining machines, shearing machines, drills and other machinery, used in or about the working places of the mine, shall not exceed in pressure or potential, three hundred and twenty-five volts, direct current, as shown at the nearest switchboard, and the wires conducting the power from the nearest switchboard shall not carry a higher pressure or potential. [=relating to alternating current.=] at each mine equipped with electric power alternating current may be used to convert alternating current to direct current, and to operate motors permanently installed above ground and in underground substations, or buildings especially prepared for them, in a manner subject to the approval of the chief and district mine inspectors, but no wires carrying alternating current shall be used underground except same be carried in an entry or passageway where persons and animals are not permitted to travel. [=relating to higher voltage mines hereafter equipped.=] at each mine equipped with electric power after the passage and approval of this act, when the current used to operate haulage locomotives, pumps and other machinery not located in or about the working places of the mine, is of a pressure or potential in excess of three hundred and twenty-five volts, direct current, the entry or passage way where such wires are carried shall not be designated or permitted to be used as the principal traveling way, and when designated or used as the escapement way, the wires shall be protected so that persons required to travel near same in emergencies will not inadvertently come in contact therewith. no pressure in excess of six hundred and fifty volts at the switchboard shall be used underground. [=relating to higher voltage, mines heretofore equipped.=] at each mine equipped with electric power prior to the passage and approval of this act, where the pressure or potential is in excess of three hundred and twenty-five volts, direct current, or where alternating current is used, and the conditions surrounding the use of same are such, in the opinion of the chief inspector of mines, that the provisions of the preceding section do not provide the required protection from shock to persons employed therein, such additional safeguards shall be employed as may be required by the chief inspector of mines, and the district inspector of mines, jointly. (see. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=relating to construction of new mines.=] any person, firm or corporation beginning the opening of a mine, whether such person, firm or corporation be the owner, lessee or agent of the property upon which such mine is located, or not, shall observe the following in the construction of such mine: if the opening be a slope or vertical shaft, no explosive used therein shall be fired by means of a squib or fuse after the same is extended more than twenty-five feet from the surface, and thereafter and until the slope or shaft reaches the seam, and the entry or landing be extended beyond a breakthrough or other place driven at right angles thereto, no explosive shall be fired except by means of an electric battery operated from the surface after all persons are on the surface. a substantial structure to sustain sheave wheels or pulleys, ropes and loads, shall be provided, and if the opening be a shaft, the same shall be placed at a height of not less than twenty feet above the tipping place. a landing platform shall be arranged in such manner that no material can fall into the shaft while the bucket is being emptied, and in no case shall the shaft be sunk to a depth of more than thirty feet without such structures. if the bucket used for hoisting material is to land on a truck, the track on which said truck is operated, and the platform, shall be so constructed that material cannot fall into the shaft. rock and coal shall not be hoisted from a shaft or slope except in a bucket or cage attached to the rope by a safety hook, clevis, or other safe attachment, and the bucket or cage securely locked so that same cannot tip or empty while being hoisted. the rope shall be fastened to the side of the drum, and not less than three coils of rope shall always remain on the drum. after the shaft reaches a depth of one hundred feet, the same shall be provided with guides and guide attachments, applied in such a manner as to prevent the bucket from swinging while being lowered or hoisted, and said guides and guide attachments shall be maintained at a distance of not more than seventy-five feet from the bottom of the shaft. the sides of all shafts shall be properly secured for safety, and no loose rock or material shall be allowed to remain on any timber in the shaft after each blast. all loose timber, tools, and materials, shall be kept away from the top of the shaft, so as to reduce the danger of same falling down the shaft. where explosive gas is encountered, the person in charge shall see that the shaft or slope is examined before each shift of men enter to work, and before the men descend after each blast. provision shall be made for the proper ventilation of the slope, or shaft, so that persons working therein will have the necessary air. an efficient brake shall be attached to each drum of an engine used in hoisting material and persons, and all machinery, ropes and chains connected therewith shall be carefully examined once each twelve hours. not more than four persons shall be lowered or hoisted in or on a bucket at one time, and no person shall be permitted to ride on a loaded bucket. the bucket used in lowering or hoisting persons shall be equipped with proper safety devices, so that same cannot become detached from the rope or cable, and cannot tip or turn upside down while being so used. the chief inspector of mines, and the district inspector of mines, shall have jurisdiction over such mine when the shaft or slope reaches a depth of twenty-five feet, and such person, firm or corporation shall comply with any order issued by either or both of them with respect to the safety of persons employed. other than the provisions herein, the provisions of this act shall not apply to the opening of a mine until such opening reaches the seam, and the entry or landing be extended beyond a breakthrough, or other place driven at right angles thereto. (penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=additional openings; when and how provided for.=] when in the opinion of the district inspector of mines together with the chief inspector of mines, the ways and means of egress in any mine under their jurisdiction, from the interior working places to the surface, as provided for in this act, are inadequate as a safe and ready means of escape in case of probable emergency, and there are extra hazards of a permanent nature that cannot be removed either from long distance from the interior working places to the exterior openings for egress, from danger of fire at any point, or any other cause that probably will result in the entombment of persons working therein, they shall jointly give notice in writing to the owner, lessee or agent of such mine, and require an additional opening by shaft, slope or drift, from the surface; the location of the interior end of such shaft, slope, or drift, to be sufficiently near the interior working places in that part of the mine where such persons are endangered, to afford such persons safe and ready means of escape, free from such hazards. (sec. ; penalty sec. .) =relating to superintendent, mine-foreman and over-seer.= sec. . [=duties of superintendent.=] the superintendent in charge of a mine shall see that the provisions of this act are carried out, and shall, in case of an accident resulting in the death of or injury to persons, carefully investigate such accident, and report to the chief inspector of mines, as provided for in this act, and to the owner, lessee or agent of the mine. he shall give such other notice to the chief inspector of mines as required by the provisions of this act, and shall co-operate with the mine-foreman and direct him as may be necessary in securing a compliance with the provisions of this act, and the safety of the persons employed in the mine. nothing herein shall prohibit the superintendent from fulfilling the duties of mine-foreman. (sec. , , , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=duties of mine foreman.=] the mine-foreman shall attend personally to his duties in the mine, carry out all the provisions set forth in this act, see that the regulations prescribed for each class of workmen under his charge are carried out in the strictest manner possible, and see that any deviations from any of them are promptly adjusted. (sec. , .) [=when ventilation stops.=] in case of accident to a ventilating fan, or its machinery, whereby the ventilation of the mine would be seriously interrupted, he shall promptly order the men to immediately withdraw from the mine and not return to their work until the ventilation has been restored, and his permission to enter is given; if at a mine which generates fire-damp, he shall not order them to return until the mine has been thoroughly examined by him, or his assistant, and reported to be safe. (sec. , , .) [=dangerous places fenced.=] he shall see that all dangerous places are properly fenced off, and proper danger signal boards are hung on such fencing that they may be plainly seen; he shall also travel all air-ways, and examine all the accessible openings to old workings as often as is necessary to insure their safety. (sec. .) [=examination of working places.=] he shall examine each working place, or have it examined by his assistant, at least once each alternate day that persons are or should be at work therein and oftener, when, in his judgment, the circumstances require. he shall instruct pick miners and machine runners regarding the width of working places. (sec. .) sec. . [=when working place is unsafe.=] when a working place becomes unsafe from any cause, he shall order the person or persons working therein, to cease mining or loading, and not to remain in such working place, except as may be necessary to make it safe, until it is made safe. (sec. .) [=supplying of props and timber.=] he shall see that the working place of each miner is kept supplied with props of approximate length, caps, and other timbers necessary to securely prop the roof thereof. when he examines a working place, he shall observe the condition of the roof and timbering, and instruct the workmen therein as to the proper method of timbering for the security of the roof. he shall give such instructions to drivers, motormen, trip-riders, and other persons, as may be necessary to keep a supply of timber in each working place. (sec. , .) [=miner without props or timber.=] when he finds a miner in a working place without the necessary props, caps or timbers to securely prop the roof thereof, he shall order such miner to leave such working place until the required timber is supplied, which he shall attend to promptly, and shall order that no cars be delivered to such miner, until timber is supplied. (sec. , .) [=measure and report of ventilation.=] he shall keep a careful watch over the ventilating apparatus and air-ways, and measure the ventilation at least once each week, at the inlet and outlet, and at or near the face of all entries; which measurement shall be noted on blanks furnished by the chief inspector of mines. on the first day of each month, he shall sign such blanks, properly filled with the actual measurements, and forward them to the chief inspector of mines. (sec. , , , .) [=record of boys employed.=] he shall keep a record of the boys under sixteen years of age employed by him, or by any other person, giving the name, age, place of birth, name and residence of parents, and character of employment. he shall require written evidence from the parent or guardian of each said minors, that the requirements of the school laws of this state have been complied with. (sec. , .) (see child labor law, sec. .) "the provisions of section , and g.c. do not permit the employment of children under years of age in, about or in connection with any mine. such employment is governed by the provisions of section g.c." opinion no. office of the attorney general, state of ohio, december , . [=assistant mine-foreman.=] the duties of mine-foreman shall apply to assistant mine-foreman, when acting for the mine-foreman, or in discharging the duties thereof. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=relating to over-seer.=] the over-seer shall visit the working place of each inexperienced person engaged at mining or loading, at such intervals as provided for in this act, and instruct them as to their work and safety and assist them in caring for their safety. he shall instruct such persons not to handle or use any explosives except in his presence, until they have been employed in a mine not less than three months, and not then until he is satisfied that such persons are fully competent to handle and use same with safety. when, in his judgment, such persons require more frequent supervision than provided for in this act, he shall visit their working places as frequently as in his judgment the circumstances require. the foregoing shall not prohibit the mine-foreman from fulfilling the duties of overseer, so long as all the provisions of this act are complied with. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) =relating to the stableman and fire-boss.= sec. . [=duties of stableman.=] the stable man shall see that the provisions of this act relating to stables are carried out, and shall forbid persons not required by duty, to enter the stable or loiter in or about same, whether the stable be inside of the mine or on the surface. (sec. , .) [=duties of fire-boss.=] the fire-boss shall examine with a safety lamp each working place, whether same is in the actual course of working or not, the traveling ways and entrances to old workings in the mine every morning, not more than three hours prior to the appointed time for the employes to enter the mine. as evidence of such examination, he shall mark with chalk upon the face of the coal, or in some other conspicuous place, his initials and date of the month. if there is any standing gas discovered, he shall leave a danger signal across every entrance to such place. [=report on blackboard.=] he shall make a report on a blackboard provided on the outside of the mine for that purpose, and arrange so the men can conveniently inspect it, showing the condition of the mine as to the presence of fire-damp, and indicating the place, or places, where present, if any is present, before he permits any person to enter the mine. he shall examine parts of the mine not in the actual course of working and available, not less than once each three days. [=written report.=] the fire-boss shall make a written report, which shall be kept in the office, or some place at the mine where it can be seen by the mine inspector when called for. he shall see that every part of the mine is kept free from standing gas, and that all old workings are properly fenced off, as provided for in this act. he shall return to the mine with the miners and remain there at least one hour, attending to the removal of any standing gas. he shall examine the mine on idle days and sundays if any men are required to work in any part of it, and if more than three hours elapse between the day turn leaving and night turn starting, the places to be worked by night turn must be examined by him with a safety lamp, and reported safe before persons go to them. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) =relating to employes generally.= sec. . [=duties of miner. examination of working place.=] each miner shall examine his working place upon entering same, and shall not commence to mine or load until it is made safe. he shall be very careful to keep his working place in a safe condition at all times. (sec. .) [=shall cease work when place is dangerous.=] should he at any time find his place becoming dangerous from any cause or condition, he shall at once cease work, and notify the mine-foreman, or assistant mine-foreman, of such danger, and, upon leaving such place, he shall place some plain warning at the entrance thereto, to warn others from entering into the danger, and shall not return until ordered to do so by the mine-foreman, or assistant mine-foreman. (sec. .) [=shall prop roof, etc.=] each miner, or other person employed in a mine, shall securely prop the roof of the working place therein under his control, and shall obey any order, or orders, given by the superintendent or mine-foreman relating to the width of working places, and to the security of the mine in the part thereof where he is at work, and for fifteen feet back from the face of his working place. such miner, or other person, shall not be held to have violated the provisions of this clause if the owner, lessee or agent fails to supply the necessary props, caps, and timbers, as provided for in this act. (sec. , .) [=shall not waste props, etc.=] each miner, or other person shall avoid waste of props, caps, timber, or other material. when he has props, caps, timber, or other material unsuited for his purpose, he shall not cover up or destroy same, but shall place it near the track where it can be readily seen. (sec. , .) [=blasting when fire-damp is generating.=] he shall not fire a blast in any working place which is likely to generate sudden volumes of fire-damp, or where locked safety lamps are used, except with the consent of the mine-foreman, or other competent person designated by the mine-foreman for that purpose. (sec. .) [=blasting when restricted to specific times.=] at a mine where the firing of shots is restricted to specific times, no miner shall fire a shot until the time appointed for him to do so, and then only in such rotation as designated. (sec. .) [=examination after blasting.=] after each blast, he shall exercise great care in examining the roof and coal, and shall secure them safely before beginning to load coal. (sec. .) [=shall post after undermining.=] after the coal is undermined, he shall, before shooting the coal, properly post the roof of his working place. [=must not go under draw-slate.=] when draw-slate is over the coal, he shall not go underneath the draw-slate until it is made safe from falling, by securely posting it, and he shall not remove the posts until the coal is removed and he is ready to take down the draw-slate. [=shall load fine coal.=] he shall not place in the gob or refuse pile, or cover up, any fine coal or coal dust, but shall load same into cars. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=duties of machine men.=] machine runners and helpers shall use care while operating mining machines. they shall not operate a machine unless the shields are in place, and shall warn persons not engaged in the operating of a machine of the danger in going near the machine while it is in operation, and shall not permit such persons to remain near the machine while it is in operation. they shall examine the roof of the working place and see that it is safe before starting to operate the machine. they shall not move the machine while the cutter chain is in motion. when connecting the power cable to the electric wires, they shall make the negative or grounded connections before connecting to the positive, and when disconnecting the power cable, shall disconnect from the positive line before disconnecting the negative or grounded. when positive feed wires extend into rooms, they shall connect such wires to the positive wire on the entry before connecting the power cable, and as soon as the power cable is disconnected shall disconnect such wire from the wire on the entry. they shall use care that the cable does not make contact with metallic rails of the track, and shall avoid, where possible, leaving the cable in water. if they remove props which have been placed by the miner for the security of the roof, they shall reset such props as promptly as possible. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=duties of motormen and trip-riders.=] motormen and trip-riders shall use care in handling the locomotive and cars, and shall see that the signal or marker, as provided for, is used as provided, and shall be governed by the speed provided for in this act in handling cars. they shall not run the locomotive with the trolley ahead of the locomotive, except in cases where they cannot do otherwise, and then only at a speed of two miles per hour. they shall warn persons forbidden to ride on the locomotive or cars, and shall not permit such persons to ride on locomotive or cars contrary to the provisions of this act. [=duties of trip-rider, rope haulage.=] the trip-rider in charge of rope haulage trips shall see that the signal light, as provided for in this act, is in place and in proper condition before starting trip. [=drivers.=] drivers shall use care in handling cars, especially going down extreme grades, and at junction points. [=those in charge of trips of cars shall see that doors are closed.=] motormen, trip-riders and drivers in charge of haulage trips passing through doors used as a means of directing the ventilation, shall see that such doors are closed promptly after the trip passes through. (sec. , , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=persons must not enter mine until fire-boss reports.=] no person shall enter a mine generating fire-damp so as to be detected by a safety lamp, until the fire-boss makes a report outside the mine on a blackboard provided for that purpose, and arranged where the men can conveniently inspect it. no person shall go beyond a danger signal, until all standing gas discovered has been removed or diluted and rendered harmless by a current of air. (sec. , .) [=persons ordered to withdraw must not re-enter without permission.=] any person being ordered by the mine-foreman to withdraw from the mine on account of the interruption of the ventilation shall not re-enter the mine until given permission to do so by the mine-foreman. (sec. .) [=not more than ten persons on a cage.=] when more than ten persons get on a cage or elevator to be lowered into a mine, or to be hoisted out of a mine, the person in charge of the lowering and hoisting of such persons shall order a sufficient number to get off to reduce the number to ten persons, and the persons so ordered shall immediately comply. (sec. .) [=employes shall not loiter.=] each employe of a mine shall go to and from his place of duty by the traveling ways provided; shall not travel around the mine, or the buildings, tracks or machinery connected therewith, where duty does not require, and when not on duty, shall not loiter at, in, or around the mine, the buildings, tracks or machinery connected therewith. [=intoxicants.=] no person shall go into, at, or around a mine, or the buildings, tracks or machinery connected therewith, while under the influence of intoxicants. no person shall use, carry, or have in his possession, at, in, or around a mine, or the buildings, tracks or machinery connected therewith, any intoxicants. [=must not go beyond danger signal.=] no person other than the fire-boss shall remove or go beyond any caution board or danger signal placed at the entrance to any working place, or to the entrance to any old workings in a mine. sec. . [=intent to defraud.=] no person shall erase or change a mark of reference or monument made in connection with measurements; change the checks on cars; wrongfully check a car, or do any act with intent to defraud. [=fire must not be taken into stable.=] no person shall take a lighted pipe, or other thing containing fire, except lanterns as provided for, into any stable or barn. (sec. - .) [=must not obstruct airway.=] no person shall place refuse in, or obstruct any airway or breakthrough used as an airway. [=injuries to mine by workmen and others.=] no workman, or other person, shall knowingly injure a water gauge, barometer, air-course, brattice, equipment, machinery, or live stock; obstruct or throw open an airway; handle or disturb any part of the machinery of the hoisting engine of a mine; open a door of a mine and neglect to close it; endanger the mine or those working therein; disobey an order given in pursuance of law, or do a wilful act whereby the lives and health of persons working therein, or the security of a mine, or the machinery connected therewith may be endangered. (penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=persons not permitted to ride on haulage trips.=] no person or persons except those in charge of trips, superintendents, mine-foremen, electricians, machinists and blacksmiths, when required by their duty, shall ride on haulage trips, except where by mutual agreement in writing, between the owner, lessee or agent, and the employes, a special trip of empty cars is run for the purpose of taking employes into and out of the mine, or empty cars are attached to loaded trips, which shall not be run at a speed exceeding eight miles per hour. no person except a trip rider shall ride on loaded car or cars, and he shall ride only the front or rear end of the trip. (sec. .) [=size of lamps for open lights.=] no person, except as hereinafter provided for, shall use in any coal mine, any oil lamp for the purpose of maintaining an open light, more than two and one-half inches in height, with spout not more than three inches long, with opening not more than three-eights inch in diameter; provided, however, that mine-foreman, electricians, machinists, motormen, trip-riders, drivers, and other persons whose duties require them to ride on moving trips, works in main air current, or travel frequently from place to place, may use lamps not exceeding three and one-half inches in height, with spout not more than four and one-half inches long, with opening not more than five-eights of an inch in diameter. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=handling and storing of explosives.=] no workman shall have at any one time more than one twenty-five pound keg of blasting powder in the mine, nor more than three pounds of high explosives, and no person shall keep blasting powder or explosives dangerously near the electric wire or power cable in any part of the mine where electric wires are in use. no blasting powder, or other explosive, shall be stored in any mine except as above provided. [=explosives kept in boxes.=] every person who has powder or other explosives in a mine shall keep same in a wooden box, or boxes, securely locked, and said boxes shall be kept at least five feet from the track, and no two powder boxes shall be kept within twenty-five feet of each other, nor shall blasting powder and high explosives be kept in the same box, and in no case shall detonating caps be kept in a box with blasting powder or high explosives. [=fire must be kept from explosives.=] whenever a workman is about to open a box, package or keg containing powder or other explosives, and while handling the same, he shall place and keep his lamp at least five feet distant from said explosives, and in such position that the air current cannot convey sparks to it; and no person shall approach nearer than five feet to any open box, keg or package containing powder or other explosives, or within five feet of another person handling such explosives, with a lighted lamp, lighted pipe, or other thing containing fire. [=conveying of explosives.=] blasting powder or explosives must not be taken into or out of a mine, or moved from place to place in a mine along any entry or haulway where there are electric wires, while the power is on such wires, except when such powder or explosive is conveyed in insulated cars or packages. [=explosives and tools on cages or stairways.=] powder, explosives and working tools shall not be taken down or up a hoisting shaft in a cage when men are going down or up; nor shall they be taken down or up a stairway used for ingress and egress of persons. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=squibs and fuses; missed shots.=] any workman who is about to fire a shot with a squib, shall not shorten the fuse, saturate it with oil, or ignite it except at the extreme end; he shall see that all persons are out of danger from the probable effects of such shot, and if it be a rib shot, he shall notify the person or persons working next to him on said rib before firing said shot, and shall take measures to prevent any one approaching by shouting "fire" immediately before lighting the fuse. when a squib is used and a shot misses fire, no person shall return until five minutes shall have elapsed. when a fuse is used and a shot misses fire, no person shall return until one hour for each foot of fuse used shall have elapsed. the needle used in preparing a blast shall be made of copper, and the tamping bar shall be made of wood, or shall be tipped with at least five inches of solid copper. no inflammable material, or any material that may create a spark, shall be used for tamping, and some soft material must always be placed next to the cartridge or explosive. when it is necessary to tamp dynamite, nothing but a wooden tamper shall be used. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) =relating to persons not employes.= sec. . [=persons not employes of a mine.=] persons not employes of a mine, except those permitted by law, shall not enter such mine or go upon the property connected therewith, unless consent of the owner, lessee or agent has been secured, and then only when accompanied by a guide furnished by such owner, lessee or agent. this, however, shall not prohibit persons seeking employment at such mine, or the duly authorized representatives of the employes, from entering upon the property as may be necessary to make such application to the proper authority or to transact business, provided such persons do not enter the mine until given permission to do so, and do not stand on the tracks, go near the machinery, or other place of danger. (penalty, sec. .) =general provisions.= sec. . [=qualifications of miner.=] each person desiring to work by himself at mining or loading, shall first produce satisfactory evidence, in writing, to the mine-foreman of the mine in which he is employed, or to be employed, that he has worked at least nine months with, under the direction of, or as a practical miner; provided, however, if the mine in which such person is to be employed generates explosive gas, or fire-damp, he shall have worked not less than twelve months with, under the direction of, or as a practical miner. except as hereinafter provided, until a person has so satisfied the mine-foreman of his competency, he shall not work, or be permitted to work at mining or loading unless accompanied by a competent miner. [=inexperienced miner.=] the provisions of this section shall not prohibit a person not so qualified from working in a mine by himself, or with another inexperienced person, when such person or persons work under the direction of a competent overseer, as hereinafter prescribed. until such person or persons have been employed in a mine for a period of not less than three months, the overseer shall visit the working place of such persons not less frequently than once in each four hours that such persons are in the mine, and instruct them as to their work and safety, and assist them in caring for their safety. after such persons have been employed in a mine for a period of three months, and until they have been employed not less than six months, the overseer shall examine the working place not less frequently than once during each six hours that such persons are in the mine, and shall instruct them as to their work and safety, and assist them in caring for their safety. after such persons have been employed in a mine for a period of not less than six months, the overseer shall examine the working place not less than once each day until such persons become qualified by having worked the period of time hereinbefore provided. the overseer shall instruct such persons not to handle or use any explosives, except in his presence, until they have been employed in a mine not less than three months, and not then until he is satisfied that such persons are fully competent to handle and use same with safety. the overseer shall visit the working place of such persons oftener than required herein, when, in his judgment, it is necessary to do so for the proper safety of such persons. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=oath and bond of weigh-master.=] any person employed to weigh coal at a mine in which ten or more miners are employed, and upon the weight of which the earnings of the miners depend, shall take and subscribe to an oath before an officer authorized to administer the same, that he will correctly weigh all coal taken from such mine under existing contracts between the owner, lessee or agent, and the miners, and give due credit for same; and when required by existing contracts between the lessor and lessee, he shall give due credit to such lessor. he shall also give a bond in the sum of three hundred dollars, with two sureties approved by the clerk of the township in which such mine is situated, conditioned for the faithful discharge of his duties, and payable to the state, with the oath indorsed thereon, which shall be deposited with such township clerk. (penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=examination of machinery, ventilating current, etc., by miner or owner.=] the miners employed in a mine may appoint two of their number to act as a committee to inspect, not oftener than once in every month, the mine and the machinery connected therewith, and to measure the ventilating current. if the owner, lessee or agent so desires, he may accompany such committee or appoint two or more persons for that purpose. the owner, lessee or agent shall afford every necessary facility for making such inspection and measurement, but the committee shall not in any way interrupt or impede the work in the mine at the time of such inspection and measurement. within ten days after the inspection and measurement, such committee shall make a correct report thereof to the chief inspector of mines, on blanks furnished by him. (sec. ; penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=appropriation of land for mines, how made.=] the owner, lessee or agent of a coal mine, may, when such owner, lessee or agent does not own or control suitable surface ground for openings for the ingress and egress of persons employed therein, for the means of ventilation as provided for in this act, for the means of draining said mine as may best protect the lives and health of the persons employed therein, for the protection of the employes and property, for conducting the water from the mine to any natural water course, or for suitable roadway from any opening to a public highway, appropriate as hereinafter provided, for any one or more of such purposes any required intervening or adjoining lands, and make openings, lay pipe for conducting water, and maintain roadways into, upon, over, under or through same, provided that no land shall be appropriated for a roadway more than twenty feet in width, and no land for any other one of such purposes in excess of one-quarter of an acre. such owner, lessee or agent, whether a corporation, firm or individual, shall be governed in proceedings to appropriate such land by the laws relating to the appropriation of private property by corporation; but no land shall be so appropriated unless the court is satisfied that suitable land cannot be obtained upon reasonable terms. sec. . [=examination and survey of mine by owner of land adjoining.=] each person owning land adjoining a mine worked for the production of coal, and each person interested in such mine, who has reason to believe that the protection of his interests therein or in the coal on his adjoining land requires it, upon making affidavit to that effect before a justice of the peace or other proper officer, may enter such mine and have an examination or survey of it made, after giving three days' notice, in writing, to the owner, lessee or agent of such mine. such examination shall be made at such time, and in such manner, as will least interfere with the working of the mine. [=transportation of surveying party.=] when the affidavit has been made, and notice given, as provided in the foregoing, upon the application of the person giving the notice, the person in charge of such mine shall transport, by the ordinary method for entrance and exit in use at such mine, a surveying party of not more than three persons, furnish them a competent guide, and supply them with necessary and proper lamps. the person in charge of the mine shall be paid by the person requesting the survey, fifty cents for each person so transported, and five dollars per day for guide; but, if the shaft, (if such mine be a shaft mine), exceed two hundred and fifty feet in depth, he shall be paid one dollar for each person so transported. [=liability for damages caused by examination.=] if the owner or lessee of such mine sustain damage for which compensation should be made because such examination or survey was made at unreasonable times, or in an improper or unwarrantable manner, the person making, such examination or survey, or causing it to be made, shall be liable therefor to such owner or lessee. [=forfeiture.=] the persons owning or operating a mine shall not hinder or obstruct such examination or survey, if made at a reasonable time, and in a reasonable manner, and as provided by law. [=to whom provisions concerning examination and survey available.=] the preceding provisions for examination and survey shall be available to any person, who, on his oath, states that he is the owner, or authorized agent of an owner, of land which he believes contains coal or commercial products adjacent to the underground working of a mine, although it does not adjoin the property of such mine. [=action for refusal to permit examination.=] upon the refusal of the owner, lessee or agent of a mine to comply with the provisions of this section, the person who makes the application for the survey may recover judgment as upon default, in a court of competent jurisdiction, against the owner, lessee or agent, in such sum as he declares under oath that he believes to be justly due him for coal belonging to him taken by the owner, lessee or agent of the mine without his permission, and the statute of limitations shall not run against such claim, but the demand, and refusal of permission to enter such mine, must be first proven to the satisfaction of the court or jury. sec. . [=checkweighman for miners.=] the miners employed at a mine where the earnings of such miners depend upon the weight of coal mined, may, at their own cost, designate or appoint a competent person as checkweighman, who, at all proper times, shall have full right of access to and examination of the scales, machinery or apparatus used at such mine to determine the correct weight of coal mined, and whose duty shall be to see the coal weighed and to make a correct record of such weights. not more than one person, however, on behalf of the miners collectively shall have such right at the same time. [=checkweighman for landowners.=] the landowners, or other persons interested in the rental or royalty at such mine, may, at their own cost, designate or appoint a competent person to act as checkweighman for them, who shall have the same rights as the checkweighman for the miners. not more than one person, however, on behalf of the landowners, or other persons interested in the rental or royalty, jointly, shall have such right at the same time. checkweighmen shall not interfere with the use of or tamper with such scales, machinery or apparatus, nor make any false entry of any weight, or in any manner exceed the duties prescribed herein. [=check-measurer.=] the miners employed at a mine where the earnings of such miners depend upon measurements, may, at their own cost, designate or employ, not more than one of their number as check-measurer to accompany each mine-foreman or other person making the measurements and see them make such measurements, and make a correct record of same. each mine-foreman or other person making measurements may have a helper, but such helper shall not be regarded as a person making measurements. the person or persons designated as check-measurer shall not in any manner interfere with or interrupt the work of the mine-foreman, or other person, while making such measurements. (penalty, sec. .) sec. . [=crossing public highway.=] any person, firm or corporation now or hereafter owning any land containing mineral, coal, stone or clay, and over any portion of which shall pass any state, county or township road or public highway, shall have the right and are hereby authorized to drill, excavate, mine or quarry through or under any such road; provided, however, that when any excavation is to be made in such manner that the top or highest level of such excavation will be extended within thirty feet vertical distance of such road, then and in that case before said work shall be commenced, such person, firm or corporation shall execute and deliver to the board of county commissioners in case of state or county roads, or to the township trustee in case of township roads, a bond, with good and sufficient surety in such amounts as shall be considered by said commission or trustees sufficient to cover any damages that may accrue by reason of excavating, mining or quarrying through or under any such road, the same to be approved by said commissioners or trustees; conditioned that while crossing over or mining or quarrying under any such road, a safe and unobstructed passageway or road shall be kept open by such person, firm or corporation for public use, and as soon as practicable such road shall be fully restored to its original safe and passable condition. when such crossing is made by excavation at a depth of more than thirty feet below the surface of such road, the person, firm or corporation making same shall be liable to the county commissioners or township trustees for any damage that may accrue by reason of such excavation, and shall be held to fully repair any such damage and to restore such road to its original safe and passable condition. the right to mine or quarry across or under public highways as hereinbefore provided shall accrue to the owner, lessee or agent of the land upon or through which such highway passes. (penalty, sec. .) =right of action in case of accident.= sec. . in case of an injury to persons or property, occasioned by a violation of any of the provisions of this act or any willful failure to comply with any provisions of this act any owner, lessee or agent of a mine, a right of action shall accrue to the person injured, for any direct damage he may have sustained thereby. in case of loss of life, by reason of such failure or willful neglect, a right of action shall accrue to the widow, and children, or if there be none such, then to the parents and next of kin, of the person whose death was so caused, for like recovery of damages for the injury they shall have sustained. each person who performs labor in opening or developing any coal mine, mining coal, and labor connected therewith, shall have a lien upon all the property of the person, firm or corporation owning, constructing or operating such mine, for the value of such labor for the full amount thereof, upon the same terms, as mechanic's liens are secured and enforced. ( o. laws .) =relating to oil and gas wells through coal measures.= =owner of well shall make and file map.= sec. . any person, firm or corporation holding property in any coal bearing or coal producing township, in any county of the state of ohio, either in fee, by virtue of a lease for oil or gas, mining purposes since january first, , or otherwise, whereon wells have been drilled for oil, gas or test purposes, shall cause to be made by a competent engineer, an accurate map on a scale of not less than one inch to four hundred feet, showing on said map the location and number of wells as near as the same can be located, that have been drilled, whether or not any of such wells have been previously abandoned, or were drilled and abandoned by former operators, who have ever held the said property for oil, gas or mining purposes. said map shall show the name and address of the person, firm or corporation owning said well or wells, the county and township, the names of the adjoining property owners, and lines of the property operated with the distances of the wells properly measured therefrom and checked from the section and quarter section lines, as will be necessary for an accurate survey. the map shall show all the engineer's notations of angles, distances, starting point, or corner stones, together with the numbers given the respective wells, giving a legend as to the manner in which various abandoned or producing wells, are designated. the original map shall be retained by the owner or his agent, and one copy filed with the industrial commission of ohio, division of mines, said copy showing thereon the sworn statement of the engineer making the map that same is correct. =well shall not be near mine opening.= no oil well, gas well or test well shall be drilled nearer than three hundred feet to any opening to a mine used as a means of ingress or egress for persons employed therein, nor nearer than one hundred feet to any building or inflammable structure connected therewith, and actually used as a part of the operating equipment of said mine. =persons drilling oil and gas wells in coal bearing or coal producing townships.= any person, firm or corporation before drilling or causing to be drilled any oil well, gas well or test well within the limits of any coal producing township in any county of the state of ohio, shall first file an application with, the industrial commission of ohio, division of mines, on blanks to be furnished by said commission for such purpose, and shall show the following: the name and address of the applicant, the proper date, location of the proposed well--giving the name of the property owner, section number, township and county, the number of the proposed well, and signed by an officer or agent of such operator. no well shall be commenced until the applicant or operator has been granted a permit, which shall be granted by the industrial commission of ohio, division of mines, under the following conditions: =when well is adjacent to mine.= if such proposed well is located within the limits directly adjacent to mining operations, such limits to be determined by the industrial commission of ohio, division of mines, the application for permit must be accompanied by a map showing the location of the proposed well and answering the requirements in the preceding regulations for mapping. =when well is not adjacent to mine.= if such proposed well is not located within the limits directly adjacent to mining operations, but within the limits of any coal producing or coal bearing township, the industrial commission of ohio, division of mines, shall grant a permit immediately upon receipt of the application, providing the applicant is a responsible person, firm or corporation. the industrial commission of ohio, division of mines, may at any time after the well is commenced, if the responsibility of the applicant or operator is considered doubtful, cause such operator or applicant to show proper guaranty of his intention to fulfill the requirements of the section, or cause all operations to cease forthwith. if any person, firm or corporation continue drilling on property already surveyed in accordance with the preceding requirements, a complete blue print or copy of map shall be made at the end of each year ending june th, showing the additional wells properly surveyed by a competent engineer as above mentioned, and filed with the industrial commission of ohio, division of mines, not later than the following first of september. =when well is to be abandoned owner shall give notice.= when any oil well, gas well or test well is to be abandoned, the person, firm or corporation owning such well shall notify the industrial commission of ohio, division of mines, or the deputy oil and gas well inspector of the district in which the well is located, as many days in advance as will be necessary for the inspector to arrange to be present at such abandonment. no well shall be abandoned without an inspector being present, unless permission has been first granted upon good cause shown, by the industrial commission of ohio, division of mines. =method of plugging well.= when any oil well, gas well or test well is to be abandoned, it must first be plugged in some secure manner above the oil or gas sand or rock formation, either by placing or driving one or more good seasoned wooden plugs, or a lead plug, as the case may require, so that no gas or oil may escape, or any water or destructive matter force itself into the oil or gas sand, or rock formation. upon such seasoned wooden plug or plugging material shall be filled at least thirty feet of cement properly mixed with sand, or thirty feet of good clay or rock sediment properly prepared. if any well has passed through a workable vein or seam of coal, it shall when it is abandoned be plugged in the following manner: a seasoned wooden plug shall be driven to a point thirty feet below the lowest workable seam of coal and the hole filled with cement to a point at least twenty feet above this seam of coal, at which point another wooden plug shall be placed and the hole filled for a distance of twenty feet with cement or properly prepared clay, or rock sediment. if there is more than one seam of coal the next seam above must be plugged off in like manner. =when well penetrates the excavations of any mine.= in the event that a well being drilled penetrates the excavations of any mine, it must be cased with casing of approximately the same diameter as the diameter of the hole, the hole to be drilled thirty feet or to solid slate or rock and not less than ten feet below the floor of such mine, and the casing shall be placed in the following manner: one string of casing shall be placed at a point above the roof of said mine so as to shut off all of the surface water; then the hole drilled through said mine and another string of casing put in. the bottom of the second string of casing, or the one passing through said mine, shall not be nearer than ten feet, or more than thirty feet from the floor of the mine where it passes through the same. when any well which has been drilled is to be abandoned and has passed through the excavations of any coal mine from which the minable coal has not all been removed, the person, firm or corporation owning said well shall leave in said well the casing passing through said mine from a point not less than ten feet, nor more than thirty feet below the floor of said mine, and extending above the roof of said mine at least five feet. a seasoned wooden plug shall be driven to a point at least forty feet below the floor of the mine and the hole above said plug together with the casing left in, which extends through the coal, shall be filled with cement; then a seasoned wooden plug shall be driven on the top of said casing, and the hole filled with cement for a distance of not less than twenty feet. =interpretation--"coal bearing and coal producing township."= a coal bearing or coal producing township of any county shall be interpreted to mean any, township as a unit, in which coal is found that, is being mined, or is of such thickness as to make it likely to be mined at some future time. any well drilled in such township, whether or not it passes through any coal, the same being barren in certain sections of such township, or the well being commenced below the line of outcrop of the coal, will nevertheless be required to be mapped and abandoned in accordance with the regulations and provisions of this section as given above, which shall apply uniformly throughout any coal bearing or coal producing township of any county. =relating to illuminating oil for mines.= =composition of illuminating oil for use in mines.= sec. . no person, firm or corporation shall compound, sell or offer for sale for illuminating purposes in any mine any oil other than oil composed of not less than eighty-two per cent, of pure animal or vegetable oil, or both, and not more than eighteen per cent, pure mineral oil. the gravity of such animal or vegetable oil shall not be less than twenty-one and one-half, and not more than twenty-two and one-half degrees baume scale, measured by tagliabue or other standard hydrometer, at a temperature of sixty degrees fahrenheit; the gravity of such mineral oil shall not be less than thirty-four and not more than thirty-six degrees baume scale, measured by tagliabue or other standard hydrometer at a temperature of sixty degrees fahrenheit, and the gravity of the mixture shall not exceed twenty-five degrees baume scale measured by tagliabue or other standard hydrometer at a temperature of sixty degrees fahrenheit. each person, firm or corporation compounding oil for illuminating purposes in any mine or mines, shall, before shipment thereof is made, securely brand, stencil or paste upon the head of each barrel or package, a label which shall have plainly printed, marked or written thereon, the name and address of the person, firm or corporation, having purchased same, the date of shipment, the percentage and the gravity in degrees baume scale, at a temperature of sixty degrees fahrenheit, of each of the component parts of animal, vegetable and mineral oil contained in the mixture, and the gravity in degrees baume scale at a temperature sixty degrees fahrenheit of the mixture. each label shall have printed thereon, over the fac-simile signature of the person, firm or corporation having compounded the oil, the following: "this package contains oil for illuminating purposes in mines in the state of ohio, and the composition thereof as shown hereon is correct." each person, firm or corporation, manufacturing paraffine wax for illuminating purposes in any mine, or mines, shall, before shipment thereof is made, securely brand, stencil, or paste, upon the head of each barrel, box, or case, containing small packages, the name and address of the person, firm or corporation, manufacturing paraffine wax therein contained, the name and address of the person, firm or corporation, having purchased the same, and the date of shipment. and each individual package contained within each barrel, box or case, shall have plainly printed thereon the name of the product, the name and address of the manufacturer thereof, together with the melting point, fire test, and the percentage of oil and moisture of the paraffine wax herein contained. but nothing herein contained shall prohibit the manufacture, sale or use for illuminating purposes in mines in this state, of paraffine wax with melting point at from one hundred five to one hundred twenty-four degrees of heat and minimum fire test not less than three hundred degrees fahrenheit, with not over four per cent, oil and moisture. =acetylene gas in mines.= sec. - . it shall be lawful to use acetylene gas in lamps in mines subject to the following conditions and restrictions: first, no person or persons shall take into a mine a greater quantity of calcium carbide than will be a reasonable supply for his own lamp for one day's work. second, no person shall deposit, or keep in his possession in a mine any calcium carbide, or refuse from calcium carbide, in anything except air-tight containers, and these containers with their contents must be taken out of the mine at the end of each day's work, or sooner, if possible. third, no person or persons, shall be allowed to use acetylene gas in lamps where there are old or abandoned workings where large quantities of black damp or other poisonous gases are liable to accumulate until such places have been examined by a competent person and pronounced to be free from foul or poisonous atmosphere. =other illuminants.= sec. - . no person shall use in any mine any other illuminant than those provided for in sections and - of the general code, unless with the consent of the chief inspector of mines. =penalty.= sec. - . any person who knowingly uses, or any owner, lessee or agent, who permits the use of any illuminant contrary to the provisions of sections , - and - , or any owner, lessee or agent who permits any person to deposit, or keep in his possession, in a mine any calcium carbide, or refuse from calcium carbide, except as provided in said sections and - , upon conviction, shall be fined not less than five nor more than ten dollars, and for a second or any subsequent offense shall be fined not less than twenty-five dollars nor more than one hundred dollars. ( o.l. .) sec. . [=no oil for illuminating purposes in mines shall be sold except oil prescribed in this act.=] no person, firm or corporation shall sell or offer for sale, any oil for illuminating purposes in any coal mine unless the barrel or package in which such oil was received bears the label of the compounder as provided for in this act. each person, firm or corporation selling or offering for sale any oil for illuminating purposes in any coal mine, shall, upon request of any district inspector of mines, or of any officer or duly authorized agent of any owner or lessee of a coal mine located within two miles of the point where such oil is offered for sale, submit such oil and the original containers for examination, and upon request, give a sample of such oil from one or more original containers selected by such inspector, officer or agent, for the purpose of making a test thereof. [=adulteration of illuminating oil forbidden.=] no person shall adulterate any oil either before or after taking same from the original containers, and shall not alter, transfer, or re-use any label placed upon any container. [=persons forbidden to use oil other than prescribed in this act.=] no person shall use for illuminating purposes in any coal mine, any oil other than the oil specifically provided for in this act. each person, while in a coal mine, shall, upon request of any district inspector of mines, or any officer or duly authorized agent of the owner or lessee, submit his lamp and supply of oil for examination, and upon request, give sample of oil for purpose of making test thereof, and state from whom purchased. [=provisions of this act shall apply only to oil used for open lights.=] the provisions of this act relating to the compounding, sale and use of oil for illuminating purposes in coal mines, shall apply to oil used in lamps for open lights. the oil used in safety lamps may be of such composition as will best serve the purpose. (sec. , ; penalty, sec. .) =relating to penalties.= =county coroner.= sec. . any county coroner who, after receiving notice of a fatal accident, or of an accident, which has resulted in the death of a person, at, in, or around a mine, from the owner, lessee or agent of such mine, or the chief inspector of mines, willfully refuses or neglects to comply, so far as such provisions relate to him, with the provisions of section nine hundred and twenty-one of the general code, shall, upon conviction thereof, be fined not less than twenty-five dollars nor more than fifty dollars, at the discretion of the court. =owner, lessee or agent.= any owner, lessee or agent of a mine, or any person, firm or corporation opening a new mine, having written knowledge of a violation of this act, who willfully refuses or neglects to comply with the provisions of section nine hundred and twenty-two, nine hundred and twenty-three, nine hundred and twenty-four, nine hundred and twenty-five, nine hundred and twenty-six, nine hundred and twenty-seven, nine hundred and twenty-eight, nine hundred twenty-nine, nine hundred and thirty, nine hundred and thirty-one, nine hundred and thirty-two, nine hundred and thirty-three, nine hundred and thirty-four, nine hundred and thirty-seven, nine hundred and thirty-eight, nine hundred and thirty-nine, nine hundred and forty, nine hundred and forty-one, nine hundred and forty-two, nine hundred and forty-three, nine hundred and forty-four, nine hundred and forty-five, nine hundred and forty-six, nine hundred and forty-seven, nine hundred and forty-eight, nine hundred and forty-nine, nine hundred and fifty, or nine hundred and seventy-one of the general code, shall, upon conviction thereof, be fined not less than twenty-five dollars nor more than fifty dollars, and for a second or any subsequent offense shall be fined not less than fifty dollars, nor more than one hundred dollars, at the discretion of the court. =superintendent, mine-foreman or over-seer.= any superintendent, mine-foreman, foreman or overseer, who willfully refuses or neglects to comply, so far as such provisions relate to each of them with the provisions of section nine hundred and fifty-one, nine hundred and fifty-two, nine hundred and fifty-three, and nine hundred and fifty-four of the general code, shall upon conviction thereof, be fined not less than ten dollars nor more than twenty-five dollars, and for a second or subsequent offense, shall be fined not less than ten dollars nor more than twenty-five dollars, or imprisoned not less than ten days nor more than twenty days, or both, at the discretion of the court. =stableman; fire-boss; entering mine generating fire-damp before reported safe, or going beyond danger signal.= any person or persons who willfully refuses or neglects to comply with the provisions of section nine hundred and fifty-five of the general code, or enters a mine generating fire damp before it is reported by the fire boss that it is safe for persons to enter, or goes beyond a danger signal indicating an accumulation of fire damp, as forbidden by the provisions of section nine hundred and fifty-nine of the general code, shall, upon conviction thereof, be fined not less than twenty-five dollars nor more than fifty dollars, and for a second or any subsequent offense shall be fined not less than twenty-five dollars nor more than fifty dollars, or imprisoned not less than ten days nor more than twenty days, or both, at the discretion of the court. =employes of mines.= any person, or persons, who violates the provisions of sections nine hundred and fifty-six, nine hundred and fifty-seven, nine hundred and fifty-eight, nine hundred and sixty, nine hundred and sixty-one, or nine hundred and sixty-two of the general code, or violates the provisions of section nine hundred and fifty-nine of the general code other than to enter a mine generating fire-damp before the fire boss reports it safe, or to go beyond a danger signal indicating an accumulation of fire-damp, shall, upon conviction thereof, be fined not less than five dollars, nor more than ten dollars, and for a second or any subsequent offense shall be fined not less than five dollars nor more than ten dollars, or imprisoned not less than five days nor more than ten days, or both, at the discretion of the court. =persons not employes, qualification of miners, check-weighman, check-measurer.= any person who willfully violates the provisions of sections nine hundred and sixty-four, nine hundred and sixty-five, nine hundred and sixty-six, nine hundred and sixty-seven, or nine hundred and seventy of the general code, or violates the provisions of section nine hundred and fifty-nine of the general code relating to loitering and intoxicants, at, in or around a mine, shall, upon conviction thereof, be fined not less than five dollars, nor more than ten dollars, and for a second or any subsequent offense shall be fined not less than five dollars nor more than ten dollars, or imprisoned not less than five days nor more than ten days, or both, at the discretion of the court. =drilling and operating oil and gas wells.= any person, firm or corporation who violates or willfully refuses or neglects to comply with the provisions of section , shall, upon conviction thereof, be fined not less than one hundred dollars, nor more than five hundred dollars, and for a second or any subsequent offense shall be fined not less than two hundred dollars and not more than one thousand dollars, or imprisoned not less than thirty days nor more than six months, at the discretion of the court. in addition, if the material is pulled out of a well which was not plugged in accordance with the provisions of section , the person, firm or corporation causing such offense may be made to clean out such well and properly plug the same, or pay the entire reasonable cost of such work being done under orders of the industrial commission of ohio, division of mines, within thirty days. =compounding oil for illuminating purposes in mines.= any person, firm or corporation who compounds, sells or offers for sale to dealers any oil or paraffine wax; fish oil or any other illuminant whatever, other than those specifically provided for in section , general code, unless with the consent and approval of the chief inspector of mines, for illuminating purposes in any mine in this state contrary to the provisions of sections nine hundred and seventy-four and nine hundred and seventy-five of the general code, shall upon conviction thereof, be fined not less than fifty dollars nor more than one hundred dollars and for a second or any subsequent offense shall be fined not less than one hundred dollars nor more than two hundred dollars, or imprisoned not less than thirty days nor more than sixty days, or both, at the discretion of the court. =sale of oil for illuminating purposes in mines.= any person, firm or corporation who sells, or offers for sale to any employe of a mine for illuminating purposes in a mine any oil or paraffine wax, fish oil or any other illuminant, other than those specially provided for in section nine hundred and seventy-four of the general code, unless with the consent and approval of the chief inspector of mines contrary to the provisions of section nine hundred and seventy-four and nine hundred and seventy-five of the general code, shall upon conviction thereof, be fined not less than twenty-five dollars nor more than fifty dollars, and for a second or any subsequent offense shall be fined not less than twenty-five dollars nor more than fifty dollars, or imprisoned not less than ten days nor more than twenty days, or both, at the discretion of the court. =using oil for illuminating purposes in mines.= any person who knowingly uses for illuminating purposes in a mine, any oil or paraffine wax, fish oil or any other illuminant whatever other than those specially provided for in section nine hundred and seventy-four of the general code, unless with the consent and approval of the chief inspector of mines, contrary to the provisions of sections nine hundred and seventy-four and nine hundred and seventy-five of the general code, shall, upon conviction thereof, be fined not less than five dollars nor more than ten dollars, and for a second or any subsequent offense shall be fined not less than five dollars nor more than ten dollars, or imprisoned not less than five days nor more than ten days, or both, at the discretion of the court. ( - a.) =regulating and prohibiting solid shooting.= =failure to obtain permit; penalty.= sec. - . whoever being engaged in the operation of a coal mine causes or permits any solid shooting to be done therein without having first obtained a permit to do so from the industrial commission of ohio shall be fined in a sum not exceeding one hundred dollars. =permit must be obtained.= sec. - . a permit to do solid shooting may be issued by the industrial commission of ohio in the case of any mine when application shall be made therefor by the owner, lessee or person engaged in the operation thereof and by a majority of the miners employed therein, and when such industrial commission shall be satisfied that such method of blasting is necessary for the just and reasonably profitable operation of such mine. such permit may be revoked at any time by said commission after sixty days' notice in writing to such owner, lessee or person operating such mine. any person in interest who is dissatisfied with any order of said industrial commission made under the power conferred upon it by this section, may commence an action to set aside, vacate or amend such order in the same manner and for the same reason as other orders of such commission may be set aside, vacated or amended. =each section declared to be independent section.= sec. - . each section of this act is hereby declared to be an independent section and the holding of any section to be void or ineffective for any cause shall not be deemed to affect any other section thereof. =relating to fines collected, prosecutions, when act shall take effect, and repeals.= sec. . [=fines collected.=] all fines collected by reason of prosecutions begun under the provisions of this act, shall be paid to the chief inspector of mines, and by him paid into the state treasury. sec. . [=prosecutions; how controlled.=] any prosecutions begun under the provisions of this act shall be controlled by sections thirteen thousand four hundred and twenty-three and thirteen thousand four hundred and thirty-two to thirteen thousand four hundred and thirty-nine inclusive of the general code. =regulation of weighing of coal.= =miner to be paid for all coal contained within car.= sec. - . every miner and every loader of coal in any mine in this state who under the terms of his employment is to be paid for mining or loading such coal on the basis of the ton or other weight shall be paid for such mining or loading according to the total weight of all such coal contained within the car (hereinafter referred to as mine car) in which the same shall have been removed out of the mine unless otherwise agreed between employer and miner or loader. =department of industrial relations to determine percentage of impurity.= sec. - . said industrial commission shall ascertain and determine the percentage of slate, sulphur, rock, dirt, or other impurity unavoidable in the proper mining or loading of the contents of mine cars or coal in the several operating mines within this state subject, however, to the right of the employer and miner or loader in any of such mines to make an agreement with reference thereto. =percentage of fine coal.= sec. - . when there is no agreement between the miner or loader of coal in any mine in this state and the operator thereof whereby the miner or loader is to be paid for mining or loading coal other than on the basis of the ton or other weight according to the total weight of all such coal contained within the car it shall be the duty of such miner or loader of coal and his employer to agree upon and fix, for stipulated periods, the percentage of fine coal commonly known as nut, pea, dust and slack allowable in the output of the mine wherein such miner or loader is employed. at any time when there shall not be in effect such agreed and fixed percentages of fine coal allowable in the output of any mine, said industrial commission shall forthwith upon request of such miner or loader or his employer, fix, such allowable percentage of fine coal, which percentage so fixed by said industrial commission shall continue in force until otherwise agreed and fixed by such miner or loader and his employer. whenever said industrial commission shall find that the total output of such fine coal at any mine for a period of one month during which such mine shall have been operating while the percentage of fine coal so fixed by said industrial commission has been in force, exceeds the percentage so fixed by it, said industrial commission shall at once make, enter and cause to be enforced such order or orders relative to the production of coal at such mine, as will result in reducing the percentage of such fine coal, to the amount so fixed by said industrial commission. sec. - . said industrial commission shall, as to all coal mines in this state, which have not been in operation heretofore, perform the duties imposed upon it by the provisions hereof. =department of industrial relations may change percentage.= sec. - . said industrial commission shall have full power from time to time, to change, upon investigation, any percentage by it ascertained and determined or fixed, as provided in the preceding sections hereof. =unlawful to use screen.= sec. - . it shall be unlawful for the employer of a miner or loader of the contents of any car of coal to pass any part of such contents over a screen or other device, for the purpose of ascertaining or calculating the amount to be paid such miner or loader for mining or loading such contents, whereby the total weight of such contents shall be reduced or diminished unless otherwise agreed between employer and miner or loader. any person, firm or corporation violating the provisions of this section shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor and upon conviction, shall be fined for each separate offense not less than three hundred dollars nor more than six hundred dollars. =loading impurity; penalty.= sec. - . a miner or loader of the contents of a mine car, containing a greater percentage of slate, sulphur, rock, dirt or other impurity, than that ascertained and determined by said industrial commission, as hereinbefore provided, shall be guilty of a misdemeanor and upon conviction shall be punished as follows: for the first offense within a period of three days he shall be fined fifty cents; for a second offense within such period of three days he shall be fined one dollar; and for the third offense within such period of three days he shall be fined not less than two dollars nor more than four dollars. provided, that nothing contained in this section shall affect the right of a miner or loader and his employer to agree upon deductions by the system known as docking, on account of such slate, sulphur, rock, dirt or other impurity. =jurisdiction.= the following are the sections of the general code referred to in various sections of the mining law, and under which prosecutions will be made. =jurisdiction.= sec. . justices of the peace, police judges and mayors of cities and villages shall have jurisdiction, within their respective counties, in all cases of violation of any law relating to: . adulteration or deception in the sale of dairy products and other food, drink, drugs and medicines. . the prevention of cruelty to animals and children. . the abandonment, non-support or ill treatment of a child by its parent. . the abandonment or ill treatment of a child under sixteen years of age by its guardian. . the employment of a child under fourteen years of age in public exhibitions or vocations injurious to health, life or morals, or which cause or permit it to suffer unnecessary physical or mental pain. . the regulation, restriction or prohibition of the employment of minors. . the torturing, unlawfully punishing, ill treating, or depriving anyone of necessary food, clothing or shelter. * * * * * . the prevention of short weighing and measuring and all violations of the weights and measures laws. ( o.l., .) =justices, police judges and mayors.= sec. . [=when imprisonment is a part of the punishment a jury shall be impaneled.=] in prosecutions before a justice, police judge or mayor, when imprisonment is a part of the punishment if a trial by jury is not waived the magistrate, not less than three days nor more than five days before the time fixed for trial, shall certify to the clerk of the court of common pleas of the county that such prosecution is pending before him. (r.s. sec. a.) sec. . [=clerk's duties.=] thereupon the clerk, in the presence of representatives of both parties, shall draw from the jury wheel or box containing the names of persons selected to serve as petit jurors in the court of common pleas in such county, twenty names which shall be drawn and counted in a like manner as for jurors in the court of common pleas. the clerk shall forthwith certify the names so drawn to the magistrate, who, thereupon, shall issue to any constable, chief of police or marshal in the county a venire containing the names of the persons to serve as jurors in the case and make due return thereof. (r.s. sec. a.) sec. . [=jurors.=] the jurors shall be subject to like challenges as jurors in criminal cases, except capital cases in the court of common pleas. if the venire is exhausted without obtaining the number required to fill the panel, the magistrate shall fill the panel with talesmen in the manner provided for criminal cases in the court of common pleas. (r.s. sec. a.) sec. . [=second or subsequent offense.=] in such prosecutions, where a different punishment is provided for a second or subsequent offense, the information or affidavit upon which the prosecution is based, must charge that it is the second or subsequent offense or the punishment shall be as for the first offense. (r.s. sec. a.) sec. . repealed. ( o.l., .) sec. . [=new trial.=] in such prosecutions, if there is a verdict for conviction, a new trial may be granted for like reasons and subject to like conditions as a new trial in criminal cases in the court of common pleas. (r.s. sec. a.) sec. . [=fees of jurors and witnesses.=] in such prosecutions, the jurors shall be entitled to the same mileage and fees as in the criminal cases in the court of common pleas. (r.s. sec. a; am. o.l., .) sec. . [=costs.=] in such prosecutions, no costs shall be required to be advanced or secured by a person authorized by law to prosecute. (r.s. sec. a; am. o.l., .) =relative to employment of minors.= =sixteen years: age limit for following occupations.= sec. . no child under the age of sixteen years shall be employed, permitted or suffered to work at any of the following occupations or any of the following positions: ( ) adjusting any belt to any machinery; ( ) sewing or lacing machine belts in any workshop or factory; ( ) oiling, wiping or cleaning machinery or assisting therein; ( ) operating or assisting in operating any of the following machines (a) circular or band saws; (b) wood shapers; (c) wood jointers; (d) planers; (e) sandpaper or woodpolishing machinery; (f) woodturning or boring machinery; (g) picker machines or machines used in picking wool, cotton, hair or any other material; (h) carding machines; (i) paper-lace machines; (j) leather-burnishing machines; (k) job or cylinder printing presses operated by power other than foot power; (l) boring or drill presses; (m) stamping machines used in sheetmetal and tinware, or in paper and leather manufacturing, or in washer and nut factories; (n) metal or paper cutting machines; (o) corner staying machines in paper box factories; (p) corrugating rolls, such as are used in corrugated paper, roofing or washboard factories; (q) steam boilers; (r) dough brakes or cracker machinery of any description; (s) wire or iron straightening or drawing machinery; (t) rolling mill machinery; (u) power punches or shears; (v) washing, grinding or mixing machinery; (w) calendar rolls in paper and rubber manufacturing; (x) laundering machines; (y) burring machinery; ( ) or in proximity to any hazardous or unguarded belts, machinery or gearing; ( ) or upon any railroad, whether steam, electric or hydraulic; ( ) or upon any vessel or boat engaged in navigation or commerce within the jurisdiction of this state. =sixteen years: age limit for following industries.= sec. . no child under the age of sixteen years shall be employed, permitted or suffered to work in any capacity ( ) in, about or in connection with any processes in which dangerous or poisonous acids are used; ( ) nor in the manufacture or packing of paints, colors, white or red lead; ( ) nor in soldering; ( ) nor in occupation causing dust in injurious quantities; ( ) nor in the manufacture or use of dangerous or poisonous dyes; ( ) nor in the manufacture or preparation of compositions with dangerous or poisonous gases; ( ) nor in the manufacture or use of compositions of lye in which the quantity thereof is injurious to health; ( ) nor on scaffolding; ( ) nor in heavy work in the building trades; ( ) nor in any tunnel or excavation; ( ) nor in, about or in connection with _any mine, coal breaker, coke oven, or quarry_; ( ) nor in assorting, manufacturing or packing tobacco; ( ) nor in operating any automobile, motor car or truck; ( ) nor in a bowling alley; ( ) nor in a pool or billiard room; ( ) nor in any other occupation dangerous to the life and limb or injurious to the health or morals of such child. =employer to furnish satisfactory evidence of age.= sec. - . an inspector of factories, attendance officer, or other officer charged with the enforcement of the laws relating to the employment of minors or school attendance may make demand on any employer in or about whose place or establishment or material or equipment a person apparently under the age of eighteen years is employed or permitted or suffered to work, and whose employment certificate is not filed as required by this act, that such employer shall furnish him satisfactory evidence that such person is in fact over eighteen years of age. the inspector of factories, attendance officer, or other officer charged with the enforcement of such laws, shall require from such employer unless an overage certificate is held by the employe the same evidence of age of such child as is required upon the issuance of an age and schooling certificate. failure of such employer to produce such evidence shall be deemed a violation of the laws relating to the employment of minors. =failure to produce satisfactory evidence of age.= sec. - . in case any employer shall fail to produce and deliver to a factory inspector, truant officer, or other officer charged with the enforcement of this act, within ten days after demand made pursuant to section - of this act, the evidence of age therein required, proof of the making of such demand and of such failure to produce and file such evidence shall be prima facie evidence of the illegal employment of such child in any prosecution brought therefor. =age and schooling certificate; by whom approved.= sec. . an age and schooling certificate may be issued only by the superintendent of schools and only upon satisfactory proof that the child to whom the certificate is issued is over sixteen years of age and has satisfactorily passed a test for the completion of the work of the seventh grade, provided that residents of other states who work in ohio must qualify as aforesaid with the proper school authority in the school district in which the establishment is located, as a condition of employment or service. any such age and schooling certificate may be issued only upon satisfactory proof that the employment contemplated by the child is not prohibited by any law regulating the employment of such children; and when the employer of any minor for whom such age and schooling certificate shall have been issued shall keep such age and schooling certificate on file as provided by law, the provisions of section - , general code, shall not apply to such employer in respect to such child while engaged in an employment legal for a child of the given sex and of the age stated therein. age and schooling certificate forms shall be formulated by the superintendent of public instruction, and except in cases otherwise specified by law must be printed on white paper. every such certificate must be signed in the presence of the officer issuing it by the child in whose name it is issued. blank certificates shall be furnished by the superintendent of public instruction upon request. sec. - . the superintendent of schools shall not issue such certificate until he has received, examined, approved and filed the following papers duly executed: ( ) the written pledge or promise of the person, partnership or corporation to legally employ the child, to permit him to attend school as provided in section , general code, and to return to the superintendent of schools the age and schooling certificate of the child or give notice of the non-use thereof within two days from the date of the child's withdrawal or dismissal from the service of that person, partnership or corporation, giving the reasons for such withdrawal or dismissal. ( ) the school record of the child, properly filled out and signed by the person in charge of the school which the child last attended; giving the recorded age of the child, his address, standing in studies, rating in conduct, and attendance in days during the school year of his last attendance, and if that was not a full year, during the preceding school year. ( ) evidence of the age of the child as follows: (a) the birth certificate of the child (or duly attested transcript thereof) issued near the date of the birth of the child by the registrar of vital statistics of ohio, or by a similar officer charged with the duty of recording births in another state or country, shall be conclusive evidence of the age of the child. (b) in the absence of such certificate, a passport (or duly attested transcript thereof) showing the date and place of birth of the child, filed with a register of passports at a port of entry of the united states; or a duly attested transcript of the certificate of birth or baptism or other religious record, showing the date and place of birth of the child, shall be conclusive evidence of the age of the child. (c) in case no one of the above proofs of age can be produced, other documentary evidence (except the affidavit of the parent, guardian or custodian) satisfactory to the superintendent of schools may be accepted in lieu thereof. (d) in case no documentary proof of age can be procured, the superintendent may receive and file an application signed by the parent, guardian or custodian of the child that a physician's certificate be secured to establish the sufficiency of the age of the child. such application shall state the alleged age of the child, the place and date of birth, his present residence, and such further facts as may be of assistance in determining the age of the child, and shall certify that the person signing the application is unable to obtain any of the documentary proofs specified in (a), (b) and (c) above. if the superintendent of schools is satisfied that a reasonable effort to procure such documentary proof has been without success such application shall be granted and the certificate of the school physician or if there be none, of a physician employed by the board of education, that said physician is satisfied that the child is above the age required for an age and schooling certificate as stated in section , general code, shall be accepted as sufficient evidence of age. ( ) a certificate from the school physician or physician designated by him, or if there be no school physician from the district health commissioner, or physician designated by him, showing after a thorough examination that the child is physically fit to be employed in such occupations as are not prohibited by law for a boy or girl, as the case may be, under eighteen years of age. but a certificate with the word limited written, printed or stamped diagonally across its face may be furnished by the school physician or other person indicated in the above sentence, and accepted by the superintendent of schools in issuing a "limited" age and schooling certificate provided in section - , general code, showing that the child is physically fit to be employed in some particular occupation not prohibited by law for a boy or girl as the case may be of the child's age which the child contemplates entering even if the child's complete physical ability to engage in any occupation as required in the preceding sentence cannot be vouched for. sec. - . when an age and schooling certificate, returned according to section - , general code, is reissued, the pledge of the new employer and certificate from the school physician or other person in his stead shall be secured and filed. sec. - . the age and schooling certificate provided in section , general code, shall be issued only with the word "limited" printed or stamped diagonally across its face if the certificate of the physician provided in section - or - , general code, is a limited certificate and in that case the particular employment to which it is limited shall be stated in the certificate, and the certificate cannot serve as the legal age and schooling certificate for employment in another occupation. such limited certificate shall be printed on pink paper. sec. - . in order to ascertain whether applicants for age and schooling certificates have satisfactorily completed the school work prescribed in section , general code, the board of education of any city school district may appoint a juvenile examiner who shall receive such compensation as may be fixed by the board of education. when such a juvenile examiner is employed no such certificate shall be granted by the superintendent of schools of the district unless the juvenile examiner has certified that he has examined the child and that the child has passed to his satisfaction the grade test as provided by section , general code, provided, however, that if a child in the opinion of said juvenile examiner is below the normal in mental development so that he cannot with further schooling and due industry pass such test, such fact shall be certified to by said examiner and the superintendent of schools shall grant the child an age and school certificate printed on yellow paper with the words "retarded-schooling not standard" written, printed or stamped diagonally across the face; and provided, further, that if the juvenile examiner is satisfied that the standard of any school is sufficiently high, he may accept the records thereof as showing that a child has passed the required test. in case no juvenile examiner is employed the superintendent of schools may proceed and determine in like manner; if after proper tests he determines that a child is below normal in mental development to the extent specified above, he shall grant such a "retarded" age and schooling certificate. if a child who desires an age and schooling certificate is granted a "retarded" certificate but secures only a limited health certificate; the word "limited" shall be written or stamped across the face of the "retarded" certificate and the limited "retarded" certificate shall be on yellow paper; in which case the certificate shall show to what employment it is limited. sec. - . a record giving all the facts contained in every age and schooling certificate issued shall be kept on file in the office issuing the same; and also a record of the names and addresses of the children to whom certificates have been refused, together with the names of the schools and grades which such children should attend and the reasons for the refusals; and also a record of all certificates returned or no longer used, as provided in sections - , ( ), - or - , general code, with the reasons therefor, and the subsequent assignment of the child to a school, if any; and also a record of the conditions on which any certificates were issued, and there shall be kept on file also the pledges given in connection therewith; and also a record of the special facts connected with the issuing of "retarded" or limited certificates. the superintendent of public instruction shall have the power to prescribe methods of filing of all such facts, records and papers, for purposes of effective reference. the above-named record is nevertheless not required in the cases of certificates denied to those determined immediately at the time of inquiry to be of insufficient age. sec. - . the superintendent of schools may issue a vacation certificate to a boy or girl under eighteen years of age and over fourteen years of age which shall permit him to be employed within the restrictions of other statutes during the summer school vacation up to august th, in occupations not forbidden by sections , or - , general code, to children of his age and sex, regardless of what schooling he has completed, but before such certificate is issued the requirements prescribed in section - with relation to health, written pledge of employment, and proof of age must be complied with. such vacation certificate shall be printed on blue or blue-tinted paper and the word "vacation" shall be printed or stamped across its face; such certificate shall include a statement of the school and grade in which the child is enrolled. such certificates must be returned to the superintendent of schools by employers within the same period and under the same penalties as regular age and schooling certificates and may be revoked by the superintendent of schools at any time because of the physical condition of the child or other sufficient cause. if a child who desires a vacation age and schooling certificate secures only a limited health certificate the word "limited" shall be written or stamped across the face of the vacation certificate and the limited vacation certificate shall be on blue or blue-tinted paper; in which case the certificate shall show to what employment it is limited. sec. - . whenever the school record of a child as specified in section - , general code, is required for the purpose of determining his eligibility to an age and schooling certificate, such record shall be furnished by the superintendent, principal, teacher or other official in charge of the public, private or parochial school attended by the child within two days after a request for the same is made by the parent, guardian or custodian of the child. sec. - . whenever an age and schooling certificate is applied for by a child over sixteen years of age who is unable to satisfactorily pass a test for the completion of the work of the seventh grade and who is not so below the normal in mental development that he cannot with further schooling and due industry pass such a test, an age and schooling certificate with the words "conditional--schooling not standard" printed or stamped across its face may be issued by the superintendent of schools to such child upon proof acceptable to such superintendent of schools of the following facts and upon agreement to the respective conditions made in writing by the child and by the parent, guardian or custodian in charge of such child: (a) facts to be proved: that the child is addicted to no habit which is likely to detract from his reliability or effectiveness as a worker, or proper use of his earnings or leisure, or the probability of his faithfully carrying out the conditions to which he agrees as specified in (b) below, and in addition any one of the following groups of facts-- ( ) that the child has been a resident of the school district for the last two or more years, has diligently attended upon instruction at school for the last two years or more, and is able to read, write and perform the fundamental operations of arithmetic. these abilities shall be judged by the juvenile examiner or if there be none, by the superintendent of schools. ( ) that the child having been a resident of the school district less than two years, diligently attended upon instruction in school in the district or districts in which the child was a resident next preceding his residence in the present district for the last school year preceding his removal to the present district, and has diligently attended upon instruction in the schools of the present school district for the period that he has been a resident thereof. ( ) that the child has removed to the present school district since the beginning of the last annual school session, and that instruction adapted to his needs is not provided in the regular day schools in the school district. ( ) that the child is not sufficiently familiar with the english language to be properly instructed in the full-time day schools of the district. ( ) that the child is needed for the support or care of a parent or parents or for the support or care of brothers or sisters for whom the parents are unable to provide and that the child is desirous of working for the support or care of such parents or siblings and that such child cannot render such needed support or care by a reasonable effort outside of school hours. but no age and schooling certificate shall be granted to a child upon proof of the facts in the preceding sentence without written consent given to the superintendent of schools by the judge of the juvenile court and by the board of state charities. (b) conditions to be agreed to:-- ( ) in case the certificate is granted under facts ( ), ( ), ( ) or ( ) above, that until reaching the age of eighteen years the child will diligently attend in addition to part-time classes, such evening classes as will add to his education for literacy, citizenship or vocational preparation which may be made available to him in the school district and which he may be directed to attend by the superintendent of schools, or in case no such classes are available, that he will pursue such reading and study and report monthly thereon as may be directed by the superintendent of schools. ( ) in case the certificate is granted under fact ( ) above, that until the age of twenty-one years or until the person is eighteen years of age and has learned to read, write and speak the english language, the said person will attend in addition to part-time classes, such evening classes as will assist the person to learn the american language or advance in americanization which may be made available to him in the school district and which he may be directed to attend by the superintendent of schools. such conditional age and school certificate shall be printed on green paper. if a conditional age and schooling certificate is at the same time a limited certificate, the word "limited" shall be written or stamped diagonally across the face and the provisions of section - , general code, shall apply except as to the color of the certificate. sec. - . a special age and schooling certificate which shall permit a child to be employed during the hours that the school to which the holder is assigned is not in session, other than the summer vacation, or, where cooperative part-time classes approved by the state board of education have been established, shall permit a child to be employed on the alternate days, weeks, or periods, on which his division is assigned to such part-time employment may be issued to a child above fourteen years of age under all of the conditions other than age and education which apply to a regular age and schooling certificate and such additional conditions as the superintendent of schools may deem necessary. such special age and schooling certificate shall entitle such child to engage in occupations not forbidden to such children by section , or - , general code. provided, however, that said sections , and - , shall not be interpreted in such a way as to prevent any pupil from working on any properly guarded machine in the manual training department of any school when such work is performed under the personal supervision of an instructor. no child under sixteen years of age shall be engaged in school and employment above nine hours altogether in any one day. every special age and schooling certificate shall be limited and specific and shall be in such form as will show all essential facts, and the form thereof or directions for recording the facts thereon may be prescribed by the superintendent of public instruction. such certificate shall be printed on light brown paper. such certificate shall be returned to the superintendent of schools on or before the day that school adjourns for the summer vacation except when the co-operative part-time classes continue during the summer vacation. they shall be filed and returned by employers under the same conditions and penalties as apply to regular age and schooling certificates. (h.b. no. -- o.l., .) =creating the department of industrial relations.= sec. - . in order that the governor may exercise the supreme executive power of the state vested in him by the constitution and adequately perform his constitutional duty to see that the laws are faithfully executed, the administrative functions of the state are organized as provided in this chapter. all powers vested in and duties imposed upon the lieutenant governor, the secretary of state, the auditor of state, the treasurer of state and the attorney general by the constitution and the laws shall continue except as otherwise provided by this chapter. sec. - . as used in this chapter: "department" means the several departments of state administration enumerated in section - of the general code. "division" means a part of a department established as provided in section - of the general code, for the convenient performance of one or more of the functions committed to a department by this chapter. the phrase "departments, offices and institutions" includes every organized body, office and agency established by the constitution and laws of the state for the exercise of any function of the state government, and every institution or organization which receives any support from the state. sec. - . the following administrative departments are created: the department of industrial relations, which shall be administered by the director of industrial relations, hereby created; * * * * * the director of each department shall, subject to the provisions of this chapter, exercise the powers and perform the duties vested by law in such department. sec. - . each director whose office is created by section - of the general code shall be appointed by the governor by and with the advice and consent of the senate, and shall hold his office during the pleasure of the governor. sec. - . in each department there shall be an assistant director, who shall be designated by the director to fill one of the offices within such department, enumerated in section - of the general code, or as the head of one of the divisions created within such department as authorized by section - of the general code. when a vacancy occurs in the office of director of any department, the assistant director thereof shall act as director of the department until such vacancy is filled. sec. - . offices are created within the several departments as follows: * * * * * in the department of industrial relations chiefs of divisions as follows: factory inspection labor statistics mines * * * * * sec. - . the officers mentioned in sections - and - of the general code shall be appointed by the director of the department in which their offices are respectively created, and shall hold office during the pleasure of such director. sec. - . the officers mentioned in sections - and - of the general code shall be under the direction, supervision and control of the directors of their respective departments, and shall perform such duties as such directors shall prescribe. with the approval of the governor, the director of each department shall establish divisions within his department, and distribute the work of the department among such divisions. each officer created by section - of the general code shall be the head of such a division. with the approval of the governor, the director of each department shall have authority to consolidate any two or more of the offices created in his department by section - of the general code, or to reduce the number of or create new divisions therein. the director of each department may prescribe regulations, not inconsistent with law, for the government of his department, the conduct of its employes, the performance of its business and the custody, use and preservation of the records, papers, books, documents and property pertaining thereto. * * * * * sec. - . each officer whose office is created by sections - , - and - of the general code shall, before entering upon the duties of his office, take and subscribe an oath of office as provided by law and give bond, conditioned according to law, with security to be approved by the governor in such penal sum as shall be fixed by the governor, not less in any case than ten thousand dollars. such bond and oath shall be filed in the office of the secretary of state. the director of each department may, with the approval of the governor, require any chief of a division created under the authority of this chapter, or any officer or employe in his department, to give like bond in such amount as the governor may prescribe. the premium, if any, on any bond required or authorized by this section may be paid from the state treasury. sec. - . the director of each department may, with the approval of the governor, establish and appoint advisory boards to aid in the conduct of the work of his department or any division or divisions thereof. such advisory boards shall exercise no administrative function, and their members shall receive no compensation, but may receive their actual and necessary expenses. sec. - . each officer whose office is created by sections - , - and - of the general code shall devote his entire time to the duties of his office, and shall hold no other office or position of profit. in addition to his salary provided by law, each such officer and each member of the boards and commissions in the departments created by this chapter shall be entitled to his actual and necessary expenses incurred in the performance of his official duties. sec. - . each department shall maintain a central office in the city of columbus. the director of each department may, in his discretion and with the approval of the governor, establish and maintain, at places other than the seat of government, branch offices for the conduct of any one or more functions of his department. sec. - . each department shall adopt and keep an official seal, which shall have engraved thereon the coat of arms of the state as described in section thirty of the general. code, shall be one and three-fourths inches in diameter, and shall be surrounded by the proper name of the department, to which may be added the title of any division, board or commission within the department, if the director of the department shall so prescribe. such seal may be affixed to any writs and authentications of copies of records and official papers, and to such other instruments as may be authorized by law or prescribed by the proper authority in any department to be executed. when so authenticated, any copy of such record, official paper, or other instrument shall be received in evidence in any court in lieu of the original. each department shall provide for the keeping, within such department, of such records and journals as may be necessary to exhibit its official actions and proceedings. sec. - . each department is empowered to employ, subject to the civil service laws in force at the time the employment is made, the necessary employes, and, if the rate of compensation is not otherwise fixed by law, to fix their compensation. nothing in this chapter shall be construed to amend, modify or repeal the civil service laws of the state, except as herein expressly provided. all offices created by sections - and - of the general code shall be in the unclassified civil service of the state. sec. - . all employes in the several departments shall render not less than eight hours, of labor each day, saturday afternoons, sundays and days declared by law to be holidays excepted in cases in which, in the judgment of the director, the public service will not thereby be impaired. each employe in the several departments shall be entitled during each calendar year to fourteen days leave of absence with full pay. in special and meritorious cases where to limit the annual leave to fourteen days in any one calendar year would work peculiar hardship, it may, in the discretion of the of the department, be extended. no employe in the several departments, employed at a fixed compensation, shall be paid for any extra services, unless expressly authorized by law. sec. - . under the direction of the governor, the directors of departments shall devise a practical and working basis for cooperation and coordination of work and for the elimination of duplication and overlapping functions. they shall, so far as practicable, cooperate with each other in the employment of services and the use of quarters and equipment. the director of any department may empower or require an employe of another department, subject to the consent of the superior officer of the employe, to perform any duty which he might require of his own subordinates. sec. - . each department shall make and file a report of its transactions, and proceedings at the time and in the manner prescribed by section - of the general code. sec. - . whenever power is vested in any of the departments created by this chapter, or in any other state department, board or commission, to inspect, examine, secure data or information, or to procure assistance from another department, office or institution, a duty is hereby imposed upon the department, office or institution, upon which demand is made, whether created by this chapter or otherwise, to make such power effective. sec. - . whenever rights, powers or duties which have heretofore been vested in or exercised by any officer, board, commission, institution or department, or any deputy, inspector or subordinate officer thereof, are, by this chapter, transferred, either in whole or in part, to or vested in a department created by this chapter, or any other department, office or institution, such rights, powers and duties shall be vested in, and shall be exercised by the department, office or institution to which the same are hereby transferred, and not otherwise; and every act done in the exercise of such rights, powers and duties shall have the same legal effect as if done by the former officer, board, commission, institution or department, or any deputy, inspector, or subordinate officer thereof. every person, firm and corporation shall be subject to the same obligations and duties and shall have the same rights arising from the exercise of such rights, powers and duties as if such rights, powers and duties were exercised by the officer, board, commission, department or institution, or deputy, inspector or subordinate thereof, designated in the respective laws which are to be administered by departments created by this chapter. every person, firm and corporation shall be subject to the same penalty or penalties, civil or criminal, for failure to perform any such obligation or duty, or for doing a prohibited act, as if such obligation or duty arose from, or such act were prohibited in, the exercise of such right, power or duty by the officer, board, commission or institution, or deputy, inspector or subordinate thereof, designated in the respective laws which are to be administered by departments created by this chapter. every officer and employe shall, for any offense, be subject to the same penalty or penalties, civil or criminal, as are prescribed by existing law for the same offense by any officer or employe whose powers or duties devolve upon him under this chapter. * * * * * =department of industrial relations.= sec. - . the department of industrial relations shall have all powers and perform all duties vested by law in the industrial commission of ohio, excepting the following: those powers and duties of the commission which it exercises as successor of the state liability board of awards, the state board of arbitration, the board of boiler rules, and in the investigation, ascertainment and determination of standards, devices, safeguards, and means of protection, being all powers and duties mentioned in paragraphs to , both inclusive, of section - of the general code, sections - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - and - , sections - to - , both inclusive, - , to , both inclusive, and sections - to - , both inclusive, of the general code, and the powers of the commission as successor of the board of boiler rules under section - of the general code, which shall continue to be exercised and performed by the industrial commission of ohio in the manner provided by law for the exercise of such powers and the performance of such duties. the industrial commission of ohio shall be a part of the department of industrial relations for administrative purposes in the following respects: the director of industrial relations shall be ex-officio the secretary of said commission, shall succeed to and perform all of the duties of the secretary of said commission, and shall exercise all powers of said secretary as provided by law; but such director may designate any employe of the department as acting secretary to perform the duties and exercise the powers of secretary of the commission. all clerical, inspection and other agencies for the execution of the powers and duties vested in the said industrial commission shall be deemed to be in the department of industrial relations, and the employes thereof shall be deemed to be employes of said department and shall have and exercise all authority vested by law in the employes of such commission. but the industrial commission of ohio shall have direct supervision and control over, and power of appointment and removal of, such employes whose position shall be designated by the governor as fully subject to the authority of such commission. the commission may appoint advisers, who shall without compensation assist the commission in the execution of the powers and duties retained by it under this section. * * * * * sec. . the annual salaries of the appointive state officers and employes herein enumerated shall be as follows: * * * * * department of industrial relations: director of industrial relations, six thousand five hundred dollars. chief of division of factory inspection, three thousand six hundred dollars. chief of division of labor statistics, three thousand dollars. chief of division of mines, three thousand six hundred dollars. * * * * * section . said original sections , , , - , , , (enacted as section of an act entitled "an act to create the agricultural commission of ohio and to prescribe its organization", etc., approved may , , ( ohio laws )), , (enacted as section of an act entitled "an act to create a board of control for the ohio agricultural experiment station", etc., approved april , , ( ohio laws, )), , , (enacted as section of an act entitled "an act to create the agricultural commission of ohio and to prescribe its organization", etc., approved may , ( ohio laws, )), , (enacted as section of an act entitled "an act to create a board of control for ohio agricultural experiment station", etc., approved april , , ( ohio laws, )), , (enacted as section of an act entitled "an act to create the agricultural commission of ohio and to prescribe its organization", etc., approved may , , ( ohio laws, )), , (enacted as section of an act entitled "an act to create a board of control for the ohio agricultural experiment station", etc., approved april , , ( ohio laws, )), , , - , , , - , , , - as enacted by the act approved march , ( o.l. ), , and of the general code, and sections , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , - , - , - , - , , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , , , , , , , , , , , , - , - , - , - , - , - , - , , , , , , , , - , - , - , , , , , , , , , , , , - , - , , , , - , , , , , , - , , , - , , , - , - , - , - , - , - , , , , - , - , - , - , , - , - , , , , , , , - , and of the general code are hereby repealed. section . every officer and employe in the classified civil service of the state civil service at the time this act takes effect shall be assigned to a position in the proper department created by this act, and, so far as possible, to duties equivalent to his former office or employment; and such officers and employes shall be employes of the state in the classified civil service of the state of the same standing, grade and privileges which they respectively had in the office, board, department, commission or institution from which they were transferred, subject, however, to existing and future civil service laws. this section shall not be construed to require the retention of more employes than are necessary to the proper performance of the functions of such departments. all books, records, papers, documents, property, real and personal, and pending business in any way pertaining to the rights, powers and duties by this act transferred to or vested in a department created by this act, or to or in any other office, department or institution, at the time this act takes effect shall be delivered and transferred to the department, office or institution succeeding to such rights, powers and duties. this act shall not affect any act done, ratified or affirmed, or any right accrued or established, or any pending action, prosecution or proceedings, civil or criminal, at the time it takes effect; nor shall this act effect causes of such action, prosecution or proceeding existing at the time it takes effect; but such actions, prosecutions or proceedings may be prosecuted and continued, or instituted and prosecuted, by or before the department having jurisdiction or power under this act of the subject matter to which such action, prosecution or proceeding pertains. if the senate is not in session at the time initial appointments are to be made under this act, the governor shall make temporary appointments as in case of a vacancy, to all offices required by this act to be filled by appointment by the governor by and with the advice and consent of the senate, unless the initial appointments are otherwise provided for in this act. if this act shall go into effect prior to the expiration of the present fiscal year, the present existing departments, bureaus, offices, boards, commissions, and other organizations of the state government affected by this act shall continue, and the officers and employes therein shall continue to serve until the expiration of the present fiscal year for which appropriations have been made, unless their terms of office expire prior thereto; and the reorganization herein provided for shall be put into effect and the officers whose positions are hereby created shall assume their duties at the commencement of the succeeding fiscal year. section . this act is hereby declared to be an emergency law necessary for the immediate preservation of the public peace, health and safety. the reasons for such necessity lie in facts, which two-thirds of all the members elected to each branch of the general assembly have considered, found and determined and which are separately set forth herein, as follows: the eighty-third general assembly created a joint legislative committee to "investigate all of the * * * offices which have been created by the general assembly * * * with a view of * * * combining and centralizing the duties of the various departments, eliminating such as are useless and securing for the state of ohio such a reorganization of its governmental activities as will promote greater efficiency and greater economy therein." said committee made exhaustive investigations and published numerous reports, declaring the necessity of reorganizing fundamentally the executive branch of the state government in order to promote efficiency and conserve the public funds. upon the organization of the eighty-fourth general assembly, special committees were appointed in each house thereof to consider the recommendations of the former joint committee. the governor, in his message to the general assembly, recommended action along the general lines indicated by the former committee's report. wide publicity has been given to various projected plans of reorganization. according to the annual reports of the auditor of state, the balances subject to draft in the general revenue fund of the state, from which many of the activities of the state government are supported, had shrunk from more than two million dollars on june th, , to less than one million dollars on june th, , (all of which, and more, was covered by unlapsed appropriations for the preceding fiscal year), clearly indicating the immediate necessity either for increasing the revenues of the state, or for effecting such a reorganization of the state administration as would tend to conserve the present revenues. general economic conditions make increased taxes highly undesirable at the present time. at the convening of the eighty-fourth general assembly numerous vacancies existed in various state offices and in various state boards, and other like vacancies have occurred since that time. by reason of the known probability of a reorganization such as is embodied in this act, persons appointed to fill such vacancies have uncertain tenure and are thereby deterred from initiating and carrying through definite administrative policies; and in several instances such appointments have been accepted temporarily only, pending early reorganization. as a result of all the foregoing, the state service in the appointive state departments, shown by said investigations to be wasteful and inefficient, is becoming increasingly demoralized. all of these departments exercise functions pertaining to the protection of the public health, the conservation of the public peace and morals, or the promotion of the public safety. the necessity of placing their functions upon a sound, economical, permanent and secure basis is great and immediate. the appropriations for the current expenses of the state government and institutions which must be made by the eighty-fourth general assembly for the fiscal biennium beginning july st, , cannot be effectually apportioned nor their amounts fixed unless the reorganization effected by this act is operative during the period to be covered by such appropriations, so that the departments and offices of the state government are definitely determined; and such determination must be made and the framework of the executive branch of the state government must be definitely established and known at the time the general assembly is considering such appropriations. therefore, this act shall go into immediate effect. passed april , . approved april , . rupert beetham, _speaker of the house of representatives_. clarence j. brown, _president of the senate_. harry l. davis, _governor_. filed in office of secretary of state, april , . ( o.l., .) =index.= index sections. =a.= abandoned mines--precautions when approaching accidents-- fatal--duty of inspectors fatal--notice to chief inspector and coroner fatal--coroner's duty superintendent's duty provisions for persons injured action in case of access to mines by inspectors acetylene gas in mines - penalty of - action for non-compliance with statutes act shall not create new office, etc. additional openings airway obstruction alternating current annual report of owner, lessee or agent to chief inspector appliances--safe - appointments-- chief inspector and qualifications district inspectors and qualifications - appropriation of land assistant mine-foreman-- duties of , , penalty for non-compliance attendant--rescue car automatic doors , , =b.= blasting blasting powder - boilers--location of bonds-- weighmaster board of examiners breakthroughs brattices =c.= cages-- safe appliances protection of, etc. lowering and hoisting, no. persons, etc. , caution board checkweighmen-- duties of penalty for non-compliance check-measurer-- duties of penalty for non-compliance child labor , , - - , circuit breakers closing of doors , , committee of miners-- report of - code of signals conveying of explosives construction of new mines copper tools coroner-- duties of penalty for non-compliance coal dust-- duty of owner, lessee or agent duty of miner combustible matter--removal of , complaint against chief and district inspectors - crossing public highway controversy or disagreement between district inspector and owner, lessee or agent =d.= damages caused by examination dangerous places fenced-- duty of owner, lessee or agent duty of superintendent and mine-foreman duty of miner danger signal , defraud--intent to department of industrial relations - detaching locomotive--traveling ways disagreement between district inspector and owner, lessee or agent district inspectors-- duties of district inspectors as sealers of weights and measures discretionary power of mining department doors , , drivers dust and fine coal-- duties of owner, lessee or agent duty of miner duties of assistant mine-foreman , , duties of chief and district inspectors , duties of chief and oil and gas well inspector relating to oil and gas wells duties of coroner duties of check-weighman duties of check-measurer duties of employes duties of fire-boss , , duties of machine-men duties of miners duties of mine-foreman , , duties of over-seer , duties of recorder - duties of superintendent duties of stableman duties of trip-riders and motormen , , duties of weighmaster (for penalties, see section .) =e.= egress when inundation is probable electricity-- application of - discretionary power of chief and district inspectors emergency appliances engineers employes--duties of - employment of minors examination of mine--damages caused by examination and survey of mine examination of working places-- duty of owner, lessee or agent duty of mine-foreman duty of fire-boss duty of miner when unsafe examination of other than working places examination of machinery, ventilating current examination of mine by fire-boss , , examination of mine--right of employes , examiners--board of - explosives - =f.= fatal accidents-- duty of inspectors notice to chief inspector and coroner coroner's duty superintendent's duty provisions for action in case of fire-boss--duties of , , fire in stable--must not be taken into fire protection fine coal or coal dust-- duty of owner, lessee or agent duty of miner fines collected =g.= gauges--pressure gasoline in mines =h.= haulage--rope , haulage trips--persons not permitted to ride hoisting and lowering of persons , , =i.= illuminating oil - illuminants - industrial relations department - injured persons--provisions for inundation , inexperienced miners injuries to mine intoxicants--prohibition of intent to defraud injury to persons or property--right of action =j.= justices of peace, etc. =l.= lamps--size of land--appropriation of lien on property for labor light in mines light or signal on locomotive and train loitering lowering and hoisting of persons , locomotives in mines , locomotives in mines--detaching =m.= maps-- duty of chief inspector duty of owner, lessee or agent addition to previous abandoned mine map persons entitled to examine machine men--duties of machine shields-- duty of owner, lessee or agent duty of machine men machinery--examination of miners--duties of mine-foreman--duties of , , miner--qualifications of miner--inexperienced minors employed , , - - , duty of inspectors duty of owner, lessee or agent duty of mine-foreman mines, new--construction of mine lamps mine committee report , motormen and trip riders--duties of , , monthly report of mine-foreman to chief inspector =n.= new mines--construction of new office--shall not create notice to chief inspector--when must be given notice to chief inspector and coroner of accidents non-compliance with statutes--action for =o.= office--shall not create new office--chief deputy oil-- illuminating , quantity allowed in mine oil lamp--size of oil and gas wells oil and gas wells--duty of chief oil and gas well inspector openings-- additional second over-seer--duties of , =p.= penalties-- acetylene - county coroner check-weighman check-measurer employes fire-boss foreman mine-foreman non-employes owner, lessee or agent over-seer oil and gas well companies oil manufacturers oil dealers oil (persons using illegal) superintendent stableman weighmaster persons injured--provision for persons on cage--number allowed , persons not permitted to ride haulage trips persons not employes--relating to powder - pressure gauges precautions approaching abandoned mines props--supplying of prosecutions =q.= quantity of hay allowed in mine quantity of oil allowed in mine quantity of gasoline allowed in mine quantity of powder allowed in mine qualifications of miner qualifications and appointment of chief inspector qualifications and appointment of district inspectors =r.= recorder's duty , records--who entitled to examine regulations of weighing coal - - repeals report of fire-boss , , report of owner, lessee or agent to chief inspector , report of district inspector to chief inspector right of action reorganization of state departments - report of mine committee , report of mine-foreman to chief inspector, monthly rescue apparatus rescue stations - refuge holes rope haulage , roof--miner shall prop, etc. =s.= safe appliances for hoisting persons safety appliances speaking tube safety lamps-- when owner shall provide oil for use in scales , second opening shafts--fire protection shields--machine-- duty of owner, lessee or agent duty of machine men signals-- code of locomotive danger , , persons designated to give and receive solid shooting - - speaking tube squibs stables--underground-- construction of fire must not be taken into stablemen--duties of superintendent's duties surveying party--transportation of survey of mine and examination switches =t.= tamping tools--kind permitted telephones - test weights timber-- duty of owner, lessee or agent duty of mine-foreman duty of miners trip riders and motormen--duties of , , traveling ways and refuge holes traveling ways--duty of employes transportation of surveying party trolley wires =u.= underground stables-- construction of fire must not be taken into stablemen--duties of voltage =v.= ventilation-- duty of owner, lessee or agent , , duty of mine-foreman , report of mine committee , voltage =w.= wash room - weigh scales , weighing of coal - - weighmaster--duties of weights and measures--sealers of withdrawal of persons from mine when act takes effect who entitled to examine maps, records, etc. wires working places--examination of-- duty of owner, lessee or agent duty of mine-foreman duty of fire-boss duty of miner from images provided by the library of congress, manuscript division. [tr: ***] = transcriber note [hw: ***] = handwritten note slave narratives a folk history of slavery in the united states from interviews with former slaves typewritten records prepared by the federal writers' project - assembled by the library of congress project work projects administration for the district of columbia sponsored by the library of congress illustrated with photographs washington volume xii ohio narratives prepared by the federal writers' project of the works progress administration for the state of ohio informants anderson, charles h. barden, melissa bledsoe, susan bost, phoebe brown, ben burke, sarah woods campbell, james clark, fleming davidson, hannah dempsey, mary belle east, nancy glenn, wade hall, david a. henderson, celia jackson, george jemison, rev. perry sid [tr: name also appears as jamison] king, julia lester, angeline mckimm, kisey mcmillan, thomas mann, sarah matheus, john william nelson, william slim, catherine small, jennie smith, anna stewart, nan sutton, samuel toler, richard williams, julia williams, rev. williams, william illustrations charles h. anderson melissa barden phoebe bost james campbell angeline lester richard toler ruth thompson, interviewing graff, editing ex-slave interview cincinnati charles h. anderson fredonia st., cincinnati, ohio [illustration: charles h. anderson] "life experience excels all reading. every place you go, you learn something from every class of people. books are just for a memory, to keep history and the like, but i don't have to go huntin' in libraries, i got one in my own head, for you can't forget what you learn from experience." the old man speaking is a living example of his theory, and, judging from his bearing, his experience has given him a philosophical outlook which comprehends love, gentleness and wisdom. charles h. anderson, fredonia street, was born december , , in richmond, virginia, as a slave belonging to j.l. woodson, grocer, "an exceedingly good owner--not cruel to anyone". with his mother, father, and brothers and sisters, he lived at the woodson home in the city, some of the time in a cabin in the rear, but mostly in the "big house". favored of all the slaves, he was trusted to go to the cash drawer for spending money, and permitted to help himself to candy and all he wanted to eat. with the help of the mistress, his mother made all his clothes, and he was "about as well dressed as anybody". "i always associated with high-class folks, but i never went to church then, or to school a day in my life. my owner never sent me or my brothers, and then when free schools came in, education wasn't on my mind. i just didn't think about education. now, i read a few words, and i can write my name. but experience is what counts most." tapping the porch floor with his cane for emphasis, the old fellow's softly slurred words fell rapidly but clearly. sometimes his tongue got twisted, and he had to repeat. often he had to switch his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other; for, as he explained, "there ain't many tooth-es left in there". mr. anderson is rather slight of build, and his features are fine, his bald head shiny, and his eyes bright and eager. though he says he "ain't much good anymore", he seems half a century old instead of " next december, if i can make it". "i have been having some sick spells lately, snapped three or four ribs out of place several years ago, and was in bed for six weeks after my wife died ten year ago. but my step-daughter here nursed me through it. doctor says he doesn't see how i keep on living. but they take good care of me, my sons and step-daughter. they live here with me, and we're comfortable." and comfortable, neat, and clean they are in the trimmest little frame house on the street, painted grey with green trim, having a square of green lawn in front and another in back enclosed with a rail fence, gay flowers in the corners, rubber plants in pots on the porch, and grape arbor down one side of the back yard. inside, rust-colored mohair overstuffed chairs and davenport look prim with white, crocheted doilies, a big clock with weights stands in one corner on an ornately carved table, and several enlarged framed photographs hang on the wall. the other two rooms are the combined kitchen and dining room, and a bedroom with a heatrola in it "to warm an old man's bones". additional bedrooms are upstairs. pointing to one of the pictures, he remarked, "that was me at . had it taken for my boss where i worked. it was a post card, and then i had it enlarged for myself. that was just before i married helen". helen comer, nee cruitt, was a widow with four youngsters when he met her years ago. one year later they were married and had two boys, charles, now , employed as an auto repair man, and samuel, , a sorter in the post office, both bachelors. "yes sir, i sure was healthy-looking them days. always was strong, never took a dollars worth of medicine in fifty year or more till i had these last sick spells. but we had good living in slave days. in one sense we were better off then than after the war, 'cause we had plenty to eat. nowadays, everybody has to fen' for himself, and they'd kill a man for a dime. "whip the slaves? oh, my god! don't mention it, don't mention it! lots of 'em in old dominion got beatings for punishment. they didn't have no jail for slaves, but the owners used a whip and lash on 'em. i've seen 'am on a chain gang, too, up at the penitentiary. but i never got a whipping in my life. used to help around the grocery, and deliver groceries. used to go up to jeff davis' house every day. he was a fine man. always was good to me. but then i never quarreled with anybody, always minded my own business. and i never was scared of nothing. most folks was superstitious, but i never believed in ghosts nor anything i didn't see. never wore a charm. never took much stock in that kind of business. the old people used to carry potatoes to keep off rheumatism. yes, sir. they had to steal an irish potato, and carry it till it was hard as a rock; then they'd say they never get rheumatism. "saturday was our busy day at the store; but after work, i used to go to the drag downs. some people say 'hoe down' or 'dig down', i guess 'cause they'd dig right into it, and give it all they got. i was a great hand at fiddlin'. got one in there now that is -year old, but i haven't played for years. since i broke my shoulder bone, i can't handle the bow. but i used to play at all the drag downs. anything i heard played once, i could play. used to play two steps, one of 'em called 'devil's dream', and three or four good german waltzes, and 'turkey in the straw'--but we didn't call it that then. it was the same piece, but i forget what we called it. they don't play the same nowadays. playin' now is just a time-consumer, that's all; they got it all tore to pieces, no top or bottom to it. "we used to play games, too. ring games at play parties--'ring around the rosie', 'chase the squirrel', and 'holly golly'. never hear of holly golly? well, they'd pass around the peanuts, and whoever'd get three nuts in one shell had to give that one to the one who had started the game. then they'd pass 'em around again. just a peanut-eating contest, sorta. "abraham lincoln? well, they's people born in this world for every occupation and lincoln was a natural born man for the job he completed. just check it back to pharoah' time: there was moses born to deliver the children of israel. and john brown, he was born for a purpose. but they said he was cruel all the way th'ough, and they hung him in february, . that created a great sensation. and he said, 'go ahead. do your work. i done mine'. then they whipped around till they got the war started. and that was the start of the civil war. "i enlisted april , , and was sent to san diego, texas; but i never was in a battle. and they was only one time when i felt anyways skittish. that was when i was a new recruit on picket duty. and it was pitch dark, and i heard something comin' th'ough the bushes, and i thought, 'let 'em come, whoever it is'. and i got my bayonet all ready, and waited. i'se gittin' sorta nervous, and purty soon the bushes opened, and what you think come out? a great big ole hog! "in june ' , i got a cold one night, and contracted this throat trouble i get--never did get rid of it. still carry it from the war. got my first pension on that--$ a month. ain't many of us left to get pensions now. they's only veterans left in cincinnati. "they used to be the ku klux klan organization. that was the pat-rollers, then they called them the night riders, and at one time the regulators. the 'ole dragon', his name was simons, he had control of it, and that continued on for year till after the war when garfield was president. then it sprung up again, now the king bee is in prison. "well, after the war i was free. but it didn't make much difference to me; i just had to work for myself instead of somebody else. and i just rambled around. sort of a floater. but i always worked, and i always eat regular, and had regular rest. work never hurt nobody. i lived so many places, cleveland, and ever'place, but i made it here longer than anyplace-- year. i worked on the railroad, bossin'. always had men under me. when the chesapeake and ohio put th'ough that extension to white sulphur, we cut tracks th'ough a tunnel mile long. and i handled men in ' when they put the c & o th'ough here. but since i was , i been doin' handy work--just general handy man. used to do a lot of carving, too, till i broke my shoulder bone. carved that ol' pipe of mine year ago out of an ol' umbrella handle, and carved this monkey watch charm. but the last three year i ain't done much of anything. "go to church sometimes, over here to the corinthian baptis' church of walnut hills. but church don't do much good nowadays. they got too much education for church. this new-fangled education is just a bunch of ignoramacy. everybody's just looking for a string to pull to get something--not to help others. about one-third goes to see what everbody else is wearing, and who's got the nicest clothes. and they sit back, and they say, 'what she think she look like with that thing on her haid?'. the other two-thirds? why, they just go for nonsense, i guess. those who go for religion are scarce as chicken teeth. yes sir, they go more for sight-seein' than soul-savin'. "they's so much gingerbread work goin' on now. our most prominent people come from the eastern part of the united states. all wise people come from the east, just as the wise men did when the star of bethlehem appeared when christ was born. and the farther east you go, the more common knowledge a person's got. that ain't no dream boat. nowadays, people are gettin' crazier everyday. we got too much liberty; it's all 'little you, and big me'. everybody's got a right to his own opinion, and the old fashioned way was good enough for my father, and it's good enough for me. "if your back trail is clean, you don't need to worry about the future. your future life is your past conduct. it's a trailer behind you. and i ain't quite dead yet, efn i do smell bad!" story and photo by frank m. smith ex-slaves mahoning county, district # youngstown, ohio the story of mrs. melissa (lowe) barden, youngstown, ohio. [illustration: melissa barden] mrs. melissa (lowe) barden of jacobs road, was "bred and born" on the plantation of david lowe, near summersville, georgia, chattooga county, and when asked how old she was said "i's way up yonder somewheres maybe or years." melissa assumed her master's name lowe, and says he was very good to her and that she loved him. only once did she feel ill towards him and that was when he sold her mother. she and her sister were left alone. later he gave her sister and several other slaves to his newly married daughter as a wedding present. this sister was sold and re-sold and when the slaves were given their freedom her mother came to claim her children, but melissa was the only one of the four she could find. her mother took her to a plantation in newton county, where they worked until coming north. the mother died here and melissa married a man named barden. melissa says she was very happy on the plantation where they danced and sang folk songs of the south, such as _"sho' fly go 'way from me"_, and others after their days work was done. when asked if she objected to having her picture taken she said, "all right, but don't you-all poke fun at me because i am just as god made me." melissa lives with her daughter, nany hardie, in a neat bungalow on the sharon line, a negro district. melissa's health is good with the exception of cataracts over her eyes which have caused her to be totally blind. ohio guide ex-slave stories aug , susan bledsoe - th st. s.e., canton, ohio. "i was born on a plantation in gilee county, near the town of elkton, in tennessee, on august , . my father's name was shedrick daley and he was owned by tom daley and my mother's name was rhedia jenkins and her master's name was silas jenkins. i was owned by my mother's master but some of my brothers and sisters--i had six brothers and six sisters--were owned by tom daley. i always worked in the fields with the men except when i was called to the house to do work there. 'masse' jenkins was good and kind to all us slaves and we had good times in the evening after work. we got in groups in front of the cabins and sang and danced to the music of banjoes until the overseer would come along and make us go to bed. no, i don't remember what the songs were, nothing in particular, i guess, just some we made up and we would sing a line or two over and over again. we were not allowed to work on sunday but we could go to church if we wanted to. there wasn't any colored church but we could go to the white folks church if we went with our overseer. his name was charlie bull and he was good to all of us. yes, they had to whip a slave sometimes, but only the bad ones, and they deserved it. no, there wasn't any jail on the plantation. we all had to get up at sunup and work till sundown and we always had good food and plenty of it; you see they had to feed us well so we would be strong. i got better food when i was a slave than i have ever had since. our beds were home made, they made them out of poplar wood and gave us straw ticks to sleep on. i got two calico dresses a year and these were my sunday dresses and i was only allowed to wear them on week days after they were almost worn out. our shoes were made right on the plantation. when any slaves got sick, mr. bull, the overseer, got a regular doctor and when a slave died we kept right on working until it was time for the funeral, then we were called in but had to go right back to work as soon as it was over. coffins were made by the slaves out of poplar lumber. we didn't play many games, the only ones i can remember are 'ball' and 'marbles'. no, they would not let us play 'cards'. one day i was sent out to clean the hen house and to burn the straw. i cleaned the hen house, pushed the straw up on a pile and set fire to it and burned the hen house down and i sure thought i was going to get whipped, but i didn't, for i had a good 'masse'. we always got along fine with the children of the slave owners but none of the colored people would have anything to do with the 'poor white trash' who were too poor to own slaves and had to do their own work. there was never any uprisings on our plantations and i never heard about any around where i lived. we were all happy and contented and had good times. yes, i can remember when we were set free. mr. bull told us and we cut long poles and fastened balls of cotton on the ends and set fire to them. then, we run around with them burning, a-singin' and a-dancin'. no, we did not try to run away and never left the plantation until mr. bull said we could go. after the war, i worked for mr. bull for about a year on the old plantation and was treated like one of the family. after that i worked for my brother on a little farm near the old home place. he was buying his farm from his master, mr. tom daley. i was married on my brother's place to wade bledsoe in . he has been dead now about years. his master had given him a small farm but i do not remember his master's name. yes, i lived in tennessee until after my husband died. i came to canton in to live with my granddaughter, mrs. algie clark. i had three children; they are all dead but i have grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren, all living. no, i don't think the children today are as good as they used to be, they are just not raised like we were and do too much as they please. i can't read or write as none of we slaves ever went to school but i used to listen to the white folks talk and copied after them as much as i could." note: the above is almost exactly as mrs. bledsoe talked to our interviewer. although she is a woman of no schooling she talks well and uses the common negro dialect very little. she is years of age but her mind is clear and she is very entertaining. she receives an old age pension. (interviewed by chas. mccullough.) story and photo by frank smith topic: ex-slaves mahoning county, district # youngstown, ohio the story of mrs. phoebe bost, of youngstown, ohio. [illustration: phoebe bost] mrs. phoebe bost, was born on a plantation in louisiana, near new orleans. she does not know her exact age but says she was told, when given her freedom that she was about years of age. phoebe's first master was a man named simons, who took her to a slave auction in baltimore, where she was sold to vaul mooney (this name is spelled as pronounced, the correct spelling not known.) when phoebe was given her freedom she assummed the name of mooney, and went to stanley county, north carolina, where she worked for wages until she came north and married to peter bost. phoebe claims both her masters were very mean and would administer a whipping at the slightest provocation. phoebe's duties were that of a nurse maid. "i had to hol' the baby all de time she slept" she said "and sometimes i got so sleepy myself i had to prop ma' eyes open with pieces of whisks from a broom." she claims there was not any recreation, such as singing and dancing permitted at this plantation. phoebe, who is now widowed, lives with her daughter, in part of a double house, at wilson avenue, campbell, ohio. their home is fairly well furnished and clean in appearance. phoebe is of slender stature, and is quite active in spite of the fact that she is nearing her nineties. wpa in ohio by albert i. dugan [tr: also reported as dugen] jun , topic: ex-slaves muskingum county, district # ben brown ex-slave, years keen st., zanesville, ohio yes suh i wuz a slave in vaginyah, alvamaul (albermarle) county an' i didn't have any good life, i'm tellin' you dat! it wuz a tough life. i don't know how old i am, dey never told me down dere, but the folks here say i'm a hunderd yeah old an' i spect dats about right. my fathah's name wuz jack brown and' my mammy's nellie brown. dey wuz six of us chillun, one sistah hannah an' three brothers, jim, harrison, an' spot. jim wuz de oldes an' i wuz next. we wuz born on a very lauge plantation an dey wuz lots an' lots of other slaves, i don't know how many. de log cabins what we live in[hw:?] on both sides de path make it look like a town. mastah's house wuz a big, big one an' had big brick chimneys on de outside. it wuz a frame house, brown, an' set way back from de road, an' behind dat wuz de slaves' quarters. de mastah, he wuz fleming moon an' dey say he wuz cap'n in de wah of . de missy wuz parley moon and dey had one son an fouh daughters. all us chillun an mammy live in a log cabin dat wuz lauge enuf foh us an we sleep in good beds, tall ones an' low ones dat went undaneath, trundles dey call 'em, and de covahs wuz comfohtable. de mammies did de cookin. we et cohn bread, beans, soup, cabbage an' some othah vegtubles, an a little meat an fish, not much. cohn cake wuz baked in de ashes, ash-cake we call 'em an' dey wuz good and sweet. sometimes we got wheat bread, we call dat "seldom bread" an' cohn bread wuz called "common" becos we had it ev'ry day. a boss mammy, she looked aftah de eatins' and believe me nobuddy got too much. de meat house wuz full of smoked po'k, but we only got a little piece now an' den. at hog killin' time we built a big fiah an put on stones an' when dey git hot we throw 'em in a hogshead dat has watah in it. den moah hot stones till de watah is jus right for takin' de hair off de hogs, lots of 'em. salt herrin' fish in barls cum to our place an we put em in watah to soak an den string em on pointed sticks an' hang up to dry so dey wont be so salty. a little wuz given us with de other food. i worked about de place doin' chores an takin' care of de younger chillun, when mammy wuz out in de fields at harvest time, an' i worked in de fields too sometimes. de mastah sent me sometimes with young recruits goin' to de army headquartahs at charlottesville to take care of de horses an show de way. we all worked hard an' when supper wuz ovah i wuz too tired to do anything but go to bed. it wuz jus work, eat an sleep foh most of us, dere wuz no time foh play. some of em tried to sing or tell stories or pray but dey soon went to bed. sometimes i heard some of de stories about hants and speerits an devils that skeered me so i ran to bed an' covered mah head. mastah died an' den missie, she and a son-in-law took charge of de place. mah sistah hannah wuz sold on de auction block at richmon to mastah frank maxie (massie?) an' taken to de plantation near charlottesville. i missed mah sistah terrible an ran away to see her, ran away three times, but ev'ry time dey cum on horseback an git me jus befoh i got to maxies. the missie wuz with dem on a horse and she ax where i goin an' i told her. mah hands wuz tied crossways in front with a big rope so hard it hurt. den i wuz left on de groun foh a long time while missie visited missie maxie. dey start home on horses pulling de rope tied to mah hands. i had to run or fall down an' be dragged on de groun'. it wuz terrible. when we got home de missie whipped me with a thick hickory switch an' she wasn't a bit lenient. i wuz whipped ev'ry time i ran away to see mah sister. when dere wuz talk of yankies cumin' de missie told me to git a box an she filled it with gold an' silver, lots of it, she wuz rich, an i dug a hole near de hen house an put in de box an' covered it with dirt an' smoothed it down an scattered some leaves an twigs ovah it. she told me nevah, nevah to tell about it and i nevah did until now. she showed me a big white card with writin' on it an' said it say "this is a union plantation" an' put it on a tree so the yankies wouldn't try to find de gold and silvers. but i never saw any yankie squads cum around. when de wah wuz ovah, de missie nevah tell me dat i wuz free an' i kep' on workin' same as befoh. i couldn't read or write an' to me all money coins wuz a cent, big copper cents, dey wuz all alike to me. de slaves wuz not allowed any learnin an' if any books, papers or pictures wuz foun' among us we wuz whipped if we couldn't explain where dey cum from. mah sistah an' brother cum foh me an tell me i am free and take me with them to mastah maxies' place where dey workin. dey had a big dinnah ready foh me, but i wuz too excited to eat. i worked foh mastah maxie too, helpin' with de horses an' doin' chores. mammy cum' an wuz de cook. i got some clothes and a few cents an' travelers give me small coins foh tending dere horses an' i done done odd jobs here an dere. i wanted some learnin but dere wuz no way to git it until a white man cleared a place in de woods an' put up branches to make shade. he read books to us foh a while an' den gave it up. a lovly white woman, missy holstottle, her husband's name wuz dave, read a book to me an' i remember de stories to dis day. it wuz called "white an' black." some of de stories made me cry. after wanderin about doin work where i could git it i got a job on de c an o railroad workin' on de tracks. in middleport, dat's near pomeroy, ohio, i wuz married to gertie nutter, a widow with two chillun, an dere wuz no moah chilluns. after mah wife died i wandered about workin' on railroads an' in coal mines an' i wuz hurt in a mine near zanesville. felt like mah spine wuz pulled out an i couldn't work any moah an' i cum to mah neice's home here in zanesville. i got some compensation at first, but not now. i get some old age pension, a little, not much, but i'm thankful foh dat. mah life wuz hard an' sad, but now i'm comfortable here with kind friens. i can't read or write, but i surely enjoy de radio. some nights i dream about de old slave times an' i hear dem cryin' an' prayin', "oh, mastah, pray oh, mastah, mercy!" when dey are bein' whipped, an' i wake up cryin.' i set here in dis room and can remember mos' all of de old life, can see it as plain as day, de hard work, de plantation, de whippings, an' de misery. i'm sure glad it's all over. james immel, reporter folklore washington county, district three sarah woods burke aged "yessir, i guess you all would call me an ex-slave cause i was born in grayson county, west virginia and on a plantation i lived for quite a spell, that is until when i was seven years old when we all moved up here to washington county." "my pappy's old mammy was supposed to have been sold into slavery when my pappy was one month old and some poor white people took him ter raise. we worked for them until he was a growed up man, also 'til they give him his free papers and 'lowed him to leave the plantation and come up here to the north." "how did we live on the plantation? well--you see it was like this we lived in a log cabin with the ground for floors and the beds were built against the walls jus' like bunks. i 'member that the slaves had a hard time getting food, most times they got just what was left over or whatever the slaveholder wanted to give them so at night they would slip outa their cabins on to the plantation and kill a pig, a sheep or some cattle which they would butcher in the woods and cut up. the wimmin folks would carry the pieces back to the cabins in their aprons while the men would stay behind and bury the head, skin and feet." "whenever they killed a pig they would have to skin it, because they didn't dare to build a fire. the women folk after getting home would put the meat in special dug trenches and the men would come erlong and cover it up." "the slave holders in the port of the country i came from was men and it was quite offen that slaves were tied to a whipping stake and whipped with a blacksnake until the blood ran down their bodies." "i remembers quite clearly one scene that happened jus' afore i left that there part of the country. at the slaveholders home on the plantation i was at it was customary for the white folks to go to church on sunday morning and to leave the cook in charge. this cook had a habit of making cookies and handing them out to the slaves before the folks returned. now it happened that on one sunday for some reason or tother the white folks returned before the regular time and the poor cook did not have time to get the cookies to the slaves so she just hid then in a drawer that was in a sewing chair." "the white folks had a parrot that always sat on top of a door in this room and when the mistress came in the room the mean old bird hollered out at the top of his voice, 'its in the rocker. it's in the rocker'. well the missus found the cookies and told her husband where upon the husband called his man that done the whipping and they tied the poor cook to the stake and whipped her till she fainted. next morning the parrot was found dead and a slave was accused because he liked the woman that had been whipped the day before. they whipped him than until the blood ran down his legs." "spirits? yessir i believe in them, but we warnt bothered so much by them in them days but we was by the wild animals. why after it got dark we children would have to stay indoors for fear of them. the men folks would build a big fire and i can remember my pappy a settin on top of the house at night with a old flint lock across his legs awaiting for one of them critters to come close enough so he could shoot it. the reason for him being trusted with a gun was because he had been raised by the poor white man who worked for the slaveholder. my pappy did not work in the fields but drove a team of horses." "i remembers that when we left the plantation and come to washington county, ohio that we traveled in a covered wagon that had big white horse hitched to it. the man that owned the horse was blake randolls. he crossed the river miles below parkersberg. w. va. on a ferry and went to stafford, ohio, in monroe county where we lived until i was married at the age of to mr. burke, by the justice of the peace, edward oakley. a year later we moved to curtis ridge which is seven miles from stafford and we lived their for say year or more. we moved to rainbow for a spell and then in my husband died. the old man hard luck came around cause three years my home burned to the ground and then i came here to live with my boy joe and his family." "mr. burke and myself raised a family of chilluns and at that time my husband worked at farming for other people at $ . a month and a few things they would give him." "my pappy got his education from the boy of the white man he lived with because he wasn't allowed to go to school and the white boy was very smart and taught him just as he learned. my pappy, fought in the civil war too. on which side? well, sho nuff on the site of the north, boy." hallie miller, reporter audrey meighen, author-editor folklore: ex-slaves gellia county, district james campbell age [illustration: james campbell] "well, i'se bo'n monro' county, west virginia, on january , , jes' few miles from union, west virginia." "my mammy wuz dinnah alexander campbell an' my pappy wuz levi campbell an' dey bof cum frum monro' county. dat's 'bout only place i heerd dem speak 'bout." "der wuz levi, floyd, henry, noah, an' nancy, jes' my haf brudders an' sistahs, but i neber knowed no diffrunce but whut dey wuz my sistahs an' brudders." "where we liv? on marsa john alexander's farm, he wuz a good marsa too. all marsa john want wuz plenty wurk dun and we dun it too, so der wuz no trubble on ouah plantashun. i neber reclec' anyone gittin' whipped or bad treatment frum him. i does 'members, dat sum de neighbers say dey wuz treated prutty mean, but i don't 'member much 'bout it 'caise i'se leetle den." "wher'd i sleep? i neber fergit dat trun'l bed, dat i sleep in. "marsa john's place kinda stock farm an' i dun de milkin'. you all know dat wuz easy like so i jes' keep busy milkin' an' gits out de hard work. nudder thing i lik to do wuz pick berries, dat wuz easy too, so i dun my shar' pickin'." "money? lawsy chile, i neber dun seen eny money 'til aftah i dun cum to gallipolis aftah der war. an' how i lik' to heah it jingle, if i jes' had two cents, i'd make it jingle." "we all had plenty an' good things to eat, beans, corn, tatahs, melons an' hot mush, corn bread; we jes' seen white flour wunce in a while." "yes mam, we had rabbit, wil' turkey, pheasunts, an' fish, say i'se tellin' you-all dat riful pappy had shure cud kill de game." "nudder good ole time wuz maple sugar makin' time, mostly dun at night by limestone burnin'. yes, i heped with the 'lasses an' all de time i wuz a thinkin' 'bout dem hot biscets, ham meat, corn bread an' 'lasses." "we liv in a cabin on marse john's place. der wuzn't much in de cabin but my mammy kept it mighty clean. say, i kin see dat ole' fiah place wid de big logs a burnin' right now; uh, an' smell dat good cookin', all dun in iron pots an' skillets. an' all de cookin' an' heatin' wuz dun by wood, why i nebber seed a lump o' coal all time i wuz der. we all had to cut so much wood an' pile it up two weeks 'for christmas, an' den when ouah pile wuz cut, den ouah wurk wuz dun, so we'd jes' hav good time." "we all woah jeans clos', jes pants an' jacket. in de summah we chilluns all went barefoot, but in de wintah we all woah shoes." "ol' marse john an' his family liv in a big fine brick hous'. marse john had des chilluns, miss betty an' miss ann an' der wuz marse mike an' marse john. marse john, he wuz sorta spiled lik. he dun wen to de war an' runs 'way frum harpers ferry an' cum home jes' sceered to death. he get himsef a pah o' crutches an' neber goes back. marse john dun used dem crutches 'til aftah de war wuz ovah. den der wuz ol' missy kimberton--de gran'muthah. she wuz 'culiar but prutty good, so wuz marse's chilluns." "ol' marse john had bout slaves so de wurk wuzn't so bad on nun ob us. i kin jes' see dem ol' bindahs and harrows now, dat dey used den. it would shure look funny usin' 'em now." "i all'us got up foah clock in de mornin' to git in de cows an' i didn't hurry nun, 'caise dat tak in de time." "ouah mammy neber 'lowed de old folks to tell us chilluns sceery stories o' hants an' sich lik' so der's nun foah me to 'member." "travelin' wuz rather slo' lik. de only way wuz in ox-carts or on hoss back. we all didn't hay much time fer travelin'. our marse wuz too good to think 'bout runnin' 'way." "nun my fam'ly cud read er write. i lurned to read an write aftah i cum up norf to ohio. dat wuz biggest thing i ebber tackled, but it made me de happies' aftah i learn't." "we all went to sunday school an' meetin'. yes mam, we had to wurk on sundays, too, if we did hav any spare time, we went visit in'. on saturday nights we had big time foah der wuz mos' all'us dancin' an' we'd dance long as de can'les lasted. can'les wuz all we had any time fur light." "i 'member one de neighbah boys tried to run 'way an' de patrollahs got 'im an' fetched 'im back an' he shure dun got a wallopin' fer it. dat dun tuk any sich notion out my head. dem patrollahs dun keep us skeered to deaf all de time. one, henry jones, runned off and went cleah up norf sum place an' dey neber did git 'im. 'course we all wuz shure powahful glad 'bout his 'scapin'." "we'se neber 'lowed out de cabin at night. but sum times de oldah 'uns wud sneak out at night an'tak de hosses an' tak a leetle ride. an' man it wud bin jes' too bad if ol' marse john ketched 'em: dat wuz shure heaps o' fun fer de kids. i 'member hearin' wunce de ol' folks talkin' 'bout de way one marse dun sum black boys dat dun sumthin' wrong. he jes' mak 'em bite off de heads o' baccer wurms; mysef i'd ruther tuk a lickin." "on christmus day, we'd git fiah crackahs an' drink brandy, dat wuz all. dat day wuz only one we didn't wurk. on saturday evenin's we'd mold candles, dat wuzn't so bad." "de happies' time o' my life wuz when cap'n tipton, a yankee soljer cumed an' tol' us de wah wuz ober an' we wuz free. cap'n. tipton sez, "youse de boys we dun dis foah". we shure didn't lose no time gittin' 'way; no man." "we went to lewisburg an' den up to cha'leston by wagon an' den tuk de guvment boat, _genrul crooks_, an' it brung us heah to gallipolis in . dat ohio shoah shure looked prutty." "i'se shure thankful to mr. lincoln foah whut he dun foah us folks, but dat jeff davis, well i ain't sayin' whut i'se thinkin'." "de is jes' like de worl', der is lots o' good an' lots o' bad in it." wpa in ohio federal writers' project topic: ex-slavery jefferson co, district # fleming clark ex-slave, + in years my father's name wuz fleming clark and my mother's name wuz emmaline clark. both of dem wuz in slavery. der massa's name wuz david bowers. i don't know where dey cum from but dey moved to bad creek after slavery days. der wuz three of us chillun. charles, de oldest, den anthony next and den me, de youngest. i wuz workin' for a white man and wuz old enough to drive cows and work in de 'bacco fields, pickin' worms off de leaves. de other brudders worked wid my father on another plantation. de house where i lived wid de white massa lewis northsinge and his missus, wuz a log house wid just two rooms. i had just a little straw tick and a cot dat de massa made himself and i hed a common quilt dat de missus made to cover me. i hear dat my grandmother died during slavery and dat my grandfather wuz killed by his massa during slavery. on sunday i would go home and stay wid my father and mother and two brothers. we would play around wid ball and marbles. we had no school or church. we were too far away for church. i earned no money. all i got wus just my food and clothes. i wuz leasted out to my massa and missus. i ate corn bread, fat hog meat and drank butter milk. sometimes my father would catch possum and my mother would cook them, and bring me over a piece. i used to eat rabbit and fish. dey used to go fishin' in de creek. i liked rabbit and groundhog. de food wuz boiled and roasted in de oven. de slaves have a little patch for a garden and day work it mostly at night when it wuz moonlight. we wore geans and shirts of yellow cotton, we wore no shoes up til christmas. i wore just de same during de summer except a little coat. we had no under shirt lik we have now. we wore de same on sunday. der wuz no sunday suit. de mass and missus hed one boy. de boy wuz much older than i. dey were all kind to me. i remember plenty poor white chillun. i remember will and john nathan. dey were poor white people. my massa had three plantations. he had five slaves on one and four on another. i worked on one with four slaves. my father worked on one wid my brother and mother. we would wake up at and o'clock and do chores in de barn by lamp light. de overseer would ring a bell in de yeard, if it wuz not too cold to go out. if it wuz too cold he would cum and knock on de door. it wuz or o'clock fore we cum in at night. den we have to milk de cows to fore we have supper. de slaves were punished fore cumin' in too soon and unhitching de horses. dey would bend dem accross a barrel and switch dem and den send dem back to de fields. i head dem say dey switch de blood out of dem and salt de wound den dey could not work de next day. i saw slaves sold. dey would stand on a block and men would bid for dem. de highest bidder bought de slaves. i saw dem travel in groups, not chained, one white man in front and one in back. dey looked like cattle. de white folks never learned me to read or write. der were petrollers. dey were mean if dey catch you out late at night. if a slave wus out late at night he had to have a notice from his massa. der wuz trouble if de slaves were out late at night or if dey run off to another man. de slaves worked on saturday afternoons. dey stay in de cabins on saturday nights and sundays. we worked on new years day. de massa would give us a little hard cider on christmas day. dey would give a big supper at corn huskin' or cotton pickin' and give a little play or somethin' lik dat. i remember two weddings. dey hed chicken, and mutton to eat and corn bread. dey all ganged round de table. der wur milk and butter. i remember one wedding of de white people. i made de ice cream for dem. i remember playin' marbles and ball. sometimes a racer snake would run after us, wrap round us and whip us with its tail. the first one i remember got after me in de orchard. he wrapped right round me and whipped me with his tail. my mother took care of de slaves when dey were sick. you had to be awful sick if dey didn't make you go out. dey made der own medicine in those days. we used asafetida and put a piece in a bag and hung it round our necks. it wuz supposed to keep us from ketchin' diseases from anyone else. when freedom cum dey were all shoutin' and i run to my mother and asked her what it wuz all bout. de white man said you are all free and can go. i remember the yankee soldier comin' through the wheat field. my parents lived very light de first year after de war. we lived in a log cabin. de white man helped dem a little. my father went to work makin' charcoal. der wuz no school for negroes and no land that i remember. i married alice thompson. she wuz and i wuz . we hed a little weddin' down in bushannon, virginny. a baptist preacher named shirley married us. der were bout a dozen at de weddin'. we hed a little dancin' and banjo play in'. i hed two chillun but dey died and my wife died a long, long time ago. i just heard a little bout abraham lincoln. i believe he wuz a good man. i just hed a slight remembrance of abraham lincoln and jefferson davis. i have heard of booker t. washington, felt just de same bout him. a pretty good man. i think it wuz a great thing that slavery anded, i would not lik to see it now. i joined de baptist church but i have been runnin' round from place to place. we always prosper and get along with our fellowmen if we are religious. de overseer wuz poor white trash. his rules were you hed to be out on de plantation before daylight. sometimes we hed to sit around on de fence to wait for daylight and we did not go in before dark. we go in bout one for meals. k. osthimer, author aug , folklore: stories from ex-slaves lucas county, district nine toledo, ohio the story of mrs. hannah davidson. mrs. hannah davidson occupies two rooms in a home at woodland avenue, toledo, ohio. born on a plantation in ballard county, kentucky, in , she is today a little, white-haired old lady. dark, flashing eyes peer through her spectacles. always quick to learn, she has taught herself to read. she says, "i could always spell almost everything." she has eagerly sought education. much of her ability to read has been gained from attendance in recent years in wpa "opportunity classes" in the city. today, this warm-hearted, quiet little negro woman ekes out a bare existence on an old age pension of $ . a month. it is with regret that she recalls the shadows and sufferings of the past. she says, "it is best not to talk about them. the things that my sister may and i suffered were so terrible that people would not believe them. it is best not to have such things in our memory." "my father and mother were isaac and nancy meriwether," she stated. "all the slaves went under the name of my master and mistress, emmett and susan meriwether. i had four sisters and two brothers. there was adeline, dorah, alice, and lizzie. my brothers were major and george meriwether. we lived in a log cabin made of sticks and dirt, you know, logs and dirt stuck in the cracks. we slept on beds made of boards nailed up. "i don't remember anything about my grandparents. my folks were sold around and i couldn't keep track of them. "the first work i did out from home was with my mistress's brother, dr. jim taylor, in kentucky, taking care of his children. i was an awful tiny little somethin' about eight or nine years old. i used to turn the reel for the old folks who was spinning. that's all i've ever known--work. "i never got a penny. my master kept me and my sister mary twenty-two long years after we were supposed to be free. work, work, work. i don't think my sister and i ever went to bed before twelve o'clock at night. we never got a penny. they could have spared it, too; they had enough. "we ate corn bread and fat meat. meat and bread, we kids called it. we all had a pint tin cup of buttermilk. no slaves had their own gardens. "the men just wore jeans. the slaves all made their own clothes. they just wove all the time; the old women wove all the time. i wasn't old enough to go in the field like the oldest children. the oldest children--they _worked_. after slavery ended, my sister mary and me worked as ex-slaves, and we _worked_. most of the slaves had shoes, but us kids used to run around barefoot most of the time. "my folks, my master and mistress, lived in a great, white, frame house, just the same as a hotel. i grew up with the youngest child, mayo. the other white children grew up and worked as overseers. mayo always wanted me to call him 'master mayo'. i fought him all the time. i never would call him 'master mayo'. my mistress wouldn't let anyone harm me and she made mayo behave. "my master wouldn't let the poor white neighbors--no one--tell us we was free. the plantation was many, many acres, hundreds and hundreds of acres, honey. there were about twenty-five or thirty families of slaves. they got up and stood until daylight, waiting to plow. yes, child, they was up _early_. our folks don't know how we had to work. i don't like to tell you how we were treated--how we had to _work_. it's best to brush those things out of our memory. "if you wanted to go to another plantation, you had to have a pass. if my folks was going to somebody's house, they'd have to have a pass. otherwise they'd be whipped. they'd take a big man and tie his hands behind a tree, just like that big tree outside, and whip him with a rawhide and draw blood every whip. i know i was scared every time i'd hear the slave say, 'pray, master.' "once, when i was milking a cow, i asked master ousley, 'master ousley, will you do me a favor?' "he said in his drawl, 'of course i will.' "'take me to mccracken county,' i said. i didn't even know where mccracken county was, but my sister was there. i wanted to find my sister. when i reached the house where my sister stayed, i went through the gate. i asked if this was the house where mary meriwether lived. her mistress said, 'yes, she's in the back. are you the girl mr. meriwether's looking for?" my heart was in my mouth. it just seemed i couldn't go through the gate. i never even saw my sister that time. i hid for a while and then went back. "we didn't have any churches. my master would come down sunday morning with just enough flour to make bread. coffee, too. their coffee was parts of meal, corn and so on. work all week and that's what they had for coffee. "we used to sing, 'swing low, sweet chariot'. when our folks sang that, we could really see the chariot. "once, jim ferguson, a colored man, came to teach school. the white folks beat and whipped him and drove him away in his underwear. "i wanted so hard to learn to read, but i didn't even know i was free, even when slavery was ended. "i been so exhausted working, i was like an inch-worm crawling along a roof. i worked till i thought another lick would kill me. if you had something to do, you did it or got whipped. once i was so tired i couldn't work any more. i crawled in a hole under the house and stayed there till i was rested. i didn't get whipped, either. "i never will forget it--how my master always used to say, 'keep a nigger down' i never will forget it. i used to wait on table and i heard them talk. "the only fun we had was on sunday evening, after work. that was the only chance we got. we used to go away off from the house and play in the haystack. "our folks was so cruel, the slaves used to whisper 'round. some of them knew they was free, even if the white folks didn't want 'em to find out they was free. they went off in the woods sometimes. but i was just a little kid and i wasn't allowed to go around the big folks. "i seen enough what the old folks went through. my sister and i went through enough after slavery was over. for twenty-one long years we were enslaved, even after we were supposed to be free. we didn't even know we were free. we had to wash the white people's feet when they took their shoes off at night--the men and women. "sundays the slaves would wash out their clothes. it was the only time they had to themselves. some of the old men worked in their tobacco patches. we never observed christmas. we never had no holidays, son, _no, sir_! we didn't know what the word was. "i never saw any slave funerals. some slaves died, but i never saw any of them buried. i didn't see any funerals at all. "the white folks would come down to the cabins to marry the slaves. the master or mistress would read a little out of a book. that's all there was to it. "we used to play a game called 'hulgul'. we'd play it in the cabins and sometimes with the white children. we'd hold hazelnuts in our hands. i'd say 'hulgul' how many? you'd guess. if you hit it right, you'd get them all and it would be your turn to say 'hulgul'. if you'd say 'three!' and i only had two, you'd have to give me another to make three. "the kids nowadays can go right to the store and buy a ball to play with. we'd have to make a ball out of yarn and put a sock around it for a cover. six of us would stay on one side of a house and six on the other side. then we'd throw the ball over the roof and say 'catch!' if you'd catch it you'd run around to the; other side and hit somebody, then start over. we worked so hard we couldn't play long on sunday evenings. "school? we never seen the inside of a schoolhouse. mistress used to read the bible to us every sunday morning. "we say two songs i still remember. "i think when i read that sweet story of old, when jesus was here among men, how he called little children like lambs to his fold, i should like to have been with them then. "i wish that his hands had been placed on my head, that his arms had been thrown around me, that i might have seen his kind face when he said 'let the little ones come unto me.' "yet still to his footstool in prayer i nay go and ask for a share of his love, and that i might earnestly seek him below and see him and hear him above. "then there was another: "i want to be an angel and with the angels stand with a crown upon my forehead and a harp within my hand. "and there before my saviour, so glorious and so bright, i'd make the sweetest music and praise him day and night. "and as soon as we got through singing those songs, we had to get right out to work. i was always glad when they called us in the house to sunday school. it was the only chance we'd get to rest. "when the slaves got sick, they'd take and look after themselves. my master had a whole wall of his house for medicine, just like a store. they made their own medicines and pills. my mistress's brother, dr. jim taylor, was a doctor. they done their own doctoring. i still have the mark where i was vaccinated by my master. "people was lousy in them days. i always had to pick louses from the heads of the white children. you don't find children like that nowadays. "my mistress had a little roan horse. she went all through the war on that horse. us little kids never went around the big folks. we didn't watch folks faces to learn, like children do now. they wouldn't let us. all i know about the civil war was that it was goin' on. i heard talk about killin' and so on, but i didn't know no thin' about it. "my mother was the last slave to get off the plantation. she travelled across the plantation all night with us children. it was pouring rain. the white folks surrounded her and took away us children, and gave her so many minutes to get off the plantation. we never saw her again. she died away from us. "my brother came to see us once when slavery was over. he was grown up. my master wasn't going to let him see us and he took up his gun. my mistress said he should let him see us. my brother gave me a little coral ring. i thought it was the prettiest thing i ever saw. "i made my sister leave. i took a rolling pin to make her go and she finally left. they didn't have any more business with us than you have right now. "i remember when yankee soldiers came riding through the yard. i was scared and ran away crying. i can see them now. their swords hung at their sides and their horses walked proud, as if they walked on their hind legs. the master was in the field trying to hide his money and guns and things. the soldiers said, 'we won't hurt you, child.' it made me feel wonderful. "what i call the ku klux were those people who met at night and if they heard anybody saying you was free, they would take you out at night and whip you. they were the plantation owners. i never saw them ride, but i heard about them and what they did. my master used to tell us he wished he knew who the ku kluxers were. but he knew, all right, i used to wait on table and i heard them talking. 'gonna lynch another nigger tonight!' "the slaves tried to get schools, but they didn't get any. finally they started a few schools in little log cabins. but we children, my sister and i, never went to school. "i married william l. davison, when i was thirty-two years old. that was after i left the plantation. i never had company there. i had to _work_. i have only one grandchild still living, willa may reynolds. she taught school in city grove, tennessee. she's married now. "i thought abe lincoln was a great man. what little i know about him, i always thought he was a great man. he did a lot of good. "us kids always used to sing a song, 'gonna hang jeff davis to a sour apple tree as we go marchin' home.' i didn't know what it meant at the time. "i never knew much about booker t. washington, but i heard about him. frederick douglass was a great man, too. he did lots of good, like abe lincoln. "well, slavery's over and i think that's a grand thing. a white lady recently asked me, 'don't you think you were better off under the white people?' i said 'what you talkin' about? the birds of the air have their freedom'. i don't know why she should ask me that anyway. "i belong to the third baptist church. i think all people should be religious. christ was a missionary. he went about doing good to people. you should be clean, honest, and do everything good for people. i first turn the searchlight on myself. to be a true christian, you must do as christ said: 'love one another'. you know, that's why i said i didn't want to tell about my life and the terrible things that i and my sister mary suffered. i want to forgive those people. some people tell me those people are in hell now. but i don't think that. i believe we should all do good to everybody." betty lugabell, reporter [tr: also reported as lugabill] harold pugh, editor r.s. drum, supervisor jun , folklore: ex-slaves paulding co., district mary belle dempsey ex-slave, years "i was only two years old when my family moved here, from _wilford_ county, kentucky. 'course i don't remember anything of our slave days, but my mother told me all about it." "my mother and father were named sidney jane and william booker. i had one brother named george william booker." "the man who owned my father and mother was a good man." he was good to them and never 'bused them. he had quite a large plantation and owned slaves. each slave family had a house of their own and the women of each family prepared the meals, in their cabins. these cabins were warm and in good shape." "the master farmed his land and the men folks helped in the fields but the women took care of their homes." "we had our churches, too. sometimes the white folks would try to cause trouble when the negroes were holding their meetings, then a night the men of the church would place chunks and matches on the white folks gate post. in the morning the white folks would find them and know that it was a warning if they din't quit causing trouble their buildings would be burned." "there was a farm that joined my parents' master's place and the owner was about ready to sell the mother slave with her five small children. the children carried on so much because they were to be separated that the mistress bought them back although she had very little money to spare." "i don't know any more slave stories, but now i am getting old, and i know that i do not have long to live, but i'm not sorry, i am, ready to go. i have lived as the lord wants us to live and i know that when i die i shall join many of my friends and relatives in the lord's place. religion is the finest thing on earth. it is the one and only thing that matters." former slave interview, special aug , butler county, district # middletown mrs. nance east seventeenth ave., middletown, ohio "mammy" east, seventeenth ave., middletown, ohio, rules a four-room bungalow in the negro district set aside by the american rolling mill corporation. she lives there with her sons, workers in the mill, and keeps them an immaculate home in the manner which she was taught on a southern plantation. her house is furnished with modern electrical appliances and furniture, but she herself is an anachronism, a personage with no faith in modern methods of living, one who belongs in that vague period designated as "befo' de wah." "i 'membahs all 'bout de slave time. i was powerful small but my mother and daddy done tole me all 'bout it. mother and daddy bofe come from vaginny; mother's mama did too. she was a weaver and made all our clothes and de white folks clothes. dat's all she ever did; just weave and spin. gran'mama and her chilluns was _sold_ to the lett fambly, two brothers from monroe county, alabama. _sole_ jist like cows, honey, right off the block, jist like cows. but they was good to they slaves. "my mother's last name was lett, after the white folks, and my daddy's name was harris mosley, after his master. after mother and daddy married, the mosleys done bought her from the letts so they could be together. they was brother-in-laws. den i was named after miss nancy. dey was miss nancy and miss hattie and two boys in the mosleys. land, honey, they had a big (waving her hands in the air) plantation; a whole section; and de biggest home you done ever see. we darkies had cabins. jist as clean and nice. them mosleys, they had a grist mill and a gin. they like my daddy and he worked in de mill for them. dey sure was good to us. my mother worked on de place for miss nancy." mammy east, in a neat, voile dress and little pig-tails all over her head, is a tall, light-skinned negro, who admits that she would much rather care for children than attend to the other duties of the little house she owns; but the white spreads on the beds and the spotless kitchen is no indication of this fact. she has a passion for the good old times when the negroes had security with no responsibility. her tall, statuesque appearance is in direct contrast to the present-day conception of old southern "mammmies." "de wah, honey? why, when dem yankees come through our county mother and miss nancy and de rest hid de hosses in de swamps and hid other things in the house, but dey got all the cattle and hogs. killed 'em, but only took the hams. killed all de chickens and things, too. but dey didn't hurt the house. "after de wah, everybody jist went on working same as ever. then one day a white mans come riding through the county and tole us we was free. _free!_ honey, did yo' hear _that_? why we always had been free. he didn't know what he was talking 'bout. he kept telling us we was free and dat we oughtn't to work for no white folks 'less'n we got paid for it. well miss nancy took care of us then. we got our cabin and a piece of ground for a garden and a share of de crops. daddy worked in de mill. miss nancy saw to it that we always had nice clothes too. "ku klux, honey? why, we nevah did hear tell of no sich thing where we was. nevah heered nothin' 'bout dat atall until we come up here, and dey had em here. law, honey, folks don't know when dey's well off. my daddy worked in de mill and save his money, and twelve yeahs aftah de wah he bought two hundred and twenty acres of land, 'bout ten miles away. den latah on daddy bought de mill from de mosleys too. yas'm, my daddy was well off. "my, you had to be somebody to votes. i sure do 'membahs all 'bout dat. you had to be edicated and have money to votes. but i don' 'membahs no trouble 'bout de votin'. not where we come from, no how. "i was married down dere. mah husband's fust name was monroe after the county we lived in. my chilluns was named aftah some of the mosleys. i got a ed and hattie. aftah my daddy died we each got forty acahs. i sold mine and come up here to live with my boys. "but honey dis ain't no way to raise chilluns. not lak dey raised now. all dis dishonesty and stealin' and laziness. _no mam!_ look here at my gran'sons. eatin' offen dey daddy. no place for 'em. got edication, and caint git no jobs outside cuttin' grass and de like. down on de plantation ev'body worked. no laziness er 'oneriness, er nothin! i tells yo' honey, i sure do wish these chilluns had de chances we had. not much learnin', but we had up-bringin'! look at dem chilluns across de street. jist had a big fight ovah dere, and dey mothah's too lazy to do any thing 'bout it. no'm, nevah did see none o' dat when we was young. gittin' in de folkeses hen houses and stealing, and de carryins on at night. _no mam!_ i sure do wish de old times was here. "i went back two-three yeahs ago, to de old home place, and dere it was, jist same as when i was livin' with miss nancy. co'se, theys all dead and gone now, but some of the gran'chilluns was around. yas'm, i membahs heap bout dem times." miriam logan, reporter lebanon, ohio warren county, district story of wade glenn from winston-salem north carolina: (doesn't know his age) "yes madam, i were a slave--i'm old enough to have been born into slavery, but i was only a baby slave, for i do not remember about slavery, i've just heard them tell about it. my mammy were lydia glenn, and father were caesar glenn, for they belonged to old glenn. i've heard tell he were a mean man too. my birthday is october th--but what year--i don't know. there were eight brothers and two sisters. we lived on john beck's farm--a big farm, and the first work for me to do was picking up chips o' wood, and lookin' after hogs. "in those days they'd all kinds of work by hand on the farm. no madam, no cotton to speak of, or tobacco _then_. just farmin' corn, hogs, wheat fruit,--like here. yes madam, that was all on john beck's farm except the flax and the big wooley sheep. plenty of nice clean flax-cloth suits we all had. "beck wasn't so good--but we had enough to eat, wear, and could have our saturday afternoon to go to town, and sunday for church. we sho did have church, large meetin'--camp meetin'--with lot of singin' an shoutin' and it was fine! nevah was no singer, but i was a good dancer in my day, yes--yes madam i were a good dancer. i went to dances and to church with my folks. my father played a violin. he played well, so did my brother, but i never did play or sing. mammy sang a lot when she was spinning and weaving. she sing an' that big wheel a turnin.' "when i can read my title clear, up yonder, up yonder, up yonder! and another of her spinnin' songs was a humin:-- "the promise of god salvation free to give..." "besides helpin' on the farm, father was ferryman on the yadkin river for beck. he had a boat for hire. sometimes passengers would want to go a mile, sometimes . father died at thirty-five. he played the violin fine. my brother played for dances, and he used to sing lots of songs:-- "ol' aunt katy, fine ol' soul, she's beatin' her batter, in a brand new bowl... --that was a fetchin' tune, but you see i can't even carry it. maybe i could think up the words of a lot of those ol' tunes but they ought to pay well for them, for they make money out of them. i liked to go to church and to dances both. for a big church to sing i like 'nearer my god to thee'--there isn't anything so good for a big crowd to sing out big! "father died when he was thirty-five of typhoid. we all had to work hard. i came up here in --and i don't know why i should have, for winston-salem was a big place. i've worked on farm and roads. my wife died ten years ago. we adopted a girl in tennennesee years ago, and she takes a care of me now. she was always good to us--a good girl. yes, madam." wade glenn proved to be not nearly so interesting as his appearance promised. he is short; wears gold rimmed glasses; a southern colonel's mustache and goatee--and capitals are need to describe the style! he had his comical-serious little countenance topped off with a soft felt hat worn at the most rakish angle. he can't carry a tune, and really is not musical. his adopted daughter with whom he lives is rated the town's best colored cook. ohio guide, special ex-slave stories august , david a. hall "i was born at goldsboro, n.c., july , . i never knew who owned my father, but my mother's master's name was lifich pamer. my mother did not live on the plantation but had a little cabin in town. you see, she worked as a cook in the hotel and her master wanted her to live close to her work. i was born in the cabin in town. "no, i never went to school, but i was taught a little by my master's daughter, and can read and write a little. as a slave boy i had to work in the military school in goldsboro. i waited on tables and washed dishes, but my wages went to my master the sane as my mother's. "i was about fourteen when the war broke out, and remember when the yankees came through our town. there was a yankee soldier by the name of kuhns who took charge of a government store. he would sell tobacco and such like to the soldiers. he was the man who told me i was free and then give me a job working in the store. "i had some brothers and sisters but i do not remember them--can't tell you anything about them. "our beds were homemade out of poplar lumber and we slept on straw ticks. we had good things to eat and a lot of corn cakes and sweet potatoes. i had pretty good clothes, shoes, pants and a shirt, the same winter and summer. "i don't know anything about the plantation as i had to work in town and did not go out there very much. no, i don't know how big it was or how many slaves there was. i never heard of any uprisings either. "our overseer was 'poor white-trash', hired by the master. i remember the master lived in a big white house and he was always kind to his slaves, so was his wife and children, but we didn't like the overseer. i heard of some slaves being whipped, but i never was and i did not see any of the others get punished. yes, there was a jail on the plantation where slaves had to go if they wouldn't behave. i never saw a slave in chains but i have seen colored men in the chain gang since the war. "we had a negro church in town and slaves that could be trusted could go to church. it was a methodist church and we sang negro spirituals. "we could go to the funeral of a relative and quit work until it was over and then went back to work. there was a graveyard on the plantation. "a lot of slaves ran away and if they were caught they were brought back and put in the stocks until they were sold. the master would never keep a runaway slave. we used to have fights with the 'white trash' sometimes and once i was hit by a rock throwed by a white boy and that's what this lump on my head is. "yes, we had to work every day but sunday. the slaves did not have any holidays. i did not have time to play games but used to watch the slaves sing and dance after dark. i don't remember any stories. "when the slaves heard they had been set free, i remember a lot of them were sorry and did not want to leave the plantation. no, i never heard of any in our section getting any mules or land. "i do remember the 'night riders' that come through our country after the war. they put the horse shoes on the horses backwards and wrapped the horses feet in burlap so we couldn't hear them coming. the colored folks were deathly afraid of these men and would all run and hide when they heard they were coming. these 'night riders' used to steal everything the colored people had--even their beds and straw ticks. "right after the war i was brought north by mr. kuhns i spoke of, and for a short while i worked at the milling trade in tiffin and came to canton in . mr. kuhns owned a part in the old flour mill here (now the ohio builders and milling co.) and he give me a job as a miller. i worked there until the end of last year, years, and i am sure this is a record in canton. no, i never worked any other place. "i was married july , to jennie scott in massillon. we had four children but they are all dead except one boy. our first baby--a girl named mary jane, born february , , was the first colored child born in canton. my wife died in . no, i do not know when she was born, but i do know she was not a slave. "i started to vote after i came north but did not ever vote in the south. i do not like the way the young people of today live; they are too fast and drink too much. yes, i think this is true of the white children the same as the colored. "i saved my money when i worked and when i quit i had three properties. i sold one of these, gave one to my son, and i am living in the other. no, i have never had to ask for charity. i also get a pension check from, the mill where i worked so long. "i joined church simply because i thought it would make me a better man and i think every one should belong. i have been a member of st. paul's a.m.e. church here in canton for years. yesterday (sunday, august , ) our church celebrated by burning the mortgage. as i was the oldest member i was one of the three who lit it, the other two are the only living charter members. my church friends made me a present yesterday of $ . which was a birthday gift. i was years old the th of last month." hall resides at high ave., s.w., canton, ohio. miriam logan lebanon, ohio mrs. celia henderson, aged . born hardin county, kentucky in (drawing of celia henderson) [tr: no drawing found] "mah mammy were julia dittoe, an pappy, he were name willis dittoe. dey live at louieville till mammy were sold fo' her marster's debt. she were a powerful good cook, mammy were--an she were sol' fo to pay dat debt." "she tuk us four chillen 'long wid her, an pappy an th' others staid back in louieville. dey tuk us all on a boat de big ribber--evah heah ob de big ribber? mississippi its name--but we calls it de big ribber." "_natchez on de hill_--dats whaah de tuk us to. nactchez-on-de-hill dis side of n' or'leans. mammy she have eleven chillen. no 'em, don't 'member all dem names no mo'. no 'em, nevah see pappy no moah. im 'member mammy cryin' goin' down on de boat, and us chillen a cryin' too, but de place we got us was a nice place, nicer den what we left. family 'o name of grohagen it was dat got us. yas'em dey was nice to mammy fo' she was a fine cook, mammy wus. a fine cook!" "me? go'long! i ain't no sech cook as my mammy was. but mah boy, he were a fine cook. i ain't nothin' of a cook. yas'em, i cook fo mis gallagher, an fo o' de sheriffs here, up at de jail. but de fancy cookin' i ain't much on, no'em i ain't. but mah boy an mammy now, dey was fine! mah boy cook at hotels and wealthy homes in louieville 'til he died." "dey was cotton down dere in natchez, but no tobacco like up here. no 'em, i nevah wuk in cotton fields. i he'p mammy tote water, hunt chips, hunt pigs, get things outa de col' house. dat way, i guess i went to wuk when i wuz about or yeahs ol'. chillen is sma't now, an dey hafto be taught to wuk, but dem days us culled chillen wuk; an we had a good time wukin' fo dey wernt no shows, no playthings lak dey have now to takey up day time, no'em." "nevah no church fo' culled people does i 'member in natchez. one time dey was a drouth, an de water we hauls from way ovah to de rivah. now dat wuz down right wuk, a haulin dat water. dey wuz an ol' man, he were powerful in prayer, an gather de darkies unda a big tree, an we all kneels down whilse he pray fo de po' beastes what needs good clean water fo to drink. dat wuz a putty sight, dat church meetin' under de big tree. i alus member dat, an how, dat day he foun a spring wid he ol' cane, jes' like a miracle after prayer. it were a putty sight to see mah cows an all de cattle a trottin' fo dat water. de mens dey dug out a round pond fo' de water to run up into outa de spring, an it wuz good watah dat wudn't make de beastes sick, an we-all was sho' happy.'" "yes'em, i'se de only one of mammy's chillen livin'. she had chillen. mah gran'na on pappy's side, she live to be one hundred an ten yeah's ol' powerful ol' ev'y body say, an she were part indian, gran'ma were, an dat made her live to be ol'. "me? i had two husband an three chillen. mah firs' husban die an lef' me wid three little chillens, an mah secon' husban', he die 'bout six yeahs ago. ah cum heah to lebanon about forty yeahs ago, because mah mammy were heah, an she wanted me to come. when ah wuz little, we live nine yeahs in natchez on de hill. den when de wah were ovah mammy she want to go back to louieville fo her folks wuz all theah. ah live in louieville til ah cum to lebanon. all ah 'members bout de close o'de wah, wuz dat white folks wuz broke up an po' down dere at natchez; and de fus time ah hears de emanicaption read out dey was a lot o' prancin 'roun, an a big time." "ah seen soldiers in blue down there in natchez on de hill, oncet ah seen dem cumin down de road when ah were drivin mah cows up de road. ah wuz scared sho, an' ah hid in de bushes side o' de road til dey went by, don' member dat mah cows was much scared though." mammy say 'bettah hide when you sees sojers a-marchin by, so dat time a whole line o dem cum along and i hide." "down dere mammy done her cookin' outa doors, wid a big oven. yo gits yo fiah goin' jes so under de oven, den you shovels some fiah up on top de oven fo to get you bakin jes right. dey wuz big black kettles wid hooks an dey run up an down like on pulleys ovah de oven stove. den dere wuz de col'house. no 'lectric ice box lak now, but a house under groun' wheah things wuz kept jest as col' as a ice box. no'em don't 'member jes how it were fix inside." "yas'em we comes back to louieville. yes'em mah chillen goes to school, lak ah nevah did. culled teachers in de culled school. yes'em mah chillen went far as dey could take 'em." "medicin? my ol' mammy were great fo herb doctorin' an i holds by dat too a good deal, yas'em. now-a-days you gets a rusty nail in yo foot an has lockjaw. but ah member mammy--she put soot mix wid bacon fryin's on mah foot when ah run a big nail inter it, an mah foot get well as nice!" "long time ago ah cum heah to see mammy, ah got a terrible misery. ah wuz asleep a dreamin bout it, an a sayin, "mammy yo reckon axel grease goin' to he'p it?" den ah wake up an go to her wheahs she's sleepin an say it. "what fo axel grease gointo hep?--an i tol her, an she say:-- "axel grease put on hot, wid red flannel goin'to tak it away chile." ah were an ol' woman mahse'f den--bout fifty, but mammy she climb outa bed an go out in de yard where deys an ol' wagon, an she scrapes dat axel off, an heat it up an put it on wid red flannel. den ah got easy! ah sho was thankful when dat grease an flannel got to wukin on me! "you try it sometime when you gets one o' dem col' miseries in de winter time. but go 'long! folks is too sma't nowadays to use dem good ol' medicines. dey jes' calls de doctor an he come an cut 'em wide open fo de 'pendycitus--he sho do! yas'em ah has de doctor, ef ah needs him. ah has de rheumatism, no pain--ah jes gets stiffer, an' stiffer right along." mah sight sho am poor now. ah cain't wuk no mo. ah done ironin aftah ah quit cookin--washin an ironin, ah likes a nice wash an iron the bes fo wuk. but lasyear mah eyes done give out on me, an dey tell me not to worry dey gointo give me a pension. de man goes to a heap o' wuk to get dem papers fix jes right." "yes 'em, i'se de on'y one o' mammy's chillen livin. mah, gran'ma on pappy's side, she live to be one hundred and ten yeah's ol--powerful ol eve'ybody say. she were part indian, gran' ma were, an dat made her to be ol." "yes'em, mos' i evah earn were five dollars a week. ah gets twenty dollars now, an pays eight dollars fo rent. we is got no mo'--ah figgers--a wukin fo ourself den what we'd have wuz we slaves, fo dey gives you a log house, an clothes, an yo eats all yo want to, an when you _buys_ things, maybe you doesn't make enough to git you what you needs, wukin sun-up to sun down. no' em 'course ah isn't wukin _now_ when you gits be de hour--wukin people does now; but ah don't know nothin 'but that way o'doin." "we weahs cotton cloths when ah were young, jes plain weave it were; no collar nor cuffs, n' belt like store clothes. den men's jes have a kinda clothes like ... well, like a chemise, den some pantaloons wid a string run through at de knees. bare feet--yes'em, no shoes. nevah need no coat down to natchez, no'em." "when we comes back to louieville on de boat, we sleeps in de straw on de flo' o' de boat. it gits colder 'n colder! come big chunks ol ice down de river. de sky am dark, an hit col' an spit snow. ah wish ah were back dere in natchez dat time after de war were ovah! yes'em, ah members dat much." "ah wuk along wid mammy til ah were married, den ah gits on by mahsef. manny she come heah to lebanon wid de suttons--she married sam. sutton's pappy. yes 'em dey wuz about o'de fambly cum heah, an ah come to see mammy,... den ah gits me wuk, an ah stays. "cookin'? yes'em, way meat is so high now, ah likes groundhog. ground hog is good eatin. a peddler was by wid groun' hog fo ten cents apiece. ground hog is good as fried chicken any day. you cleans de hog, an boils it in salt water til its tender. den you makes flour gravy, puts it on after de water am drain off; you puts it in de oven wif de lid on an bakes hit a nice brown. no 'em, don' like fish so well, nor coon, nor possum, dey is too greasy. likes chicken, groundhog an pork." wid de wild meat you wants plain boiled potatoes, yes'em irish potatoes, sho enough, ah heard o' eatin skunk, and muskrat, but ah ain't cookin em. but ah tells you dat groun' hog is _good eatin_. "ah were baptized by a white minister in louieville, an' ah been a baptist fo' sixty yeahs now. yes'em dey is plenty o' colored churches in louisville now, but when i were young, de white folks has to see to it dat we is baptised an knows bible verses an' hymns. dere want no smart culled preachers like reverend williams ... an dey ain't so many now." "up to xenia is de culled school, an dey is mo's smart culled folks, ol' ones too--dat could give you-all a real story if you finds dem. but me, ah cain't read, nor write, and don't member's nuthin fo de war no good." celia is very black as to complexion; tall spare; has small grey eyes. in three long interviews she has tried very hard to remember for us from her youth and back through the years; it seems to trouble her that she cannot remember more. samuel sutton's father married her mother. neither she or samuel had the kind of a story to tell that i was expecting to hear from what little i know about colored people. i may have tried to get them on the songs and amusements of their youth too often, but it seems that most that they knew was work; did not sing or have a very good time. of course i thought they would say that slavery was terrible, but was surprised there too. colored people here are used to having white people come for them to work as they have no telephones, and most white people only hire colored help by the day or as needed. celia and samuel, old age pensioners, were very apoligetic because they are no longer able to work. wpa in ohio federal writers' project bishop & isleman reporter: bishop [hw: revised] topic: ex-slaves. jefferson county, district # july , george jackson ex-slave, years i was born in loudon county, virginny, feb. , . my mother's name was betsy jackson. my father's name was henry jackson. dey were slaves and was born right der in loudon county. i had brothers and sisters. all of dem is dead. my brothers were henry, richard, wesley, john and me; sisters were annie, marion, sarah jane, elizabeth, alice, cecila and meryl. der were three other chillun dat died when babies. i can remember henry pullin' me out of de fire. i've got scars on my leg yet. he was sold out of de family to a man dat was wesley mcguest. afterwards my brother was taken sick with small-pox and died. we lived on a big plantation right close to bloomfield, virginny. i was born in de storeroom close to massa's home. it was called de weavin' room--place where dey weaved cotton and yarn. my bed was like a little cradle bed and dey push it under de big bed at day time. my grandfather died so my mother told me, when he was very old. my grandmother died when se bout . she went blind fore she died. dey were all slaves. my father was owned by john butler and my grandmother was owned by tommy humphries. dey were both farmers. my massa joined de war. he was killed right der where he lived. when my father wanted to cum home he had to get a permit from his massa. he would only cum home on saturday. he worked on de next plantation joinin' us. all us chillun and my mother belonged to massa humphries. i worked in de garden, hoein' weeds and den i washed dishes in de kitchen. i never got any money. i eat fat pork, corn bread, black molasses and bad milk. the meat was mostly boiled. i lived on fat meat and corn bread. i don't remember eatin' rabbit, possum or fish. de slaves on our plantation did not own der own garden. dey ate vegetables out of de big garden. in hot weather i wore gean pants and shirt. de pants were red color and shirt white. i wore heavy woolen clothes in de winter. i wore little britches wid jacket fastened on. i went barefooted in de summer. de mistress scold and beat me when i was pullin' weeds. sometimes i pulled a cabbage stead of weed. she would jump me and beat me. i can remember cryin'. she told me she had to learn me to be careful. i remember the massa when he went to war. he was a picket in an apple tree. a yankee soldier spied and shot him out of de tree. i remember miss ledig humphries. she was a pretty girl and she had a sister susie. she married a mr. chamlain who was overseer. der were robert and herbert humphries. dey were older dan me. robert wuz about years old when de war surrender. de one that married susie was de overseer. he was pretty rough. i don't remember any white neighbors round at dat time. der were acres of de plantation. i can't remember all de slaves. i know der were , odd slaves. lots of mornings i would go out hours fore daylight and when it was cold my feet would 'most freeze. they all knew dey had to get up in de mornin'. de slaves all worked hard and late at night. i heerd some say that the overseer would take dem to de barn. i remember tom lewis. then his massa sold him to our massa he told him not to let the overseer whip him. the overseer said he would whip him. one day tom did something wrong. the overseer ordered him to de barn. tom took his shirt off to get ready for de whippin' and when de overseer raised de whip tom gave him one lick wid his fist and broke de overseer's neck. den de massa sold tom to a man by de name of joseph fletcher. he stayed with old man fletcher til he died. fore de slaves were sold dey were put in a cell place til next day when dey would be sold. uncle marshall and douglas were sold and i remember dem handcuffed but i never saw dem on de auction block. i never knew nothin' bout de bible til after i was free. i went to school bout three months. i was or years old den. my uncle bill heard dey were goin' to sell him and he run away. he went north and cum back after de surrender. he died in bluemont, virginny, bout four years ago. after de days work dey would have banjo pickin', singin' and dancin'. dey work all day saturday and saturday night those dat had wives to see would go to see dem. on sunday de would sit around. when massa was shot my mother and dem was cryin'. when slaves were sick one of the mammies would look after dem and dey would call de doctor if she couldn't fix de sick. i remember de big battle dey fought for four days on de plantation. that was de battle of bull run. i heard shootin' and saw soldiers shot down. it was one of de worst fights of de war. it was right between blue ridge and bull run mountain. de smoke from de shootin' was just like a fog. i saw horses and men runnin' to de fight and men shot off de horses. i heard de cannon roar and saw de locust tree cut off in de yard. some of de bullets smashed de house. de apple tree where my massa was shot from was in de orchard not far from de house. de union soldiers won de battle and dey camped right by de house. dey helped demselves to de chickens and cut their heads off wid their swords. dey broke into de cellar and took wine and preserves. after de war i worked in de cornfield. dey pay my mother for me in food and clothes. but dey paid my mother money for workin' in de kitchen. de slaves were awful glad bout de surrender. de klu klux klan, we called dem de paroles, dey would run de colored people, who were out late, back home. i know no school or church or land for negroes. i married in farguar [hw: farquhar] co., state of virginny, in de county seat. dat was in . i was married by a methodist preacher in leesburg. i did not get drunk, but had plenty to drink. we had singin' and music. my sister was a religious woman and would not allow dancin'. i have fourteen chillun. four boys are livin' and two girls. all are married. george, my oldest boy graduated from grade school and de next boy. i have grandchillun and one great grandson. john, my son is sickly and not able to work and my daughter, mamie has nine chillun to support. her husband doesn't have steady work. the grandchillun are doin' pretty well. i think abraham lincoln was a fine man. it was put in his mind to free de colored people. booker t. washington was alright. henry logan, a colored man that lives near bridgeport, ohio is a great man. he is a deacon in de mt. zion baptist church. he is a plasterer and liked by de colored and white people. i think it wuz a fine thing that slavery was finished. i don't have a thing more than my chillun and dey are all poor. (a grandchild nearby said, "we are as poor as church mice".) my chillun are my best friends and dey love me. i first joined church at upperville, virginny. i was buried under de water. i feel dat everybody should have religion. dey get on better in dis life, and not only in dis life but in de life to cum. my overseer wuz just a plain man. he wasn't hard. i worked for him since the surrender and since i been a man. i was down home bout six yares ago and met de overseer's son and he took me and my wife around in his automobile. my wife died de ninth of last october ( ). i buried her in week's cemetery, near bridgeport, ohio. we have a family burial lot there. dat where i want to be buried, if i die around here. description of george jackson [tr: original "word picture" struck out] george jackson is about feet inches tall and weighs lbs. he has not done any manual labor for the past two years. he attends church regularly at the mt. zion baptist church. as he only attended school about four months his reading is limited. his vision and hearing is fair and he takes a walk everyday. he does not smoke, chew or drink intoxicating beverages. his wife, malina died october , and was buried at bridgeport, ohio. he lives with his daughter-in-law whose husband forks for a junk dealer. the four room house that they rent for $ per month is in a bad state of repairs and is in the midst of one of the poorest sections of steubenville. wpa in ohio federal writers' project written by bishop & isleman edited by albert i. dugen [tr: also reported as dugan] ex-slaves jefferson county, district # perry sid jemison [tr: also reported as jamison] ex-slave, years (perry sid jemison lives with his married daughter and some of his grand-children at south sixth street, steubenville, o.) "i wuz borned in perry county, alabama! de way i remember my age is, i was years when i wuz married and dat wuz years ago the th day of last may. i hed all dis down on papers, but i hab been stayin' in different places de last six years and lost my papers and some heavy insurance in jumpin' round from place to place. "my mudders name wuz jane perry. father's name wuz sid jemison. father died and william perry was mudders second husband. "my mudder wuz a virginian and my father was a south carolinian. my oldest brodder was named sebron and oldest sister wuz maggie. den de next brudder wuz william, de next sister wuz named artie, next susie. dats all of dem. "de hol entire family lived together on the cakhoba river, perry county, alabama. after dat we wuz scattered about, some god knows where. "we chillun played 'chicken me craner crow'. we go out in de sand and build sand houses and put out little tools and one thing and another in der. "when we wuz all together we lived in a log hut. der wuz a porch in between and two rooms on each side. de porch wuz covered over--all of it wuz under one roof. "our bed wuz a wooden frame wid slats nailed on it. we jus had a common hay mattress to sleep on. we had very respectable quilts, because my mudder made them. i believe we had better bed covers dem days den we hab des days. "my grandmother wuz named snooky and my grandfather anthony. i thought der wasn't a better friend in all de world den my grandmother. she would do all she could for her grandchildren. der wuz no food allowance for chillun that could not work and my grandmother fed us out of her and my mudders allowance. i member my grandmudder giving us pot-licker, bread and red syrup. "de furst work i done to get my food wuz to carry water in de field to de hands dat wuz workin'. de next work after dat, wuz when i wuz large enough to plow. den i done eberything else that come to mind on de farm. i neber earned money in dem slave days. "your general food wuz such as sweet potatoes, peas and turnip greens. den we would jump out and ketch a coon or possum. we ate rabbits, squirrels, ground-hog and hog meat. we had fish, cat-fish and scale fish. such things as greens, we boil dem. fish we fry. possum we parboil den pick him up and bake him. of all dat meat i prefar fish and rabbit. when it come to vegetables, cabbage wuz my delight, and turnips. de slaves had their own garden patch. "i wore one piece suit until i wuz near grown, jes one garment dat we called et dat time, going out in your shirt tail. in de winter we had cotton shirt with a string to tie de collar, instead of a button and tie. we war den same on sunday, excepting dat mudder would wash and iron dem for dat day. "we went barefooted in de summer and in de winter we wore brogan shoes. dey were made of heavy stiff leather. "my massa wuz named sam jemison and his wife wuz named chloe. dey had chillun. one of the boys wuz named sam after his father. de udder wuz jack. der wuz daughter nellie. dem wuz all i know bout. de had a large six room building. it wuz weather boarded and built on de common order. "dey hed acres on de plantation. de jemisons sold de plantation to my uncle after the surrender and i heard him say ever so many times that it was acres. der wuz bout slaves on de plantation. dey work hard and late at night. dey tole me dey were up fore daylight and in de fields til dark. "i heard my mudder say dat the mistress was a fine woman, but dat de marse was rigied [tr: rigid?]. "de white folks did not help us to learn to read or write. de furst school i remember dat wuz accessbile was foh days duration. i could only go when it wuz too wet to work in de fields. i wuz bout years when i went to de school. "der wuz no church on de plantation. couldn't none of us read. but after de surrender i remember de furst preacher i ebber heard. i remember de text. his name was charles fletcher. de text was "awake thou dat sleepeth, arise from de dead and christ will give you life!" i remember of one of de baptizing. de men dat did it was emanuel sanders. dis wuz de song dat dey sing: "beside de gospel pool, appointed for de poor." dat is all i member of dat song now. "i heard of de slaves running away to de north, but i nebber knew one to do it. my mudder tole me bout patrollers. dey would ketch de slaves when dey were out late and whip and thress dem. some of de owners would not stand for it and if de slaves would tell de massa he might whip de patrollers if he could ketch dem. "i knowed one colored boy. he wuz a fighter. he wuz six foot tall and over pounds. he would not stand to be whipped by de white man. dey called him jack. des wuz after de surrender. de white men could do nothin' wid him. en so one day dey got a crowd together and dey shoot him. it wuz a senation[tr: sensation?] in de country, but no one was arrested for it. "de slaves work on saturday afternoon and sometimes on sunday. on saturday night de slaves would slip around to de next plantation and have parties and dancin' and so on. "when i wuz a child i played, 'chicken me craner crow' and would build little sand houses and call dem frog dens and we play hidin' switches. one of de play songs wuz 'rockaby miss susie girl' and 'sugar queen in goin south, carrying de young ones in her mouth.' "i remember several riddles. one wuz: 'my father had a little seal, sixteen inches high. he roamed the hills in old kentuck, and also in sunny spain. if any man can beat dat, i'll try my hand agin.' "one little speech i know: 'i tumbled down one day, when de water was wide and deep i place my foot on the de goose's back and lovely swam de creek.' "when i wuz a little boy i wuz follin' wid my father's scythe. it fell on my arm and nearly cut if off. dey got somethin' and bind it up. eventually after a while, it mended up. "de marse give de sick slaves a dose of turpentine, blue mass, caromel and number six. "after de surrender my mother tole me dat the marse told de slaves dat dey could buy de place or dey could share de crops wid him and he would rent dem de land. "i married lizzie perry, in perry county alabama. a preacher married us by the name of john jemison. we just played around after de weddin' and hed a good time til bedtime come, and dat wuz very soon wid me. "i am de father of seven chillun. both daughters married and dey are housekeepers. i have grandchillun. three of dem are full grown and married. one of dem has graduated from high school. "abraham lincoln fixed it so de slaves could be free. he struck off de handcuffs and de ankle cuffs from de slaves. but how could i be free if i had to go back to my massa and beg for bread, clothes and shelter? it is up to everybody to work for freedom. "i don't think dat jefferson davus wuz much in favor of liberality. i think dat booker t. washington wuz a man of de furst magnitude. when it come to de historiance i don't know much about dem, but according to what i red in dem, fred douglas, christopher hatton, peter salem, all of dem colored men--dey wuz great men. christopher hatton wuz de furst slave to dream of liberty and den shed his blood for it. de three of dem play a conspicuous part in de emancipation. "i think it's a good thing dat slavery is ended, for god hadn't intended there to be no man a slave. "my reason for joining de church is, de church is said to be de furst born, the general assembly of the living god. i joined it to be in the general assembly of god. "we have had too much destructive religion. we need pure and undefiled religion. if we had dat religion, conditions would be de reverse of that dey are." (note: the worker who interviewed this old man was impressed with his deep religious nature and the manner in which there would crop out in his conversation the facile use of such words as eventually, general, accessible, etc. the interview also revealed that the old man had a knowledge of the scripture. he claims to be a preacher and during the conversation gave indications of the oratory that is peculiar to old style colored preachers.) word picture of perry sid jamison and his home [tr: also reported as jemison] mr. jamison is about ' " and weighs pounds. except for a slight limp, caused by a broken bone that did not heal, necessitating the use of a cane, he gets around in a lively manner. he takes a walk each morning and has a smile for everybody. mr. jamison is an elder in the second baptist church and possesses a deep religious nature. in his conversation there crops out the facile use of such words as "eventually", "general", "accessible", and the like. he has not been engaged in manual labor since . since then he has made his living as an evangelist for the colored baptist church. mr. jamison says he does not like to travel around without something more than a verbal word to certify who and what he is. he produced a certificate from the "illinois theological seminary" awarding him the degree of doctor of divinity and dated december , , and signed by rev. walter pitty for the trustees and s. billup, d.d., ph.d. as the president. another document was a minister's license issued by the probate court of jefferson county authorizing him to perform marriage ceremonies. he has his ordination certificate dated november , , at red mountain baptist church, sloss, alabama, which certifies that he was ordained an elder of that church; it is signed by dr. g.s. smith, moderator. then he has two letters of recommendation from churches in alabama and chicago. that mr. jamison is a vigerous preacher is attested by other ministers who say they never knew a man of his age to preach like he does. mr. jamison lives with his daughter, mrs. elizabeth cookes, whose husband is a wpa worker. also living in the house is the daughter's son, employed as a laborer, and his wife. between them all, a rent of $ . a month is paid for the house of six rooms. the house at s. seventh street, steubenville, is in a respectable part of the city and is of the type used by poorer classes of laborers. mr. jamison's wife died june , , and since then he has lived with his daughter. in his conversation he gives indication of a latent oratory easily called forth. k. osthimer, author folklore: stories from ex-slaves lucas county, dist. toledo, ohio the story of mrs. julia king of toledo, ohio. mrs. julia king resides at oakwood avenue, toledo, ohio. although the records of the family births were destroyed by a fire years ago, mrs. king places her age at about eighty years. her husband, albert king, who died two years ago, was the first negro policeman employed on the toledo police force. mrs. king, whose hair is whitening with age, is a kind and motherly woman, small in stature, pleasing and quiet in conversation. she lives with her adopted daughter, mrs. elizabeth king kimbrew, who works as an elevator operator at the lasalle & koch co. mrs. king walks with a limp and moves about with some difficulty. she was the first colored juvenile officer in toledo, and worked for twenty years under judges o'donnell and austin, the first three years as a volunteer without pay. before her marriage, mrs. king was julia ward. she was born in louisville, kentucky. her parents samuel and matilda ward, were slaves. she had one sister, mary ward, a year and a half older than herself. she related her story in her own way. "mamma was keeping house. papa paid the white people who owned them, for her time. he left before momma did. he run away to canada on the underground railroad. "my mother's mistress--i don't remember her name--used to come and take mary with her to market every day. the morning my mother ran away, her mistress decided she wouldn't take mary with her to market. mamma was glad, because she had almost made up her mind to go, even without mary. "mamma went down to the boat. a man on the boat told mamma not to answer the door for anybody, until he gave her the signal. the man was a quaker, one of those people who says 'thee' and 'thou'. mary kept on calling out the mistress's name and mamma couldn't keep her still. "when the boat docked, the man told mamma he thought her master was about. he told mamma to put a veil over her face, in case the master was coming. he told mamma he would cut the master's heart out and give it to her, before he would ever let her be taken. "she left the boat before reaching canada, somewhere on the underground railroad--detroit, i think--and a woman who took her in said: 'come in, my child, you're safe now.' then mama met my father in windsor. i think they were taken to canada free. "i don't remember anything about grandparents at all. "father was a cook. "mother's mistress was always good and kind to her. "when i was born, mother's master said he was worth three hundred dollars more. i don't know if he ever would have sold me. "i think our home was on the plantation. we lived in a cabin and there must have been at least six or eight cabins. "uncle simon, who boarded with me in later years, was a kind of overseer. whenever he told his master the slaves did something wrong, the slaves were whipped, and uncle simon was whipped, too. i asked him why he should be whipped, he hadn't done anything wrong. but uncle simon said he guessed he needed it anyway. "i think there was a jail on the plantation, because mamma said if the slaves weren't in at a certain hour at night, the watchman would lock them up if he found them out after hours without a pass. "uncle simon used to tell me slaves were not allowed to read and write. if you ever got caught reading or writing, the white folks would punish you. uncle simon said they were beaten with a leather strap cut into strips at the end. "i think the colored folks had a church, because mamma was always a baptist. only colored people went to the church. "mamma used to sing a song: "don't you remember the promise that you made, to my old dying mother's request? that i never should be sold, not for silver or for gold. while the sun rose from the east to the west? "and it hadn't been a year, the grass had not grown over her grave. i was advertised for sale. and i would have been in jail, if i had not crossed the deep, dancing waves. "i'm upon the northern banks and beneath the lion's paw, and he'll growl if you come near the shore. "the slaves left the plantation because they were sold and their children were sold. sometimes their masters were mean and cranky. "the slaves used to get together in their cabins and tell one another the news in the evening. they visited, the same as anybody else. evenings, mamma did the washing and ironing and cooked for my father. "when the slaves got sick, the other slaves generally looked after them. they had white doctors, who took care of the families, and they looked after the slaves, too, but the slaves looked after each other when they got sick. "i remember in the civil war, how the soldiers went away. i seen them all go to war. lots of colored folks went. that was the time we were living in detroit. the negro people were tickled to death because it was to free the slaves. "mamma said the ku klux was against the catholics, but not against the negroes. the nightriders would turn out at night. they were also called the know-nothings, that's what they always said. they were the same as the nightriders. one night, the nightriders in louisville surrounded a block of buildings occupied by catholic people. they permitted the women and children to exscape, but killed all the men. when they found out the men were putting on women's clothes, they killed everything, women and children, too. it was terrible. that must have been about eighty years ago, when i was a very little girl. "there was no school for negro children during slavery, but they have schools in louisville, now, and they're doing fine. "i had two little girls. one died when she was three years old, the other when she was thirteen. i had two children i adopted. one died just before she was to graduate from scott high school. "i think lincoln was a grand man! he was the first president i heard of. jeff davis, i think he was tough. he was against the colored people. he was no friend of the colored people. abe lincoln was a real friend. "i knew booker t. washington and his wife. i belonged to a society that his wife belonged to. i think it was called the national federation of colored women's clubs. i heard him speak here in toledo. i think it was in the methodist church. he wanted the colored people to educate themselves. lots of them wanted to be teachers and doctors, but he wanted them to have farms. he wanted them to get an education and make something of themselves. all the prominent negro women belonged to the club. we met once a year. i went to quite a few cities where the meetings were held: detroit, cleveland, and philadelphia. "the only thing i had against frederick douglass was that he married a white woman. i never heard douglass speak. "i knew some others too. i think paul lawrence dunbar was a fine young man. i heard him recite his poems. he visited with us right here several times. "i knew charles cottrell, too. he was an engraver. there was a young fellow who went to scott high. he was quite an artist; i can't remember his name. he was the one who did the fine picture of my daughter that hangs in the parlor. "i think slavery is a terrible system. i think slavery is the cause of mixing. if people want to choose somebody, it should be their own color. many masters had children from their negro slaves, but the slaves weren't able to help themselves. "i'm a member of the third baptist church. none join unless they've been immersed. that's what i believe in. i don't believe in christening or pouring. when the bishop was here from cleveland, i said i wanted to be immersed. he said, 'we'll take you under the water as far as you care to go.' i think the other churches are good, too. but i was born and raised a baptist. joining a church or not joining a church won't keep you out of heaven, but i think you should join a church." (interview, thursday, june , .) story and photo by frank m. smith ex-slaves mahoning county, dist. # youngstown, ohio the story of mrs. angeline lester, of youngstown, ohio. [illustration: angeline lester] mrs. angeline lester lives at west federal street, on u.s. route # , in a very dilapidated one story structure, which once was a retail store room with an addition built on the rear at a different floor level. angeline lives alone and keeps her several cats and chickens in the house with her. she was born on the plantation of mr. womble, near lumpkin, stewart county, georgia about , the exact date not known to her, where she lived until she was about four years old. then her father was sold to a dr. sales, near brooksville, georgia, and her mother and a sister two years younger were sold to john grimrs[hw:?], who in turn gave them to his newly married daughter, the bride of henry fagen, and was taken to their plantation, near benevolence, randolph county, georgia. when the civil war broke out, angeline, her mother and sister were turned over to robert smith, who substituted for henry fagen, in the confederate army. angeline remembers the soldiers coming to the plantation, but any news about the war was kept from them. after the war a celebration was held in benevolence, georgia, and angeline says it was here she first tasted a roasted piece of meat. the following sunday, the negroes were called to their master's house where they were told they were free, and those who wished, could go, and the others could stay and he would pay them a fair wage, but if they left they could take only the clothing on their back. angeline said "we couldn't tote away much clothes, because we were only given one pair of shoes and two dresses a year." not long after the surrender angeline said, "my father came and gathered us up and took us away and we worked for different white folks for money". as time went on, angeline's father and mother passed away, and she married john lester whom she has outlived. angeline enjoys good health considering her age and she devotes her time working "for de laud". she says she has "worked for de laud in new castle, pennsylvania, and i's worked for de laud in akron". she also says "de laud does not want me to smoke, or drink even tea or coffee, i must keep my strength to work for de laud". after having her picture taken she wanted to know what was to be done with it and when told it was to be sent to columbus or maybe to washington, d.c. she said "lawsy me, if you had tol' me befo' i'd fixed up a bit." betty lugabill, reporter [tr: also reported as lugabell] harold pugh, editor r.s. drum, supervisor jun , folklore: ex-slaves paulding co., district kisey mckimm ex-slave, years ah was born in bourbon county, sometime in , in the state of kaintucky where they raise fine horses and beautiful women. me 'n my mammy, liza 'n joe, all belonged to marse jacob sandusky the richest man in de county. pappy, he belonged to de henry young's who owned de plantation next to us. marse jacob was good to his slaves, but his son, clay was mean. ah remembah once when he took mah mammy out and whipped her cauz she forgot to put cake in his basket, when he went huntin'. but dat was de las' time, cauz de master heard of it and cussed him lak god has come down from hebbin. besides doin' all de cookin' 'n she was de best in de county, mah mammy had to help do de chores and milk fifteen cows. de shacks of all de slaves was set at de edge of a wood, an' lawse, honey, us chillun used to had to go out 'n gatha' all de twigs 'n brush 'n sweep it jes' lak a floor. den de massa used to go to de court house in paris 'n buy sheep an' hogs. den we use to help drive dem home. in de evenin' our mammy took de old cloes of mistress mary 'n made cloes fo' us to wear. pappy, he come ovah to see us every sunday, through de summer, but in de winter, we would only see him maybe once a month. de great day on de plantation, was christmas when we all got a little present from de master. de men slaves would cut a whole pile of wood fo' de fiah place 'n pile it on de porch. as long as de whole pile of wood lasted we didn't hab to work but when it was gone, our christmas was ovah. sometimes on sunday afternoons, we would go to de master's honey room 'n he would gib us sticks of candied honey, an' lawd chile was dem good. i et so much once, ah got sick 'nough to die. our master was what white folks call a "miser". i remembah one time, he hid $ , , between de floor an' de ceilin', but when he went fur it, de rats had done chewed it all up into bits. he used to go to de stock auction, every monday, 'n he didn't weah no stockings. he had a high silk hat, but it was tore so bad, dat he held de top n' bottom to-gether wid a silk neckerchief. one time when ah went wid him to drive de sheep home, ah heard some of de men wid kid gloves, call him a "hill-billy" 'n make fun of his clothes. but he said, "don't look at de clothes, but look at de man". one time, dey sent me down de road to fetch somethin' 'n i heerd a bunch of horses comin', ah jumped ovah de fence 'n hid behind de elderberry bushes, until dey passed, den ah ran home 'n tol' 'em what ah done seen. pretty soon dey come to de house, union soldiers an' asked fo' something to eat. we all jumped roun' and fixed dem a dinnah, when dey finished, dey looked for master, but he was hid. dey was gentlemen 'n didn't botha or take nothin'. when de war was ovah de master gave mammy a house an' acre farm, but when he died, his son clay tole us to get out of de place or he'd burn de house an' us up in it, so we lef an' moved to paris. after i was married 'n had two children, me an my man moved north an' i've been heah evah since. wpa in ohio federal writers' project bishop & isleman reporter: bishop july , topic: ex-slaves. jefferson county, district # [hw: steubenville] thomas mcmillan, ex-slave (does not know age) i was borned in monroe county, alabam. i do not know de date. my father's name was dave mcmillan and my mothers name was minda. dey cum from old virginny and he was sold from der. we lived in a log house. de beds hed ropes instead of slats and de chillun slept on de floor. dey put us out in de garden to pick out weeds from de potatoes. we did not get any money. we eat bread, syrup and potatoes. it wuz cooked in pots and some was made in fire, like ash cakes. we hed possum lots of times and rabbit and squirrel. when dey go fishin' we hed fish to eat. i liked most anything they gave us to eat. in de summer we wore white shirt and pants and de same in de winter. we wore brogans in de winter too. de massa name wuz john and his wife died before i know her. he hed a boy named john. he lived in a big house. he done de overseeing himself. he hed lots of acres in his plantation and he hed a big gang of slaves. he hed a man to go and call de slaves up at o'clock every morning. he was good to his slaves and did not work them so late at night. i heard some of de slaves on other plantations being punished, but our boss take good care of us. our massa learn some of us to read and write, but some of de udder massas did not. we hed church under a arbor. de preacher read de bible and he told us what to do to be saved. i 'member he lined us up on jordan's bank and we sung behind him. de partrollers watch de slaves who were out at night. if dey have a pass dey were alright. if not dey would get into it. de patrollers whip dem and carry dem home. on saturday afternoon dey wash de clothes and stay around. on sunday dey go to church. on christmas day we did not work and dey make a nice meal for us. we sometimes shuck corn at night. we pick cotton plenty. when we were chillun me other brudders and five sisters played marbles together. i saw de blue jackets, dat's what we called de yankee soldiers. when we heard of our freedom we hated it because we did not know what it was for and did not know where to go. de massa say we could stay as long as we pleased. de yankee soldier asked my father what dey wuz all doing around der and that dey were free. but we did not know where to go. we stayed on wid de massa for a long time after de war wuz over. de klu klux klan wuz pretty rough to us and dey whip us. der was no school for us colored people. i wuz nearly when i first took up with my first woman and lived with her years den i marry my present wife. i married her in alabama and elder worthy wuz de preacher. we had seven chillun, all grandchillun are dead. i don't know where dey all are at excepting me daughter in steubenville and she is a widow. she been keepin' rooms and wash a little for her living. i didn't hear much bout de politics but i think abraham lincoln done pretty well. i reckon jefferson davis did the best he knowed how. booker t. washington, i nebber seen him, but he wuz a great man. religion is all right; can't find no fault with religion. i think all of us ought to be religious because the dear lord died for us all. dis world would be a better place if we all were religious. word picture of mr. mcmillan thomas mcmillan, morris ave., steubenville, ohio. he lives with his wife, toby who is over years old. he makes his living using a hand cart to collect junk. he is ' " tall and weighs pounds. his beard is gray and hair white and close cropped. he attends mt. zion baptist church and lives his religion. he is able to read a little and takes pleasure in reading the bible and newspaper. he has seven children. he has not heard of them for several years except one daughter who lives in steubenville and is a widow. his home is a three room shack and his landlord lets him stay there rent free. the houses in the general surrounding are in a run down condition. wilbur ammon, editor george conn, writer c.r. mclean, district supervisor june , folklore summit county, district # sarah mann mrs. mann places her birth sometime in during the first year of the civil war, on a plantation owned by dick belcher, about thirty miles southwest of richmond, virginia. her father, frederick green, was owned by belcher and her mother, mandy booker, by race booker on an adjoining plantation. her grandparents were slaves of race booker. after the slaves were freed she went with her parents to clover hill, a small hamlet, where she worked out as a servant until she married beverly mann. rev. mike vason, a white minister, performed the ceremony with, only her parents and a few friends present. at the close of the ceremony, the preacher asked if they would "live together as isaac and rebecca did." upon receiving a satisfactory reply, he pronounced them man and wife. mr. and mrs. mann were of a party of more than ex-slaves who left richmond in for silver creek where mr. mann worked in the coal mines. two years later they moved to wadsworth where their first child was born. in they came to akron. mr. mann, working as laborer, was able to purchase two houses on furnace street, the oldest and now one of the poorer negro sections of the city. it is situated on a high bluff overlooking the little cuyahoga river. today mrs. mann, her daughter, a son-in-law and one grandchild occupy one of the houses. three children were born to mr. and mrs. mann, but only one is living. mr. mann, a deacon in the church, died three years ago. time has laid its heavy hand on her property. it is the average home of colored people living in this section, two stories, small front yeard, enclosed with wooden picket fence. a large coal stove in front room furnishes heat. in recent years electricity has supplanted the overhead oil lamp. most of the furnishings were purchased in early married life. they are somewhat worn but arranged in orderly manner and are clean. mrs. mann is tall and angular. her hair is streaked with gray, her face thin, with eyes and cheek bones dominating. with little or no southern accent, she speaks freely of her family, but refrains from discussing affairs of others of her race. she is a firm believer in the bible. it is apparent she strives to lead a religious life according to her understanding. she is a member of the second baptist church since its organization in . having passed her three score and ten years she is "ready to go when the lord calls her." wpa in ohio federal writers' project bishop & isleman reporter: bishop (revision) july , topic: ex-slaves jefferson county, district # john williams matheus ex-slave, years "my mothers name was martha. she died when i was eleven months old. my mother was owned by racer blue and his wife scotty. when i was bout eleven or twelve they put me out with michael blue and his wife mary. michael blue was a brother to racer blue. racer blue died when i was three or four. i have a faint rememberance of him dying suddenly one night and see him laying out. he was the first dead person i saw and it seemed funny to me to see him laying there so stiff and still." "i remember the yankee soldier, a string of them on horses, coming through springfield, w. va. it was like a circus parade. what made me remember that, was a colored man standing near me who had a new hat on his head. a soldier came by and saw the hat and he took it off the colored man's head, and put his old dirty one on the colored man's head and put the nice new one on his own head." "i think abraham lincoln the greatest man that ever lived. he belonged to no church; but he sure was christian. i think he was born for the time and if he lived longer he would have done lots of good for the colored people." "i wore jeans and they got so stiff when they were wet that they would stand up. i wore boots in the winter, but none in the summer." "when slavery was going on there was the 'underground railway' in ohio. but after the surrender some of the people in ohio were not so good to the colored people. the old folks told me they were stoned when they came across the river to ohio after the surrender and that the colored people were treated like cats and dogs." "mary blue had two daughters, both a little older than me and i played with them. one day they went to pick berries. when they came back they left the berries on the table in the kitchen and went to the front room to talk to their mother. i remember the two steps down to the room and i came to listen to them tell about berry pickin'. then their mother told me to go sweep the kitchen. i went and took the broom and saw the berries. i helped myself to the berries. mary wore soft shoes, so i did not hear her coming until she was nearly in the room. i had berries in my hand and i closed my hand around the handle of the broom with the berries in my hand. she says, 'john, what are you doin'? i say, 'nothin'. den she say, 'let me see your hand! i showed her my hand with nothin' in it. she say, 'let me see the other hand! i had to show her my hand with the berries all crushed an the juice on my hand and on the handle of the broom." "den she say; 'you done two sins'. 'you stole the berries!, i don't mind you having the berries, but you should have asked for them. 'you stole them and you have sinned. 'den you told a lie! she says, 'john i must punish you, i want you to be a good man; don't try to be a great man, be a good man then you will be a great man! she got a switch off a peach tree and she gave me a good switching. i never forgot being caught with the berries and the way she talked bout my two sins. that hurt me worse than the switching. i never stole after that." "i stayed with michael and mary blue till i was nineteen. they were supposed to give me a saddle and bridle, clothes and a hundred dollars. the massa made me mad one day. i was rendering hog fat. when the crackling would fizzle, he hollo and say 'don't put so much fire.' he came out again and said, 'i told you not to put too much fire,' and he threatened to give me a thrashing. i said, 'if you do i will throw rocks at you.'" "after that i decided to leave and i told anna blue i was going. she say, 'don't do it, you are too young to go out into the world.' i say, i don't care, and i took a couple of sacks and put in a few things and walked to my uncle. he was a farmer at new creek. he told me he would get me a job at his brothers farm until they were ready to use me in the tannary. he gave me eight dollars a month until the tanner got ready to use me. i went to the tanner and worked for eight dollars a week. then i came to steubenville. i got work and stayed in steubenville months. then i went back and returned to steubenville in ." word picture of john william matheus mr. john william matheus is about ' " and weighs about pounds. he looks smart in his bank messenger uniform. on his sleeve he wears nine stripes. each stripe means five years service. two years were served before he earned his first strip, so that gives him a total of years service for the union savings bank and trust company, steubenville, ohio. he also wears a badge which designates him as a deputy sheriff of jefferson county. mr. matheus lives with his wife at dock street. this moderate sized and comfortable home he has owned for over years. his first wife died several years ago. during his first marriage nine children came to them. in his second marriage one child was born. his oldest son is john frederick matheus. he is a professor at [charleston] [hw: west virginia] state college institute. he was born in steubenville and graduated from steubenville high school. later he studied in cleveland and new york. he speaks six languages fluently and is the author of many published short stories. two other sons are employed in the post office, one is a mail carrier and the other is a janitor. his only daughter is a domestic servant. mr. matheus attended school in springfield, w. va., for four years. when he came to steubenville he attended night school for two winters. mr. dorhman j. sinclair who founded the union savings bank and trust co., employed mr. matheus from the beginning and in recognition of his loyal service bequeated to mr. matheus a pension of fifty dollars per month. mr. matheus is a member of the office board of the quinn memorial a.m.e. he has been an elder of that church for many years and also trustee and treasure. he frequently serves on the jury. he is well known and highly respected in the community. sarah probst, reporter audrey meighen, author-editor folklore: ex-slaves meigs county, district three mr. william nelson aged "whar's i bawned? 'way down belmont missouri, jes' cross frum c'lumbus kentucky on de mississippi. oh, i 'lows 'twuz about , caise i wuz fo'teen when marse ben done brung me up to de north home with him in ." "my pappy, he wuz 'kaintuck', john nelson an' my mammy wuz junis nelson. no suh, i don't know whar dey wuz bawned, first i member 'bout wuz my pappy buildin' railroad in belmont. yes suh, i had five sistahs and bruthahs. der names--lets see--oh yes--der wuz, john, jim, george, suzan and ida. no, i don't member nothin' 'bout my gran'parents." "my mammy had her own cabin for hur and us chilluns. de wuz rails stuck through de cracks in de logs fo' beds with straw on top fo' to sleep on." "what'd i do, down dar on plantashun? i hoed corn, tatahs, garden onions, and hepped take cair de hosses, mules an oxen. say--i could hoe onions goin' backwards. yessuh, i cud." "de first money i see wuz what i got frum sum soljers fo' sellin' dem a bucket of turtl' eggs. dat wuz de day i run away to see sum yankee steamboats filled with soljers." "marse dick, marse beckwith's son used to go fishin' with me. wunce we ketched a fish so big it tuk three men to tote it home. yes suh, we always had plenty to eat. what'd i like best? corn pone, ham, bacon, chickens, ducks and possum. my mammy had hur own garden. in de summah men folks weah overalls, and de womins weah cotton and all of us went barefooted. in de winter we wore shoes made on de plantashun. i wuzn't married 'til aftah i come up north to ohio." "der wuz marse beckwith, mighty mean ol' devel; miss lucy, his wife, and de chilluns, miss manda, miss nan, and marse dick, and the other son wuz killed in der war at belmont. deir hous' wuz big and had two stories and porticoes and den marse beckwith owned land with cabins on 'em whar de slaves lived." "no suh, we didn't hab no driver, ol' marse dun his own drivin'. he was a mean ol' debel and whipped his slaves of'n and hard. he'd make 'em strip to the waist then he's lash 'em with his long blacksnake whip. ol' marse he'd whip womin same as men. i member seein' 'im whip my mammy wunce. marse beckwith used the big smoke hous' for de jail. i neber see no slaves sold but i have seen 'em loaned and traded off." "i member one time a slave named tom and his wife, my mammy an' me tried to run away, but we's ketched and brung back. ol' marse whipped tom and my mammy and den sent tom off on a boat." "one day a white man tol' us der wuz a war and sum day we'd be free." "i neber heard of no 'ligion, baptizing', nor god, nor heaven, de bible nor education down on de plantashun, i gues' dey didn't hab nun of 'em. when marse ben brung me north to ohio with him wuz first time i knowed 'bout such things. marse ben and miss lucy mighty good to me, sent me to school and tole me 'bout god and heaven and took me to church. no, de white folks down dar neber hepped me to read or write." "the slaves wus always tiahed when dey got wurk dim in evenins' so dey usually went to bed early so dey'd be up fo' clock next mornin'. on christmas day dey always had big dinna but no tree or gifts." "how'd i cum north? well, one day i run 'way from plantashun and hunted 'til i filled a bucket full turtl' eggs den i takes dem ovah on river what i hears der's sum yankee soljers and de soljers buyed my eggs and hepped me on board de boat. den marse ben, he wuz yankee ofser, tol 'em he take cair me and he did. den marse ben got sick and cum home and brung me along and i staid with 'em 'til i wuz 'bout fo'ty, when i gets married and moved to wyllis hill. my wife, was mary williams, but she died long time 'go and so did our little son, since dat time i've lived alone." "yessuh, i'se read 'bout booker washington." "i think abraham lincoln wuz a mighty fine man, he is de 'saint of de colured race'." "good day suh." wpa in ohio federal writers' project bishop & isleman jun , topic: ex-slaves jefferson county, district # mrs. catherine slim ex-slave, years, n. th st., steubenville i wuz born in rockingham, virginny; a beautiful place where i cum from. my age is en de courthouse, harrisonburg, virginny. i dunno de date of my birth, our massa's wouldn't tell us our age. my mother's name wuz sally. she wuz a colored woman and she died when i wuz a little infant. i don't remember her. she had four chillun by my father who wuz a white man. his name wuz jack rose. he made caskets for de dead people. my mother had six chillun altogether. de name of de four by my father wuz, frances de oldest sister, sarah wuz next, den mary. i am de baby, all three are dead cept me. i am very last one livin'. i had two half-brudders, dey were slaves too, john and berwin. berwin wuz drowned in w. va. he wuz bound out to hamsburger and drowned just after he got free. dey did not sold infant slaves. den dey bound out by de court. john got free and went to liberia and died after he got there. he wuz my oldest brudder. i wuz bound out by de court to marse barley and miss sally. i had to git up fore daylight and look at de clock wid de candle. i held up de candle to de clock, but couldn't tell de time. den dey ask me if de little hand wuz on three mark or four mark. dey wouldn't tell me de time but bye and bye i learned de time myself. i asked de mistress to learn me a book and she sez, "don't yo know we not allowed to learn you niggers nothin', don't ask me dat no more. i'll kill you if you do." i wuzn't goin' to ask her dat anymore. when i wuz ten years old i wuz doin' women's work. i learned to do a little bit of eberthin'. i worked on de farm and i worked in de house. i learned to do a little bit of eberthin'. on de farm i did eberthin' cept plow. i lived in a nice brick house. en de front wuz de valley pike. it wuz four and three-quarter miles to harrisonburg and three and three-quarter miles to mt. crawford. it wuz a lobley place and a fine farm. i used to sleep in a waggoner's bed. it wuz like a big bed-comfort, stuffed with wool. i laid it on de floor and sleep on it wid a blanket ober me, when i get up i roll up de bed and push it under de mistress's bed. i earned money, but nebber got it. dey wuz so mean i run away. i think dey wuz so mean dat dey make me run away and den dey wouldn't heb to pay de money. if i could roll up my sleeve i could show you a mark that cum from a beatin' i had wid a cow-hide whip. dey whip me for nothin'. after i run away i had around until the surrender cum. eberybody cum to life then. it wuz a hot time in de ole place when dey sezs freedom. the colored ones jumped straight up and down. de feed us plenty. we had pork, corn, rabbit, dey hed eberythin' nice. dey made us stan' up to eat. dey no low us sit down to eat. der wuz bout twenty or thirty slaves on de farm an some ob dem hed der own gardens. anythin' dey gib us to eat i liked. dey had bees and honey. i wore little calico dress in de summer, white, red, and blue. some hed flowers and some hed strips. we went barefooted until christmas. den dey gabe us shoes. de shoes were regular ole common shoes; not eben calfskin. dey weaved linen and made us our clothes. dey hab sleeves, plain body and little skirt. i hed two of dem for winter. i hab seen lots of slaves chained together, goin' south, some wuz singin' and some wuz cryin'. some hed dey chillun and some didn't. dey took me to church wid dem and dey put me behind de door. dey tole me to set der till dey cum out. and when i see dem cumin' out to follow behind and get into de carrage. i dursent say nothin'. i wuz like a petty dog. interview of ex-slave from virginia reported by rev. edward knox jun. , topic: ex-slaves guernsey county, district # jennie small ex-slave, over years of age i was born in pocahontas county, virginia in the drab and awful surroundings of slavery. the whipping post and cruelty in general made an indelible impression in my mind. i can see my older brothers in their tow-shirts that fell knee-length which was sometimes their only garment, toiling laborously under a cruel lash as the burning sun beamed down upon their backs. pappy mcneal (we called the master pappy) was cruel and mean. nothing was too hard, too sharp, or too heavy to throw at an unfortunate slave. i was very much afraid of him; i think as much for my brothers' sakes as for my own. sometimes in his fits of anger, i was afraid he might kill someone. however, one happy spot in my heart was for his son-in-law who told us: "do not call mr. mcneal the master, no one is your master but god, call mr. mcneal, mister." i have always had a tender spot in my heart for him. there are all types of farm work to do and also some repair work about the barns and carriages. it was one of these carriages my brother was repairing when the yankees came, but i am getting ahead of my story. i was a favorite of my master. i had a much better sleeping quarters than my brothers. their cots were made of straw or corn husks. money was very rare but we were all well-fed and kept. we wore tow-shirts which were knee-length, and no shoes. of course, some of the master's favorites had some kind of footwear. there were many slaves on our plantation. i never saw any of them auctioned off or put in chains. our master's way of punishment was the use of the whipping post. when we received cuts from the whip he put soft soap and salt into our wounds to prevent scars. he did not teach us any reading or writing; we had no special way of learning; we picked up what little we knew. when we were ill on our plantation, dr. wallace, a relative of master mcneal, took care of us. we were always taught to fear the yankees. one day i was playing in the yard of our master, with the master's little boy. some yankee soldiers came up and we hid, of course, because we had been taught to fear the soldiers. one yankee soldier discovered me, however, and took me on his knee and told me that they were our friends end not our enemies; they were here to help us. after that i loved them instead of fearing them. when we received our freedom, our master was very sorry, because we had always done all their work, and hard labor. geo. h. conn, writer wilbur c. ammon, editor c.r. mclean, district supervisor june , folklore summit county, district # anna smith in a little old rocking chair, sits an old colored "mammy" known to her friends as "grandma" smith, spending the remaining days with her grandchildren. small of stature, tipping the scales at about lbs. but alert to the wishes and cares of her children, this old lady keeps posted on current events from those around her. with no stoop or bent back and with a firm step she helps with the housework and preparing of meals, waiting, when permitted, on others. in odd moments, she like to work at her favorite task of "hooking" rag rugs. never having worn glasses, her eyesight is the envy of the younger generation. she spends most of the time at home, preferring her rocker and pipe (she has been smoking for more than eighty year) to a back seat in an automobile. when referring to civil war days, her eyes flash and words flow from her with a fluency equal to that of any youngster. much of her speech is hard to understand as she reverts to the early idiom and pronunciation of her race. her head, tongue, arms and hands all move at the same time as she talks. a note of hesitancy about speaking of her past shows at times when she realizes she is talking to one not of her own race, but after eight years in the north, where she has been treated courteously by her white neighbors, that old feeling of inferiority under which she lived during slave days and later on a plantation in kentucky has about disappeared. her home is comfortably furnished two story house with a front porch where, in the comfort of an old rocking chair, she smokes her pipe and dreams as the days slip away. her children and their children are devoted to her. with but a few wants or requests her days a re quiet and peaceful. kentucky with its past history still retains its hold. she refers to it as "god's chosen land" and would prefer to end her days where about eighty years of her life was spent. on her st birthday ( ) she posed for a picture, seated in her favorite chair with her closest friend, her pipe. abraham lincoln is as big a man with her today as when he freed her people. with the memories of the civil war still fresh in her mind and and secret longing to return to her old kentucky home, mrs. anna smith, born in may of and better known to her friends as "grandma" smith, is spending her remaining days with her grandchildren, in a pleasant home at bishop street. on a plantation owned by judge toll, on the banks of the ohio river at henderson, ke., anna (toll) smith was born. from her own story, and information gathered from other sources the year is as near a correct date as possible to obtain. anna smith's parents were william clarke and miranda toll. her father was a slave belonging to judge toll. it was common practice for slaves to assume the last name of their owners. it was before war was declared between the north and south that she was married, for she claims her daughter was "going on three" when president lincoln freed the slaves. mrs. smith remembers her father who died at the age of years. her oldest brother was when he joined the confederate army. three other brothers were sent to the front. one was an ambulance attendant, one belonged to the cavalry, one an orderly seargeant and the other joined the infantry. all were killed in action. anna smith's husband later joined the war and was reported killed. when she became old enough for service she was taken into the "big house" of her master, where she served as kitchen helper, cook and later as nurse, taking care of her mistress' second child. she learned her a.b.c.'s by listening to the tutor teaching the children of judge toll. "grandma" smith's vision is the wonder of her friends. she has never worn glasses and can distinguish objects and people at a distance as readily as at close range. she occupies her time by hooking rag rugs and doing housework and cooking. she is "on the go" most of the time, but when need for rest overtakes her, she resorts to her easy chair, a pipeful of tobacco and a short nap and she is ready to carry on. many instances during those terrible war days are fresh in her mind: men and boys, in pairs and groups passing the "big house" on their way to the recruiting station on the public square, later going back in squads and companies to fight; yankee soldiers raiding the plantation, taking corn and hay or whatever could be used by the northern army; and continual apprehension for the menfolk at the front. she remembers the baying of blood hounds at night along the ohio river, trying to follow the scent of escaping negroes and the crack of firearms as white people, employed by the plantation owners attempted to halt the negroes in their efforts to cross the ohio river into ohio or to join the federal army. referring to her early life, she recalls no special outstanding events. her treatment from her master and mistress was pleasant, always receiving plenty of food and clothing but never any money. in a grove not far from the plantation home, the slaves from the nearby estates meet on sunday for worship. here under the spreading branches they gathered for religious worship and to exchange news. when president lincoln issued his proclamation freeing the slaves, and the news reached the plantation, she went to her master to learn if she was free. on learning it was true she returned to her parents who were living on another plantation. she has been living with her grandchildren for the past nine years, contented but ready to go when the "good lord calls her." sarah probst, reporter audrey meighen, author-editor jun , folklore meigs county, district three [hw: middeport] nan stewart age "i'se bawned charl'stun, west virginia in february ." "my mammy's name? hur name wuz kath'run paine an' she wuz bawned down jackson county, virginia. my pappy wuz john james, a coopah an' he wuz bawned at rock creek, west virginia. he cum'd ovah heah with lightburn's retreat. dey all crossed de ribah at buffington island. yes, i had two bruthahs and three sistahs. deir wuz jim, thomas, he refugeed from charl'stun to pum'roy and it tuk him fo' months, den de wuz sistah adah, carrie an' ella. when i rite young i wurked as hous' maid fo' numbah quality white folks an' latah on i wuz nurs' fo' de chilluns in sum homes, heah abouts." "oh, de slaves quartahs, dey wuz undah de sam' ruf with marse hunt's big hous' but in de back. when i'se littl' i sleeped in a trun'l bed. my mammy wuz mighty 'ticlar an' clean, why she made us chilluns wash ouah feets ebry night fo' we git into de bed." "when marse hunt muved up to charl'stun, my mammy and pappy liv' in log cabin." "my gran' mammy, duz i 'member hur? honey chile, i shure duz. she wuz my pappy's mammy. she wuz one hun'erd and fo' yeahs ol' when she die rite in hur cheer. dat mawhin' she eat a big hearty brekfast. one day i 'member she sezs to marse hunt, 'i hopes you buys hun'erds an' hun'erds ob slaves an' neber sells a one. hur name wuz erslie kizar chartarn." "marse an' missus, mighty kind to us slaves. i lurned to sew, piece quilts, clean de brass an' irons an' dog irons. most time i set with de ol' ladies, an' light deir pipes, an' tote 'em watah, in gourds. i us' tu gether de turkey eggs an' guinea eggs an' sell 'em. i gits ten cents duzen fo' de eggs. marse and missus wuz english an' de count money like dis--fo' pence, ha' penny. whut i do with my money? chile i saved it to buy myself a nankeen dress." "yes mam we always had plenty to eat. what'd i like bes' to eat, waffl's, honey and stuffed sausage, but i spise possum and coon. marse hunt had great big meat hous' chuck full all kinds of meats. say, do you all know marse used to keep stuffed sausage in his smoke hous' fo' yeahs an' it wuz shure powahful good when it wuz cooked. ouah kitchin wuz big an' had great big fiah place whur we'd bake ouah bread in de ashes. we baked ouah corn pone an' biskets in a big spidah. i still have dat spidah an' uses it." "by the way you knows squire gellison wuz sum fishahman an' shure to goodness ketched lots ob fish. why he'd ketch so many, he'd clean 'em, cut 'em up, put 'em in half barrels an' pass 'em 'round to de people on de farms." "most de slaves on marse hunt's place had dir own garden patches. sumtimes dey'd have to hoe the gardens by moonlight. dey sell deir vegetables to marse hunt." "in de summah de women weah dresses and apruns made ob linen an' men weah pants and shurts ob linen. linsey-woolsey and jean wuz woven on de place fo' wintah clothes. we had better clothes to weah on sunday and we weahed shoes on sunday. the' shoes and hoots wuz made on de plantashun." "my mastah wuz marse harley hunt an' his wife wuz miss maria sanders hunt. marse and miss hunt didn't hab no chilluns of der own but a nephew marse oscar martin and niece miss mary hunt frum missouri lived with 'em. dey's all kind to us slaves. de hous' wuz great big white frame with picket fence all 'round de lot. when we lived charl'stun marse hunt wuz a magistrate. miss hunt's muthah and two aunts lived with 'em." "no mam, we didn't hab no ovahseeah. marse hunt had no use fo' ovahseeahs, fact is he 'spise 'em. de oldah men guided de young ones in deir labors. the poor white neighbahs wurn't 'lowed to live very close to de plantashun as marse hunt wanted de culured slave chilluns to be raised in propah mannah." "i duzn't know how many acres in de plantashun. deir wuz only 'bout three or fo' cabins on de place. wurk started 'bout seben clock 'cept harvest time when ebrybudy wuz up early. de slaves didn't wurk so hard nor bery late at night. slaves wuz punished by sendin' 'em off to bed early. "when i'se livin' at red house i seed slaves auctioned off. ol' marse veneable sold ten or lebin slaves, women and chilluns, to niggah tradahs way down farthah south. i well 'members day aunt millie an' uncl' edmund wuz sold--dir son harrison wuz bought by marse hunt. 'twuz shure sad an' folks cried when aunt millie and uncl' edmund wuz tuk away. harrison neber see his mammy an' pappy agin. slaves wuz hired out by de yeah fo' nine hundred dollahs." "marse hunt had schools fo' de slaves chilluns. i went to school on lincoln hill, too." "culured preachahs use to cum to plantashun an' dey would read de bible to us. i 'member one special passage preachahs read an' i neber understood it 'til i cross de riber at buffinton island. it wuz, 'but they shall sit every man under his own vine and under his fig tree; and none shall make them afraid; for the mouth of the lord of hosts hath spoken it." micah : . den i knows it is de fulfillment ob dat promis; 'i would soon be undah my own vine an' fig tree' and hab no feah of bein' sold down de riber to a mean marse. i recalls der wuz thorton powell, ben sales and charley releford among de preachahs. de church wuz quite aways frum de hous'. when der'd be baptizins de sistahs and brethruns would sing 'freely, freely will you go with me, down to the riber'. 'freely, freely quench your thirst zion's sons and daughtahs'." "how wells i 'member when i wuz converted. i'd thought 'bout 'ligion a lot but neber wunce wuz i muved to repent. one day i went out to cut sum wood an' begin thinkin' agin and all wunce i feeled so relieved an' good an' run home to tell granny an' de uthahs dat i'd cum out at last." "no, we didn't wurk on saturday aftahnoons. christmas wuz big time at marse hunts hous'. preparations wuz made fo' it two weeks fo' day cum. der wuz corn sings an' big dances, 'ceptin' at 'ligious homes. der wuz no weddins' at marse hunts, cause dey had no chilluns an' de niece and nephew went back to own homes to git married." "we played sich games as marbles; yarn ball; hop, skip, an' jump; mumble peg an' pee wee. wunce i's asked to speak down to white chilluns school an' dis is what i speak: 'the cherries are ripe, the cherries are ripe, oh give the baby one, the baby is too little to chew, the robin i see up in the tree, eating his fill and shaking his bill, and down his throat they run.' another one: 'tobacco is an indian weed, and from the devil doth proceed it robs the pocket and burns the clothes and makes a chimney of the nose.' "when de slaves gits sick, deir mammies luked af'er em but de marse gived de rem'dies. yes, dere wuz dif'runt kinds, salts, pills, castah orl, herb teas, garlic, 'fedia, sulphah, whiskey, dog wood bark, sahsaparilla an' apple root. sometimes charms wuz used. "i 'member very well de day de yankees cum. de slaves all cum a runnin' an' yellin': "yankees is cumin', yankee soljers is comin', hurrah". bout two or three clock, we herd bugles blowing' an' guns on taylah ridge. kids wuz playin' an' all 'cited. sumone sed: "kathrun, sumthin' awful gwine happen", an' sumone else sez; "de' is de yankees". de yankee mens camp on ouah farm an' buyed ouah buttah, milk an' eggs. marse hunt, whut you all call 'bilionist [hw: abolitionist] an' he wuz skeered of suthern soljers an' went out to de woods an' laid behind a log fo' seben weeks and seben days, den he 'cided to go back home. he sez he had a dream an' prayed, "i had bettah agone, but i prayed. no use let des debils take you, let god take you." we tote food an' papahs to marse while he wuz a hidin'." "one ob my prized possessions is abraham lincoln's pictures an' i'se gwine to gib it to a culured young man whose done bin so kind to me, when i'se gone. dat's bookah t. washington's picture ovah thar." "i'se married heah in middeport by preachah bill, . my husban' wuz charles stewart, son of johnny stewart. deir wuz hous' full my own folks, mammy, pappy, sistahs, bruthas, an' sum white folks who cumed in to hep dress me up fo' de weddin'. we kep de weddin' a secrut an' my aunt butted hur horns right off tryin' to fin' out when it wuz. my husban' had to leave right away to go to his job on de boat. we had great big dinnah, two big cakes an' ice cream fo' desurt. we had fo'teen chilluns with only two livin'. i has five gran' sons an' two great gran' daughters." "goodbye--cum back agin." miriam logan, lebanon, ohio warren county, dist. july , interview with samuel sutton, ex slave. born in garrett county, kentucky, in (drawing of sutton) [tr: no drawing found] "yes'em, i sho were bo'n into slavery. mah mothah were a cook--(they was none betteah)--an she were sold four times to my knownin'. she were part white, for her fathah were a white man. she live to be seventy-nine yeahs an nine months old." "ah was bo'n in garrett county, but were raised by ol' marster ballinger in knox county, an' ah don remember nothin 'bout garrett county." when lincoln was elected last time, i were about eight yeahs ol'." "ol' marster own 'bout -acres, n' ah don' know how many slaves--maybe . he'd get hard up fo money n' sell one or two; then he'd get a lotta work on hands, an maybe buy one or two cheap,--go 'long lak dat you see." he were a good man, ol' mars ballinger were--a preacher, an he wuk hisse'f too. ol' mis' she pretty cross sometime, but ol' mars, he weren't no mean man, an ah don' 'member he evah whip us. yes'em dat ol' hous is still standin' on the lexington-lancaster pike, and las time i know, baby marster he were still livin." "ol' mars. tuk us boys out to learn to wuk when we was both right little me and baby mars. ah wuz to he'p him, an do what he tol' me to--an first thing ah members is a learnin to hoe de clods. corn an wheat ol' mars. raised, an he sets us boys out fo to learn to wuk. soon as he lef' us baby mars, he'd want to eat; send me ovah to de grocery fo sardines an' oysters. nevah see no body lak oyster lak he do! ah do n' lak dem. ol mars. scold him--say he not only lazy hese'f, but he make me lazy too." "de wah? yes'em ah sees soldiers, union calvary [hw: cavalry] goin' by, dressed fine, wid gold braid on blue, an big boots. but de rebels now, i recollect dey had no uniforms fo dey wuz hard up, an dey cum in jes common clothes. ol' mars., he were a rebel, an he always he'p 'em. yes'em a pitched battle start right on our place. didn't las' long, fo dey wuz a runnin fight on to perryville, whaah de one big battle to take place in de state o' kentucky, tuk place." "most likely story i remembers to tell you 'bout were somepin made me mad an i allus remember fo' dat. ah had de bigges' fines' watermellon an ah wuz told to set up on de fence wid de watermellon an show 'em, and sell 'em fo twenty cents. along cum a line o' soldiers." "heigh there boy!... how much for the mellon?" holler one at me. "twenty cents sir!" ah say jes lak ah ben tol' to say; and he take dat mellon right out o' mah arms an' ride off widout payin' me. ah run after dem, a tryin' to get mah money, but ah couldn't keep up wid dem soldiers on hosses; an all de soldiers jes' laf at me." "yes'em dat wuz de fines' big mellon ah evah see. dat wuz right mean in him--fine lookin gemman he were, at the head o' de line." "ol' marster ballinger, he were a rebel, an he harbors rebels. dey wuz two men a hangin' around dere name o' buell and bragg." "buell were a nawtherner; bragg, he were a reb." "buell give bragg a chance to get away, when he should have found out what de rebs were doin' an a tuk him prisoner ah heard tell about dat." "dey wuz a lotta spyin', ridin' around dere fo' one thing and another, but ah don' know what it were all about. i does know ah feels sorry fo dem rebel soldiers ah seen dat wuz ragged an tired, an all woe out, an mars. he fell pretty bad about everything sometimes, but ah reckon dey wuz mean rebs an southerners at had it all cumin' to em; ah allus heard tell dey had it comin' to em." "some ways i recollect times wuz lots harder after de war, some ways dey was better. but now a culled man ain't so much better off 'bout votin' an such some places yet, ah hears dat." "yes'em, they come an want hosses once in awhile, an they was a rarin' tarin' time atryin to catch them hosses fo they would run into the woods befo' you could get ahold of 'em. morgan's men come fo hosses once, an ol mars, get him's hosses, fo he were a reb. yes'em, but ah thinks them hosses got away from the rebels; seem lak ah heard they did." "hosses? ah wishes ah had me a team right now, and ah'd make me my own good livin! no'em, don't want no mule. they is set on havin they own way, an the contrariest critters! but a mule is a wuk animal, an eats little. lotsa wuk in a mule. mah boy, he say, 'quit wukin, an give us younguns a chance,' sho nuf, they ain't the wuk they use to be, an the younguns needs it. ah got me a pension, an a fine garden; ain't it fine now?" "yes'em, lak ah tells you, the wah were ovah, and the culled folks had a big time wid speakin'n everything ovah at dick robinsen's camp on de th. nevah see such rejoicin on de fourth 'o july since,-no'em, ah ain't." "ah seen two presidents, grant an hayes. i voted fo hayes wen i wuz twenty-two yeahs old. general grant, he were runnin against greeley when ah heard him speak at louieville. he tol what all lincoln had done fo de culled man. yes'em, fine lookin man he were, an he wore a fine suit. yes'em ah ain't miss an election since ah were twenty-two an vote fo hayes. ah ain't gonto miss none, an ah vote lak the white man read outa de emanicaption proclamation, ah votes fo one ob abe lincoln's men ev'y time--ah sho do." "_run a way slaves?_ no'em nevah know ed of any. mars. ballinger neighbor, old mars. tye--he harbor culled folks dat cum ask fo sumpin to eat in winter--n' he get 'em to stay awhile and do a little wuk fo him. now, he did always have one or two 'roun dere dat way,--dat ah recollects--dat he didn't own. maybe dey was runaway, maybe dey wuz just tramps an didn't belong to noboddy. nevah hear o' anybody claimin' dem--dey stay awhile an wuk, den move on--den mo' cum, wuk while then move on. mars. tye--he get his wuk done dat way, cheap. "no'em, don't believe in anything lak dat much. we use to sprinkle salt in a thin line 'roun mars. ballinger's house, clear 'roun, to ward off quarellin an arguein' an ol' miss ballinger gettin a cross spell,--dat ah members, an then too;--ah don believe in payin out money on a monday. you is liable to be a spendin an a losin' all week if you do. den ah don' want see de new moon (nor ol' moon either) through, de branches o' trees. ah know' a man dat see de moon tru de tree branches, an he were lookin' tru de bars 'a jail fo de month were out--an fo sumpin he nevah done either,--jus enuf bad luck--seein a moon through bush." "ah been married twice, an had three chillens. mah oles' are madge hannah, an she sixty yeah ol' an still a teachin' at the indian school where she been fo twenty-two yeahs now. she were trained at berea in high school then knoxville; then she get mo' learnin in nashville in some course." "mah wife died way back yonder in . then when ah gets married again, mah wife am when ah am . no'am, no mo' chillens. ah lives heah an farms, an takes care ob mah sick girl, an mah boy, he live across the lane thah." "no'em, no church, no meetin hous fo us culled people in kentucky befo' de wah. dey wuz prayin folks, and gets to meetin' at each othah's houses when dey is sumpin a pushin' fo prayer. no'em no school dem days, fo us." "ol mars., he were a preacher, he knowed de bible, an tells out verses fo us--dats all ah members. yes'em ah am baptist now, and ah sho do believe in a havin church." "ah has wuked on steam boats, an done railroad labor, an done a lotta farmin, an ah likes to farm best. like to live in ohio best. ah can _vote_. if ah gits into trouble, de law give us a chance fo our property, same as if we were white. an we can vote lak white, widout no shootin, no fightin' about it--dats what ah likes. nevah know white men to be so mean about anythin as dey is about votin some places--no'em, ah don't! ah come heah in . ah was goin on to see mah daughter madge hannah in oklahoma, den dis girl come to me paralized, an ah got me work heah in lebanon, tendin cows an such at de creamery, an heah ah is evah since. yes'em an ah don' wanto go no wheres else." "no'em, no huntin' no mo. useto hunt rabbit until las yeah. they ain't wuth the price ob a license no mo." no'em, ah ain't evah fished in ohio." "no'em, nevah wuz no singer, no time. not on steamboats, nor nowheres. don't member any songs, except maybe the holler we useto set up when dey wuz late wid de dinner when we wuked on de steamboat;--dey sing-song lak dis:" 'ol hen, she flew ovah de ga-rden gate, fo' she wuz dat hungrey she jes' couldn't wait.' --but den dat ain't no real song." "kentucky river is place to fish--big cat fish. cat fish an greens is good eatin. ah seen a cat fish cum outa de kentucky river 'lon as a man is tall; an them ol' fins slap mah laig when ah carries him ovah mah shoulder, an he tail draggin' on mah feet.--sho nuf!" "no'em, ah jes cain't tell you all no cryin sad story 'bout beatin' an a slave drivin, an ah don' know no ghost stories, ner nuthin'--ah is jes dumb dat way--ah's sorry 'bout it, but ah jes--is." samuel sutton lives in north lane lebanon, just back of the french creamery. he has one acre of land, a little unpainted, poorly furnished and poorly kept. his daughter is a huge fleshy colored woman wears a turban on her head. she has a fixed smile; says not a word. samuel talks easily; answers questions directly; is quick in his movements. he is stooped and may ' " or " if standing straight. he wears an old fashioned "walrus" mustache, and has a grey wooley fringe of hair about his smooth chocolate colored bald head. he is very dark in color, but his son is darker yet. his hearing is good. his sight very poor. being so young when the civil war was over, he remembers little or nothing about what the colored people thought or expected from freedom. he just remembers what a big time there was on that first "free fourth of july." ruth thompson, interviewing graff, editing ex-slave interviews hamilton co., district cincinnati richard toler poplar st., cincinnati, o. [illustration: richard toler] "ah never fit in de wah; no suh, ah couldn't. mah belly's been broke! but ah sho' did want to, and ah went up to be examined, but they didn't receive me on account of mah broken stomach. but ah sho' tried, 'cause ah wanted to be free. ah didn't like to be no slave. dat wasn't good times." richard toler, poplar street, century old former slave lifted a bony knee with one gnarled hand and crossed his legs, then smoothed his thick white beard. his rocking chair creaked, the flies droned, and through the open, unscreened door came the bawling of a calf from the building of a hide company across the street. a maltese kitten sauntered into the front room, which served as parlor and bedroom, and climbed complacently into his lap. in one corner a wooden bed was piled high with feather ticks, and bedecked with a crazy quilt and an number of small, brightly-colored pillows; a bureau opposite was laden to the edges with a collection of odds and ends--a one-legged alarm clock, a coal oil lamp, faded aritifical flowers in a gaudy vase, a pile of newspapers. a trunk against the wall was littered with several large books (one of which was the family bible), a stack of dusty lamp shades, a dingy sweater, and several bushel-basket lids. several packing cases and crates, a lard can full of cracked ice, a small, round oil heating stove, and an assorted lot of chairs completed the furnishings. the one decorative spot in the room was on the wall over the bed, where hung a large framed picture of christ in the temple. the two rooms beyond exhibited various broken-down additions to the heterogeneous collection. "ah never had no good times till ah was free", the old man continued. "ah was bo'n on mastah tolah's (henry toler) plantation down in ole v'ginia, near lynchburg in campbell county. mah pappy was a slave befo' me, and mah mammy, too. his name was gawge washin'ton tolah, and her'n was lucy tolah. we took ouah name from ouah ownah, and we lived in a cabin way back of the big house, me and mah pappy and mammy and two brothahs. "they nevah mistreated me, neithah. they's a whipping the slaves all the time, but ah run away all the time. and ah jus' tell them--if they whipped me, ah'd kill 'em, and ah nevah did get a whippin'. if ah thought one was comin' to me, ah'd hide in the woods; then they'd send aftah me, and they say, 'come, on back--we won't whip you'. but they killed some of the niggahs, whipped 'em to death. ah guess they killed three or fo' on tolah's place while ah was there. "ah nevah went to school. learned to read and write mah name after ah was free in night school, but they nevah allowed us to have a book in ouah hand, and we couldn't have no money neither. if we had money we had to tu'n it ovah to ouah ownah. chu'ch was not allowed in ouah pa't neithah. ah go to the meth'dist chu'ch now, everybody ought to go. i think religion must be fine, 'cause god almighty's at the head of it." toler took a small piece of ice from the lard can, popped it between his toothless gum, smacking enjoyment, swished at the swarming flies with a soiled rag handkerchief, and continued. "ah nevah could unnerstand about ghos'es. nevah did see one. lots of folks tell about seein' ghos'es, but ah nevah feared 'em. ah was nevah raised up undah such supastitious believin's. "we was nevah allowed no pa'ties, and when they had goin' ons at the big house, we had to clear out. ah had to wo'k hard all the time every day in the week. had to min' the cows and calves, and when ah got older ah had to hoe in the field. mastah tolah had about acres, so they tell me, and he had a lot of cows and ho'ses and oxens, and he was a big fa'mer. ah've done about evahthing in mah life, blacksmith and stone mason, ca'penter, evahthing but brick-layin'. ah was a blacksmith heah fo' yea's. learned it down at tolah's. "ah stayed on the plantation during the wah, and jes' did what they tol' me. ah was then. and ah walked mile to vote for gen'l grant at vaughn's precinct. ah voted fo' him in two sessions, he run twice. and ah was the fust time, cause they come and got me, and say, 'come on now. you can vote now, you is .' and theah now--mah age is right theah. 'bout as close as you can get it. "ah was close to the battle front, and i seen all dem famous men. seen gen'l lee, and grant, and abe lincoln. seen john brown, and seen the seven men that was hung with him, but we wasn't allowed to talk to any of 'em, jes' looked on in the crowd. jes' spoke, and say 'how d' do.' [hw: harper's ferry is not [tr: rest illegible]] "but ah did talk to lincoln, and ah tol' him ah wanted to be free, and he was a fine man, 'cause he made us all free. and ah got a ole histry, it's the sanford american history, and was published in _ _ [hw: ?]. but ah don't know where it is now, ah misplaced it. it is printed in the book, something ah said, not written by hand. and it says, 'ah am a ole slave which has suvved fo' yeahs, and ah would be quite pleased if you could help us to be free. we thank you very much. ah trust that some day ah can do you the same privilege that you are doing for me. ah have been a slave for many years.' (note discrepancy). "aftah the wah, ah came to cincinnati, and ah was married three times. mah fust wife was nannie. then there was mollie. they both died, and than ah was married cora heah, and ah had six child'en, one girl and fo' boys. (note discrepancy) they's two living yet; james is and he is not married. and bob's about thutty or fo'ty. ah done lost al mah rememb'ance, too ole now. but mollie died when he was bo'n, and he is crazy. he is out of longview (home for mentally infirm) now fo' a while, and he jes' wanders around, and wo'ks a little. he's not [tr: "not" is crossed out] ha'mless, he wouldn't hurt nobody. he ain't married neithah. "after the wah, ah bought a fiddle, and ah was a good fiddlah. used to be a fiddlah fo' the white girls to dance. jes' picked it up, it was a natural gif'. ah could still play if ah had a fiddle. ah used to play at our hoe downs, too. played all those ole time songs--_soldier's joy_, _jimmy long josey_, _arkansas traveler_, and _black eye susie_. ah remembah the wo'ds to that one." smiling inwardly with pleasure as he again lived the past, the old negro swayed and recited: black eye susie, you look so fine, black eye susie, ah think youah mine. a wondahful time we're having now, oh, black eye susie, ah believe that youah mine. and away down we stomp aroun' the bush, we'd think that we'd get back to wheah we could push black eye susie, ah think youah fine, black eye susie, ah know youah mine. then, he resumed his conversational tone: "befo' the wah we nevah had no good times. they took good care of us, though. as pa'taculah with slaves as with the stock--that was their money, you know. and if we claimed a bein' sick, they'd give us a dose of castah oil and tu'pentine. that was the principal medicine cullud folks had to take, and sometimes salts. but nevah no whiskey--that was not allowed. and if we was real sick, they had the doctah fo' us. "we had very bad eatin'. bread, meat, water. and they fed it to us in a trough, jes' like the hogs. and ah went in may shirt tail till i was , nevah had no clothes. and the flo' in ouah cabin was dirt, and at night we'd jes' take a blanket and lay down on the flo'. the dog was supe'ior to us; they would take him in the house. "some of the people i belonged to was in the klu klux klan. tolah had fo' girls and fo' boys. some of those boys belonged. and i used to see them turn out. they went aroun' whippin' niggahs. they'd get young girls and strip 'em sta'k naked, and put 'em across barrels, and whip 'em till the blood run out of 'em, and then they would put salt in the raw pahts. and ah seen it, and it was as bloody aroun' em as if they'd stuck hogs. "i sho' is glad i ain't no slave no moah. ah thank god that ah lived to pas the yeahs until the day of . ah'm happy and satisfied now, and ah hopes ah see a million yeahs to come." forest h. lees c.r. mclean, supervisor june , topic: folkways medina county, district # julia williams, ex-slave julia williams, born in winepark, chesterfield county near richmond, virginia. her age is estimated close to years. a little more or a little less, it is not known for sure. her memory is becoming faded. she could remember her mothers name was katharine but her father died when she was very small and she remembers not his name. julia had three sisters, charlotte, rose and emoline mack. the last names of the first two, charlotte and rose she could not recall. as her memory is becoming faded, her thoughts wander from one thing to another and her speech is not very plain, the following is what i heard and understood during the interview. "all de slaves work with neighbors; or like neighbors now-adays. i no work in de fiel, i slave in de house, maid to de mistress." "after yankees come, one sister came to ohio with me." "the slaves get a whippin if they run away." "after yankees come, my ole mother come home and all chillun together. i live with gramma and go home after work each day. hired out doin maid work. all dis after yankees come dat i live with gramma." "someone yell, 'yankees are comin',' and de mistress tell me, she say 'you mus learn to be good and hones'.' i tole her, 'i am now'." "no i nevah get no money foh work." "i allways had good meals and was well taken care of. de mrs. she nevah let me be sold." "sho we had a cook in de kichen and she was a slave too." "plantashun slaves had gahdens but not de house slaves. i allus had da bes clothes and bes meals, anyting i want to eat. de mrs. like me and she like me and she say effen you want sompin ask foh it, anytime you want sompin or haff to have, get it. i didn suffer for enythin befoh dim yankees come." "after de yankees come even de house people, de white people didn get shoes. but i hab some, i save. i have some othah shoes i didn dare go in de house with. da had wood soles. oh lawde how da hurt mah feet. one day i come down stair too fas and slip an fall. right den i tile de mrs. i couldn wear dem big heavy shoes and besides da makes mah feet so sore." "bof de mrs. and de master sickly. an their chillun died. da live in a big manshun house. sho we had an overseer on de plantashun. de poor white people da live purty good, all dat i seed. it was a big plantashun. i can't remember how big but i know dat it was sho big. da had lots an lots of slaves but i doan no zackly how many. da scattered around de plantashun in diffren settlements. de horn blew every mohnin to wake up de fiel hans. da gone to fiel long time foh i get up. de fiel hans work from dawn till dark, but evabody had good eats on holidays. no work jus eat and have good time." "da whipp dem slaves what run away." "one day after de war was over and i come to ohio, a man stop at mah house. i seem him and i know him too but i preten like i didn, so i say, 'i doan want ter buy nothin today' and he says 'doan you know me?' den i laugh an say sho i remember the day you wuz goin to whip me, you run affer me and i run to de mrs. and she wouldn let you whip me. now you bettah be careful or i get you." "sho i saw slaves sole. da come from all ovah to buy an sell de slaves, chillun to ole men and women." "de slaves walk and travel with carts and mules." "de slaves on aukshun block dey went to highes bidder. one colored woman, all de men want her. she sold to de master who was de highes bidder, and den i saw her comin down de road singin 'i done got a home at las!'. she was half crazy. de maste he sole her and den mrs. buy her back. they lef her work around de house. i used to make her work and make her shine things. she say i make her shine too much, but she haff crazy, an run away." "no dey didn help colored folks read and write. effn dey saw you wif a book dey knock it down on de floor. dey wouldn let dem learn." "de aukshun allus held at richmond. plantashun owners come from all states to buy slaves and sell them." "we had church an had to be dere every single sunday. we read de bible. de preacher did the readin. i can't read or write. we sho had good prayer meetins. show nuf it was a baptis church. i like any spiritual, all of dem." "dey batize all de young men and women, colored folks. dey sing mos any spirtual, none in paticlar. a bell toll foh a funeral. at de baptizen do de pracher leads dem into de rivah, way in, den each one he stick dem clear under. i waz gonna be batize and couldn. eva time sompin happin an i couldn. my ole mothah tole me i gotta be but i never did be baptize when ise young in de south. de othah people befoh me all batized." "a lot of de slaves come north. dey run away cause dey didn want to be slaves, like i didn like what you do and i get mad, den you get mad an i run away." "de pattyroller was a man who watched foh de slaves what try to run away. i see dem sneakin in an out dem bushes. when dey fine im de give im a good whippin." "i nevah seed mush trouble between de whites and blacks when i live dare. effen dey didn want you to get married, they wouldn let you. dey had to ask de mastah and if he say no he mean it." "when de yankees were a comin through dem fiels, dey sho was awful. dey take everythin and destroy what ever they could not take. de othah house slave bury the valables in de groun so de soldiers couldn fine em." "one of the house slaves was allus havin her man comin to see her, so one day affer he lef, when i was makin fun and laughin at her de mistress she say, 'why you picken on her?' i say, dat man comin here all the time hangin round, why doan he marry her." "i was nevah lowed to go out an soshiate with de othah slaves much. i was in de house all time." "i went to prayer meetins every sunday monin and evenin." "sometimes dey could have a good time in de evenin and sometimes day couldn." "chrismas was a big time for everyone. in the manshun we allus had roast pig and a big feed. i could have anythin i want. new years was the big aukshun day. all day hollerin on de block. dey come from all ovah to richmond to buy and sell de slaves." "butchern day sho was a big time. a big long table with de pigs laid out ready to be cut up." "lots of big parties an dances in de manshun. i nevah have time foh play. mrs, she keep me busy and i work when i jus little girl and all mah life." "effen any slaves were sick dey come to de house for splies and medsin. de mrs. and master had de doctor if things were very bad." "i'll nevah forget de soldiers comin. an old woman tole me de war done broke up, and i was settin on de porch. de mrs. she say, 'julia you ant stayin eneymore'. she tole me if i keep my money and save it she would give me some. an she done gave me a gold breast pin too. she was rich and had lots of money. after the war i wen home to my mother. she was half sick and she work too hard. on de way i met one slave woman who didn know she was even free." "the yankees were bad!" "i didn get married right away. i worked out foh diffren famlies." "after de war dare was good schools in de south. de free slaves had land effen dey knowed what to do with. i got married in the south to richar williams but i didn have no big weddin. i had an old preacher what knowed all bout de bible, who married me. he was a good preacher. i was de mothah of eight chillun." "lincoln? well i tell you i doan know. i didn have no thought about him but i seed him. i work in de house all de time and didn hear much about people outside." "i doan believe in ghosts or hants. as foh dancin i enjoy it when i was young." "i cant read and i thought to myself i thought there was a change comin. i sense that. i think de lawd he does everythin right. de lawd open my way. i think all people should be religious and know about de lawd and his ways." her husband came to wadsworth with the first group that came from doylestown. the men came first then they sent for their families. her husband came first them sent for her and the children. they settled in wadsworth and built small shacks then later as times got better they bought properties. this year is the th anniversary of the wadsworth colored baptist church of which julia williams was a charter member. she is very close to years old if not that now and lives at kyle street, wadsworth, ohio. lees ohio guide, special ex-slave stories august , julia williams (supplementary story) "after de war deh had to pick their own livin' an seek homes. "shuah, deh expected de acres of lan' an mules, but deh had to work foh dem." "shuah, deh got paht of de lan but de shuah had to work foh it. "after de war deh had no place to stay an den deh went to so many diffrunt places. some of dem today don't have settled places to live. "those owners who were good gave their slaves lan but de othahs jus turned de slaves loose to wander roun'. othahs try to fine out where dere people were and went to them. "one day i seed a man who was a doctor down dere, an' i says, 'you doktah now?' an says 'no, i doan doktah no mow.' i work foh him once when i was slave, few days durin de war. i say, 'member that day you gonna lick me but you didn', you know i big woman an fight back. now de war ovah and you can't do dat now'. "slaves didn get money unless deh work for it. maybe a slave he would work long time before he get eny pay." "lak you hire me an you say you goin to pay me an then you don't. lots of them hired slaves aftah de war and worked dem a long time sayin deh gwine pay and then when he ask for money, deh drive him away instead of payin him. "yes, some of de slaves were force to stay on de plantation. i see how some had to live." "they had homes for awhile but when deh wasen't able to pay dere rent cause deh weren't paid, deh were thrown out of dere houses." some of dem didn't know when deh were free till long time after de wah. "when i were free, one mornin i seed the mistress and she ask me would i stay with her a couple years. i say, 'no i gonna find mah people an go dere.' "anyway, she had a young mister, a son, an he was mean to de slaves. i nebber lak him. "once i was sent to mah missys' brother for a time but i wouldn' stay dere: he too rough. "no, deh didn't want you to learn out of books. my missy say one day when i was free, 'now you can get your lessons.' "i allus lowed to do what i wanted, take what i wanted, and eat what i wanted. deh had lots of money but what good did it do them? deh allus was sick. "de poor soldiers had lots to go thru, even after de wah. deh starvin and beggin and sick. "de slaves had more meetins and gatherins aftah de war. "on de plantation where i work dey had a great big horn blow every mornin to get de slaves up to de field, i allus get up soon after it blew, most allways, but this mornin dey blew de horn a long time an i says, 'what foh dey blow dat horn so long?' an den de mastah say, 'you all is free'. den he says, ter me, 'what you all goin to do now', and i says, 'i'm goin to fine my mother.' "one day a soldier stop me an says, 'sister, where do you live?' i tole him, den he says, 'i'm hungry.' so i went an got him sompin to eat. "one time i was to be sold de next day, but de missy tole the man who cried the block not to sell me, but deh sold my mother and i didn't see her after dat till just befoh de war ovah. "all dat de slaves got after de war was loaned dem and dey had to work mighty hard to pay for dem. i saw a lot of poor people cut off from votin and dey off right now, i guess. i doan like it dat de woman vote. a woman ain't got no right votin, nowhow. "most of de slaves get pensions and are taken care of by their chillun." "ah doan know about de generation today, just suit yourself bout dat." julia williams resides at kyle st., wadsworth, ohio. miriam logan lebanon, ohio july th warren county, district story of reverend williams, aged , colored methodist minister, born greenbriar county, west virginia (born ) "i was born on the estate of miss frances cree, my mother's mistress. she had set my grandmother delilah free with her sixteen children, so my mother was free when i was born, but my father was not. "my father was butler to general davis, nephew of jefferson davis. general davis was wounded in the civil war and came home to die. my father, allen williams was not free until the emancipation." "grandmother delilah belonged to dr. cree. upon his death and the division of his estate, his maiden daughter came into possession of my grandmother, you understand. miss frances nor her brother mr. cam. ever married. miss frances was very religious, a methodist, and she believed grandmother delilah should be free, and that we colored children should have schooling." "yes ma'm, we colored people had a church down there in west virginia, and grandmother delilah had a family bible of her own. she had fourteen boys and two girls. my mother had sixteen children, two boys, fourteen girls. of them--mother's children, you understand,--there were seven teachers and two ministers; all were educated--thanks to miss frances and to miss sands of gallipolice. mother lived to be ninety-seven years old. no, she was not a cook." "in the south, you understand--there is the colored m.e. church, and the african m.e. church, and the southern methodist, and methodist episcopal churches of the white people. they say there will be union methodist of both white and colored people, but i don't believe there will be, for there is a great difference in beliefs, even today. southern methodist do believe, do believe in slavery; while the methodist to which miss frances cree belonged did not believe in slavery. the davis family, (one of the finest) did believe in slavery and they were good southern methodist. mr. cam., miss frances brother was not so opposed to slavery as was miss frances. miss frances willed us to the care of her good methodist friend miss eliza sands of ohio." "culture loosens predijuce. i do not believe in social equality at all myself; it cannot be; but we all must learn to keep to our own road, and bear christian good will towards each other." "i do not know of any colored people who are any more superstitious than are white people. they have the advantages of education now equally and are about on the same level. of course illiterate whites and the illiterate colored man are apt to believe in charms. i do not remember of hearing of any particular superstitious among my church people that i could tell you about, no ma'm, i do not." "in church music i hold that the good old hymns of john and of charles wesley are the best to be had. i don' like shouting 'spirituals' show-off and carrying on--never did encourage it! inward grace will come out in your singing more than anything else you do, and the impression we carry away from your song and, from the singer are what i count." read well, sing correctly, but first, last, remember real inward grace is what shows forth the most in a song." "in new oreleans where i went to school,--(graduated in from the freedman's aid college)--there were or colored churches (methodist) in my youth. new oreleans is one third colored in population, you understand. some places in the south the colored outnumber the whites to . "i pastored st. paul's church in louieville, a church of close to , members. no'ma'm can't say just how old a church it is." "to live a consecrated life, you'd better leave off dancing, drinking smoking and the movies. i've never been to a movie in my life. when i hear some of the programs colored folks put on the radio sometimes i feel just like going out to the woodshed and getting my axe and chopping up the radio, i do! it's natural and graceful to dance, but it is not natural or good to mill around in a low-minded smoky dance hall." "i don't hold it right to put anybody out of church, no ma'm. no matter what they do, i don't believe in putting anybody out of church." "my mother and her children were sent to miss eliza sands at gallipolis, ohio after miss frances cree's death, at miss frances' request. father did not go, no ma'm. he came later and finished his days with us." "we went first to point pleasant, then up the river to gallipolis." "after we got there we went to school. a man got me a place in cincinnati when i was twelve years old. i blacked boots and ran errands of the hotel office until i was thirteen; then i went to the freedman's aid college in n' orleans; remained until i graduated. shoemaking and carpentering were given to me for trades, but as young fellow i shipped on a freighter plying between new orleans and liverpool, thinking i would like to be a seaman. i was a mean tempered boy. as cook's helper one day, i got mad at the boatswain,--threw a pan of hot grease on him." the crew wanted me put into irons, but the captain said 'no,--leave him in liverpool soon as we land--in about a day or two. when i landed there they left me to be deported back to the states according to law." "yes, i had an aunt live to be years old. she died at granville (ohio) some thirty years ago. we know her age from a paper on dr. cree's estate where she was listed as a child of twelve, and that had been one hundred years before." "about the music now,--you see i'm used to thinking of religion as the working out of life in good deeds, not just a singing-show-off kind." some of the spirituals are fine, but still i think wesley hymns are best. i tell my folks that the good lord isn't a deaf old gentleman that has to be shouted up to, or amused. i do think we colored people are a little too apt to want to show off in our singing sometimes." "i was very small when we went away from greenbriar county to point pleasant, and from there to gallipolis by wagon. i do remember mr. cam. cree. i was taring around the front lawn where he didn't want me; he was cross. i remember somebody taking me around the house, and thats all,-all that i can remember of the old virginia home where my folks had belonged for several generations." "i've pastored large churches in louisville and st. louis. in ohio i have been at glendale, and at oxford,--other places. this old place was for sale on the court house steps one day when i happened to be in lebanon. five acres, yes ma'm. there's the corner stone with --age of the house. my sight is poor, can't read, so i do not try to preach much anymore, but i help in church in any way that i am needed, keep busy and happy always! i am able to garden and enjoy life every day. certainly my life has been a fortunate one in my mother's belonging to miss frances cree. i have been a minister some forty years. i graduated from wilberforce college." this colored minister has a five acre plot of ground and an old brick house located at the corporation line of the village of lebanon. he is a medium sized man. talks very fast. a writer could turn in about pages on an interview with him, but he is very much in earnest about his beliefs. he seems to be rather nervous and has very poor sight. his wife is yellow in color, and has a decidedly oriental cast of face. she is as silent, as he is talkative, and from general appearances of her home she is a very neat housekeeper. neither of them speak in dialect at all. wade glenn does not speak in dialect, although he is from north carolina. ex-slaves stark county, district aug , william williams, ex-slave interview with william williams, rex ave. s.e. canton, o. "i was born a slave in caswell county, north carolina, april , . my mother's name was sarah hunt and her master's name was taz hunt. i did not know who my father was until after the war. when i was about years old i went to work on a farm for thomas williams and he told me he was my father. when i was born he was a slave on the plantation next to hunt's place and was owned by john jefferson. jefferson sold my father after i was born but i do not know his last master's name. my father and mother were never married. they just had the permission of the two slave owners to live together and i became the property of my father's master, john jefferson until i was sold. after the war my mother joined my father on his little farm and it was then i first learned he was my father. i was sold when i was years old but i don't remember the name of the man that bought me. after the war my father got acres and a team of mules to farm on shares, the master furnishing the food for the first year and at the end of the second year he had the privilege of buying the land at $ . per acre. when i was a boy i played with other slave children and sometimes with the master's children and what little education i have i got from them. no, i can't read or write but i can figure 'like the devil'. the plantation of john jefferson was one of the biggest in the south, it had acres and he owned about slaves. i was too young to remember anything about the slave days although i do remember that i never saw a pair of shoes until i was old enough to work. my father was a cobbler and i used to have to whittle out shoe pegs for him and i had to walk sometimes six miles to get pine knots which we lit at night so my mother could see to work. i did not stay with my father and mother long as i was only about when i started north. i worked for farmers every place i could find work and sometimes would work a month or maybe two. the last farmer i worked for i stayed a year and i got my board and room and five dollars a month which was paid at the end of every six months. i stayed in pennsylvania for some years and came to canton in . i have always worked at farm work except now and then in a factory. i had two brothers, dan and tom, and one sister, dora, but i never heard from them or saw them after the war. i have been married twice. my first wife was sally dillis blaire and we were married in . i got a divorce a few years later and i don't know whatever became of her. my second wife is still living. her name was kattie belle reed and i married her in . no, i never had any children. i don't believe i had a bed when i was a slave as i don't remember any. at home, after the war, my mother and father's bed was made of wood with ropes stretched across with a straw tick on top. 'us kids' slept under this bed on a 'trundle' bed so that at night my mother could just reach down and look after any one of us if we were sick or anything. i was raised on ash cakes, yams and butter milk. these ash cakes were small balls made of dough and my mother would rake the ashes out of the fire place and lay these balls on the hot coals and then cover them over with the ashes again. when they were done we would take 'em out, clean off the ashes and eat them. we used to cook chicken by first cleaning it, but leaving the feathers on, then cover it with clay and lay it in a hole filled with hot coals. when it was done we would just knock off the clay and the feathers would come off with it. when i was a 'kid' i wore nothing but a 'three cornered rag' and my mother made all my clothes as i grew older. no, the slaves never knew what underwear was. we didn't have any clocks to go by; we just went to work when it was light enough and quit when it was too dark to see. when any slaves took sick they called in a nigger mammy who used roots and herbs, that is, unless they were bad sick, then the overseer would call a regular doctor. when some slave died no one quit work except relatives and they stopped just long enough to go to the funeral. the coffins were made on the plantation, these were just rough pine board boxes, and the bodies were buried in the grave yard on the plantation. the overseer on the jefferson plantation, so my father told me, would not allow the slaves to pray and i never saw a bible until after i came north. this overseer was not a religious man and would whip a slave if he found him praying. the slaves were allowed to sing and dance but were not allowed to play games, but we did play marbles and cards on the quiet. if we wandered too far from the plantation we were chased and when they caught us they put us in the stockade. some of the slaves escaped and as soon as the overseer found this out they would turn the blood hounds loose. if they caught any runaway slaves they would whip them and then sell them, they would never keep a slave who tried to run away." note: mr. williams and his wife are supported by the old age pension. interviewed by chas. mccullough. the triumph of the egg a book of impressions from american life in tales and poems by sherwood anderson in clay by tennessee mitchell in the fields seeds on the air floating. in the towns black smoke for a shroud. in my breast understanding awake. _mid american chants_. to robert and john anderson tales are people who sit on the doorstep of the house of my mind. it is cold outside and they sit waiting. i look out at a window. the tales have cold hands, their hands are freezing. a short thickly-built tale arises and threshes his arms about. his nose is red and he has two gold teeth. there is an old female tale sitting hunched up in a cloak. many tales come to sit for a few moments on the doorstep and then go away. it is too cold for them outside. the street before the door of the house of my mind is filled with tales. they murmur and cry out, they are dying of cold and hunger. i am a helpless man--my hands tremble. i should be sitting on a bench like a tailor. i should be weaving warm cloth out of the threads of thought. the tales should be clothed. they are freezing on the doorstep of the house of my mind. i am a helpless man--my hands tremble. i feel in the darkness but cannot find the doorknob. i look out at a window. many tales are dying in the street before the house of my mind. contents the dumb man i want to know why seeds the other woman the egg unlighted lamps senility the man in the brown coat brothers the door of the trap the new englander war motherhood out of nowhere into nothing the man with the trumpet the dumb man there is a story.--i cannot tell it.--i have no words. the story is almost forgotten but sometimes i remember. the story concerns three men in a house in a street. if i could say the words i would sing the story. i would whisper it into the ears of women, of mothers. i would run through the streets saying it over and over. my tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth. the three men are in a room in the house. one is young and dandified. he continually laughs. there is a second man who has a long white beard. he is consumed with doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps. a third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously about the room rubbing his hands together. the three men are waiting-- waiting. upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall, in half darkness by a window. that is the foundation of my story and everything i will ever know is distilled in it. i remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man. everything was as silent as the sea at night. his feet on the stone floor of the room where the three men were made no sound. the man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid--he ran back and forth like a caged animal. the old grey man was infected by his nervousness--he kept pulling at his beard. the fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman. there she was--waiting. how silent the house was--how loudly all the clocks in the neighborhood ticked. the woman upstairs craved love. that must have been the story. she hungered for love with her whole being. she wanted to create in love. when the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward. her lips were parted. there was a smile on her lips. the white one said nothing. in his eyes there was no rebuke, no question. his eyes were as impersonal as stars. down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost hungry dog. the grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. he never awoke again. the dandified fellow lay on the floor too. he laughed and played with his tiny black mustache. i have no words to tell what happened in my story. i cannot tell the story. the white silent one may have been death. the waiting eager woman may have been life. both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. i think and think but cannot understand them. most of the time however i do not think of them at all. i keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed all through my story. if i could understand him i could understand everything. i could run through the world telling a wonderful story. i would no longer be dumb. why was i not given words? why am i dumb? i have a wonderful story to tell but know no way to tell it. i want to know why we got up at four in the morning, that first day in the east. on the evening before we had climbed off a freight train at the edge of town, and with the true instinct of kentucky boys had found our way across town and to the race track and the stables at once. then we knew we were all right. hanley turner right away found a nigger we knew. it was bildad johnson who in the winter works at ed becker's livery barn in our home town, beckersville. bildad is a good cook as almost all our niggers are and of course he, like everyone in our part of kentucky who is anyone at all, likes the horses. in the spring bildad begins to scratch around. a nigger from our country can flatter and wheedle anyone into letting him do most anything he wants. bildad wheedles the stable men and the trainers from the horse farms in our country around lexington. the trainers come into town in the evening to stand around and talk and maybe get into a poker game. bildad gets in with them. he is always doing little favors and telling about things to eat, chicken browned in a pan, and how is the best way to cook sweet potatoes and corn bread. it makes your mouth water to hear him. when the racing season comes on and the horses go to the races and there is all the talk on the streets in the evenings about the new colts, and everyone says when they are going over to lexington or to the spring meeting at churchhill downs or to latonia, and the horsemen that have been down to new orleans or maybe at the winter meeting at havana in cuba come home to spend a week before they start out again, at such a time when everything talked about in beckersville is just horses and nothing else and the outfits start out and horse racing is in every breath of air you breathe, bildad shows up with a job as cook for some outfit. often when i think about it, his always going all season to the races and working in the livery barn in the winter where horses are and where men like to come and talk about horses, i wish i was a nigger. it's a foolish thing to say, but that's the way i am about being around horses, just crazy. i can't help it. well, i must tell you about what we did and let you in on what i'm talking about. four of us boys from beckersville, all whites and sons of men who live in beckersville regular, made up our minds we were going to the races, not just to lexington or louisville, i don't mean, but to the big eastern track we were always hearing our beckersville men talk about, to saratoga. we were all pretty young then. i was just turned fifteen and i was the oldest of the four. it was my scheme. i admit that and i talked the others into trying it. there was hanley turner and henry rieback and tom tumberton and myself. i had thirty- seven dollars i had earned during the winter working nights and saturdays in enoch myer's grocery. henry rieback had eleven dollars and the others, hanley and tom had only a dollar or two each. we fixed it all up and laid low until the kentucky spring meetings were over and some of our men, the sportiest ones, the ones we envied the most, had cut out--then we cut out too. i won't tell you the trouble we had beating our way on freights and all. we went through cleveland and buffalo and other cities and saw niagara falls. we bought things there, souvenirs and spoons and cards and shells with pictures of the falls on them for our sisters and mothers, but thought we had better not send any of the things home. we didn't want to put the folks on our trail and maybe be nabbed. we got into saratoga as i said at night and went to the track. bildad fed us up. he showed us a place to sleep in hay over a shed and promised to keep still. niggers are all right about things like that. they won't squeal on you. often a white man you might meet, when you had run away from home like that, might appear to be all right and give you a quarter or a half dollar or something, and then go right and give you away. white men will do that, but not a nigger. you can trust them. they are squarer with kids. i don't know why. at the saratoga meeting that year there were a lot of men from home. dave williams and arthur mulford and jerry myers and others. then there was a lot from louisville and lexington henry rieback knew but i didn't. they were professional gamblers and henry rieback's father is one too. he is what is called a sheet writer and goes away most of the year to tracks. in the winter when he is home in beckersville he don't stay there much but goes away to cities and deals faro. he is a nice man and generous, is always sending henry presents, a bicycle and a gold watch and a boy scout suit of clothes and things like that. my own father is a lawyer. he's all right, but don't make much money and can't buy me things and anyway i'm getting so old now i don't expect it. he never said nothing to me against henry, but hanley turner and tom tumberton's fathers did. they said to their boys that money so come by is no good and they didn't want their boys brought up to hear gamblers' talk and be thinking about such things and maybe embrace them. that's all right and i guess the men know what they are talking about, but i don't see what it's got to do with henry or with horses either. that's what i'm writing this story about. i'm puzzled. i'm getting to be a man and want to think straight and be o. k., and there's something i saw at the race meeting at the eastern track i can't figure out. i can't help it, i'm crazy about thoroughbred horses. i've always been that way. when i was ten years old and saw i was growing to be big and couldn't be a rider i was so sorry i nearly died. harry hellinfinger in beckersville, whose father is postmaster, is grown up and too lazy to work, but likes to stand around in the street and get up jokes on boys like sending them to a hardware store for a gimlet to bore square holes and other jokes like that. he played one on me. he told me that if i would eat a half a cigar i would be stunted and not grow any more and maybe could be a rider. i did it. when father wasn't looking i took a cigar out of his pocket and gagged it down some way. it made me awful sick and the doctor had to be sent for, and then it did no good. i kept right on growing. it was a joke. when i told what i had done and why most fathers would have whipped me but mine didn't. well, i didn't get stunted and didn't die. it serves harry hellinfinger right. then i made up my mind i would like to be a stable boy, but had to give that up too. mostly niggers do that work and i knew father wouldn't let me go into it. no use to ask him. if you've never been crazy about thoroughbreds it's because you've never been around where they are much and don't know any better. they're beautiful. there isn't anything so lovely and clean and full of spunk and honest and everything as some race horses. on the big horse farms that are all around our town beckersville there are tracks and the horses run in the early morning. more than a thousand times i've got out of bed before daylight and walked two or three miles to the tracks. mother wouldn't of let me go but father always says, "let him alone." so i got some bread out of the bread box and some butter and jam, gobbled it and lit out. at the tracks you sit on the fence with men, whites and niggers, and they chew tobacco and talk, and then the colts are brought out. it's early and the grass is covered with shiny dew and in another field a man is plowing and they are frying things in a shed where the track niggers sleep, and you know how a nigger can giggle and laugh and say things that make you laugh. a white man can't do it and some niggers can't but a track nigger can every time. and so the colts are brought out and some are just galloped by stable boys, but almost every morning on a big track owned by a rich man who lives maybe in new york, there are always, nearly every morning, a few colts and some of the old race horses and geldings and mares that are cut loose. it brings a lump up into my throat when a horse runs. i don't mean all horses but some. i can pick them nearly every time. it's in my blood like in the blood of race track niggers and trainers. even when they just go slop-jogging along with a little nigger on their backs i can tell a winner. if my throat hurts and it's hard for me to swallow, that's him. he'll run like sam hill when you let him out. if he don't win every time it'll be a wonder and because they've got him in a pocket behind another or he was pulled or got off bad at the post or something. if i wanted to be a gambler like henry rieback's father i could get rich. i know i could and henry says so too. all i would have to do is to wait 'til that hurt comes when i see a horse and then bet every cent. that's what i would do if i wanted to be a gambler, but i don't. when you're at the tracks in the morning--not the race tracks but the training tracks around beckersville--you don't see a horse, the kind i've been talking about, very often, but it's nice anyway. any thoroughbred, that is sired right and out of a good mare and trained by a man that knows how, can run. if he couldn't what would he be there for and not pulling a plow? well, out of the stables they come and the boys are on their backs and it's lovely to be there. you hunch down on top of the fence and itch inside you. over in the sheds the niggers giggle and sing. bacon is being fried and coffee made. everything smells lovely. nothing smells better than coffee and manure and horses and niggers and bacon frying and pipes being smoked out of doors on a morning like that. it just gets you, that's what it does. but about saratoga. we was there six days and not a soul from home seen us and everything came off just as we wanted it to, fine weather and horses and races and all. we beat our way home and bildad gave us a basket with fried chicken and bread and other eatables in, and i had eighteen dollars when we got back to beckersville. mother jawed and cried but pop didn't say much. i told everything we done except one thing. i did and saw that alone. that's what i'm writing about. it got me upset. i think about it at night. here it is. at saratoga we laid up nights in the hay in the shed bildad had showed us and ate with the niggers early and at night when the race people had all gone away. the men from home stayed mostly in the grandstand and betting field, and didn't come out around the places where the horses are kept except to the paddocks just before a race when the horses are saddled. at saratoga they don't have paddocks under an open shed as at lexington and churchill downs and other tracks down in our country, but saddle the horses right out in an open place under trees on a lawn as smooth and nice as banker bohon's front yard here in beckersville. it's lovely. the horses are sweaty and nervous and shine and the men come out and smoke cigars and look at them and the trainers are there and the owners, and your heart thumps so you can hardly breathe. then the bugle blows for post and the boys that ride come running out with their silk clothes on and you run to get a place by the fence with the niggers. i always am wanting to be a trainer or owner, and at the risk of being seen and caught and sent home i went to the paddocks before every race. the other boys didn't but i did. we got to saratoga on a friday and on wednesday the next week the big mullford handicap was to be run. middlestride was in it and sunstreak. the weather was fine and the track fast. i couldn't sleep the night before. what had happened was that both these horses are the kind it makes my throat hurt to see. middlestride is long and looks awkward and is a gelding. he belongs to joe thompson, a little owner from home who only has a half dozen horses. the mullford handicap is for a mile and middlestride can't untrack fast. he goes away slow and is always way back at the half, then he begins to run and if the race is a mile and a quarter he'll just eat up everything and get there. sunstreak is different. he is a stallion and nervous and belongs on the biggest farm we've got in our country, the van riddle place that belongs to mr. van riddle of new york. sunstreak is like a girl you think about sometimes but never see. he is hard all over and lovely too. when you look at his head you want to kiss him. he is trained by jerry tillford who knows me and has been good to me lots of times, lets me walk into a horse's stall to look at him close and other things. there isn't anything as sweet as that horse. he stands at the post quiet and not letting on, but he is just burning up inside. then when the barrier goes up he is off like his name, sunstreak. it makes you ache to see him. it hurts you. he just lays down and runs like a bird dog. there can't anything i ever see run like him except middlestride when he gets untracked and stretches himself. gee! i ached to see that race and those two horses run, ached and dreaded it too. i didn't want to see either of our horses beaten. we had never sent a pair like that to the races before. old men in beckersville said so and the niggers said so. it was a fact. before the race i went over to the paddocks to see. i looked a last look at middlestride, who isn't such a much standing in a paddock that way, then i went to see sunstreak. it was his day. i knew when i see him. i forgot all about being seen myself and walked right up. all the men from beckersville were there and no one noticed me except jerry tillford. he saw me and something happened. i'll tell you about that. i was standing looking at that horse and aching. in some way, i can't tell how, i knew just how sunstreak felt inside. he was quiet and letting the niggers rub his legs and mr. van riddle himself put the saddle on, but he was just a raging torrent inside. he was like the water in the river at niagara falls just before its goes plunk down. that horse wasn't thinking about running. he don't have to think about that. he was just thinking about holding himself back 'til the time for the running came. i knew that. i could just in a way see right inside him. he was going to do some awful running and i knew it. he wasn't bragging or letting on much or prancing or making a fuss, but just waiting. i knew it and jerry tillford his trainer knew. i looked up and then that man and i looked into each other's eyes. something happened to me. i guess i loved the man as much as i did the horse because he knew what i knew. seemed to me there wasn't anything in the world but that man and the horse and me. i cried and jerry tillford had a shine in his eyes. then i came away to the fence to wait for the race. the horse was better than me, more steadier, and now i know better than jerry. he was the quietest and he had to do the running. sunstreak ran first of course and he busted the world's record for a mile. i've seen that if i never see anything more. everything came out just as i expected. middlestride got left at the post and was way back and closed up to be second, just as i knew he would. he'll get a world's record too some day. they can't skin the beckersville country on horses. i watched the race calm because i knew what would happen. i was sure. hanley turner and henry rieback and tom tumberton were all more excited than me. a funny thing had happened to me. i was thinking about jerry tillford the trainer and how happy he was all through the race. i liked him that afternoon even more than i ever liked my own father. i almost forgot the horses thinking that way about him. it was because of what i had seen in his eyes as he stood in the paddocks beside sunstreak before the race started. i knew he had been watching and working with sunstreak since the horse was a baby colt, had taught him to run and be patient and when to let himself out and not to quit, never. i knew that for him it was like a mother seeing her child do something brave or wonderful. it was the first time i ever felt for a man like that. after the race that night i cut out from tom and hanley and henry. i wanted to be by myself and i wanted to be near jerry tillford if i could work it. here is what happened. the track in saratoga is near the edge of town. it is all polished up and trees around, the evergreen kind, and grass and everything painted and nice. if you go past the track you get to a hard road made of asphalt for automobiles, and if you go along this for a few miles there is a road turns off to a little rummy-looking farm house set in a yard. that night after the race i went along that road because i had seen jerry and some other men go that way in an automobile. i didn't expect to find them. i walked for a ways and then sat down by a fence to think. it was the direction they went in. i wanted to be as near jerry as i could. i felt close to him. pretty soon i went up the side road--i don't know why--and came to the rummy farm house. i was just lonesome to see jerry, like wanting to see your father at night when you are a young kid. just then an automobile came along and turned in. jerry was in it and henry rieback's father, and arthur bedford from home, and dave williams and two other men i didn't know. they got out of the car and went into the house, all but henry rieback's father who quarreled with them and said he wouldn't go. it was only about nine o'clock, but they were all drunk and the rummy looking farm house was a place for bad women to stay in. that's what it was. i crept up along a fence and looked through a window and saw. it's what give me the fantods. i can't make it out. the women in the house were all ugly mean-looking women, not nice to look at or be near. they were homely too, except one who was tall and looked a little like the gelding middlestride, but not clean like him, but with a hard ugly mouth. she had red hair. i saw everything plain. i got up by an old rose bush by an open window and looked. the women had on loose dresses and sat around in chairs. the men came in and some sat on the women's laps. the place smelled rotten and there was rotten talk, the kind a kid hears around a livery stable in a town like beckersville in the winter but don't ever expect to hear talked when there are women around. it was rotten. a nigger wouldn't go into such a place. i looked at jerry tillford. i've told you how i had been feeling about him on account of his knowing what was going on inside of sunstreak in the minute before he went to the post for the race in which he made a world's record. jerry bragged in that bad woman house as i know sunstreak wouldn't never have bragged. he said that he made that horse, that it was him that won the race and made the record. he lied and bragged like a fool. i never heard such silly talk. and then, what do you suppose he did! he looked at the woman in there, the one that was lean and hard-mouthed and looked a little like the gelding middlestride, but not clean like him, and his eyes began to shine just as they did when he looked at me and at sunstreak in the paddocks at the track in the afternoon. i stood there by the window-- gee!--but i wished i hadn't gone away from the tracks, but had stayed with the boys and the niggers and the horses. the tall rotten looking woman was between us just as sunstreak was in the paddocks in the afternoon. then, all of a sudden, i began to hate that man. i wanted to scream and rush in the room and kill him. i never had such a feeling before. i was so mad clean through that i cried and my fists were doubled up so my finger nails cut my hands. and jerry's eyes kept shining and he waved back and forth, and then he went and kissed that woman and i crept away and went back to the tracks and to bed and didn't sleep hardly any, and then next day i got the other kids to start home with me and never told them anything i seen. i been thinking about it ever since. i can't make it out. spring has come again and i'm nearly sixteen and go to the tracks mornings same as always, and i see sunstreak and middlestride and a new colt named strident i'll bet will lay them all out, but no one thinks so but me and two or three niggers. but things are different. at the tracks the air don't taste as good or smell as good. it's because a man like jerry tillford, who knows what he does, could see a horse like sunstreak run, and kiss a woman like that the same day. i can't make it out. darn him, what did he want to do like that for? i keep thinking about it and it spoils looking at horses and smelling things and hearing niggers laugh and everything. sometimes i'm so mad about it i want to fight someone. it gives me the fantods. what did he do it for? i want to know why. seeds he was a small man with a beard and was very nervous. i remember how the cords of his neck were drawn taut. for years he had been trying to cure people of illness by the method called psychoanalysis. the idea was the passion of his life. "i came here because i am tired," he said dejectedly. "my body is not tired but something inside me is old and worn-out. i want joy. for a few days or weeks i would like to forget men and women and the influences that make them the sick things they are." there is a note that comes into the human voice by which you may know real weariness. it comes when one has been trying with all his heart and soul to think his way along some difficult road of thought. of a sudden he finds himself unable to go on. something within him stops. a tiny explosion takes place. he bursts into words and talks, perhaps foolishly. little side currents of his nature he didn't know were there run out and get themselves expressed. it is at such times that a man boasts, uses big words, makes a fool of himself in general. and so it was the doctor became shrill. he jumped up from the steps where we had been sitting, talking and walked about. "you come from the west. you have kept away from people. you have preserved yourself--damn you! i haven't--" his voice had indeed become shrill. "i have entered into lives. i have gone beneath the surface of the lives of men and women. women especially i have studied--our own women, here in america." "you have loved them?" i suggested. "yes," he said. "yes--you are right there. i have done that. it is the only way i can get at things. i have to try to love. you see how that is? it's the only way. love must be the beginning of things with me." i began to sense the depths of his weariness. "we will go swim in the lake," i urged. "i don't want to swim or do any damn plodding thing. i want to run and shout," he declared. "for awhile, for a few hours, i want to be like a dead leaf blown by the winds over these hills. i have one desire and one only--to free myself." we walked in a dusty country road. i wanted him to know that i thought i understood, so i put the case in my own way. when he stopped and stared at me i talked. "you are no more and no better than myself," i declared. "you are a dog that has rolled in offal, and because you are not quite a dog you do not like the smell of your own hide." in turn my voice became shrill. "you blind fool," i cried impatiently. "men like you are fools. you cannot go along that road. it is given to no man to venture far along the road of lives." i became passionately in earnest. "the illness you pretend to cure is the universal illness," i said. "the thing you want to do cannot be done. fool--do you expect love to be understood?" we stood in the road and looked at each other. the suggestion of a sneer played about the corners of his mouth. he put a hand on my shoulder and shook me. "how smart we are--how aptly we put things!" he spat the words out and then turned and walked a little away. "you think you understand, but you don't understand," he cried. "what you say can't be done can be done. you're a liar. you cannot be so definite without missing something vague and fine. you miss the whole point. the lives of people are like young trees in a forest. they are being choked by climbing vines. the vines are old thoughts and beliefs planted by dead men. i am myself covered by crawling creeping vines that choke me." he laughed bitterly. "and that's why i want to run and play," he said. "i want to be a leaf blown by the wind over hills. i want to die and be born again, and i am only a tree covered with vines and slowly dying. i am, you see, weary and want to be made clean. i am an amateur venturing timidly into lives," he concluded. "i am weary and want to be made clean. i am covered by creeping crawling things." * * * * * a woman from iowa came here to chicago and took a room in a house on the west-side. she was about twenty-seven years old and ostensibly she came to the city to study advanced methods for teaching music. a certain young man also lived in the west-side house. his room faced a long hall on the second floor of the house and the one taken by the woman was across the hall facing his room. in regard to the young man--there is something very sweet in his nature. he is a painter but i have often wished he would decide to become a writer. he tells things with understanding and he does not paint brilliantly. and so the woman from iowa lived in the west-side house and came home from the city in the evening. she looked like a thousand other women one sees in the streets every day. the only thing that at all made her stand out among the women in the crowds was that she was a little lame. her right foot was slightly deformed and she walked with a limp. for three months she lived in the house--where she was the only woman except the landlady--and then a feeling in regard to her began to grow up among the men of the house. the men all said the same thing concerning her. when they met in the hallway at the front of the house they stopped, laughed and whispered. "she wants a lover," they said and winked. "she may not know it but a lover is what she needs." one knowing chicago and chicago men would think that an easy want to be satisfied. i laughed when my friend--whose name is leroy--told me the story, but he did not laugh. he shook his head. "it wasn't so easy," he said. "there would be no story were the matter that simple." leroy tried to explain. "whenever a man approached her she became alarmed," he said. men kept smiling and speaking to her. they invited her to dinner and to the theatre, but nothing would induce her to walk in the streets with a man. she never went into the streets at night. when a man stopped and tried to talk with her in the hallway she turned her eyes to the floor and then ran into her room. once a young drygoods clerk who lived there induced her to sit with him on the steps before the house. he was a sentimental fellow and took hold of her hand. when she began to cry he was alarmed and arose. he put a hand on her shoulder and tried to explain, but under the touch of his fingers her whole body shook with terror. "don't touch me," she cried, "don't let your hands touch me!" she began to scream and people passing in the street stopped to listen. the drygoods clerk was alarmed and ran upstairs to his own room. he bolted the door and stood listening. "it is a trick," he declared in a trembling voice. "she is trying to make trouble. i did nothing to her. it was an accident and anyway what's the matter? i only touched her arm with my fingers." perhaps a dozen times leroy has spoken to me of the experience of the iowa woman in the west-side house. the men there began to hate her. although she would have nothing to do with them she would not let them alone. in a hundred ways she continually invited approaches that when made she repelled. when she stood naked in the bathroom facing the hallway where the men passed up and down she left the door slightly ajar. there was a couch in the living room down stairs, and when men were present she would sometimes enter and without saying a word throw herself down before them. on the couch she lay with lips drawn slightly apart. her eyes stared at the ceiling. her whole physical being seemed to be waiting for something. the sense of her filled the room. the men standing about pretended not to see. they talked loudly. embarrassment took possession of them and one by one they crept quietly away. one evening the woman was ordered to leave the house. someone, perhaps the drygoods clerk, had talked to the landlady and she acted at once. "if you leave tonight i shall like it that much better," leroy heard the elder woman's voice saying. she stood in the hallway before the iowa woman's room. the landlady's voice rang through the house. leroy the painter is tall and lean and his life has been spent in devotion to ideas. the passions of his brain have consumed the passions of his body. his income is small and he has not married. perhaps he has never had a sweetheart. he is not without physical desire but he is not primarily concerned with desire. on the evening when the iowa woman was ordered to leave the west-side house, she waited until she thought the landlady had gone down stairs, and then went into leroy's room. it was about eight o'clock and he sat by a window reading a book. the woman did not knock but opened the door. she said nothing but ran across the floor and knelt at his feet. leroy said that her twisted foot made her run like a wounded bird, that her eyes were burning and that her breath came in little gasps. "take me," she said, putting her face down upon his knees and trembling violently. "take me quickly. there must be a beginning to things. i can't stand the waiting. you must take me at once." you may be quite sure leroy was perplexed by all this. from what he has said i gathered that until that evening he had hardly noticed the woman. i suppose that of all the men in the house he had been the most indifferent to her. in the room something happened. the landlady followed the woman when she ran to leroy, and the two women confronted him. the woman from iowa knelt trembling and frightened at his feet. the landlady was indignant. leroy acted on impulse. an inspiration came to him. putting his hand on the kneeling woman's shoulder he shook her violently. "now behave yourself," he said quickly. "i will keep my promise." he turned to the landlady and smiled. "we have been engaged to be married," he said. "we have quarreled. she came here to be near me. she has been unwell and excited. i will take her away. please don't let yourself be annoyed. i will take her away." when the woman and leroy got out of the house she stopped weeping and put her hand into his. her fears had all gone away. he found a room for her in another house and then went with her into a park and sat on a bench. * * * * * everything leroy has told me concerning this woman strengthens my belief in what i said to the man that day in the mountains. you cannot venture along the road of lives. on the bench he and the woman talked until midnight and he saw and talked with her many times later. nothing came of it. she went back, i suppose, to her place in the west. in the place from which she had come the woman had been a teacher of music. she was one of four sisters, all engaged in the same sort of work and, leroy says, all quiet capable women. their father had died when the eldest girl was not yet ten, and five years later the mother died also. the girls had a house and a garden. in the nature of things i cannot know what the lives of the women were like but of this one may be quite certain--they talked only of women's affairs, thought only of women's affairs. no one of them ever had a lover. for years no man came near the house. of them all only the youngest, the one who came to chicago, was visibly affected by the utterly feminine quality of their lives. it did something to her. all day and every day she taught music to young girls and then went home to the women. when she was twenty-five she began to think and to dream of men. during the day and through the evening she talked with women of women's affairs, and all the time she wanted desperately to be loved by a man. she went to chicago with that hope in mind. leroy explained her attitude in the matter and her strange behavior in the west-side house by saying she had thought too much and acted too little. "the life force within her became decentralized," he declared. "what she wanted she could not achieve. the living force within could not find expression. when it could not get expressed in one way it took another. sex spread itself out over her body. it permeated the very fibre of her being. at the last she was sex personified, sex become condensed and impersonal. certain words, the touch of a man's hand, sometimes even the sight of a man passing in the street did something to her." * * * * * yesterday i saw leroy and he talked to me again of the woman and her strange and terrible fate. we walked in the park by the lake. as we went along the figure of the woman kept coming into my mind. an idea came to me. "you might have been her lover," i said. "that was possible. she was not afraid of you." leroy stopped. like the doctor who was so sure of his ability to walk into lives he grew angry and scolded. for a moment he stared at me and then a rather odd thing happened. words said by the other man in the dusty road in the hills came to leroy's lips and were said over again. the suggestion of a sneer played about the corners of his mouth. "how smart we are. how aptly we put things," he said. the voice of the young man who walked with me in the park by the lake in the city became shrill. i sensed the weariness in him. then he laughed and said quietly and softly, "it isn't so simple. by being sure of yourself you are in danger of losing all of the romance of life. you miss the whole point. nothing in life can be settled so definitely. the woman--you see--was like a young tree choked by a climbing vine. the thing that wrapped her about had shut out the light. she was a grotesque as many trees in the forest are grotesques. her problem was such a difficult one that thinking of it has changed the whole current of my life. at first i was like you. i was quite sure. i thought i would be her lover and settle the matter." leroy turned and walked a little away. then he came back and took hold of my arm. a passionate earnestness took possession of him. his voice trembled. "she needed a lover, yes, the men in the house were quite right about that," he said. "she needed a lover and at the same time a lover was not what she needed. the need of a lover was, after all, a quite secondary thing. she needed to be loved, to be long and quietly and patiently loved. to be sure she is a grotesque, but then all the people in the world are grotesques. we all need to be loved. what would cure her would cure the rest of us also. the disease she had is, you see, universal. we all want to be loved and the world has no plan for creating our lovers." leroy's voice dropped and he walked beside me in silence. we turned away from the lake and walked under trees. i looked closely at him. the cords of his neck were drawn taut. "i have seen under the shell of life and i am afraid," he mused. "i am myself like the woman. i am covered with creeping crawling vine-like things. i cannot be a lover. i am not subtle or patient enough. i am paying old debts. old thoughts and beliefs--seeds planted by dead men--spring up in my soul and choke me." for a long time we walked and leroy talked, voicing the thoughts that came into his mind. i listened in silence. his mind struck upon the refrain voiced by the man in the mountains. "i would like to be a dead dry thing," he muttered looking at the leaves scattered over the grass. "i would like to be a leaf blown away by the wind." he looked up and his eyes turned to where among the trees we could see the lake in the distance. "i am weary and want to be made clean. i am a man covered by creeping crawling things. i would like to be dead and blown by the wind over limitless waters," he said. "i want more than anything else in the world to be clean." the other woman "i am in love with my wife," he said--a superfluous remark, as i had not questioned his attachment to the woman he had married. we walked for ten minutes and then he said it again. i turned to look at him. he began to talk and told me the tale i am now about to set down. the thing he had on his mind happened during what must have been the most eventful week of his life. he was to be married on friday afternoon. on friday of the week before he got a telegram announcing his appointment to a government position. something else happened that made him very proud and glad. in secret he was in the habit of writing verses and during the year before several of them had been printed in poetry magazines. one of the societies that give prizes for what they think the best poems published during the year put his name at the head of its list. the story of his triumph was printed in the newspapers of his home city and one of them also printed his picture. as might have been expected he was excited and in a rather highly strung nervous state all during that week. almost every evening he went to call on his fiancée, the daughter of a judge. when he got there the house was filled with people and many letters, telegrams and packages were being received. he stood a little to one side and men and women kept coming up to speak to him. they congratulated him upon his success in getting the government position and on his achievement as a poet. everyone seemed to be praising him and when he went home and to bed he could not sleep. on wednesday evening he went to the theatre and it seemed to him that people all over the house recognized him. everyone nodded and smiled. after the first act five or six men and two women left their seats to gather about him. a little group was formed. strangers sitting along the same row of seats stretched their necks and looked. he had never received so much attention before, and now a fever of expectancy took possession of him. as he explained when he told me of his experience, it was for him an altogether abnormal time. he felt like one floating in air. when he got into bed after seeing so many people and hearing so many words of praise his head whirled round and round. when he closed his eyes a crowd of people invaded his room. it seemed as though the minds of all the people of his city were centred on himself. the most absurd fancies took possession of him. he imagined himself riding in a carriage through the streets of a city. windows were thrown open and people ran out at the doors of houses. "there he is. that's him," they shouted, and at the words a glad cry arose. the carriage drove into a street blocked with people. a hundred thousand pairs of eyes looked up at him. "there you are! what a fellow you have managed to make of yourself!" the eyes seemed to be saying. my friend could not explain whether the excitement of the people was due to the fact that he had written a new poem or whether, in his new government position, he had performed some notable act. the apartment where he lived at that time was on a street perched along the top of a cliff far out at the edge of his city, and from his bedroom window he could look down over trees and factory roofs to a river. as he could not sleep and as the fancies that kept crowding in upon him only made him more excited, he got out of bed and tried to think. as would be natural under such circumstances, he tried to control his thoughts, but when he sat by the window and was wide awake a most unexpected and humiliating thing happened. the night was clear and fine. there was a moon. he wanted to dream of the woman who was to be his wife, to think out lines for noble poems or make plans that would affect his career. much to his surprise his mind refused to do anything of the sort. at a corner of the street where he lived there was a small cigar store and newspaper stand run by a fat man of forty and his wife, a small active woman with bright grey eyes. in the morning he stopped there to buy a paper before going down to the city. sometimes he saw only the fat man, but often the man had disappeared and the woman waited on him. she was, as he assured me at least twenty times in telling me his tale, a very ordinary person with nothing special or notable about her, but for some reason he could not explain, being in her presence stirred him profoundly. during that week in the midst of his distraction she was the only person he knew who stood out clear and distinct in his mind. when he wanted so much to think noble thoughts he could think only of her. before he knew what was happening his imagination had taken hold of the notion of having a love affair with the woman. "i could not understand myself," he declared, in telling me the story. "at night, when the city was quiet and when i should have been asleep, i thought about her all the time. after two or three days of that sort of thing the consciousness of her got into my daytime thoughts. i was terribly muddled. when i went to see the woman who is now my wife i found that my love for her was in no way affected by my vagrant thoughts. there was but one woman in the world i wanted to live with and to be my comrade in undertaking to improve my own character and my position in the world, but for the moment, you see, i wanted this other woman to be in my arms. she had worked her way into my being. on all sides people were saying i was a big man who would do big things, and there i was. that evening when i went to the theatre i walked home because i knew i would be unable to sleep, and to satisfy the annoying impulse in myself i went and stood on the sidewalk before the tobacco shop. it was a two story building, and i knew the woman lived upstairs with her husband. for a long time i stood in the darkness with my body pressed against the wall of the building, and then i thought of the two of them up there and no doubt in bed together. that made me furious. "then i grew more furious with myself. i went home and got into bed, shaken with anger. there are certain books of verse and some prose writings that have always moved me deeply, and so i put several books on a table by my bed. "the voices in the books were like the voices of the dead. i did not hear them. the printed words would not penetrate into my consciousness. i tried to think of the woman i loved, but her figure had also become something far away, something with which i for the moment seemed to have nothing to do. i rolled and tumbled about in the bed. it was a miserable experience. "on thursday morning i went into the store. there stood the woman alone. i think she knew how i felt. perhaps she had been thinking of me as i had been thinking of her. a doubtful hesitating smile played about the corners of her mouth. she had on a dress made of cheap cloth and there was a tear on the shoulder. she must have been ten years older than myself. when i tried to put my pennies on the glass counter, behind which she stood, my hand trembled so that the pennies made a sharp rattling noise. when i spoke the voice that came out of my throat did not sound like anything that had ever belonged to me. it barely arose above a thick whisper. 'i want you,' i said. 'i want you very much. can't you run away from your husband? come to me at my apartment at seven tonight.' "the woman did come to my apartment at seven. that morning she didn't say anything at all. for a minute perhaps we stood looking at each other. i had forgotten everything in the world but just her. then she nodded her head and i went away. now that i think of it i cannot remember a word i ever heard her say. she came to my apartment at seven and it was dark. you must understand this was in the month of october. i had not lighted a light and i had sent my servant away. "during that day i was no good at all. several men came to see me at my office, but i got all muddled up in trying to talk with them. they attributed my rattle-headedness to my approaching marriage and went away laughing. "it was on that morning, just the day before my marriage, that i got a long and very beautiful letter from my fiancée. during the night before she also had been unable to sleep and had got out of bed to write the letter. everything she said in it was very sharp and real, but she herself, as a living thing, seemed to have receded into the distance. it seemed to me that she was like a bird, flying far away in distant skies, and that i was like a perplexed bare-footed boy standing in the dusty road before a farm house and looking at her receding figure. i wonder if you will understand what i mean? "in regard to the letter. in it she, the awakening woman, poured out her heart. she of course knew nothing of life, but she was a woman. she lay, i suppose, in her bed feeling nervous and wrought up as i had been doing. she realized that a great change was about to take place in her life and was glad and afraid too. there she lay thinking of it all. then she got out of bed and began talking to me on the bit of paper. she told me how afraid she was and how glad too. like most young women she had heard things whispered. in the letter she was very sweet and fine. 'for a long time, after we are married, we will forget we are a man and woman,' she wrote. 'we will be human beings. you must remember that i am ignorant and often i will be very stupid. you must love me and be very patient and kind. when i know more, when after a long time you have taught me the way of life, i will try to repay you. i will love you tenderly and passionately. the possibility of that is in me or i would not want to marry at all. i am afraid but i am also happy. o, i am so glad our marriage time is near at hand!' "now you see clearly enough what a mess i was in. in my office, after i had read my fiancée's letter, i became at once very resolute and strong. i remember that i got out of my chair and walked about, proud of the fact that i was to be the husband of so noble a woman. right away i felt concerning her as i had been feeling about myself before i found out what a weak thing i was. to be sure i took a strong resolution that i would not be weak. at nine that evening i had planned to run in to see my fiancée. 'i'm all right now,' i said to myself. 'the beauty of her character has saved me from myself. i will go home now and send the other woman away.' in the morning i had telephoned to my servant and told him that i did not want him to be at the apartment that evening and i now picked up the telephone to tell him to stay at home. "then a thought came to me. 'i will not want him there in any event,' i told myself. 'what will he think when he sees a woman coming in my place on the evening before the day i am to be married?' i put the telephone down and prepared to go home. 'if i want my servant out of the apartment it is because i do not want him to hear me talk with the woman. i cannot be rude to her. i will have to make some kind of an explanation,' i said to myself. "the woman came at seven o'clock, and, as you may have guessed, i let her in and forgot the resolution i had made. it is likely i never had any intention of doing anything else. there was a bell on my door, but she did not ring, but knocked very softly. it seems to me that everything she did that evening was soft and quiet, but very determined and quick. do i make myself clear? when she came i was standing just within the door where i had been standing and waiting for a half hour. my hands were trembling as they had trembled in the morning when her eyes looked at me and when i tried to put the pennies on the counter in the store. when i opened the door she stepped quickly in and i took her into my arms. we stood together in the darkness. my hands no longer trembled. i felt very happy and strong. "although i have tried to make everything clear i have not told you what the woman i married is like. i have emphasized, you see, the other woman. i make the blind statement that i love my wife, and to a man of your shrewdness that means nothing at all. to tell the truth, had i not started to speak of this matter i would feel more comfortable. it is inevitable that i give you the impression that i am in love with the tobacconist's wife. that's not true. to be sure i was very conscious of her all during the week before my marriage, but after she had come to me at my apartment she went entirely out of my mind. "am i telling the truth? i am trying very hard to tell what happened to me. i am saying that i have not since that evening thought of the woman who came to my apartment. now, to tell the facts of the case, that is not true. on that evening i went to my fiancée at nine, as she had asked me to do in her letter. in a kind of way i cannot explain the other woman went with me. this is what i mean--you see i had been thinking that if anything happened between me and the tobacconist's wife i would not be able to go through with my marriage. 'it is one thing or the other with me,' i had said to myself. "as a matter of fact i went to see my beloved on that evening filled with a new faith in the outcome of our life together. i am afraid i muddle this matter in trying to tell it. a moment ago i said the other woman, the tobacconist's wife, went with me. i do not mean she went in fact. what i am trying to say is that something of her faith in her own desires and her courage in seeing things through went with me. is that clear to you? when i got to my fiancée's house there was a crowd of people standing about. some were relatives from distant places i had not seen before. she looked up quickly when i came into the room. my face must have been radiant. i never saw her so moved. she thought her letter had affected me deeply, and of course it had. up she jumped and ran to meet me. she was like a glad child. right before the people who turned and looked inquiringly at us, she said the thing that was in her mind. 'o, i am so happy,' she cried. 'you have understood. we will be two human beings. we will not have to be husband and wife.' "as you may suppose everyone laughed, but i did not laugh. the tears came into my eyes. i was so happy i wanted to shout. perhaps you understand what i mean. in the office that day when i read the letter my fiancée had written i had said to myself, 'i will take care of the dear little woman.' there was something smug, you see, about that. in her house when she cried out in that way, and when everyone laughed, what i said to myself was something like this: 'we will take care of ourselves.' i whispered something of the sort into her ears. to tell you the truth i had come down off my perch. the spirit of the other woman did that to me. before all the people gathered about i held my fiancée close and we kissed. they thought it very sweet of us to be so affected at the sight of each other. what they would have thought had they known the truth about me god only knows! "twice now i have said that after that evening i never thought of the other woman at all. that is partially true but, sometimes in the evening when i am walking alone in the street or in the park as we are walking now, and when evening comes softly and quickly as it has come to-night, the feeling of her comes sharply into my body and mind. after that one meeting i never saw her again. on the next day i was married and i have never gone back into her street. often however as i am walking along as i am doing now, a quick sharp earthy feeling takes possession of me. it is as though i were a seed in the ground and the warm rains of the spring had come. it is as though i were not a man but a tree. "and now you see i am married and everything is all right. my marriage is to me a very beautiful fact. if you were to say that my marriage is not a happy one i could call you a liar and be speaking the absolute truth. i have tried to tell you about this other woman. there is a kind of relief in speaking of her. i have never done it before. i wonder why i was so silly as to be afraid that i would give you the impression i am not in love with my wife. if i did not instinctively trust your understanding i would not have spoken. as the matter stands i have a little stirred myself up. to-night i shall think of the other woman. that sometimes occurs. it will happen after i have gone to bed. my wife sleeps in the next room to mine and the door is always left open. there will be a moon to-night, and when there is a moon long streaks of light fall on her bed. i shall awake at midnight to-night. she will be lying asleep with one arm thrown over her head. "what is it that i am now talking about? a man does not speak of his wife lying in bed. what i am trying to say is that, because of this talk, i shall think of the other woman to-night. my thoughts will not take the form they did during the week before i was married. i will wonder what has become of the woman. for a moment i will again feel myself holding her close. i will think that for an hour i was closer to her than i have ever been to anyone else. then i will think of the time when i will be as close as that to my wife. she is still, you see, an awakening woman. for a moment i will close my eyes and the quick, shrewd, determined eyes of that other woman will look into mine. my head will swim and then i will quickly open my eyes and see again the dear woman with whom i have undertaken to live out my life. then i will sleep and when i awake in the morning it will be as it was that evening when i walked out of my dark apartment after having had the most notable experience of my life. what i mean to say, you understand is that, for me, when i awake, the other woman will be utterly gone." the egg my father was, i am sure, intended by nature to be a cheerful, kindly man. until he was thirty-four years old he worked as a farm-hand for a man named thomas butterworth whose place lay near the town of bidwell, ohio. he had then a horse of his own and on saturday evenings drove into town to spend a few hours in social intercourse with other farm- hands. in town he drank several glasses of beer and stood about in ben head's saloon--crowded on saturday evenings with visiting farm-hands. songs were sung and glasses thumped on the bar. at ten o'clock father drove home along a lonely country road, made his horse comfortable for the night and himself went to bed, quite happy in his position in life. he had at that time no notion of trying to rise in the world. it was in the spring of his thirty-fifth year that father married my mother, then a country school-teacher, and in the following spring i came wriggling and crying into the world. something happened to the two people. they became ambitious. the american passion for getting up in the world took possession of them. it may have been that mother was responsible. being a school-teacher she had no doubt read books and magazines. she had, i presume, read of how garfield, lincoln, and other americans rose from poverty to fame and greatness and as i lay beside her--in the days of her lying-in--she may have dreamed that i would some day rule men and cities. at any rate she induced father to give up his place as a farm-hand, sell his horse and embark on an independent enterprise of his own. she was a tall silent woman with a long nose and troubled grey eyes. for herself she wanted nothing. for father and myself she was incurably ambitious. the first venture into which the two people went turned out badly. they rented ten acres of poor stony land on griggs's road, eight miles from bidwell, and launched into chicken raising. i grew into boyhood on the place and got my first impressions of life there. from the beginning they were impressions of disaster and if, in my turn, i am a gloomy man inclined to see the darker side of life, i attribute it to the fact that what should have been for me the happy joyous days of childhood were spent on a chicken farm. one unversed in such matters can have no notion of the many and tragic things that can happen to a chicken. it is born out of an egg, lives for a few weeks as a tiny fluffy thing such as you will see pictured on easter cards, then becomes hideously naked, eats quantities of corn and meal bought by the sweat of your father's brow, gets diseases called pip, cholera, and other names, stands looking with stupid eyes at the sun, becomes sick and dies. a few hens, and now and then a rooster, intended to serve god's mysterious ends, struggle through to maturity. the hens lay eggs out of which come other chickens and the dreadful cycle is thus made complete. it is all unbelievably complex. most philosophers must have been raised on chicken farms. one hopes for so much from a chicken and is so dreadfully disillusioned. small chickens, just setting out on the journey of life, look so bright and alert and they are in fact so dreadfully stupid. they are so much like people they mix one up in one's judgments of life. if disease does not kill them they wait until your expectations are thoroughly aroused and then walk under the wheels of a wagon--to go squashed and dead back to their maker. vermin infest their youth, and fortunes must be spent for curative powders. in later life i have seen how a literature has been built up on the subject of fortunes to be made out of the raising of chickens. it is intended to be read by the gods who have just eaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. it is a hopeful literature and declares that much may be done by simple ambitious people who own a few hens. do not be led astray by it. it was not written for you. go hunt for gold on the frozen hills of alaska, put your faith in the honesty of a politician, believe if you will that the world is daily growing better and that good will triumph over evil, but do not read and believe the literature that is written concerning the hen. it was not written for you. i, however, digress. my tale does not primarily concern itself with the hen. if correctly told it will centre on the egg. for ten years my father and mother struggled to make our chicken farm pay and then they gave up that struggle and began another. they moved into the town of bidwell, ohio and embarked in the restaurant business. after ten years of worry with incubators that did not hatch, and with tiny--and in their own way lovely--balls of fluff that passed on into semi-naked pullethood and from that into dead hen-hood, we threw all aside and packing our belongings on a wagon drove down griggs's road toward bidwell, a tiny caravan of hope looking for a new place from which to start on our upward journey through life. we must have been a sad looking lot, not, i fancy, unlike refugees fleeing from a battlefield. mother and i walked in the road. the wagon that contained our goods had been borrowed for the day from mr. albert griggs, a neighbor. out of its sides stuck the legs of cheap chairs and at the back of the pile of beds, tables, and boxes filled with kitchen utensils was a crate of live chickens, and on top of that the baby carriage in which i had been wheeled about in my infancy. why we stuck to the baby carriage i don't know. it was unlikely other children would be born and the wheels were broken. people who have few possessions cling tightly to those they have. that is one of the facts that make life so discouraging. father rode on top of the wagon. he was then a bald-headed man of forty-five, a little fat and from long association with mother and the chickens he had become habitually silent and discouraged. all during our ten years on the chicken farm he had worked as a laborer on neighboring farms and most of the money he had earned had been spent for remedies to cure chicken diseases, on wilmer's white wonder cholera cure or professor bidlow's egg producer or some other preparations that mother found advertised in the poultry papers. there were two little patches of hair on father's head just above his ears. i remember that as a child i used to sit looking at him when he had gone to sleep in a chair before the stove on sunday afternoons in the winter. i had at that time already begun to read books and have notions of my own and the bald path that led over the top of his head was, i fancied, something like a broad road, such a road as caesar might have made on which to lead his legions out of rome and into the wonders of an unknown world. the tufts of hair that grew above father's ears were, i thought, like forests. i fell into a half-sleeping, half-waking state and dreamed i was a tiny thing going along the road into a far beautiful place where there were no chicken farms and where life was a happy eggless affair. one might write a book concerning our flight from the chicken farm into town. mother and i walked the entire eight miles--she to be sure that nothing fell from the wagon and i to see the wonders of the world. on the seat of the wagon beside father was his greatest treasure. i will tell you of that. on a chicken farm where hundreds and even thousands of chickens come out of eggs surprising things sometimes happen. grotesques are born out of eggs as out of people. the accident does not often occur--perhaps once in a thousand births. a chicken is, you see, born that has four legs, two pairs of wings, two heads or what not. the things do not live. they go quickly back to the hand of their maker that has for a moment trembled. the fact that the poor little things could not live was one of the tragedies of life to father. he had some sort of notion that if he could but bring into henhood or roosterhood a five-legged hen or a two-headed rooster his fortune would be made. he dreamed of taking the wonder about to county fairs and of growing rich by exhibiting it to other farm-hands. at any rate he saved all the little monstrous things that had been born on our chicken farm. they were preserved in alcohol and put each in its own glass bottle. these he had carefully put into a box and on our journey into town it was carried on the wagon seat beside him. he drove the horses with one hand and with the other clung to the box. when we got to our destination the box was taken down at once and the bottles removed. all during our days as keepers of a restaurant in the town of bidwell, ohio, the grotesques in their little glass bottles sat on a shelf back of the counter. mother sometimes protested but father was a rock on the subject of his treasure. the grotesques were, he declared, valuable. people, he said, liked to look at strange and wonderful things. did i say that we embarked in the restaurant business in the town of bidwell, ohio? i exaggerated a little. the town itself lay at the foot of a low hill and on the shore of a small river. the railroad did not run through the town and the station was a mile away to the north at a place called pickleville. there had been a cider mill and pickle factory at the station, but before the time of our coming they had both gone out of business. in the morning and in the evening busses came down to the station along a road called turner's pike from the hotel on the main street of bidwell. our going to the out of the way place to embark in the restaurant business was mother's idea. she talked of it for a year and then one day went off and rented an empty store building opposite the railroad station. it was her idea that the restaurant would be profitable. travelling men, she said, would be always waiting around to take trains out of town and town people would come to the station to await incoming trains. they would come to the restaurant to buy pieces of pie and drink coffee. now that i am older i know that she had another motive in going. she was ambitious for me. she wanted me to rise in the world, to get into a town school and become a man of the towns. at pickleville father and mother worked hard as they always had done. at first there was the necessity of putting our place into shape to be a restaurant. that took a month. father built a shelf on which he put tins of vegetables. he painted a sign on which he put his name in large red letters. below his name was the sharp command--"eat here"--that was so seldom obeyed. a show case was bought and filled with cigars and tobacco. mother scrubbed the floor and the walls of the room. i went to school in the town and was glad to be away from the farm and from the presence of the discouraged, sad-looking chickens. still i was not very joyous. in the evening i walked home from school along turner's pike and remembered the children i had seen playing in the town school yard. a troop of little girls had gone hopping about and singing. i tried that. down along the frozen road i went hopping solemnly on one leg. "hippity hop to the barber shop," i sang shrilly. then i stopped and looked doubtfully about. i was afraid of being seen in my gay mood. it must have seemed to me that i was doing a thing that should not be done by one who, like myself, had been raised on a chicken farm where death was a daily visitor. mother decided that our restaurant should remain open at night. at ten in the evening a passenger train went north past our door followed by a local freight. the freight crew had switching to do in pickleville and when the work was done they came to our restaurant for hot coffee and food. sometimes one of them ordered a fried egg. in the morning at four they returned north-bound and again visited us. a little trade began to grow up. mother slept at night and during the day tended the restaurant and fed our boarders while father slept. he slept in the same bed mother had occupied during the night and i went off to the town of bidwell and to school. during the long nights, while mother and i slept, father cooked meats that were to go into sandwiches for the lunch baskets of our boarders. then an idea in regard to getting up in the world came into his head. the american spirit took hold of him. he also became ambitious. in the long nights when there was little to do father had time to think. that was his undoing. he decided that he had in the past been an unsuccessful man because he had not been cheerful enough and that in the future he would adopt a cheerful outlook on life. in the early morning he came upstairs and got into bed with mother. she woke and the two talked. from my bed in the corner i listened. it was father's idea that both he and mother should try to entertain the people who came to eat at our restaurant. i cannot now remember his words, but he gave the impression of one about to become in some obscure way a kind of public entertainer. when people, particularly young people from the town of bidwell, came into our place, as on very rare occasions they did, bright entertaining conversation was to be made. from father's words i gathered that something of the jolly inn- keeper effect was to be sought. mother must have been doubtful from the first, but she said nothing discouraging. it was father's notion that a passion for the company of himself and mother would spring up in the breasts of the younger people of the town of bidwell. in the evening bright happy groups would come singing down turner's pike. they would troop shouting with joy and laughter into our place. there would be song and festivity. i do not mean to give the impression that father spoke so elaborately of the matter. he was as i have said an uncommunicative man. "they want some place to go. i tell you they want some place to go," he said over and over. that was as far as he got. my own imagination has filled in the blanks. for two or three weeks this notion of father's invaded our house. we did not talk much, but in our daily lives tried earnestly to make smiles take the place of glum looks. mother smiled at the boarders and i, catching the infection, smiled at our cat. father became a little feverish in his anxiety to please. there was no doubt, lurking somewhere in him, a touch of the spirit of the showman. he did not waste much of his ammunition on the railroad men he served at night but seemed to be waiting for a young man or woman from bidwell to come in to show what he could do. on the counter in the restaurant there was a wire basket kept always filled with eggs, and it must have been before his eyes when the idea of being entertaining was born in his brain. there was something pre-natal about the way eggs kept themselves connected with the development of his idea. at any rate an egg ruined his new impulse in life. late one night i was awakened by a roar of anger coming from father's throat. both mother and i sat upright in our beds. with trembling hands she lighted a lamp that stood on a table by her head. downstairs the front door of our restaurant went shut with a bang and in a few minutes father tramped up the stairs. he held an egg in his hand and his hand trembled as though he were having a chill. there was a half insane light in his eyes. as he stood glaring at us i was sure he intended throwing the egg at either mother or me. then he laid it gently on the table beside the lamp and dropped on his knees beside mother's bed. he began to cry like a boy and i, carried away by his grief, cried with him. the two of us filled the little upstairs room with our wailing voices. it is ridiculous, but of the picture we made i can remember only the fact that mother's hand continually stroked the bald path that ran across the top of his head. i have forgotten what mother said to him and how she induced him to tell her of what had happened downstairs. his explanation also has gone out of my mind. i remember only my own grief and fright and the shiny path over father's head glowing in the lamp light as he knelt by the bed. as to what happened downstairs. for some unexplainable reason i know the story as well as though i had been a witness to my father's discomfiture. one in time gets to know many unexplainable things. on that evening young joe kane, son of a merchant of bidwell, came to pickleville to meet his father, who was expected on the ten o'clock evening train from the south. the train was three hours late and joe came into our place to loaf about and to wait for its arrival. the local freight train came in and the freight crew were fed. joe was left alone in the restaurant with father. from the moment he came into our place the bidwell young man must have been puzzled by my father's actions. it was his notion that father was angry at him for hanging around. he noticed that the restaurant keeper was apparently disturbed by his presence and he thought of going out. however, it began to rain and he did not fancy the long walk to town and back. he bought a five-cent cigar and ordered a cup of coffee. he had a newspaper in his pocket and took it out and began to read. "i'm waiting for the evening train. it's late," he said apologetically. for a long time father, whom joe kane had never seen before, remained silently gazing at his visitor. he was no doubt suffering from an attack of stage fright. as so often happens in life he had thought so much and so often of the situation that now confronted him that he was somewhat nervous in its presence. for one thing, he did not know what to do with his hands. he thrust one of them nervously over the counter and shook hands with joe kane. "how- de-do," he said. joe kane put his newspaper down and stared at him. father's eye lighted on the basket of eggs that sat on the counter and he began to talk. "well," he began hesitatingly, "well, you have heard of christopher columbus, eh?" he seemed to be angry. "that christopher columbus was a cheat," he declared emphatically. "he talked of making an egg stand on its end. he talked, he did, and then he went and broke the end of the egg." my father seemed to his visitor to be beside himself at the duplicity of christopher columbus. he muttered and swore. he declared it was wrong to teach children that christopher columbus was a great man when, after all, he cheated at the critical moment. he had declared he would make an egg stand on end and then when his bluff had been called he had done a trick. still grumbling at columbus, father took an egg from the basket on the counter and began to walk up and down. he rolled the egg between the palms of his hands. he smiled genially. he began to mumble words regarding the effect to be produced on an egg by the electricity that comes out of the human body. he declared that without breaking its shell and by virtue of rolling it back and forth in his hands he could stand the egg on its end. he explained that the warmth of his hands and the gentle rolling movement he gave the egg created a new centre of gravity, and joe kane was mildly interested. "i have handled thousands of eggs," father said. "no one knows more about eggs than i do." he stood the egg on the counter and it fell on its side. he tried the trick again and again, each time rolling the egg between the palms of his hands and saying the words regarding the wonders of electricity and the laws of gravity. when after a half hour's effort he did succeed in making the egg stand for a moment he looked up to find that his visitor was no longer watching. by the time he had succeeded in calling joe kane's attention to the success of his effort the egg had again rolled over and lay on its side. afire with the showman's passion and at the same time a good deal disconcerted by the failure of his first effort, father now took the bottles containing the poultry monstrosities down from their place on the shelf and began to show them to his visitor. "how would you like to have seven legs and two heads like this fellow?" he asked, exhibiting the most remarkable of his treasures. a cheerful smile played over his face. he reached over the counter and tried to slap joe kane on the shoulder as he had seen men do in ben head's saloon when he was a young farm-hand and drove to town on saturday evenings. his visitor was made a little ill by the sight of the body of the terribly deformed bird floating in the alcohol in the bottle and got up to go. coming from behind the counter father took hold of the young man's arm and led him back to his seat. he grew a little angry and for a moment had to turn his face away and force himself to smile. then he put the bottles back on the shelf. in an outburst of generosity he fairly compelled joe kane to have a fresh cup of coffee and another cigar at his expense. then he took a pan and filling it with vinegar, taken from a jug that sat beneath the counter, he declared himself about to do a new trick. "i will heat this egg in this pan of vinegar," he said. "then i will put it through the neck of a bottle without breaking the shell. when the egg is inside the bottle it will resume its normal shape and the shell will become hard again. then i will give the bottle with the egg in it to you. you can take it about with you wherever you go. people will want to know how you got the egg in the bottle. don't tell them. keep them guessing. that is the way to have fun with this trick." father grinned and winked at his visitor. joe kane decided that the man who confronted him was mildly insane but harmless. he drank the cup of coffee that had been given him and began to read his paper again. when the egg had been heated in vinegar father carried it on a spoon to the counter and going into a back room got an empty bottle. he was angry because his visitor did not watch him as he began to do his trick, but nevertheless went cheerfully to work. for a long time he struggled, trying to get the egg to go through the neck of the bottle. he put the pan of vinegar back on the stove, intending to reheat the egg, then picked it up and burned his fingers. after a second bath in the hot vinegar the shell of the egg had been softened a little but not enough for his purpose. he worked and worked and a spirit of desperate determination took possession of him. when he thought that at last the trick was about to be consummated the delayed train came in at the station and joe kane started to go nonchalantly out at the door. father made a last desperate effort to conquer the egg and make it do the thing that would establish his reputation as one who knew how to entertain guests who came into his restaurant. he worried the egg. he attempted to be somewhat rough with it. he swore and the sweat stood out on his forehead. the egg broke under his hand. when the contents spurted over his clothes, joe kane, who had stopped at the door, turned and laughed. a roar of anger rose from my father's throat. he danced and shouted a string of inarticulate words. grabbing another egg from the basket on the counter, he threw it, just missing the head of the young man as he dodged through the door and escaped. father came upstairs to mother and me with an egg in his hand. i do not know what he intended to do. i imagine he had some idea of destroying it, of destroying all eggs, and that he intended to let mother and me see him begin. when, however, he got into the presence of mother something happened to him. he laid the egg gently on the table and dropped on his knees by the bed as i have already explained. he later decided to close the restaurant for the night and to come upstairs and get into bed. when he did so he blew out the light and after much muttered conversation both he and mother went to sleep. i suppose i went to sleep also, but my sleep was troubled. i awoke at dawn and for a long time looked at the egg that lay on the table. i wondered why eggs had to be and why from the egg came the hen who again laid the egg. the question got into my blood. it has stayed there, i imagine, because i am the son of my father. at any rate, the problem remains unsolved in my mind. and that, i conclude, is but another evidence of the complete and final triumph of the egg--at least as far as my family is concerned. unlighted lamps mary cochran went out of the rooms where she lived with her father, doctor lester cochran, at seven o'clock on a sunday evening. it was june of the year nineteen hundred and eight and mary was eighteen years old. she walked along tremont to main street and across the railroad tracks to upper main, lined with small shops and shoddy houses, a rather quiet cheerless place on sundays when there were few people about. she had told her father she was going to church but did not intend doing anything of the kind. she did not know what she wanted to do. "i'll get off by myself and think," she told herself as she walked slowly along. the night she thought promised to be too fine to be spent sitting in a stuffy church and hearing a man talk of things that had apparently nothing to do with her own problem. her own affairs were approaching a crisis and it was time for her to begin thinking seriously of her future. the thoughtful serious state of mind in which mary found herself had been induced in her by a conversation had with her father on the evening before. without any preliminary talk and quite suddenly and abruptly he had told her that he was a victim of heart disease and might die at any moment. he had made the announcement as they stood together in the doctor's office, back of which were the rooms in which the father and daughter lived. it was growing dark outside when she came into the office and found him sitting alone. the office and living rooms were on the second floor of an old frame building in the town of huntersburg, illinois, and as the doctor talked he stood beside his daughter near one of the windows that looked down into tremont street. the hushed murmur of the town's saturday night life went on in main street just around a corner, and the evening train, bound to chicago fifty miles to the east, had just passed. the hotel bus came rattling out of lincoln street and went through tremont toward the hotel on lower main. a cloud of dust kicked up by the horses' hoofs floated on the quiet air. a straggling group of people followed the bus and the row of hitching posts on tremont street was already lined with buggies in which farmers and their wives had driven into town for the evening of shopping and gossip. after the station bus had passed three or four more buggies were driven into the street. from one of them a young man helped his sweetheart to alight. he took hold of her arm with a certain air of tenderness, and a hunger to be touched thus tenderly by a man's hand, that had come to mary many times before, returned at almost the same moment her father made the announcement of his approaching death. as the doctor began to speak barney smithfield, who owned a livery barn that opened into tremont street directly opposite the building in which the cochrans lived, came back to his place of business from his evening meal. he stopped to tell a story to a group of men gathered before the barn door and a shout of laughter arose. one of the loungers in the street, a strongly built young man in a checkered suit, stepped away from the others and stood before the liveryman. having seen mary he was trying to attract her attention. he also began to tell a story and as he talked he gesticulated, waved his arms and from time to time looked over his shoulder to see if the girl still stood by the window and if she were watching. doctor cochran had told his daughter of his approaching death in a cold quiet voice. to the girl it had seemed that everything concerning her father must be cold and quiet. "i have a disease of the heart," he said flatly, "have long suspected there was something of the sort the matter with me and on thursday when i went into chicago i had myself examined. the truth is i may die at any moment. i would not tell you but for one reason--i will leave little money and you must be making plans for the future." the doctor stepped nearer the window where his daughter stood with her hand on the frame. the announcement had made her a little pale and her hand trembled. in spite of his apparent coldness he was touched and wanted to reassure her. "there now," he said hesitatingly, "it'll likely be all right after all. don't worry. i haven't been a doctor for thirty years without knowing there's a great deal of nonsense about these pronouncements on the part of experts. in a matter like this, that is to say when a man has a disease of the heart, he may putter about for years." he laughed uncomfortably. "i've even heard it said that the best way to insure a long life is to contract a disease of the heart." with these words the doctor had turned and walked out of his office, going down a wooden stairway to the street. he had wanted to put his arm about his daughter's shoulder as he talked to her, but never having shown any feeling in his relations with her could not sufficiently release some tight thing in himself. mary had stood for a long time looking down into the street. the young man in the checkered suit, whose name was duke yetter, had finished telling his tale and a shout of laughter arose. she turned to look toward the door through which her father had passed and dread took possession of her. in all her life there had never been anything warm and close. she shivered although the night was warm and with a quick girlish gesture passed her hand over her eyes. the gesture was but an expression of a desire to brush away the cloud of fear that had settled down upon her but it was misinterpreted by duke yetter who now stood a little apart from the other men before the livery barn. when he saw mary's hand go up he smiled and turning quickly to be sure he was unobserved began jerking his head and making motions with his hand as a sign that he wished her to come down into the street where he would have an opportunity to join her. * * * * * on the sunday evening mary, having walked through upper main, turned into wilmott, a street of workmens' houses. during that year the first sign of the march of factories westward from chicago into the prairie towns had come to huntersburg. a chicago manufacturer of furniture had built a plant in the sleepy little farming town, hoping thus to escape the labor organizations that had begun to give him trouble in the city. at the upper end of town, in wilmott, swift, harrison and chestnut streets and in cheap, badly-constructed frame houses, most of the factory workers lived. on the warm summer evening they were gathered on the porches at the front of the houses and a mob of children played in the dusty streets. red-faced men in white shirts and without collars and coats slept in chairs or lay sprawled on strips of grass or on the hard earth before the doors of the houses. the laborers' wives had gathered in groups and stood gossiping by the fences that separated the yards. occasionally the voice of one of the women arose sharp and distinct above the steady flow of voices that ran like a murmuring river through the hot little streets. in the roadway two children had got into a fight. a thick-shouldered red-haired boy struck another boy who had a pale sharp-featured face, a blow on the shoulder. other children came running. the mother of the red-haired boy brought the promised fight to an end. "stop it johnny, i tell you to stop it. i'll break your neck if you don't," the woman screamed. the pale boy turned and walked away from his antagonist. as he went slinking along the sidewalk past mary cochran his sharp little eyes, burning with hatred, looked up at her. mary went quickly along. the strange new part of her native town with the hubbub of life always stirring and asserting itself had a strong fascination for her. there was something dark and resentful in her own nature that made her feel at home in the crowded place where life carried itself off darkly, with a blow and an oath. the habitual silence of her father and the mystery concerning the unhappy married life of her father and mother, that had affected the attitude toward her of the people of the town, had made her own life a lonely one and had encouraged in her a rather dogged determination to in some way think her own way through the things of life she could not understand. and back of mary's thinking there was an intense curiosity and a courageous determination toward adventure. she was like a little animal of the forest that has been robbed of its mother by the gun of a sportsman and has been driven by hunger to go forth and seek food. twenty times during the year she had walked alone at evening in the new and fast growing factory district of her town. she was eighteen and had begun to look like a woman, and she felt that other girls of the town of her own age would not have dared to walk in such a place alone. the feeling made her somewhat proud and as she went along she looked boldly about. among the workers in wilmott street, men and women who had been brought to town by the furniture manufacturer, were many who spoke in foreign tongues. mary walked among them and liked the sound of the strange voices. to be in the street made her feel that she had gone out of her town and on a voyage into a strange land. in lower main street or in the residence streets in the eastern part of town where lived the young men and women she had always known and where lived also the merchants, the clerks, the lawyers and the more well-to-do american workmen of huntersburg, she felt always a secret antagonism to herself. the antagonism was not due to anything in her own character. she was sure of that. she had kept so much to herself that she was in fact but little known. "it is because i am the daughter of my mother," she told herself and did not walk often in the part of town where other girls of her class lived. mary had been so often in wilmott street that many of the people had begun to feel acquainted with her. "she is the daughter of some farmer and has got into the habit of walking into town," they said. a red- haired, broad-hipped woman who came out at the front door of one of the houses nodded to her. on a narrow strip of grass beside another house sat a young man with his back against a tree. he was smoking a pipe, but when he looked up and saw her he took the pipe from his mouth. she decided he must be an italian, his hair and eyes were so black. "ne bella! si fai un onore a passare di qua," he called waving his hand and smiling. mary went to the end of wilmott street and came out upon a country road. it seemed to her that a long time must have passed since she left her father's presence although the walk had in fact occupied but a few minutes. by the side of the road and on top of a small hill there was a ruined barn, and before the barn a great hole filled with the charred timbers of what had once been a farmhouse. a pile of stones lay beside the hole and these were covered with creeping vines. between the site of the house and the barn there was an old orchard in which grew a mass of tangled weeds. pushing her way in among the weeds, many of which were covered with blossoms, mary found herself a seat on a rock that had been rolled against the trunk of an old apple tree. the weeds half concealed her and from the road only her head was visible. buried away thus in the weeds she looked like a quail that runs in the tall grass and that on hearing some unusual sound, stops, throws up its head and looks sharply about. the doctor's daughter had been to the decayed old orchard many times before. at the foot of the hill on which it stood the streets of the town began, and as she sat on the rock she could hear faint shouts and cries coming out of wilmott street. a hedge separated the orchard from the fields on the hillside. mary intended to sit by the tree until darkness came creeping over the land and to try to think out some plan regarding her future. the notion that her father was soon to die seemed both true and untrue, but her mind was unable to take hold of the thought of him as physically dead. for the moment death in relation to her father did not take the form of a cold inanimate body that was to be buried in the ground, instead it seemed to her that her father was not to die but to go away somewhere on a journey. long ago her mother had done that. there was a strange hesitating sense of relief in the thought. "well," she told herself, "when the time comes i also shall be setting out, i shall get out of here and into the world." on several occasions mary had gone to spend a day with her father in chicago and she was fascinated by the thought that soon she might be going there to live. before her mind's eye floated a vision of long streets filled with thousands of people all strangers to herself. to go into such streets and to live her life among strangers would be like coming out of a waterless desert and into a cool forest carpeted with tender young grass. in huntersburg she had always lived under a cloud and now she was becoming a woman and the close stuffy atmosphere she had always breathed was becoming constantly more and more oppressive. it was true no direct question had ever been raised touching her own standing in the community life, but she felt that a kind of prejudice against her existed. while she was still a baby there had been a scandal involving her father and mother. the town of huntersburg had rocked with it and when she was a child people had sometimes looked at her with mocking sympathetic eyes. "poor child! it's too bad," they said. once, on a cloudy summer evening when her father had driven off to the country and she sat alone in the darkness by his office window, she heard a man and woman in the street mention her name. the couple stumbled along in the darkness on the sidewalk below the office window. "that daughter of doc cochran's is a nice girl," said the man. the woman laughed. "she's growing up and attracting men's attention now. better keep your eyes in your head. she'll turn out bad. like mother, like daughter," the woman replied. for ten or fifteen minutes mary sat on the stone beneath the tree in the orchard and thought of the attitude of the town toward herself and her father. "it should have drawn us together," she told herself, and wondered if the approach of death would do what the cloud that had for years hung over them had not done. it did not at the moment seem to her cruel that the figure of death was soon to visit her father. in a way death had become for her and for the time a lovely and gracious figure intent upon good. the hand of death was to open the door out of her father's house and into life. with the cruelty of youth she thought first of the adventurous possibilities of the new life. mary sat very still. in the long weeds the insects that had been disturbed in their evening song began to sing again. a robin flew into the tree beneath which she sat and struck a clear sharp note of alarm. the voices of people in the town's new factory district came softly up the hillside. they were like bells of distant cathedrals calling people to worship. something within the girl's breast seemed to break and putting her head into her hands she rocked slowly back and forth. tears came accompanied by a warm tender impulse toward the living men and women of huntersburg. and then from the road came a call. "hello there kid," shouted a voice, and mary sprang quickly to her feet. her mellow mood passed like a puff of wind and in its place hot anger came. in the road stood duke yetter who from his loafing place before the livery barn had seen her set out for the sunday evening walk and had followed. when she went through upper main street and into the new factory district he was sure of his conquest. "she doesn't want to be seen walking with me," he had told himself, "that's all right. she knows well enough i'll follow but doesn't want me to put in an appearance until she is well out of sight of her friends. she's a little stuck up and needs to be brought down a peg, but what do i care? she's gone out of her way to give me this chance and maybe she's only afraid of her dad." duke climbed the little incline out of the road and came into the orchard, but when he reached the pile of stones covered by vines he stumbled and fell. he arose and laughed. mary had not waited for him to reach her but had started toward him, and when his laugh broke the silence that lay over the orchard she sprang forward and with her open hand struck him a sharp blow on the cheek. then she turned and as he stood with his feet tangled in the vines ran out to the road. "if you follow or speak to me i'll get someone to kill you," she shouted. mary walked along the road and down the hill toward wilmott street. broken bits of the story concerning her mother that had for years circulated in town had reached her ears. her mother, it was said, had disappeared on a summer night long ago and a young town rough, who had been in the habit of loitering before barney smithfield's livery barn, had gone away with her. now another young rough was trying to make up to her. the thought made her furious. her mind groped about striving to lay hold of some weapon with which she could strike a more telling blow at duke yetter. in desperation it lit upon the figure of her father already broken in health and now about to die. "my father just wants the chance to kill some such fellow as you," she shouted, turning to face the young man, who having got clear of the mass of vines in the orchard, had followed her into the road. "my father just wants to kill someone because of the lies that have been told in this town about mother." having given way to the impulse to threaten duke yetter mary was instantly ashamed of her outburst and walked rapidly along, the tears running from her eyes. with hanging head duke walked at her heels. "i didn't mean no harm, miss cochran," he pleaded. "i didn't mean no harm. don't tell your father. i was only funning with you. i tell you i didn't mean no harm." * * * * * the light of the summer evening had begun to fall and the faces of the people made soft little ovals of light as they stood grouped under the dark porches or by the fences in wilmott street. the voices of the children had become subdued and they also stood in groups. they became silent as mary passed and stood with upturned faces and staring eyes. "the lady doesn't live very far. she must be almost a neighbor," she heard a woman's voice saying in english. when she turned her head she saw only a crowd of dark-skinned men standing before a house. from within the house came the sound of a woman's voice singing a child to sleep. the young italian, who had called to her earlier in the evening and who was now apparently setting out of his own sunday evening's adventures, came along the sidewalk and walked quickly away into the darkness. he had dressed himself in his sunday clothes and had put on a black derby hat and a stiff white collar, set off by a red necktie. the shining whiteness of the collar made his brown skin look almost black. he smiled boyishly and raised his hat awkwardly but did not speak. mary kept looking back along the street to be sure duke yetter had not followed but in the dim light could see nothing of him. her angry excited mood went away. she did not want to go home and decided it was too late to go to church. from upper main street there was a short street that ran eastward and fell rather sharply down a hillside to a creek and a bridge that marked the end of the town's growth in that direction. she went down along the street to the bridge and stood in the failing light watching two boys who were fishing in the creek. a broad-shouldered man dressed in rough clothes came down along the street and stopping on the bridge spoke to her. it was the first time she had ever heard a citizen of her home town speak with feeling of her father. "you are doctor cochran's daughter?" he asked hesitatingly. "i guess you don't know who i am but your father does." he pointed toward the two boys who sat with fishpoles in their hands on the weed-grown bank of the creek. "those are my boys and i have four other children," he explained. "there is another boy and i have three girls. one of my daughters has a job in a store. she is as old as yourself." the man explained his relations with doctor cochran. he had been a farm laborer, he said, and had but recently moved to town to work in the furniture factory. during the previous winter he had been ill for a long time and had no money. while he lay in bed one of his boys fell out of a barn loft and there was a terrible cut in his head. "your father came every day to see us and he sewed up my tom's head." the laborer turned away from mary and stood with his cap in his hand looking toward the boys. "i was down and out and your father not only took care of me and the boys but he gave my old woman money to buy the things we had to have from the stores in town here, groceries and medicines." the man spoke in such low tones that mary had to lean forward to hear his words. her face almost touched the laborer's shoulder. "your father is a good man and i don't think he is very happy," he went on. "the boy and i got well and i got work here in town but he wouldn't take any money from me. 'you know how to live with your children and with your wife. you know how to make them happy. keep your money and spend it on them,' that's what he said to me." the laborer went on across the bridge and along the creek bank toward the spot where his two sons sat fishing and mary leaned on the railing of the bridge and looked at the slow moving water. it was almost black in the shadows under the bridge and she thought that it was thus her father's life had been lived. "it has been like a stream running always in shadows and never coming out into the sunlight," she thought, and fear that her own life would run on in darkness gripped her. a great new love for her father swept over her and in fancy she felt his arms about her. as a child she had continually dreamed of caresses received at her father's hands and now the dream came back. for a long time she stood looking at the stream and she resolved that the night should not pass without an effort on her part to make the old dream come true. when she again looked up the laborer had built a little fire of sticks at the edge of the stream. "we catch bullheads here," he called. "the light of the fire draws them close to the shore. if you want to come and try your hand at fishing the boys will lend you one of the poles." "o, i thank you, i won't do it tonight," mary said, and then fearing she might suddenly begin weeping and that if the man spoke to her again she would find herself unable to answer, she hurried away. "good bye!" shouted the man and the two boys. the words came quite spontaneously out of the three throats and created a sharp trumpet-like effect that rang like a glad cry across the heaviness of her mood. * * * * * when his daughter mary went out for her evening walk doctor cochran sat for an hour alone in his office. it began to grow dark and the men who all afternoon had been sitting on chairs and boxes before the livery barn across the street went home for the evening meal. the noise of voices grew faint and sometimes for five or ten minutes there was silence. then from some distant street came a child's cry. presently church bells began to ring. the doctor was not a very neat man and sometimes for several days he forgot to shave. with a long lean hand he stroked his half grown beard. his illness had struck deeper than he had admitted even to himself and his mind had an inclination to float out of his body. often when he sat thus his hands lay in his lap and he looked at them with a child's absorption. it seemed to him they must belong to someone else. he grew philosophic. "it's an odd thing about my body. here i've lived in it all these years and how little use i have had of it. now it's going to die and decay never having been used. i wonder why it did not get another tenant." he smiled sadly over this fancy but went on with it. "well i've had thoughts enough concerning people and i've had the use of these lips and a tongue but i've let them lie idle. when my ellen was here living with me i let her think me cold and unfeeling while something within me was straining and straining trying to tear itself loose." he remembered how often, as a young man, he had sat in the evening in silence beside his wife in this same office and how his hands had ached to reach across the narrow space that separated them and touch her hands, her face, her hair. well, everyone in town had predicted his marriage would turn out badly! his wife had been an actress with a company that came to huntersburg and got stranded there. at the same time the girl became ill and had no money to pay for her room at the hotel. the young doctor had attended to that and when the girl was convalescent took her to ride about the country in his buggy. her life had been a hard one and the notion of leading a quiet existence in the little town appealed to her. and then after the marriage and after the child was born she had suddenly found herself unable to go on living with the silent cold man. there had been a story of her having run away with a young sport, the son of a saloon keeper who had disappeared from town at the same time, but the story was untrue. lester cochran had himself taken her to chicago where she got work with a company going into the far western states. then he had taken her to the door of her hotel, had put money into her hands and in silence and without even a farewell kiss had turned and walked away. the doctor sat in his office living over that moment and other intense moments when he had been deeply stirred and had been on the surface so cool and quiet. he wondered if the woman had known. how many times he had asked himself that question. after he left her that night at the hotel door she never wrote. "perhaps she is dead," he thought for the thousandth time. a thing happened that had been happening at odd moments for more than a year. in doctor cochran's mind the remembered figure of his wife became confused with the figure of his daughter. when at such moments he tried to separate the two figures, to make them stand out distinct from each other, he was unsuccessful. turning his head slightly he imagined he saw a white girlish figure coming through a door out of the rooms in which he and his daughter lived. the door was painted white and swung slowly in a light breeze that came in at an open window. the wind ran softly and quietly through the room and played over some papers lying on a desk in a corner. there was a soft swishing sound as of a woman's skirts. the doctor arose and stood trembling. "which is it? is it you mary or is it ellen?" he asked huskily. on the stairway leading up from the street there was the sound of heavy feet and the outer door opened. the doctor's weak heart fluttered and he dropped heavily back into his chair. a man came into the room. he was a farmer, one of the doctor's patients, and coming to the centre of the room he struck a match, held it above his head and shouted. "hello!" he called. when the doctor arose from his chair and answered he was so startled that the match fell from his hand and lay burning faintly at his feet. the young farmer had sturdy legs that were like two pillars of stone supporting a heavy building, and the little flame of the match that burned and fluttered in the light breeze on the floor between his feet threw dancing shadows along the walls of the room. the doctor's confused mind refused to clear itself of his fancies that now began to feed upon this new situation. he forgot the presence of the farmer and his mind raced back over his life as a married man. the flickering light on the wall recalled another dancing light. one afternoon in the summer during the first year after his marriage his wife ellen had driven with him into the country. they were then furnishing their rooms and at a farmer's house ellen had seen an old mirror, no longer in use, standing against a wall in a shed. because of something quaint in the design the mirror had taken her fancy and the farmer's wife had given it to her. on the drive home the young wife had told her husband of her pregnancy and the doctor had been stirred as never before. he sat holding the mirror on his knees while his wife drove and when she announced the coming of the child she looked away across the fields. how deeply etched, that scene in the sick man's mind! the sun was going down over young corn and oat fields beside the road. the prairie land was black and occasionally the road ran through short lanes of trees that also looked black in the waning light. the mirror on his knees caught the rays of the departing sun and sent a great ball of golden light dancing across the fields and among the branches of trees. now as he stood in the presence of the farmer and as the little light from the burning match on the floor recalled that other evening of dancing lights, he thought he understood the failure of his marriage and of his life. on that evening long ago when ellen had told him of the coming of the great adventure of their marriage he had remained silent because he had thought no words he could utter would express what he felt. there had been a defense for himself built up. "i told myself she should have understood without words and i've all my life been telling myself the same thing about mary. i've been a fool and a coward. i've always been silent because i've been afraid of expressing myself--like a blundering fool. i've been a proud man and a coward. "tonight i'll do it. if it kills me i'll make myself talk to the girl," he said aloud, his mind coming back to the figure of his daughter. "hey! what's that?" asked the farmer who stood with his hat in his hand waiting to tell of his mission. the doctor got his horse from barney smithfield's livery and drove off to the country to attend the farmer's wife who was about to give birth to her first child. she was a slender narrow-hipped woman and the child was large, but the doctor was feverishly strong. he worked desperately and the woman, who was frightened, groaned and struggled. her husband kept coming in and going out of the room and two neighbor women appeared and stood silently about waiting to be of service. it was past ten o'clock when everything was done and the doctor was ready to depart for town. the farmer hitched his horse and brought it to the door and the doctor drove off feeling strangely weak and at the same time strong. how simple now seemed the thing he had yet to do. perhaps when he got home his daughter would have gone to bed but he would ask her to get up and come into the office. then he would tell the whole story of his marriage and its failure sparing himself no humiliation. "there was something very dear and beautiful in my ellen and i must make mary understand that. it will help her to be a beautiful woman," he thought, full of confidence in the strength of his resolution. he got to the door of the livery barn at eleven o'clock and barney smithfield with young duke yetter and two other men sat talking there. the liveryman took his horse away into the darkness of the barn and the doctor stood for a moment leaning against the wall of the building. the town's night watchman stood with the group by the barn door and a quarrel broke out between him and duke yetter, but the doctor did not hear the hot words that flew back and forth or duke's loud laughter at the night watchman's anger. a queer hesitating mood had taken possession of him. there was something he passionately desired to do but could not remember. did it have to do with his wife ellen or mary his daughter? the figures of the two women were again confused in his mind and to add to the confusion there was a third figure, that of the woman he had just assisted through child birth. everything was confusion. he started across the street toward the entrance of the stairway leading to his office and then stopped in the road and stared about. barney smithfield having returned from putting his horse in the stall shut the door of the barn and a hanging lantern over the door swung back and forth. it threw grotesque dancing shadows down over the faces and forms of the men standing and quarreling beside the wall of the barn. * * * * * mary sat by a window in the doctor's office awaiting his return. so absorbed was she in her own thoughts that she was unconscious of the voice of duke yetter talking with the men in the street. when duke had come into the street the hot anger of the early part of the evening had returned and she again saw him advancing toward her in the orchard with the look of arrogant male confidence in his eyes but presently she forgot him and thought only of her father. an incident of her childhood returned to haunt her. one afternoon in the month of may when she was fifteen her father had asked her to accompany him on an evening drive into the country. the doctor went to visit a sick woman at a farmhouse five miles from town and as there had been a great deal of rain the roads were heavy. it was dark when they reached the farmer's house and they went into the kitchen and ate cold food off a kitchen table. for some reason her father had, on that evening, appeared boyish and almost gay. on the road he had talked a little. even at that early age mary had grown tall and her figure was becoming womanly. after the cold supper in the farm kitchen he walked with her around the house and she sat on a narrow porch. for a moment her father stood before her. he put his hands into his trouser pockets and throwing back his head laughed almost heartily. "it seems strange to think you will soon be a woman," he said. "when you do become a woman what do you suppose is going to happen, eh? what kind of a life will you lead? what will happen to you?" the doctor sat on the porch beside the child and for a moment she had thought he was about to put his arm around her. then he jumped up and went into the house leaving her to sit alone in the darkness. as she remembered the incident mary remembered also that on that evening of her childhood she had met her father's advances in silence. it seemed to her that she, not her father, was to blame for the life they had led together. the farm laborer she had met on the bridge had not felt her father's coldness. that was because he had himself been warm and generous in his attitude toward the man who had cared for him in his hour of sickness and misfortune. her father had said that the laborer knew how to be a father and mary remembered with what warmth the two boys fishing by the creek had called to her as she went away into the darkness. "their father has known how to be a father because his children have known how to give themselves," she thought guiltily. she also would give herself. before the night had passed she would do that. on that evening long ago and as she rode home beside her father he had made another unsuccessful effort to break through the wall that separated them. the heavy rains had swollen the streams they had to cross and when they had almost reached town he had stopped the horse on a wooden bridge. the horse danced nervously about and her father held the reins firmly and occasionally spoke to him. beneath the bridge the swollen stream made a great roaring sound and beside the road in a long flat field there was a lake of flood water. at that moment the moon had come out from behind clouds and the wind that blew across the water made little waves. the lake of flood water was covered with dancing lights. "i'm going to tell you about your mother and myself," her father said huskily, but at that moment the timbers of the bridge began to crack dangerously and the horse plunged forward. when her father had regained control of the frightened beast they were in the streets of the town and his diffident silent nature had reasserted itself. mary sat in the darkness by the office window and saw her father drive into the street. when his horse had been put away he did not, as was his custom, come at once up the stairway to the office but lingered in the darkness before the barn door. once he started to cross the street and then returned into the darkness. among the men who for two hours had been sitting and talking quietly a quarrel broke out. jack fisher the town nightwatchman had been telling the others the story of a battle in which he had fought during the civil war and duke yetter had begun bantering him. the nightwatchman grew angry. grasping his nightstick he limped up and down. the loud voice of duke yetter cut across the shrill angry voice of the victim of his wit. "you ought to a flanked the fellow, i tell you jack. yes sir 'ee, you ought to a flanked that reb and then when you got him flanked you ought to a knocked the stuffings out of the cuss. that's what i would a done," duke shouted, laughing boisterously. "you would a raised hell, you would," the night watchman answered, filled with ineffectual wrath. the old soldier went off along the street followed by the laughter of duke and his companions and barney smithfield, having put the doctor's horse away, came out and closed the barn door. a lantern hanging above the door swung back and forth. doctor cochran again started across the street and when he had reached the foot of the stairway turned and shouted to the men. "good night," he called cheerfully. a strand of hair was blown by the light summer breeze across mary's cheek and she jumped to her feet as though she had been touched by a hand reached out to her from the darkness. a hundred times she had seen her father return from drives in the evening but never before had he said anything at all to the loiterers by the barn door. she became half convinced that not her father but some other man was now coming up the stairway. the heavy dragging footsteps rang loudly on the wooden stairs and mary heard her father set down the little square medicine case he always carried. the strange cheerful hearty mood of the man continued but his mind was in a confused riot. mary imagined she could see his dark form in the doorway. "the woman has had a baby," said the hearty voice from the landing outside the door. "who did that happen to? was it ellen or that other woman or my little mary?" a stream of words, a protest came from the man's lips. "who's been having a baby? i want to know. who's been having a baby? life doesn't work out. why are babies always being born?" he asked. a laugh broke from the doctor's lips and his daughter leaned forward and gripped the arms of her chair. "a babe has been born," he said again. "it's strange eh, that my hands should have helped a baby be born while all the time death stood at my elbow?" doctor cochran stamped upon the floor of the landing. "my feet are cold and numb from waiting for life to come out of life," he said heavily. "the woman struggled and now i must struggle." silence followed the stamping of feet and the tired heavy declaration from the sick man's lips. from the street below came another loud shout of laughter from duke yetter. and then doctor cochran fell backward down the narrow stairs to the street. there was no cry from him, just the clatter of his shoes upon the stairs and the terrible subdued sound of the body falling. mary did not move from her chair. with closed eyes she waited. her heart pounded. a weakness complete and overmastering had possession of her and from feet to head ran little waves of feeling as though tiny creatures with soft hair-like feet were playing upon her body. it was duke yetter who carried the dead man up the stairs and laid him on a bed in one of the rooms back of the office. one of the men who had been sitting with him before the door of the barn followed lifting his hands and dropping them nervously. between his fingers he held a forgotten cigarette the light from which danced up and down in the darkness. senility he was an old man and he sat on the steps of the railroad station in a small kentucky town. a well dressed man, some traveler from the city, approached and stood before him. the old man became self-conscious. his smile was like the smile of a very young child. his face was all sunken and wrinkled and he had a huge nose. "have you any coughs, colds, consumption or bleeding sickness?" he asked. in his voice there was a pleading quality. the stranger shook his head. the old man arose. "the sickness that bleeds is a terrible nuisance," he said. his tongue protruded from between his teeth and he rattled it about. he put his hand on the stranger's arm and laughed. "bully, pretty," he exclaimed. "i cure them all--coughs, colds, consumption and the sickness that bleeds. i take warts from the hand--i cannot explain how i do it--it is a mystery--i charge nothing--my name is tom--do you like me?" the stranger was cordial. he nodded his head. the old man became reminiscent. "my father was a hard man," he declared. "he was like me, a blacksmith by trade, but he wore a plug hat. when the corn was high he said to the poor, 'go into the fields and pick' but when the war came he made a rich man pay five dollars for a bushel of corn." "i married against his will. he came to me and he said, 'tom i do not like that girl.'" "'but i love her,' i said. "'i don't,' he said. "my father and i sat on a log. he was a pretty man and wore a plug hat. 'i will get the license,' i said. "'i will give you no money,' he said. "my marriage cost me twenty-one dollars--i worked in the corn--it rained and the horses were blind--the clerk said, 'are you over twenty- one?' i said 'yes' and she said 'yes.' we had chalked it on our shoes. my father said, 'i give you your freedom.' we had no money. my marriage cost twenty-one dollars. she is dead." the old man looked at the sky. it was evening and the sun had set. the sky was all mottled with grey clouds. "i paint beautiful pictures and give them away," he declared. "my brother is in the penitentiary. he killed a man who called him an ugly name." the decrepit old man held his hands before the face of the stranger. he opened and shut them. they were black with grime. "i pick out warts," he explained plaintively. "they are as soft as your hands." "i play on an accordion. you are thirty-seven years old. i sat beside my brother in the penitentiary. he is a pretty man with pompadour hair. 'albert' i said, 'are you sorry you killed a man?' 'no,' he said, 'i am not sorry. i would kill ten, a hundred, a thousand!'" the old man began to weep and to wipe his hands with a soiled handkerchief. he attempted to take a chew of tobacco and his false teeth became displaced. he covered his mouth with his hands and was ashamed. "i am old. you are thirty-seven years old but i am older than that," he whispered. "my brother is a bad man--he is full of hate--he is pretty and has pompadour hair, but he would kill and kill. i hate old age--i am ashamed that i am old. "i have a pretty new wife. i wrote her four letters and she replied. she came here and we married--i love to see her walk--o, i buy her pretty clothes. "her foot is not straight--it is twisted--my first wife is dead--i pick warts off the hand with my fingers and no blood comes--i cure coughs, colds, consumption and the sickness that bleeds--people can write to me and i answer the letters--if they send me no money it is no matter--all is free." again the old man wept and the stranger tried to comfort him. "you are a happy man?" the stranger asked. "yes," said the old man, "and a good man too. ask everywhere about me-- my name is tom, a blacksmith--my wife walks prettily although she has a twisted foot--i have bought her a long dress--she is thirty and i am seventy-five--she has many pairs of shoes--i have bought them for her, but her foot is twisted--i buy straight shoes-- "she thinks i do not know--everybody thinks tom does not know--i have bought her a long dress that comes down to the ground--my name is tom, a blacksmith--i am seventy-five and i hate old age--i take warts off the hands and no blood comes--people may write to me and i answer the letters--all is free." the man in the brown coat napoleon went down into a battle riding on a horse. alexander went down into a battle riding on a horse. general grant got off a horse and walked in a wood. general hindenburg stood on a hill. the moon came up out of a clump of bushes. * * * * * i am writing a history of the things men do. i have written three such histories and i am but a young man. already i have written three hundred, four hundred thousand words. my wife is somewhere in this house where for hours now i have been sitting and writing. she is a tall woman with black hair, turning a little grey. listen, she is going softly up a flight of stairs. all day she goes softly about, doing the housework in our house. i came here to this town from another town in the state of iowa. my father was a workman, a house painter. he did not rise in the world as i have done. i worked my way through college and became an historian. we own this house in which i sit. this is my room in which i work. already i have written three histories of peoples. i have told how states were formed and battles fought. you may see my books standing straight up on the shelves of libraries. they stand up like sentries. i am tall like my wife and my shoulders are a little stooped. although i write boldly i am a shy man. i like being at work alone in this room with the door closed. there are many books here. nations march back and forth in the books. it is quiet here but in the books a great thundering goes on. * * * * * napoleon rides down a hill and into a battle. general grant walks in a wood. alexander rides down a hill and into a battle. * * * * * my wife has a serious, almost stern look. sometimes the thoughts i have concerning her frighten me. in the afternoon she leaves our house and goes for a walk. sometimes she goes to stores, sometimes to visit a neighbor. there is a yellow house opposite our house. my wife goes out at a side door and passes along the street between our house and the yellow house. the side door of our house bangs. there is a moment of waiting. my wife's face floats across the yellow background of a picture. * * * * * general pershing rode down a hill and into a battle. alexander rode down a hill and into a battle. * * * * * little things are growing big in my mind. the window before my desk makes a little framed place like a picture. every day i sit staring. i wait with an odd sensation of something impending. my hand trembles. the face that floats through the picture does something i don't understand. the face floats, then it stops. it goes from the right hand side to the left hand side, then it stops. the face comes into my mind and goes out--the face floats in my mind. the pen has fallen from my fingers. the house is silent. the eyes of the floating face are turned away from me. my wife is a girl who came here to this town from another town in the state of ohio. we keep a servant but my wife often sweeps the floors and she sometimes makes the bed in which we sleep together. we sit together in the evening but i do not know her. i cannot shake myself out of myself. i wear a brown coat and i cannot come out of my coat. i cannot come out of myself. my wife is very gentle and she speaks softly but she cannot come out of herself. my wife has gone out of the house. she does not know that i know every little thought of her life. i know what she thought when she was a child and walked in the streets of an ohio town. i have heard the voices of her mind. i have heard the little voices. i heard the voice of fear crying when she was first overtaken with passion and crawled into my arms. again i heard the voices of fear when her lips said words of courage to me as we sat together on the first evening after we were married and moved into this house. it would be strange if i could sit here, as i am doing now, while my own face floated across the picture made by the yellow house and the window. it would be strange and beautiful if i could meet my wife, come into her presence. the woman whose face floated across my picture just now knows nothing of me. i know nothing of her. she has gone off, along a street. the voices of her mind are talking. i am here in this room, as alone as ever any man god made. it would be strange and beautiful if i could float my face across my picture. if my floating face could come into her presence, if it could come into the presence of any man or any woman--that would be a strange and beautiful thing to have happen. * * * * * napoleon went down into a battle riding on a horse. general grant went into a wood. alexander went down into a battle riding on a horse. * * * * * i'll tell you what--sometimes the whole life of this world floats in a human face in my mind. the unconscious face of the world stops and stands still before me. why do i not say a word out of myself to the others? why, in all our life together, have i never been able to break through the wall to my wife? already i have written three hundred, four hundred thousand words. are there no words that lead into life? some day i shall speak to myself. some day i shall make a testament unto myself. brothers i am at my house in the country and it is late october. it rains. back of my house is a forest and in front there is a road and beyond that open fields. the country is one of low hills, flattening suddenly into plains. some twenty miles away, across the flat country, lies the huge city chicago. on this rainy day the leaves of the trees that line the road before my window are falling like rain, the yellow, red and golden leaves fall straight down heavily. the rain beats them brutally down. they are denied a last golden flash across the sky. in october leaves should be carried away, out over the plains, in a wind. they should go dancing away. yesterday morning i arose at daybreak and went for a walk. there was a heavy fog and i lost myself in it. i went down into the plains and returned to the hills, and everywhere the fog was as a wall before me. out of it trees sprang suddenly, grotesquely, as in a city street late at night people come suddenly out of the darkness into the circle of light under a street lamp. above there was the light of day forcing itself slowly into the fog. the fog moved slowly. the tops of trees moved slowly. under the trees the fog was dense, purple. it was like smoke lying in the streets of a factory town. an old man came up to me in the fog. i know him well. the people here call him insane. "he is a little cracked," they say. he lives alone in a little house buried deep in the forest and has a small dog he carries always in his arms. on many mornings i have met him walking on the road and he has told me of men and women who are his brothers and sisters, his cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers-in-law. it is confusing. he cannot draw close to people near at hand so he gets hold of a name out of a newspaper and his mind plays with it. on one morning he told me he was a cousin to the man named cox who at the time when i write is a candidate for the presidency. on another morning he told me that caruso the singer had married a woman who was his sister-in-law. "she is my wife's sister," he said, holding the little dog close. his grey watery eyes looked appealing up to me. he wanted me to believe. "my wife was a sweet slim girl," he declared. "we lived together in a big house and in the morning walked about arm in arm. now her sister has married caruso the singer. he is of my family now." as someone had told me the old man had never married, i went away wondering. one morning in early september i came upon him sitting under a tree beside a path near his house. the dog barked at me and then ran and crept into his arms. at that time the chicago newspapers were filled with the story of a millionaire who had got into trouble with his wife because of an intimacy with an actress. the old man told me that the actress was his sister. he is sixty years old and the actress whose story appeared in the newspapers is twenty but he spoke of their childhood together. "you would not realize it to see us now but we were poor then," he said. "it's true. we lived in a little house on the side of a hill. once when there was a storm, the wind nearly swept our house away. how the wind blew! our father was a carpenter and he built strong houses for other people but our own house he did not build very strong!" he shook his head sorrowfully. "my sister the actress has got into trouble. our house is not built very strongly," he said as i went away along the path. * * * * * for a month, two months, the chicago newspapers, that are delivered every morning in our village, have been filled with the story of a murder. a man there has murdered his wife and there seems no reason for the deed. the tale runs something like this-- the man, who is now on trial in the courts and will no doubt be hanged, worked in a bicycle factory where he was a foreman and lived with his wife and his wife's mother in an apartment in thirty-second street. he loved a girl who worked in the office of the factory where he was employed. she came from a town in iowa and when she first came to the city lived with her aunt who has since died. to the foreman, a heavy stolid looking man with grey eyes, she seemed the most beautiful woman in the world. her desk was by a window at an angle of the factory, a sort of wing of the building, and the foreman, down in the shop had a desk by another window. he sat at his desk making out sheets containing the record of the work done by each man in his department. when he looked up he could see the girl sitting at work at her desk. the notion got into his head that she was peculiarly lovely. he did not think of trying to draw close to her or of winning her love. he looked at her as one might look at a star or across a country of low hills in october when the leaves of the trees are all red and yellow gold. "she is a pure, virginal thing," he thought vaguely. "what can she be thinking about as she sits there by the window at work." in fancy the foreman took the girl from iowa home with him to his apartment in thirty-second street and into the presence of his wife and his mother-in-law. all day in the shop and during the evening at home he carried her figure about with him in his mind. as he stood by a window in his apartment and looked out toward the illinois central railroad tracks and beyond the tracks to the lake, the girl was there beside him. down below women walked in the street and in every woman he saw there was something of the iowa girl. one woman walked as she did, another made a gesture with her hand that reminded of her. all the women he saw except his wife and his mother-in-law were like the girl he had taken inside himself. the two women in his own house puzzled and confused him. they became suddenly unlovely and commonplace. his wife in particular was like some strange unlovely growth that had attached itself to his body. in the evening after the day at the factory he went home to his own place and had dinner. he had always been a silent man and when he did not talk no one minded. after dinner he with his wife went to a picture show. there were two children and his wife expected another. they came into the apartment and sat down. the climb up two flights of stairs had wearied his wife. she sat in a chair beside her mother groaning with weariness. the mother-in-law was the soul of goodness. she took the place of a servant in the home and got no pay. when her daughter wanted to go to a picture show she waved her hand and smiled. "go on," she said. "i don't want to go. i'd rather sit here." she got a book and sat reading. the little boy of nine awoke and cried. he wanted to sit on the po-po. the mother-in-law attended to that. after the man and his wife came home the three people sat in silence for an hour or two before bed time. the man pretended to read a newspaper. he looked at his hands. although he had washed them carefully grease from the bicycle frames left dark stains under the nails. he thought of the iowa girl and of her white quick hands playing over the keys of a typewriter. he felt dirty and uncomfortable. the girl at the factory knew the foreman had fallen in love with her and the thought excited her a little. since her aunt's death she had gone to live in a rooming house and had nothing to do in the evening. although the foreman meant nothing to her she could in a way use him. to her he became a symbol. sometimes he came into the office and stood for a moment by the door. his large hands were covered with black grease. she looked at him without seeing. in his place in her imagination stood a tall slender young man. of the foreman she saw only the grey eyes that began to burn with a strange fire. the eyes expressed eagerness, a humble and devout eagerness. in the presence of a man with such eyes she felt she need not be afraid. she wanted a lover who would come to her with such a look in his eyes. occasionally, perhaps once in two weeks, she stayed a little late at the office, pretending to have work that must be finished. through the window she could see the foreman waiting. when everyone had gone she closed her desk and went into the street. at the same moment the foreman came out at the factory door. they walked together along the street a half dozen blocks to where she got aboard her car. the factory was in a place called south chicago and as they went along evening was coming on. the streets were lined with small unpainted frame houses and dirty faced children ran screaming in the dusty roadway. they crossed over a bridge. two abandoned coal barges lay rotting in the stream. he went by her side walking heavily and striving to conceal his hands. he had scrubbed them carefully before leaving the factory but they seemed to him like heavy dirty pieces of waste matter hanging at his side. their walking together happened but a few times and during one summer. "it's hot," he said. he never spoke to her of anything but the weather. "it's hot," he said. "i think it may rain." she dreamed of the lover who would some time come, a tall fair young man, a rich man owning houses and lands. the workingman who walked beside her had nothing to do with her conception of love. she walked with him, stayed at the office until the others had gone to walk unobserved with him because of his eyes, because of the eager thing in his eyes that was at the same time humble, that bowed down to her. in his presence there was no danger, could be no danger. he would never attempt to approach too closely, to touch her with his hands. she was safe with him. in his apartment in the evening the man sat under the electric light with his wife and his mother-in-law. in the next room his two children were asleep. in a short time his wife would have another child. he had been with her to a picture show and in a short time they would get into bed together. he would lie awake thinking, would hear the creaking of the springs of a bed where, in another room, his mother-in-law was crawling between the sheets. life was too intimate. he would lie awake eager, expectant --expecting, what? nothing. presently one of the children would cry. it wanted to get out of bed and sit on the po-po. nothing strange or unusual or lovely would or could happen. life was too close, intimate. nothing that could happen in the apartment could in any way stir him; the things his wife might say, her occasional half-hearted outbursts of passion, the goodness of his mother-in-law who did the work of a servant without pay-- he sat in the apartment under the electric light pretending to read a newspaper--thinking. he looked at his hands. they were large, shapeless, a working-man's hands. the figure of the girl from iowa walked about the room. with her he went out of the apartment and walked in silence through miles of streets. it was not necessary to say words. he walked with her by a sea, along the crest of a mountain. the night was clear and silent and the stars shone. she also was a star. it was not necessary to say words. her eyes were like stars and her lips were like soft hills rising out of dim, star lit plains. "she is unattainable, she is far off like the stars," he thought. "she is unattainable like the stars but unlike the stars she breathes, she lives, like myself she has being." one evening, some six weeks ago, the man who worked as foreman in the bicycle factory killed his wife and he is now in the courts being tried for murder. every day the newspapers are filled with the story. on the evening of the murder he had taken his wife as usual to a picture show and they started home at nine. in thirty-second street, at a corner near their apartment building, the figure of a man darted suddenly out of an alleyway and then darted back again. the incident may have put the idea of killing his wife into the man's head. they got to the entrance to the apartment building and stepped into a dark hallway. then quite suddenly and apparently without thought the man took a knife out of his pocket. "suppose that man who darted into the alleyway had intended to kill us," he thought. opening the knife he whirled about and struck at his wife. he struck twice, a dozen times-- madly. there was a scream and his wife's body fell. the janitor had neglected to light the gas in the lower hallway. afterwards, the foreman, decided, that was the reason he did it, that and the fact that the dark slinking figure of a man darted out of an alleyway and then darted back again. "surely," he told himself, "i could never have done it had the gas been lighted." he stood in the hallway thinking. his wife was dead and with her had died her unborn child. there was a sound of doors opening in the apartments above. for several minutes nothing happened. his wife and her unborn child were dead--that was all. he ran upstairs thinking quickly. in the darkness on the lower stairway he had put the knife back into his pocket and, as it turned out later, there was no blood on his hands or on his clothes. the knife he later washed carefully in the bathroom, when the excitement had died down a little. he told everyone the same story. "there has been a holdup," he explained. "a man came slinking out of an alleyway and followed me and my wife home. he followed us into the hallway of the building and there was no light. the janitor has neglected to light the gas." well--there had been a struggle and in the darkness his wife had been killed. he could not tell how it had happened. "there was no light. the janitor has neglected to light the gas," he kept saying. for a day or two they did not question him specially and he had time to get rid of the knife. he took a long walk and threw it away into the river in south chicago where the two abandoned coal barges lay rotting under the bridge, the bridge he had crossed when on the summer evenings he walked to the street car with the girl who was virginal and pure, who was far off and unattainable, like a star and yet not like a star. and then he was arrested and right away he confessed--told everything. he said he did not know why he killed his wife and was careful to say nothing of the girl at the office. the newspapers tried to discover the motive for the crime. they are still trying. someone had seen him on the few evenings when he walked with the girl and she was dragged into the affair and had her picture printed in the papers. that has been annoying for her as of course she has been able to prove she had nothing to do with the man. * * * * * yesterday morning a heavy fog lay over our village here at the edge of the city and i went for a long walk in the early morning. as i returned out of the lowlands into our hill country i met the old man whose family has so many and such strange ramifications. for a time he walked beside me holding the little dog in his arms. it was cold and the dog whined and shivered. in the fog the old man's face was indistinct. it moved slowly back and forth with the fog banks of the upper air and with the tops of trees. he spoke of the man who has killed his wife and whose name is being shouted in the pages of the city newspapers that come to our village each morning. as he walked beside me he launched into a long tale concerning a life he and his brother, who has now become a murderer, once lived together. "he is my brother," he said over and over, shaking his head. he seemed afraid i would not believe. there was a fact that must be established. "we were boys together that man and i," he began again. "you see we played together in a barn back of our father's house. our father went away to sea in a ship. that is the way our names became confused. you understand that. we have different names, but we are brothers. we had the same father. we played together in a barn back of our father's house. for hours we lay together in the hay in the barn and it was warm there." in the fog the slender body of the old man became like a little gnarled tree. then it became a thing suspended in air. it swung back and forth like a body hanging on the gallows. the face beseeched me to believe the story the lips were trying to tell. in my mind everything concerning the relationship of men and women became confused, a muddle. the spirit of the man who had killed his wife came into the body of the little old man there by the roadside. it was striving to tell me the story it would never be able to tell in the court room in the city, in the presence of the judge. the whole story of mankind's loneliness, of the effort to reach out to unattainable beauty tried to get itself expressed from the lips of a mumbling old man, crazed with loneliness, who stood by the side of a country road on a foggy morning holding a little dog in his arms. the arms of the old man held the dog so closely that it began to whine with pain. a sort of convulsion shook his body. the soul seemed striving to wrench itself out of the body, to fly away through the fog, down across the plain to the city, to the singer, the politician, the millionaire, the murderer, to its brothers, cousins, sisters, down in the city. the intensity of the old man's desire was terrible and in sympathy my body began to tremble. his arms tightened about the body of the little dog so that it cried with pain. i stepped forward and tore the arms away and the dog fell to the ground and lay whining. no doubt it had been injured. perhaps ribs had been crushed. the old man stared at the dog lying at his feet as in the hallway of the apartment building the worker from the bicycle factory had stared at his dead wife. "we are brothers," he said again. "we have different names but we are brothers. our father you understand went off to sea." * * * * * i am sitting in my house in the country and it rains. before my eyes the hills fall suddenly away and there are the flat plains and beyond the plains the city. an hour ago the old man of the house in the forest went past my door and the little dog was not with him. it may be that as we talked in the fog he crushed the life out of his companion. it may be that the dog like the workman's wife and her unborn child is now dead. the leaves of the trees that line the road before my window are falling like rain--the yellow, red and golden leaves fall straight down, heavily. the rain beat them brutally down. they are denied a last golden flash across the sky. in october leaves should be carried away, out over the plains, in a wind. they should go dancing away. the door of the trap winifred walker understood some things clearly enough. she understood that when a man is put behind iron bars he is in prison. marriage was marriage to her. it was that to her husband hugh walker, too, as he found out. still he didn't understand. it might have been better had he understood, then he might at least have found himself. he didn't. after his marriage five or six years passed like shadows of wind blown trees playing on a wall. he was in a drugged, silent state. in the morning and evening every day he saw his wife. occasionally something happened within him and he kissed her. three children were born. he taught mathematics in the little college at union valley, illinois, and waited. for what? he began to ask himself that question. it came to him at first faintly like an echo. then it became an insistent question. "i want answering," the question seemed to say. "stop fooling along. give your attention to me." hugh walked through the streets of the illinois town. "well, i'm married. i have children," he muttered. he went home to his own house. he did not have to live within his income from the little college, and so the house was rather large and comfortably furnished. there was a negro woman who took care of the children and another who cooked and did the housework. one of the women was in the habit of crooning low soft negro songs. sometimes hugh stopped at the house door and listened. he could see through the glass in the door into the room where his family was gathered. two children played with blocks on the floor. his wife sat sewing. the old negress sat in a rocking chair with his youngest child, a baby, in her arms. the whole room seemed under the spell of the crooning voice. hugh fell under the spell. he waited in silence. the voice carried him far away somewhere, into forests, along the edges of swamps. there was nothing very definite about his thinking. he would have given a good deal to be able to be definite. he went inside the house. "well, here i am," his mind seemed to say, "here i am. this is my house, these are my children." he looked at his wife winifred. she had grown a little plump since their marriage. "perhaps it is the mother in her coming out, she has had three children," he thought. the crooning old negro woman went away, taking the youngest child with her. he and winifred held a fragmentary conversation. "have you been well to-day, dear?" she asked. "yes," he answered. if the two older children were intent on their play his chain of thought was not broken. his wife never broke it as the children did when they came running to pull and tear at him. throughout the early evening, after the children went to bed, the surface of the shell of him was not broken at all. a brother college professor and his wife came in or he and winifred went to a neighbor's house. there was talk. even when he and winifred were alone together in the house there was talk. "the shutters are becoming loose," she said. the house was an old one and had green shutters. they were continually coming loose and at night blew back and forth on their hinges making a loud banging noise. hugh made some remark. he said he would see a carpenter about the shutters. then his mind began playing away, out of his wife's presence, out of the house, in another sphere. "i am a house and my shutters are loose," his mind said. he thought of himself as a living thing inside a shell, trying to break out. to avoid distracting conversation he got a book and pretended to read. when his wife had also begun to read he watched her closely, intently. her nose was so and so and her eyes so and so. she had a little habit with her hands. when she became lost in the pages of a book the hand crept up to her cheek, touched it and then was put down again. her hair was not in very good order. since her marriage and the coming of the children she had not taken good care of her body. when she read her body slumped down in the chair. it became bag-like. she was one whose race had been run. hugh's mind played all about the figure of his wife but did not really approach the woman who sat before him. it was so with his children. sometimes, just for a moment, they were living things to him, things as alive as his own body. then for long periods they seemed to go far away like the crooning voice of the negress. it was odd that the negress was always real enough. he felt an understanding existed between himself and the negress. she was outside his life. he could look at her as at a tree. sometimes in the evening when she had been putting the children to bed in the upper part of the house and when he sat with a book in his hand pretending to read, the old black woman came softly through the room, going toward the kitchen. she did not look at winifred, but at hugh. he thought there was a strange, soft light in her old eyes. "i understand you, my son," her eyes seemed to say. hugh was determined to get his life cleaned up if he could manage it. "all right, then," he said, as though speaking to a third person in the room. he was quite sure there was a third person there and that the third person was within himself, inside his body. he addressed the third person. "well, there is this woman, this person i married, she has the air of something accomplished," he said, as though speaking aloud. sometimes it almost seemed to him he had spoken aloud and he looked quickly and sharply at his wife. she continued reading, lost in her book. "that may be it," he went on. "she has had these children. they are accomplished facts to her. they came out of her body, not out of mine. her body has done something. now it rests. if she is becoming a little bag-like, that's all right." he got up and making some trivial excuse got out of the room and out of the house. in his youth and young manhood the long periods of walking straight ahead through the country, that had come upon him like visitations of some recurring disease, had helped. walking solved nothing. it only tired his body, but when his body was tired he could sleep. after many days of walking and sleeping something occurred. the reality of life was in some queer way re-established in his mind. some little thing happened. a man walking in the road before him threw a stone at a dog that ran barking out of a farm-house. it was evening perhaps, and he walked in a country of low hills. suddenly he came out upon the top of one of the hills. before him the road dipped down into darkness but to the west, across fields, there was a farm-house. the sun had gone down, but a faint glow lit the western horizon. a. woman came out of the farmhouse and went toward a barn. he could not see her figure distinctly. she seemed to be carrying something, no doubt a milk pail; she was going to a barn to milk a cow. the man in the road who had thrown the stone at the farm dog had turned and seen hugh in the road behind him. he was a little ashamed of having been afraid of the dog. for a moment he seemed about to wait and speak to hugh, and then was overcome with confusion and hurried away. he was a middle-aged man, but quite suddenly and unexpectedly he looked like a boy. as for the farm woman, dimly seen going toward a distant barn, she also stopped and looked toward him. it was impossible she should have seen him. she was dressed in white and he could see her but dimly against the blackish green of the trees of an orchard behind her. still she stood looking and seemed to look directly into his eyes. he had a queer sensation of her having been lifted by an unseen hand and brought to him. it seemed to him he knew all about her life, all about the life of the man who had thrown the stone at the dog. in his youth, when life had stepped out of his grasp, hugh had walked and walked until several such things had occurred and then suddenly he was all right again and could again work and live among men. after his marriage and after such an evening at home he started walking rapidly as soon as he left the house. as quickly as possible he got out of town and struck out along a road that led over the rolling prairie. "well, i can't walk for days and days as i did once," he thought. "there are certain facts in life and i must face facts. winifred, my wife, is a fact, and my children are facts. i must get my fingers on facts. i must live by them and with them. it's the way lives are lived." hugh got out of town and on to a road that ran between cornfields. he was an athletic looking man and wore loose fitting clothes. he went along distraught and puzzled. in a way he felt like a man capable of taking a man's place in life and in another way he didn't at all. the country spread out, wide, in all directions. it was always night when he walked thus and he could not see, but the realization of distances was always with him. "everything goes on and on but i stand still," he thought. he had been a professor in the little college for six years. young men and women had come into a room and he had taught them. it was nothing. words and figures had been played with. an effort had been made to arouse minds. for what? there was the old question, always coming back, always wanting answering as a little animal wants food. hugh gave up trying to answer. he walked rapidly, trying to grow physically tired. he made his mind attend to little things in the effort to forget distances. one night he got out of the road and walked completely around a cornfield. he counted the stalks in each hill of corn and computed the number of stalks in a whole field. "it should yield twelve hundred bushels of corn, that field," he said to himself dumbly, as though it mattered to him. he pulled a little handful of cornsilk out of the top of an ear of corn and played with it. he tried to fashion himself a yellow moustache. "i'd be quite a fellow with a trim yellow moustache," he thought. one day in his class-room hugh suddenly began to look with new interest at his pupils. a young girl attracted his attention. she sat beside the son of a union valley merchant and the young man was writing something on the back of a book. she looked at it and then turned her head away. the young man waited. it was winter and the merchant's son had asked the girl to go with him to a skating party. hugh, however, did not know that. he felt suddenly old. when he asked the girl a question she was confused. her voice trembled. when the class was dismissed an amazing thing happened. he asked the merchant's son to stay for a moment and, when the two were alone together in the room, he grew suddenly and furiously angry. his voice was, however, cold and steady. "young man," he said, "you do not come into this room to write on the back of a book and waste your time. if i see anything of the kind again i'll do something you don't expect. i'll throw you out through a window, that's what i'll do." hugh made a gesture and the young man went away, white and silent. hugh felt miserable. for several days he thought about the girl who had quite accidentally attracted his attention. "i'll get acquainted with her. i'll find out about her," he thought. it was not an unusual thing for professors in the college at union valley to take students home to their houses. hugh decided he would take the girl to his home. he thought about it several days and late one afternoon saw her going down the college hill ahead of him. the girl's name was mary cochran and she had come to the school but a few months before from a place called huntersburg, illinois, no doubt just such another place as union valley. he knew nothing of her except that her father was dead, her mother too, perhaps. he walked rapidly down the hill to overtake her. "miss cochran," he called, and was surprised to find that his voice trembled a little. "what am i so eager about?" he asked himself. a new life began in hugh walker's house. it was good for the man to have some one there who did not belong to him, and winifred walker and the children accepted the presence of the girl. winifred urged her to come again. she did come several times a week. to mary cochran it was comforting to be in the presence of a family of children. on winter afternoons she took hugh's two sons and a sled and went to a small hill near the house. shouts arose. mary cochran pulled the sled up the hill and the children followed. then they all came tearing down together. the girl, developing rapidly into womanhood, looked upon hugh walker as something that stood completely outside her own life. she and the man who had become suddenly and intensely interested in her had little to say to each other and winifred seemed to have accepted her without question as an addition to the household. often in the afternoon when the two negro women were busy she went away leaving the two older children in mary's charge. it was late afternoon and perhaps hugh had walked home with mary from the college. in the spring he worked in the neglected garden. it had been plowed and planted, but he took a hoe and rake and puttered about. the children played about the house with the college girl. hugh did not look at them but at her. "she is one of the world of people with whom i live and with whom i am supposed to work here," he thought. "unlike winifred and these children she does not belong to me. i could go to her now, touch her fingers, look at her and then go away and never see her again." that thought was a comfort to the distraught man. in the evening when he went out to walk the sense of distance that lay all about him did not tempt him to walk and walk, going half insanely forward for hours, trying to break through an intangible wall. he thought about mary cochran. she was a girl from a country town. she must be like millions of american girls. he wondered what went on in her mind as she sat in his class-room, as she walked beside him along the streets of union valley, as she played with the children in the yard beside his house. in the winter, when in the growing darkness of a late afternoon mary and the children built a snow man in the yard, he went upstairs and stood in the darkness to look out a window. the tall straight figure of the girl, dimly seen, moved quickly about. "well, nothing has happened to her. she may be anything or nothing. her figure is like a young tree that has not borne fruit," he thought. he went away to his own room and sat for a long time in the darkness. that night when he left the house for his evening's walk he did not stay long but hurried home and went to his own room. he locked the door. unconsciously he did not want winifred to come to the door and disturb his thoughts. sometimes she did that. all the time she read novels. she read the novels of robert louis stevenson. when she had read them all she began again. sometimes she came upstairs and stood talking by his door. she told some tale, repeated some wise saying that had fallen unexpectedly from the lips of the children. occasionally she came into the room and turned out the light. there was a couch by a window. she went to sit on the edge of the couch. something happened. it was as it had been before their marriage. new life came into her figure. he also went to sit on the couch and she put up her hand and touched his face. hugh did not want that to happen now. he stood within the room for a moment and then unlocked the door and went to the head of the stairs. "be quiet when you come up, winifred. i have a headache and am going to try to sleep," he lied. when he had gone back to his own room and locked the door again he felt safe. he did not undress but threw himself on the couch and turned out the light. he thought about mary cochran, the school girl, but was sure he thought about her in a quite impersonal way. she was like the woman going to milk cows he had seen across hills when he was a young fellow and walked far and wide over the country to cure the restlessness in himself. in his life she was like the man who threw the stone at dog. "well, she is unformed; she is like a young tree," he told himself again. "people are like that. they just grow up suddenly out of childhood. it will happen to my own children. my little winifred that cannot yet say words will suddenly be like this girl. i have not selected her to think about for any particular reason. for some reason i have drawn away from life and she has brought me back. it might have happened when i saw a child playing in the street or an old man going up a stairway into a house. she does not belong to me. she will go away out of my sight. winifred and the children will stay on and on here and i will stay on and on. we are imprisoned by the fact that we belong to each other. this mary cochran is free, or at least she is free as far as this prison is concerned. no doubt she will, after a while make a prison of her own and live in it, but i will have nothing to do with the matter." by the time mary cochran was in her third year in the college at union valley she had become almost a fixture in the walker household. still she did not know hugh. she knew the children better than he did, perhaps better than their mother. in the fall she and the two boys went to the woods to gather nuts. in the winter they went skating on a little pond near the house. winifred accepted her as she accepted everything, the service of the two negroes, the coming of the children, the habitual silence of her husband. and then quite suddenly and unexpectedly hugh's silence, that had lasted all through his married life, was broken up. he walked homeward with a german who had the chair of modern languages in the school and got into a violent quarrel. he stopped to speak to men on the street. when he went to putter about in the garden he whistled and sang. one afternoon in the fall he came home and found the whole family assembled in the living room of the house. the children were playing on the floor and the negress sat in the chair by the window with his youngest child in her arms, crooning one of the negro songs. mary cochran was there. she sat reading a book. hugh walked directly toward her and looked over her shoulder. at that moment winifred came into the room. he reached forward and snatched the book out of the girl's hands. she looked up startled. with an oath he threw it into the fire that burned in an open grate at the side of the room. a flood of words ran from him. he cursed books and people and schools. "damn it all," he said. "what makes you want to read about life? what makes people want to think about life? why don't they live? why don't they leave books and thoughts and schools alone?" he turned to look at his wife who had grown pale and stared at him with a queer fixed uncertain stare. the old negro woman got up and went quickly away. the two older children began to cry. hugh was miserable. he looked at the startled girl in the chair who also had tears in her eyes, and at his wife. his fingers pulled nervously at his coat. to the two women he looked like a boy who had been caught stealing food in a pantry. "i am having one of my silly irritable spells," he said, looking at his wife but in reality addressing the girl. "you see i am more serious than i pretend to be. i was not irritated by your book but by something else. i see so much that can be done in life and i do so little." he went upstairs to his own room wondering why he had lied to the two women, why he continually lied to himself. did he lie to himself? he tried to answer the question but couldn't. he was like one who walks in the darkness of the hallway of a house and comes to a blank wall. the old desire to run away from life, to wear himself out physically, came back upon him like a madness. for a long time he stood in the darkness inside his own room. the children stopped crying and the house became quiet again. he could hear his wife's voice speaking softly and presently the back door of the house banged and he knew the schoolgirl had gone away. life in the house began again. nothing happened. hugh ate his dinner in silence and went for a long walk. for two weeks mary cochran did not come to his house and then one day he saw her on the college grounds. she was no longer one of his pupils. "please do not desert us because of my rudeness," he said. the girl blushed and said nothing. when he got home that evening she was in the yard beside the house playing with the children. he went at once to his own room. a hard smile came and went on his face. "she isn't like a young tree any more. she is almost like winifred. she is almost like a person who belongs here, who belongs to me and my life," he thought. * * * * * mary cochran's visits to the walker household came to an end very abruptly. one evening when hugh was in his room she came up the stairway with the two boys. she had dined with the family and was putting the two boys into their beds. it was a privilege she claimed when she dined with the walkers. hugh had hurried upstairs immediately after dining. he knew where his wife was. she was downstairs, sitting under a lamp, reading one of the books of robert louis stevenson. for a long time hugh could hear the voices of his children on the floor above. then the thing happened. mary cochran came down the stairway that led past the door of his room. she stopped, turned back and climbed the stairs again to the room above. hugh arose and stepped into the hallway. the schoolgirl had returned to the children's room because she had been suddenly overtaken with a hunger to kiss hugh's oldest boy, now a lad of nine. she crept into the room and stood for a long time looking at the two boys, who unaware of her presence had gone to sleep. then she stole forward and kissed the boy lightly. when she went out of the room hugh stood in the darkness waiting for her. he took hold of her hand and led her down the stairs to his own room. she was terribly afraid and her fright in an odd way pleased him. "well," he whispered, "you can't understand now what's going to happen here but some day you will. i'm going to kiss you and then i'm going to ask you to go out of this house and never come back." he held the girl against his body and kissed her upon the cheeks and lips. when he led her to the door she was so weak with fright and with new, strange, trembling desires that she could with difficulty make her way down the stair and into his wife's presence. "she will lie now," he thought, and heard her voice coming up the stairs like an echo to his thoughts. "i have a terrible headache. i must hurry home," he heard her voice saying. the voice was dull and heavy. it was not the voice of a young girl. "she is no longer like a young tree," he thought. he was glad and proud of what he had done. when he heard the door at the back of the house close softly his heart jumped. a strange quivering light came into his eyes. "she will be imprisoned but i will have nothing to do with it. she will never belong to me. my hands will never build a prison for her," he thought with grim pleasure. the new englander her name was elsie leander and her girlhood was spent on her father's farm in vermont. for several generations the leanders had all lived on the same farm and had all married thin women, and so she was thin. the farm lay in the shadow of a mountain and the soil was not very rich. from the beginning and for several generations there had been a great many sons and few daughters in the family. the sons had gone west or to new york city and the daughters had stayed at home and thought such thoughts as come to new england women who see the sons of their fathers' neighbors slipping away, one by one, into the west. her father's house was a small white frame affair and when you went out at the back door, past a small barn and chicken house, you got into a path that ran up the side of a hill and into an orchard. the trees were all old and gnarled. at the back of the orchard the hill dropped away and bare rocks showed. inside the fence a large grey rock stuck high up out of the ground. as elsie sat with her back to the rock, with a mangled hillside at her feet, she could see several large mountains, apparently but a short distance away, and between herself and the mountains lay many tiny fields surrounded by neatly built stone walls. everywhere rocks appeared. large ones, too heavy to be moved, stuck out of the ground in the centre of the fields. the fields were like cups filled with a green liquid that turned grey in the fall and white in the winter. the mountains, far off but apparently near at hand, were like giants ready at any moment to reach out their hands and take the cups one by one and drink off the green liquid. the large rocks in the fields were like the thumbs of the giants. elsie had three brothers, born before her, but they had all gone away. two of them had gone to live with her uncle in the west and her oldest brother had gone to new york city where he had married and prospered. all through his youth and manhood her father had worked hard and had lived a hard life, but his son in new york city had begun to send money home, and after that things went better. he still worked every day about the barn or in the fields but he did not worry about the future. elsie's mother did house work in the mornings and in the afternoons sat in a rocking chair in her tiny living room and thought of her sons while she crocheted table covers and tidies for the backs of chairs. she was a silent woman, very thin and with very thin bony hands. she did not ease herself into a rocking chair but sat down and got up suddenly, and when she crocheted her back was as straight as the back of a drill sergeant. the mother rarely spoke to the daughter. sometimes in the afternoons as the younger woman went up the hillside to her place by the rock at the back of the orchard, her father came out of the barn and stopped her. he put a hand on her shoulder and asked her where she was going. "to the rock," she said and her father laughed. his laughter was like the creaking of a rusty barn door hinge and the hand he had laid on her shoulders was thin like her own hands and like her mother's hands. the father went into the barn shaking his head. "she's like her mother. she is herself like a rock," he thought. at the head of the path that led from the house to the orchard there was a great cluster of bayberry bushes. the new england farmer came out of his barn to watch his daughter go along the path, but she had disappeared behind the bushes. he looked away past his house to the fields and to the mountains in the distance. he also saw the green cup-like fields and the grim mountains. there was an almost imperceptible tightening of the muscles of his half worn-out old body. for a long time he stood in silence and then, knowing from long experience the danger of having thoughts, he went back into the barn and busied himself with the mending of an agricultural tool that had been mended many times before. the son of the leanders who went to live in new york city was the father of one son, a thin sensitive boy who looked like elsie. the son died when he was twenty-three years old and some years later the father died and left his money to the old people on the new england farm. the two leanders who had gone west had lived there with their father's brother, a farmer, until they grew into manhood. then will, the younger, got a job on a railroad. he was killed one winter morning. it was a cold snowy day and when the freight train he was in charge of as conductor left the city of des moines, he started to run over the tops of the cars. his feet slipped and he shot down into space. that was the end of him. of the new generation there was only elsie and her brother tom, whom she had never seen, left alive. her father and mother talked of going west to tom for two years before they came to a decision. then it took another year to dispose of the farm and make preparations. during the whole time elsie did not think much about the change about to take place in her life. the trip west on the railroad train jolted elsie out of herself. in spite of her detached attitude toward life she became excited. her mother sat up very straight and stiff in the seat in the sleeping car and her father walked up and down in the aisle. after a night when the younger of the two women did not sleep but lay awake with red burning cheeks and with her thin fingers incessantly picking at the bed clothes in her berth while the train went through towns and cities, crawled up the sides of hills and fell down into forest-clad valleys, she got up and dressed to sit all day looking at a new kind of land. the train ran for a day and through another sleepless night in a flat land where every field was as large as a farm in her own country. towns appeared and disappeared in a continual procession. the whole land was so unlike anything she had ever known that she began to feel unlike herself. in the valley where she had been born and where she had lived all her days everything had an air of finality. nothing could be changed. the tiny fields were chained to the earth. they were fixed in their places and surrounded by aged stone walls. the fields like the mountains that looked down at them were as unchangeable as the passing days. she had a feeling they had always been so, would always be so. elsie sat like her mother, upright in the car seat and with a back like the back of a drill sergeant. the train ran swiftly along through ohio and indiana. her thin hands like her mother's hands were crossed and locked. one passing casually through the car might have thought both women prisoners handcuffed and bound to their seats. night came on and she again got into her berth. again she lay awake and her thin cheeks became flushed, but she thought new thoughts. her hands were no longer gripped together and she did not pick at the bed clothes. twice during the night she stretched herself and yawned, a thing she had never in her life done before. the train stopped at a town on the prairies, and as there was something the matter with one of the wheels of the car in which she lay the trainsmen came with flaming torches to tinker it. there was a great pounding and shouting. when the train went on its way she wanted to get out of her berth and run up and down in the aisle of the car. the fancy had come to her that the men tinkering with the car wheel were new men out of the new land who with strong hammers had broken away the doors of her prison. they had destroyed forever the programme she had made for her life. elsie was filled with joy at the thought that the train was still going on into the west. she wanted to go on forever in a straight line into the unknown. she fancied herself no longer on a train and imagined she had become a winged thing flying through space. her long years of sitting alone by the rock on the new england farm had got her into the habit of expressing her thoughts aloud. her thin voice broke the silence that lay over the sleeping car and her father and mother, both also lying awake, sat up in their berth to listen. tom leander, the only living male representative of the new generation of leanders, was a loosely built man of forty inclined to corpulency. at twenty he had married the daughter of a neighboring farmer, and when his wife inherited some money she and tom moved into the town of apple junction in iowa where tom opened a grocery. the venture prospered as did tom's matrimonial venture. when his brother died in new york city and his father, mother, and sister decided to come west tom was already the father of a daughter and four sons. on the prairies north of town and in the midst of a vast level stretch of cornfields, there was a partly completed brick house that had belonged to a rich farmer named russell who had begun to build the house intending to make it the most magnificent place in the county, but when it was almost completed he had found himself without money and heavily in debt. the farm, consisting of several hundred acres of corn land, had been split into three farms and sold. no one had wanted the huge unfinished brick house. for years it had stood vacant, its windows staring out over the fields that had been planted almost up to the door. in buying the russell house tom was moved by two motives. he had a notion that in new england the leanders had been rather magnificent people. his memory of his father's place in the vermont valley was shadowy, but in speaking of it to his wife he became very definite. "we had good blood in us, we leanders," he said, straightening his shoulders. "we lived in a big house. we were important people." wanting his father and mother to feel at home in the new place, tom had also another motive. he was not a very energetic man and, although he had done well enough as keeper of a grocery, his success was largely due to the boundless energy of his wife. she did not pay much attention to her household and her children, like little animals, had to take care of themselves, but in any matter concerning the store her word was law. to have his father the owner of the russell place tom felt would establish him as a man of consequence in the eyes of his neighbors. "i can tell you what, they're used to a big house," he said to his wife. "i tell you what, my people are used to living in style." * * * * * the exaltation that had come over elsie on the train wore away in the presence of the grey empty iowa fields, but something of the effect of it remained with her for months. in the big brick house life went on much as it had in the tiny new england house where she had always lived. the leanders installed themselves in three or four rooms on the ground floor. after a few weeks the furniture that had been shipped by freight arrived and was hauled out from town in one of tom's grocery wagons. there were three or four acres of ground covered with great piles of boards the unsuccessful farmer had intended to use in the building of stables. tom sent men to haul the boards away and elsie's father prepared to plant a garden. they had come west in april and as soon as they were installed in the house ploughing and planting began in the fields nearby. the habit of a lifetime returned to the daughter of the house. in the new place there was no gnarled orchard surrounded by a half-ruined stone fence. all of the fences in all of the fields that stretched away out of sight to the north, south, east, and west were made of wire and looked like spider webs against the blackness of the ground when it had been freshly ploughed. there was however the house itself. it was like an island rising out of the sea. in an odd way the house, although it was less than ten years old, was very old. its unnecessary bigness represented an old impulse in men. elsie felt that. at the east side there was a door leading to a stairway that ran into the upper part of the house that was kept locked. two or three stone steps led up to it. elsie could sit on the top step with her back against the door and gaze into the distance without being disturbed. almost at her feet began the fields that seemed to go on and on forever. the fields were like the waters of a sea. men came to plough and plant. giant horses moved in a procession across the prairies. a young man who drove six horses came directly toward her. she was fascinated. the breasts of the horses as they came forward with bowed heads seemed like the breasts of giants. the soft spring air that lay over the fields was also like a sea. the horses were giants walking on the floor of a sea. with their breasts they pushed the waters of the sea before them. they were pushing the waters out of the basin of the sea. the young man who drove them also was a giant. * * * * * elsie pressed her body against the closed door at the top of the steps. in the garden back of the house she could hear her father at work. he was raking dry masses of weeds off the ground preparatory to spading it for a family garden. he had always worked in a tiny confined place and would do the same thing here. in this vast open place he would work with small tools, doing little things with infinite care, raising little vegetables. in the house her mother would crochet little tidies. she herself would be small. she would press her body against the door of the house, try to get herself out of sight. only the feeling that sometimes took possession of her, and that did not form itself into a thought would be large. the six horses turned at the fence and the outside horse got entangled in the traces. the driver swore vigorously. then he turned and started at the pale new englander and with another oath pulled the heads of the horses about and drove away into the distance. the field in which he was ploughing contained two hundred acres. elsie did not wait for him to return but went into the house and sat with folded arms in a room. the house she thought was a ship floating in a sea on the floor of which giants went up and down. may came and then june. in the great fields work was always going on and elsie became somewhat used to the sight of the young man in the field that came down to the steps. sometimes when he drove his horses down to the wire fence he smiled and nodded. * * * * * in the month of august, when it is very hot, the corn in iowa fields grows until the corn stalks resemble young trees. the corn fields become forests. the time for the cultivating of the corn has passed and weeds grow thick between the corn rows. the men with their giant horses have gone away. over the immense fields silence broods. when the time of the laying-by of the crop came that first summer after elsie's arrival in the west her mind, partially awakened by the strangeness of the railroad trip, awakened again. she did not feel like a staid thin woman with a back like the back of a drill sergeant, but like something new and as strange as the new land into which she had come to live. for a time she did not know what was the matter. in the field the corn had grown so high that she could not see into the distance. the corn was like a wall and the little bare spot of land on which her father's house stood was like a house built behind the walls of a prison. for a time she was depressed, thinking that she had come west into a wide open country, only to find herself locked up more closely than ever. an impulse came to her. she arose and going down three or four steps seated herself almost on a level with the ground. immediately she got a sense of release. she could not see over the corn but she could see under it. the corn had long wide leaves that met over the rows. the rows became long tunnels running away into infinity. out of the black ground grew weeds that made a soft carpet of green. from above light sifted down. the corn rows were mysteriously beautiful. they were warm passageways running out into life. she got up from the steps and, walking timidly to the wire fence that separated her from the field, put her hand between the wires and took hold of one of the corn stalks. for some reason after she had touched the strong young stalk and had held it for a moment firmly in her hand she grew afraid. running quickly back to the step she sat down and covered her face with her hands. her body trembled. she tried to imagine herself crawling through the fence and wandering along one of the passageways. the thought of trying the experiment fascinated but at the same time terrified. she got quickly up and went into the house. * * * * * one saturday night in august elsie found herself unable to sleep. thoughts, more definite than any she had ever known before, came into her mind. it was a quiet hot night and her bed stood near a window. her room was the only one the leanders occupied on the second floor of the house. at midnight a little breeze came up from the south and when she sat up in bed the floor of corn tassels lying below her line of sight looked in the moonlight like the face of a sea just stirred by a gentle breeze. a murmuring began in the corn and murmuring thoughts and memories awoke in her mind. the long wide succulent leaves had begun to dry in the intense heat of the august days and as the wind stirred the corn they rubbed against each other. a call, far away, as of a thousand voices arose. she imagined the voices were like the voices of children. they were not like her brother tom's children, noisy boisterous little animals, but something quite different, tiny little things with large eyes and thin sensitive hands. one after another they crept into her arms. she became so excited over the fancy that she sat up in bed and taking a pillow into her arms held it against her breast. the figure of her cousin, the pale sensitive young leander who had lived with his father in new york city and who had died at the age of twenty-three, came into her mind. it was as though the young man had come suddenly into the room. she dropped the pillow and sat waiting, intense, expectant. young harry leander had come to visit his cousin on the new england farm during the late summer of the year before he died. he had stayed there for a month and almost every afternoon had gone with elsie to sit by the rock at the back of the orchard. one afternoon when they had both been for a long time silent he began to talk. "i want to go live in the west," he said. "i want to go live in the west. i want to grow strong and be a man," he repeated. tears came into his eyes. they got up to return to the house, elsie walking in silence beside the young man. the moment marked a high spot in her life. a strange trembling eagerness for something she had not realized in her experience of life had taken possession of her. they went in silence through the orchard but when they came to the bayberry bush her cousin stopped in the path and turned to face her. "i want you to kiss me," he said eagerly, stepping toward her. a fluttering uncertainty had taken possession of elsie and had been transmitted to her cousin. after he had made the sudden and unexpected demand and had stepped so close to her that his breath could be felt on her cheek, his own cheeks became scarlet and his hand that had taken her hand trembled. "well, i wish i were strong. i only wish i were strong," he said hesitatingly and turning walked away along the path toward the house. and in the strange new house, set like an island in its sea of corn, harry leander's voice seemed to arise again above the fancied voices of the children that had been coming out of the fields. elsie got out of bed and walked up and down in the dim light coming through the window. her body trembled violently. "i want you to kiss me," the voice said again and to quiet it and to quiet also the answering voice in herself she went to kneel by the bed and taking the pillow again into her arms pressed it against her face. * * * * * tom leander came with his wife and family to visit his father and mother on sundays. the family appeared at about ten o'clock in the morning. when the wagon turned out of the road that ran past the russell place tom shouted. there was a field between the house and the road and the wagon could not be seen as it came along the narrow way through the corn. after tom had shouted, his daughter elizabeth, a tall girl of sixteen, jumped out of the wagon. all five children came tearing toward the house through the corn. a series of wild shouts arose on the still morning air. the groceryman had brought food from the store. when the horse had been unhitched and put into a shed he and his wife began to carry packages into the house. the four leander boys, accompanied by their sister, disappeared into the near-by fields. three dogs that had trotted out from town under the wagon accompanied the children. two or three children and occasionally a young man from a neighboring farm had come to join in the fun. elsie's sister-in-law dismissed them all with a wave of her hand. with a wave of her hand she also brushed elsie aside. fires were lighted and the house reeked with the smell of cooking. elsie went to sit on the step at the side of the house. the corn fields that had been so quiet rang with shouts and with the barking of dogs. tom leander's oldest child, elizabeth, was like her mother, full of energy. she was thin and tall like the women of her father's house but very strong and alive. in secret she wanted to be a lady but when she tried her brothers, led by her father and mother, made fun of her. "don't put on airs," they said. when she got into the country with no one but her brothers and two or three neighboring farm boys she herself became a boy. with the boys she went tearing through the fields, following the dogs in pursuit of rabbits. sometimes a young man came with the children from a near-by farm. then she did not know what to do with herself. she wanted to walk demurely along the rows through the corn but was afraid her brothers would laugh and in desperation outdid the boys in roughness and noisiness. she screamed and shouted and running wildly tore her dress on the wire fences as she scrambled over in pursuit of the dogs. when a rabbit was caught and killed she rushed in and tore it out of the grasp of the dogs. the blood of the little dying animal dripped on her clothes. she swung it over her head and shouted. the farm hand who had worked all summer in the field within sight of elsie became enamoured of the young woman from town. when the groceryman's family appeared on sunday mornings he also appeared but did not come to the house. when the boys and dogs came tearing through the fields he joined them. he also was self-conscious and did not want the boys to know the purpose of his coming and when he and elizabeth found themselves alone together he became embarrassed. for a moment they walked together in silence. in a wide circle about them, in the forest of the corn, ran the boys and dogs. the young man had something he wanted to say, but when he tried to find words his tongue became thick and his lips felt hot and dry. "well," he began, "let's you and me--" words failed him and elizabeth turned and ran after her brothers and for the rest of the day he could not manage to get her out of their sight. when he went to join them she became the noisiest member of the party. a frenzy of activity took possession of her. with hair hanging down her back, with clothes torn and with cheeks and hands scratched and bleeding she led her brothers in the endless wild pursuit of the rabbits. * * * * * the sunday in august that followed elsie leander's sleepless night was hot and cloudy. in the morning she was half ill and as soon as the visitors from town arrived she crept away to sit on the step at the side of the house. the children ran away into the fields. an almost overpowering desire to run with them, shouting and playing along the corn rows took possession of her. she arose and went to the back of the house. her father was at work in the garden, pulling weeds from between rows of vegetables. inside the house she could hear her sister-in-law moving about. on the front porch her brother tom was asleep with his mother beside him. elsie went back to the step and then arose and went to where the corn came down to the fence. she climbed awkwardly over and went a little way along one of the rows. putting out her hand she touched the firm stalks and then, becoming afraid, dropped to her knees on the carpet of weeds that covered the ground. for a long time she stayed thus listening to the voices of the children in the distance. an hour slipped away. presently it was time for dinner and her sister- in-law came to the back door and shouted. there was an answering whoop from the distance and the children came running through the fields. they climbed over the fence and ran shouting across her father's garden. elsie also arose. she was about to attempt to climb back over the fence unobserved when she heard a rustling in the corn. young elizabeth leander appeared. beside her walked the ploughman who but a few months earlier had planted the corn in the field where elsie now stood. she could see the two people coming slowly along the rows. an understanding had been established between them. the man reached through between the corn stalks and touched the hand of the girl who laughed awkwardly and running to the fence climbed quickly over. in her hand she held the limp body of a rabbit the dogs had killed. the farm hand went away and when elizabeth had gone into the house elsie climbed over the fence. her niece stood just within the kitchen door holding the dead rabbit by one leg. the other leg had been torn away by the dogs. at sight of the new england woman, who seemed to look at her with hard unsympathetic eyes, she was ashamed and went quickly into the house. she threw the rabbit upon a table in the parlor and then ran out of the room. its blood ran out on the delicate flowers of a white crocheted table cover that had been made by elsie's mother. the sunday dinner with all the living leanders gathered about the table was gone through in a heavy lumbering silence. when the dinner was over and tom and his wife had washed the dishes they went to sit with the older people on the front porch. presently they were both asleep. elsie returned to the step at the side of the house but when the desire to go again into the cornfields came sweeping over her she got up and went indoors. the woman of thirty-five tip-toed about the big house like a frightened child. the dead rabbit that lay on the table in the parlour had become cold and stiff. its blood had dried on the white table cover. she went upstairs but did not go to her own room. a spirit of adventure had hold of her. in the upper part of the house there were many rooms and in some of them no glass had been put into the windows. the windows had been boarded up and narrow streaks of light crept in through the cracks between the boards. elsie tip-toed up the flight of stairs past the room in which she slept and opening doors went into other rooms. dust lay thick on the floors. in the silence she could hear her brother snoring as he slept in the chair on the front porch. from what seemed a far away place there came the shrill cries of the children. the cries became soft. they were like the cries of unborn children that had called to her out of the fields on the night before. into her mind came the intense silent figure of her mother sitting on the porch beside her son and waiting for the day to wear itself out into night. the thought brought a lump into her throat. she wanted something and did not know what it was. her own mood frightened her. in a windowless room at the back of the house one of the boards over a window had been broken and a bird had flown in and become imprisoned. the presence of the woman frightened the bird. it flew wildly about. its beating wings stirred up dust that danced in the air. elsie stood perfectly still, also frightened, not by the presence of the bird but by the presence of life. like the bird she was a prisoner. the thought gripped her. she wanted to go outdoors where her niece elizabeth walked with the young ploughman through the corn, but was like the bird in the room--a prisoner. she moved restlessly about. the bird flew back and forth across the room. it alighted on the window sill near the place where the board was broken away. she stared into the frightened eyes of the bird that in turn stared into her eyes. then the bird flew away, out through the window, and elsie turned and ran nervously downstairs and out into the yard. she climbed over the wire fence and ran with stooped shoulders along one of the tunnels. elsie ran into the vastness of the cornfields filled with but one desire. she wanted to get out of her life and into some new and sweeter life she felt must be hidden away somewhere in the fields. after she had run a long way she came to a wire fence and crawled over. her hair became unloosed and fell down over her shoulders. her cheeks became flushed and for the moment she looked like a young girl. when she climbed over the fence she tore a great hole in the front of her dress. for a moment her tiny breasts were exposed and then her hand clutched and held nervously the sides of the tear. in the distance she could hear the voices of the boys and the barking of the dogs. a summer storm had been threatening for days and now black clouds had begun to spread themselves over the sky. as she ran nervously forward, stopping to listen and then running on again, the dry corn blades brushed against her shoulders and a fine shower of yellow dust from the corn tassels fell on her hair. a continued crackling noise accompanied her progress. the dust made a golden crown about her head. from the sky overhead a low rumbling sound, like the growling of giant dogs, came to her ears. the thought that having at last ventured into the corn she would never escape became fixed in the mind of the running woman. sharp pains shot through her body. presently she was compelled to stop and sit on the ground. for a long time she sat with closed eyes. her dress became soiled. little insects that live in the ground under the corn came out of their holes and crawled over her legs. following some obscure impulse the tired woman threw herself on her back and lay still with closed eyes. her fright passed. it was warm and close in the room-like tunnels. the pain in her side went away. she opened her eyes and between the wide green corn blades could see patches of a black threatening sky. she did not want to be alarmed and so closed her eyes again. her thin hand no longer gripped the tear in her dress and her little breasts were exposed. they expanded and contracted in spasmodic jerks. she threw her hands back over her head and lay still. it seemed to elsie that hours passed as she lay thus, quiet and passive under the corn. deep within her there was a feeling that something was about to happen, something that would lift her out of herself, that would tear her away from her past and the past of her people. her thoughts were not definite. she lay still and waited as she had waited for days and months by the rock at the back of the orchard on the vermont farm when she was a girl. a deep grumbling noise went on in the sky overhead but the sky and everything she had ever known seemed very far away, no part of herself. after a long silence, when it seemed to her that she had gone out of herself as in a dream, elsie heard a man's voice calling. "aho, aho, aho," shouted the voice and after another period of silence there arose answering voices and then the sound of bodies crashing through the corn and the excited chatter of children. a dog came running along the row where she lay and stood beside her. his cold nose touched her face and she sat up. the dog ran away. the leander boys passed. she could see their bare legs flashing in and out across one of the tunnels. her brother had become alarmed by the rapid approach of the thunder storm and wanted to get his family to town. his voice kept calling from the house and the voices of the children answered from the fields. elsie sat on the ground with her hands pressed together. an odd feeling of disappointment had possession of her. she arose and walked slowly along in the general direction taken by the children. she came to a fence and crawled over, tearing her dress in a new place. one of her stockings had become unloosed and had slipped down over her shoe top. the long sharp weeds had scratched her leg so that it was criss-crossed with red lines, but she was not conscious of any pain. the distraught woman followed the children until she came within sight of her father's house and then stopped and again sat on the ground. there was another loud crash of thunder and tom leander's voice called again, this time half angrily. the name of the girl elizabeth was shouted in loud masculine tones that rolled and echoed like the thunder along the aisles under the corn. and then elizabeth came into sight accompanied by the young ploughman. they stopped near elsie and the man took the girl into his arms. at the sound of their approach elsie had thrown herself face downward on the ground and had twisted herself into a position where she could see without being seen. when their lips met her tense hands grasped one of the corn stalks. her lips pressed themselves into the dust. when they had gone on their way she raised her head. a dusty powder covered her lips. what seemed another long period of silence fell over the fields. the murmuring voices of unborn children, her imagination had created in the whispering fields, became a vast shout. the wind blew harder and harder. the corn stalks were twisted and bent. elizabeth went thoughtfully out of the field and climbing the fence confronted her father. "where you been? what you been a doing?" he asked. "don't you think we got to get out of here?" when elizabeth went toward the house elsie followed, creeping on her hands and knees like a little animal, and when she had come within sight of the fence surrounding the house she sat on the ground and put her hands over her face. something within herself was being twisted and whirled about as the tops of the corn stalks were now being twisted and whirled by the wind. she sat so that she did not look toward the house and when she opened her eyes she could again see along the long mysterious aisles. her brother with his wife and children went away. by turning her head elsie could see them driving at a trot out of the yard back of her father's house. with the going of the younger woman the farm house in the midst of the cornfield rocked by the winds seemed the most desolate place in the world. her mother came out at the back door of the house. she ran to the steps where she knew her daughter was in the habit of sitting and then in alarm began to call. it did not occur to elsie to answer. the voice of the older woman did not seem to have anything to do with herself. it was a thin voice and was quickly lost in the wind and in the crashing sound that arose out of the fields. with her head turned toward the house elsie stared at her mother who ran wildly around the house and then went indoors. the back door of the house went shut with a bang. the storm that had been threatening broke with a roar. broad sheets of water swept over the cornfields. sheets of water swept over the woman's body. the storm that had for years been gathering in her also broke. sobs arose out of her throat. she abandoned herself to a storm of grief that was only partially grief. tears ran out of her eyes and made little furrows through the dust on her face. in the lulls that occasionally came in the storm she raised her head and heard, through the tangled mass of wet hair that covered her ears and above the sound of millions of rain-drops that alighted on the earthen floor inside the house of the corn, the thin voices of her mother and father calling to her out of the leander house. war the story came to me from a woman met on a train. the car was crowded and i took the seat beside her. there was a man in the offing who belonged with her--a slender girlish figure of a man in a heavy brown canvas coat such as teamsters wear in the winter. he moved up and down in the aisle of the car, wanting my place by the woman's side, but i did not know that at the time. the woman had a heavy face and a thick nose. something had happened to her. she had been struck a blow or had a fall. nature could never have made a nose so broad and thick and ugly. she had talked to me in very good english. i suspect now that she was temporarily weary of the man in the brown canvas coat, that she had travelled with him for days, perhaps weeks, and was glad of the chance to spend a few hours in the company of some one else. everyone knows the feeling of a crowded train in the middle of the night. we ran along through western iowa and eastern nebraska. it had rained for days and the fields were flooded. in the clear night the moon came out and the scene outside the car-window was strange and in an odd way very beautiful. you get the feeling: the black bare trees standing up in clusters as they do out in that country, the pools of water with the moon reflected and running quickly as it does when the train hurries along, the rattle of the car-trucks, the lights in isolated farm-houses, and occasionally the clustered lights of a town as the train rushed through it into the west. the woman had just come out of war-ridden poland, had got out of that stricken land with her lover by god knows what miracles of effort. she made me feel the war, that woman did, and she told me the tale that i want to tell you. i do not remember the beginning of our talk, nor can i tell you of how the strangeness of my mood grew to match her mood until the story she told became a part of the mystery of the still night outside the car- window and very pregnant with meaning to me. there was a company of polish refugees moving along a road in poland in charge of a german. the german was a man of perhaps fifty, with a beard. as i got him, he was much such a man as might be professor of foreign languages in a college in our country, say at des moines, iowa, or springfield, ohio. he would be sturdy and strong of body and given to the eating of rather rank foods, as such men are. also he would be a fellow of books and in his thinking inclined toward the ranker philosophies. he was dragged into the war because he was a german, and he had steeped his soul in the german philosophy of might. faintly, i fancy, there was another notion in his head that kept bothering him, and so to serve his government with a whole heart he read books that would re-establish his feeling for the strong, terrible thing for which he fought. because he was past fifty he was not on the battle line, but was in charge of the refugees, taking them out of their destroyed village to a camp near a railroad where they could be fed. the refugees were peasants, all except the woman in the american train with me, her lover and her mother, an old woman of sixty-five. they had been small landowners and the others in their party had worked on their estate. along a country road in poland went this party in charge of the german who tramped heavily along, urging them forward. he was brutal in his insistence, and the old woman of sixty-five, who was a kind of leader of the refugees, was almost equally brutal in her constant refusal to go forward. in the rainy night she stopped in the muddy road and her party gathered about her. like a stubborn horse she shook her head and muttered polish words. "i want to be let alone, that's what i want. all i want in the world is to be let alone," she said, over and over; and then the german came up and putting his hand on her back pushed her along, so that their progress through the dismal night was a constant repetition of the stopping, her muttered words, and his pushing. they hated each other with whole-hearted hatred, that old polish woman and the german. the party came to a clump of trees on the bank of a shallow stream and the german took hold of the old woman's arm and dragged her through the stream while the others followed. over and over she said the words: "i want to be let alone. all i want in the world is to be let alone." in the clump of trees the german started a fire. with incredible efficiency he had it blazing high in a few minutes, taking the matches and even some bits of dry wood from a little rubber-lined pouch carried in his inside coat pocket. then he got out tobacco and, sitting down on the protruding root of a tree, smoked and stared at the refugees, clustered about the old woman on the opposite side of the fire. the german went to sleep. that was what started his trouble. he slept for an hour and when he awoke the refugees were gone. you can imagine him jumping up and tramping heavily back through the shallow stream and along the muddy road to gather his party together again. he would be angry through and through, but he would not be alarmed. it was only a matter, he knew, of going far enough back along the road as one goes back along a road for strayed cattle. and then, when the german came up to the party, he and the old woman began to fight. she stopped muttering the words about being let alone and sprang at him. one of her old hands gripped his beard and the other buried itself in the thick skin of his neck. the struggle in the road lasted a long time. the german was tired and not as strong as he looked, and there was that faint thing in him that kept him from hitting the old woman with his fist. he took hold of her thin shoulders and pushed, and she pulled. the struggle was like a man trying to lift himself by his boot straps. the two fought and were full of the determination that will not stop fighting, but they were not very strong physically. and so their two souls began to struggle. the woman in the train made me understand that quite clearly, although it may be difficult to get the sense of it over to you. i had the night and the mystery of the moving train to help me. it was a physical thing, the fight of the two souls in the dim light of the rainy night on that deserted muddy road. the air was full of the struggle and the refugees gathered about and stood shivering. they shivered with cold and weariness, of course, but also with something else. in the air everywhere about them they could feel the vague something going on. the woman said that she would gladly have given her life to have it stopped, or to have someone strike a light, and that her man felt the same way. it was like two winds struggling, she said, like a soft yielding cloud become hard and trying vainly to push another cloud out of the sky. then the struggle ended and the old woman and the german fell down exhausted in the road. the refugees gathered about and waited. they thought something more was going to happen, knew in fact something more would happen. the feeling they had persisted, you see, and they huddled together and perhaps whimpered a little. what happened is the whole point of the story. the woman in the train explained it very clearly. she said that the two souls, after struggling, went back into the two bodies, but that the soul of the old woman went into the body of the german and the soul of the german into the body of the old woman. after that, of course, everything was quite simple. the german sat down by the road and began shaking his head and saying he wanted to be let alone, declared that all he wanted in the world was to be let alone, and the polish woman took papers out of his pocket and began driving her companions back along the road, driving them harshly and brutally along, and when they grew weary pushing them with her hands. there was more of the story after that. the woman's lover, who had been a school-teacher, took the papers and got out of the country, taking his sweetheart with him. but my mind has forgotten the details. i only remember the german sitting by the road and muttering that he wanted to be let alone, and the old tired mother-in-poland saying the harsh words and forcing her weary companions to march through the night back into their own country. motherhood below the hill there was a swamp in which cattails grew. the wind rustled the dry leaves of a walnut tree that grew on top of the hill. she went beyond the tree to where the grass was long and matted. in the farmhouse a door bangs and in the road before the house a dog barked. for a long time there was no sound. then a wagon came jolting and bumping over the frozen road. the little noises ran along the ground to where she was lying on the grass and seemed like fingers playing over her body. a fragrance arose from her. it took a long time for the wagon to pass. then another sound broke the stillness. a young man from a neighboring farm came stealthily across a field and climbed a fence. he also came to the hill but for a time did not see her lying almost at his feet. he looked toward the house and stood with hands in pockets, stamping on the frozen ground like a horse. then he knew she was there. the aroma of her crept into his consciousness. he ran to kneel beside her silent figure. everything was different than it had been when they crept to the hill on the other evenings. the time of talking and waiting was over. she was different. he grew bold and put his hands on her face, her neck, her breasts, her hips. there was a strange new firmness and hardness to her body. when he kissed her lips she did not move and for a moment he was afraid. then courage came and he went down to lie with her. he had been a farm boy all his life and had plowed many acres of rich black land. he became sure of himself. he plowed her deeply. he planted the seeds of a son in the warm rich quivering soil. * * * * * she carried the seeds of a son within herself. on winter evenings she went along a path at the foot of a small hill and turned up the hill to a barn where she milked cows. she was large and strong. her legs went swinging along. the son within her went swinging along. he learned the rhythm of little hills. he learned the rhythm of flat places. he learned the rhythm of legs walking. he learned the rhythm of firm strong hands pulling at the teats of cows. * * * * * there was a field that was barren and filled with stones. in the spring when the warm nights came and when she was big with him she went to the fields. the heads of little stones stuck out of the ground like the heads of buried children. the field, washed with moonlight, sloped gradually downward to a murmuring brook. a few sheep went among the stones nibbling the sparse grass. a thousand children were buried in the barren field. they struggled to come out of the ground. they struggled to come to her. the brook ran over stones and its voice cried out. for a long time she stayed in the field, shaken with sorrow. she arose from her seat on a large stone and went to the farmhouse. the voices of the darkness cried to her as she went along a lane and past a silent barn. within herself only the one child struggled. when she got into bed his heels beat upon the walls of his prison. she lay still and listened. only one small voice seemed coming to her out of the silence of the night. out of nowhere into nothing. i rosalind wescott, a tall strong looking woman of twenty-seven, was walking on the railroad track near the town of willow springs, iowa. it was about four in the afternoon of a day in august, and the third day since she had come home to her native town from chicago, where she was employed. at that time willow springs was a town of about three thousand people. it has grown since. there was a public square with the town hall in the centre and about the four sides of the square and facing it were the merchandising establishments. the public square was bare and grassless, and out of it ran streets of frame houses, long straight streets that finally became country roads running away into the flat prairie country. although she had told everyone that she had merely come home for a short visit because she was a little homesick, and although she wanted in particular to have a talk with her mother in regard to a certain matter, rosalind had been unable to talk with anyone. indeed she had found it difficult to stay in the house with her mother and father and all the time, day and night, she was haunted by a desire to get out of town. as she went along the railroad tracks in the hot afternoon sunshine she kept scolding herself. "i've grown moody and no good. if i want to do it why don't i just go ahead and not make a fuss," she thought. for two miles the railroad tracks, eastward out of willow springs, went through corn fields on a flat plain. then there was a little dip in the land and a bridge over willow creek. the creek was altogether dry now but trees grew along the edge of the grey streak of cracked mud that in the fall, winter and spring would be the bed of the stream. rosalind left the tracks and went to sit under one of the trees. her cheeks were flushed and her forehead wet. when she took off her hat her hair fell down in disorder and strands of it clung to her hot wet face. she sat in what seemed a kind of great bowl on the sides of which the corn grew rank. before her and following the bed of the stream there was a dusty path along which cows came at evening from distant pastures. a great pancake formed of cow dung lay nearby. it was covered with grey dust and over it crawled shiny black beetles. they were rolling the dung into balls in preparation for the germination of a new generation of beetles. rosalind had come on the visit to her home town at a time of the year when everyone wished to escape from the hot dusty place. no one had expected her and she had not written to announce her coming. one hot morning in chicago she had got out of bed and had suddenly begun packing her bag, and on that same evening there she was in willow springs, in the house where she had lived until her twenty-first year, among her own people. she had come up from the station in the hotel bus and had walked into the wescott house unannounced. her father was at the pump by the kitchen door and her mother came into the living room to greet her wearing a soiled kitchen apron. everything in the house was just as it always had been. "i just thought i would come home for a few days," she said, putting down her bag and kissing her mother. ma and pa wescott had been glad to see their daughter. on the evening of her arrival they were excited and a special supper was prepared. after supper pa wescott went up town as usual, but he stayed only a few minutes. "i just want to run to the postoffice and get the evening paper," he said apologetically. rosalind's mother put on a clean dress and they all sat in the darkness on the front porch. there was talk, of a kind. "is it hot in chicago now? i'm going to do a good deal of canning this fall. i thought later i would send you a box of canned fruit. do you live in the same place on the north side? it must be nice in the evening to be able to walk down to the park by the lake." * * * * * rosalind sat under the tree near the railroad bridge two miles from willow springs and watched the tumble bugs at work. her whole body was hot from the walk in the sun and the thin dress she wore clung to her legs. it was being soiled by the dust on the grass under the tree. she had run away from town and from her mother's house. all during the three days of her visit she had been doing that. she did not go from house to house to visit her old schoolgirl friends, the girls who unlike herself had stayed in willow springs, had got married and settled down there. when she saw one of these women on the street in the morning, pushing a baby carriage and perhaps followed by a small child, she stopped. there was a few minutes of talk. "it's hot. do you live in the same place in chicago? my husband and i hope to take the children and go away for a week or two. it must be nice in chicago where you are so near the lake." rosalind hurried away. all the hours of her visit to her mother and to her home town had been spent in an effort to hurry away. from what? rosalind defended herself. there was something she had come from chicago hoping to be able to say to her mother. did she really want to talk with her about things? had she thought, by again breathing the air of her home town, to get strength to face life and its difficulties? there was no point in her taking the hot uncomfortable trip from chicago only to spend her days walking in dusty country roads or between rows of cornfields in the stifling heat along the railroad tracks. "i must have hoped. there is a hope that cannot be fulfilled," she thought vaguely. willow springs was a rather meaningless, dreary town, one of thousands of such towns in indiana, illinois, wisconsin, kansas, iowa, but her mind made it more dreary. she sat under the tree by the dry bed of willow creek thinking of the street in town where her mother and father lived, where she had lived until she had become a woman. it was only because of a series of circumstances she did not live there now. her one brother, ten years older than herself, had married and moved to chicago. he had asked her to come for a visit and after she got to the city she stayed. her brother was a traveling salesman and spent a good deal of time away from home. "why don't you stay here with bess and learn stenography," he asked. "if you don't want to use it you don't have to. dad can look out for you all right. i just thought you might like to learn." * * * * * "that was six years ago," rosalind thought wearily. "i've been a city woman for six years." her mind hopped about. thoughts came and went. in the city, after she became a stenographer, something for a time awakened her. she wanted to be an actress and went in the evening to a dramatic school. in an office where she worked there was a young man, a clerk. they went out together, to the theatre or to walk in the park in the evening. they kissed. her thoughts came sharply back to her mother and father, to her home in willow springs, to the street in which she had lived until her twenty- first year. it was but an end of a street. from the windows at the front of her mother's house six other houses could be seen. how well she knew the street and the people in the houses! did she know them? from her eighteenth and until her twenty-first year she had stayed at home, helping her mother with the housework, waiting for something. other young women in town waited just as she did. they like herself had graduated from the town high school and their parents had no intention of sending them away to college. there was nothing to do but wait. some of the young women--their mothers and their mothers' friends still spoke of them as girls--had young men friends who came to see them on sunday and perhaps also on wednesday or thursday evenings. others joined the church, went to prayer meetings, became active members of some church organization. they fussed about. rosalind had done none of these things. all through those three trying years in willow springs she had just waited. in the morning there was the work to do in the house and then, in some way, the day wore itself away. in the evening her father went up town and she sat with her mother. nothing much was said. after she had gone to bed she lay awake, strangely nervous, eager for something to happen that never would happen. the noises of the wescott house cut across her thoughts. what things went through her mind! there was a procession of people always going away from her. sometimes she lay on her belly at the edge of a ravine. well it was not a ravine. it had two walls of marble and on the marble face of the walls strange figures were carved. broad steps led down--always down and away. people walked along the steps, between the marble walls, going down and away from her. what people! who were they? where did they come from? where were they going? she was not asleep but wide awake. her bedroom was dark. the walls and ceiling of the room receded. she seemed to hang suspended in space, above the ravine--the ravine with walls of white marble over which strange beautiful lights played. the people who went down the broad steps and away into infinite distance--they were men and women. sometime a young girl like herself but in some way sweeter and purer than herself, passed alone. the young girl walked with a swinging stride, going swiftly and freely like a beautiful young animal. her legs and arms were like the slender top branches of trees swaying in a gentle wind. she also went down and away. others followed along the marble steps. young boys walked alone. a dignified old man followed by a sweet faced woman passed. what a remarkable man! one felt infinite power in his old frame. there were deep wrinkles in his face and his eyes were sad. one felt he knew everything about life but had kept something very precious alive in himself. it was that precious thing that made the eyes of the woman who followed him burn with a strange fire. they also went down along the steps and away. down and away along the steps went others--how many others, men and women, boys and girls, single old men, old women who leaned on sticks and hobbled along. in the bed in her father's house as she lay awake rosalind's head grew light. she tried to clutch at something, understand something. she couldn't. the noises of the house cut across her waking dream. her father was at the pump by the kitchen door. he was pumping a pail of water. in a moment he would bring it into the house and put it on a box by the kitchen sink. a little of the water would slop over on the floor. there would be a sound like a child's bare foot striking the floor. then her father would go to wind the clock. the day was done. presently there would be the sound of his heavy feet on the floor of the bedroom above and he would get into bed to lie beside rosalind's mother. the night noises of her father's house had been in some way terrible to the girl in the years when she was becoming a woman. after chance had taken her to the city she never wanted to think of them again. even in chicago where the silence of nights was cut and slashed by a thousand noises, by automobiles whirling through the streets, by the belated footsteps of men homeward bound along the cement sidewalks after midnight, by the shouts of quarreling men drunk on summer nights, even in the great hubbub of noises there was comparative quiet. the insistent clanging noises of the city nights were not like the homely insistent noises of her father's house. certain terrible truths about life did not abide in them, they did not cling so closely to life and did not frighten as did the noises in the one house on the quiet street in the town of willow springs. how often, there in the city, in the midst of the great noises she had fought to escape the little noises! her father's feet were on the steps leading into the kitchen. now he was putting the pail of water on the box by the kitchen sink. upstairs her mother's body fell heavily into bed. the visions of the great marble-lined ravine down along which went the beautiful people flew away. there was the little slap of water on the kitchen floor. it was like a child's bare foot striking the floor. rosalind wanted to cry out. her father closed the kitchen door. now he was winding the clock. in a moment his feet would be on the stairs-- there were six houses to be seen from the windows of the wescott house. in the winter smoke from six brick chimneys went up into the sky. there was one house, the next one to the wescott's place, a small frame affair, in which lived a man who was thirty-five years old when rosalind became a woman of twenty-one and went away to the city. the man was unmarried and his mother, who had been his housekeeper, had died during the year in which rosalind graduated from the high school. after that the man lived alone. he took his dinner and supper at the hotel, down town on the square, but he got his own breakfast, made his own bed and swept out his own house. sometimes he walked slowly along the street past the wescott house when rosalind sat alone on the front porch. he raised his hat and spoke to her. their eyes met. he had a long, hawk-like nose and his hair was long and uncombed. rosalind thought about him sometimes. it bothered her a little that he sometimes went stealing softly, as though not to disturb her, across her daytime fancies. as she sat that day by the dry creek bed rosalind thought about the bachelor, who had now passed the age of forty and who lived on the street where she had lived during her girlhood. his house was separated from the wescott house by a picket fence. sometimes in the morning he forgot to pull his blinds and rosalind, busy with the housework in her father's house, had seen him walking about in his underwear. it was-- uh, one could not think of it. the man's name was melville stoner. he had a small income and did not have to work. on some days he did not leave his house and go to the hotel for his meals but sat all day in a chair with his nose buried in a book. there was a house on the street occupied by a widow who raised chickens. two or three of her hens were what the people who lived on the street called 'high flyers.' they flew over the fence of the chicken yard and escaped and almost always they came at once into the yard of the bachelor. the neighbors laughed about it. it was significant, they felt. when the hens had come into the yard of the bachelor, stoner, the widow with a stick in her hand ran after them. melville stoner came out of his house and stood on a little porch in front. the widow ran through the front gate waving her arms wildly and the hens made a great racket and flew over the fence. they ran down the street toward the widow's house. for a moment she stood by the stoner gate. in the summer time when the windows of the wescott house were open rosalind could hear what the man and woman said to each other. in willow springs it was not thought proper for an unmarried woman to stand talking to an unmarried man near the door of his bachelor establishment. the widow wanted to observe the conventions. still she did linger a moment, her bare arm resting on the gate post. what bright eager little eyes she had! "if those hens of mine bother you i wish you would catch them and kill them," she said fiercely. "i am always glad to see them coming along the road," melville stoner replied, bowing. rosalind thought he was making fun of the widow. she liked him for that. "i'd never see you if you did not have to come here after your hens. don't let anything happen to them," he said, bowing again. for a moment the man and woman lingered looking into each other's eyes. from one of the windows of the wescott house rosalind watched the woman. nothing more was said. there was something about the woman she had not understood--well the widow's senses were being fed. the developing woman in the house next door had hated her. * * * * * rosalind jumped up from under the tree and climbed up the railroad embankment. she thanked the gods she had been lifted out of the life of the town of willow springs and that chance had set her down to live in a city. "chicago is far from beautiful. people say it is just a big noisy dirty village and perhaps that's what it is, but there is something alive there," she thought. in chicago, or at least during the last two or three years of her life there, rosalind felt she had learned a little something of life. she had read books for one thing, such books as did not come to willow springs, books that willow springs knew nothing about, she had gone to hear the symphony orchestra, she had begun to understand something of the possibility of line and color, had heard intelligent, understanding men speak of these things. in chicago, in the midst of the twisting squirming millions of men and women there were voices. one occasionally saw men or at least heard of the existence of men who, like the beautiful old man who had walked away down the marble stairs in the vision of her girlhood nights, had kept some precious thing alive in themselves. and there was something else--it was the most important thing of all. for the last two years of her life in chicago she had spent hours, days in the presence of a man to whom she could talk. the talks had awakened her. she felt they had made her a woman, had matured her. "i know what these people here in willow springs are like and what i would have been like had i stayed here," she thought. she felt relieved and almost happy. she had come home at a crisis of her own life hoping to be able to talk a little with her mother, or if talk proved impossible hoping to get some sense of sisterhood by being in her presence. she had thought there was something buried away, deep within every woman, that at a certain call would run out to other women. now she felt that the hope, the dream, the desire she had cherished was altogether futile. sitting in the great flat bowl in the midst of the corn lands two miles from her home town where no breath of air stirred and seeing the beetles at their work of preparing to propagate a new generation of beetles, while she thought of the town and its people, had settled something for her. her visit to willow springs had come to something after all. rosalind's figure had still much of the spring and swing of youth in it. her legs were strong and her shoulders broad. she went swinging along the railroad track toward town, going westward. the sun had begun to fall rapidly down the sky. away over the tops of the corn in one of the great fields she could see in the distance to where a man was driving a motor along a dusty road. the wheels of the car kicked up dust through which the sunlight played. the floating cloud of dust became a shower of gold that settled down over the fields. "when a woman most wants what is best and truest in another woman, even in her own mother, she isn't likely to find it," she thought grimly. "there are certain things every woman has to find out for herself, there is a road she must travel alone. it may only lead to some more ugly and terrible place, but if she doesn't want death to overtake her and live within her while her body is still alive she must set out on that road." rosalind walked for a mile along the railroad track and then stopped. a freight train had gone eastward as she sat under the tree by the creek bed and now, there beside the tracks, in the grass was the body of a man. it lay still, the face buried in the deep burned grass. at once she concluded the man had been struck and killed by the train. the body had been thrown thus aside. all her thoughts went away and she turned and started to tiptoe away, stepping carefully along the railroad ties, making no noise. then she stopped again. the man in the grass might not be dead, only hurt, terribly hurt. it would not do to leave him there. she imagined him mutilated but still struggling for life and herself trying to help him. she crept back along the ties. the man's legs were not twisted and beside him lay his hat. it was as though he had put it there before lying down to sleep, but a man did not sleep with his face buried in the grass in such a hot uncomfortable place. she drew nearer. "o, you mister," she called, "o, you--are you hurt?" the man in the grass sat up and looked at her. he laughed. it was melville stoner, the man of whom she had just been thinking and in thinking of whom she had come to certain settled conclusions regarding the futility of her visit to willow springs. he got to his feet and picked up his hat. "well, hello, miss rosalind wescott," he said heartily. he climbed a small embankment and stood beside her. "i knew you were at home on a visit but what are you doing out here?" he asked and then added, "what luck this is! now i shall have the privilege of walking home with you. you can hardly refuse to let me walk with you after shouting at me like that." they walked together along the tracks he with his hat in his hand. rosalind thought he looked like a gigantic bird, an aged wise old bird, "perhaps a vulture" she thought. for a time he was silent and then he began to talk, explaining his lying with his face buried in the grass. there was a twinkle in his eyes and rosalind wondered if he was laughing at her as she had seen him laugh at the widow who owned the hens. he did not come directly to the point and rosalind thought it strange that they should walk and talk together. at once his words interested her. he was so much older than herself and no doubt wiser. how vain she had been to think herself so much more knowing than all the people of willow springs. here was this man and he was talking and his talk did not sound like anything she had ever expected to hear from the lips of a native of her home town. "i want to explain myself but we'll wait a little. for years i've been wanting to get at you, to talk with you, and this is my chance. you've been away now five or six years and have grown into womanhood. "you understand it's nothing specially personal, my wanting to get at you and understand you a little," he added quickly. "i'm that way about everyone. perhaps that's the reason i live alone, why i've never married or had personal friends. i'm too eager. it isn't comfortable to others to have me about." rosalind was caught up by this new view point of the man. she wondered. in the distance along the tracks the houses of the town came into sight. melville stoner tried to walk on one of the iron rails but after a few steps lost his balance and fell off. his long arms whirled about. a strange intensity of mood and feeling had come over rosalind. in one moment melville stoner was like an old man and then he was like a boy. being with him made her mind, that had been racing all afternoon, race faster than ever. when he began to talk again he seemed to have forgotten the explanation he had intended making. "we've lived side by side but we've hardly spoken to each other," he said. "when i was a young man and you were a girl i used to sit in the house thinking of you. we've really been friends. what i mean is we've had the same thoughts." he began to speak of life in the city where she had been living, condemning it. "it's dull and stupid here but in the city you have your own kind of stupidity too," he declared. "i'm glad i do not live there." in chicago when she had first gone there to live a thing had sometimes happened that had startled rosalind. she knew no one but her brother and his wife and was sometimes very lonely. when she could no longer bear the eternal sameness of the talk in her brother's house she went out to a concert or to the theatre. once or twice when she had no money to buy a theatre ticket she grew bold and walked alone in the streets, going rapidly along without looking to the right or left. as she sat in the theatre or walked in the street an odd thing sometimes happened. someone spoke her name, a call came to her. the thing happened at a concert and she looked quickly about. all the faces in sight had that peculiar, half bored, half expectant expression one grows accustomed to seeing on the faces of people listening to music. in the entire theatre no one seemed aware of her. on the street or in the park the call had come when she was utterly alone. it seemed to come out of the air, from behind a tree in the park. and now as she walked on the railroad tracks with melville stoner the call seemed to come from him. he walked along apparently absorbed with his own thoughts, the thoughts he was trying to find words to express. his legs were long and he walked with a queer loping gait. the idea of some great bird, perhaps a sea-bird stranded far inland, stayed in rosalind's mind but the call did not come from the bird part of him. there was something else, another personality hidden away. rosalind fancied the call came this time from a young boy, from such another clear-eyed boy as she had once seen in her waking dreams at night in her father's house, from one of the boys who walked on the marble stairway, walked down and away. a thought came that startled her. "the boy is hidden away in the body of this strange bird-like man," she told herself. the thought awoke fancies within her. it explained much in the lives of men and women. an expression, a phrase, remembered from her childhood when she had gone to sunday school in willow springs, came back to her mind. "and god spoke to me out of a burning bush." she almost said the words aloud. melville stoner loped along, walking on the railroad ties and talking. he seemed to have forgotten the incident of his lying with his nose buried in the grass and was explaining his life lived alone in the house in town. rosalind tried to put her own thoughts aside and to listen to his words but did not succeed very well. "i came home here hoping to get a little closer to life, to get, for a few days, out of the company of a man so i could think about him. i fancied i could get what i wanted by being near mother, but that hasn't worked. it would be strange if i got what i am looking for by this chance meeting with another man," she thought. her mind went on recording thoughts. she heard the spoken words of the man beside her but her own mind went on, also making words. something within herself felt suddenly relaxed and free. ever since she had got off the train at willow springs three days before there had been a great tenseness. now it was all gone. she looked at melville stoner who occasionally looked at her. there was something in his eyes, a kind of laughter--a mocking kind of laughter. his eyes were grey, of a cold greyness, like the eyes of a bird. "it has come into my mind--i have been thinking--well you see you have not married in the six years since you went to live in the city. it would be strange and a little amusing if you are like myself, if you cannot marry or come close to any other person," he was saying. again he spoke of the life he led in his house. "i sometimes sit in my house all day, even when the weather is fine outside," he said. "you have no doubt seen me sitting there. sometimes i forget to eat. i read books all day, striving to forget myself and then night comes and i cannot sleep. "if i could write or paint or make music, if i cared at all about expressing what goes on in my mind it would be different. however, i would not write as others do. i would have but little to say about what people do. what do they do? in what way does it matter? well you see they build cities such as you live in and towns like willow springs, they have built this railroad track on which we are walking, they marry and raise children, commit murders, steal, do kindly acts. what does it matter? you see we are walking here in the hot sun. in five minutes more we will be in town and you will go to your house and i to mine. you will eat supper with your father and mother. then your father will go up town and you and your mother will sit together on the front porch. there will be little said. your mother will speak of her intention to can fruit. then your father will come home and you will all go to bed. your father will pump a pail of water at the pump by the kitchen door. he will carry it indoors and put it on a box by the kitchen sink. a little of the water will be spilled. it will make a soft little slap on the kitchen floor--" "ha!" melville stoner turned and looked sharply at rosalind who had grown a little pale. her mind raced madly, like an engine out of control. there was a kind of power in melville stoner that frightened her. by the recital of a few commonplace facts he had suddenly invaded her secret places. it was almost as though he had come into the bedroom in her father's house where she lay thinking. he had in fact got into her bed. he laughed again, an unmirthful laugh. "i'll tell you what, we know little enough here in america, either in the towns or in the cities," he said rapidly. "we are all on the rush. we are all for action. i sit still and think. if i wanted to write i'd do something. i'd tell what everyone thought. it would startle people, frighten them a little, eh? i would tell you what you have been thinking this afternoon while you walked here on this railroad track with me. i would tell you what your mother has been thinking at the same time and what she would like to say to you." rosalind's face had grown chalky white and her hands trembled. they got off the railroad tracks and into the streets of willow springs. a change came over melville stoner. of a sudden he seemed just a man of forty, a little embarrassed by the presence of the younger woman, a little hesitant. "i'm going to the hotel now and i must leave you here," he said. his feet made a shuffling sound on the sidewalk. "i intended to tell you why you found me lying out there with my face buried in the grass," he said. a new quality had come into his voice. it was the voice of the boy who had called to rosalind out of the body of the man as they walked and talked on the tracks. "sometimes i can't stand my life here," he said almost fiercely and waved his long arms about. "i'm alone too much. i grow to hate myself. i have to run out of town." the man did not look at rosalind but at the ground. his big feet continued shuffling nervously about. "once in the winter time i thought i was going insane," he said. "i happened to remember an orchard, five miles from town where i had walked one day in the late fall when the pears were ripe. a notion came into my head. it was bitter cold but i walked the five miles and went into the orchard. the ground was frozen and covered with snow but i brushed the snow aside. i pushed my face into the grass. in the fall when i had walked there the ground was covered with ripe pears. a fragrance arose from them. they were covered with bees that crawled over them, drunk, filled with a kind of ecstacy. i had remembered the fragrance. that's why i went there and put my face into the frozen grass. the bees were in an ecstasy of life and i had missed life. i have always missed life. it always goes away from me. i always imagined people walking away. in the spring this year i walked on the railroad track out to the bridge over willow creek. violets grew in the grass. at that time i hardly noticed them but today i remembered. the violets were like the people who walk away from me. a mad desire to run after them had taken possession of me. i felt like a bird flying through space. a conviction that something had escaped me and that i must pursue it had taken possession of me." melville stoner stopped talking. his face also had grown white and his hands also trembled. rosalind had an almost irresistible desire to put out her hand and touch his hand. she wanted to shout, crying--"i am here. i am not dead. i am alive." instead she stood in silence, staring at him, as the widow who owned the high flying hens had stared. melville stoner struggled to recover from the ecstasy into which he had been thrown by his own words. he bowed and smiled. "i hope you are in the habit of walking on railroad tracks," he said. "i shall in the future know what to do with my time. when you come to town i shall camp on the railroad tracks. no doubt, like the violets, you have left your fragrance out there." rosalind looked at him. he was laughing at her as he had laughed when he talked to the widow standing at his gate. she did not mind. when he had left her she went slowly through the streets. the phrase that had come into her mind as they walked on the tracks came back and she said it over and over. "and god spoke to me out of a burning bush." she kept repeating the phrase until she got back into the wescott house. * * * * * rosalind sat on the front porch of the house where her girlhood had been spent. her father had not come home for the evening meal. he was a dealer in coal and lumber and owned a number of unpainted sheds facing a railroad siding west of town. there was a tiny office with a stove and a desk in a corner by a window. the desk was piled high with unanswered letters and with circulars from mining and lumber companies. over them had settled a thick layer of coal dust. all day he sat in his office looking like an animal in a cage, but unlike a caged animal he was apparently not discontented and did not grow restless. he was the one coal and lumber dealer in willow springs. when people wanted one of these commodities they had to come to him. there was no other place to go. he was content. in the morning as soon as he got to his office he read the des moines paper and then if no one came to disturb him he sat all day, by the stove in winter and by an open window through the long hot summer days, apparently unaffected by the marching change of seasons pictured in the fields, without thought, without hope, without regret that life was becoming an old worn out thing for him. in the wescott house rosalind's mother had already begun the canning of which she had several times spoken. she was making gooseberry jam. rosalind could hear the pots boiling in the kitchen. her mother walked heavily. with the coming of age she was beginning to grow fat. the daughter was weary from much thinking. it had been a day of many emotions. she took off her hat and laid it on the porch beside her. melville stoner's house next door had windows that were like eyes staring at her, accusing her. "well now, you see, you have gone too fast," the house declared. it sneered at her. "you thought you knew about people. after all you knew nothing." rosalind held her head in her hands. it was true she had misunderstood. the man who lived in the house was no doubt like other people in willow springs. he was not, as she had smartly supposed, a dull citizen of a dreary town, one who knew nothing of life. had he not said words that had startled her, torn her out of herself? rosalind had an experience not uncommon to tired nervous people. her mind, weary of thinking, did not stop thinking but went on faster than ever. a new plane of thought was reached. her mind was like a flying machine that leaves the ground and leaps into the air. it took hold upon an idea expressed or implied in something melville stoner had said. "in every human being there are two voices, each striving to make itself heard." a new world of thought had opened itself before her. after all human beings might be understood. it might be possible to understand her mother and her mother's life, her father, the man she loved, herself. there was the voice that said words. words came forth from lips. they conformed, fell into a certain mold. for the most part the words had no life of their own. they had come down out of old times and many of them were no doubt once strong living words, coming out of the depth of people, out of the bellies of people. the words had escaped out of a shut-in place. they had once expressed living truth. then they had gone on being said, over and over, by the lips of many people, endlessly, wearily. she thought of men and women she had seen together, that she had heard talking together as they sat in the street cars or in apartments or walked in a chicago park. her brother, the traveling salesman, and his wife had talked half wearily through the long evenings she had spent with them in their apartment. it was with them as with the other people. a thing happened. the lips said certain words but the eyes of the people said other words. sometimes the lips expressed affection while hatred shone out of the eyes. sometimes it was the other way about. what a confusion! it was clear there was something hidden away within people that could not get itself expressed except accidentally. one was startled or alarmed and then the words that fell from the lips became pregnant words, words that lived. the vision that had sometimes visited her in her girlhood as she lay in bed at night came back. again she saw the people on the marble stairway, going down and away, into infinity. her own mind began to make words that struggled to get themselves expressed through her lips. she hungered for someone to whom to say the words and half arose to go to her mother, to where her mother was making gooseberry jam in the kitchen, and then sat down again. "they were going down into the hall of the hidden voices," she whispered to herself. the words excited and intoxicated her as had the words from the lips of melville stoner. she thought of herself as having quite suddenly grown amazingly, spiritually, even physically. she felt relaxed, young, wonderfully strong. she imagined herself as walking, as had the young girl she had seen in the vision, with swinging arms and shoulders, going down a marble stairway--down into the hidden places in people, into the hall of the little voices. "i shall understand after this, what shall i not understand?" she asked herself. doubt came and she trembled a little. as she walked with him on the railroad track melville stoner had gone down within herself. her body was a house, through the door of which he had walked. he had known about the night noises in her father's house--her father at the well by the kitchen door, the slap of the spilled water on the floor. even when she was a young girl and had thought herself alone in the bed in the darkness in the room upstairs in the house before which she now sat, she had not been alone. the strange bird-like man who lived in the house next door had been with her, in her room, in her bed. years later he had remembered the terrible little noises of the house and had known how they had terrified her. there was something terrible in his knowledge too. he had spoken, given forth his knowledge, but as he did so there was laughter in his eyes, perhaps a sneer. in the wescott house the sounds of housekeeping went on. a man who had been at work in a distant field, who had already begun his fall plowing, was unhitching his horses from the plow. he was far away, beyond the street's end, in a field that swelled a little out of the plain. rosalind stared. the man was hitching the horses to a wagon. she saw him as through the large end of a telescope. he would drive the horses away to a distant farmhouse and put them into a barn. then he would go into a house where there was a woman at work. perhaps the woman like her mother would be making gooseberry jam. he would grunt as her father did when at evening he came home from the little hot office by the railroad siding. "hello," he would say, flatly, indifferently, stupidly. life was like that. rosalind became weary of thinking. the man in the distant field had got into his wagon and was driving away. in a moment there would be nothing left of him but a thin cloud of dust that floated in the air. in the house the gooseberry jam had boiled long enough. her mother was preparing to put it into glass jars. the operation produced a new little side current of sounds. she thought again of melville stoner. for years he had been sitting, listening to sounds. there was a kind of madness in it. she had got herself into a half frenzied condition. "i must stop it," she told herself. "i am like a stringed instrument on which the strings have been tightened too much." she put her face into her hands, wearily. and then a thrill ran through her body. there was a reason for melville stoner's being what he had become. there was a locked gateway leading to the marble stairway that led down and away, into infinity, into the hall of the little voices and the key to the gateway was love. warmth came back into rosalind's body. "understanding need not lead to weariness," she thought. life might after all be a rich, a triumphant thing. she would make her visit to willow springs count for something significant in her life. for one thing she would really approach her mother, she would walk into her mother's life. "it will be my first trip down the marble stairway," she thought and tears came to her eyes. in a moment her father would be coming home for the evening meal but after supper he would go away. the two women would be alone together. together they would explore a little into the mystery of life, they would find sisterhood. the thing she had wanted to talk about with another understanding woman could be talked about then. there might yet be a beautiful outcome to her visit to willow springs and to her mother. ii the story of rosalind's six years in chicago is the story of thousands of unmarried women who work in offices in the city. necessity had not driven her to work nor kept her at her task and she did not think of herself as a worker, one who would always be a worker. for a time after she came out of the stenographic school she drifted from office to office, acquiring always more skill, but with no particular interest in what she was doing. it was a way to put in the long days. her father, who in addition to the coal and lumber yards owned three farms, sent her a hundred dollars a month. the money her work brought was spent for clothes so that she dressed better than the women she worked with. of one thing she was quite sure. she did not want to return to willow springs to live with her father and mother, and after a time she knew she could not continue living with her brother and his wife. for the first time she began seeing the city that spread itself out before her eyes. when she walked at the noon hour along michigan boulevard or went into a restaurant or in the evening went home in the street car she saw men and women together. it was the same when on sunday afternoons in the summer she walked in the park or by the lake. on a street car she saw a small round-faced woman put her hand into the hand of her male companion. before she did it she looked cautiously about. she wanted to assure herself of something. to the other women in the car, to rosalind and the others the act said something. it was as though the woman's voice had said aloud, "he is mine. do not draw too close to him." there was no doubt that rosalind was awakening out of the willow springs torpor in which she had lived out her young womanhood. the city had at least done that for her. the city was wide. it flung itself out. one had but to let his feet go thump, thump upon the pavements to get into strange streets, see always new faces. on saturday afternoon and all day sunday one did not work. in the summer it was a time to go to places--to the park, to walk among the strange colorful crowds in halsted street, with a half dozen young people from the office, to spend a day on the sand dunes at the foot of lake michigan. one got excited and was hungry, hungry, always hungry-- for companionship. that was it. one wanted to possess something--a man --to take him along on jaunts, be sure of him, yes--own him. she read books--always written by men or by manlike women. there was an essential mistake in the viewpoint of life set forth in the books. the mistake was always being made. in rosalind's time it grew more pronounced. someone had got hold of a key with which the door to the secret chamber of life could be unlocked. others took the key and rushed in. the secret chamber of life was filled with a noisy vulgar crowd. all the books that dealt with life at all dealt with it through the lips of the crowd that had newly come into the sacred place. the writer had hold of the key. it was his time to be heard. "sex," he cried. "it is by understanding sex i will untangle the mystery." it was all very well and sometimes interesting but one grew tired of the subject. she lay abed in her room at her brother's house on a sunday night in the summer. during the afternoon she had gone for a walk and on a street on the northwest side had come upon a religious procession. the virgin was being carried through the streets. the houses were decorated and women leaned out at the windows of houses. old priests dressed in white gowns waddled along. strong young men carried the platform on which the virgin rested. the procession stopped. someone started a chant in a loud clear voice. other voices took it up. children ran about gathering in money. all the time there was a loud hum of ordinary conversation going on. women shouted across the street to other women. young girls walked on the sidewalks and laughed softly as the young men in white, clustered about the virgin, turned to stare at them. on every street corner merchants sold candies, nuts, cool drinks-- in her bed at night rosalind put down the book she had been reading. "the worship of the virgin is a form of sex expression," she read. "well what of it? if it be true what does it matter?" she got out of bed and took off her nightgown. she was herself a virgin. what did that matter? she turned herself slowly about, looking at her strong young woman's body. it was a thing in which sex lived. it was a thing upon which sex in others might express itself. what did it matter? there was her brother sleeping with his wife in another room near at hand. in willow springs, iowa, her father was at just this moment pumping a pail of water at the well by the kitchen door. in a moment he would carry it into the kitchen to set it on the box by the kitchen sink. rosalind's cheeks were flushed. she made an odd and lovely figure standing nude before the glass in her room there in chicago. she was so much alive and yet not alive. her eyes shone with excitement. she continued to turn slowly round and round twisting her head to look at her naked back. "perhaps i am learning to think," she decided. there was some sort of essential mistake in people's conception of life. there was something she knew and it was of as much importance as the things the wise men knew and put into books. she also had found out something about life. her body was still the body of what was called a virgin. what of it? "if the sex impulse within it had been gratified in what way would my problem be solved? i am lonely now. it is evident that after that had happened i would still be lonely." iii rosalind's life in chicago had been like a stream that apparently turns back toward its source. it ran forward, then stopped, turned, twisted. at just the time when her awakening became a half realized thing she went to work at a new place, a piano factory on the northwest side facing a branch of the chicago river. she became secretary to a man who was treasurer of the company. he was a slender, rather small man of thirty-eight with thin white restless hands and with gray eyes that were clouded and troubled. for the first time she became really interested in the work that ate up her days. her employer was charged with the responsibility of passing upon the credit of the firm's customers and was unfitted for the task. he was not shrewd and within a short time had made two costly mistakes by which the company had lost money. "i have too much to do. my time is too much taken up with details. i need help here," he had explained, evidently irritated, and rosalind had been engaged to relieve him of details. her new employer, named walter sayers, was the only son of a man who in his time had been well known in chicago's social and club life. everyone had thought him wealthy and he had tried to live up to people's estimate of his fortune. his son walter had wanted to be a singer and had expected to inherit a comfortable fortune. at thirty he had married and three years later when his father died he was already the father of two children. and then suddenly he had found himself quite penniless. he could sing but his voice was not large. it wasn't an instrument with which one could make money in any dignified way. fortunately his wife had some money of her own. it was her money, invested in the piano manufacturing business, that had secured him the position as treasurer of the company. with his wife he withdrew from social life and they went to live in a comfortable house in a suburb. walter sayers gave up music, apparently surrendered even his interest in it. many men and women from his suburb went to hear the orchestra on friday afternoons but he did not go. "what's the use of torturing myself and thinking of a life i cannot lead?" he said to himself. to his wife he pretended a growing interest in his work at the factory. "it's really fascinating. it's a game, like moving men back and forth on a chess board. i shall grow to love it," he said. he had tried to build up interest in his work but had not been successful. certain things would not get into his consciousness. although he tried hard he could not make the fact that profit or loss to the company depended upon his judgment seem important to himself. it was a matter of money lost or gained and money meant nothing to him. "it's father's fault," he thought. "while he lived money never meant anything to me. i was brought up wrong. i am ill prepared for the battle of life." he became too timid and lost business that should have come to the company quite naturally. then he became too bold in the extension of credit and other losses followed. his wife was quite happy and satisfied with her life. there were four or five acres of land about the suburban house and she became absorbed in the work of raising flowers and vegetables. for the sake of the children she kept a cow. with a young negro gardener she puttered about all day, digging in the earth, spreading manure about the roots of bushes and shrubs, planting and transplanting. in the evening when he had come home from his office in his car she took him by the arm and led him eagerly about. the two children trotted at their heels. she talked glowingly. they stood at a low spot at the foot of the garden and she spoke of the necessity of putting in tile. the prospect seemed to excite her. "it will be the best land on the place when it's drained," she said. she stooped and with a trowel turned over the soft black soil. an odor arose. "see! just see how rich and black it is!" she exclaimed eagerly. "it's a little sour now because water has stood on it." she seemed to be apologizing as for a wayward child. "when it's drained i shall use lime to sweeten it," she added. she was like a mother leaning over the cradle of a sleeping babe. her enthusiasm irritated him. when rosalind came to take the position in his office the slow fires of hatred that had been burning beneath the surface of walter savers' life had already eaten away much of his vigor and energy. his body sagged in the office chair and there were heavy sagging lines at the corners of his mouth. outwardly he remained always kindly and cheerful but back of the clouded, troubled eyes the fires of hatred burned slowly, persistently. it was as though he was trying to awaken from a troubled dream that gripped him, a dream that frightened a little, that was unending. he had contracted little physical habits. a sharp paper cutter lay on his desk. as he read a letter from one of the firm's customers he took it up and jabbed little holes in the leather cover of his desk. when he had several letters to sign he took up his pen and jabbed it almost viciously into the inkwell. then before signing he jabbed it in again. sometimes he did the thing a dozen times in succession. sometimes the things that went on beneath the surface of walter sayers frightened him. in order to do what he called "putting in his saturday afternoons and sundays" he had taken up photography. the camera took him away from his own house and the sight of the garden where his wife and the negro were busy digging, and into the fields and into stretches of woodland at the edge of the suburban village. also it took him away from his wife's talk, from her eternal planning for the garden's future. here by the house tulip bulbs were to be put in in the fall. later there would be a hedge of lilac bushes shutting off the house from the road. the men who lived in the other houses along the suburban street spent their saturday afternoons and sunday mornings tinkering with motor cars. on sunday afternoons they took their families driving, sitting up very straight and silent at the driving wheel. they consumed the afternoon in a swift dash over country roads. the car ate up the hours. monday morning and the work in the city was there, at the end of the road. they ran madly toward it. for a time the use of the camera made walter sayers almost happy. the study of light, playing on the trunk of a tree or over the grass in a field appealed to some instinct within. it was an uncertain delicate business. he fixed himself a dark room upstairs in the house and spent his evenings there. one dipped the films into the developing liquid, held them to the light and then dipped them again. the little nerves that controlled the eyes were aroused. one felt oneself being enriched, a little-- one sunday afternoon he went to walk in a strip of woodland and came out upon the slope of a low hill. he had read somewhere that the low hill country southwest of chicago, in which his suburb lay, had once been the shore of lake michigan. the low hills sprang out of the flat land and were covered with forests. beyond them the flat lands began again. the prairies went on indefinitely, into infinity. people's lives went on so. life was too long. it was to be spent in the endless doing over and over of an unsatisfactory task. he sat on the slope and looked out across the land. he thought of his wife. she was back there, in the suburb in the hills, in her garden making things grow. it was a noble sort of thing to be doing. one shouldn't be irritated. well he had married her expecting to have money of his own. then he would have worked at something else. money would not have been involved in the matter and success would not have been a thing one must seek. he had expected his own life would be motivated. no matter how much or how hard he worked he would not have been a great singer. what did that matter? there was a way to live--a way of life in which such things did not matter. the delicate shades of things might be sought after. before his eyes, there on the grass covered flat lands, the afternoon light was playing. it was like a breath, a vapor of color blown suddenly from between red lips out over the grey dead burned grass. song might be like that. the beauty might come out of himself, out of his own body. again he thought of his wife and the sleeping light in his eyes flared up, it became a flame. he felt himself being mean, unfair. it didn't matter. where did the truth lie? was his wife, digging in her garden, having always a succession of small triumphs, marching forward with the seasons--well, was she becoming a little old, lean and sharp, a little vulgarized? it seemed so to him. there was something smug in the way in which she managed to fling green growing flowering things over the black land. it was obvious the thing could be done and that there was satisfaction in doing it. it was a little like running a business and making money by it. there was a deep seated vulgarity involved in the whole matter. his wife put her hands into the black ground. they felt about, caressed the roots of the growing things. she laid hold of the slender trunk of a young tree in a certain way--as though she possessed it. one could not deny that the destruction of beautiful things was involved. weeds grew in the garden, delicate shapely things. she plucked them out without thought. he had seen her do it. as for himself, he also had been pulled out of something. had he not surrendered to the fact of a wife and growing children? did he not spend his days doing work he detested? the anger within him burned bright. the fire came into his conscious self. why should a weed that is to be destroyed pretend to a vegetable existence? as for puttering about with a camera--was it not a form of cheating? he did not want to be a photographer. he had once wanted to be a singer. he arose and walked along the hillside, still watching the shadows play over the plains below. at night--in bed with his wife--well, was she not sometimes with him as she was in the garden? something was plucked out of him and another thing grew in its place--something she wanted to have grow. their love making was like his puttering with a camera--to make the weekends pass. she came at him a little too determinedly-- sure. she was plucking delicate weeds in order that things she had determined upon--"vegetables," he exclaimed in disgust--in order that vegetables might grow. love was a fragrance, the shading of a tone over the lips, out of the throat. it was like the afternoon light on the burned grass. keeping a garden and making flowers grow had nothing to do with it. walter sayers' fingers twitched. the camera hung by a strap over his shoulder. he took hold of the strap and walked to a tree. he swung the box above his head and brought it down with a thump against the tree trunk. the sharp breaking sound--the delicate parts of the machine being broken--was sweet to his ears. it was as though a song had come suddenly from between his lips. again he swung the box and again brought it down against the tree trunk. iv rosalind at work in walter sayers' office was from the beginning something different, apart from the young woman from iowa who had been drifting from office to office, moving from rooming house to rooming house on chicago's north side, striving feebly to find out something about life by reading books, going to the theatre and walking alone in the streets. in the new place her life at once began to have point and purpose, but at the same time the perplexity that was later to send her running to willow springs and to the presence of her mother began to grow in her. walter sayers' office was a rather large room on the third floor of the factory whose walls went straight up from the river's edge. in the morning rosalind arrived at eight and went into the office and closed the door. in a large room across a narrow hallway and shut off from her retreat by two thick, clouded-glass partitions was the company's general office. it contained the desks of salesmen, several clerks, a bookkeeper and two stenographers. rosalind avoided becoming acquainted with these people. she was in a mood to be alone, to spend as many hours as possible alone with her own thoughts. she got to the office at eight and her employer did not arrive until nine-thirty or ten. for an hour or two in the morning and in the late afternoon she had the place to herself. immediately she shut the door into the hallway and was alone she felt at home. even in her father's house it had never been so. she took off her wraps and walked about the room touching things, putting things to rights. during the night a negro woman had scrubbed the floor and wiped the dust off her employer's desk but she got a cloth and wiped the desk again. then she opened the letters that had come in and after reading arranged them in little piles. she wanted to spend a part of her wages for flowers and imagined clusters of flowers arranged in small hanging baskets along the grey walls. "i'll do that later, perhaps," she thought. the walls of the room enclosed her. "what makes me so happy here?" she asked herself. as for her employer--she felt she scarcely knew him. he was a shy man, rather small-- she went to a window and stood looking out. near the factory a bridge crossed the river and over it went a stream of heavily loaded wagons and motor trucks. the sky was grey with smoke. in the afternoon, after her employer had gone for the day, she would stand again by the window. as she stood thus she faced westward and in the afternoon saw the sun fall down the sky. it was glorious to be there alone during the late hours of the afternoon. what a tremendous thing this city in which she had come to live! for some reason after she went to work for walter sayers the city seemed, like the room in which she worked, to have accepted her, taken her into itself. in the late afternoon the rays of the departing sun fell across great banks of clouds. the whole city seemed to reach upwards. it left the ground and ascended into the air. there was an illusion produced. stark grim factory chimneys, that all day were stiff cold formal things sticking up into the air and belching forth black smoke, were now slender upreaching pencils of light and wavering color. the tall chimneys detached themselves from the buildings and sprang into the air. the factory in which rosalind stood had such a chimney. it also was leaping upward. she felt herself being lifted, an odd floating sensation was achieved. with what a stately tread the day went away, over the city! the city, like the factory chimneys yearned after it, hungered for it. in the morning gulls came in from lake michigan to feed on the sewage floating in the river below. the river was the color of chrysoprase. the gulls floated above it as sometimes in the evening the whole city seemed to float before her eyes. they were graceful, living, free things. they were triumphant. the getting of food, even the eating of sewage was done thus gracefully, beautifully. the gulls turned and twisted in the air. they wheeled and floated and then fell downward to the river in a long curve, just touching, caressing the surface of the water and then rising again. rosalind raised herself on her toes. at her back beyond the two glass partitions were other men and women, but there, in that room, she was alone. she belonged there. what an odd feeling she had. she also belonged to her employer, walter sayers. she scarcely knew the man and yet she belonged to him. she threw her arms above her head, trying awkwardly to imitate some movement of the birds. her awkwardness shamed her a little and she turned and walked about the room. "i'm twenty-five years old and it's a little late to begin trying to be a bird, to be graceful," she thought. she resented the slow stupid heavy movements of her father and mother, the movements she had imitated as a child. "why was i not taught to be graceful and beautiful in mind and body, why in the place i came from did no one think it worth while to try to be graceful and beautiful?" she whispered to herself. how conscious of her own body rosalind was becoming! she walked across the room, trying to go lightly and gracefully. in the office beyond the glass partitions someone spoke suddenly and she was startled. she laughed foolishly. for a long time after she went to work in the office of walter sayers she thought the desire in herself to be physically more graceful and beautiful and to rise also out of the mental stupidity and sloth of her young womanhood was due to the fact that the factory windows faced the river and the western sky, and that in the morning she saw the gulls feeding and in the afternoon the sun going down through the smoke clouds in a riot of colors. v on the august evening as rosalind sat on the porch before her father's house in willow springs, walter sayers came home from the factory by the river and to his wife's suburban garden. when the family had dined he came out to walk in the paths with the two children, boys, but they soon tired of his silence and went to join their mother. the young negro came along a path by the kitchen door and joined the party. walter went to sit on a garden seat that was concealed behind bushes. he lighted a cigarette but did not smoke. the smoke curled quietly up through his fingers as it burned itself out. closing his eyes walter sat perfectly still and tried not to think. the soft evening shadows began presently to close down and around him. for a long time he sat thus motionless, like a carved figure placed on the garden bench. he rested. he lived and did not live. the intense body, usually so active and alert, had become a passive thing. it was thrown aside, on to the bench, under the bush, to sit there, waiting to be reinhabited. this hanging suspended between consciousness and unconsciousness was a thing that did not happen often. there was something to be settled between himself and a woman and the woman had gone away. his whole plan of life had been disturbed. now he wanted to rest. the details of his life were forgotten. as for the woman he did not think of her, did not want to think of her. it was ridiculous that he needed her so much. he wondered if he had ever felt that way about cora, his wife. perhaps he had. now she was near him, but a few yards away. it was almost dark but she with the negro remained at work, digging in the ground--somewhere near--caressing the soil, making things grow. when his mind was undisturbed by thoughts and lay like a lake in the hills on a quiet summer evening little thoughts did come. "i want you as a lover--far away. keep yourself far away." the words trailed through his mind as the smoke from the cigarette trailed slowly upwards through his fingers. did the words refer to rosalind wescott? she had been gone from him three days. did he hope she would never come back or did the words refer to his wife? his wife's voice spoke sharply. one of the children in playing about, had stepped on a plant. "if you are not careful i shall have to make you stay out of the garden altogether." she raised her voice and called, "marian!" a maid came from the house and took the children away. they went along the path toward the house protesting. then they ran back to kiss their mother. there was a struggle and then acceptance. the kiss was acceptance of their fate--to obey. "o, walter," the mother's voice called, but the man on the bench did not answer. tree toads began to cry. "the kiss is acceptance. any physical contact with another is acceptance," he reflected. the little voices within walter sayers were talking away at a great rate. suddenly he wanted to sing. he had been told that his voice was small, not of much account, that he would never be a singer. it was quite true no doubt but here, in the garden on the quiet summer night, was a place and a time for a small voice. it would be like the voice within himself that whispered sometimes when he was quiet, relaxed. one evening when he had been with the woman, rosalind, when he had taken her into the country in his car, he had suddenly felt as he did now. they sat together in the car that he had run into a field. for a long time they had remained silent. some cattle came and stood nearby, their figures soft in the night. suddenly he had felt like a new man in a new world and had begun to sing. he sang one song over and over, then sat in silence for a time and after that drove out of the field and through a gate into the road. he took the woman back to her place in the city. in the quiet of the garden on the summer evening he opened his lips to sing the same song. he would sing with the tree toad hidden away in the fork of a tree somewhere. he would lift his voice up from the earth, up into the branches, of trees, away from the ground in which people were digging, his wife and the young negro. the song did not come. his wife began speaking and the sound of her voice took away the desire to sing. why had she not, like the other woman, remained silent? he began playing a game. sometimes, when he was alone the thing happened to him that had now happened. his body became like a tree or a plant. life ran through it unobstructed. he had dreamed of being a singer but at such a moment he wanted also to be a dancer. that would have been sweetest of all things--to sway like the tops of young trees when a wind blew, to give himself as grey weeds in a sunburned field gave themself to the influence of passing shadows, changing color constantly, becoming every moment something new, to live in life and in death too, always to live, to be unafraid of life, to let it flow through his body, to let the blood flow through his body, not to struggle, to offer no resistance, to dance. walter sayers' children had gone into the house with the nurse girl marian. it had become too dark for his wife to dig in the garden. it was august and the fruitful time of the year for farms and gardens had come, but his wife had forgotten fruitfulness. she was making plans for another year. she came along the garden path followed by the negro. "we will set out strawberry plants there," she was saying. the soft voice of the young negro murmured his assent. it was evident the young man lived in her conception of the garden. his mind sought out her desire and gave itself. the children walter sayers had brought into life through the body of his wife cora had gone into the house and to bed. they bound him to life, to his wife, to the garden where he sat, to the office by the riverside in the city. they were not his children. suddenly he knew that quite clearly. his own children were quite different things. "men have children just as women do. the children come out of their bodies. they play about," he thought. it seemed to him that children, born of his fancy, were at that very moment playing about the bench where he sat. living things that dwelt within him and that had at the same time the power to depart out of him were now running along paths, swinging from the branches of trees, dancing in the soft light. his mind sought out the figure of rosalind wescott. she had gone away, to her own people in iowa. there had been a note at the office saying she might be gone for several days. between himself and rosalind the conventional relationship of employer and employee had long since been swept quite away. it needed something in a man he did not possess to maintain that relationship with either men or women. at the moment he wanted to forget rosalind. in her there was a struggle going on. the two people had wanted to be lovers and he had fought against that. they had talked about it. "well," he said, "it will not work out. we will bring unnecessary unhappiness upon ourselves." he had been honest enough in fighting off the intensification of their relationship. "if she were here now, in this garden with me, it wouldn't matter. we could be lovers and then forget about being lovers," he told himself. his wife came along the path and stopped nearby. she continued talking in a low voice, making plans for another year of gardening. the negro stood near her, his figure making a dark wavering mass against the foliage of a low growing bush. his wife wore a white dress. he could see her figure quite plainly. in the uncertain light it looked girlish and young. she put her hand up and took hold of the body of a young tree. the hand became detached from her body. the pressure of her leaning body made the young tree sway a little. the white hand moved slowly back and forth in space. rosalind wescott had gone home to tell her mother of her love. in her note she had said nothing of that but walter sayers knew that was the object of her visit to the iowa town. it was on odd sort of thing to try to do--to tell people of love, to try to explain it to others. the night was a thing apart from walter sayers, the male being sitting in silence in the garden. only the children of his fancy understood it. the night was a living thing. it advanced upon him, enfolded him. "night is the sweet little brother of death," he thought. his wife stood very near. her voice was soft and low and the voice of the negro when he answered her comments on the future of the garden was soft and low. there was music in the negro's voice, perhaps a dance in it. walter remembered about him. the young negro had been in trouble before he came to the sayers. he had been an ambitious young black and had listened to the voices of people, to the voices that filled the air of america, rang through the houses of america. he had wanted to get on in life and had tried to educate himself. the black had wanted to be a lawyer. how far away he had got from his own people, from the blacks of the african forests! he had wanted to be a lawyer in a city in america. what a notion! well he had got into trouble. he had managed to get through college and had opened a law office. then one evening he went out to walk and chance led him into a street where a woman, a white woman, had been murdered an hour before. the body of the woman was found and then he was found walking in the street. mrs. sayers' brother, a lawyer, had saved him from being punished as a murderer and after the trial, and the young negro's acquittal, had induced his sister to take him as gardener. his chances as a professional man in the city were no good. "he has had a terrible experience and has just escaped by a fluke" the brother had said. cora sayers had taken the young man. she had bound him to herself, to her garden. it was evident the two people were bound together. one cannot bind another without being bound. his wife had no more to say to the negro who went away along the path that led to the kitchen door. he had a room in a little house at the foot of the garden. in the room he had books and a piano. sometimes in the evening he sang. he was going now to his place. by educating himself he had cut himself off from his own people. cora sayers went into the house and walter sat alone. after a time the young negro came silently down the path. he stopped by the tree where a moment before the white woman had stood talking to him. he put his hand on the trunk of the young tree where her hand had been and then went softly away. his feet made no sound on the garden path. an hour passed. in his little house at the foot of the garden the negro began to sing softly. he did that sometimes in the middle of the night. what a life he had led too! he had come away from his black people, from the warm brown girls with the golden colors playing through the blue black of their skins and had worked his way through a northern college, had accepted the patronage of impertinent people who wanted to uplift the black race, had listened to them, had bound himself to them, had tried to follow the way of life they had suggested. now he was in the little house at the foot of the sayers' garden. walter remembered little things his wife had told him about the man. the experience in the court room had frightened him horribly and he did not want to go off the sayers' place. education, books had done something to him. he could not go back to his own people. in chicago, for the most part, the blacks lived crowded into a few streets on the south side. "i want to be a slave," he had said to cora sayers. "you may pay me money if it makes you feel better but i shall have no use for it. i want to be your slave. i would be happy if i knew i would never have to go off your place." the black sang a low voiced song. it ran like a little wind on the surface of a pond. it had no words. he had remembered the song from his father who had got it from his father. in the south, in alabama and mississippi the blacks sang it when they rolled cotton bales onto the steamers in the rivers. they had got it from other rollers of cotton bales long since dead. long before there were any cotton bales to roll black men in boats on rivers in africa had sung it. young blacks in boats floated down rivers and came to a town they intended to attack at dawn. there was bravado in singing the song then. it was addressed to the women in the town to be attacked and contained both a caress and a threat. "in the morning your husbands and brothers and sweethearts we shall kill. then we shall come into your town to you. we shall hold you close. we shall make you forget. with our hot love and our strength we shall make you forget." that was the old significance of the song. walter sayers remembered many things. on other nights when the negro sang and when he lay in his room upstairs in the house, his wife came to him. there were two beds in their room. she sat upright in her bed. "do you hear, walter?" she asked. she came to sit on his bed, sometimes she crept into his arms. in the african villages long ago when the song floated up from the river men arose and prepared for battle. the song was a defiance, a taunt. that was all gone now. the young negro's house was at the foot of the garden and walter with his wife lay upstairs in the larger house situated on high ground. it was a sad song, filled with race sadness. there was something in the ground that wanted to grow, buried deep in the ground. cora sayers understood that. it touched something instinctive in her. her hand went out and touched, caressed her husband's face, his body. the song made her want to hold him tight, possess him. the night was advancing and it grew a little cold in the garden. the negro stopped singing. walter sayers arose and went along the path toward the house but did not enter. instead he went through a gate into the road and along the suburban streets until he got into the open country. there was no moon but the stars shone brightly. for a time he hurried along looking back as though afraid of being followed, but when he got out into a broad flat meadow he went more slowly. for an hour he walked and then stopped and sat on a tuft of dry grass. for some reason he knew he could not return to his house in the suburb that night. in the morning he would go to the office and wait there until rosalind came. then? he did not know what he would do then. "i shall have to make up some story. in the morning i shall have to telephone cora and make up some silly story," he thought. it was an absurd thing that he, a grown man, could not spend a night abroad, in the fields without the necessity of explanations. the thought irritated him and he arose and walked again. under the stars in the soft night and on the wide flat plains the irritation soon went away and he began to sing softly, but the song he sang was not the one he had repeated over and over on that other night when he sat with rosalind in the car and the cattle came. it was the song the negro sang, the river song of the young black warriors that slavery had softened and colored with sadness. on the lips of walter sayers the song had lost much of its sadness. he walked almost gaily along and in the song that flowed from his lips there was a taunt, a kind of challenge. vi at the end of the short street on which the wescotts lived in willow springs there was a cornfield. when rosalind was a child it was a meadow and beyond was an orchard. on summer afternoons the child often went there to sit alone on the banks of a tiny stream that wandered away eastward toward willow creek, draining the farmer's fields on the way. the creek had made a slight depression in the level contour of the land and she sat with her back against an old apple tree and with her bare feet almost touching the water. her mother did not permit her to run bare footed through the streets but when she got into the orchard she took her shoes off. it gave her a delightful naked feeling. overhead and through the branches the child could see the great sky. masses of white clouds broke into fragments and then the fragments came together again. the sun ran in behind one of the cloud masses and grey shadows slid silently over the face of distant fields. the world of her child life, the wescott household, melville stoner sitting in his house, the cries of other children who lived in her street, all the life she knew went far away. to be there in that silent place was like lying awake in bed at night only in some way sweeter and better. there were no dull household sounds and the air she breathed was sweeter, cleaner. the child played a little game. all the apple trees in the orchard were old and gnarled and she had given all the trees names. there was one fancy that frightened her a little but was delicious too. she fancied that at night when she had gone to bed and was asleep and when all the town of willow springs had gone to sleep the trees came out of the ground and walked about. the grasses beneath the trees, the bushes that grew beside the fence--all came out of the ground and ran madly here and there. they danced wildly. the old trees, like stately old men, put their heads together and talked. as they talked their bodies swayed slightly--back and forth, back and forth. the bushes and flowering weeds ran in great circles among the little grasses. the grasses hopped straight up and down. sometimes when she sat with her back against the tree on warm bright afternoons the child rosalind had played the game of dancing-life until she grew afraid and had to give it up. nearby in the fields men were cultivating corn. the breasts of the horses and their wide strong shoulders pushed the young corn aside and made a low rustling sound. now and then a man's voice was raised in a shout. "hi, there you joe! get in there frank!" the widow of the hens owned a little woolly dog that occasionally broke into a spasm of barking, apparently without cause, senseless, eager, barking. rosalind shut all the sounds out. she closed her eyes and struggled, trying to get into the place beyond human sounds. after a time her desire was accomplished. there was a low sweet sound like the murmuring of voices far away. now the thing was happening. with a kind of tearing sound the trees came up to stand on top of the ground. they moved with stately tread toward each other. now the mad bushes and the flowering weeds came running, dancing madly, now the joyful grasses hopped. rosalind could not stay long in her world of fancy. it was too mad, too joyful. she opened her eyes and jumped to her feet. everything was all right. the trees stood solidly rooted in the ground, the weeds and bushes had gone back to their places by the fence, the grasses lay asleep on the ground. she felt that her father and mother, her brother, everyone she knew would not approve of her being there among them. the world of dancing life was a lovely but a wicked world. she knew. sometimes she was a little mad herself and then she was whipped or scolded. the mad world of her fancy had to be put away. it frightened her a little. once after the thing appeared she cried, went down to the fence crying. a man who was cultivating corn came along and stopped his horses. "what's the matter?" he asked sharply. she couldn't tell him so she told a lie. "a bee stung me," she said. the man laughed. "it'll get well. better put on your shoes," he advised. the time of the marching trees and the dancing grasses was in rosalind's childhood. later when she had graduated from the willow springs high school and had the three years of waiting about the wescott house before she went to the city she had other experiences in the orchard. then she had been reading novels and had talked with other young women. she knew many things that after all she did not know. in the attic of her mother's house there was a cradle in which she and her brother had slept when they were babies. one day she went up there and found it. bedding for the cradle was packed away in a trunk and she took it out. she arranged the cradle for the reception of a child. then after she did it she was ashamed. her mother might come up the attic stairs and see it. she put the bedding quickly back into the trunk and went down stairs, her cheeks burning with shame. what a confusion! one day she went to the house of a schoolgirl friend who was about to be married. several other girls came and they were all taken into a bedroom where the bride's trousseau was laid out on a bed. what soft lovely things! all the girls went forward and stood over them, rosalind among them. some of the girls were shy, others bold. there was one, a thin girl who had no breasts. her body was flat like a door and she had a thin sharp voice and a thin sharp face. she began to cry out strangely. "how sweet, how sweet, how sweet," she cried over and over. the voice was not like a human voice. it was like something being hurt, an animal in the forest, far away somewhere by itself, being hurt. then the girl dropped to her knees beside the bed and began to weep bitterly. she declared she could not bear the thought of her schoolgirl friend being married. "don't do it! o, mary don't do it!" she pleaded. the other girls laughed but rosalind couldn't stand it. she hurried out of the house. that was one thing that had happened to rosalind and there were other things. once she saw a young man on the street. he clerked in a store and rosalind did not know him. however her fancy played with the thought that she had married him. her own thoughts made her ashamed. everything shamed her. when she went into the orchard on summer afternoons she sat with her back against the apple tree and took off her shoes and stockings just as she had when she was a child, but the world of her childhood fancy was gone, nothing could bring it back. rosalind's body was soft but all her flesh was firm and strong. she moved away from the tree and lay on the ground. she pressed her body down into the grass, into the firm hard ground. it seemed to her that her mind, her fancy, all the life within her, except just her physical life, went away. the earth pressed upwards against her body. her body was pressed against the earth. there was darkness. she was imprisoned. she pressed against the walls of her prison. everything was dark and there was in all the earth silence. her fingers clutched a handful of the grasses, played in the grasses. then she grew very still but did not sleep. there was something that had nothing to do with the ground beneath her or the trees or the clouds in the sky, that seemed to want to come to her, come into her, a kind of white wonder of life. the thing couldn't happen. she opened her eyes and there was the sky overhead and the trees standing silently about. she went again to sit with her back against one of the trees. she thought with dread of the evening coming on and the necessity of going out of the orchard and to the wescott house. she was weary. it was the weariness that made her appear to others a rather dull stupid young woman. where was the wonder of life? it was not within herself, not in the ground. it must be in the sky overhead. presently it would be night and the stars would come out. perhaps the wonder did not really exist in life. it had something to do with god. she wanted to ascend upwards, to go at once up into god's house, to be there among the light strong men and women who had died and left dullness and heaviness behind them on the earth. thinking of them took some of her weariness away and sometimes she went out of the orchard in the late afternoon walking almost lightly. something like grace seemed to have come into her tall strong body. * * * * * rosalind had gone away from the wescott house and from willow springs, iowa, feeling that life was essentially ugly. in a way she hated life and people. in chicago sometimes it was unbelievable how ugly the world had become. she tried to shake off the feeling but it clung to her. she walked through the crowded streets and the buildings were ugly. a sea of faces floated up to her. they were the faces of dead people. the dull death that was in them was in her also. they too could not break through the walls of themselves to the white wonder of life. after all perhaps there was no such thing as the white wonder of life. it might be just a thing of the mind. there was something essentially dirty about life. the dirt was on her and in her. once as she walked at evening over the rush street bridge to her room on the north side she looked up suddenly and saw the chrysoprase river running inland from the lake. near at hand stood a soap factory. the men of the city had turned the river about, made it flow inland from the lake. someone had erected a great soap factory there near the river's entrance to the city, to the land of men. rosalind stopped and stood looking along the river toward the lake. men and women, wagons, automobiles rushed past her. they were dirty. she was dirty. "the water of an entire sea and millions of cakes of soap will not wash me clean," she thought. the dirtiness of life seemed a part of her very being and an almost overwhelming desire to climb upon the railing of the bridge and leap down into the chrysoprase river swept over her. her body trembled violently and putting down her head and staring at the flooring of the bridge she hurried away. * * * * * and now rosalind, a grown woman, was in the wescott house at the supper table with her father and mother. none of the three people ate. they fussed about with the food ma wescott had prepared. rosalind looked at her mother and thought of what melville stoner had said. "if i wanted to write i'd do something. i'd tell what everyone thought. it would startle people, frighten them a little, eh? i would tell what you have been thinking this afternoon while you walked here on this railroad track with me. i would tell what your mother has been thinking at the same time and what she would like to say to you." what had rosalind's mother been thinking all through the three days since her daughter had so unexpectedly come home from chicago? what did mothers think in regard to the lives led by their daughters? had mothers something of importance to say to daughters and if they did when did the time come when they were ready to say it? she looked at her mother sharply. the older woman's face was heavy and sagging. she had grey eyes like rosalind's but they were dull like the eyes of a fish lying on a slab of ice in the window of a city meat market. the daughter was a little frightened by what she saw in her mother's face and something caught in her throat. there was an embarrassing moment. a strange sort of tenseness came into the air of the room and all three people suddenly got up from the table. rosalind went to help her mother with the dishes and her father sat in a chair by a window and read a paper. the daughter avoided looking again into her mother's face. "i must gather myself together if i am to do what i want to do," she thought. it was strange--in fancy she saw the lean bird-like face of melville stoner and the eager tired face of walter sayers floating above the head of her mother who leaned over the kitchen sink, washing the dishes. both of the men's faces sneered at her. "you think you can but you can't. you are a young fool," the men's lips seemed to be saying. rosalind's father wondered how long his daughter's visit was to last. after the evening meal he wanted to clear out of the house, go up town, and he had a guilty feeling that in doing so he was being discourteous to his daughter. while the two women washed the dishes he put on his hat and going into the back yard began chopping wood. rosalind went to sit on the front porch. the dishes were all washed and dried but for a half hour her mother would putter about in the kitchen. she always did that. she would arrange and rearrange, pick up dishes and put them down again. she clung to the kitchen. it was as though she dreaded the hours that must pass before she could go upstairs and to bed and asleep, to fall into the oblivion of sleep. when henry wescott came around the corner of the house and confronted his daughter he was a little startled. he did not know what was the matter but he felt uncomfortable. for a moment he stopped and looked at her. life radiated from her figure. a fire burned in her eyes, in her grey intense eyes. her hair was yellow like cornsilk. she was, at the moment, a complete, a lovely daughter of the cornlands, a being to be loved passionately, completely by some son of the cornlands--had there been in the land a son as alive as this daughter it had thrown aside. the father had hoped to escape from the house unnoticed. "i'm going up town a little while," he said hesitatingly. still he lingered a moment. some old sleeping thing awoke in him, was awakened in him by the startling beauty of his daughter. a little fire flared up among the charred rafters of the old house that was his body. "you look pretty, girly," he said sheepishly and then turned his back to her and went along the path to the gate and the street. rosalind followed her father to the gate and stood looking as he went slowly along the short street and around a corner. the mood induced in her by her talk with melville stoner had returned. was it possible that her father also felt as melville stoner sometimes did? did loneliness drive him to the door of insanity and did he also run through the night seeking some lost, some hidden and half forgotten loveliness? when her father had disappeared around the corner she went through the gate and into the street. "i'll go sit by the tree in the orchard until mother has finished puttering about the kitchen," she thought. henry wescott went along the streets until he came to the square about the court house and then went into emanuel wilson's hardware store. two or three other men presently joined him there. every evening he sat among these men of his town saying nothing. it was an escape from his own house and his wife. the other men came for the same reason. a faint perverted kind of male fellowship was achieved. one of the men of the party, a little old man who followed the housepainters trade, was unmarried and lived with his mother. he was himself nearing the age of sixty but his mother was still alive. it was a thing to be wondered about. when in the evening the house painter was a trifle late at the rendezvous a mild flurry of speculation arose, floated in the air for a moment and then settled like dust in an empty house. did the old house painter do the housework in his own house, did he wash the dishes, cook the food, sweep and make the beds or did his feeble old mother do these things? emanuel wilson told a story he had often told before. in a town in ohio where he had lived as a young man he had once heard a tale. there was an old man like the house painter whose mother was also still alive and lived with him. they were very poor and in the winter had not enough bedclothes to keep them both warm. they crawled into a bed together. it was an innocent enough matter, just like a mother taking her child into her bed. henry wescott sat in the store listening to the tale emanuel wilson told for the twentieth time and thought about his daughter. her beauty made him feel a little proud, a little above the men who were his companions. he had never before thought of his daughter as a beautiful woman. why had he never before noticed her beauty? why had she come from chicago, there by the lake, to willow springs, in the hot month of august? had she come home from chicago because she really wanted to see her father and mother? for a moment he was ashamed of his own heavy body, of his shabby clothes and his unshaven face and then the tiny flame that had flared up within him burned itself out. the house painter came in and the faint flavor of male companionship to which he clung so tenaciously was reestablished. in the orchard rosalind sat with her back against the tree in the same spot where her fancy had created the dancing life of her childhood and where as a young woman graduate of the willow springs high school she had come to try to break through the wall that separated her from life. the sun had disappeared and the grey shadows of night were creeping over the grass, lengthening the shadows cast by the trees. the orchard had long been neglected and many of the trees were dead and without foliage. the shadows of the dead branches were like long lean arms that reached out, felt their way forward over the grey grass. long lean fingers reached and clutched. there was no wind and the night would be dark and without a moon, a hot dark starlit night of the plains. in a moment more it would be black night. already the creeping shadows on the grass were barely discernible. rosalind felt death all about her, in the orchard, in the town. something walter sayers had once said to her came sharply back into her mind. "when you are in the country alone at night sometime try giving yourself to the night, to the darkness, to the shadows cast by trees. the experience, if you really give yourself to it, will tell you a startling story. you will find that, although the white men have owned the land for several generations now and although they have built towns everywhere, dug coal out of the ground, covered the land with railroads, towns and cities, they do not own an inch of the land in the whole continent. it still belongs to a race who in their physical life are now dead. the red men, although they are practically all gone still own the american continent. their fancy has peopled it with ghosts, with gods and devils. it is because in their time they loved the land. the proof of what i say is to be seen everywhere. we have given our towns no beautiful names of our own because we have not built the towns beautifully. when an american town has a beautiful name it was stolen from another race, from a race that still owns the land in which we live. we are all strangers here. when you are alone at night in the country, anywhere in america, try giving yourself to the night. you will find that death only resides in the conquering whites and that life remains in the red men who are gone." the spirits of the two men, walter sayers and melville stoner, dominated the mind of rosalind. she felt that. it was as though they were beside her, sitting beside her on the grass in the orchard. she was quite certain that melville stoner had come back to his house and was now sitting within sound of her voice, did she raise her voice to call. what did they want her of her? had she suddenly begun to love two men, both older than herself? the shadows of the branches of trees made a carpet on the floor of the orchard, a soft carpet spun of some delicate material on which the footsteps of men could make no sound. the two men were coming toward her, advancing over the carpet. melville stoner was near at hand and walter sayers was coming from far away, out of the distance. the spirit of him was creeping toward her. the two men were in accord. they came bearing some male knowledge of life, something they wanted to give her. she arose and stood by the tree, trembling. into what a state she had got herself! how long would it endure? into what knowledge of life and death was she being led? she had come home on a simple mission. she loved walter sayers, wanted to offer herself to him but before doing so had felt the call to come home to her mother. she had thought she would be bold and would tell her mother the story of her love. she would tell her and then take what the older woman offered. if her mother understood and sympathized, well that would be a beautiful thing to have happen. if her mother did not understand--at any rate she would have paid some old debt, would have been true to some old, unexpressed obligation. the two men--what did they want of her? what had melville stoner to do with the matter? she put the figure of him out of her mind. in the figure of the other man, walter sayers, there was something less aggressive, less assertive. she clung to that. she put her arm about the trunk of the old apple tree and laid her cheek against its rough bark. within herself she was so intense, so excited that she wanted to rub her cheeks against the bark of the tree until the blood came, until physical pain came to counteract the tenseness within that had become pain. since the meadow between the orchard and the street end had been planted to corn she would have to reach the street by going along a lane, crawling under a wire fence and crossing the yard of the widowed chicken raiser. a profound silence reigned over the orchard and when she had crawled under the fence and reached the widow's back yard she had to feel her way through a narrow opening between a chicken house and a barn by running her fingers forward over the rough boards. her mother sat on the porch waiting and on the narrow porch before his house next door sat melville stoner. she saw him as she hurried past and shivered slightly. "what a dark vulture-like thing he is! he lives off the dead, off dead glimpses of beauty, off dead old sounds heard at night," she thought. when she got to the wescott house she threw herself down on the porch and lay on her back with her arms stretched above her head. her mother sat on a rocking chair beside her. there was a street lamp at the corner at the end of the street and a little light came through the branches of trees and lighted her mother's face. how white and still and death-like it was. when she had looked rosalind closed her eyes. "i mustn't. i shall lose courage," she thought. there was no hurry about delivering the message she had come to deliver. it would be two hours before her father came home. the silence of the village street was broken by a hubbub that arose in the house across the street. two boys playing some game ran from room to room through the house, slamming doors, shouting. a baby began to cry and then a woman's voice protested. "quit it! quit it!" the voice called. "don't you see you have wakened the baby? now i shall have a time getting him to sleep again." rosalind's fingers closed and her hands remained clenched. "i came home to tell you something. i have fallen in love with a man and can't marry him. he is a good many years older than myself and is already married. he has two children. i love him and i think he loves me--i know he does. i want him to have me too. i wanted to come home and tell you before it happened," she said speaking in a low clear voice. she wondered if melville stoner could hear her declaration. nothing happened. the chair in which rosalind's mother sat had been rocking slowly back and forth and making a slight creaking sound. the sound continued. in the house across the street the baby stopped crying. the words rosalind had come from chicago to say to her mother were said and she felt relieved and almost happy. the silence between the two women went on and on. rosalind's mind wandered away. presently there would be some sort of reaction from her mother. she would be condemned. perhaps her mother would say nothing until her father came home and would then tell him. she would be condemned as a wicked woman, ordered to leave the house. it did not matter. rosalind waited. like walter sayers, sitting in his garden, her mind seemed to float away, out of her body. it ran away from her mother to the man she loved. one evening, on just such another quiet summer evening as this one, she had gone into the country with walter sayers. before that he had talked to her, at her, on many other evenings and during long hours in the office. he had found in her someone to whom he could talk, to whom he wanted to talk. what doors of life he had opened for her! the talk had gone on and on. in her presence the man was relieved, he relaxed out of the tenseness that had become the habit of this body. he had told her of how he had wanted to be a singer and had given up the notion. "it isn't my wife's fault nor the children's fault," he had said. "they could have lived without me. the trouble is i could not have lived without them. i am a defeated man, was intended from the first to be a defeated man and i needed something to cling to, something with which to justify my defeat. i realize that now. i am a dependent. i shall never try to sing now because i am one who has at least one merit. i know defeat. i can accept defeat." that is what walter sayers had said and then on the summer evening in the country as she sat beside him in his car he had suddenly begun to sing. he had opened a farm gate and had driven the car silently along a grass covered lane and into a meadow. the lights had been put out and the car crept along. when it stopped some cattle came and stood nearby. then he began to sing, softly at first and with increasing boldness as he repeated the song over and over. rosalind was so happy she had wanted to cry out. "it is because of myself he can sing now," she had thought proudly. how intensely, at the moment she loved the man, and yet perhaps the thing she felt was not love after all. there was pride in it. it was for her a moment of triumph. he had crept up to her out of a dark place, out of the dark cave of defeat. it had been her hand reached down that had given him courage. she lay on her back, at her mother's feet, on the porch of the wescott house trying to think, striving to get her own impulses clear in her mind. she had just told her mother that she wanted to give herself to the man, walter sayers. having made the statement she already wondered if it could be quite true. she was a woman and her mother was a woman. what would her mother have to say to her? what did mothers say to daughters? the male element in life--what did it want? her own desires and impulses were not clearly realized within herself. perhaps what she wanted in life could be got in some sort of communion with another woman, with her mother. what a strange and beautiful thing it would be if mothers could suddenly begin to sing to their daughters, if out of the darkness and silence of old women song could come. men confused rosalind, they had always confused her. on that very evening her father for the first time in years had really looked at her. he had stopped before her as she sat on the porch and there had been something in his eyes. a fire had burned in his old eyes as it had sometimes burned in the eyes of walter. was the fire intended to consume her quite? was it the fate of women to be consumed by men and of men to be consumed by women? in the orchard, an hour before she had distinctly felt the two men, melville stoner and walter sayers coming toward her, walking silently on the soft carpet made of the dark shadows of trees. they were again coming toward her. in their thoughts they approached nearer and nearer to her, to the inner truth of her. the street and the town of willow springs were covered with a mantle of silence. was it the silence of death? had her mother died? did her mother sit there now a dead thing in the chair beside her? the soft creaking of the rocking chair went on and on. of the two men whose spirits seemed hovering about one, melville stoner, was bold and cunning. he was too close to her, knew too much of her. he was unafraid. the spirit of walter sayers was merciful. he was gentle, a man of understanding. she grew afraid of melville stoner. he was too close to her, knew too much of the dark, stupid side of her life. she turned on her side and stared into the darkness toward the stoner house remembering her girlhood. the man was too physically close. the faint light from the distant street lamp that had lighted her mother's face crept between branches of trees and over the tops of bushes and she could see dimly the figure of melville stoner sitting before his house. she wished it were possible with a thought to destroy him, wipe him out, cause him to cease to exist. he was waiting. when her mother had gone to bed and when she had gone upstairs to her own room to lie awake he would invade her privacy. her father would come home, walking with dragging footsteps along the sidewalk. he would come into the wescott house and through to the back door. he would pump the pail of water at the pump and bring it into the house to put it on the box by the kitchen sink. then he would wind the clock. he would-- rosalind stirred uneasily. life in the figure of melville stoner had her, it gripped her tightly. she could not escape. he would come into her bedroom and invade her secret thoughts. there was no escape for her. she imagined his mocking laughter ringing through the silent house, the sound rising above the dreadful commonplace sounds of everyday life there. she did not want that to happen. the sudden death of melville stoner would bring sweet silence. she wished it possible with a thought to destroy him, to destroy all men. she wanted her mother to draw close to her. that would save her from the men. surely, before the evening had passed her mother would have something to say, something living and true. rosalind forced the figure of melville stoner out of her mind. it was as though she had got out of her bed in the room upstairs and had taken the man by the arm to lead him to the door. she had put him out of the room and had closed the door. her mind played her a trick. melville stoner had no sooner gone out of her mind than walter sayers came in. in imagination she was with walter in the car on the summer evening in the pasture and he was singing. the cattle with their soft broad noses and the sweet grass-flavored breaths were crowding in close. there was sweetness in rosalind's thoughts now. she rested and waited, waited for her mother to speak. in her presence walter sayers had broken his long silence and soon the old silence between mother and daughter would also be broken. the singer who would not sing had begun to sing because of her presence. song was the true note of life, it was the triumph of life over death. what sweet solace had come to her that time when walter sayers sang! how life had coursed through her body! how alive she had suddenly become! it was at that moment she had decided definitely, finally, that she wanted to come closer to the man, that she wanted with him the ultimate physical closeness--to find in physical expression through him what in his song he was finding through her. it was in expressing physically her love of the man she would find the white wonder of life, the wonder of which, as a clumsy and crude girl, she had dreamed as she lay on the grass in the orchard. through the body of the singer she would approach, touch the white wonder of life. "i shall willingly sacrifice everything else on the chance that may happen," she thought. how peaceful and quiet the summer night had become! how clearly now she understood life! the song walter sayers had sung in the field, in the presence of the cattle was in a tongue she had not understood, but now she understood everything, even the meaning of the strange foreign words. the song was about life and death. what else was there to sing about? the sudden knowledge of the content of the song had not come out of her own mind. the spirit of walter was coming toward her. it had pushed the mocking spirit of melville stoner aside. what things had not the mind of walter sayers already done to her mind, to the awakening woman within her. now it was telling her the story of the song. the words of the song itself seemed to float down the silent street of the iowa town. they described the sun going down in the smoke clouds of a city and the gulls coming from a lake to float over the city. now the gulls floated over a river. the river was the color of chrysoprase. she, rosalind wescott, stood on a bridge in the heart of the city and she had become entirely convinced of the filth and ugliness of life. she was about to throw herself into the river, to destroy herself in an effort to make herself clean. it did not matter. strange sharp cries came from the birds. the cries of the birds were like the voice of melville stoner. they whirled and turned in the air overhead. in a moment more she would throw herself into the river and then the birds would fall straight down in a long graceful line. the body of her would be gone, swept away by the stream, carried away to decay but what was really alive in herself would arise with the birds, in the long graceful upward line of the flight of the birds. rosalind lay tense and still on the porch at her mother's feet. in the air above the hot sleeping town, buried deep in the ground beneath all towns and cities, life went on singing, it persistently sang. the song of life was in the humming of bees, in the calling of tree toads, in the throats of negroes rolling cotton bales on a boat in a river. the song was a command. it told over and over the story of life and of death, life forever defeated by death, death forever defeated by life. * * * * * the long silence of rosalind's mother was broken and rosalind tried to tear herself away from the spirit of the song that had begun to sing itself within her-- the sun sank down into the western sky over a city-- life defeated by death, death defeated by life. the factory chimneys had become pencils of light-- life defeated by death, death defeated by life. the rocking chair in which rosalind's mother sat kept creaking. words came haltingly from between her white lips. the test of ma wescott's life had come. always she had been defeated. now she must triumph in the person of rosalind, the daughter who had come out of her body. to her she must make clear the fate of all women. young girls grew up dreaming, hoping, believing. there was a conspiracy. men made words, they wrote books and sang songs about a thing called love. young girls believed. they married or entered into close relationships with men without marriage. on the marriage night there was a brutal assault and after that the woman had to try to save herself as best she could. she withdrew within herself, further and further within herself. ma wescott had stayed all her life hidden away within her own house, in the kitchen of her house. as the years passed and after the children came her man had demanded less and less of her. now this new trouble had come. her daughter was to have the same experience, to go through the experience that had spoiled life for her. how proud she had been of rosalind, going out into the world, making her own way. her daughter dressed with a certain air, walked with a certain air. she was a proud, upstanding, triumphant thing. she did not need a man. "god, rosalind, don't do it, don't do it," she muttered over and over. how much she had wanted rosalind to keep clear and clean! once she also had been a young woman, proud, upstanding. could anyone think she had ever wanted to become ma wescott, fat, heavy and old? all through her married life she had stayed in her own house, in the kitchen of her own house, but in her own way she had watched, she had seen how things went with women. her man had known how to make money, he had always housed her comfortably. he was a slow, silent man but in his own way he was as good as any of the men of willow springs. men worked for money, they ate heavily and then at night they came home to the woman they had married. before she married, ma wescott had been a farmer's daughter. she had seen things among the beasts, how the male pursued the female. there was a certain hard insistence, cruelty. life perpetuated itself that way. the time of her own marriage was a dim, terrible time. why had she wanted to marry? she tried to tell rosalind about it. "i saw him on the main street of town here, one saturday evening when i had come to town with father, and two weeks after that i met him again at a dance out in the country," she said. she spoke like one who has been running a long distance and who has some important, some immediate message to deliver. "he wanted me to marry him and i did it. he wanted me to marry him and i did it." she could not get beyond the fact of her marriage. did her daughter think she had no vital thing to say concerning the relationship of men and women? all through her married life she had stayed in her husband's house, working as a beast might work, washing dirty clothes, dirty dishes, cooking food. she had been thinking, all through the years she had been thinking. there was a dreadful lie in life, the whole fact of life was a lie. she had thought it all out. there was a world somewhere unlike the world in which she lived. it was a heavenly place in which there was no marrying or giving in marriage, a sexless quiet windless place where mankind lived in a state of bliss. for some unknown reason mankind had been thrown out of that place, had been thrown down upon the earth. it was a punishment for an unforgivable sin, the sin of sex. the sin had been in her as well as in the man she had married. she had wanted to marry. why else did she do it? men and women were condemned to commit the sin that destroyed them. except for a few rare sacred beings no man or woman escaped. what thinking she had done! when she had just married and after her man had taken what he wanted of her he slept heavily but she did not sleep. she crept out of bed and going to a window looked at the stars. the stars were quiet. with what a slow stately tread the moon moved across the sky. the stars did not sin. they did not touch one another. each star was a thing apart from all other stars, a sacred inviolate thing. on the earth, under the stars everything was corrupt, the trees, flowers, grasses, the beasts of the field, men and women. they were all corrupt. they lived for a moment and then fell into decay. she herself was falling into decay. life was a lie. life perpetuated itself by the lie called love. the truth was that life itself came out of sin, perpetuated itself only by sin. "there is no such thing as love. the word is a lie. the man you are telling me about wants you for the purpose of sin," she said and getting heavily up went into the house. rosalind heard her moving about in the darkness. she came to the screen door and stood looking at her daughter lying tense and waiting on the porch. the passion of denial was so strong in her that she felt choked. to the daughter it seemed that her mother standing in the darkness behind her had become a great spider, striving to lead her down into some web of darkness. "men only hurt women," she said, "they can't help wanting to hurt women. they are made that way. the thing they call love doesn't exist. it's a lie." "life is dirty. letting a man touch her dirties a woman." ma wescott fairly screamed forth the words. they seemed torn from her, from some deep inner part of her being. having said them she moved off into the darkness and rosalind heard her going slowly toward the stairway that led to the bedroom above. she was weeping in the peculiar half choked way in which old fat women weep. the heavy feet that had begun to mount the stair stopped and there was silence. ma wescott had said nothing of what was in her mind. she had thought it all out, what she wanted to say to her daughter. why would the words not come? the passion for denial within her was not satisfied. "there is no love. life is a lie. it leads to sin, to death and decay," she called into the darkness. a strange, almost uncanny thing happened to rosalind. the figure of her mother went out of her mind and she was in fancy again a young girl and had gone with other young girls to visit a friend about to be married. with the others she stood in a room where white dresses lay on a bed. one of her companions, a thin, flat breasted girl fell on her knees beside the bed. a cry arose. did it come from the girl or from the old tired defeated woman within the wescott house? "don't do it. o, rosalind don't do it," pleaded a voice broken with sobs. the wescott house had become silent like the street outside and like the sky sprinkled with stars into which rosalind gazed. the tenseness within her relaxed and she tried again to think. there was a thing that balanced, that swung backward and forward. was it merely her heart beating? her mind cleared. the song that had come from the lips of walter sayers was still singing within her-- life the conqueror over death, death the conqueror over life. she sat up and put her head into her hands. "i came here to willow springs to put myself to a test. is it the test of life and death?" she asked herself. her mother had gone up the stairway, into the darkness of the bedroom above. the song singing within rosalind went on-- life the conqueror over death, death the conqueror over life. was the song a male thing, the call of the male to the female, a lie, as her mother had said? it did not sound like a lie. the song had come from the lips of the man walter and she had left him and had come to her mother. then melville stoner, another male, had come to her. in him also was singing the song of life and death. when the song stopped singing within one did death come? was death but denial? the song was singing within herself. what a confusion! after her last outcry ma wescott had gone weeping up the stairs and to her own room and to bed. after a time rosalind followed. she threw herself onto her own bed without undressing. both women lay waiting. outside in the darkness before his house sat melville stoner, the male, the man who knew of all that had passed between mother and daughter. rosalind thought of the bridge over the river near the factory in the city and of the gulls floating in the air high above the river. she wished herself there, standing on the bridge. "it would be sweet now to throw my body down into the river," she thought. she imagined herself falling swiftly and the swifter fall of the birds down out of the sky. they were swooping down to pick up the life she was ready to drop, sweeping swiftly and beautifully down. that was what the song walter had sung was about. * * * * * henry wescott came home from his evening at emanuel wilson's store. he went heavily through the house to the back door and the pump. there was the slow creaking sound of the pump working and then he came into the house and put the pail of water on the box by the kitchen sink. a little of the water spilled. there was a soft little slap--like a child's bare feet striking the floor-- rosalind arose. the dead cold weariness that had settled down upon her went away. cold dead hands had been gripping her. now they were swept aside. her bag was in a closet but she had forgotten it. quickly she took off her shoes and holding them in her hands went out into the hall in her stockinged feet. her father came heavily up the stairs past her as she stood breathless with her body pressed against the wall in the hallway. how quick and alert her mind had become! there was a train eastward bound toward chicago that passed through willow springs at two in the morning. she would not wait for it. she would walk the eight miles to the next town to the east. that would get her out of town. it would give her something to do. "i need to be moving now," she thought as she ran down the stairs and went silently out of the house. she walked on the grass beside the sidewalk to the gate before melville stoner's house and he came down to the gate to meet her. he laughed mockingly. "i fancied i might have another chance to walk with you before the night was gone," he said bowing. rosalind did not know how much of the conversation between herself and her mother he had heard. it did not matter. he knew all ma wescott had said, all she could say and all rosalind could say or understand. the thought was infinitely sweet to rosalind. it was melville stoner who lifted the town of willow springs up out of the shadow of death. words were unnecessary. with him she had established the thing beyond words, beyond passion--the fellowship in living, the fellowship in life. they walked in silence to the town's edge and then melville stoner put out his hand. "you'll come with me?" she asked, but he shook his head and laughed. "no," he said, "i'll stay here. my time for going passed long ago. i'll stay here until i die. i'll stay here with my thoughts." he turned and walked away into the darkness beyond the round circle of light cast by the last street lamp on the street that now became a country road leading to the next town to the east. rosalind stood to watch him go and something in his long loping gait again suggested to her mind the figure of a gigantic bird. "he is like the gulls that float above the river in chicago," she thought. "his spirit floats above the town of willow springs. when the death in life comes to the people here he swoops down, with his mind, plucking out the beauty of them." she walked at first slowly along the road between corn fields. the night was a vast quiet place into which she could walk in peace. a little breeze rustled the corn blades but there were no dreadful significant human sounds, the sounds made by those who lived physically but who in spirit were dead, had accepted death, believed only in death. the corn blades rubbed against each other and there was a low sweet sound as though something was being born, old dead physical life was being torn away, cast aside. perhaps new life was coming into the land. rosalind began to run. she had thrown off the town and her father and mother as a runner might throw off a heavy and unnecessary garment. she wished also to throw off the garments that stood between her body and nudity. she wanted to be naked, new born. two miles out of town a bridge crossed willow creek. it was now empty and dry but in the darkness she imagined it filled with water, swift running water, water the color of chrysoprase. she had been running swiftly and now she stopped and stood on the bridge her breath coming in quick little gasps. after a time she went on again, walking until she had regained her breath and then running again. her body tingled with life. she did not ask herself what she was going to do, how she was to meet the problem she had come to willow springs half hoping to have solved by a word from her mother. she ran. before her eyes the dusty road kept coming up to her out of darkness. she ran forward, always forward into a faint streak of light. the darkness unfolded before her. there was joy in the running and with every step she took she achieved a new sense of escape. a delicious notion came into her mind. as she ran she thought the light under her feet became more distinct. it was, she thought, as though the darkness had grown afraid in her presence and sprang aside, out of her path. there was a sensation of boldness. she had herself become something that within itself contained light. she was a creator of light. at her approach darkness grew afraid and fled away into the distance. when that thought came she found herself able to run without stopping to rest and half wished she might run on forever, through the land, through towns and cities, driving darkness away with her presence. i stated it as definitely as i could. i was in a room with them. they had tongues like me, and hair and eyes. i got up out of my chair and said it as definitely as i could. their eyes wavered. something slipped out of their grasp. had i been white and strong and young enough i might have plunged through walls, gone outward into nights and days, gone into prairies, into distances-- gone outward to the doorstep of the house of god, gone to god's throne room with their hands in mine. what i am trying to say is this-- by god i made their minds flee out of them. their minds came out of them as clear and straight as anything could be. i said they might build temples to their lives. i threw my words at faces floating in a street. i threw my words like stones, like building stones. i scattered words in alleyways like seeds. i crept at night and threw my words in empty rooms of houses in a street. i said that life was life, that men in streets and cities might build temples to their souls. i whispered words at night into a telephone. i told my people life was sweet, that men might live. i said a million temples might be built, that doorsteps might be cleansed. at their fleeing harried minds i hurled a stone. i said they might build temples to themselves. none bugle blasts, read before the ohio commandery of the military order of the loyal legion of the united states, by companion william e. crane, late captain th o. v. c. and a. a. adjt.-gen. november , . cincinnati: peter g. thomson, . bugle blasts. to one who occupied a very small space in the war of the rebellion--one who filled but a modest position among those who sought to protect the nation's honor and life--it is a matter of difficulty, if not hazard, to attempt to enlighten, or even entertain, such a body as that to whom this paper is addressed. certainly no attempt will be made, in this case, to _enlighten_. if any thing new is furnished that shall also prove interesting, the end will be subserved. there are those among us, members of ohio commandery, who contributed largely to the grandeur, the magnificence, the glory of that army of the union from which this order sprang. there are those among us who _made_ pages, aye, chapters, of history where great deeds are emphasized in blood; deeds that "throbbed the nation's heart." and this history is not for a day; not for our time alone. it will go on down the ages to be read by grand-children and their grand-children, who will point with pride to the illustrious achievements and say: "these were my ancestors who fought in that great war and did these glorious things!" what richer legacy can you hand down? this is _fame_! this is _glory_! and do not these come of honest ambition? but there are incidents, episodes, deeds that come under the observation only of the few--sometimes of the individual--which, little in themselves and seemingly inconsequential, help to make up the grand story. it is an old, old story now, but the story has become history. a full and true history of the late war has never been written--never will be. but little links can be picked up--even as we pick up battered bullets on old battle-fields--and these may be welded together to make a completer chain. and this is, perhaps, our duty, the duty of those who are permitted to enjoy the present. let us also make it a pleasure. i call this paper "bugle blasts" simply because that seems as appropriate as anything. it refers to some incidents and experiences in the cavalry; exciting and sometimes thrilling to those engaged, if not interesting to him who hears the tale told. late in the winter of ' , when the movement on fort donelson was begun, buell began his movement on bowling green. the third division had the advance and was commanded by general o. m. mitchell, or "star mitchell" as he was called in those days. february th mitchell broke camp at bacon creek, kentucky, made a forced march to bowling green, driving the rebel hindman before him, and on february d started for nashville. the fourth ohio cavalry, his advance regiment, was before nashville on the evening of the d, and received from the mayor the surrender of the city. the third division went into camp and the fourth ohio cavalry was placed _eight miles_ in the front, at the outposts, on the murfreesboro pike. the cavalry of buell's army had not received that attention requisite for the most efficient service, and the fourth ohio was no exception. there were no carbines in the regiment--only sabers and some unreliable revolvers. one company, however (that of the writer's), was armed with colt's revolving rifles. these had been secured, some weeks before, while the company was on special duty at upton, ky., by requisition on louisville, accompanied by considerable diplomacy, etc.--the "etc" to be literally translated, and not given too liberal a construction. i say the company was _armed_ with this formidable weapon. perhaps it were better to say _loaded_. the horse certainly was loaded when the trooper mounted with this instrument slung on his back, clanking saber at his side, and pistol in holster. it was cruelty to add the canteen and haversack! but in those days we had no "s. p. c. a." about three o'clock in the afternoon of march th the colonel came to our company headquarters and said he wanted the company to mount and go in pursuit of a body of rebel cavalry said to be in the neighborhood. just as the order was issued an orderly from mitchell's headquarters rode up excitedly and reported that john morgan had captured the regimental wagon-train, on its way out to camp with supplies, burned the wagons and taken off teamsters, horses, and mules. and this only one mile from camp--almost under our noses! our colonel's blood was up in an instant, and in stentorian voice he shouted, "company c, turn out with your rifles!" this "_with your rifles_" had a flavor of business about it, and the response was not only quick, but nearly unanimous. evidently, there was to be "music in the air," and there was an anxiety to have the rifles come in at the right moment with the bass. four other companies were ordered out. then came the command, "company c, forward with the rifles!" and we dashed forward up the pike toward nashville. the report received was not a "grape-vine." something near two miles from camp, in the middle of the pike, were the ruins of our wagon-train--some wagons still burning and some already in ashes. the teamsters and animals were gone and no signs of friend or foe. as afterward learned, the attacking party were lieut.-col. wood with a body of mississippi cavalry and john morgan's command. they had first quietly taken in the pickets and then made a dash, from the woods, on the train, capturing, with the teamsters, capt. braiden, an aide of gen. dumont's. gen. mitchell himself barely escaped capture, having ridden along the pike about the same time. a halt was called and the road examined to ascertain which way the enemy had gone. the trace was found leading east through the woods. one company was sent back to get re-enforcements, and, with them, to strike into the timber from the regimental camp to try and intercept the raiders. the original party, headed by col. kennett, dashed into the woods, and then occurred a chase the parallel to which has seldom been seen. "forward!" was the word, and forward it was. the woods became a thicket, sometimes apparently impassable; but the horses, spurred by their riders, dashed at headlong speed through the trees, through the underbrush, under branches--thorns scratching the face and hands, projecting limbs tearing clothes and bruising bodies. down hill and up hill, through marsh and bog, over logs and across streams, leaping obstacles, shouting, yelling, screaming, and hurrahing, away we went--mud and leaves flying and dead limbs crushing beneath horses' feet. now the trail is lost and there is a halt to look for footprints. how much of a start the raiders have can not be known, but the trail must be fresh. soon it is found and the horses gallop on as full of spirit as their wildly excited riders. when the tracks disappear in the forest leaves, the rebel course is now marked by plunder lost or cast aside--overcoats, canteens, saddles, blankets, the woods are full of them. now and then an abandoned horse is seen. finally, we strike a narrow pike, follow it a mile or so and learn that morgan and wood have divided their force, only the smaller part having taken the course we are pursuing. we were after morgan and the main body, so turned back. it was precious time lost but the trail was again struck, where they had crossed the pike, and once more a plunge was made into the timber and cedars. for miles the trees were so thick, and the foliage so dense, that it became impossible to ride other than single file; but, retarded as was our speed, the chase became hotter and more exciting than ever. the yankee blood of the hunters was at fever heat and they determined to run the game to cover. the sight of an abandoned horse (and the hard-pressed enemy was now leaving his own as well as our animals) was the signal for a yell that the pursued might have heard and trembled at miles away. then spurs were clapped into horses' flanks to urge them still faster on; and thus the column--if column that could be called which column was none--swept, dashed, plunged onward. occasionally a trooper was dismounted by a projecting limb, and as he clambered out of the way, the sympathetic cry was wafted back from some comrade, "say, what infantry rigi_ment_ does you'ns belong to?" now the colonel's voice rings shrilly through the forest with the same old talismanic "forward!" the refrain is taken up, sent back along the column until the rearmost rider hears and shouts a returning echo, "we are coming, father abraham!" no cowardice there. no lagging behind from choice. every man was straining nerve and muscle to get ahead. we were fast gaining on the enemy and they knew it, trembling at every shout wafted to their ears. they grew desperate, dug the rowels into their horses, cursed their prisoners, threatened them, shot at them to make them keep up, and wounded one poor fellow to the death. these facts were gleaned afterward. we had gained rapidly and thought them almost within grasp. but "the best laid plans of mice and men, etc., etc." desperation nerved them and they flew down the pike, scattering the stones behind. but we ran them into the net prepared. the detachment that had gone out later from camp struck the pike opportunely and received the enemy warmly as we drove him into their arms. a brisk engagement followed, partly hand to hand. the fight was soon over, the enemy being routed, scattered and driven in every direction. at the onset morgan, with his staff and a lot of blooded horses, broke away and escaped across stone river. our command being united and ready to move an inventory of affairs and effects was taken. the enemy left four dead on the field, four sound captives in our hands and two wounded. of the ninety-four horses taken we recaptured seventy-five; of the forty-eight teamsters, thirty-one, and also capt. braiden. a number of rebels were wounded, but not seriously, and escaped. one of the two wounded prisoners--warfield by name--was related to one of the most prominent and wealthy families of cincinnati. the other was a mississippian, by the name of love. the writer visited the two in the regimental hospital that night. love had a terrible wound, and knew it was mortal, but his last breath was expended in cursing and execrating the "yankees" in the most horrible and vile language tongue could utter. the chase being over, the command returned--all except the company with the rifles, who were to continue the pursuit. pushing on again we struck the murfreesboro pike, near lavergne, and got on the heels of one detachment, but these, knowing the country, broke for the cedars and escaped. we saw no more of them and returned to camp at p. m., after a ride of about thirty miles, part of this on a keen run. about a month after the incidents just related, the fourth ohio cavalry had the honor of capturing huntsville, ala., the "queen city of the mountains." about the middle of march, , gen. mitchell's division of buell's army left nashville and pushed south to murfreesboro, thence to shelbyville, following the rebel johnston, who had destroyed all bridges behind him. from shelbyville a rapid advance was made to fayetteville, then a hot-bed of secession. turchin's brigade, with simonson's battery and the fourth ohio cavalry, had the van. the fourth broke camp early that morning, april th, at the loyal town of shelbyville, with a three o'clock reveille and timely "boots and saddles." passing by the infantry and simonson's guns, the regiment rode briskly on to fayetteville, through the town, over the stone bridge at elk river, and camped on the same spot where gen. jackson had camped fifty years before, in , a spot convenient, pleasant, and _historic_. news of the victory at corinth reached us on the th, and there was enthusiastic joy and joyful enthusiasm throughout the camp. the command set out at once for huntsville, the cavalry leading. our route lay along a circuitous dirt road and through a mountainous country. twelve miles brought us to the state line, marked by a high pole bearing the tattered remnants of a rebel flag. now we are in alabama. the plantations stretch out in beautiful landscape and, as the innumerable negroes grin at us from every field and fence, we are forcibly reminded that we are "in the land of cotton." halting at sundown to feed and await the remainder of the division, the cavalry again moved on rapidly and went into bivouac at p. m. at two in the morning a detail of picked men was made to ride across the country and tear up the track on the memphis & charleston railroad leading east from huntsville. pickets were also thrown out to intercept all travel to and from the town. at four o'clock on the morning of april th the artillery and cavalry were in motion for huntsville, eight miles away. nearing town the battery galloped on to the front, the fourth ohio following close. it was a matter of all importance that the place should be reached before any trains should leave; and when, two miles off, the whistle of a locomotive sounded on our ears, every thing was excitement and every horse put to its speed. such a clatter never before awoke the echoes among those alabama hills. yonder curls the smoke and here comes the engine with but a single car, steaming eastward across the plain. simonson wheels a gun, lets fly a solid shot, and the engine slackens speed, hesitates (as if to ask the meaning of all this), and puffs quickly on. a shell speeds after it but fails in its intent. however, the train can not escape altogether if our railroad wreckers have safely reached their trysting-place. the locomotive may be ditched and lost to us for service, but will hardly carry the news to leadbetter, at bridgeport, that the yankees have come. company a has orders and in an instant a dozen troopers have dismounted, thrown down the stake-and-rider fence, and away goes the company across the plain in hot pursuit--horse-flesh vieing with steam! but the iron-limbed courser had the best bottom and whirled along amid a shower of bullets--escaping for the time, but only to become prey to the detachment up the road. another whistle sounds and another train comes in sight. simonson's bull dog again barks--again ineffectually. a repeated effort is more successful, and a shell crashes through the cab. the cavalry company is on hand this time, and bang! bang! crack! crack! go the carbines and revolvers and the balls whistle about the engineer's head and rattle against the cars. the train stops and the passengers, rebel soldiers and officers, leap to the ground and endeavor to escape. a few succeed, but the majority are taken. the train is boarded and brought back. meanwhile the column dashes onward and goes whirling into huntsville. at the station is another train just leaving, with troops who are going "on to richmond." a cocked pistol held at the engineer's head has the effect of shutting off steam and the train is placed under guard. the regiment gallops up the street and through the town. pickets are thrown out on all the roads. black faces were at every door and window; blacks were at the gates, and blacks were on the streets; but the "chivalry" had evidently deserted the place, except the few who viciously peered at us through the blinds, robed in white. perhaps it was too early for _white folks_, and our call was untimely on that bright april morning--the clock had not yet struck six--and perhaps they were too high toned to suffer yankees to look upon their faces. after reconnoitering the streets and gathering in a few wearers of the gray the regiment was apportioned to various duties. another train had just pulled in, all unconscious of the reception awaiting. this, too, was filled with soldiery from below, bound for richmond--four officers and privates. at one of the hotels a major and three captains were taken, and others at other points in town. the full result of the early morning's work was prisoners, locomotives and a large number of cars. the locomotives themselves were of incalculable value, and more than paid for the expedition if there had been no other fruits; for they enabled gen. mitchell to push his troops rapidly in every direction and hurry forward supplies. without them many of the results which soon followed could not have been accomplished. from the sheriff the keys of the jail were demanded and a large number of prisoners, loyal tennesseans mostly, were liberated. some of these at once enlisted in the union army. huntsville was ours "and fairly won," without a casualty on our side or loss of any kind. * * * in august, , the army constituting "the military division of the mississippi," commanded by gen. sherman, lay in front of atlanta. the effort to flank hood out of his position had not been successful and gen. sherman announced a new plan of operations. in the new deal gen. thomas was assigned to the left, schofield given the right, and howard the center. of the cavalry, gen. garrard commanded the second division and gen. kilpatrick the third. a raid of formidable proportions was projected on the macon railroad, and kilpatrick was to engineer this. gen. sherman had said, in a message to thomas, aug. th, "i do think our cavalry should now break the macon road good." this raid of kilpatrick's, though not as full in fruition as was hoped, was of great importance and is the subject of the following chapter. it was an undertaking brilliant in conception, thrilling in its experience, and deserving of historical record. of the d cavalry division one brigade was absent. the st and d brigades traveled all night the th of august to sand town, where kilpatrick was with the d division. on the morning of the th the following circular was published. "headquarters cavalry expedition, } dep't cumberland, } sand town, ga., aug. , ' . } soldiers! you have been selected from the cavalry divisions of the army of the cumberland; you have been well organized, equipped, and rendred formidable, at great expense, to accomplish an object vital to the success of our cause. i am about to lead you, not on a _raid_, but on a deliberate and well combined attack upon the enemy's communications, in order that he may be unable to supply his army in atlanta. two expeditions have already failed. we are the last cavalry hope of the army. let each soldier remember this and resolve to accomplish this, the great object for which so much is risked, _or die trying_! (signed.) j. kilpatrick, brig.-gen. commanding." at dark the two divisions (really, they were only _parts_ of two divisions) moved southward. the expedition was designed to be a secret one, and there were no bugle blasts to awaken the echoes of the still night--bugle blasts that so thrill through the trooper's blood and nerve him for the mount, the march, or the fray. the d division had the advance, and with it was the th wisconsin battery of four pieces. the d had two sections of the "chicago board of trade battery." quietly as all had been planned, the movement was already known in the rebel camp and our advance encountered an impeding force early in the march. these fell back as we advanced but continued harassing and delaying the column, and skirmishing was kept up all night, a bright moon rendering some aid to both sides. friday morning, the th, the d division struck the atlantic & west point railroad. men from the advance division were already at work tearing up the track, and one regiment--the st ohio--was detailed from the d division to assist. a mile of track was soon destroyed. meanwhile, the rear of the moving column (minty's brigade) was attacked by a force from the woods on the left with musketry and artillery. the fighting soon became heavy. the st ohio was ordered up to minty's relief, and a systematic attack made with good results, the enemy retiring from sight. the march was resumed, but the enemy again showed himself, and, selecting a good position on the flank, opened up a lively salvo of artillery, playing his pieces well. shells screamed through the air over the moving column, and the d and th ohio suffered seriously. considerable time was consumed in brushing off this force, whose evident aim was to harass and not fight, but they were finally routed. from prisoners taken we learned that ross' cavalry brigade was our principal opponent. a detachment of men was now sent forward to griffin to destroy the track there. the d brigade of the d division was ordered forward and, on the jonesboro road, struck the enemy. skirmishing continued nearly all day, the enemy falling back slowly and showing a disposition to impede our progress as much as possible. at flint river a strong force was in position on the further bank and at the town of jonesboro. pressing them with energy and our artillery playing lively airs they were driven from their works, and we advanced across the bridge which they had attempted to burn. moving into and through the town the depot was fired and the track destroyed. the command now took a brief rest, having eaten nothing all day and not having slept for over twenty-four hours. marching again at , the d division passed south and reached the mcdonogh road at daylight. at pittsburgh again turned south toward the railroad. the first few miles developed nothing of interest, but, finally, during a temporary halt, the rear guard was attacked and the st ohio sent back to its support. the enemy developed considerable strength and the d and th ohio were hurried to the scene. a sharp engagement, but brief, followed; the opposing force was routed and the column again moved on--moved on to encounter something of a foe more determined and with better staying qualities. minty led, and, striking the macon road near lovejoy's station, he dismounted the th michigan to tear up the track. hardly had operations commenced when the regiment was suddenly and impetuously attacked in front and driven back. simultaneously an attack was made in force on the right flank, which was met by the th pennsylvania. a detachment from long's brigade was dismounted and sent forward at double quick. the skirmish line was being gradually forced back and a strong line of infantry was developed coming out of the woods. this proved to be cleburne's division. long's entire brigade (the d) was now dismounted and deployed on the right, while a line of breast-works was thrown up in the rear. the firing became heavy on both sides. in front the enemy was resolutely held for awhile and our men then fell back to the works, whence a fire was opened that staggered the advancing lines and threw them into some confusion. this enabled lieut. bennett, of the battery, to bring off his two pieces which were near being lost. in this affair we had several killed and wounded; of the latter two officers of the th ohio. it was now apparent that not only was there a formidable force of cavalry in the rear, but a large body of infantry, with cavalry and cannon, in front. the dismounted regiments fell back and remounted under severe musketry. kilpatrick called a hurried council of the brigade commanders. the foe was not only in front and rear but our flanks were being enveloped. there was but one advisable course--to make a quick, vigorous, desperate charge, break their lines, and cut our way out. the decision was prompt. the force behind was evidently the weaker and was, therefore, chosen for the attack. the two brigades of the d division were formed in two ranks, stretching across a great corn-field, while the d division formed behind them. sabers were drawn and, at the bugle signal, all galloped forward. the confederates saw the movement and tried valiantly to stem the onset. shells screamed overhead and grape and canister rattled like hail. their smaller arms, too, played briskly. it was a scene of wild and fierce excitement. owing to the irregular nature of the ground, after leaving the corn-field no regular alignment was possible, and it soon became a charge of squadrons, companies, squads, and single riders. bullets whistled and comrades fell, but the command spurred on to increased speed--shouted, yelled and still dashed on. over fences and gullies, and then a wide ravine; through brush and dense timber, whose gnarled and low-hanging branches literally tore men from their saddles; across a great marsh where horses almost swamped--onward the resistless force rushes and strikes the enemy fully and fairly. sabers flash in the air, pistols and carbines belch forth sulphur smoke. the unexpected movement, the sudden and impetuous charge, as of victorious ranks rather than desperate battalions essaying a forlorn hope, had amazed the confronting foe; the fierce onset shattered his lines; he resists stubbornly for a little while, then gives ground, turns to escape, and is routed completely. but, meanwhile, his fire on our flank had been sharp and we suffered severely. on a knoll on the left were two guns belching out grape and canister. so galling was their fire that the charge was greatly retarded on that flank. these must be silenced, and a force dashes up the aclivity "into the very jaws of death." every gunner is killed or captured. at such a time artillery was an awkward encumbrance, yet one piece was brought off safely. prisoners, too, were an encumbrance, and few were taken along. they were simply disarmed and left on the field where captured. had time and circumstance permitted the rebel battery could have been brought off as a trophy, and some hundreds of prisoners. consternation had evidently seized the rebel ranks, for they threw down their arms by scores and begged for quarter. our business was to cut through and _get out_, and this was done, though many a noble fellow was left behind. among those who fell that day was capt. wm. h. scott, an associate of the writer on gen. eli long's staff--not killed outright, but mortally wounded. "a braver spirit never laid its life upon its country's altar." he was struck by a grape shot and fell from his horse, but, in that mad ride--in the face of that deadly storm of lead and iron--it were death to halt even though a dear friend had fallen. the command was naturally much scattered and much time occupied in reforming for the march. this enabled cleburne to close up on us. in the new formation long's brigade had the rear of column and the d ohio the post of danger. this regiment was soon attacked and shells were thrown into our column. gen. long remained with the d to direct its movements. the position held by the regiment was a good one, being protected by rail breast-works (the men were afoot) and below a declivity extending into a marsh; beyond this a creek. as the rebels came across the creek they opened a vigorous fire, and, simultaneously, another line moved up at close quarters on the right. the d held its fire until the enemy reached the marsh, and then every carbine cracked. just at this juncture long's horse was struck (for he had remained mounted), and a moment after he himself received two wounds, through wrist and thigh, which compelled him to leave the field. the d ohio fell slowly back, leaving the dead bodies of several of their comrades, including lieut. garfield. they were then relieved by a regiment from minty's brigade. the column being put in motion, moved on to mcdonogh and thence to cotton river, the enemy following and harassing until night-fall. sunday morning, august st, we crossed cotton river by swimming, the stream being much swollen. one trooper was drowned and a piece of artillery had to be abandoned. the enemy, continuing the pursuit, had pressed hard on the rear all morning, but a safe crossing was finally effected and then south river was reached and crossed. at this place a large mill was burned and the bridge destroyed. thence the march was via lithonia, latimar's and decatur to buck head, which place was reached on the evening of monday, august d. thus ended the famous "kilpatrick raid," an expedition wisely planned and full of "great expectations." that it did not produce the fruits hoped for was not the fault of any of "our folks." lay the blame at the door of the confederacy. it accomplished much good and the confederate loss was large. statistics are not at hand from which to give our casualties in full, but long's brigade lost seven officers and eighty-seven men in killed, wounded, and prisoners. the charge at lovejoy's station was one of the grandest, most extensive, and brilliant cavalry charges of the entire war. kilpatrick, in his enthusiasm, claimed that nothing equal to it had _ever_ been witnessed. it certainly has _few_ equals, and hence has been deemed worthy of elaborate review in these pages. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. the following misprint has been corrected: "momnet" corrected to "moment" (page ). other than the correction listed above, printer's inconsistencies have been retained. internet archive (https://archive.org/index.php) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/benjaminofohiost otis [illustration: map to illustrate the story of benjamin of ohio] benjamin of ohio a story of the settlement of marietta by james otis [illustration: logo] new york -:- cincinnati -:- chicago american book company copyright, , by james otis kaler. benjamin of ohio. w. p. i foreword the author of this series of stories for children has endeavored simply to show why and how the descendants of the early colonists fought their way through the wilderness in search of new homes. the several narratives deal with the struggles of those adventurous people who forced their way westward, ever westward, whether in hope of gain or in answer to "the call of the wild," and who, in so doing, wrote their names with their blood across this country of ours from the ohio to the columbia. to excite in the hearts of the young people of this land a desire to know more regarding the building up of this great nation, and at the same time to entertain in such a manner as may stimulate to noble deeds, is the real aim of these stories. in them there is nothing of romance, but only a careful, truthful record of the part played by children in the great battles with those forces, human as well as natural, which, for so long a time, held a vast portion of this broad land against the advance of home seekers. with the knowledge of what has been done by our own people in our own land, surely there is no reason why one should resort to fiction in order to depict scenes of heroism, daring, and sublime disregard of suffering in nearly every form. james otis. contents page benjamin's story the ohio company rufus putnam colonel putnam, the engineer the first emigrants building a fleet campus martius the arrival of general putnam the work of the first emigrants clearing the land how our company was formed making ready for the journey concerning myself setting out mistress devoll's outfit at providence on the road to blooming grove plans for the future on the water once more feasting on honey among the moravians the rope ferry the way through pennsylvania the shame of the girls meeting with parson cutler ohio cornfields the governor and judges the name of the town campus martius independence day master devoll's house the indian mounds at harrisburg isaac barker's sport uncle daniel carter uncle daniel joins our company hard traveling mud and water a storm of snow across the mountains a friendly dunkard master hiples's kindness a surly landlord isaac flogs the landlord a much needed lesson a time of rest pack trains a night adventure fears about the women and children descending the mountains at the foot of the hills nearing the end of the journey at sumrill's ferry parting with uncle daniel our flatboat the cattle are sent away at pittsburgh too much water escape of the women and children repairing damages our pilot a change of weather noisy fear a real feast finding the canoe buffalo creek the march across the country at marietta plans for the future inspecting the town of marietta a temporary home buying land visiting the savages captain haskell's advice a new friend fishing through the ice the sabbath in marietta a regular business a visit from the savages building a home a great project the two millers the savages on the warpath benjamin of ohio benjamin's story [illustration: benjamin leaning on the letter i.] it seems a very long while since i promised to tell you of what i did after coming into this ohio country, and yet even now i cannot well begin the tale without telling something about the ohio company, which was formed, as you know, by general rufus putnam. twice i have begun the story, and twice i have stopped, understanding that you would not be able to make out why we did this or that, unless you first knew how it chanced that we came to make our homes here. when you and i, while we were both in massachusetts, talked about my journeying into this country, i may have spoken in such a way as to give you the idea that i believed it would be possible for me to do much toward the making of a new town. in fact, i did really then believe that my services would be of great value to those men who expected to build a village here on the muskingum river; but, although only two years have passed, i already understand that a boy of my age is not of much worth in such an enterprise, more particularly when men like parson cutler and general putnam are at the head of affairs. do you remember how old i am? well, there is here in this town of marietta a fellow by the name of jeremy salter, who has become quite a friend of mine, and the other day he asked my age. i told him that i was born in december of the year of the capture of ticonderoga and crown point, the election of general washington to be commander in chief of the armies, and the battle of bunker hill, yet, if you will believe me, the dolt was not able to fix the date. however, my age has nothing to do with our coming from mattapoisett into ohio, and now let me try to make it plain how it happened that we of massachusetts could come so far away and take up land simply because of having bought shares in the ohio company. the ohio company this is the story as i have heard it from general putnam himself. it seems that when our war for independence came to an end, the government did not have money enough with which to pay the soldiers for their services, or, as parson cutler says, the country was much the same as bankrupt; general washington himself declared that a wagonload of continental money would be hardly sufficient to purchase a wagonload of provisions. now of course these soldiers must have their wages, and some men in the congress proposed that the government sell land in the western country in order to raise enough money. [illustration: rufus putnam surveying land with ben tupper.] while this matter was being talked about, congress ordered that a survey be made of the western lands, and rufus putnam himself received an appointment as one of the surveyors; but, not being able to attend to the work personally, he induced an old comrade, by the name of benjamin tupper, to take his place. [illustration: meeting of the citizens of massachusetts.] when master tupper came back to the eastern colonies, after having been over the land, he told general putnam what a great, grand country it was; and it is said that the two old comrades sat up all night talking over plans for buying land enough to form a colony, and that by daybreak they had decided to call a meeting of the citizens of massachusetts and the near-by states, to be held at the bunch of grapes tavern in boston, early in the month of march, . this meeting was held, and a company was organized, to be known as the ohio associates. the government had decided to use this land, as i have said, to pay off the soldiers, and this company, formed by general putnam, employed parson manasseh cutler and master winthrop sargent to make a bargain with congress. these two men offered to buy one million, five hundred thousand acres of land at one dollar an acre, paying down five hundred thousand dollars when the contract was signed, with the debts due the soldiers reckoned as so much ready money. those who had banded themselves together could not raise the remaining million dollars, and the result was that the government cut down the agreement so that our ohio company had at its disposal a little more than a million acres of land, instead of a million and a half. rufus putnam you surely remember what general putnam has done for his country, or, i should say, what he did, even before he came to ohio. in , when only nineteen years old, he enlisted as a common soldier in the provincial army,--for there was then war between england and france,--and served faithfully four years, until the surrender of montreal, when the army was disbanded. then he went to his home in new braintree and worked at the trade of millwright; but he soon discovered that his education was not sufficient to enable him to continue the business to the best advantage, therefore he devoted every moment of his spare time to the study of mathematics. [illustration: rufus putnam studying mathematics.] seven or eight years afterward, when it was believed the british government would give to those soldiers who had served in the french war certain lands somewhere in the wild western country, rufus putnam was selected as one of a party to find out where it would be well for the people to settle. no sooner had the battle of lexington been fought than rufus putnam was among the first to enlist; and it shows that he gained a good military reputation, for he was made lieutenant colonel of the first regiment raised in massachusetts. colonel putnam, the engineer because of his knowledge of mathematics he was chosen by the leaders of the american army to lay out the line of defenses round about boston, and did more than a full share in forcing the british to evacuate that city, because of the skill with which he established the fortifications on dorchester heights. [illustration: colonel putnam, the engineer.] later he was sent to new york, where he took charge of the defenses on long island at fort lee, and king's bridge; and during the year when our people made their formal declaration of independence, rufus putnam was appointed engineer, with the rank of colonel and pay at sixty dollars a month. the next year colonel putnam went back to massachusetts, where he raised and took command of a regiment which he afterward led in the battle of stillwater and again at saratoga, covering himself with glory, so i have heard parson cutler say. after the surprise at stony point, colonel putnam was appointed to the command of a regiment in general wayne's brigade, continuing to serve with credit to himself, and to the best interests of his country, until , when congress promoted him to the rank of brigadier general; he remained in the service of the people, filling one position or another, until this ohio company was formed, as i have told you. another matter which you should bear in mind while thinking of us so far away, is that when parson cutler made the trade with the government for land in the ohio country, he induced the congress to set aside two entire townships, of thirty-six square miles each, for the support of a university, and in each of the other townships one square mile to be used solely for the support of schools and churches. therefore, even before any man had begun the building of a home here on the muskingum river, schools and churches were provided for, which is more, i believe, than can be said regarding most new settlements. the first emigrants you remember all the talk and excitement in massachusetts at this time, when so much was being told regarding the beauties of the ohio country, and you know how eager i was to set out with that first party which left danvers under the leadership of major haffield white on the first day of december, in the year . [illustration: the first emigrants in a conestoga wagon.] as you also know, these men were to halt somewhere on the youghiogheny river to build boats, in order to continue the journey by water, and a second party, under the command of general putnam himself, was to leave hartford in connecticut shortly afterward, to join those from massachusetts. this second company was really led by colonel ebenezer sproat because general putnam was forced to go to new york on some business of his own, and did not succeed in overtaking the people until they had come to swatara creek in pennsylvania. building a fleet major haffield white's party arrived at sumrill's ferry, after a long and tedious journey over the old military road, on the twenty-third day of january, in the year , and immediately began building boats. [illustration: campus martius.] on the fourteenth of february, general putnam's party, by which i mean those who set out from hartford, joined those who were already at the ferry, and the two companies landed here on the bank of the muskingum river the seventh day of april, in the year . all this is an old and familiar story; but it is well for me to remind you of it, so that you can the better understand how i, who had believed and hoped i was coming into a new country to do my full share in building up a town, found everything, as one might say, ready to hand. instead of cutting through the wilderness in order to build houses, we found the land so far cleared that we might get about the home making at once, and during the time the work was being carried on, the people lived in the fort, which general putnam calls campus martius. it is situated near fort harmar, a fortification standing on the west bank of the muskingum river near its mouth, and not far from this town of marietta. it was built in , and colonel josiah harmar is now in command. campus martius what do i mean by campus martius, when i claim to be living in the town of marietta? when general putnam and his company arrived here, the first thing they did was to build a fort for the protection, not only of themselves, but of those who might come after; concerning this fort i will tell you later, but first you may be, and probably are, as curious as i was regarding the name. i asked general putnam, and he told me it was named after a certain lot of land in the city of rome, which was used for popular assemblies and military exercises. however, the town itself is called marietta, after marie antoinette of france, who was so brutally killed by her subjects during the reign of terror. [illustration: men building the campus martius fort.] perhaps it would be better if i begin this story by telling you how we got here, for the journey was not only long, but tiresome, and made at the cost of much labor. but yet it seems best to set down all within my knowledge concerning those men who first came out, meaning the party which left danvers in massachusetts, and that which started from hartford in connecticut. all that i know about major white's company during the march is that they came over what is called the old military road, across pennsylvania, until they arrived at the youghiogheny river, which they crossed, and then went into winter quarters at sumrill's ferry. there they set about building a flatboat, which they called the _mayflower_, making her forty-six feet long and twelve feet wide, with a roof deck and a sharp bow, to be propelled by either sails or oars; they built also a smaller flatboat and several canoes. [illustration: men building a flatboat.] the arrival of general putnam it was while they were building this fleet that general putnam's party joined them, and on the first day of april the new _mayflower_, together with the smaller craft, began the voyage down the ohio, arriving opposite fort harmar on the seventh day of april. there were forty-eight men on board the vessels: four surveyors with twenty-two others to attend them, six boat builders, four carpenters, one blacksmith, and eleven so-called common hands. i myself have heard general putnam say that when his company arrived at swatara creek it was frozen over, but not sufficiently hard to bear the weight of the wagon, and they spent one entire day cutting a passage through the ice. then, later, he says so great was the quantity of snow as to block up the roads, and when they got as far as cooper's, at the foot of the tuscarora mountains, they found old snow twelve inches deep. nothing save pack horses had passed over it, therefore it was necessary to build sleds and harness the animals one before the other, with the men marching in front to break out the roads, and thus they continued until arriving at the youghiogheny, as i have already said. [illustration: the new mayflower (flatboat) going downriver.] as you know, our town of marietta is on the muskingum river at its mouth where it empties into the ohio, and i am sending you such a drawing as i have been able to make, so that you may know just where we are located. the work of the first emigrants most likely general putnam decided upon this particular place in which to build a town because fort harmar, erected here in the year , would afford a very timely place of refuge in case the indians made an attack upon our people before they were in condition to defend themselves. [illustration: hand drawn map of marietta.] fort harmar is on the lower bank of the river, while our town of marietta is on the opposite side, or what might be called the upper point of land between the muskingum and the ohio. allen, who is a son of captain jonathan devoll, and came with the first party from danvers, told me that as soon as our people landed they set about making huts of boards which had been brought with them from sumrill's ferry, and at the same time put up a canvas tent for the use of general putnam, wherein he could transact the business of the new colony, and in such shelters they lived until the fort had been completed. [illustration: men reading the laws nailed to tree by river.] the surveyors immediately began laying out the town lots and the farms for those people who had bought shares in the company, and many laws or regulations were made by general putnam and his friends, which were nailed to the trunk of a large tree on the river bank where all might see them. the place was then, and is now, as beautiful a spot as one could well imagine. there are fish in the rivers in abundance, and game of every kind to be found in greatest plenty. just fancy herds of buffaloes and deer roaming through the forest and over the plains, while wild turkeys are found in such numbers as would do your heart good, especially after a good plump one has been cooked on a spit in front of a roaring fire. there was very little hunting done for sport, however, so allen devoll told me. those people who went out in search of game did so only that they might provide themselves and their companions with food; for the work on every hand was abundant. clearing the land enormous trees in the forest were to be girdled and thus killed that they might the more easily be hewn down, and the soil had to be prepared for planting. that these newcomers were not idle may be understood when i tell you that, during the first spring they were here, one hundred and thirty acres of corn were planted. of course there were no cleared fields, such as one might see about mattapoisett. the seed was put in among stumps, where only the underbrush had been cleared away; therefore a plow could not be run to make a straight furrow. the greater portion of the work was done with hoes and spades; and already i have had disagreeable experience in that kind of labor, which causes one's back to ache woefully and blisters the hands even of those who are accustomed to such toil. [illustration: man using a hoe in a cornfield.] and now after all this, which is what you might call the beginning of my story, i will tell you of our leaving home, and of that long, wearisome journey across the mountains, when we forded creeks and, if you please, might be said to have walked from one side of the state of pennsylvania to the other. i have sometimes regretted that i was not with the company led by major white, or under the leadership of colonel sproat, so that i could say that i was one of the first to step foot in this ohio country with the idea of making a home; but those voyagers were only men who could perform such work as boat building or surveying, and boys were neither wanted nor allowed. how our company was formed first you should know that captain jonathan devoll was a member of the company that came here under the leadership of major white, setting out from danvers. he had left his family behind in providence, and because of that fact perhaps, i was given an opportunity to come. having neither father nor mother, and being dependent upon those who were willing to provide me with work whereby i might gain a livelihood, there was no one to push forward my claim to become one of the emigrants, save only mistress devoll herself, who needed some one to aid her in caring for the children during the journey, for she is not a very strong woman. master john rouse had bought a share in the company and was making ready to start with his family, when he received word that he should bring with him all captain devoll's family. then there was captain haskell in our town of mattapoisett, an old sailor who owned a large covered wagon and two horses. master rouse had only one team of horses; therefore he proposed to captain haskell that they join forces, and surely it was a good trade for master rouse, since he had a large family to take with him, while the old captain was alone in the world. because of the labor involved in driving four horses during so long a time as would be required for the journey, it was decided that young ben cushing should be hired as driver, and thus the party was made up, until mistress devoll so kindly interfered in my behalf, claiming that she had a right to take with her at least one more lad. making ready for the journey i wish i could describe to you the excitement under which we all labored while making ready for the long journey! do you remember the rouse family? first there is michael, twenty-two years old; then bathsheba, who is nineteen or thereabouts; and elizabeth, two years younger. cynthia is two years younger than elizabeth; ruth is only eleven years old; stephen, six, and the twins, robert and barker, only four. now if mistress devoll had not needed my services, i should have found ample opportunity of earning my way across to the ohio country by taking care of the rouse children. the most important matter was the preparing of the wagon, where the women would sleep during such nights as we failed to find lodgings in taverns or farmhouses, and it was with infinite care that master rouse and captain haskell almost rebuilt this cart, which was what i believe is generally called a conestoga wagon, although why it should be given such a name i do not understand, unless it may have been made in some town by the name of conestoga. [illustration: men packing the conestoga wagon.] with so many in the company, you can fancy that it was a difficult matter to decide just what should be taken and what left behind, for it was of the utmost importance that the baggage be reduced to the smallest possible amount, and in order that it might be packed with the greatest economy, boxes were made to fit exactly into the bottom of the wagon, so that no space would be left unoccupied. on top of these were stowed the beds and bedding, while cooking utensils hung around on the inside, where we might get at them handily at mealtime, for, as it proved, very many days we were forced to do our cooking by the roadside, with such fireplaces as could be built up with rocks which we lads gathered. [illustration: boys preparing a cooking fire.] two trunks were placed at one end of the wagon, where they served as a barrier to prevent the twins from falling out when they played on the bedding, and upon the axles were hung buckets and such tools as might be needed during the journey, thus giving the outfit a decidedly comical, but perhaps homelike, appearance. we took with us only a small amount of grain for the horses, trusting to buy all that might be needed until we had journeyed as far as carlisle in pennsylvania. after that there would be less chance of coming upon farms where such things could be purchased, and then the animals would be forced to subsist only on grass. concerning myself my part of the outfit consisted of the clothes i wore, for i am ashamed to say that i did not own a second coat which would have been presentable in any company. therefore i did not allow myself to be troubled when the women complained long and bitterly because they had so little with which to work or make themselves comfortable, and for the only time in my life it did seem as if my poverty was really a blessing. i lived in a perfect fever of excitement during the three weeks we were making ready for the voyage, and on the evening before the eventful day i was so wrought up in my mind that to sleep was an impossibility. from the time i laid myself down on my bed in master rouse's stable, until the sun rose, i did not close my eyes in slumber; then i acted as if i had never seen a horse or harness before, for when ben cushing called on me to aid him in putting the animals to the pole, my hands trembled so that i could not fasten a buckle, let alone arrange the straps to his liking. ben is a careful driver and one who ever looks after the welfare of his beasts. to him a strap too long or too short, a buckle out of place or liable to break, is almost the same as a sin. i need not have allowed myself to be worked up to such an extent, however, for the first part of our journey was nothing more nor less than pleasure. half a dozen young girls, on horseback, set off with us, expecting to ride as far as the long plain, which is six miles out from mattapoisett, and the entire population, as it appeared to me, had turned out to see us get under way with that long conestoga wagon covered with canvas, on the sides of which had been painted, "to the ohio country." [illustration: group setting out on the trail.] setting out what a cheering and shaking of hands, and what a showering of good wishes upon us took place in that mattapoisett street! if we could have had parson cutler with us to give what you might call an official sanction to the start, as was done when major white's party set off from danvers, then i would have been more content. surely, however, there was no need for me to make complaint, because never before had i witnessed such a scene of excitement as when ben cushing gathered up the reins, and the townspeople stood around the heavy wagon until mistress rouse cried out in alarm lest some of them be run over. the twins, insisting on going the first mile or more afoot, ran here and there until it seemed to me at times that they were under the very feet of the horses during three minutes of every four. [illustration: children in the conestoga wagon.] it was really a relief, when we had drawn out of the town so far that the more excited ones could no longer call out to say once more "good-by" or "god bless you." i ought not to have been so impatient, for many a long day was to pass before i again saw faces on which i could read expressions of good will and friendliness toward me. this first portion of our journey was quite like a merrymaking. the young women rode either side the wagon; the rouse girls walked, or sat beside their mother in the big cart, as pleased them best, and the twins, soon tiring of striving to entangle themselves with the horses' legs, were ready to come in under the shelter of the canvas. we drove only six miles, and indeed this was quite a journey for the first day, because the animals were not accustomed to traveling together and gave ben cushing no little trouble. besides, our departure had been delayed so long, owing to the townspeople, that it was nearly noon before we had left mattapoisett behind us, and the day was nearly done when we had come to the long plain, and there stopped at the home of mistress devoll's cousin. mistress devoll's outfit we had but one wagon for all our party from the time we left mattapoisett until coming to providence. mistress devoll and mistress rouse are sisters and were much together at mattapoisett after captain devoll set off for the ohio country. it was while the captain's wife was in our village that she made me the offer to pay my passage to the muskingum river by looking after her belongings. mistress devoll expected to join master rouse's company at her home in providence, where she was to have ready a wagon in which would be all her household goods that could be transported over the mountains. she was to have a team of four horses, and her brother, isaac barker, was to act as driver, while i played the part of helper. [illustration: ben cushing driving a wagon with benjamin beside him.] therefore on leaving mattapoisett i ran ahead or behind master rouse's wagon, or clambered up by the side of ben cushing when the seat next to him was not occupied, for he was a good friend of mine and could be counted on to give me a hint now and then, if i overstepped my bounds. the stay at the long plain overnight was what you might call a friendly visit for all the members of the company save ben cushing and me; but we two were not lonely, for we laid ourselves down to sleep in the wagon, after having had a bountiful meal at the home of mistress devoll's cousin, and it is safe to say that during the first night after starting for the ohio country we slept more comfortably, if not more soundly, than on any other during the journey. [illustration: ben cushing and benjamin sleeping in the wagon.] we were up at break of day, however, for the horses were to be groomed and fed, and master rouse had decided that we must travel as far as providence before nightfall. the young women who had come out from mattapoisett with us, went back some time late in the evening after cushing and i were asleep, and when breakfast had been eaten we set off once more, just as the sun was rising. it seemed as if this was really the beginning of the journey, for we were alone, plodding over the dusty road which, to look into the future, seemed as if it would have no end. at providence an hour after sunset we halted in front of mistress devoll's house. the horses were unhitched and taken to a stable, where ben and i were speedily joined by isaac barker, whom we had seen more than once in mattapoisett, and we three, while caring for the animals, discussed at great length the undertaking which lay all before us. [illustration: boys pushing the wagon up a mountain road.] a rare hand at making sport was isaac barker, and many a time after leaving providence it did seem to me that but for his quips and jokes we might have given up in despair at trying to gain this country, for the way was hard over the best of the roads we found, and there were many moments, after we got into pennsylvania, when all the members of the company were forced to lay hold of ropes tied to the tops of the carts to prevent them from oversetting. then it was that isaac's nonsense really served to hearten us. you can well fancy that when we were once among the mountains the way was exceedingly hard to travel, and again and again i have laid my shoulder against the hind end of one of the wagons, straining every muscle to help the horses on, while every other man and boy was doing the same, and doing it to the utmost of his power. we lost no time in leaving providence next morning. mistress devoll's wagon was packed and ready, and after eating a breakfast which had been prepared by some of the neighbors, we set off, i walking with the men either ahead or behind the teams, for there was not sufficient room in both wagons for all our company to ride. there are five of the devoll children: sally, twelve years old; henry, two years younger; charles, aged eight; barker, five; and francis, a baby not much more than a year old. isaac barker cracked jokes as he swung the whip over the backs of the horses; the rouse girls sang until they were hoarse; the smaller children screamed with delight because we were finally on our way to the wilderness; and everything went on as if we were still simply bent upon pleasure during this third day of the journey. on the road to blooming grove now it is not in my mind to set down an account of every day's journey while we were in what you might call civilized country, for we simply drove the horses as far as we could each day, with due care to a resting place at night, passing through farmington, litchfield, and ballsbridge, to the hudson river. of course it was necessary to cross the water, and to do this, master rouse and captain haskell hired two large boats into which we could stow the wagons as well as the horses. by the aid of both sails and oars the clumsy craft were navigated from fishkill to newburgh, where we took to the road again, traveling ten miles to a village called blooming grove. there we stopped at a tavern kept by a man named goldsmith. [illustration: benjamin cleaning horses hooves and talking to goldsmith.] there is no particular reason why i should have remembered that man's name so long, had it not been that seeing me rubbing the legs of mistress devoll's horses, on that evening, he took me kindly by the ear and said that i was a likely looking lad such as he stood in need of to help him about the tavern, proposing, if i would remain with him, to give me my board and clothes during the first year, allowing me to attend school meanwhile, at the same time promising that when such term of service had expired he would make another bargain, which should include a certain sum of money as wages. plans for the future perhaps it might have been better for me had i accepted the good man's offer, and yet there was in my mind such a desire to go out into that ohio country where even the poorest lad, if he was willing to work to the best of his ability, could make a home for himself, that i could not bring myself to think of remaining at the tavern doing chores for this farmer or that, and getting no farther ahead in the world. all of which i told him, and when i had come to an end of my talk, he replied that he could not blame me for holding to the choice i had made, and said he hoped it might be possible for me to do all that was in my mind. at the same time he assured me that if i found this part of the country different from what i had fancied, and was ready to come back into civilization, where i might have the comforts of home, i should present myself to him. [illustration: the ferryman and captain haskell.] although i have not advanced so far in the world as i had hoped might have been possible, i have not fallen in the race of life. i am no worse off than when i landed here at marietta, and have laid up for myself some few dollars, in addition to the knowledge that i am of service in the settlement; therefore i cannot regret the choice i made at blooming grove. after leaving that village we journeyed over good roads through the towns of chester and warwick, finally crossing the state line into new jersey, and coming to the town of newton. we had neither adventure nor mishap during this portion of our travels, for the roads were good, the horses inclined to move at a reasonably rapid pace, and those who would have walked from choice found themselves speedily distanced. more than once were master rouse, captain haskell, and i so far behind the wagons that the drivers believed it necessary to halt in order that we might join the company. from newton we went past sussex court house, or the log jail as it is called, through the towns of hope and oxford, to the village of easton, which is situated at the forks of the delaware river. on the water once more here we were forced to take to the water once more, in order that we might cross over into the state of pennsylvania, and because there was but one flatboat to be hired at this place, no little time was spent in making the passage. it was near nightfall when we were safely landed on the pennsylvania shore, and then came the question as to where we might spend the night. the ferryman had told captain haskell that five miles down the road was a farm owned by an old german who was disposed to care for travelers who were well-behaved and willing to pay a certain small sum for the service he rendered. we therefore hastened our pace, moving as rapidly as possible, until, half an hour after the sun had set, we came to a farm, the buildings of which would have delighted the eyes of any man who had a care for such things. [illustration: eating buckwheat cakes at the german farmer's house.] surely no one could have been more hospitable than were the old german and his wife, to say nothing of the four sons and three daughters, all of whom made us welcome and insisted that we come into their kitchen to eat supper with them, rather than make any attempt at providing our own meals, as we had been doing nearly all the time since leaving mattapoisett. feasting on honey how ben cushing and i did eat that night! the owner of the farm had given especial attention to the raising of bees and had a large store of honey on hand. the farmer's wife and daughters baked such cakes of buckwheat as i never before tasted, and these, plentifully covered with the golden honey, made up a meal which still lingers in my memory. [illustration: among the moravians in bethlehem.] we passed the night there, all the company except ben cushing, isaac barker, and me, sleeping on the floor of the kitchen and living room, where beds had been spread for their comfort. captain haskell showed how a sailor could take advantage of every inch of space, for when the women claimed that there was not room in which to make up beds for all and dispose of their clothing properly during the hours of the night, the captain turned down the chairs so that the backs of them would serve as heads for the beds, thus making pillows, and pointed out that the spaces underneath could be filled with the clothing where it might be found readily in the morning. ben, isaac, and i found snug resting places for ourselves in the sweet-smelling hay on the mow, and slept, i dare say, quite as soundly and sweetly as did those who were sheltered in the house. when morning came, that is to say, when there was the first evidence of the dawning of a new day, we three set about making ready the horses for the journey, and were no sooner come to an end of our labors than we were summoned by one of the girls to the kitchen, where, the beds having been removed from the floor, a table was spread most bountifully. among the moravians [illustration: girls coming home from school.] the next day of our journey was most entertaining, at least so it seemed to me, for we came to the town of bethlehem, which is settled almost entirely by those ardent christian men and women who are known as moravians and who have already sent out missionaries among the indians, doing no small amount of good. those moravian people were exceedingly hospitable, urging us to partake of food in their houses, insisting on feeding our horses, and allowing us to wander wheresoever we would. indeed there was much to be seen in their town, for at one of the houses was a pet bear which was most amusing, and the smaller children, as well as ben cushing and i, spent more than an hour watching the little fellow's clumsy, and at the same time comical, antics. there were also a number of pet deer wandering about the streets, and when we had fed them with clover, to our heart's content, we were delighted at seeing a large throng of little girls coming from school, dressed in what was to me a most singular fashion, although not unbecoming. [illustration: rope ferry.] they all wore short gowns with gayly-colored petticoats, which came an inch or two below the frock itself, and had small, white linen caps which caused them to look much like old ladies. prim and demure they were while marching in an orderly manner through the streets, and yet i saw more than one cast a sidelong glance toward our company of children, with a twinkle in their eyes as token that, were they so permitted, they could show us that they had in their natures quite as much love for fun as any other boy or girl. the rope ferry we stayed longer in bethlehem than we were warranted in doing, when one takes into consideration the length of the journey before us; but it was all so entertaining, so peaceful, and there was such an air of friendliness among the people, that i was sorry when we drove out of the town, hoping to find lodgings for the night at the house of a german, eight miles beyond. and so we journeyed on without adventure until we came to the lehigh river, and there i saw what i dare say no fellow in massachusetts has laid eyes upon. it was called a rope ferry, by means of which we were to cross the river. ben cushing claims that there is nothing wonderful about this ferry, for it consists simply of a rope stretched from one bank of the river to the other; to this, attached by a noose, or, in other words, a hawser which will readily slip, the ferryboat is made fast in such a manner that the stern is lower downstream than the bow, and the current catching this, forces the boat along. [illustration: buying needed item from farmers.] perhaps i haven't made this very plain to you, but it is operated on the principle of force applied to what might be called an inclined plane; therefore, since the craft cannot be shoved downstream by the current, it must be urged toward the opposite shore. at all events to me it was a great curiosity, whether ben cushing thought it so or not, and i studied the general arrangement so carefully that if we should need anything of the kind in this country, i am quite certain i could build one. the way through pennsylvania now our way lay through allentown and kutztown to reading; the roads over which we traveled were so good, and the horses so willing, that every member of our company enjoyed himself to the utmost. [illustration: german women swingling flax.] cynthia rouse and sally devoll visited back and forth from wagon to wagon during each day, their favorite seat being with the driver, where they could see what was going on and sing to their heart's content. we were treated kindly by the people, who sold us bread and butter, milk or meat, and now and then we came to a store or tavern where we could lay in additional supplies of provisions, but, as a rule, thus far we had found it possible to buy from farmers all that we might need. at night, when we were stopping at a farmhouse, and after the small children had been put to bed, the older girls would set about preparing provisions for the next day, perhaps borrowing cooking utensils, for our own were few in number and fitted rather for use on a rough fireplace out of doors than in a well-ordered kitchen. it had become the rule that isaac barker, ben cushing, and i were to sleep in the wagons during the night to guard against the possibility of evil-disposed persons. up to this time, however, we had had no trouble of the kind; but captain haskell insisted that we remain constantly on our guard, claiming that the day might come when we would fall in with people not so friendly as those who had thus far cheered us on our way. the shame of the girls on the day when we went into reading, cynthia rouse and sally devoll were on the front seat of isaac's wagon, and as they rode along the girls saw two old german women swingling, or as they called it, "scutchelling" flax. the old ladies presented a most comical appearance, and the girls laughed loudly, never thinking for a moment that they were being rude; but when the flax swinglers looked up angrily and saw the legend on our wagon cover, one of them shouted to the girls that if they were going into the ohio country, the day would soon come when they also would be swingling flax, if they did their duty. [illustration] as may be supposed, this caused the girls no little shame, for being thus reproved by their elders was not pleasant, more particularly when they knew they had been guilty of rudeness. this town of reading was the most considerable place we had seen since leaving massachusetts, and master rouse decided that we should remain there at least one day because of the number of shops where we could buy such articles as were needed, or otherwise put ourselves in readiness for the rougher journey which we knew lay before us. meeting with parson cutler it was owing to this decision that we got late and trustworthy news concerning the land where we counted on making our homes, for there we met parson cutler himself. i despair of making you understand how surprised and delighted we were at meeting the parson midway in our journey. [illustration: parson cutler in his sulky.] we all knew that during the summer he had set out in his sulky intending to drive from ipswich to marietta; but since we did not leave until october, we supposed, if indeed we gave very much heed to the matter, that master cutler must have returned long ere this. the parson appeared quite as well pleased to see us as we were to see him, and straightway commended master rouse and captain haskell upon their spirit in thus going out into the ohio country, where he assured them they would find such farming lands as had never been seen in massachusetts. in addition to this, he set mistress devoll's mind at rest regarding her husband and spent no little time explaining to her what the captain had done in the way of building the _mayflower_ and the other boats which carried the first settlers down the river. ohio cornfields among other things, he told us of the enormous fields of corn which had been planted, described to us the cabins our people had built, which were little more than low huts covered in with walnut bark, and declared that the houses and the corn seemed to grow at the same time, although the corn speedily overshadowed the small dwellings, for it grew so tall that one had to stand on tiptoes to break off an ear, while in massachusetts it was often necessary for a farmer to stoop. [illustration: ohio cornfields.] "one could as easily be lost in a cornfield on a cloudy day as in a cedar swamp," parson cutler said, and then went on to tell how much like a forest were these fields, where the green grain grew above one's head with leaves so huge as to shut out all rays of light from one furrow to another. he rather dampened the ardor of some of the women when he said that the surveyors were forced to do their work under the protection of a guard of armed men, for fear of prowling indians, and the children looked at each other in alarm as he told of one of the settlers who had been bitten, when asleep, by a copperhead snake. the governor and judges we heard also from parson cutler that general arthur st. clair had been appointed governor of the ohio district. he was a citizen of pennsylvania, had been a distinguished officer in the revolutionary army, and president of congress, in addition to which he stood high in the confidence of washington. samuel h. parsons of connecticut, and james m. varnum of massachusetts, both of whom were directors in the ohio company, and john cleves symmes of new jersey had been made judges, with winthrop sargent of new hampshire as secretary of the territory. the judges arrived at marietta in june, and on the th of july, governor st. clair joined them. he was escorted by a detachment of troops under major doughty, who had gone up to pittsburgh from fort harmar some days before to meet him, and was received with military honors and a salute. [illustration: governor greeted with rounds from fieldpiece.] one of the soldiers afterward told me that when the governor landed he was greeted with thirteen rounds from a fieldpiece. when he approached the garrison, the music played a salute, the troops paraded and presented their arms, and he was also welcomed by a clap of thunder and a heavy shower of rain as he entered the fort. it seemed to this soldier a very pleasant way of receiving the governor of a new territory. as might have been expected, parson cutler was enthusiastic in his praise of our town of marietta, and he read to us that which general washington himself had written, which was this:-- "no colony in america was ever settled under such favorable auspices as that which has just commenced at the muskingum. information, property, and strength will be its characteristics. i know many of the settlers personally, and there never were men better calculated to promote the welfare of such a community." there was little need for parson cutler to try to strengthen us in the determination to continue the journey, for none of our party were weak-kneed; but it pleased us much to know that such a man as general washington could praise so heartily those who had begun the building of marietta. the name of the town and now, lest i forget it, and since it is brought to my mind by what parson cutler said to us, let me tell you that this town came very near being named adelphia. it was the parson's idea, and he said much to us concerning it, complaining, as i thought, because it had been called marietta. the meaning of adelphia is "brethren," so he said, and he claimed that by having constantly before them the idea that they were to dwell there as brethren, the people might be more inclined to act as such. later, when he had gone, i heard master rouse and captain haskell discussing the matter, and both allowed that the good parson was really irritated because his suggestion had been cast aside, for one could readily see that master cutler had set his mind stoutly upon the name adelphia. in my opinion, however, marietta is much better. [illustration: four deer eating ripe grapes in muskingum bottom.] among other things, parson cutler told us that game was so plentiful even close about marietta, that we need have no fear of ever being hungry. he said that in the course of a walk one morning up the muskingum bottom he saw four deer, and there were ripe grapes hanging in profusion all around him. in addition to that, he found clam beds on the shores, and, what was not quite so pleasant, killed a rattlesnake that lay coiled up in his path. i don't claim to be timorous under ordinary circumstances, and am ready to stand my chances against indians or bears; but when it comes to snakes, i must say that there is a bit of cowardice in me, for a fellow can't guard himself against such enemies, and it seems to me that they, with the savages, make up the disagreeable features in all the pictures that were drawn for us of our new home. campus martius now listen to this description which parson cutler gave us of campus martius, and i have since come to know that he did not set forth its characteristics any too strongly. [illustration: campus maritius.] it is a kind of house, or castle, if you please, instead of a regular fort, made in the form of a hollow square, of which the sides measure one hundred and eighty feet, and is surrounded by a heavy line of palisades,--meaning a high log fence,--as protection against, the indians. this building contains seventy-two rooms, each eighteen feet square or more, and general putnam had told the parson that in case of necessity nine hundred people could live within its walls. surely it seems like a city of itself, when one attempts to go from end to end inside the broad passages, and sees the doors leading to rooms in which an entire family might contrive to live with more or less comfort. parson cutler was twenty-nine days driving from ipswich to marietta in his sulky, so he told us; but do not understand that such a journey may always be made in so short a time. he took advantage of the best season of the year in which to make the trip, and returned before the snow came; consequently, and because of traveling without very much baggage, and with a stout horse to draw his light sulky, he could make many more miles in a day than could such wagons as ours. independence day he told us of the fourth of july celebration, which was held in marietta on that first independence day after the settlers arrived there. they set about making a feast, and verily it must have been one. there were venison barbecues,--meaning deer roasted whole,--buffalo steaks broiled over the glowing coals, bear meat cooked in every manner that could be devised with the few cooking implements our people possessed, small pigs roasted whole, and, as the greatest delicacy of all, an enormous pike, more than six feet long, said to be the largest ever caught in the ohio river. [illustration] the feast was kept up until twelve o'clock at night, and then the tired merrymakers went to their cabins and slept until late in the forenoon, as the parson said, in such a tone as if he believed they were wasting their time by thus remaining in bed after the sun had risen. then came, according to parson cutler's story, at a later date, the opening of the first court in the territory, and it must have been a wondrous spectacle. the sheriff, who, as you know, is colonel ebenezer sproat, holding a drawn sword in his hand, marched with a military escort, ahead of the governor, the judges, the secretary, and others, to campus martius, where the court was held. [illustration] there are indians in plenty about marietta, and parson cutler said that when these savages saw colonel sproat, who as you know is an unusually tall man, they at once gave him the name of hetuck, or big buckeye, which was the same as if they had called him one of the huge trees of the forest. [illustration] master devoll's house nor was the growth of our town of marietta the only thing concerning which the good man told us, for he gladdened mistress devoll's heart by describing to her the house her husband was building, which was to be forty feet long by eighteen feet wide, and the height of two stories. best of all, there was to be a brick chimney, perhaps more than one, as soon as a kiln had been made and the bricks burned. it was to be by far the largest building, with the exception of campus martius, in the town. the indian mounds parson cutler told us during that night, when we sat around him at reading, about queer-shaped mounds of earth in various forms, which had evidently been thrown up many hundred years before, perhaps by the indians, perhaps by some race of people regarding whom we know nothing; but certain it is there were very many about marietta. in fact, campus martius was built on one of these mounds. these embankments, as they might really be called, are of various shapes, some like serpents, many, many hundred feet long and i can't say how many feet high, and of such huge proportions that they may be seen from a long distance. there is one, we were told, shaped something after the fashion of an elephant; others are formed in circles, and still others appear to have been made for fortifications. when we went to bed that night ben cushing and i talked until well past midnight concerning what these things might have been, and he announced that it was his intention to dig beneath them, believing there he would find much in the way of treasure; but when he saw the enormous embankments, he soon realized that neither one man nor twenty could make much headway digging beneath them. i heard general putnam say it was his belief these mounds had something to do with the religious ceremonies of those who had built them; that they had a certain significance in the worship of the great spirit; but as for there being treasure beneath them, he laughed at the idea. if i should set down all parson cutler told us on that night concerning the country to which we were going, i might never get further in my story, for the good man talked long and fast, describing so many things of interest, such as the trapping of turkeys, the hunting of bears, and the different methods of killing deer, that my hair would be gray before i could write it all out fairly. therefore, instead of attempting to repeat his stories, i will go on with my tale of how we journeyed from massachusetts into the ohio country. at harrisburg it was near the close of october when we arrived at the susquehanna river, at a settlement called harrisburg, and a very slovenly looking town it was, as i thought, for those who built it, only two years before, had thus far not taken the trouble to uproot the stumps of trees which still stood in the roadways and gave the entire place a wild, neglected appearance. i was told that the settlement had formerly been called louisburg, and the only reason i can think of for the change of name is that there can be found a ferry in charge of a man named harris, and before any houses were built near by it was known as harris's ferry. [illustration] we remained at this place all night, the women and children going into a log tavern to sleep, while we men and boys made our beds in the wagons, or on the hay in the stable, as best pleased us. because of not caring to spend so much money as would be necessary to buy a supper for all our company, only the women and small children partook of the tavern fare, the older girls, the men, and we boys eating our meals in the tavern yard, after having cooked them in the tavern kitchen. the next day's journey was only thirteen miles, and then we arrived at carlisle, which was a military station during our war for independence, and where were yet to be found barracks made of bricks, like regular houses. there were two or three shops, and a number of good dwellings, better than one would expect to find even in a town that had been settled so long. because we had not been fed overabundantly since leaving that farmhouse where we feasted on buckwheat cakes, master rouse decided that we should all have dinner at the tavern, and a bountiful meal it was, although not quite so satisfactory to me as i could have wished, because of the fact that just then isaac barker took it into his head to play what he considered a funny trick. isaac barker's sport when a huge platter of meat was being brought on the table, and we were all looking at it with most pleasant anticipations, for it appeared to have been cooked to a turn, isaac seized the dish in both hands, ran out of the room as if intending to eat it all himself, and the older girls followed him, racing around and around the building with shouts of mirth, while the tavern keeper and his wife looked on in amazement, until isaac tired of running. then he replaced the meat on the table; but by this time it had grown cold, and instead of having hot venison steak, we were forced to eat lukewarm meat, and it is not needed that i should say anything concerning the disagreeable flavor of deer flesh when it has been kept too long from the fire. [illustration] there are times when one really wearies of isaac's sport, and, as ben cushing said when we drove away from carlisle, a little fun now and then is relished by the saddest of men; but when one keeps it up from morning until night, and again from night until morning, it grows wearisome. uncle daniel carter when we left carlisle it was to journey to a settlement called big springs, where, much to our surprise and delight, we came upon uncle daniel carter with his three yoke of oxen hitched to a conestoga wagon, and having as a load all uncle daniel's household goods as well as his family. [illustration] uncle daniel was an old acquaintance of ours, for he lived but a few miles from mattapoisett and had started for ohio some two weeks before we left home. there had been no expectation in our minds that we should meet him on the journey, for it was believed that, moving as slowly as he must with his ox team, he, if not his wife, would grow weary of attempting to gain the ohio country, and turn off at some inviting-looking point long before having arrived thus far in pennsylvania. but the old man was not made of such stuff; he had set out to join rufus putnam's company at marietta, and declared that he would continue on if it took a year to make the trip. what a meeting that was with the old man and his family! it was like coming upon mattapoisett suddenly. i had never before realized how much affection one may unwittingly have for his neighbors, until we saw uncle daniel outside the log hut where he had stopped for the night, watching us with an odd expression on his face as if doubting whether we should recognize him. uncle daniel joins our company mistress carter insisted that she and her two daughters prepare the evening meal for all our company, and it seemed much as if we were doing her the greatest favor, when we consented joyfully to share what we had every reason to believe was a goodly portion of uncle daniel's scanty store of food. [illustration] when the meal was ended, isaac and ben cushing built a lively fire outside the hut, for the night was chilly, and with the children wrapped in their warmest garments, all of us sat, or stretched out at full length, around the cheering blaze, listening to uncle daniel's story of his journey, or telling him of that which had happened to us since we left home. before we crawled into the wagons that night it was decided, and without any controversy, that uncle daniel should join our company, the only question being as to whether the horses would not travel so much faster than his oxen that we could not well keep together. the old man put an end to any speculation of that kind, however, by declaring that when night came we should find him not far behind us, and he laid plans for the journey of future days, by saying that we were to give no heed whatsoever to him in the morning; he would feed his cattle and be off, most-like before break of day. "i'll be on hand when it's time for supper, an' don't make any mistake about that part of it," he said cheerily. "i'm willin' to agree that my creeters can't walk as fast as your horses; but they can keep it up a good while longer, an' you'll find it's the slow an' steady that comes out ahead in the long run. so look for your uncle daniel before sunset, an' if he fails to show up, then you can set it down as a fact that his wagon has gone to smash, or the oxen have turned tail for massachusetts." hard traveling next morning ben cushing would have it that we had come upon bad luck in meeting uncle daniel, for at daybreak the rain came down in torrents, and speedily the roads, which were none of the best even in dry weather, became like quagmires. before we were well on our way the wheels of the heavy wagons sank deep in the mud; the women were forced to remain under the covers or withstand the pelting of the rain, and we men, who walked alongside in order to help the horses with their loads, were speedily drenched to the skin. [illustration] mistress devoll would have insisted that we turn back and remain at the log shanty until the rain ceased; but both captain haskell and master rouse put an end to any such proposition by saying that now had come the season when we might rightly expect storms, and if we were to delay our journey save at such times as the weather was fair, winter would overtake us among the mountains where we might find it impossible either to go ahead or to retreat. therefore we plodded on, and instead of overtaking uncle daniel, as ben cushing had predicted we should, before noon, we saw nothing of him until night came. then there was no bad luck in having a cheery blaze in the fireplace of a log tavern, and every arrangement possible made for our comfort, to all of which the old man had attended before looking after his own comfort. mud and water it seemed to me as if the rain fell incessantly, and you can fancy what the roads were after eight and forty hours had elapsed. in massachusetts we would have said that they were impassable at the best, and now they had been converted into veritable swamps by the downpour of water, or filled in places with blocks of sandstone over which the wagons could not cross save we all put our shoulders to the hinder part helping the horses along, unless we stopped to clear away the obstacles. [illustration] again the ascents were so steep that the horses from both wagons must be hitched to one in order to get it up the hill, and when we came to the other side it was necessary to put locked chains on the wheels, and, in addition, fasten large logs or tree tops to the back of the vehicles that they might drag behind and thus prevent us from going ahead too swiftly. and all this was done in a heavy downpour of rain, when the women and girls must of necessity remain under cover, except at such times as it was absolutely necessary for them to alight in order to lessen the load. as if to add to our discomfort, two of the animals began to show signs of faltering, and ben cushing told me confidentially one night when we were halted in the foothills, with no shelter save the body of the wagon, and doing our utmost to keep a fire burning amid the rain, that it was his belief we should not succeed in gaining the river before the poor beasts were entirely worn out. the way lay over a succession of sharp rises and yet sharper descents, with the road in places falling off so much to one side that we were obliged to fasten ropes to the tops of the wagons, and all of us men lay hold, to prevent them from oversetting. such work as this might be necessary more than once in half a mile, we all the while wading knee-deep in the mire, and at times finding it difficult to raise our feet because of the mud. a storm of snow then came the time when the rain changed to snow, and you can well fancy that if the road was well-nigh impassable before, it was soon in such a condition that one might say it would be impossible to go farther. even the children were forced to get out and walk again and again, and i have seen mistress devoll and mistress rouse stop many a time to pick up their shoes which had been pulled from their feet by the clinging mud. fancy such traveling while the snow came down like feathers, weighting every branch of the trees and every bush until they stood far out over the narrow roadway, shedding their frosty burdens upon the passer-by! it seemed to me that i could see the horses grow weaker with each mile we advanced, and when night came, after we had traveled no more than six or eight miles at the expense of the most severe labor, it was as much as we could do to keep them on their feet until the harness was removed. [illustration] this was the time when uncle daniel had the advantage of us, for his oxen plowed their way through the mire, giving apparently no more heed to the weight of the wagon than if it had been a child's toy cart, and again and again did the old man unyoke the patient beasts in order to bring them back, at times more than half a mile over a hard road, to help one or the other of our wagons out of the mud, when, but for his assistance, they might have stayed there until the crack of doom, so deeply were the wheels embedded. [illustration] i can look back upon many days we spent while journeying from massachusetts to the ohio country with the greatest pleasure; but never do i think of the time passed among the foothills, when the weather was so bitter and the way so hard, without real mental distress, for that journey, during at least eight days, was more like some horrible nightmare than a reality. across the mountains if i were to make any attempt at describing our passage across the blue mountains, the middle and the tuscarora mountains, it would simply be to repeat what i have already set down. never once did we find a bit of the road where there was easy traveling, and it seemed to me that either the rain or the snow fell incessantly, until, wearied to the verge of exhaustion by day, we were forced to remain half frozen and wet to the skin from night until morning. the women and children, if we camped at night where there were no houses in which to take shelter, slept in the wagons, while the men and boys made shift as best they might beneath the carts, getting such warmth as could be had under the few blankets at their disposal and the fires built close by, which were not of much avail because we could find no dry fuel with which to feed them. [illustration] then came a day which i remember more vividly than any other of all that long journey, when we descended the last of the tuscarora range, and came to a fruitful valley, which we afterward learned was called ahwick, where was a small settlement, while here and there, when we were on the higher land, could be seen farms which one might almost say were ready for planting, despite the snow that yet lay deep among the hills. master rouse's wagon was leading the way and uncle daniel with his plodding oxen brought up the rear. it was saturday night; we expected to remain at least two days, at the first place where we might sleep in comfort, and it was necessary we find housing for all, which might not be possible at the small log tavern we had heard would be found on the road a short distance away. a friendly dunkard therefore our party came to a halt at the first promising-looking house, and master rouse set about learning what we might expect in the way of entertainment. the farm was owned by a german named christian hiples, who was of that religious persuasion known as dunkard, and a right friendly gentleman he proved to be. it really appeared to give him pain because he could not take all our company in and give us the comforts of home; but it seemed to me that he was doing even more than his share when he agreed that master rouse and the members of his party should remain there, while the others of us continued on to the tavern. i regretted sorely that it was not my good fortune to be one of master hiples's guests, for i had heard much concerning these people who call themselves dunkards, during our traveling through the state, and was most eager to see them at home. [illustration] captain haskell had told me that the dunkards were baptists who had been driven from germany early in the eighteenth century, when they took refuge in pennsylvania. so far as i could find out, their religion consists in condemning warfare, and setting their faces against suits at law. they have a peculiar belief regarding baptism, which captain haskell said has to do with triple immersion. they wash each others' feet before the lord's supper, and give to all members of their faith what is called the kiss of charity. it is in their eyes almost the same as a sin to dress other than plainly and cleanly, and from what i saw of master hiples's house during the short time we halted in front of it, i came to believe that cleanliness of home and its surroundings is one of the articles of their belief, for i had not seen so pleasing a place since we came out of massachusetts. when master rouse's family were thus comfortably housed, mistress devoll's team, with uncle daniel's oxen plodding patiently behind, continued on to a log tavern a short distance away, and the contrast between this place and that where master rouse's people were staying was so great that for the first time since leaving mattapoisett, i was nearly homesick. master hiples's kindness we had comfortable quarters, if one judges comfort by being sheltered from the rain and having sufficient heat; but it was far from pleasant at the inn, and as soon as the horses had been properly cared for, i, despite the fact that my legs were weary with long traveling, ran back down the road to gaze with envy on master rouse and his family. the old german was a kindly-faced man, with a long, white beard extending to his waist, and a voice as mild and gentle as any woman's. he had five or six grown daughters, and when i got back to the farm these young women were doing all they might for the comfort of the guests, without hope or expectation of being paid for the labor. [illustration] there was, just outside the house, a huge brick oven in the open air, and these young women, aided by their father, were already heating it as if for a cooking bee. sally devoll told me it was their intention to bake a large quantity of bread to be given to us when we set off once more on our journey. therefore i came to have a friendly liking for these dunkards, and before we left ahwick valley i was fully persuaded they were what might truthfully be called the salt of the earth. a surly landlord when i got back to the log tavern there was considerable going on in the way of excitement. the landlord, who had but one eye, having lost the other, so we heard, during a fight when he was a younger man, was anything but gentle in manners, and his appearance was such that one felt as if the lightest word would provoke harsh treatment. now it so chanced that the racks in his stable had been built by nailing slats up and down at the end of the stalls, and into the places thus formed the hay was thrown from the loft. isaac barker and ben cushing were both very careful to see that their teams were well fed, and more particularly was it necessary now since we had with us two horses that were ailing. when the animals were put into the stalls, after having been groomed and their coats dried, isaac found that while the innkeeper intended to charge us for a certain amount of hay, the slats at the end of the stalls were placed so closely together that the poor beasts could not get a single wisp, struggle as they might. without delay he went to the landlord and told him that some different arrangement must be made in regard to the racks, if our company was expected to pay for hay. the innkeeper declared that he would conduct his tavern as best pleased him; the hayracks had been built by him, and built to suit him, therefore they would remain as they were. if our horses and oxen were stabled there, then would we pay so much money for each head on account of hay, whether they got it or not, the surly man claiming it was no fault of his if the animals were unable to get what was before them. you can well fancy that isaac's temper was aroused by this injustice, and straightway he told the man what he thought of such dealing, claiming that unless the landlord himself was willing to remedy matters at once, he would take the affair into his own hands. isaac flogs the landlord the landlord threatened, so uncle daniel said, to punish severely whoever dared to damage his property, and i arrived just at the time when isaac, with a heavy ax, was breaking out every other slat in the racks, thereby giving the beasts ample opportunity to feed, the innkeeper meanwhile standing outside as if it was his purpose to lay hands on isaac the moment he left the stable. as we afterwards learned, the man had been considered, in his younger days, a skillful fighter, and most likely believed there were few who could stand against him, so he had no doubt about his ability to punish isaac. i had never heard that isaac was noted for skill with his fists, and believed he was likely to suffer severely, if the landlord should attack him. i therefore entreated uncle daniel to stand by with me in order to lend assistance, for i was not minded that one of our company come to grief at that place. [illustration] uncle daniel grimly said that isaac barker could take care of himself, and that he was not fond of interfering, unless it was absolutely necessary in order to save life. therefore, instead of appearing concerned, uncle daniel quietly took up his station near the door of the stable, where he stood whittling a bit of pine stick, while the innkeeper raged furiously, and isaac continued to break out the slats until he had completed the task. then he came out of the last stall where he had been working, threw the ax on the floor without very much regard as to how it might fall, and began in a businesslike way to roll up his sleeves, keeping an eye meanwhile on the movements of the landlord. the two came together while i was waiting to see how they might begin the battle, and in a twinkling, as it seemed to me, both were rolling here and there about the stable floor, but in such a manner that one with half an eye could see isaac was by no means getting the worst of it. a much needed lesson as a matter of fact he flogged that miserly innkeeper severely, never letting up until the fellow cried that he had had enough; then isaac said that he counted to be back that way in the spring, and if the slats in the hayracks had been replaced, he would give him another flogging compared with which this one would seem like child's play. [illustration] i confess that i was frightened even after isaac had acquitted himself in such a manly fashion, for i believed the landlord would contrive in some way to make the remainder of our party suffer for what had been done; but, strange as it may seem, he was as mild as one could desire, and instead of moving about in a surly fashion, finding fault with everything, as he had done when we first arrived, the fellow seemed striving earnestly to do all he might for our welfare, whereupon uncle daniel grimly observed that "all he needed in order to make him a decent kind of a man was a sound flogging every morning." [illustration] i would not recommend this method of insuring good treatment from landlords in general; but i must say i was sorry isaac had not been sufficiently provoked some time before, that he might have tried the same treatment upon some of those innkeepers who had been so surly to us. in fact we met more than one so-called landlord during our journey across the state of pennsylvania, by the side of whom one of uncle daniel's oxen would have appeared gentlemanly. on sunday, all of us, even including isaac barker, went to meeting with master hiples's family, and not only were repaid by hearing a goodly discourse, but received an invitation to take supper with the good dunkard's family. a time of rest the meal was an enjoyable one, although i fear, as i told ben cushing, that he and i came very near disgracing, not only ourselves, but all our companions, by eating more than was seemly. it was the most pleasant sunday we had spent since leaving mattapoisett, and a day that seemed more fitting for goodly thoughts than any other i could remember. as uncle daniel said when we stretched ourselves out to sleep on the floor of the stable, the two rooms in the tavern having been given up to the women and children, it had been a very profitable time. monday also was a profitable day, for then master hiples's daughters worked with a will, making bread in such quantities that one might have thought they counted on provisioning an army, and all our women folks did what they could to assist, while we boys and men cut and lugged fuel, so that we might not draw too heavily upon the old german's store of wood. that night, when it was known we were to set off next day, master hiples laid out a large supply of vegetables for all our company, and this was a gift, in addition to the bread, since he refused to take payment therefor, asking only as much in the way of money as would suffice to pay for the grain and the hay eaten by master rouse's horses. thanks to this friendly german, we were well supplied with food when we left ahwick valley, tuesday morning, and flattered ourselves with the belief that the greater portion of the hardships were passed, for the ailing horses seemed to be much improved, and traveled with no little spirit, thus causing us to believe they were rapidly recovering from their sickness. during three days we journeyed over roads that were far from good, save by comparison with those we found while crossing the mountains, and then we came to the town of bedford. we had in the meanwhile crossed sideling hill, and forded some of the main branches of the juniata, not without considerable difficulty and the assistance of uncle daniel's oxen, for the fords were deep, and in some cases the bed of the river so soft that had a wagon remained still ever so short a time, it would surely have been mired. pack trains during the last three days we had seen evidences that in this wild country there was being carried on business of various kinds, for after leaving ahwick valley we met here and there on the road long lines of pack horses, loaded with furs and ginsing, a root somewhat like a potato, except that it has branches or roots shooting out from the upper part, and is sent by our merchants to china, where it is considered very valuable as a medicine. there were other pack horses loaded with salt, or bales of dry goods and groceries, which were being carried to the traders of pittsburgh. [illustration] these pack trains, as uncle daniel called them, were very interesting. the foremost horse wore bells, and it was he, rather than the driver, who had charge of the beasts, and who did the guiding, for he went on as intelligently as could a human being, the remainder of the train, usually nine or ten horses, following him obediently. because there were no roads across the state of pennsylvania from carlisle to pittsburgh over which heavily loaded wagons could pass, we were told that all the traffic was carried on by pack horses, and it was considered that one man could care for no more than ten animals. one night, when we were told by the landlord of a small tavern about these pack trains, uncle daniel said that we had best put aside from our minds all thought of buying anything at pittsburgh, for if all the goods were carried there on horseback, then the charges must be so heavy that ordinary people could not afford to pay that which the merchants would demand. a night adventure on the day of leaving bedford we had our most disagreeable adventure. about four miles beyond that town the road divided, one trail leading directly to pittsburgh, and the other to sumrill's ferry on the youghiogheny river, which last was the path we must take, because it was the place where the _mayflower_ had been built, and there we proposed to take boat for marietta in order to avoid the wearisome traveling on foot. [illustration] the women and children had been walking for some time, owing to the miry road, and on coming to this place they decided to remain there awhile in order to rest. it so chanced that isaac barker took it into his head to loiter with them, leaving captain haskell to drive his team. master rouse also stayed behind, for no reason that any one could give; thus we went on without them, never doubting but that within an hour they would overtake us, for according to the rate we had been traveling, those who were on foot could speedily come up with our jaded horses who were having all they could do to pull the wagons. uncle daniel had on this day, as during the last two or three days, outstripped us with his slowly moving oxen, because they continued on steadily, being so strong that the wagon, which was loaded as heavily as either of ours, was not mired. the hours passed, and we still remained in advance, with no sign of the coming of the women and children, yet nothing strange was thought of it at the time, and when i spoke of the matter to ben cushing as if it might be serious, he laughed at me, declaring that a foot passenger could make his way without difficulty. about half an hour before sunset we came to a small log hut which was called an inn by the man who owned it. it had but one room, which served alike as kitchen, barroom and a place in which to sleep; but there was shelter for the tired beasts in the stable, and a huge fireplace wherein we might pile fuel to our heart's content. we were therefore not disposed to find fault. we toasted ourselves well before the fire, wondering meanwhile how soon we might be able to satisfy our hunger; for we could not have supper until the women came to cook it, this inn being only a housing place. fears about the women and children one hour passed, and even captain haskell began to show signs of anxiety. another sixty minutes went by without bringing our companions; but after a third hour, captain haskell declared that some misadventure must have befallen them, and set off over the road we had just traveled, refusing to allow any of us to accompany him. [illustration] it was nearly midnight before the captain and the other members of our party arrived. the poor children could hardly drag one foot after the other, and the women looked as if nothing save the fear of remaining in the open air during the hours of darkness had forced them to continue the journey. while ben cushing and i were cooking supper, for the girls and the women were far too weary to do any work at the time, we learned that the party had halted at the dividing of the ways much longer than they realized, and it was nearly nightfall before the journey was continued. then, when the sun had set, it was impossible for them to make their way along the faintly outlined road, save by clutching the bushes on either side, and even then they strayed again and again into the thicket, until, what with this additional traveling and the exertion of plowing their way through the mire, all save isaac barker were plunged into a most gloomy, disagreeable frame of mind. [illustration] mistress devoll declared that but for him who made sport when the difficulties were the worst, and sang loudly when the others of the company were too thoroughly exhausted even to speak, they could not have continued. one can well fancy how welcome to them was the fire in the log tavern. the smaller children stretched themselves out at full length on the puncheon floor in front of the blaze, while their mothers and sisters gave no heed to anything save the delicious sensation of being able to rest, enjoying to the utmost, i dare say, the feeling of security which came to them on arriving at that inn. descending the mountains despite the fact that none of our company had had sufficient sleep, we continued our journey as soon after daybreak as we could, and it was during this day that our hearts were cheered by what might seem to some people a foolish thing. [illustration] on either side of the road could be seen the little green leaves and bright scarlet berries of the partridge vine, or checkerberry plant, such as we all had seen each year roundabout mattapoisett, and it had such a homelike appearance that it was as if we had suddenly come upon a friend. the small children loitered behind the wagons to pick the tiny red berries, while the girls chewed the aromatic leaves, and more than one of the men followed their example, for it was like being in massachusetts again after a long disagreeable dream. the log inn at which we had slept the night previous was evidently built on what is generally called the "height of the land," for now we were descending the allegheny mountains, cheered by the fact that the streams of water from the springs ran with us along our road, telling that we had come to where the greater portion of the remainder of the journey would be on descending ground. these streams were to accompany us on our way now, instead of running in the opposite direction as during all the time we had been among the foothills. at the foot of the hills when we had come to the base of the mountains we found ourselves on a broad, level range, which was called "the glades." captain haskell said it had very much the appearance of a prairie. if this be true, which i have no reason to doubt, then i have no desire to see a prairie; for the glades was a most forlorn place, being but sparsely dotted with trees and covered with a coarse grass, at which even the oxen turned up their noses. then, having slept in the open two nights, we came to laurel ridge, which bounds the western side of the glades, and must have been so named because of the laurel which grows in such profusion on the rocky cliffs. now we were forced to climb once more over a road quite as rough as any we had come upon, and again all the women and the children were forced to walk, much to their discomfort, for on this ridge the snow had fallen in large quantities. every one was soon wet to the knees, and plodding through the snow and mud rendered walking quite as difficult as any we had yet experienced. [illustration] on this day the women and children, remembering what had occurred just after we left bedford, went on ahead of the wagons. when the afternoon was about half spent they came upon a stream of water at the western foot of the ridge, which was far too deep for them to ford, therefore they were obliged to wait until we came up. luckily for them, however, there was a small log house near by the road in which dwelt a motherly-looking irish woman, and with her our people visited, much to their pleasure and comfort, until we arrived. because of the difficulties in the way, the wagons did not come to the stream until nearly nightfall; but then the passage was quickly made, and we hurried on two miles farther, to where was an inn, said to be as good as any other to be found between sumrill's ferry and carlisle. nearing the end of the journey next day we crossed chestnut ridge, the last of the hills, and so named because of the wondrous growth of chestnut trees which just then were yielding up their fruit to the nipping frost. our children and girls filled their pockets with the nuts, while more than once all three of the wagons were halted that we might lay in a store of what would, on a pinch, serve as food. we had climbed mountain after mountain, crossed ridge after ridge, until it seemed as if all the earth was a succession of ascents and descents; we had waded knee-deep through mire or snow, and literally fought our way along all that weary distance from mattapoisett to the youghiogheny river, until we had come to sumrill's ferry, where it was believed we could make arrangements for a more comfortable continuation of the long journey. [illustration] well it was that we arrived at this time, which was near the last of november, with winter close at hand, for the two horses which had been ailing now seemingly grew worse, and during the eight and forty hours before our arrival at the ferry, they were hardly more than able to keep their feet, let alone doing any portion of the pulling. i believe that a few days more of traveling would have killed them, and indeed they were hardly more than dead beasts when we took them out of the harness at the ferry, congratulating ourselves upon having come thus far on our journey without mishap. at sumrill's ferry here we learned of those people who went out from danvers and hartford. we saw where they built the _mayflower_, and, in fact, we lodged at the very inn where some of them had lived while making ready for the journey down the river. sumrill's ferry is not a large settlement, but a thriving one. here were boat builders, ready to make any kind of craft needed. to hear them talk of what they believed must have been our experiences during the journey, one would have said they looked upon us as more than foolish to have ventured so much in order to make a settlement in the wild ohio country. before we had been at this settlement an hour, uncle daniel came upon benjamin slocomb and his family, who had left danvers nearly four weeks before we started from mattapoisett. master slocomb had waited at the ferry nine days until a boat could be finished in a manner to please him, and was on the point of setting off when uncle daniel saw him. parting with uncle daniel master slocomb's craft was not so well loaded but that he could, without inconvenience, take on board uncle daniel's wagon with all its belongings, except the oxen, so he urged the old man to finish the journey with him, the two having been friends for many a long year. the result was that uncle daniel parted company with us before nightfall, leaving his oxen to our care, but taking everything else he owned. [illustration] "i'll have a farm picked out for you folks, an' made ready to plow," the old man cried cheerily, as master slocomb's clumsy craft was poled out into the current. all our company stood on the river's bank watching the departure, and really sorry to part with our fellow traveler, who had always shown himself willing to lend a hand when it was needed, without regard to the labor. we called after him until he was beyond earshot, isaac barker cracking jokes as usual, and then we set about making arrangements for our own journey down the river. our flatboat there were several boats already built and for sale, and master rouse and captain haskell decided upon one which was not yet finished, so far as the accommodations for passengers were concerned, since it had no roof. it was by far the best craft, to my thinking, of all we saw there. it was about forty feet long and twelve feet wide, of ample size and depth to carry all our wagons, as well as our people, to say nothing of as much space as would be required in which to house not only our horses, but uncle daniel's oxen. it was not our purpose to take the beasts in the boat at that time, but rather to send them across the land to a settlement called buffalo, at the mouth of buffalo creek, fifty-three miles from the ferry, whereas the distance was considerably more than a hundred miles by the waterway. this was to be done not simply because we wanted to avoid the labor of caring for them, but because the youghiogheny river was so shallow at that season of the year that a boat drawing more than eighteen or twenty inches of water could not float upon it. the craft which captain haskell and master rouse had bought would draw, perhaps, seventeen inches with all our belongings, save the horses and oxen, on board, therefore we would send them across the country in charge of michael rouse, isaac barker, and ben cushing, counting to take them up when we came to buffalo creek, for there the river was deeper, the current swifter, and we should have no difficulty in carrying them. a great time we had of it, packing our goods into the boat in a way to economize every inch of space, and when this had been done, and we learned how much of the craft could be given over to our own use, we set about making arrangements for comfort, first by covering the stern of the boat with mud to the depth of ten or twelve inches, and then building around it a fireplace of stone, where the cooking could be done without danger of setting fire to the timbers. the cattle are sent away with blankets and sheets we made a covering for the after part of our ark, so that the women and children would be kept dry in case of a storm. when all this had been done, and we had bought as much in the way of provisions as could be purchased at a reasonable price, isaac, michael, and ben set off with the beasts. [illustration] it gave me a homesick feeling to see them march away; we had been together so long and had gone through so many hardships. within half an hour after the horses and oxen, with their drivers, had disappeared, we pushed off from the shore, and very strange did it seem to be carried along by the current, instead of fighting one's way through mud. i said to myself that now it was the same as coming to the end of our journey, for we had simply to sit still and let the river do the work. [illustration] this, however, i soon understood was a mistake, for although we were not forced to trudge through mud and snow, there was ample work for men and boys in holding the clumsy craft out from the shore where she was like to go aground, or again, in leaping overboard and actually lifting her off some shoal on which she had grounded, as it seemed to me, in a very spirit of perverseness. it is true that we were forced to work quite as hard in navigating the boat as when we plodded over the miry road, and yet there was this advantage, we were able to eat our meals at regular times. what with rowing and poling, and now and then leaping waist deep into the water to shove her from the shoals, we contrived, after a considerable time, to get as far as the monongahela river, where the water was deeper and the current swifter, permitting us to get some rest now and then, and for the first time since leaving mattapoisett did this journey begin to seem pleasing. it was sunday evening when we arrived at pittsburgh, making our clumsy craft fast to a stake on the shore at the junction of the allegheny and monongahela rivers, with the ohio in full view. at pittsburgh the town of pittsburgh, the largest we had seen since coming into the state of pennsylvania, appeared to me a most prosperous settlement. there was the fort called pitt, and half a dozen shops, in addition to the houses which i was told sheltered about five hundred people. therefore you can understand that it was indeed a place of considerable consequence. it was not so late in the day but that master rouse and captain haskell went up into the town, after our boat had been made fast to the stake as i have said, in order to attend to some business, for on the frontier one does not observe so religiously the sabbath as at home, and travelers who must continue their journey with as little delay as possible, are allowed to make necessary purchases even on sunday. [illustration] when the two men went on shore there was nothing said as to how soon they might come back; but we supposed both would return as soon as their business was done. therefore the girls at once set about cooking supper; but when the meal was ready our gentlemen were not returned, and we waited for them until the corn cake was nearly cold, while the fish which we had caught during the day were much the worse for having remained from the fire so long. about nine o'clock mistress rouse and mistress devoll decided that the younger children must be fed, in order that they might be put to bed at a reasonable hour, and therefore we ate the meal without waiting longer. well it was that we did so, if we counted on satisfying our hunger that day, for two hours later the men were yet absent, and then mistress devoll told me we should make our preparations for the night. now you know that this was no small task. the beds and bedding were stowed in the wagons during the day, and when night came, all must be taken out and spread upon the bottom of the boat for the women and children, while the boys--and of course i was numbered among them--slept in one of the wagons. on this night, however, because captain haskell and master rouse had not returned, mistress rouse believed that i should make my bed at the end of the boat near the fireplace, where i could stand guard, or, in other words, where i might be ready to do whatsoever would be needed during the hours of darkness. too much water i congratulated myself not a little that i was to sleep upon a very comfortable sack of feathers, which had thus far served captain haskell. without giving very much heed to the fact that the men yet remained in town when there was every reason why they should have come back to the boat, i laid myself down, and was speedily lost in slumber, for the work during the day had been severe, and i was needing rest sorely. i may have slept two or three hours, certainly as long as that, when suddenly i was awakened by a sense of discomfort, and, turning over, was brought to my feet very quickly by discovering that the water had come in even over the top of my bed. [illustration] i cried out, not from fear, but rather from surprise, and on the instant the women, as well as the older girls, being awakened, started aft to learn what might be the matter, when they plunged nearly to their knees in water. straightway the outcry was great, for they, as well as i, believed that the boat was sinking beneath us. strangely enough, the women seemed to consider that i was able to play the part of a man at such a time, and mistress devoll asked in a tone of fear what ought to be done. during an instant i stood undecided, hardly having my wits about me, and then, still believing the clumsy craft was going to the bottom, i urged that we get on shore as speedily as possible. escape of the women and children [illustration] fortunately for us the boat had been moored with a short hawser, in such a manner that when captain haskell and master rouse left us they could readily leap from the gunwale to the land, and after the women were gathered on the shoreward side of the boat, instead of being obliged to jump, i found that they might readily step over the rail without wetting their feet in water, although they sank above the tops of their shoes in mud. [illustration] once they had what might be called a firm footing, i passed the younger children over, and while doing so the twins made a great outcry, whereupon mistress devoll and mistress rouse commanded them to remain quiet. our cries and shouts awakened a man who proved to be of great assistance. his house stood on the shore near where our boat was moored, and he came to the door quickly, calling out to know what was the matter, whereupon i told him our boat was sinking and that some half-drowned women and children were shivering on the shore. all of us were soaked to the skin, for we had floundered about in the water when first awakened, and the man cried out that we should remain where we were until he could light a lantern and come to our assistance, which he did in a very short space of time. then, without waiting to learn what might be happening to the boat, he insisted that all should go to his house, which was hardly more than a hundred paces away, and once there he built a big fire in the fireplace, after which he proposed that we older boys go with him to look after the craft, while the women and children dried their clothing. repairing damages when we came to the boat again it was seen that there would have been no danger of her sinking, even though we remained aboard all night. it seems that the river had fallen after we made fast to the shore, and the landward side of the boat rested on the river bank as the waters receded, thus allowing the outer portion of the craft to settle in the stream until the water ran through the seams in the planking about the gunwale, for they were badly calked, having been hurriedly finished by the builders at sumrill's ferry while we were putting our goods on board. there was no possibility of our shoving the huge boat into deeper water, therefore the kindly stranger awakened some of his neighbors, who, with such small aid as i could give, set about taking out the bedding and the clothing which had been wetted completely, carrying the stuff up to the house that it might be dried, and this work served to keep us busy until sunrise, when master rouse and captain haskell came down to the shore. they had been busy with some people who intended to go to marietta, and were so eager to make certain business arrangements that it seemed best to sleep at the tavern, rather than return at a late hour to the flatboat, and one can readily imagine their surprise at finding us with a good third of our cargo on shore. [illustration] the kind man who had labored nearly all night in our behalf lived alone in a large log hut, and insisted on preparing breakfast for all our company, not even allowing the girls to do their share of the work, thereby showing himself to be a skillful cook as well as a friendly neighbor. when master rouse would have paid him for his labor, as well as for the food which he had provided, the man refused to take a penny, claiming that he had done only as he would be done by, and therefore i still have a kind feeling in my heart for pittsburgh. master rouse, captain haskell, and i soon had the water bailed out of the flatboat and the bedding, now dried, on board; before the afternoon was more than half spent, we were ready to set out on the last stage of our long journey. our pilot we had, however, a new member of the company, an old trapper and hunter by the name of bruce. our gentlemen had met him at the tavern, and learned that he was familiar with the river, knowing all the shoals, or at least claiming that he did, and i have no reason to doubt his statement in view of what occurred before we arrived at marietta. [illustration] he had intended to travel in his canoe, which was neither more nor less than a dugout, by which i mean the trunk of a tree hollowed out to make a shell-like craft which would carry a very heavy load. it required delicate handling because of its liability to overset in case any of the cargo was suddenly shifted. in fact, the old hunter laughingly said that if he shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other the canoe would heel. he had with him flour, half a dozen or more sides of bacon, a number of beaver traps, his camp kettle and equipage, not to speak of his rifle, blankets, and ammunition sufficient to last him during the winter season, while he was in the wilderness far from any other human being. [illustration] his canoe was lashed alongside the flatboat and he stood at the huge steering oar which swung from the stern, or rather from that end of the craft which we chose to call the stern, for, it being square at both ends, we might as well have called one the bow as the other. a change of weather it was about three o'clock when we started. the sky was overcast, and there were signs of rain in the south, while the wind shifted here and there until almost any one might have proved himself a weather prophet by predicting a storm. within an hour of sunset the wind swung around to the northwest and blew fiercely across the bend of the river where we then were, kicking up such a sea as to send the crests of the waves over the side of the boat, threatening to sink, if not overset, the unwieldy craft. we men and boys worked at the oars to the best of our ability, striving to force the clumsy vessel toward the pennsylvania shore, for the opposite bank, or what was called the indian side, was said to be infested with savages who, even though they were supposed to be at peace with white people, robbed flatboats and killed travelers at every favorable opportunity. master bruce's huge canoe pounded and thumped against the side of the boat until it seemed certain she would stave in the planks, and finally, regardless of the fact that all his property was on board, the old hunter cut her adrift. then, while we rode more easily, the danger was lessened but little, for the wind increased in force, and the waves grew higher, until all of us boys were forced to work at bailing in order to keep the water from rising so high as to soak our goods. i had not realized that there was any actual danger until i heard the old hunter say to captain haskell that we must take our chances of being attacked by the indians, because it was impossible to force the flatboat over to the pennsylvania shore, therefore we ought to make harbor wherever we could. noisy fear up to this time the women and the girls had remained reasonably quiet, apparently too much frightened to make any sound; but overhearing what master bruce said regarding the necessity of our taking shelter on the indian shore, they set up a great outcry. captain haskell and master rouse, although they were needed at the oars, could do no less than go amidships where the shrieking ones were gathered, and literally force them to hold their peace, for it was most distracting to hear the noise while we had as much as we could do to work the craft. the old hunter showed that he knew much regarding the handling of such a boat as we were then aboard; for in a short time, by skillful pulling at the plank that served as rudder, aided by those of us who tugged at the oars, she was brought under a high bluff, on the indian side of the river, and there made fast by a hawser to trees growing near the water's edge. we were no sooner moored than mistress devoll sprang over the side of the boat to the land, declaring that while the storm raged as it did then she would not trust herself on board even though the indians might be near, and her example was speedily followed by the other women and girls. [illustration] it seemed to me a foolhardy act to go on shore when we knew there was danger the indians might make an attack, yet master rouse and captain haskell held their peace, allowing the women to do as they pleased, while the old hunter set about putting up a shelter for them by means of four poles, with blankets stretched across after the fashion of a tent. there the women made beds for themselves and the children, rather than go back to the boat, even though to my mind it was safely secured and could not come to any harm. master bruce was not content with having done this. just before having landed we saw a thin thread of smoke rising from the trees half a mile distant, and he set off as soon as the makeshift tent had been put up, running the chances of coming upon the savages, in order to discover who our neighbors might be. a real feast now it so happened, fortunately for us, that the smoke had come from the camp of white men, and of them bruce begged, or bought, half of a fat deer, broiling enough steaks on the coals to satisfy the hunger of the younger members of the party, while he roasted a goodly portion, hunter-fashion, on a hickory skewer stuck up in the earth in front of the fire. [illustration] the girls made coffee and corn bread, and we feasted that night. captain haskell and i went on board the boat to sleep, and i was not sorry we did so, for before morning another storm came up, and when we looked out from beneath the wagon covers, after sunrise, snow covered the ground to the depth of two inches. the sun was shining brightly; the wind had died away until there was not sufficient air stirring to lift a feather, and nothing prevented us from continuing the journey without delay, which we did, the girls broiling venison steaks in our fireplace at the stern of the boat while we sailed along. master bruce told us we might take no little credit to ourselves, for we most likely were the first white people to venture on the indian shore and remain there all night, since pittsburgh had become a town. finding the canoe it surprised me not a little because the old hunter failed to mourn the loss of his canoe, for on board was all his equipment for the winter's work, and, having lost it, he must go back to pittsburgh to replenish his stores and procure another craft. however, it is folly for one to worry and fret over that which cannot be avoided. master bruce might have made himself miserable bewailing the loss of his goods and nothing would have been changed. [illustration] near noon we saw the craft on the pennsylvania side of the river, where it had been blown by the wind, lying there comfortably ashore, as if waiting for us to take it in tow. it was a difficult matter to pull our craft around to get hold of the canoe; but we finally did so, and would have worked more than one day rather than allow the old hunter to meet with a loss. when it was made fast alongside once more, and we were drifting with the current, master bruce went on board to learn what portion of his goods had been lost during the storm, and to his surprise found that only one of the traps was missing, although the flour was more or less wet. why the canoe was not overset by the wind, unstable as it was, i could not understand until master bruce explained that the weight of the flour and the traps, resting on the bottom of the boat, must have served as ballast to hold it steady, and again, most-like, it went ashore within a short time after having been cut adrift. i supposed we had quite a journey before us from pittsburgh to buffalo creek, and therefore was surprised when at sunset i asked master bruce concerning the distance, and he told me that within an hour we would arrive at the place where we were to take on the cattle and horses, for it was master rouse's intent to carry with us uncle daniel's oxen, if the old man had not succeeded in loading them on his friend's craft. [illustration] buffalo creek it was not yet nine o'clock when we came within sight of the few twinkling lights in the settlement of buffalo, and i could hear isaac barker's boisterous laugh while we were yet half a mile away, therefore i knew he was indulging in his quips and jokes. it must have been that he was on the lookout for us, for before the flatboat was made fast to the shore, he, with michael rouse and ben cushing, was calling out words of welcome, and asking how the journey had progressed. as soon as they were on board, our craft having been made fast, we learned without surprise that the two ailing horses had died during the march. a few moments later, as i was about to overhaul the bedding in order to make it ready for the children, whose time for going to sleep had already passed, mistress rouse said to me that she had no intention of remaining on board the boat during the night. the fear that another storm might come up, or that we might be half-swamped as at pittsburgh, caused the good woman to shrink from spending the night on the boat when it was possible to sleep ashore. isaac was therefore urged to find some shelter, which he speedily did by proposing that they take possession of a log hut which stood on a point of land near the mouth of buffalo creek, where he, with michael and ben, had slept the night before. the building had been abandoned, as it seemed, or else its owner was making a long journey, perhaps on a hunting trip, and would not complain if we made free with his property, it being the custom on the frontier for travelers to take advantage of such shelter as they might find unoccupied. the march across the country i counted on hearing from ben cushing and isaac barker entertaining stories that night, concerning the march across the country, but much to my disappointment they had nothing of interest to tell. [illustration] forced to accommodate their pace to the slowly moving oxen, they trudged along hour after hour, starting well before daylight and continuing as long as it was possible to see at night, in order to cover the greatest possible distance, with nothing whatsoever to break the monotony of the march. we were up long before the sun next morning, for now it was necessary to take the live stock on board our flatboat. we were forced to embark uncle daniel's oxen, he having passed buffalo some time before isaac and ben arrived there, and when we had all the beasts on board we were packed like herring in a box, each in his own special place and with very little opportunity to move about. however, we were nearly at our journey's end; the current of the river ran swiftly as compared with the stream at pittsburgh, and there was no longer reason to fear that the indians might do any harm, even if there had been cause before. in exactly four days from the time of leaving pittsburgh, we arrived at the mouth of the muskingum. it was well we had come to an end of our journey so soon, for ice was already beginning to form in the river, and before daylight the muskingum was frozen quite solidly. within an hour after we had moored the flatboat to the bank, master devoll came on board. although i have not said that this march of ours was attended with danger, and in fact it was not, yet there were many chances that one or another of us, if not all, might have fallen by the wayside, owing either to the roughness of the way, or the fatigue caused by such incessant labor with insufficient lodging, to say nothing of the poor food owing to the fact that we had not the necessary vessels in which to prepare it. at marietta before we had really made the flatboat fast, mistress devoll and mistress rouse were almost at their wits' ends with fear, for in the woods and on the sides of the hill back of fort harmar could be seen hundreds upon hundreds of camp fires, and one of those idlers who are ever to be found at the riverside of a settlement, told us there were no less than three hundred savages encamped there, having come to make a treaty with our people on the th of january. [illustration] master devoll laughed at his wife's fears, claiming that the savages were as peaceful as lambs, although at the time i doubted very much whether he believed his own words. however, the women and children did not remain aboard our flatboat, for master devoll took them to the _mayflower_, which was moored near by, where were better accommodations for sleeping, and in our craft only ben cushing and i were left on guard. [illustration] we two lads spent a full hour that evening, congratulating ourselves upon having finished the journey and questioning as to what we would do now we were come into this ohio country. we had been more than eight weeks on the road, advancing all the time, one day after another, except the eight and forty hours which were spent with master hiples in that village where live the dunkards, and, save for the death of the two horses, we had come through with no greater mishap than the loss of a two-quart tin measure and a blanket belonging to mistress rouse. this was doing remarkably well, when you consider that never one of the party, not even the men, had undertaken such a journey before. in the morning we found the muskingum river frozen from shore to shore, and until spring came the stream was never so free of ice that we could have propelled our boat, therefore we arrived, as one might say, just in the nick of time, for a delay of four and twenty hours would have found us frozen in at some point above the town, from which it would have been necessary to continue on foot. plans for the future uncle daniel was on the river bank to meet us next morning, before we put the animals ashore, and then, very much to my disappointment, he announced that it was not his intention to remain long in marietta. it appears that he, with several others, had decided to go thirteen miles down the ohio river, where they had already staked out a town, and there build for themselves a settlement which should be wholly made up of those who had been neighbors in massachusetts. however, he was forced to remain with us at marietta during the winter. master devoll took his family from the _mayflower_ at an early hour next morning and moved their belongings to campus martius, where he hoped to remain until his house was finished, and there did mistress devoll bid me come, saying i should find a home with them until it was possible to settle upon plans for the future, while master devoll told me that if i wanted to work at fair wages as a farm hand, he would give me employment as soon as spring had come. [illustration] it may be that i was a simple for not accepting the offer which was made in all kindness of heart, and yet i had a desire to become something more than an ordinary laborer, so, thanking him heartily for his generosity, i went out into the world on my own account, having as partner ben cushing. we two young fellows had no idea of what it might be possible for us to do. this new country was all so different from what we had seen in massachusetts; the ways of the people would be different now they had come so far from home, and we were without means of gaining a livelihood, save for our willingness to work and the strength of our bodies. inspecting the town of marietta however, penniless and undecided though we were, there was no intention on our part to force matters, and after the flatboat had been unloaded, we set about looking the town over, eager to see what had been done in so short a time, and speculating as to what we might do at some future day. [illustration] i am free to confess that the fortification with the high-sounding name of campus martius was pleasing to look upon. it was an imposing building, not such a one as you would expect to find in a wild country, and it lent to its surroundings a certain sense of security, because one could readily understand that it was built in a manner to defy the attacks of the savages. outside the palisade, extending in either direction along the river bank were ten log cabins, very few of which were occupied by their owners, for those who had built them had not as yet brought their families to marietta. the streets were laid out in regular order, but like those we saw in harrisburg, they were still filled with the stumps of trees, and the only signs of highways were the tiny paths looking much like sheep tracks as they wound in and out among the trees, avoiding the wet places, and leading where the way was most easy to travel. no one gave any heed to us, and we wandered here and there looking into this house or criticizing another which was but half finished, until we came to where we could see fort harmar with the indian encampment behind it. then we decided upon the next day's entertainment, for ben cushing insisted that since this was our first chance to see a savage, we should spend at least a few hours there. while it promised a novelty, i was by no means easy in mind regarding an inspection of the red men. nevertheless i kept all these fears to myself, hoping ben might give over his excursion when we learned that the ice was not strong enough to bear us up. unfortunately, however, it was possible to gain fort harmar, for the night was very cold, and ice formed of a thickness to render traveling on the river safe, therefore i was forced to agree to his proposition again. a temporary home before we could inspect these indian visitors, it was necessary we should make some provision for food and shelter, for neither of us wanted to present himself to mistress rouse or mistress devoll as a beggar, therefore we set about providing for ourselves a temporary home. i have no doubt but that we would have been allowed to take possession of any of the log houses which were not occupied; but that would have been much like begging a shelter, therefore we proposed to master devoll that we occupy the flatboat during the time that it remained fast in the ice. it proved to be a happy idea. he told us that it was his intention to allow the boat to remain where it was until spring, since he could do no different because of the ice, and then it could be used by those who proposed to make a settlement fourteen miles farther down the ohio. he also said that we were at liberty to use it as we saw fit during the entire winter, providing, of course, that we did no damage to the craft; but at the same time advising that, instead of trying to keep house by ourselves, we live either with his family or master rouse's. [illustration] he said we should find plenty of game in the woods, and proposed that we borrow his gun whenever we were in need of meat, promising to supply us with ammunition; but this last we agreed to only with the understanding that he keep a strict account of what was used, so that when we had earned sufficient money with which to cancel the debt, we might pay him. at this he laughed, declaring that we were indeed high and mighty for lads who yet had their way to make through the world; but at the same time clapping us heartily on the shoulders as he vowed he liked our spirit and had no doubt but that we should succeed in making our way, for there must be ample opportunity for willing lads to earn fair wages when spring had come. buying land another thing master devoll did for which both ben and i have good reason to bless him. he insisted that we make a bargain with colonel putnam for one of the eight-acre lots, agreeing to pay for it within a year's time, and inasmuch as the price fixed upon for those who had come to settle was the same as that made by the government, meaning one dollar an acre, it surely seemed as if we could contrive within a twelve-month to earn that much money in addition to supporting ourselves. without loss of time we went to the small building which colonel putnam called the "land office," and there made application for one of the lots as master devoll had advised. on the instant after colonel putnam spoke, we understood that master devoll had not contented himself simply with giving advice, but had been to the land office before us, stating who we were and what were our intentions, therefore colonel putnam not only was ready to receive us, but had much to say which sounded to my ears like unwon praise. "it is such lads as you that we want here in marietta," he said heartily. "your records are good, so far as i have learned, and it pleases me to set aside an eight-acre lot for you. decide upon any one of those which have not already been taken, and i will enter it in your names." [illustration] then he put before us a plan of the town of marietta, whereon each piece of land was marked out, and we, instead of going out to look for ourselves that we might decide which was the most valuable or desirable, said to him that he should put our names down on whatever lot he saw fit, whereupon he laughingly did so, and we afterward learned that we had been, perhaps, wise in leaving to him the selection. that night after we had become landowners, as you might say, we slept on board the flatboat with no covering save such a shelter as could be made with branches of trees, and because we were not disposed to ask either mistress rouse or mistress devoll to lend us blankets, we made a lively blaze in the fireplace, laying ourselves down with our feet toward it. the night was cold indeed and we suffered not a little before morning; but, as ben said, it was better to be a trifle chilly than to feel ourselves beholden to any one, even for that with which we covered ourselves. [illustration] i insisted that our first duty should be to get together a supply of fuel, and indeed there was no scarcity about. the trees grew so near the water's edge that we could hew them into four-foot lengths, and almost toss them into the flatboat. it was my proposition that we fill the craft entirely with fuel before doing anything else, but ben was so set upon seeing the indian encampment, that he refused to do more than cut enough to last during one night, and when i asked him what he intended to do about breakfast, he quietly announced that he would rather go hungry one day, than miss the chance of seeing those savages with whom we might, at some time in the near future, find ourselves fighting for our lives. i also was eager to see the indians; but not to such an extent that i would cross over to fort harmar with an empty stomach. i therefore told him that i should first make it my duty to go into the woods in search of game. visiting the savages he, however, was so insistent that we finally agreed that the forenoon should be spent in looking at the savages, and after that he was to go with me hunting. it was odd, when we had come to fort harmar, to see so many of the brown-skinned people dressed in fanciful garb, as if taking part in some comical festival; but there was about them so much which was disagreeable, that i could not really enjoy the visit. i fancied that more than one of them looked in an unfriendly manner at us, as if taking offense because of our curiosity, and i was willing to postpone any further acquaintance with them until we were somewhat familiar with their habits and customs. ben was not so eager as he had been, and when noon came was ready to accompany me on a hunting trip, as had been agreed upon. [illustration] i wish i had the time to tell you all we did during that first afternoon, for indeed it was most interesting. roaming through a dirty indian encampment was not for a single moment to be compared with the pleasure of making one's way among the huge trees, where game was so abundant that a fellow might pick and choose. before we had gone half a mile from the fortification, we came upon pigeons and rabbits in what seemed countless numbers, and more than once did we get a glimpse of wild turkeys; but as yet we were not sufficiently versed in hunting to be able to kill them. [illustration] within two hours we had enough meat for the coming week, and, hastening back to our flatboat home, were able before sunset to cut so much wood that ben declared we might live like gentlemen of leisure during the next few days. "if we are to make for ourselves names of worth in this country, there must be no idleness," i said half laughingly. "you and i have decided that we will strike out for ourselves, therefore it stands us in hand to earn money, and that without loss of time." "we will begin bright and early to-morrow morning," ben replied cheerily. "you shall go one way and i another, each seeking to find some way by which we can earn an honest dollar, and each seeing to it that whatever business is engaged upon, shall be for two, because, as i understand it, you and i are to work in one yoke while we remain here in this town of marietta." captain haskell's advice we did not do exactly as ben proposed when another day had come, and it was none other than captain haskell who prevented us from carrying out our plans. we met the captain just as we were coming out from beneath our shelter, he having strolled that way in order to learn how we might be getting on. seeing that we were blue and shivering with the cold as we strove to kindle a fire in the stern of the flatboat, he said to us that it would be a good idea if we made of the craft a comfortable home during the winter months. [illustration] then he showed us how, with a little labor, we could build in the stern of the flatboat a shelter which would be quite as good as any hut on shore, save that we might be lodged in one of the best rooms in campus martius, and advised that we set about the work before striving to find employment. at the same time he assured us there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind but that two lads who were willing to work, and who would work, might make for themselves a home and a name. having given this advice, he turned squarely about, never waiting to see whether we might be willing to follow it, and walked rapidly toward the fortification. we pondered over his suggestion no longer than it might take a man to count twenty, and then began to discuss how we had best begin the work, in the meanwhile warming up what remained of the roasted pigeons we had cooked for supper. a new friend while we were thus engaged, the lad jeremy salter, of whom i have already spoken, came down to the shore, curious to see who might be remaining on board a flatboat when there was shelter to be had in the town, and without waiting for an invitation, joined us at breakfast, eating considerably more than his share. he told us exactly how we ought to set about making the shelter, and what it might be possible for us to do in the way of gaining employment. at first it nettled me that this boy should presume to advise us, for he was considerably younger than i; but before he had done with his suggestions, both ben and i saw that they were not without merit. he was the son of one of the salters who had come out from danvers, and considered himself an old resident of the country because of having been here two months or more. it appeared that he was not very eager to gain employment for himself, claiming that his father was one of those who expected to go farther down the river in the spring to make there another settlement. however, i must say in his favor that he took hold with us heartily, borrowing two axes, and advising which trees might be felled the easiest, performing himself a due share of the labor, with the result that before two days had passed, thanks to his assistance and advice, we had as good a hut built over the fireplace in the stern of the flatboat as one could desire. fishing through the ice then jeremy salter told us how we might lay in a store of provisions without spending powder and ball. his scheme was to go a short distance from the point, and there fish through the ice. he not only gave this advice but went so far as to provide us with fishing tackle, and seemed to enjoy himself hugely while aiding in laying up a store of food. it was no labor, but rather sport, to catch fish in this fashion. we caught them as fast as it was possible to haul in the lines, until when night came and we had made a sort of sled with branches of trees, we had as much of a load as we cared to drag over the ice. by this time they were all frozen, therefore we stacked them up like fuel in the bow of the flatboat, and i dare say that had we lived on fish alone, we had in the ten hours' fishing enough food for a month. during all this time that we were building our hut and fishing, ben cushing was eager to pay another visit to the indian encampment; but jeremy declared that the savages were not in the most friendly mood, even though they had come to make a treaty, and his father had told him plainly that he must not venture near the lodges, lest harm might come. [illustration] such talk as this served to take away ben's desire to see the wild savages in their own camps, and i was glad because of it, for instead of spending half a day when time was precious, we, with jeremy's aid, set about laying up a greater store of fuel, until the flatboat had a full cargo of wood and fish, therefore we need not fear hunger or cold during the winter. the sabbath in marietta i was glad indeed when the sabbath came, for i had worked hard and the time of rest was what all of us, including jeremy, who was living with us rather than in campus martius with his parents, most needed. the greater number of the people assembled in one of the rooms of campus martius during the forenoon, where prayers were read and some of the older men talked to us in serious fashion. [illustration] the words at that time took even more hold on me than those which i had heard from parson cutler's lips at home, for we were indeed needing the protection of god, since there were none of this world who could aid if the savages attacked us suddenly. i believe that both ben and i came away from that meeting better in heart and with better resolutions for the future, than we had ever had before. bright and early on monday morning captain haskell made us another visit and commented favorably upon the shelter we had built, at the same time that he looked curiously at our stack of fish. [illustration] "i see no reason why you lads should not sell me half a dozen of these," he said, picking out some of the finest, and ben cushing replied promptly that he might have all he wanted for the carrying away. the captain refused any such offer, saying that he would buy them, otherwise he would go without, and declaring that if we wished, we might sell to the people inside the fortification no small amount of fish during the winter season, for there were plenty who did not feel disposed to spend their time on the river while the weather was so cold. a regular business he gave us a shilling for as many as he could carry, and bade us follow him to campus martius, where within an hour we took orders for as many as we had in the flatboat, at prices much the same as that paid by the captain, and straightway without our seeking it, there came to us a means of earning money sufficient to provide ourselves with ammunition for hunting. you would not have the patience to read all i could write about our work during that winter. [illustration] there was never man nor woman in campus martius who could come out and beckon us, but that we were ready to furnish him or her with as much fish as was wanted, until we had gathered in no less than seven dollars and three shillings, by working in a way which was much like sport. of this amount we spent a little more than one half to purchase a store of powder and lead, for it was our intention to add the business of hunting to that of fishing. thanks to jeremy salter, we borrowed from a kind man who had come out with colonel sproat two muskets, with the understanding that if at any time before spring we were ready to pay twelve dollars for each, they might become our property. from this time on we fished when the weather was too stormy for successful hunting, and roamed the woods during pleasant days, coming back to our flatboat home each night literally laden with game or fish; and although any man in marietta could have done the same, we had no difficulty in selling it all. of the ceremony of making the treaty with the indians we saw nothing, and for the very good reason that we could not afford to spend the time. a visit from the savages just then it seemed as if every man in the settlement was eager to know what might be going on around fort harmar, and therefore the demands upon us hunters increased to such an extent that we could hardly supply the food which was desired. in addition to the fact that we were unable to be present during the treaty making, save at the price of losing the chance to earn considerable money, ben cushing had lost all desire to see the savages at close quarters. one afternoon just before sunset, when we had come in from fishing, two delaware braves came over to our flatboat and made themselves very much at home, without any invitation. in fact, they carried matters with a high hand, as if having the right to do as they pleased, and when ben made a stout protest against their eating the food intended for our own supper, one of them behaved in such a threatening manner that for a moment i thoroughly believed he was about to strike the lad down, therefore i hastily caught up one of the axes, believing i should be called upon to fight for my life. [illustration] when the indians had eaten until it was impossible to eat more, they having literally forced us to cook for them, the two stalked away, and from that time forth ben never said anything regarding a desire to visit the encampment. we hunted or fished during every moment of daylight while the treaty making was going on, and when it had come to an end we had so many dollars in our possession as satisfied us fully for having failed to witness the ceremony. building a home it was at this time, when we were so prosperous, that jeremy salter declared we ought to set aside a certain day in each week for the work of building a house for ourselves on the eight-acre lot, which we now knew could be paid for at any time, since we had more than sufficient money in our possession. [illustration] thus, thanks to jeremy, we set about building our home, working whenever the demand for game or fish was light, or when it stormed so furiously that we could not well go on the river or in the woods. when spring came and the snow had disappeared, we had as solidly built a cabin as could be found anywhere in marietta outside campus martius. thus far we had accomplished a portion of our purpose. the people had come to understand that if we promised to provide them with a certain kind of game or fish, the promise would be kept to the letter. i am saying this not to praise myself, but simply to show we were making a name for ourselves as lads who told the truth, and kept strictly to their bargain. as i looked at the matter, this was of greatest value to us. we had set about gaining a good reputation, and verily we had begun aright, though only in small matters. it remained to show whether we were of such stuff as settlers in a wild country should be made. before the first day of march we had paid for our eight-acre lot, had built a cabin of two rooms, in which was stored as much frozen game and fish as would keep sweet until warm weather came, and, in addition, had nineteen dollars which we could call our own. a great project one day, when the rain came down in torrents, and we were not inclined either to fish or hunt, captain haskell came to make a friendly call, and, in no spirit of curiosity, but rather because of the interest which he had evidently taken in us, asked how we were progressing. without hesitation i told him exactly how we stood in the world, whereupon he praised us highly, and then proposed a scheme which fairly caused me to hold my breath in amazement, for it did not seem possible we could venture so far as his plan led. [illustration] his idea was that we build a water mill by buying from himself and master rouse the flatboat in which we were still living and by putting alongside of it a second one, the two to be fastened side by side in such a manner that a water wheel could be worked between them, and the double craft anchored in the current, where sufficient power could be had to drive the mill. as to the stones for grinding and such small pieces of machinery as we might need, he figured that we could buy them either in pittsburgh or from some craft which came up the river, and when i asked him how far he thought our store of money would go in such a project, he laughingly replied that uncle daniel and he would lend us a sufficient amount to pay for all we might need, and take from us in return three-quarters of the entire earnings until the debt, with interest, had been canceled. when ben cushing asked if he believed we should find business enough to warrant the undertaking, he replied:-- "there are about two hundred people here now and twice as many coming from massachusetts during the summer. now, since there is no mill here and all the corn must be ground by hand, i am asking whether you do not believe that by harvest time a single mill such as uncle daniel and i propose you shall build, will be kept running during every hour of daylight?" the two millers we discussed the matter earnestly, as you may well suppose, and uncle daniel, coming aboard before we had finished the conversation, did his share of arguing. before nightfall it was settled that on the following morning we should begin work on a second flatboat, and also repair the old craft in which we had come down from sumrill's ferry. and all this we did, working with a hearty will far into each night, because it was possible to see before us a way of getting on in the world faster than we had ever dared to dream, and you may be sure we wasted no minute of daylight. we had expected to cultivate our eight acres, and, in fact, when spring came we did put in a crop of corn; but the making of the mill and providing ourselves with food occupied so much of our time that we could not well afford to spend many hours as farmers, more particularly since both uncle daniel and captain haskell insisted that as soon as the mill was in working order we could earn double or treble as much as it would be possible to get from the ground. and it all came about as these two good friends of ours predicted. the mill was a success from the first day we were ready to turn the wheel, and has continued so until now, when we are in sorest trouble. the savages on the warpath from the time of our coming into this ohio country, marietta had steadily increased in size, the people coming, as it seemed to me, from every part of the eastern colonies, and just when ben and i were congratulating each other that our lines had been cast in peaceful, pleasant places, even though we were settled in the wilderness, the indians began their bloody work which we now fear may result in wiping out this settlement. the treaty which had been made by the savages just after we arrived was kept only by the white men. hardly more than two weeks ago news came that captain king had been killed at that settlement to which uncle daniel went in the spring, while four others were slain in the forest, and one taken prisoner. [illustration] the savages are in arms against us. we have been forced to come into campus martius for safety; work of all kinds has been abandoned; our mill is moored far up the muskingum river, where we have a faint hope it may escape destruction. although it may be that within the next four and twenty hours both ben and i will have fallen beneath the tomahawk, yet must i bear witness that god has been good to us indeed. he has permitted two lads so to make their way in the world with nothing save their own hands as stock in trade, that now, as i have good reason for believing, we are counted among the responsible citizens of the town. and of this it seems to me i had good proof no longer ago than yesterday, when i heard general putnam say while he and some other of the men were discussing the possibilities of an indian war:-- "if evidence were needed that it is well for young, willing workers to come into the wilderness, then i would point out to you that lad who journeyed with mistress devoll, and who, with his comrade, has laid up more than a fair share of this world's goods by unceasing work and unswerving honesty. he has done no more than many another might have done; but it has pleased me to watch the lad, and when i think of him it is always as our cheery-faced, upright miller, benjamin of ohio." books consulted in writing benjamin of ohio baldwin, james: conquest of the old northwest. american book company. buel, miss rowena: memoirs of rufus putnam. houghton mifflin company. drake, samuel adams: making of the ohio valley states. charles scribner's sons. earle, alice morse: home life in colonial days. the macmillan company. ellet, mrs.: pioneer women of the west. john c. winston company. elson, henry william: history of the united states. the macmillan company. harper's magazine: vol. , p. . hildreth, s. p.: pioneer history. h. w. derby & co. hinsdale, b. a.: the old northwest. silver, burdett & co. howells, william dean: stories of ohio. american book company. jones, n. e.: squirrel hunters of ohio. robert clarke company. mowry, william a.: american pioneers. silver, burdett & co. powell, lyman p.: historic towns of western states. g. p. putnam's sons. roosevelt, theodore: winning of the west. g. p. putnam's sons. thwaite, reuben gold: early western travels (buttrick). arthur h. clarke company. walker, charles m.: history of athens county, ohio. robert clarke company. * * * * * * transcriber's note: page , benjamin illustration was a dropped capital i illustration in the original book. page , uncle changed to uncle (uncle daniel's household goods). punctuation silently corrected. _and then the town took off_ by richard wilson ace books, inc. west th street, new york , n.y. and then the town took off copyright ©, , by ace books, inc. all rights reserved _for_ felicitas k. wilson the sioux spaceman copyright ©, , by ace books, inc. printed in u.s.a. * * * * * the city that ran off the map the town of superior, ohio, certainly was living up to its name! in what was undoubtedly the most spectacular feat of the century, it simply picked itself up one night and rose two full miles above earth! radio messages stated simply that superior had seceded from earth. but don cort, stranded on that rising town, was beginning to suspect that nothing was simple about superior except its citizens. calmly they accepted their rise in the world as being due to one of their local townspeople, a crackpot professor. but after a couple of weeks of floating around, it began to be obvious that the professor had no idea how to get them down. so then it was up to cort: either find a way to anchor superior, or spend the rest of his days on the smallest--and the nuttiest--planet in the galaxy! i the town of superior, ohio, disappeared on the night of october . a truck driver named pierce knaubloch was the first to report it. he had been highballing west along route , making up for the time he'd spent over a second cup of coffee in a diner, when he screeched to a stop. if he'd gone another twenty-five feet he'd have gone into the pit where superior had been. knaubloch couldn't see the extent of the pit because it was too dark, but it looked big. bigger than if a nitro truck had blown up, which was his first thought. he backed up two hundred feet, set out flares, then sped off to a telephone. the state police converged on the former site of superior from several directions. communicating by radiophone across the vast pit, they confirmed that the town undoubtedly was missing. they put in a call to the national guard. the guard surrounded the area with troops--more than a thousand were needed--to keep people from falling into the pit. a pilot who flew over it reported that it looked as if a great ice-cream scoop had bitten into the ohio countryside. the pennsylvania railroad complained that one of its passenger trains was missing. the train's schedule called for it to pass through but not stop at superior at : . that seemed to fix the time of the disappearance at midnight. the truck driver had made his discovery shortly after midnight. someone pointed out that october was halloween and that midnight was the witching hour. somebody else said nonsense, they'd better check for radiation. a civil defense official brought up a geiger counter, but no matter how he shook it and rapped on it, it refused to click. a national guard officer volunteered to take a jeep down into the pit, having found a spot that seemed navigable. he was gone a long time but when he came out the other side he reported that the pit was concave, relatively smooth, and did not smell of high explosives. he'd found no people, no houses--no sign of anything except the pit itself. the governor of ohio asked washington whether any unidentified planes had been over the state. washington said no. the pentagon and the atomic energy commission denied that they had been conducting secret experiments. nor had there been any defense plants in superior that might have blown up. the town's biggest factory made kitchen sinks and the next biggest made bubble gum. * * * * * a united airlines pilot found superior early on the morning of november . the pilot, captain eric studley, who had never seen a flying saucer and hoped never to see one, was afraid now that he had. the object loomed out of a cloudbank at twelve thousand feet and studley changed course to avoid it. he noted with only minimum satisfaction that his co-pilot also saw the thing and wondered why it wasn't moving at the terrific speed flying saucers were allegedly capable of. then he saw the church steeple on it. a few minutes later he had relayed a message from superior, formerly of ohio, addressed to whom it might concern: it said that superior had seceded from earth. one other radio message came from superior, now airborne, on that first day. a ham radio operator reported an unidentified voice as saying plaintively: "_cold_ up here!" don cort had been dozing in what passed for the club car on the buckeye cannonball when the train braked to a stop. he looked out the window, hoping this was columbus, where he planned to catch a plane east. but it wasn't columbus. all he could see were some lanterns jogging as trainmen hurried along the tracks. the conductor looked into the car. the redhead across the aisle in whom don had taken a passing interest earlier in the evening asked, "why did we stop?" "somebody flagged us down," the conductor said. "we don't make a station stop at superior on this run." the girl's hair was a subtle red, but false. when don had entered the club car he'd seen her hatless head from above and noticed that the hair along the part was dark. her eyes had been on a book and don had the opportunity for a brief study of her face. the cheeks were full and untouched by make-up. there were lines at the corners of her mouth which indicated a tendency to arrange her expression into one of disapproval. the lips were full, like the cheeks, but it was obvious that the scarlet lipstick had contrived a mouth a trifle bigger than the one nature had given her. her glance upward at that moment interrupted his examination, which had been about to go on to her figure. later, though, he was able to observe that it was more than adequate. if the girl had given don cort more than that one glance, or if it had been a trained, all-encompassing glance, she would have seen a man in his mid-twenties--about her age--lean, tall and straight-shouldered, with once-blond hair now verging on dark brown, a face neither handsome nor ugly, and a habit of drawing the inside of his left cheek between his teeth and nibbling at it thoughtfully. but it was likely that all she noticed then was the brief case he carried, attached by a chain to a handcuff on his left wrist. "will we be here long?" don asked the conductor. he didn't want to miss his plane at columbus. the sooner he got to washington, the sooner he'd get rid of the brief case. the handcuff it was attached to was one reason why his interest in the redhead had been only passing. "can't say," the conductor told him. he let the door close again and went down to the tracks. don hesitated, shrugged at the redhead, said, "excuse me," and followed the conductor. about a dozen people were milling around the train as it sat in the dark, hissing steam. don made his way up to the locomotive and found a bigger knot of people gathered in front of the cowcatcher. some sort of barricade had been put up across the tracks and it was covered with every imaginable kind of warning device. there were red lanterns, both battery and electric; flashlights; road flares; and even an old red shirt. don saw two men who must have been the engineer and the fireman talking to an old bearded gentleman wearing a civil defense helmet, a topcoat and riding boots. "you'd go over the edge, i tell you," the old gentleman was saying. "if you don't get this junk off the line," the engineer said, "i'll plow right through it. off the edge! you crazy or something?" "look for yourself," the old man in the white helmet said. "go ahead. look." the engineer was exasperated. he turned to the fireman. "you look. humor the old man. then let's go." the bearded man--he called himself professor garet--went off with the fireman. don followed them. they had tramped a quarter of a mile along the gravel when the fireman stopped. "okay," he said "where's the edge? i don't see nothing." the tracks seemed to stretch forever into the darkness. "it's another half mile or so," the professor said. "well, let's hurry up. we haven't got all night." the old man chuckled. "i'm afraid you have." they came to it at last, stopping well back from it. professor garet swelled with pride, it seemed, as he made a theatrical gesture. "behold," he said. "something even columbus couldn't find. the edge of the world." true, everything seemed to stop, and they could see stars shining low on the horizon where stars could not properly be expected to be seen. don cort and the fireman walked cautiously toward the edge while the professor ambled ahead with the familiarity of one who had been there before. but there was a wind and they did not venture too close. nevertheless, don could see that it apparently was a neat, sharp edge, not one of your old ragged, random edges such as might have been caused by an explosion. this one had the feeling of design behind it. standing on tiptoe and repressing a touch of giddiness, don looked over the edge. he didn't have to stand on tiptoe any more than he had to sit on the edge of his seat during the exciting part of a movie, but the situation seemed to call for it. over the edge could be seen a big section of ohio. at least he supposed it was ohio. don looked at the fireman, who had an unbelieving expression on his face, then at the bearded old man, who was smiling and nodding. "you see what i mean," he said. "you would have gone right over. i believe you would have had a two-mile fall." * * * * * "of course you could have stayed aboard the train," the man driving the old pontiac said, "but i really think you'll be more comfortable at cavalier." don cort, sitting in the back seat of the car with the redhead from the club car, asked, "cavalier?" "the college. the institute, really; it's not accredited. what did you say your name was, miss?" "jen jervis," she said. "geneva jervis, formally." "miss jervis. i'm civek. you know mr. cort, i suppose." the girl smiled sideways. "we have a nodding acquaintance." don nodded and grinned. "there's plenty of room in the dormitories," civek said. "people don't exactly pound on the gates and scream to be admitted to cavalier." "are you connected with the college?" don asked. "me? no. i'm the mayor of superior. the old town's really come up in the world, hasn't it?" "overnight," geneva jervis said. "if what mr. cort and the fireman say is true. i haven't seen the edge myself." "you'll have a better chance to look at it in the morning," the mayor said, "if we don't settle back in the meantime." "was there any sort of explosion?" don asked. "no. there wasn't any sensation at all, as far as i noticed. i was watching the late show--or trying to. my house is down in a hollow and reception isn't very good, especially with old english movies. well, all of a sudden the picture sharpened up and i could see just as plain. then the phone rang and it was professor garet." "the old fellow with the whiskers and the riding boots?" jen jervis asked. "yes. osbert garet, professor of magnology at the cavalier institute of applied sciences." "professor of what?" "magnology. as i say, the school isn't accredited. well, professor garet telephoned and said, 'hector'--that's my name, hector civek--'everything's up in the air.' he was having his little joke, of course. i said, 'what?' and then he told me." "told you what?" jen jervis asked. "i mean, does he have any theory about it?" "he has a theory about everything. i think what he was trying to convey was that this--this levitation confirmed his magnology principle." "what's that?" don asked. "i haven't the faintest idea. i'm a politician, not a scientist. professor garet went on about it for a while, on the telephone, about magnetism and gravity, but i think he was only calling as a courtesy, so the mayor wouldn't look foolish the next morning, not knowing his town had flown the coop." "what's the population of superior?" "three thousand, including the students at the institute. three thousand and forty, counting you people from the train. i guess you'll be with us for a while." "what do you mean by that?" jen jervis asked. "well, i don't see how you can get down. do you?" "does superior have an airport?" don asked. "i've got to get back to--to earth." it sounded odd to put it that way. "nope," civek said. "no airport. no place for a plane to land, either." "maybe not a plane," don said, "but a helicopter could land just about anywhere." "no helicopters here, either." "maybe not. but i'll bet they're swarming all over you by morning." "hm," said hector civek. don couldn't quite catch his expression in the rearview mirror. "i suppose they could, at that. well, here's cavalier. you go right in that door, where the others are going. there's professor garet. i've got to see him--excuse me." the mayor was off across the campus. don looked at geneva jervis, who was frowning. "are you thinking," he asked, "that mayor civek was perhaps just a little less than completely honest with us?" "i'm thinking," she said, "that i should have stayed with aunt hattie another night, then taken a plane to washington." "washington?" don said. "that's where i'm going. i mean where i _was_ going before superior became airborne. what do you do in washington, miss jervis?" "i work for the government. doesn't everybody?" "not everybody. me, for instance." "no?" she said. "judging by that satchel you're handcuffed to, i'd have thought you were a courier for the pentagon. or maybe state." he laughed quickly and loudly because she was getting uncomfortably close. "oh, no. nothing so glamorous. i'm a messenger for the riggs national bank, that's all. where do you work?" "i'm with senator bobby thebold, s.o.b." don laughed again. "he sure is." "_mister_ cort!" she said, annoyed. "you know as well as i do that s.o.b. stands for senate office building. i'm his secretary." "i'm sorry. we'd better get out and find a place to sleep. it's getting late." "_places_ to sleep," she corrected. she looked angry. "of course," don said, puzzled by her emphasis. "come on. where they put you, you'll probably be surrounded by co-eds, even if i could get out of this cuff." he took her bag in his free hand and they were met by a gray-haired woman who introduced herself as mrs. garet. "we'll try to make you comfortable," she said. "what a night, eh? the professor is simply beside himself. we haven't had so much excitement since the cosmolineator blew up." they had a glimpse of the professor, still in his cd helmet, going around a corner, gesticulating wildly to someone wearing a white laboratory smock. ii don cort had slept, but not well. he had tried to fold the brief case to pull it through his sleeve so he could take his coat off, but whatever was inside the brief case was too big. cavalier had given him a room to himself at one end of a dormitory and he'd taken his pants off but had had to sleep with his coat and shirt on. he got up, feeling gritty, and did what little dressing was necessary. it was eight o'clock, according to the watch on the unhandcuffed wrist, and things were going on. he had a view of the campus from his window. a bright sun shone on young people moving generally toward a squat building, and other people going in random directions. the first were students going to breakfast, he supposed, and the others were faculty members. the air was very clear and the long morning shadows distinct. only then did he remember completely that he and the whole town of superior were up in the air. he went through the dormitory. a few students were still sleeping. the others had gone from their unmade beds. he shivered as he stepped outdoors. it was crisp, if not freezing, and his breath came out visibly. first he'd eat, he decided, so he'd be strong enough to go take a good look over the edge, in broad daylight, to the earth below. the mess hall, or whatever they called it, was cafeteria style and he got in line with a tray for juice, eggs and coffee. he saw no one he knew, but as he was looking for a table a willowy blonde girl smiled and gestured to the empty place opposite her. "you're mr. cort," she said. "won't you join me?" "thanks," he said, unloading his tray. "how did you know?" "the mystery man with the handcuff. you'd be hard to miss. i'm alis--that's a-l-i-s, not a-l-i-c-e--garet. are you with the fbi? or did you escape from jail?" "how do you do. no, just a bank messenger. what an unusual name. professor garet's daughter?" "the same," she said. "also the only. a pity, because if there'd been two of us i'd have had a fifty-fifty chance of going to osu. as it is, i'm duty-bound to represent the second generation at the nut factory." "nut factory? you mean cavalier?" don struggled to manipulate knife and fork without knocking things off the table with his clinging brief case. "here, let me cut your eggs for you," alis said. "you'd better order them scrambled tomorrow. yes, cavalier. home of the crackpot theory and the latter-day alchemist." "i'm sure it's not that bad. thanks. as for tomorrow, i hope to be out of here by then." "how do you get down from an elephant? old riddle. you don't; you get down from ducks. how do you plan to get down from superior?" "i'll find a way. i'm more interested at the moment in how i got up here." "you were levitated, like everybody else." "you make it sound deliberate, miss garet, as if somebody hoisted a whole patch of real estate for some fell purpose." "scarcely _fell_, mr. cort. as for it being deliberate, that seems to be a matter of opinion. apparently you haven't seen the papers." "i didn't know there were any." "actually there's only one, the _superior sentry_, a weekly. this is an extra. ed clark must have been up all night getting it out." she opened her purse and unfolded a four-page tabloid. don blinked at the headline: town gets high "ed clark's something of an eccentric, like everybody else in superior," alis said. don read the story, which seemed to him a capricious treatment of an apparently grave situation. _residents having business beyond the outskirts of town today are advised not to. it's a long way down. where superior was surrounded by ohio, as usual, today superior ends literally at the town line._ _a citizens' emergency fence-building committee is being formed, but in the meantime all are warned to stay well away from the edge. the law of gravity seems to have been repealed for the town but it is doubtful if the same exemption would apply to a dubious individual bent on investigating...._ don skimmed the rest. "i don't see anything about it being deliberate." alis had been creaming and sugaring don's coffee. she pushed it across to him and said, "it's not on page one. ed clark and mayor civek don't get along, so you'll find the mayor's statement in a box on page three, bottom." don creased the paper the other way, took a sip of coffee, nodded his thanks, and read: mayor claims secession from earth _mayor hector civek, in a proclamation issued locally by hand and dropped to the rest of the world in a plastic shatter-proof bottle, said today that superior has seceded from earth. his reasons were as vague as his explanation._ _the "reasons" include these: ( ) superior has been discriminated against by county, state and federal agencies; ( ) cavalier institute has been held up to global derision by orthodox (presumably meaning accredited) colleges and universities; and ( ) chicle exporters have conspired against the superior bubble gum company by unreasonably raising prices._ _the "explanation" consists of a -page treatise on applied magnology by professor osbert garet of cavalier which the editor (a) does not understand; (b) lacks space to publish; and which (it being atrociously handwritten) he (c) has not the temerity to ask his linotype operator to set._ don said, "i'm beginning to like this ed clark." "he's a doll," alis said. "he's about the only one in town who stands up to father." "does your father claim that _he_ levitated superior off the face of the earth?" "not to me he doesn't. i'm one of those banes of his existence, a skeptic. he gave up trying to magnolize me when i was sixteen. i had a science teacher in high school--not in superior, incidentally--who gave me all kinds of embarrassing questions to ask father. i asked them, being a natural-born needler, and father has disowned me intellectually ever since." "how old are you, miss garet, if i may ask?" she sat up straight and tucked her sweater tightly into her skirt, emphasizing her good figure. to a male friend don would have described the figure as outstanding. she had mocking eyes, a pert nose and a mouth of such moist red softness that it seemed perpetually waiting to be kissed. all in all she could have been the queen of a campus much more densely populated with co-eds than cavalier was. "you may call me alis," she said. "and i'm nineteen." don grinned. "going on?" "three months past. how old are _you_, mr. cort?" "don's the name i've had for twenty-six years. please use it." "gladly. and now, don, unless you want another cup of coffee, i'll go with you to the end of the world." "on such short notice?" don was intrigued. last night the redhead from the club car had repelled an advance that hadn't been made, and this morning a blonde was apparently making an advance that hadn't been solicited. he wondered where geneva jervis was, but only vaguely. "i'll admit to the _double entendre_," alis said. "what i meant--for now--was that we can stroll out to where superior used to be attached to the rest of ohio and see how the earth is getting along without us." "delighted. but don't you have any classes?" "sure i do. non-einsteinian relativity , at nine o'clock. but i'm a demon class-cutter, which is why i'm still a senior at my advanced age. on to the brink!" * * * * * they walked south from the campus and came to the railroad track. the train was standing there with nowhere to go. it had been abandoned except for the conductor, who had dutifully spent the night aboard. "what's happening?" he asked when he saw them. "any word from down there?" "not that i know of," don said. he introduced him to alis garet. "what are you going to do?" "what _can_ i do?" the conductor asked. "you can go over to cavalier and have breakfast," alis said. "nobody's going to steal your old train." the conductor reckoned as how he might just do that, and did. "you know," don said, "i was half-asleep last night but before the train stopped i thought it was running alongside a creek for a while." "south creek," alis said. "that's right. it's just over there." "is it still? i mean hasn't it all poured off the edge by now? was that superior's water supply?" alis shrugged. "all i know is you turn on the faucet and there's water. let's go look at the creek." they found it coursing along between the banks. "looks just about the same," she said. "that's funny. come on; let's follow it to the edge." the brink, as alis called it, looked even more awesome by daylight. everything stopped short. there were the remnants of a cornfield, with the withered stalks cut down, then there was nothing. there was south creek surging along, then nothing. in the distance a clump of trees, with a few autumn leaves still clinging to their branches, simply ended. "where is the water going?" don asked. "i can't make it out." "down, i'd say. rain for the earth-people." "i should think it'd be all dried up by now. i'm going to have a look." "don't! you'll fall off!" "i'll be careful." he walked cautiously toward the edge. alis followed him, a few feet behind. he stopped a yard from the brink and waited for a spell of dizziness to pass. the earth was spread out like a topographer's map, far below. don took another wary step, then sat down. "chicken," said alis. she laughed uncertainly, then she sat down, too. "i still can't see where the water goes," don said. he stretched out on his stomach and began to inch forward. "you stay there." finally he had inched to a point where, by stretching out a hand, he could almost reach the edge. he gave another wriggle and the fingers of his right hand closed over the brink. for a moment he lay there, panting, head pressed to the ground. "how do you feel?" alis asked. "scared. when i get my courage back i'll pick up my head and look." alis put a hand out tentatively, then purposefully took hold of his ankle and held it tight. "just in case a high wind comes along," she said. "thanks. it helps. okay, here we go." he lifted his head. "damn." "what?" "it still isn't clear. do you have a pocket mirror?" "i have a compact." she took it out of her bag with her free hand and tossed it to him. it rolled and don had to grab to keep it from going over the edge. alis gave a little shriek. don was momentarily unnerved and had to put his head back on the ground. "sorry," she said. don opened the compact and carefully transferred it to his right hand. he held it out beyond the edge and peered into it, focusing it on the end of the creek. "now i've got it. the water _isn't_ going off the edge!" "it isn't? then where is it going?" "down, of course, but it's as if it's going into a well, or a vertical tunnel, just short of the edge." "why? how?" "i can't see too well, but that's my impression. hold on now. i'm coming back." he inched away from the edge, then got up and brushed himself off. he returned her compact. "i guess you know where we go next." "the other end of the creek?" "exactly." south creek did not bisect superior, as don thought it might, but flowed in an arc through a southern segment of it. they had about two miles to go, past south creek bridge--which used to lead to ladenburg, alis said--past raleigh country club (a long drive would really put the ball out of play, don thought) and on to the edge again. but as they approached what they were forced to consider the source of the creek, they found a wire fence at the spot. "this is new," alis said. the fence, which had a sign on it, warning--electrified, was semicircular, with each end at the edge and tarpaulins strung behind it so they could see the mouth of the creek. the water flowed from under the tarp and fence. "look how it comes in spurts," alis said. "as if it's being pumped." smaller print on the sign said: _protecting mouth of south creek, one of two sources of water for superior. electrical charge in fence is sufficient to kill._ it was signed: _vincent grande, chief of police, hector civek, mayor_. "what's the other source, besides the faucet in your bathroom?" don asked. "north lake, maybe," alis said. "people fish there but nobody's allowed to swim." "is the lake entirely within the town limits?" "i don't know." "if it were on the edge, and if i took a rowboat out on it, i wonder what would happen?" "i know one thing--i wouldn't be there holding your ankle while you found out." she took his arm as they gazed past the electrified fence at the earth below and to the west. "it's impressive, isn't it?" she said. "i wonder if that's indiana way over there?" he patted her hand absent-mindedly. "i wonder if it's west at all. i mean, how do we know superior is maintaining the same position up here as it used to down there?" "we could tell by the sun, silly." "of course," he said, grinning at his stupidity. "and i guess we're not high enough to see very far. if we were we'd be able to see the great lakes--or lake erie, anyway." they were musing about the geography when a plane came out of a cloudbank and, a second later, veered sharply. they could make out ual on the underside of a wing. as it turned they imagined they could see faces peering out of the windows. they waved and thought they saw one or two people wave back. then the plane climbed toward the east and was gone. "well," don said as they turned to go back to cavalier, "now we know that they know. maybe we'll begin to get some answers. or, if not answers, then transportation." "transportation?" alis squeezed the arm she was holding. "why? don't you like it here?" "if you mean don't i like you, the answer is yes, of course i do. but if i don't get out of this handcuff soon so i can take a bath and get into clean clothes, you're not going to like me." "you're still quite acceptable, if a bit whiskery." she stopped, still holding his arm, and he turned so they were face to face. "so kiss me," she said, "before you deteriorate." they were in the midst of an extremely pleasant kiss when the brief case at the end of don's handcuff began to talk to him. iii much of the rest of the world was inclined to regard the elevation of superior, ohio, as a fortean phenomenon in the same category as flying saucers and sea monsters. the press had a field day. most of the headlines were whimsical: town takes off superior lives up to name a rising community the city council of superior, wisconsin, passed a resolution urging its ohio namesake to come back down. the superiors in nebraska, wyoming, arizona and west virginia, glad to have the publicity, added their voices to the plea. the pennsylvania railroad filed a suit demanding that the state of ohio return forthwith one train and five miles of right-of-way. the price of bubble gum went up from one cent to three for a nickel. in parliament a labour member rose to ask the home secretary for assurances that all british cities were firmly fastened down. an ohio waterworks put in a bid for the sixteen square miles of hole that superior had left behind, explaining that it would make a fine reservoir. a company that leased out big advertising signs in times square offered superior a quarter of a million dollars for exclusive rights to advertising space on its bottom, or earthward, side. it sent the offer by air mail, leaving delivery up to the post office. in washington, senator bobby thebold ascertained that his red-haired secretary, jen jervis, had been aboard the train levitated with superior and registered a series of complaints by telephone, starting with the interstate commerce commission and the railroad brotherhoods. he asked the fbi to investigate the possibility of kidnaping and muttered about the likelihood of it all being a communist plot. a little-known congressman from ohio started a rumor that raising of superior was an experiment connected with the united states earth satellite program. the national aeronautics and space administration issued a quick denial. * * * * * two men talked earnestly in an efficient-looking room at the end of one of the more intricate mazes in the pentagon building. neither wore a uniform but the younger man called the other sir, or chief, or general. "we've established definitely that sergeant cort was on that train, have we?" the general asked. "yes, sir. no doubt about it." "and he has the item with him?" "he must have. the only keys are here and at the other end. he couldn't open the handcuff or the brief case." "the only _known_ keys, that is." "oh? how's that, general?" "the sergeant can open the brief case and use the item if we tell him how." "you think it's time to use it? i thought we were saving it." "that was before superior defected. now we can use it to more advantage than any theoretical use it might be put to in the foreseeable future." "we could evacuate cort. take him off in a helicopter or drop him a parachute and let him jump." "no. having him there is a piece of luck. no one knows who he is. we'll assign him there for the duration and have him report regularly. let's go to the message center." * * * * * senator bobby thebold was an imposing six feet two, a muscular , a youthful-looking . he wore his steel-gray hair cut short and his skin was tan the year round. he was a bachelor. he had been a fighter pilot in world war ii and his conversation was peppered with air force slang, much of it out of date. thebold was good newspaper copy and one segment of the press, admiring his fighting ways, had dubbed him bobby the bold. the senator did not mind a bit. at the moment senator thebold was pacing the carpet in the ample working space he'd fought to acquire in the senate office building. he was momentarily at a loss. his inquiries about jen jervis had elicited no satisfaction from the icc, the fbi, or the cia. he was in an alphabetical train of thought and went on to consider the caa, the cab and the cap. he snapped his fingers at cap. he had it. the civil air patrol itself he considered a la-de-da outfit of gentleman flyers, skittering around in light planes, admittedly doing some good, but by and large nothing to excite a former p- pilot who'd won a chestful of ribbons for action in the southwest pacific. ah, but the pp. there was an organization! bobby thebold had been one of the founders of the private pilots, a hard-flying outfit that zoomed into the wild blue yonder on week ends and holidays, engines aroar, propellers aglint, white silk scarves aflap. pp's members were wealthy industrialists, stunt flyers, sportsmen--the elite of the air. pp was a paramilitary organization with the rank of its officers patterned after the royal air force. thus bobby thebold, by virtue of his war record, his charter membership and his national eminence, was wing commander thebold, dfc. wing commander thebold swung into action. he barked into the intercom: "miss riley! get the airport. have them rev up _charger_. tell them i'll be there for oh-nine-fifty-eight take-off. ten-hundred will do. and get my car." _charger_ was bobby the bold's war surplus p- lightning, a sleek, twin-boomed two engine fighter plane restored to its gleaming, paintless aluminum. actually it was an unarmed photo-reconnaissance version of the famous war horse of the pacific, a fact the wing commander preferred to ignore. in compensation, he belted on a . whenever he climbed into the cockpit. thebold got onto operations in pp's midwestern headquarters in chicago. he barked, long distance: "jack perley? group captain perley, that is? bobby, that's right. wing commander thebold now. we've got a mission, jack. scramble blue squadron. what? of course you can; this is an emergency. we'll rendezvous north of columbus--i'll give you the exact grid in half an hour, when i'm airborne. can do? good-o! eta? eleven-twenty est. well, maybe that is optimistic, but i hate to see the day slipping by. make it eleven-forty-five. what? objective? objective superior! got it? okay--roger!" wing commander bobby thebold took his lindbergh-style helmet and goggles from a desk drawer, caressing the limp leather fondly, and put them in a dispatch case. he gave a soft salute to the door behind which jen jervis customarily worked, more as his second-in-command than his secretary, and said half aloud: "okay, jen, we're coming to get you." he didn't know quite how, but bobby the bold and charger would soon be on their way. * * * * * don cort regretfully detached himself from alis garet. "what was that?" he said. "that was me--alis the love-starved. you could be a bit more gallant. even 'how was that?,' though corny, would have been preferable. "no--i mean i thought i heard a voice. didn't you hear anything?" "to be perfectly frank--and i say it with some pique--i was totally absorbed. obviously you weren't." "it was very nice." the countryside, from the edge to the golf course, was deserted. "well, thanks. thanks a bunch. such enthusiasm is more than i can bear. i have to go now. there's an eleven o'clock class in magnetic flux that i'm simply dying to audit." she gave her shoulder-length blonde hair a toss and started back. don hesitated, looked suspiciously at the brief case dangling from his wrist, shook his head, then followed her. the voice, wherever it came from, had not spoken again. "don't be angry, alis." he fell into step on her left and took her arm with his free hand. "it's just that everything is so crazy and nobody seems to be taking it seriously. a town doesn't just get up and take off, and yet nobody up here seems terribly concerned." alis squeezed the hand that held her arm, mollified. "you've got lipstick on your whiskers." "good. i'll never shave again." "ah," she laughed, "gallantry at last. i'll tell you what let's do. we'll go see ed clark, the editor of the sentry. maybe he'll give you some intelligent conversation." the newspaper office was in a ramshackle one-story building on lyric avenue, a block off broadway, superior's main street. it was in an ordinary store front whose windows displayed various ancient stand-up cardboard posters calling attention to a church supper, a state fair, an auto race, and a movie starring h. b. warner. a dust-covered banner urged the election as president of alfred e. smith. there was no one in the front of the shop. alis led don to the rear where a tall skinny man with straggly gray hair was setting type. "good morning, mr. clark," she said. "what's that you're setting--an anti-hoover handbill?" "hello, al. how are you this fine altitudinous day?" "super. or should it be supra? i want you to meet don cort. don, mr. clark." the men shook hands and clark looked curiously at don's handcuff. "it's my theory he's an embezzler," alis said, "and he's made this his getaway town." "as a matter of fact," don said, "the riggs national bank will be worried if i don't get in touch with them soon. i guess you'd know, mr. clark--is there any communication at all out of town?" by prearrangement, a message from don to riggs would be forwarded to military intelligence. "i don't know of any, except for the civek method--a bottle tossed over the edge. the telegraph and telephone lines are cut, of course. there is a radio station in town, wcav, operated from the campus, but it's been silent ever since the great severance. at least nothing local has come over my old atwater kent." "isn't anybody _doing_ anything?" don asked. "sure," clark said. "i'm getting out my paper--there was even an extra this morning--and doing job printing. the job is for a jeweler in ladenburg. i don't know how i'll deliver it, but no one's told me to stop so i'm doing it. i guess everybody's carrying on pretty much as before." "that's what i mean. business as usual. but how about the people who do business out of town? what's western union doing, for instance? and the trucking companies? and the factories? you have two factories, i understand, and pretty soon there's going to be a mighty big surplus of kitchen sinks and chewing gum." "you two go on settling our fate," alis said. "i'd better get back to school. look me up later, don." she waved and went out. "fine girl, that alis," clark said. "got her old man's gumption without his nutty streak. to answer your question, the western union man here is catching up on his bookkeeping and accepting outgoing messages contingent on restoration of service. the sink factory made a shipment two days ago and won't have another ready till next week, so they're carrying on. they have enough raw material for a month. i was planning to visit the bubble gum people this afternoon to see how they're doing. maybe you'd like to come." "yes, i would. i still chew it once in a while, on the sly." clark grinned. "i won't tell. would you like to tidy up, don? there's a washroom out back, with a razor and some mysterious running water. now _there's_ a phenomenon i'd like to get to the bottom of." "thanks. i'll shave with it now and worry about its source later. do you think professor garet and his magnology cult has anything to do with it?" "he'd like to think so, i'm sure." clark shrugged. "we've been airborne less than twelve hours. i guess the answers will come in time. you go clean up and i'll get back to my job." don felt better when he had shaved. it had been awkward because he hadn't been able to take off his coat or shirt, but he'd managed. he was drying his face when the voice came again. this time there was no doubt it came from the brief case chained to his handcuff. "are you alone now?" it asked. startled, don said, "yes." "good. speak closer to the brief case so we won't be overheard. this is captain simmons, sergeant." "yes, sir." "take out your id card. separate the two pieces of plastic. there's a flat plastic key next to the card. open the brief case lock with it." the voice was silent until don, with the help of a razor blade, had done as he was directed. "all right, sir; that's done." "open the brief case, take out the package, open the package and put the wrappings back in the brief case." again the voice stopped. don unwrapped something that looked like a flat cigarette case with two appendages, one a disk of perforated hard rubber the size of a half dollar, and the other a three-quarter-inch-wide ribbon of opaque plastic. "i've got it, sir." "good. what you see is a highly advanced radio transmitter and receiver. you can imagine its value in the field. it's a pilot model you were bringing back from the contractor for tests here. but this seems as useful a way to test it as any other." "it's range is fantastic, captain--if you're in washington." "i am. now. the key also unlocks the handcuff. unlock it. strip to the waist. bend the plastic strip to fit over your shoulder--either one, as you choose. arrange the perforated disk so it's at the base of your neck, under your shirt collar. the thing that looks like a cigarette case is the power pack." don followed the instructions, rubbing his wrist in relief as the handcuff came off. the radio had been well designed and its components went into place as if they had been built to his measure. they tickled a little on his bare skin, that was all. the power pack was surprisingly light. "that's done, sir," don said. the answer came softly. "so i hear. you almost blasted my ear off. from now on, when you speak to me, or whoever's at this end, a barely audible murmur will be sufficient. try it." "yes, captain," don whispered. "i'm trying it now." "don't whisper. i can hear you all right, but so could people you wouldn't want overhearing at your end. a whisper carries farther than you think. talk low." don practiced while he put his shirt, tie and coat back on. "good," captain simmons said. "practice talking without moving your lips, for occasions when you might have to transmit to us in someone's view. now put your handcuff back on and lock it." "oh, damn," don said under his breath. "i heard that." "sorry, sir, but it is a nuisance." "i know, but you have to get rid of it logically. when you get a chance go to the local bank. it's the superior state bank on mcentee street. show them your credentials from riggs national and ask them to keep your brief case in their vault. get a receipt. then, at your first opportunity, burn the plastic key and your id card." "yes, sir." "keep up your masquerade as a bank messenger and try to find out, as if you were an ordinary curiosity-seeker, all you can about cavalier institute. you've made a good start with the garet girl. get to know her father, the professor." "yes, sir." don realized with embarrassment that his little romantic interlude with alis must have been eavesdropped on. "are there any particular times i'm to report?" "you will be reporting constantly. that's the beauty of this radio." "you mean i can't turn it off? i won't have any privacy? there'll always be somebody listening?" "exactly. but you mustn't be inhibited. your private life is still your own and no one will criticize. your unofficial actions will simply be ignored." "oh, great!" "you must rely on our discretion, sergeant. i'm sure you'll get used to it. enough of this for now. we mustn't excite clark's suspicions. go back to him now and carry on. you'll receive further instructions as they are necessary. and remember--don't be inhibited." "no, sir," don said ruefully. he went back to the printshop, feeling like a goldfish bowl. iv ed clark took don to the superior state bank and introduced him to the president, who was delighted to do business with a representative of riggs national of washington, d. c. don told him nothing about the contents of the brief case, but the banker seemed to be under the impression they were securities or maybe even a million dollars cash, and don said nothing to spoil his pleasure. outside again, with the receipt in his wallet, don stood with clark on the corner of mcentee street and broadway. "this is the heart of town, you might say," the newspaper editor said. "the bubble gum factory is over that way, on the railroad spur. maybe you can smell it. smells real nice, i think." don rubbed the wrist that had been manacled for so long. he was sniffing politely when there was a roar of engines and a squadron of fighter planes buzzed broadway. they screamed over at little more than roof level, then were gone. they were overhead so briefly that don noticed only that they were p- 's, at least four of them. "things are beginning to happen," don said. "the air force is having a look-see." clark shook his head. "that wasn't the air force. those were the pp boys. they're the only ones who fly those lightnings these days." "pp?" "private pilots. bobby the bold's airborne vigilantes. wonder what they're up to?" "oh. senator bobby thebold, s.o.b." "if you want to put it that way, yes." "it's a private joke. but i think i know what they're up to--or why. the senator's secretary is marooned up here, like me. she was on the train, too." "you don't say! i got scooped on that one. which one is she?" "the redhead. geneva jervis. i haven't seen her since last night, come to think of it." the p- 's screamed over again, this time from west to east. don counted six planes now and made out the pp markings. people had come out of stores and business buildings and were looking out of upstairs windows at the sky. they were rewarded by a third thundering flypast of the fighter planes. they were higher this time, spread out laterally as if to search maximum terrain. "big deal," clark said. "this show would bring anyone outdoors, but even if they see her what do you suppose they can do about it? there's no place in town flat enough for a piper cub to land, let alone a fighter plane." "how about the golf course?" "raleigh? worst set of links in the whole united states. a helicopter could put down there, but that's about all. what's old bobby so worked up about, i wonder? unless there's something to that gossip about this jervis girl being his mistress and he's showing off for her." "he'd show off for anybody, they tell me," don said. then he remembered that military intelligence was listening in. if any pro-thebold people were among his eavesdroppers, he hoped they respected his private right to be anti-thebold. at that moment he and clark were thrown against the side of the bank building. they clung to each other and don noticed that the sun had moved a few degrees in the sky. "oh-oh," clark grunted. "superior's taking evasive action. thinks it's being attacked." as they regained their footing he asked, "do you feel heavy in the legs?" "yes. as if i were going up in an express elevator." "exactly. somebody's getting us up beyond the reach of these pesky planes, i'd guess." the p- 's were overhead again, but now they seemed to be diving on the town. more likely, if clark's theory was right, it was an illusion--the planes were flying level but the town was rising fast. "they'd better climb," don said, "or they'll crash!" there was the sound of a crash almost immediately, from the south end of town. don and clark ran toward it, fighting the heaviness in their legs. a dozen others were ahead of them, running sluggishly across south creek bridge. beyond, just short of the edge, was the wreckage of a fighter plane and, behind it, the torn-up ground of a crash landing. there was no fire. the pilot struggled out of the cockpit. he dropped to the ground, felt himself to see if any bones were broken, then saw the crowd running toward him. the pilot hesitated, then ran toward the edge. shouts came from the crowd. with a last glance over his shoulder, the pilot leaped and went over the edge. the crowd, don and clark among them, approached more cautiously. they made out a falling dot and, a second later, saw a parachute blossom open. the other planes appeared and flew a wide protective circle around the chutist. "do you think that's bobby thebold?" don asked. "probably not. that was the last plane in the formation. thebold would be the leader." they went back past the crashed plane, surrounded by a growing crowd from town, and recrossed the bridge. "look at the water," the editor said. "ice is forming." "and we're still rising," don said, "if my legs are any judge. do you think there's a connection?" clark shrugged. he turned up his coat collar and rubbed his hands. "all i know is the higher we go the colder we get. come on back to the shop and warm up." they turned at the sound of engines. two of the five remaining p- 's had detached themselves from their cover of the chutist and were flying around the rim of superior--as if unwilling to risk another flight across the surface of the town that seemed determined to become a satellite of earth. * * * * * when don cort reached the campus he was shivering, in spite of the sweater and topcoat ed clark had lent him. he asked a student where the administration building was and at the desk inquired for professor garet. a gray-haired, dedicated-looking woman told him impatiently that professor garet was in his laboratory and couldn't be disturbed. she wouldn't tell him where the laboratory was. "have you seen miss jervis?" don wondered whether the redhead appreciated the demonstration her boss, the flying senator, had put on for her. the woman behind the desk shook her head. "you're two of the people from the train, aren't you? well, you're all supposed to report to the dining room at two o'clock." "what for?" "you'll find out at two o'clock." it was obvious he would get no more information from her. don left the building. it was half-past one. he crossed the near-deserted campus. his legs still felt heavy and he assumed superior was still rising. it certainly seemed to be getting increasingly colder. he wondered how high they were and whether it would snow. he hoped not. how high did you have to be before you got up where it didn't snow any more? he had no idea. he did recall that mount everest was , feet up and that it snowed up there. or would it be _down_ there, relatively speaking? how high could they be, and didn't anybody care? the frosty old receptionist seemed to be typical in her business-as-usual, come-what-may attitude. even ed clark didn't seem as concerned as he ought to be about superior's ascent into the stratosphere. clark was interested, certainly, but he'd given don the impression that he was no more curious than he would be about any other phenomenon he'd write about in next week's paper--a two-headed calf, for instance. don remembered now that the conquerors of everest had needed oxygen in the rarefied atmosphere near the summit and he experimentally took a couple of deep breaths. no difficulty. therefore they weren't , feet up--yet. small comfort, he thought, as he shivered again. he picked out a building at random. classes were in session behind the closed but windowed doors along the hall. from the third door he saw alis garet, sitting at the back of a small classroom. her attention had wandered from the instructor and when she saw don she smiled and beckoned. he hesitated, then opened the door and went in as quietly as he could. the instructor paused briefly, nodded, then went back to a droning lecture. it seemed to be an english literature class. alis cleared some books off a chair next to her and don sat down. "who turned you loose?" she whispered. he realized she was referring to his de-handcuffed wrist and grinned, indicating that he'd tell her later. "i see you've been outfitted for our new climate," she went on. a student in the row of chairs ahead turned and frowned. the instructor talked on, oblivious. don nodded and said "_sh_." "don't let them intimidate you. did you see the planes?" more students were turning and glaring and don's embarrassment grew. "come on," he said. "let's cut this class." "bravo!" she said. "spoken like a true cavalier." she gathered up her books. the instructor, without interrupting his lecture, followed them with his eyes as they left the room. "now i'll never know whether the young princes got out of the tower alive," she said. "they didn't. the question is, will we?" "i certainly hope so. i'll have to speak to father about it." "he's locked up in his lab, they tell me. where would that be?" "in the tower, as a matter of fact. the bell tower that the founding fathers built and then didn't have enough money to buy bells for. but you can't go up there--it's the holy of holies." "can you?" "no. why? you don't think father is making all this happen, do you?" "somebody is. professor garet seems as good a suspect as any." "oh, he likes to act mysterious, but it's all an act. poor old father is just a crackpot theorist. i told you that. he couldn't pick up steel filing with a magnet." "i wonder. look, somebody's called a meeting for us outsiders from the train at two o'clock. it's almost that now. maybe i'll have a chance to ask some questions. will your father be there?" "i'm sure he will. he's a great meeting-caller. i'll go with you. and, since you have two free hands now, you can hold my books. maybe later you'll get a chance to hold me." * * * * * among the people sitting around the bare tables in the dining room, don recognized the conductor and other trainmen, two stocky individuals who had the look of traveling salesmen, an elderly couple who held hands, a young couple with a baby, two nuns, a soldier apparently going on or returning from furlough, and a tall, hawk-nosed man don classified on no evidence at all as a shakespearean actor. all had been on the train. he didn't see geneva jervis anywhere. an improvised speaker's table had been set up at one end of the room, near the door to the kitchen. a heavy-set man sat at the table talking to mrs. garet, the professor's wife. "the stoutish gentleman next to mother is the president of cavalier," alis said. "maynard rubach. when you talk to him be sure to call him _doctor_ rubach. he's not a ph.d. and he's sensitive about it, but he did used to be a veterinarian." they sat down near the big table and mrs. garet smiled and waved at them. mayor civek came in through the kitchen door, licking a finger as if he'd been sampling something on the way, and sat down next to mrs. garet. at that moment don's stomach gave a hop and he felt blood rushing to his head. others also had pained or nauseous expressions. "ugh," alis said. "now what?" "i'd guess," don said when his stomach had settled back in place, "that we've stopped rising." "you mean we've gone as high as we're going to go?" "i hope so. we'd run out of air if we went much higher." professor garet came in presently, looking pleased with himself. he nodded to his wife and the men next to her and cleared his throat as he looked out over the room. "altitude , feet," he announced without preamble. "temperature sixteen degrees fahrenheit. from here on out--" he paused, repeated "out" and chuckled--"it's going to be a bit chilly. those of you who are inadequately clothed will see my wife for extra garments. i believe you have been comfortably housed and fed. there will, of course, be no charge for these services while you are the guests of the cavalier institute of applied sciences. thank you. i now present mr. hector civek, the mayor of superior, who will answer any other questions you may have." don looked at alis, who shrugged. the conductor stood and opened a notebook which he consulted. "i have a few questions, mr. mayor. these people have asked me to speak for them and there's one question that outweighs all the others. that is--are you going to take us back to earth? if so, when? and how?" civek cleared his throat. he took a sip of water. "as for the first question--we certainly hope to take you and ourselves back to earth. i can't answer the others." "you hope to?" "earnestly. i turn blue easily myself, and i'm as anxious as you are to get back. but when that will be depends entirely on circumstances. circumstances, uh, beyond my control." "who's controlling them, then? your friend with the whiskers?" professor garet smiled amiably and patted his beard. the portly maynard rubach got up and civek sat down. "i am dr. maynard rubach, president of cavalier. i must insist that in common decency we all refrain from personal references. mr. civek has done his best to give you an explanation, but of course he is a layman and, while he has many excellent qualities, we cannot expect him to be conversant with the principles of science. i will therefore attempt to explain. "as you know, science has been aware for hundreds of years that the earth is a giant magnet...." don saw geneva jervis. she was at the kitchen door beyond the speaker's table. "... the isogenic and the isoclinic ..." the red-haired miss jervis saw don now and put her finger to her lips. "... an ultimote, which is simultaneously an integral part of ..." now the redhead was beckoning to him urgently. he excused himself to alis, who frowned when she saw the other girl; then he went back of the speaker's table ("... , tenescopes to the square centimeter ...") into the kitchen. jen jervis was by now at the far end of it, motioning him to hurry up. "i've found something," she said. she was wearing a shapeless fur coat, apparently borrowed. "come on. you'll have to see it." "all right, but why me?" "aside from myself you seem to be the only one from the train with any gumption. i know you've been spying around doing things while everybody else sat back and waited for deliverance. though i can't say i admire your choice of companions. that tawdry blonde--" "now, really, miss jervis!" "tawny, then; sometimes i mix up my words." "i'll bet." she led him out the back door and across the frozen ground past several buildings. they reached what once must have been an athletic field. "at the far end," she said. "come on." "where were you when your boy friend and his daredevil aces came over?" "i saw them." "did they see you?" "none of your business." he shrugged. they were at a section of the grandstand at the end of the field. jen jervis indicated a door and don opened it. it led to a big room under the stands. "what does this remind you of?" she asked. don looked blank. in the dim light he could see some planking, a long-deflated football, ancient peanut shells and an empty pint bottle. "i don't know. what?" "stagg field? at the university of chicago? under the stands where they first made an atomic pile work?" she looked at him with the air of an investigator hot on the scent. he shrugged. "never been there. so what?" "it's a pattern. this is where they've hidden their secret." "it looks more like the place a co-ed and her boy friend might go to have a little fun. in warmer weather, of course." "oh!" she said. "you're disgusting! look over there." he looked, wondering what made this young attractive woman hypersensitive on the subject of sex. this was the second time she'd blazed up over nothing. what he saw where she pointed was a door at a -degree angle to the ground, set into a triangular block of concrete. "where does that go?" he asked. "down," she said as they walked toward it. "and there's some machinery or something down there. i heard it. or maybe i only felt the vibrations. it throbs, anyway." "probably the generator for the school's lighting system. did you go down and look?" "no." "all right, then." he opened the door. "down we go." at the bottom of a flight of steps there was a corridor lit by dim electric light bulbs along one wall. the corridor became a tunnel, sloping gradually downward. they had been going north, don judged, but then the tunnel made a right turn and now they were following it due east. "i don't hear any throbbing," he said. "well, i did, and from way up here. they must have turned it off." "how long ago was that?" "an hour, maybe." "while we were still rising. that would make sense. we've stopped again, you know. professor garet gave us a bulletin on it." he had been going ahead of her in the narrow tunnel. now it widened and they were able to walk side by side. there seemed to be no end to it. but then they came to a sturdy-looking door, padlocked. "that's that," don said. "that's that nothing," she said. "break it down." he laughed. "you flatter me. come on back." "don't you think this is at all peculiar? a tunnel starting under an abandoned grandstand, running all this way and ending in a locked door?" "maybe this was a station on the underground railway. it looks old enough." "we're going through that door." she opened her purse and took out a key ring. on it was an extensive collection of keys. eventually she found one that opened the padlock. "well!" he said. "who taught you _that_?" "open the door." the corridor beyond the door was lined--walls, ceiling and floor--with a silvery metal. it continued east a hundred yards or so, swung north and then went east again, widening all the time. it ended in a great room whose far wall was glass or some equally transparent substance. the room was a huge observatory at the end of superior but below its rim. they could look down from it, not without a touch of nausea, to the earth four miles below. don, thinking of the surface of superior above, thought it was as if they were looking out of the gondola slung beneath a dirigible. or from one of the lower portholes in a giant flying saucer. v there were clouds below that occasionally hid the earth from sight. for a minute or more they gazed in silence at the magnificent view. "this wasn't built in a day," jen jervis said at last. "i should say not," don agreed. "millions of years." she looked at him sharply. "i wasn't talking about the age of the earth. i mean this room--this lookout post--whatever it is." he grinned at her. "i agree with you there, too. i'm really a very agreeable fellow, miss jervis. obviously, whoever built it knew well in advance that superior was going to take off. they also knew how much of it was going up and exactly where this would have to be built so it would be at the edge." "under the edge, you mean, with a downward view." "that's right. from a distance i'd say superior looked as if someone had cut the end off an orange. the flat part--where the cut was made--is the surface and we're looking out from a piece of the convex skin." "you put things so simply, mr. cort, that even a child could understand," she said acidly. "thank you," he said complacently. he had remembered that whoever was listening in for military intelligence through the tiny radio under his shirt could have only a vague idea of what was going on. any little word pictures he could supply, therefore, would help them understand. he had to risk the fact that his companion might think him a bit of an idiot. of course with this geneva jervis it was easy to lay himself open to the scathing comment and the barbed retort. he imagined she was extremely useful in her role as girl friday to senator bobby thebold. "i don't think this is the work of those boobies at the booby hatch," she was saying. "i beg your pardon?" "the cavalier institution of applied foolishness, whatever they call it. they just wouldn't be capable of an undertaking of this scope." "oh, i agree. that's why i let you drag me away from the meeting. it was a lot of pseudo-scientific malarkey. old doc rubach, d.v.m., was going on about the ultimote being connected to the thighbone, way up in the middle of the air. tell me, who do _you_ think is behind it all?" she was walking around the big-sided room as if taking mental inventory. there wasn't much to catalogue--six straight chairs, heavy and modern-looking, with a large wooden table, a framed piece of dark glass that might be a television set, and a gray steel box about the size and shape of a three-drawer filing cabinet. this last was near the big window-wall and had three black buttons on its otherwise smooth top. don itched to push the buttons to see what would happen. jen jervis seemed to have the same urge. she drummed on the box with her long fingernails. "i?" she said. "behind it all?" "yes. what's your theory? is this something for the un-earthly activities committee to investigate?" "don't be impertinent. if the senator thinks it's his duty to look into it, he will. he undoubtedly is already. in the meantime, i can do no less than gather whatever information i can while i'm on the scene." "very patriotic. what do you conclude from your information-gathering so far?" "obviously there's some kind of conspiracy--" she began, then stopped as if she suspected a trap. "--afoot," don said with a grin. "as i see it, all you do is have bobby the bold subpoena everybody up here--every last man-jack of 'em--to testify before his committee. they wouldn't dare refuse." "i don't find you a bit amusing, mr. cort, though i have no doubt this sophomoric humor makes a big hit with your teen-age blonde. we'd better get back. i can see it was a mistake to expect any co-operation from you." "as you like, madame investigator." don gave her a mock bow, then turned for a last look down at the vast segment of earth below. geneva jervis screamed. he whirled to see her standing, big-eyed and open-mouthed, in front of the framed dark glass he had taken for a television screen. her face was contorted in horror, and as don's gaze flicked to the screen he had the barest glimpse of a pair of eyes fading with a dissolving image. then the screen was blank and don wasn't sure whether there had been a face to go with the eyes--an inhuman, un-earthly face--or whether his imagination had supplied it. the girl slumped to the floor in a faint. * * * * * _columbus, ohio, nov. (ap)--sen. robert (bobby) thebold landed here today after leading his private pilots (pp) squadron of p- 's on a reconnaissance flight which resulted in the loss of one of the six world war ii fighters in a crash landing on the mysteriously airborne town of superior, ohio. the pilot of the crashed plane parachuted safely to earth._ _sen. thebold told reporters grimly:_ _"there is no doubt in my mind that mysterious forces are at work when a town of , population can rise in a body off the face of the earth. my reconnaissance has shown conclusively that the town is intact and its inhabitants alive. on one of my passes i saw my secretary, miss geneva jervis."_ _sen. thebold said he was confident miss jervis would contact him the moment she had anything to report, indicating she would make an on-the-spot investigation._ _the senator said in reply to a question that he was "amazed" at official washington's "complete inaction" in the matter, and declared he would demand a probe by the senate investigations subcommittee, of which he is a member. he indicated witnesses might include officials of the defense department, the central intelligence agency, and "possibly others."_ * * * * * _ladenburg, ohio, nov. (upi)--little ladenburg, former neighbor of "the city in the sky," complained today of a rain of empty beer cans and other rubbish, apparently being tossed over the edge by residents of airborne superior._ _"they're not so high and mighty," one sanitation official here said, "that they can make ladenburg their garbage dump."_ * * * * * _washington, nov. (reuters)--american officials today were at a loss to explain the strange behaviour of superior, ohio, "the town that took off."_ _authoritative sources assured reuters that no military or scientific experiments were in progress which could account for the phenomenon of a town being lifted intact thousands of feet into the air._ _rumors circulating to the effect that a "communist plot" was at work were greeted with extreme scepticism in official quarters._ * * * * * bulletin _columbus, ohio, nov. (upi)--the airborne town of superior began to drift east across ohio late today._ vi the unconscious geneva jervis, lying crumpled up in the oversized fur coat, was the immediate problem. don cort straightened her out so she lay on her back, took off her shoes and propped her ankles on the lower rung of a chair. he found she was wearing a belt and loosened it. it was obvious that she was also wearing a girdle but there wasn't anything he wanted to do about that. he was rubbing one of her wrists when her eyes fluttered open. she smiled self-consciously. "i guess i was a sissy." "not at all. i saw it, too. a pair of eyes." "and a face! a horrible, horrible face." "i wasn't sure about the face. can you describe it?" she darted a tentative look at the screen but it was comfortingly blank. "it wasn't human. and it was staring right into me. it was awful!" "did it have a nose, ears, mouth?" "i--i can't be sure. let's get out of here. i'm all right now. thanks for being so good to me--don." "don't mention it--jen. here, put your shoes on." when he had closed the big wooden door behind them, don padlocked it again. he preferred to leave things as they'd found them, even though their visit to the observation room was no longer a secret. he was relieved when they had scrambled up the steps under the grandstand. there had been no sense of anyone or anything following them or spying on them during their long walk through the tunnel. they were silent with their separate thoughts as they crossed the frosty ground and jen held don's arm, more for companionship than support. at the campus the girl excused herself, saying she still felt shaky and wanted to rest in her room. don went back to the dining room. the meeting was over but alis garet was there, having a cup of tea and reading a book. "well, sir," she said, giving him an intent look, "how was the rendezvous?" "fair to middling." he was relieved to see that she wasn't angry. "did anybody say anything while i was gone?" "not a coherent word. you don't deserve it but i made notes for you. running off with that redhead when you have a perfectly adequate blonde. did you kiss her?" "of course not. it was strictly business. let me see the notes, you angel." "notes, then." she handed over a wad of paper. "rubach," he read, "magnology stuff stuff stuff etc. etc. nothing. "q. (conductor jas brown) wht abt mayor's proclamation superior seceded frm earth? "a. (civek) repeated stuff abt discrimination agnst spr & cavlr & bubl gum prices. "q. wht u xpct gain? "a. stuff abt end discrimination. "q. sovereignty? "a. how's that? "q. r u trying set up spr as separate city-state w/govt independent of u s or earth? ('that conductor brown is sharper than i gave him credit for,' alis elaborated.) "a. hem & haw. well now. "q. well, r u? "a. (father, rescuing civek) q of sovereignty must remain temporarily up in the air. laughter (father's). when & if spr returns wil acpt state-fed laws as b but meantime circs warrant adapt to prevailing conditions. "rest of mtg was abt sleeping arngmnts, meals, recreation privileges, clothing etc." don folded the notes and put them in his pocket. "thanks. i see i didn't miss much. the only thing it seems to add is that mayor civek is a figurehead, and that if the cavalier people know anything they're not talking, except in gobbledygook." "check," alis said. "now let's go take a look at pittsburgh." "pittsburgh?" "that's where we are now. one of the students who lives there peeped over the edge a while ago. i was waiting for you to come back before i went to have a look." "pittsburgh?" don repeated. "you mean superior's drifting across the united states?" "either that or it's being pushed. let's go see." * * * * * there hadn't been much to see and it had been too cold to watch for long. the lights of pittsburgh were beginning to go on in the dusk and the city looked pretty and far away. a pennsylvania air national guard plane came up to investigate, but from a respectful distance. then it flew off. don left alis, shivering, at her door and decided he wanted a drink. he remembered having seen a sign, _club lyric_, down the street from the _sentry_ office and he headed for it. "sergeant cort," said a muffled voice under his collar. don jumped. he'd forgotten for the moment that he was a walking radio station. "yes?" he said. "reception has been excellent," the voice said. it was no longer that of captain simmons. "you needn't recapitulate. we've heard all your conversations and feel we know as much as you do. you'll have to admit it isn't much." "i'm afraid not. what do you want me to do now? should i go back and investigate that underground room again? that seems to be the best lead so far." "no. you're just a bank messenger whose biggest concern was to safeguard the contents of the brief case. now that the contents are presumably in the bank vault your official worries are over, and though you're curious to know why superior's acting the way it is, you're willing to let somebody else do something about it." "but they saw me in the room. those eyes, whatever they are. i had the feeling--well, that they weren't human." "nonsense!" the voice from the pentagon said. "an ordinary closed-circuit television hookup. don't let your imagination run away with you, and above all don't play spy. if they're suspicious of anyone it will be of geneva jervis because of her connection with senator thebold. where are you going now?" "well, sir, i thought--that is, if there's no objection--i thought i'd go have a drink. see what the townspeople are saying." "good idea. do that." "what are they saying in washington? does anybody put any stock in this magnology stuff of professor garet's?" "facts are being collated. there's been no evaluation yet. you'll hear from us again when there's something to tell you. for now, cort, carry on. you're doing a splendid job." the streets were cold, dark, and deserted. the few street lights were feeble and the lights in houses and other buildings seemed dimmer than normal. a biting wind had sprung up and don was glad when he saw the neon words _club lyric_ ahead. the bartender greeted him cheerfully. "it ain't a fit night. what'll it be?" don decided on a straight shot, to start. "what's going on?" he asked. "where's the old town going?" the bartender shrugged. "let civek worry about that. it's what we pay him for, ain't it?" "i suppose so. how're you fixed for liquor? big supply?" "last a coupla weeks unless people start drinking more than usual. beer'll run out first." "that's right, i guess. but aren't you worried about being up in the air like this?" the bartender shrugged again. "not much i can do about it, is there? want another shot?" "mix it this time. a little soda. is that the general attitude? business as usual?" "i hear some business is picking up. lot of people buying winter clothes, for one thing, weather turning cold the way it did. and dabney brothers--they run the coal and fuel oil company--got enough orders to keep them going night and day for a week." "that's fine. but when they eventually run out, like you, then what? everybody freeze to death?" the bartender made a thoughtful face. "you got something there. oh, hello, ed. kinda brisk tonight." it was ed clark, the newspaperman. clark nodded to the bartender, who began to mix him a martini. "freeze the ears off a brass monkey," clark said, joining don. "i have an extra pair of earmuffs if you'd like them." "thanks," don said, "but i think i'd better buy myself some winter clothes tomorrow and return yours." "suit yourself. planning to settle down here?" "i don't seem to have much choice. anything new at your end?" clark lifted his brimming glass and took a sip. "here's to a mild winter. new? i guess you know we're in pennsylvania now and not ohio. _over_ pennsylvania, i should say. don't ask me why, unless hector civek thinks superior will get a better break, taxwise." "you think the mayor's behind it all?" "he has his delusions of grandeur, like a lot of people here. but i do think hector knows more than he's telling. some of the merchants--mostly those whose business hasn't benefited by the cold wave--have called a meeting for tomorrow. they want to pump him." "he wasn't exactly a flowing spout at cavalier this afternoon when the people from the train wanted answers." "so that's where he was. they couldn't find him at town hall." "where's it all going to end? if we keep on drifting we'll be over the atlantic--next stop europe. then superior will be crossing national boundaries instead of just state lines, and some country may decide we're violating its air space and shoot us out of the sky." "i see you take the long view," clark said. "is there any other?" don asked. "the alternative is to kid ourselves that everything's all right and trust in providence and hector civek. what is it with you people? you don't seem to realize that sixteen square miles of solid earth, and three thousand people, have taken off to go waltzing through the sky. that isn't just something that happens. something or somebody's making it happen. the question is who or what, and what are you going to do about it?" the bartender said, "the boy's right, ed. how do we know they won't take us up higher--up where there's no air? then we'd be cooked." clark laughed. "'cooked' is hardly the word. but i agree that things are getting out of hand." he set down his glass with a clink. "i know the man we want. old doc bendy. he could stir things up. remember the time they tried to run the pipeline through town and doc formed a citizens committee and stopped them?" "stopped them dead," the bartender recalled, then cleared his throat. "speak of the devil." he raised his voice and greeted the man who had just walked in. "well, doc. long time since we've had the pleasure of your company. nice to see you." * * * * * doc bendy was an imposing old gentleman of more than average height and magnificent girth. he carried a paunch with authority. his hands, at the ends of short arms, seemed to fall naturally to it, and he patted the paunch with satisfaction as he spoke. he was dressed for the cold weather in an old frock coat, black turning green, with a double line of oversized buttons down the front and huge eighteenth-century lapels. he wore a battered black slouch hat which long ago had given up the pretense of holding any particular shape. "salutations, gentlemen!" doc bendy boomed, striding majestically toward the bar. "they tell me our peripatetic little town has just passed pittsburgh. i'd have thought it more likely we'd crossed the arctic circle. rum, bartender, is the only suitable potable for the occasion." clark introduced don, who saw that close up doc bendy's face was full and firm rather than fat. the nose had begun to develop the network of visible blood vessels which indicated a fondness for the bottle. shaggy white eyebrows matched the fringe of white hair that sprouted from under the sides and back of the slouch hat. the eyes themselves were alert and humorous. the mouth rose subtly at the corners and, though bendy never seemed to smile outright, it conveyed the same humor as the eyes. these two features, in fact, saved the old man from seeming pompous. don noticed that the rum the bartender poured for bendy was proof and the portion was a generous one. bendy raised his glass. "your health, gentlemen." he took a sip and put it down. "i might also drink to a happy voyage, destination unknown." "don here thinks we're in danger of drifting over europe." "a distinct possibility," bendy said. "your passports are in order, i trust? i remember the first time i went to the continent. it was with black jack pershing and the aef." "were you in the medical corps, sir?" don asked. doc bendy boomed with laughter, holding his paunch. "bless your soul, lad, i'm no doctor. i was on the board of directors of superior's first hospital, hence the title. a mere courtesy, conferred on me by a grateful citizenry." "the citizens might be looking to you again, doc," clark said, "since their elected representatives are letting them down." "but not _bringing_ them down, eh? suppose you tell me what you know, mr. editor. i assume you're the best-informed man on the situation, barring the conspirators who have dragged us aloft." "you think it's a conspiracy?" "it's not an act of god." clark began to fill an ancient pipe, so well caked that the pencil with which he tamped the tobacco barely fitted into the bowl. by the time the pipe was ready for a match he had exhausted the solid facts. don then took over and described the underground passage he had seen that afternoon. he was about to go further when the old man held up a hand. "the facts only, if you please. mr. cort, what you saw in the underground chamber fits in remarkably with something i stumbled on this afternoon while i was skating." "skating?" clark said. "ice skating. at north lake. it's completely frozen over and i'm not so decrepit that i can't glide on a pair of blades. well, i was gliding along, humming the _skater's waltz_, when i tripped over a stump. when i said i stumbled on something i was speaking literally, because i fell flat. while i lay there, with the breath knocked out of me, my face was only an inch from the ice and i realized i was eye-to-eye with a thing. just as you were, mr. cort." "you mean there was something under the ice?" "exactly. staring up at me. balefully, i suppose you could say, as if it resented my presence." "did you see the whole face?" "i'd be embroidering if i said yes. it seemed--but i must stick to the facts. i saw only the eyes. two perfectly circular eyes, which glared at me for a moment, then disappeared." "it could have been a fish," clark said. "no. a fish is about the most expressionless thing there is, while these eyes had intelligence behind them. none of your empty, fishy stares." clark knocked his pipe against the edge of the bar so the ashes fell in the vicinity of an old brass cuspidor. "so, since what you and don saw were both under the surface, we could put two and two together and assume that some kind of alien beings have taken up residence in superior's lower levels?" "only if you think two and two make five," doc bendy said. "but even if they don't, there's a great deal more going on than civek knows, or the garet-rubach crowd at cavalier will admit. it seems to me, gentlemen, that it's time i set up a committee." vii miss leora frisbie, spinster, was found dead in the mushroom cellar of her home on ryder avenue in the northeastern part of town. she had been sitting in a camp chair, bundled in heavy clothing, when she died. she had been subject to heart trouble and that fact, coupled with notes she had been making on a pad in her lap, led the coroner to believe she had been frightened to death. the first entry on the pad said: _someone stealing my mushrooms; must keep vigil_. the notes continued: _sitting in chair near stairs. single -w. bulb dims, gravity increases. superior rising again? movement in corner--soil being pushed up from underneath. hand. hand? claw!_ _claw withdraws._ _head. rat? no. bigger._ _human? no. but the eyes eyes ey_ that was all. photostatic copies of the late miss frisbie's notes and the coroner's report became exhibits one and two in doc bendy's dossier. exhibit three was a carbon copy of a report by the stock control clerk at the bubble gum factory. bubble gum had been piling up in the warehouse on the railroad siding back of reilly street. the stock control clerk, armand specht, was taking inventory when he saw a movement at the far end of the warehouse. his report follows: _investigated and found carton had been dislodged from top of pile and broken into. gross of cheeky brand missing. saw something sitting with back to me opening packages, stuffing gum into mouth, wax paper and all, half-dozen at time. looked like overgrown chimpanzee. it turned and saw me, continuing to chew. didn't get clear look before it disappeared but noticed two things: one, that its cheeks bulged out from chewing so much gum at once, and other, that its eyes were round and bright, even in dim corner. then animal turned and disappeared behind pile of cheekys. no chimpanzee. didn't follow right away but when i did it was gone._ exhibit four: _dear diary: _there wasn't any tv tonight and i asked grandfather bendy what to do and he said "marie, when i was young, boys and girls made their own fun" and so i got out the scrabble and asked mom and dad to play but they said no they had to go to the warners and play bridge. so they went and i was playing pretending i was both sides when the door opened and i said hello grandfather but it wasn't him it was like a kangaroo and it had big eyes that were friendly._ _after a while i went over and scratched its ears and it liked that and then it went over to the table and looked at the scrabble. i thought wouldn't it be funny if it could play but it couldn't. but it could spell! it had hands like claws with long black fingernails and fur on them (the fingers) and it pushed the letters around so they spelled name and i spelled out marie._ _then i spelled out who are you and it spelled gizl._ _then i spelled how old are you and it put all the blank spaces together._ _i said where do you live and it spelled here. then i changed to where do you come from and it pointed to the blanks again._ _the gizl went away before mom and dad came home and i didn't tell them about it but i'll tell grandfather bendy because he understands better about things like the time i had an invisible friend._ * * * * * don cort went to bed in the dormitory at cavalier with the surprised realization that it had been only twenty-four hours since superior took off. it seemed more like a week. when he woke up the floating town was over new york. some high-flying skywriters were at work. _welcome superior--drink pepsi-cola_ their message said. don dressed quickly and hurried to the brink. alis garet was there among a little crowd, bundled up in a parka. "is that the hudson river?" she asked him. "where's the empire state building?" "yes," he said. "haven't you ever been to new york? i can't quite make it out. it's somewhere south of that patch of green--that's central park." "no, i've never been out of ohio. i thought new york was a big city." "it's big enough. don't forget we're four miles up. have you seen any planes besides the skywriters?" "just some airliners, way down," she said. "were you expecting someone?" "seeing how it's our last port of call, i thought there might be some federal boys flying around. i shouldn't think they'd want a chunk of their real estate exported to europe." "are we going to europe?" "bound to if we don't change course." "why?" "my very next words were going to be 'don't ask me why.' i ask you. you're closer to the horse's mouth than i am." "if you mean father," alis said, "i told you i don't enjoy his confidence." "haven't you even got an inkling of what he's up to?" "i'm sure he's not the master mind, if that's what you mean." "then who is? rubach? civek? the chief of police? or the bubble gum king, whoever he is?" "cheeky mcferson?" she laughed. "i went to grade school with him and if he's got a mind i never noticed it." "mcferson? he's just a kid, isn't he?" "his father died a couple of years ago and cheeky's the president on paper, but the business office runs things. we call him cheeky because he always had a wad of company gum in his cheek. supposed to be an advertisement. but he never gave me any and i always chewed wrigley's for spite." "oh." don chewed the inside of his own cheek and watched the coastline. "that's connecticut now," he said. "we're certainly not slowing down for customs." a speck, trailing vapor through the cold upper air, headed toward them from the general direction of new england. as it came closer don saw that it was a b- hustler bomber. he recognized it by the mysterious pod it carried under its body, three-quarters as long as the fuselage. "it's not going to shoot us down, is it?" alis asked. "hardly. i'm glad to see it. it's about time somebody took an interest in us besides bobby thebold and his leftover lightnings." the b- rapidly closed the last few miles between them, banked and circled superior. "attention people of superior," a voice from the plane said. the magnified words reached them distinctly through the cold air. "inasmuch as you are now leaving the continental united states, this aircraft has been assigned to accompany you. from this point on you are under the protection of the united states air force." "that's better," don said. "it's not much, but at least somebody's doing something." the b- streaked off and took up a course in a vast circle around them. "i'm not so sure i like having it around," alis said. "i mean suppose they find out that superior's controlled by--i don't know--let's say a foreign power, or an alien race. once we're out over the atlantic where nobody else could get hurt, wouldn't they maybe consider it a small sacrifice to wipe out superior to get rid of the--the alien?" don looked at her closely. "what's this about an alien? what do you know?" "i don't _know_ anything. it's just a feeling i have, that this is bigger than father and mayor civek and all the self-important vip's in superior put together." she squeezed his arm as if to draw comfort from him. "maybe it's seeing the ocean and realizing the vastness of it, but for the first time i'm beginning to feel a little scared." "i won't say there's nothing to be afraid of," don said. he pulled her hand through his arm. "it isn't as though this were a precedented situation. but whatever's going on, remember there are some pretty good people on our side, too." "i know," she said. "and you're one of them." he wondered what she meant by that. nothing, probably, except "thank you for the reassurance." he decided that was it; the mechanical eavesdropper he wore under his collar was making him too self-conscious. he tried to think of something appropriate to say to her that he wouldn't mind having overheard in the pentagon. nothing occurred to him, so he drew alis closer and gave her a quick, quiet kiss. * * * * * the crowd of people looking over the edge had grown. judging by their number, few people were in school or at their jobs today. yesterday they had seemed only mildly interested in what their town was up to but today, with the north american continent about to be left behind, they were paying more attention. yet don could see no signs of alarm on their faces. at most there was a reflection of wonder, but not much more than there might be among a group of europeans seeing new york harbor from shipboard for the first time. an apathetic bunch, he decided, who would be resigned to their situation so long as the usual pattern of their lives was not interfered with unduly. what they lacked, of course, was leadership. "it's big, isn't it?" alis said. she was looking at the atlantic, which was virtually the only thing left to see except the bright blue sky, a strip of the new england coast, and the circling bomber. "it's going to get bigger," don said. "shall we go across town and take a last look at the states?" he also wanted to see what, if anything, was going on in town. "not the last, i hope. i'd prefer a round trip." an enterprising cab driver opened his door for them. "special excursion rate to the west end," he said. "one buck." "you're on," don said. "how's business?" "not what you'd call booming. no trains to meet. no buses. hi, alis. this isn't one of your father's brainstorms come to life, is it?" "hi, chuck," she said. "i seriously doubt it, though i'm sure you'd never get him to admit it. how are your wife and the boy?" "fine. that boy, he's got some imagination. he's digging a hole in the back yard. last week he told us he was getting close to china. this week it's australia. he said at supper last night that they must have heard about this hole and started digging from the other end. they've connected up, according to him, and he had quite a conversation with a kangaroo." "a kangaroo?" don sat up straight. "yeah. you know how kids are. i guess he's studying australia in geography." "what did the kangaroo tell your son?" the cab driver laughed defensively. "there's nothing wrong with the boy. he's just got an active mind." "of course. when i was a kid i used to talk to bears. but what did he say the kangaroo talked about?" "oh, just crazy stuff--like the kangaroos didn't like it down under any more and were coming up here because it was safer." * * * * * later that morning, at about the time don cort estimated that superior had passed the twelve-mile limit--east from the coast, not up--the superior state bank was held up. a man clearly recognized as joe negus, a small-time gambler, and one other man had driven up to the bank in negus' flashy buick convertible. they walked up to the head teller, threatened him with pistols and demanded all the money in all the tills. they stuffed the bills in a sack, got into their car and drove off. they took nothing from the customers and made no attempt to take anything from the vault. the fact that they ignored the vault made don feel better. he thought when he first heard about the robbery that the men might have been after the brief case he'd stored there, which would have meant that he was under suspicion. but apparently the job was a genuine heist, not a cover-up for something else. police chief vincent grande reached the scene half an hour after the criminals left it. his car had frozen up and wouldn't start. he arrived by taxi, red-faced, fingering the butt of his holstered service automatic. negus and his confederate, identified as a poolroom lounger named hank stacy, had gotten away with a hundred thousand dollars. "i didn't know there was that much money in town," was grande's comment on that. while he was asking other questions the telephone rang and someone told the bank president he'd seen negus and stacy go into the poolroom. in fact, the robbers' convertible was parked blatantly in front of the place. grande, looking as if he'd rather be dog catcher, got back into the taxi. joe negus and hank stacy were sitting on opposite sides of a pool table when the police chief got there, dividing the money in three piles. a third man stood by, watching closely. he was jerry lynch, a lawyer. he greeted grande. "morning, vince," he said easily. "come to shoot a little pool?" "i'll shoot some bank robbers if they don't hand over that money," grande said. he had his gun out and looked almost purposeful. negus and stacy made no attempt to go for their guns, stacy seemed nervous but negus went on counting the money without looking up. "is it your money, vince?" jerry lynch asked. "you know damn well whose money it is. now let's have it." "i'm afraid i couldn't do that," the lawyer said. "in the first place i wouldn't want to, thirty-three and a third per cent of it being mine, and in the second place you have no authority." "i'm the chief of police," grande said doggedly. "i don't want to spill any blood--" "don't flash your badge at me, vince," lynch said. negus had finished counting the money and the lawyer took one of the piles and put it in various pockets. "i said you had no authority. bank robbery is a federal offense. not that i admit there's been a robbery. but if you suspect a crime it's your duty to go to the proper authorities. the fbi would be indicated, if you know where they can be reached." "yeah," joe negus said. "go take a flying jump for yourself, chief." "listen, you cheap crook--" "hardly cheap, vince," lynch said. "and not even a crook, in my professional opinion. mr. negus pleads extra-territoriality." * * * * * that was the start of superior's crime wave. somebody broke the plate-glass window of george tocher's dry-goods store and got away with blankets, half a dozen overcoats and several sets of woolen underwear. a fuel-oil truck disappeared from the street outside of dabney brothers' and was found abandoned in the morning. about nine hundred gallons had been drained out--as if someone had filled his cellar tank and a couple of his neighbors'. the back door of the supermarket was forced and somebody made off with a variety of groceries. the missing goods would have just about filled one car. each of these crimes was understandable--superior's growing food and fuel shortage and icy temperatures had led a few people to desperation. but there were other incidents. somebody smashed the window at kimbrough's jewelry store and snatched a display of medium-priced watches. half a dozen young vandals sneaked into the catholic church and began toppling statues of the saints. when they were surprised by father brian they fled, bombarding him with prayer books. one of the books shattered a stained-glass window depicting christ dispensing loaves and fishes. somebody started a fire in the movie-house balcony and nearly caused a panic. vincent grande rushed from place to place, investigating, but rarely learned enough to make an arrest. the situation was becoming unpleasant. superior had always been a friendly place to live, where everyone knew everyone else, at least to say hello to, but now there was suspicion and fear, not to mention increasing cold and threatened famine. everyone was cheered up, therefore, when mayor hector civek announced a mass meeting in town square. bonfires were lit and the reviewing stand that was used for the annual founders' day parade was hauled out as a speaker's platform. civek was late. the crowd, bundled up against the cold, was stamping their feet and beginning to shout a bit when he arrived. there was a medium-sized cheer as the mayor climbed to the platform. "fellow citizens," he began, then stopped to search through his overcoat pockets. "well," he went on, "i guess i put the speech in an inside pocket and it's too cold to look for it. i know what it says, anyway." this brought a few laughs. don cort stood near the edge of the crowd and watched the people around him. they mostly had a no-nonsense look about them, as if they were not going to be satisfied with more oratory. civek said, "i'm not going to keep you standing in the cold and tell you what you already know--how our food supplies are dwindling, how we're using up our stocks of coal and fuel oil with no immediate hope of replacement--you know all that." "we sure do, hector," somebody called out. "yes; so, as i say, i'm not going to talk about what the problem is. we don't need words--we need action." he paused as if he expected a cheer, or applause, but the crowd merely waited for him to go on. "if superior had been hit by a flood or a tornado," civek said, "we could look to the red cross and the state or federal government for help. but we've been the victims of a far greater misfortune, torn from the bosom of mother earth and flung--" "oh, come on, hector," an old woman said. "we're getting froze." "i'm sorry about that, mrs. potts," civek said. "you should be home where it's warm." "we ran out of coal for the furnace and now we're running out of logs. are you going to do something about that?" "i'll tell you what i'm going to do, mrs. potts, for you and all the other wonderful people here tonight. we're going to put a stop to this lawlessness we never had before. we're going to make superior a place to be proud of. superior has changed--risen, you might say, to a new status. we're more than a town, now. we're free and separate, not only from ohio, but from the united states. "we're a sovereign place, a--a sovereignty, and we need new methods to cope with new conditions, to restore law and order, to see that all our subjects--our citizen-subjects--are provided for." the crowd had become hushed as civek neared his point. "to that noble end," civek went on, "i dedicate myself, and i take this momentous step and hereby proclaim the existence of the kingdom of superior"--he paused to take a deep breath--"and proclaim myself its first king." he stopped. his oratory had carried him to a climax and he didn't quite know where to go from there. maybe he expected cheers to carry him over, but none came. there was complete silence except for the crackling of the bonfires. but after a moment there was a shuffling of feet and a whispering that grew to a murmur. then out of the murmur came derisive shouts and catcalls. "king hector the first!" somebody hooted. "long live the king!" the words could have been gratifying but the tone of voice was all wrong. "where's hector's crown?" somebody else cried. "hey, jack, did you forget to bring the crown?" "yeah," jack said. "i forgot. but i got a rope over on my truck. we could elevate him that way." jack was obviously joking, but a group of men in another part of the crowd pushed toward the platform. "yeah," one of them said, "let's string him up." a woman at the back of the crowd screamed. two hairy figures about five feet tall appeared from the darkness. they were kangaroo-like, with long tails. no one tried to stop them, and the creatures reached the platform and pulled hector down. they placed him between them and, their way clear now, began to hop away. their hops grew longer as they reached the edge of the square. their leaps had become prodigious as they disappeared in the direction of north lake, civek in his heavy coat looking almost like one of them. don cort couldn't tell whether the creatures were kidnaping civek or rescuing him. viii hector civek hadn't been found by the time judge helms' court convened at : a.m. joe negus was there, wearing a new suit and looking confident. his confederate, hank stacy, was obviously trying to achieve the same poise but not succeeding. jerry lynch, their lawyer, was talking to ed clark. don cort took a seat the editor had saved for him in the front row. alis garet came in and sat next to him. "i cut my sociology class," she told him. "anybody find his majesty yet?" "no," don said. "who gave him that crackpot idea?" "he's had big ideas ever since he ran for the state assembly. he got licked then, but this is the first time he's been kidnaped. or should it be kanganaped? poor hector. i shouldn't joke about it." judge helms, who was really a justice of the peace, came in through a side door and the clerk banged his gavel. but the business of the court did not get under way immediately. someone burst in from the street and shouted: "he's back! civek's back!" the people at the rear of the room rushed out to see. in a moment they were crowding back in behind hector civek's grand entrance. "oh, no," alis said. "don't tell me he made it this time!" civek was wearing the trappings of royalty. he walked with dignity down the aisle, an ermine robe on his shoulders, a crown on his head and a scepter in his right hand. he nodded benignly about him. "good morning, judge," he said. to the clerk he said, "frank, see to our horses, will you?" "horses?" the clerk said, blinking. "our royal coach is without, and the horses need attending to," civek said patiently. "you don't think a king walks, do you?" the clerk went out, puzzled. judge helms took off his pince-nez and regarded the spectacle of hector civek in ermine. "what is all this, hector?" he asked. "you weren't serious about that king business, were you? nice to see you back safe, by the way." "we would prefer to be addressed the first time as your majesty, judge," civek said. "after that you can call us sir." "us?" the judge asked. "somebody with you?" "the royal 'we,'" civek said. "i see i'll have to issue a proclamation on the proper forms of address. i mean, _we'll_ have to. takes a bit of getting used to, doesn't it?" "quite a bit," the judge agreed. "but right now, if you don't mind, this court is in session and has a case before it. suppose you make your royal self comfortable and we'll get on with it--as soon as my clerk is back from attending to the royal horses." the clerk returned and whispered in the judge's ear. helms looked at civek and shook his head. "six of them, eh? i'll have a look later. right now we've got a bank robbery case on the calendar." vincent grande talked and jerry lynch talked and judge helms listened and looked up statutes and pursed his lips thoughtfully. joe negus cleaned his nails. hank stacy bit his. finally the judge said, "i hate to admit this, but i'm afraid i must agree with you, counselor. the alleged crime contravened no local statute, and in the absence of a representative of the federal government i must regretfully dismiss the charges." joe negus promptly got up and began to walk out. "just a minute there, varlet!" it was hector civek doing his king bit. negus, who probably had been called everything else in his life, paused and looked over his shoulder. "approach!" civek thundered. "nuts, your kingship," negus said. "nobody stops me now." but before he got to the door something stopped him in mid-stride. civek had pointed his scepter at negus in that instant. negus, stiff as a stop-action photograph, toppled to the floor. "now," civek said, motioning to judge helms to vacate the bench, "we'll dispense some royal justice." he sat down, arranging his robes and shifting his heavy crown. "mr. counselor lynch, we take it you represent the defendants?" "yes, your majesty," said the lawyer, an adaptable man. "what happened to negus, sir? is he dead?" "he could have been, if we'd given him another notch. no, he's just suspended. let him be an example to anyone else who might incur our royal wrath. now, counselor, we are familiar enough with the case to render an impartial verdict. we find the defendants guilty of bank robbery." "but your majesty," lynch said, "bank robbery is not a crime under the laws of superior. i submit that there has been no crime--inasmuch as the incident occurred after superior became detached from earth, and therefore from its laws." "there is the king's law," civek said. "we decree bank robbery a crime, together with all other offenses against the county, state and country which are not specifically covered in superior's statutes." "retroactively?" lynch asked. "of course. we will now pronounce sentence. first, restitution of the money, except for ten per cent to the king's bench. second, indefinite paralysis for negus. we'll straighten out his arms and legs so he'll take up less room. third, probation for hank stacy here, with a warning to him to stay out of bad company. court's adjourned." civek wouldn't say where he'd got the costume or the coach-and-six or the paralyzing scepter. he refused to say where the two kangaroo-like creatures had taken him. he allowed his ermine to be fingered, holding the scepter out of reach, talked vaguely about better times to come now that superior was a monarchy, then ordered his coach. by royal decree hank stacy, who had been inching toward the door, became royal coachman, commanded to serve out his probation in the king's custody. stacy drove civek home. no one seemed to remember who had been at the reins when the coach first appeared. ix ed clark was setting type for an extra when don and alis visited his shop. king's in business, the headline said. "you don't sound like a loyal subject," don said. "can't say i am," clark admitted. "guess i won't get to be a royal printer." "what's the story about?" alis asked. "the splendid triumph of justice in court this morning?" "no. everybody knows all about that already. i've got the inside story--what happens next. just like _the new york times_." "where'd you get it?" don asked. clark winked. "like scotty reston, i am not at liberty to divulge my sources. let's just say it was learned authoritatively." "well," alis said, "what does happen next?" "'his unconstitutional majesty, king hector i, will attempt to prop up his shaky monarchy by seeking an ambassador from the united states, the _sentry_ learned today. such recognition, if obtained, would be followed immediately by a demand for "foreign aid." "'it is the thesis of the self-proclaimed king--known until hours ago as just plain hector--that the satellite status of superior, the traveling townoid, makes it a potentially effective arm of u. s. diplomacy. king hector will point out to the state department the benefits of bolstering superior's economy, especially during its expected foray over europe and, barring such misfortune as being shot down en route, into the soviet domain. "'the king will not suggest in so many words that superior would make a good spy platform, but the implication is there. it will also be implied that unless economic aid--which in plain english means food and fuel to keep superior from starving and freezing to death--is forthcoming from the united states, superior may choose the path of neutrality ...' "that's as far as i've got," clark said. "i suppose the 'path of neutrality' means superior might consider hiring itself out to the highest bidder?" don asked. "that would be one way of putting it," clark said. "undiplomatic but accurate." "how does civek intend to get his message to washington?" asked don, aware that it had already been transmitted to the pentagon via the transceiver under his collar. "bottle over the side?" "my sources tell me they've got wcav working on short wave. that right, alis?" "don't ask me. i only live there." "do you still think civek is fronting for the cavalier crowd?" don asked her. "i don't remember saying that," she said. "i think i agreed with you when you said civek was ineffectual. who do _you_ think is behind him? do you think he's king of the kangaroos?" "well," don said, "they're the ones who took him away last night. and when he came back this morning he had all the trappings. he didn't get that coach-and-six from foreign aid." ed clark said, "this is all very fascinating, kids, but it's not helping me get out my extra. don, why don't you take the little lady out to lunch? you can continue your theorizing over the blueplate special at the riverside inn. only place in town still open, they tell me." * * * * * doc bendy was hurrying out of the riverside inn as they reached it. he waved to them. "save your money. his gracious majesty is throwing a free lunch for everybody." "where?" "at the palace, of course." "what palace?" alis asked. "the bubble gum factory. he's taken it over." "why the gum factory?" "cheeky mcferson offered it to him. not the factory itself but the big old house near the west wing. the mansion that's been closed up since the old man died. they say cheeky's been given a title as part of the bargain." "sir cheeky?" alis asked, giggling. "something like that. lord chicle, maybe, or baron de mouthful. come on. it should be quite a show." dozens of people were in the streets, all heading in the same direction. word of the king's largess spread fast and, on the factory grounds, guards were directing the crowd to a line that disappeared into a side door of the old mcferson mansion. a flag flew from the top of a pole at the front of the house. it was whipping in a stiff breeze and don couldn't make out the device, except that a crown formed part of it. one of the guards recognized alis garet and directed her to the front door. she took doc bendy and don by their arms. "come on," she said. "we're vip's. father must have sworn allegiance." the chief of police was sitting behind a desk in the wide front hall but he now wore a military tunic with a chestful of decorations (including the good conduct medal, sergeant cort noticed), and the visor of his military cap was overrun with gold curlicues. "well, vince," bendy said. "i see you got in on the ground floor." "general sir vincent grande, minister of defense," grande said with a stiff little bow, "at your service." "enchanted," bendy said, bowing back. "tell me, vince, how do you keep a straight face?" "i'll overlook that, bendy, and i'll give you a friendly tip. the country is on a sound basis now and we intend to keep it that way. obstructionists will be dealt with." "the country, eh? well, let's go in and see how it's being run." a clattery hubbub came from the big room on the right. to don it sounded like any gi mess hall. it also looked like one. the line of people coming in through the side door helped themselves to tin trays and silverware, then moved slowly past a row of huge pots from which white-coated men and women ladled out food. at the end of the serving line stood cheeky mcferson, splendid in purple velvet. he was putting a piece of bubble gum on each tray. on the other side of the room, opposite the servers, king hector sat on a raised chair, crown on head, scepter in hand, nodding benevolently to anyone who looked at him. on each side of the king, sitting in lower chairs, were members of what must have been his court. professor osbert garet was one of them, and maynard rubach, president of the cavalier institute of applied sciences, was another. "oh, dear, there's father," alis said in dismay. "what is that silly hat he's wearing? it makes him look like merlin." "but civek doesn't look a bit like king arthur," bendy said. "let's go pay our respects. straight faces, now." "ah, my dear," the king said when he saw alis. "and gentlemen. welcome to our court. may we introduce two of our associates? sir osbert garet, royal astronaut, and lord rubach, minister of education." "father!" alis spoke sharply to the royal astronaut. "how silly can you get?" "now, now, child," the king said reprovingly. "you must not risk our displeasure. for the time being our rule must be absolute--until the safety of our kingdom has been assured. sir osbert," he said, "we trust that at a more propitious time you will have a serious talk with your charming but impetuous daughter." "my liege, i shall deal with her," the royal astronaut said, glowering at alis. "as your majesty has so wisely observed, she is but a slip of a girl." her father's apparent sincerity left alis speechless. she looked from bendy to don, but they seemed to consider discretion and masklike faces the better part of candor. "well spoken, sir osbert," the king said. he clapped his hands and a servant jumped. "dinner for these three. find a table, my friends, and you will be served." don firmly guided alis away. she had seemed about to explode. they found an empty table out of earshot of the king, and three footmen looking like refugees from _alice in wonderland_ immediately began to serve them. bendy spread a napkin over his lap. "let's curb our snickers and fill our stomachs," he said, "and later we can go out behind the barn and laugh our heads off. meanwhile, keep your eyes open." they were eating meat loaf and potatoes. the meat loaf was so highly spiced that it could have been almost anything. "i wonder where his worship got all the grub," alis said. "i don't know," don said, "but it certainly doesn't look as if he needs any foreign aid." alis put down her fork suddenly and her eyes got big. she said, "you don't suppose--" "suppose what?" bendy said, spearing a small potato. "i just had a horrible thought." she laughed feebly. "it's ridiculous, of course, but i wondered if by any chance we were eating joe negus." "don't be silly," don said, but he put down his fork too. "of course it's ridiculous," bendy said. "hector only put negus to sleep. he didn't kill him. besides, joe negus wouldn't stretch far enough to feed this crowd." "is that why you're not eating any more?" alis asked him. "why, no," bendy said. "it's merely that i've had enough. it's true that hector could have used his scepter on other transgressors, but--no, i refuse to admit that he's turned cannibal." "_he_ isn't eating," don pointed out. "i'll guarantee you he has, though. i've never known hector to miss a meal. no. hector may be a fool and a dupe, and power-hungry to boot, but he's not a cruel man, or a deranged one." "no?" alis said. "i dare you to ask him what's in the meat loaf." "all right." bendy got up. "i'll ask to see the kitchen--to compliment the chef. want to come?" "no, thanks. i might be mean to father again." she and don watched doc bendy go to the improvised throne and talk to civek. the king laughed and stood up and he and bendy crossed the room. they went through a door behind the line of servers. don pushed his plate away. "you've certainly spoiled my appetite." "i'm sorry," alis said. "maybe it's hereditary. look at father in that idiot hat. sir osbert! honestly, don, if we ever get back to earth i'm going to get out of superior as fast as i can. what's it like in washington?" "dull," he said. "humid in the summer. and when you've exhausted the national monuments there's nothing to do." "nothing? don't tell me you don't have a girl friend back there. no, _don't_ tell me--i don't want to know. oh, don, what a terribly boring place this must be for you." "boring!" he said. "i've never had such a wild, crazy time in my life. furthermore," he said, "there's nobody like you back in washington." she beamed. "i'd kiss you right here, only doc bendy's coming back. heck, i'll kiss you anyway." she did. "ahem," said bendy. "also cough-cough. if you two can spare the time, there's someone i'd like you to meet." "we're through, for now," alis said. "who?" "one of our hosts. the power behind the shaky throne of hector the first. i think you'll like him. he has a magnificent tail." * * * * * "hector was very co-operative," doc bendy said. "i guess he figured he couldn't keep it a secret for long anyhow, so he decided to be frank. after all, half the town saw them take him away." "you mean civek admits he's only a figurehead?" don asked. "oh, he wouldn't admit that. his story is that it's a working arrangement--a treaty of sorts. he's absolute monarch as far as the human inhabitants are concerned, but the kangaroos control superior as a piece of geography." "i knew father couldn't have done it," alis murmured. they went down a flight of stairs off the main hall to a basement room. it was luxuriously furnished, as every room in the mansion must have been. there was a rug over inlaid linoleum and a blazing fireplace. a huge round mahogany table stood in the center of the room. hector civek sat in one of the half-dozen leather armchairs drawn up to the table. in another sat a furry, genial-looking blue-gray kangaroo. only it wasn't really a kangaroo, don realized. it was more human than animal in several ways. its bearing, for instance, had dignity, and its round eyes had intelligence. a thick tail at least three feet long stuck through a space under the backrest of the armchair. as doc bendy had said, the tail was magnificent. civek nodded and smiled, apparently willing to forget his flare-up at alis. "i'll introduce you," civek said. "i mean _we'll_ introduce you. oh, the hell with the royal 'we,' as long i'm among friends. this is gizl, and what i'm trying to say is that he doesn't speak english. doesn't talk at all, as far as i can tell. but he understands the language and he can read and write it. that's why all this." he indicated the letter and number squares on the table. they were from sets of games--scrabble, anagrams, i-qubes, lotto and poker dice. "my granddaughter met gizl, you'll recall," doc bendy said. "either this one or one like him. we don't know yet whether gizl is a personal name or a generic one." "let's find out," don said. he sat down at the table and began to form squares into a question. "wait a minute." doc bendy broke up don's sequence. "the amenities first. spell out 'greetings,' or some such things. manners, boy." "sorry." don started over. he spelled greetings, then alis garet, then don cort, and pointed from the squares to alis and himself. "i assume you've already introduced yourself?" he asked bendy. bendy nodded and the kangaroo-like creature inclined his furry head in acknowledgment to alis and don. then he--don had already stopped thinking of the creature as an "it"--formed two words with his tapering, black-nailed fingers. pleasant, he communicated. "gizl." and he tapped his chest. don turned to bendy. "now can i ask him?" "with his majesty's permission," bendy said solemnly. hector nodded. don left the three names intact, distributing the rest, then put three squares together to spell _man_. he pointed to the word and then to civek, bendy, alis and himself, excluding the creature. "well, i like that!" alis said. "do i look like a man?" "let's keep it simple, woman," don said. the creature nodded and pointed again to gizl, then to himself, "he doesn't understand," don said. "it's quite possible his people don't have individual names," bendy said. "let's call him gizl for now and go on." "okay." don thought for a moment, then formed a question. "might as well get basic," he said. q. are you from earth. a. no. at the risk of irritating the others, don repeated the questions and answers aloud for the benefit of his eavesdropper in the pentagon. q. are you from solar system a. not yours q. when did you reach earth a. your calendar q. why a. friendship q. why has no one seen you sooner a. fear q. you mean you frightened our people a. no i mean fear of your people q. why a. gizl resemble earth animals q. was superior the first place you landed a. no q. where was it a. australia "the home of the kangaroo," doc bendy said. "no wonder they had a bad time. i can imagine some stockman in the outback taking umbrage at a kangaroo asserting its equality. let me talk to him a while, don." q. how many are there of you a. many q. how many a. no specific comment q. are you responsible for raising superior a. entirely q. how a. impossible to explain with these q. where is superior going a. east for now q. and later a. no specific comment q. lives are in your hands a. gizls have no malevolent designs q. thanks. you said friendship brought you. what else. a. trade. cultural exchange q. what have you to trade a. will discuss this later with duly constituted authority q. who. king hector a. terminating interview with good will assurances "wait," alis said. "i haven't had a chance to talk to him." she formed letters into words. "i don't think he's being very frank with us but i have a few random questions." q. how many sexes have gizls a. three q. male female and a. neuter q. are there babies among you a. babies are neuter and develop according to need q. confidentially what do you think of fathers science a. unfathomable our meager knowledge q. flatterer a. ending conversation with pleasant regard q. likewise gizl slid back his chair and got up. king hector stood and bowed as gizl, who had nodded politely to each in turn, walked manlike, without hopping, to a corner of the room which then sank out of sight. "he's quite a guy, that gizl," hector said, taking off his crown and putting it on the table. "makes me sweat," he said, wiping his forehead. "are you the duly constituted authority?" bendy asked him. "who else? somebody's got to be in charge till we get superior back to earth." "sure," bendy said, "but you don't have to rig yourself up in ermine. i also have a sneaking suspicion that you aren't exactly anxious to get superior down in a hurry." "i'll overlook that remark for old time's sake. but i defend the kingship. a show of force was necessary to prevent crime from running rampant." "maybe," bendy said. "anyhow i appreciate your frankness in introducing us to gizl and what he modestly describes as his meager knowledge. since you've already admitted that he's the one who provided the big feed, will you ease alis's mind now and assure her that what she was eating wasn't negusburger?" "negusburger?" the king laughed. "is that what you thought, alis?" "not really," she said. "but i couldn't help wondering where all the food came from all of a sudden." "over here." the king led them to the corner where gizl had sunk from sight. the top of the elevator, now level with the floor, blended exactly with the linoleum tile. "i don't know how it works, but gizl and his people have their headquarters down there somewhere. all i have to do is place the order and up comes food or whatever i need. would you like to try it?" "love to," bendy said. "what shall i ask for?" "anything." "anything?" "anything at all." "well." bendy looked impressed. "this will take a moment of thought. how about a gallon--no, as long as i'm asking i might as well ask for a keg--of rum, proof." up it came, complete with spigot and tankard. "fabulous!" bendy said. he rolled it out of the elevator and the elevator went down again. "let me try!" alis said. "if doc can get a keg, i ought to be able to have--oh, say a pint of channel no. . would that be too extravagant?" "a simple variation in formula, i should think," the king said. what came up for alis didn't look in the least like an expensive paris perfume. in fact, it looked like a lard pail with a quantity of liquid sloshing lazily in it. but its aroma belied its looks. "oh, heaven!" alis said. "smell it!" she lifted it by its handle, stuck a finger in it and rubbed behind each ear. "it's a bit overpowering by the pint," bendy said. he'd drained off part of a tankard of rum and looked quite at peace with the world. "you'd better get yourself a chaperone, alis, if you're going to carry that around with you." "i'll admit they're not very good in the packaging department, but that's just a quibble. could i have--how many ounces in a pint?--sixteen one-ounce stoppered bottles? and a little funnel?" "easiest thing in the world," the king said. "don? anything you'd like at the same time? save it a trip." "i've got an idea, your majesty, but i don't know whether you'd approve. even though i work in a bank, i've never seen a ten thousand dollar bill. do you think they could whip one up?" "i really don't know," hector said. "it could upset the economy if we let the money get out of hand. but we can always send it right back. let's see what happens." the elevator came up with the bottles, the funnel and a green and gold bill. it was, on the face of it, a ten thousand dollar bill. but the portrait was that of hector civek, crowned and ermined. and the legend on it was: "_payable to bearer on demand, ten thousand dollars. this note is legal tender for all debts, public and private, and is redeemable in lawful money at the treasury of the kingdom of superior._ (signed) _gizl, secretary of the treasury._" x don didn't know what he might learn by skulking around the freezing grounds of hector's palace in the faint moonlight. he hoped for a glimpse of the kangaroo-gizl to see if he were as sincere off-guard as he had been during their interview. but his peering into basement windows had revealed nothing, and he was about to head back to the campus for a night's sleep when someone called his name. it was a girl's voice, from above. he looked up. red-headed geneva jervis was leaning out of one of the second-story windows. "well, hello," he said. "what are you doing up there?" "i've sworn fealty," she said. "come on up." "what?" he said. "how?" she disappeared from his sight, then reappeared. "here." she dropped a rope ladder. don climbed it, feeling like romeo. "where'd you get this?" "they've got them in all the rooms. fire escapes. old mcferson was a precautious man, evidently." she pulled the rope back in. jen jervis had a spacious bedroom. she wore a dressing gown. "what do you mean, you swore fealty?" don asked. "to hector?" "sure. what better way to find out what he's up to? besides, i was getting fed up with that dormitory at cavalier. no privacy. house mothers creeping around all the time. want a drink?" don saw that she had a half-full glass on the dresser. next to the glass stood a bottle of bourbon with quite a bit gone from it. "why not?" he said. "let's drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may freeze to death." "or be shot down by reds." she poured him a stiff one. "here's to happy endings." he sipped his drink and she swallowed half of hers. "i didn't picture you as the drinking type, jen." "revise the picture. come sit down." she backed to the big double bed and relaxed into it, lying on one elbow. don sat next to her, but upright. "tell me about this fealty deal. what did you have to do?" "oh, renounce my american citizenship and swear to protect superior against all enemies, foreign and domestic. the usual thing." "have you got a title yet? are you dame jervis?" "not yet." she smiled. "i think i'm on probation. they know i'm close to bobby and they'd like to have him on their side, for all their avowed independence. they're not so terribly convinced that superior's going to stay up forever. they're hedging their bets, it looks to me." "it looks to me that maybe bobby thebold might not understand. he's the kind of man who demands absolute fealty, from what i've seen of him." "oh, to hell with bobby thebold." jen took another swallow. "he's not here. he's had plenty of time to come, if he was going to, and he hasn't. to hell with him. let me get you another drink." "no, thanks. this will do me fine." he drank it and set the empty glass on the floor. jen drank off the last of hers and put her glass next to his. "relax," she said. "i'm not going to bite you." she lay back and her dressing gown opened in a v as far as the belt. she obviously wasn't wearing anything under the gown. don looked away self-consciously. jen laughed. "what's the matter, boy? no red blood?" she rolled herself off the end of the bed and went to the dresser. "another drink?" "don't you think you've had enough?" she shook her red hair violently. "drinking is as drinking does. trouble is, nobody's doing anything." "exactly. everybody's acting as if superior's one big pleasure dome. civek's on the throne and all's well with his little world. even you've joined the parade. why? i don't buy that double-agent explanation." she was looking in the bureau mirror at the reflection of the top of her head, peering up from under her eyebrows. "i'm going to have to touch up the tresses pretty soon or i won't be a redhead any more." she looked at his reflection. "you don't like me, do you, donny-boy?" "i never said that." "you don't have to say it. but i don't blame you. i don't like myself sometimes. i'm a cold fish. a cold, dedicated fish. or i was. i've decided to change my ways." "i can see that." "can you?" she turned around and leaned against the bureau, holding her glass. "how do you see me now?" "as an attractive woman with a glass in her hand. i wonder which is doing the talking." "rhetorical questions at this time of night, donny? i think it's me talking, not the whisky. we'll know better in the sober light of morning, won't we?" "if that's an invitation," don began, "i'm afraid--" her eyes blazed at him. "i think you're the rudest man i ever met. _and_ the most boorish." she tossed off the rest of her drink, then began to cry. "now, jen--" he went to her and patted her shoulder awkwardly. "oh, don." she put her head against his chest and wept. his arms automatically went around her, comfortingly. then he realized that jen's muffled sobs were going direct to the pentagon through his transceiver. that piece of electronics equipment taped to his skin, he told himself, was the least of the reasons why he could not have accepted jen's invitation--if it had been an invitation. he lifted her chin from his chest to spare the man in the pentagon any further sobs, which must have been reaching him in crescendo. jen's face was tear-stained. she looked into his eyes for a second, then fastened her mouth firmly on his. there was nothing a gentleman could do, don thought, except return the kiss. rude, was he? jen broke away first. "what's that?" she said. don opened his eyes and his glance went automatically to the door. it would not have surprised him to see king hector coming through it in his royal night clothes. but jen was staring out the window. he turned. the sky was bright as day over in the direction of the golf course. don made out a pinpoint of brighter light. "it's a star shell," he said. "a flare." they went to the window and leaned out, looking past a corner of the bubble gum factory. "what's it for?" jen asked. don pointed. "there. that's what for." "a blimp!" she said. "it's landing!" "is it an air force job? i can't make out the markings." "i think i can," jen said. "they're--pp." "private pilots! senator bobby the bold!" jen jervis clutched his arm. "s.o.b.!" she whispered fiercely. * * * * * don cort was down the rope fire escape and away from the mansion before it woke up to the invasion. as he crossed the railroad spur he had a glimpse of jen jervis hauling up the rope and of lights going on elsewhere in the building. there was a lot of whistle-blowing and shouting and a lone shot which didn't seem to be aimed at him. don waited at the spur, behind a boxcar, to see how the hectorites would react to the landing of the blimp, a few men gathered at the front gate and looked nervously into the sky and toward the golf course. others joined them, armed with shotguns, pistols, and a rifle or two, but not with king hector's paralysis gadget. it was clear that hector had no intention of starting a battle. his men apparently were under orders only to guard the mansion and the bubble gum factory. no one even went to see what the blimp was up to. don found as he neared the golf course that the people from the blimp apparently had no immediate plan to attack, either. he found a sand trap to lie down in. from it he could watch without being seen. the star shell had died out but he could see the blimp silhouetted against the sky. men in battle dress were establishing a perimeter around the clubhouse. each carried a weapon of some kind. it was all very dim. don remembered his communicator. "cort here," he said softly. "do you read me?" "affirmative," a voice said. don didn't recognize it. he described the landing and asked, "is this an authorized landing or is it senator thebold's private party?" "negative," said the voice from the pentagon, irritatingly gi. "negative _what_?" don said. "you mean thebold _is_ leading it?" "affirmative," said the voice. "what's he up to?" don asked. "negative," the voice said. don blew up. "if you mean you don't know, why the hell don't you say so? who is this, anyhow?" "this happens to be major johns, the o.o.d., sergeant, and if you know what's good for you--" don stopped listening because a man in battle dress, apparently attracted by his voice, was standing on the green, looking down into the bunker where don lay, pointing a carbine at him. "i'll have to hang up now, major," don said quietly. "something negative has just happened to me. i've been captured." the man with the carbine shouted down to don, "okay, come out with your hands over your head." don did so. he hoped he was doing it affirmatively enough. he had no wish to be shot by one of the senator's men, regardless of whether that man was authorized or unauthorized. * * * * * senator thebold sat at a desk in the manager's office of the raleigh country club. he wore a leather trench coat and a fur hat. wing commander's insignia glittered on his shoulders and a cartridge belt was buckled around his waist. a holster hung from it but thebold had the heavy . on the desk in front of it. he motioned to don to sit down. two guards stood at the door. "name?" thebold snapped. don decided to use his own name but pretend to be a local yokel. "donald cort." "what were you doing out there?" "i saw the lights." "who were you talking to in the sand trap?" "nobody. i sometimes talk to myself." "oh, you do. do you ever talk to yourself about a man named osbert garet or hector civek?" thebold looked at a big map of superior that had been pinned to the wall, thus giving don the benefit of his strong profile. "hector's the king now," don said. "things got pretty bad before that but we got enough to eat now." "where did the food come from?" don shrugged. thebold drummed his fingers on the desk. "you're not exactly a fount of information, are you? what do you do for a living?" "i used to work in the gum factory but i got laid off." "do you know geneva jervis?" "who's he?" don said innocently. thebold stood up in irritation. "take this man to o. & i.," he said to one of the guards. "we've got to make a start some place. are there any others?" "four or five," the guard said. "send me the brightest-looking one. give this one and the rest a meal and a lecture and turn them loose. it doesn't look as if civek is going to give us any trouble right away and there isn't too much we can do before daylight." the guard led don out of the room and pinned a button on his lapel. it said: _bobby the bold in peace and war_. "what's o. & i.?" don asked him. "orientation and integration. nobody's going to hurt you. we're here to end partition, that's all." "end partition?" "like in ireland. keep superior in the u. s. a. they'll tell you all about it at o. & i. then you tell your friends. want some more buttons?" * * * * * don was fed, lectured, and released, as promised. early the next morning, after a cup of coffee with alis garet at cavalier's cafeteria, he started back for the golf course. alis, in a class-cutting mood, went with him. the glimpses of the thebold plan which don had had from o. & i. were being put into practice. reilly street, which provided a boundary line between raleigh country club and the gum-factory property, had been transformed into a midway. the thebold forces had strung bunting and set up booths along the south side of the street. hector's men, apparently relieved to find that the battle was to be psychological rather than physical, rushed to prepare rival attractions on their side. a growing crowd thronged the center of reilly street. some wore thebold buttons. some wore other buttons, twice as big, with a smiling picture of hector i on them. some wore both. the sun was bright but the air was bitingly cold. as a result one of the most popular booths was on hector's side of the street where cheeky mcferson was giving away an apparently inexhaustible supply of hand-warmers. cheeky urged everybody to take two, one for each pocket, and threw in handfuls of bubble gum. two of hector's men set up ladders and strung a banner across two store-fronts. it said in foot-high letters: kingdom of superior, land of plenty. a group of thebold troubleshooters watched, then rushed away and reappeared with brushes and paint. they transformed an advertising sign to read, in letters two feet high: superior, u.s.a., home of the free. hawkers on opposite sides of the midway vied to give away hot dogs, boiled ears of corn, steaming coffee, hot chocolate, candy bars, and popcorn. "there's a smart one." alis pointed to a sign in thebold territory. _the gripe room_ it said over a vacant store. the senator's men had set up desks and chairs inside and long lines had already formed. apparently a powerful complaint had been among the first to be registered because a thebold man was galvanized into action. he ran out of the store and within minutes the sign painters were at work again. their new banner, hoisted to dry in the sun, proclaimed: blimp mail. underneath, in smaller letters, it said: _how long since you've heard from your loved ones on earth? the thebold blimp will carry your letters and small packages. direct daily connections with u. s. mail._ "you have to admire them," alis said. "they're really organized." "one's as bad as the other," don said. impartially, he was eating a hector hot dog and drinking thebold coffee. "have you noticed the guns in the upstairs windows?" "no. you mean on the senator's side?" "both sides. don't stare." "i see them now. do you see any gizl-sticks? the thing hector used on negus?" "no. just conventional old rifles and shotguns. let's hope nobody starts anything." "look," alis said, grabbing don by the arm. "isn't that ed clark going into the gripe room?" "it sure is. gathering material for another powerful editorial, i guess." but within minutes clark's visit had provoked another bustle of activity. two of thebold's men dashed out of the renovated store and off toward the country club. they came back with the senator himself, making his first public appearance. thebold strode down the center of the midway, wearing his soft aviator's helmet with the goggles pushed up on his forehead and his silk scarf fluttering behind him. a group of small boys followed him, imitating his self-confident walk and scrambling occasionally for the thebold buttons he threw to them. the senator went into the gripe room. "looks as if ed has wangled an interview with the great man himself," alis said. "you didn't say anything to clark about our talk with the gizl, did you?" "i did mention it to him," alis said. "was that bad?" "half an hour ago i would have said no. now i'm not so sure." * * * * * a speaker's platform had been erected on the senator's side of reilly street, and now canned but stirring band music was blaring out of a loudspeaker. thebold came out of the gripe room and mounted the platform. a fair-sized crowd was waiting to hear him. thebold raised his arms as if he were stilling a tumult. the music died away and thebold spoke. "my good friends and fellow americans," the senator began. then a hectorite sound-apparatus started to blare directly across the street. the sound of hammering added to the disruption as workmen began to set up a rival speaker's platform. then the music on the north side of reilly street became a triumphal march and hector i made his entrance. thebold spoke on doggedly. don heard an occasional phrase through the din. "... reunion with the u. s. a. ... end this un-american, this literal partition ..." but many in the crowd had turned to watch hector, who was magnificent and warm-looking in his ermine robe. "loyal subjects of superior, i exhort you not to listen to this outsider who has come to meddle in our affairs," hector said. "what can he offer that your king has not provided? you have security, inexhaustible food supplies and, above all, independence!" thebold increased his volume and boomed: "ah, but _do_ you have independence, my friends? ask your puppet king who provides this food--and for what price? and how secure _do_ you feel as you whip through the atmosphere like an unguided missile? you're over the atlantic now. who knows at what second the controls may break down and dump us all into the freezing water?" hector pushed his crown back on his head as if it were a derby hat. "who asked the senator here? let me remind you that he does not even represent our former--and i emphasize _former_--state of ohio. we all know him as a political adventurer, but never before has he attempted to meddle in the affairs of another country!" "and you know what lies beyond western europe," thebold said. "eastern europe and russia. atheistic, communistic red russia. is that where you'd like to come down? for that's where you're heading under hector civek's so-called leadership. king hector, he calls himself. let me remind you, friends, that if there is anything the soviet russians hate more than a democracy, it's a _monarchy_! i don't like to think what your chances would be if you came down in kremlinland. remember what they did to the czars." then senator bobby thebold played his ace: "but there's an even worse possibility, my poor misguided friends. and that's for the creatures behind hector civek to decide to go back home--and take off into outer space. has hector told you about the creatures? he has not. has he told you they're aliens from another planet? he has not. some of you have seen them--these kangaroo-like creatures who, for their own nefarious purposes, made hector what he is today. "but, my friends, these are not the cute and harmless kangaroos that abound in the land of our friendly ally, australia. no. these are intelligent alien beings who have no use for us at all, and who have brazenly stolen a piece of american territory and are now in the process of making off with it." a murmur came from the crowd and they looked over their shoulders at hector, whose oratory had run down and who seemed unsure how to answer. "yes, my friends," thebold went on, "you may well wonder what your fate will be in the hands of that power-mad ex-mayor of yours. a few thousand feet more of altitude and superior will run out of air. then you'll really be free of the good old u.s.a. because you'll be dead of suffocation. that, my friends--" at that point somebody took a shot at senator bobby thebold. it missed him, breaking a second-story window behind him. immediately a thebold man behind that window smashed the rest of the glass and fired back across reilly street, over the heads of the crowd. people screamed and ran. don grabbed alis and pulled her away from the immediate zone of fire. they looked back from behind a truck which, until a minute ago, had been dispensing hot buttered popcorn. "hostilities seem to have commenced," alis said. she gave a nervous laugh. "i guess it's my fault for blabbing to ed clark." "it was bound to happen, sooner or later," don said. "i hope nobody gets hurt." evidently neither thebold nor hector personally had any such intention. both had clambered down from the platforms and disappeared. most of the crowd had fled too, heading east toward the center of town, but a few, like alis and don, had merely taken cover and were waiting to see what would happen next. sporadic firing continued. then there was a concentration of shooting from the senator's side, and a dozen or more of thebold's men made a quick rush across the street and into the stores and buildings on the north side. in a few minutes they returned, under another protective burst, with prisoners. "slick," don said. "hector's being outmaneuvered." "i wonder why the gizls aren't helping him." the thebold loudspeaker came to life. "attention!" it boomed in the senator's voice. "anyone who puts down his arms will be given safe conduct to the free side of reilly street. don't throw away your life for a dictator. come over to the side of americanism and common sense." there was a pause, and the voice added: "no reprisals." the firing stopped. the thebold loudspeaker began to play _on the sunny side of the street_. but nobody crossed over. nor was there any further firing from hector's side. _lay down your arms_, the loudspeaker blared in another tune from tin-pan alley. when it became clear that hector's forces had withdrawn completely from the reilly street salient, thebold's men crossed in strength. they worked their way block by block to the grounds of the bubble gum factory and proceeded to lay siege to it. * * * * * with hector civek immobilized, senator bobby thebold went looking for geneva jervis, accompanied by two armed guards. he was trailed by the usual pack of small boys, several of them dressed in imitation of their hero, in helmets, silk-like scarves and toy guns at hips. alis, unable to reach the besieged palace to see if her father was safe, had asked don to go back with her to cavalier after the battle of reilly street. her mother told alis that the professor was not only safe on the campus but had resigned his post as royal astronaut at hector's court. "father broke with hector?" alis asked. "good for him! but why?" "he and dr. rubach just up and walked out," mrs. garet said. "that's all i know. your father never explains these things to me. but if my intuition means anything, the professor is up to one of his tricks again. he's been locked up in his lab all day." the campus had an air of expectancy about it. students and instructors went from building to building, exchanging knowing looks or whispered conversations. a rally was in progress in front of the administration building when senator thebold arrived. don and alis joined the group of listeners for camouflage and pretended to pay attention to what the speaker, an intense young man on the back of a pickup truck, was saying. "the time has come," he said, "for men and women of, uh, perspicacity to shun the extremes and tread the middle path. to avoid excesses as represented on the one hand by the, uh, paternalistic dictatorship of the hectorites, and on the other by the, uh, pseudo-democracy of senator thebold which resorts to force when thwarted. i proclaim, therefore, the course of reason, the way of science and truth as exemplified by the, uh, the garet-rubach, uh--" senator thebold had been listening at the edge of the little crowd. he spoke up. "the garet-rubach axis?" he suggested. the speaker gave him a cold stare. "and who are you?" "senator robert thebold, representing pseudo-democracy, as you call it. speak on, my young friend. like voltaire, i will defend to the death--but you know what voltaire said." "yes, sir," the speaker said, abashed. "no offense intended, senator." "of course you intended offense," thebold said. "stick to your guns, man. free academic discussion must never be curtailed. but at the moment i'm more interested in meeting your professor garet. where is he?" "in--in the bell tower, sir. right over there." he pointed. "but you can't go in. no one can." he looked at alis as if for confirmation. she shook her head. "we'll see about that," the senator said. "carry on with your free and open discussion. and remember, stick to your guns. sorry i can't stay." he headed for the bell tower, followed by his guards. alis waited till he had gone in, then tugged at don's sleeve. "come on. let's see the fun." "alis," the speaker called to her, "was that really senator thebold?" "sure was. but what's this garet-rubach axis? what's everybody up to?" "not axis. that was thebold's propaganda word. it's a movement of--oh, never mind. you don't appreciate your own father." "you can say that again. come on, don." as alis closed the door to the bell tower behind them, they heard professor garet's voice from above. "attention interlopers," it said. "you have come unasked and now you find yourself paralyzed, unable to move a muscle except to breathe." "stay down here," alis whispered. "there's a sort of vestibule one flight up. that's where thebold must have got it. father spends all his spare time guarding his holy of holies. nobody gets past the vestibule." she frowned. "but i didn't know he had a paralysis thing, too." "he probably swiped it from hector before he broke with him," don said. professor garet's voice came again. "i shall now pass among you and relieve you of your weapons. why, if it isn't senator thebold and his strong-arm crew! i'm honored, senator. here we are: three archaic . 's disposed of. very soon now you'll have the pleasure of seeing a scientific weapon in action." * * * * * don, standing with alis on the steps of the administration building, didn't know whether to be impressed or amused by the giant machine professor garet had assembled. it was mounted on the flat bed of an old reo truck, and various parts of it went skyward in a dozen directions. garet had driven it onto the campus from a big shed behind the bell tower. the machine's crowning glory was a big bowl-shaped sort of thing that didn't quite succeed in looking like a radar scanner. it was at the end of a universal joint which permitted it to aim in any direction. "what's it supposed to do?" don asked. "from what i gather," alis said, "it's hector's paralysis thing, adapted for distance. only of course nobody admits father stole it. it's supposed to have antigravity powers, too, like whatever it was that took superior up in the first place. naturally i don't believe a word of it." "but where's he going with it?" "he's ready to take on all comers, i gather. please don't try to make sense out of it. it's only father." the young man who had addressed the student rally took over the driver's seat and professor garet hoisted himself into a bucket seat at the rear of the truck near a panel which presumably operated the machine. maynard rubach sat next to the driver. the small army of dedicated students who had been assembling fell in behind the truck. they were unarmed, except with faith. senator thebold and his two former bodyguards, de-paralyzed, sat trussed up in the back of a weapons carrier, looking disgusted with everything. "are we ready?" professor garet called. a cheer went up. "then on to the enemy--in the name of science!" don shook his head. "but even if this crazy machine could knock out hector's and thebold's men and the garet-rubach axis reigns supreme, then what? does he claim he can get superior back to earth?" alis said only, "please, don ..." the forces of science were ready to roll. there had been an embarrassing moment when the old reo's engine died, but a student worked a crank with a will and it roared back to life. the garet machine, the weapons carrier and the foot soldiers moved off the campus and onto shaws road toward broadway and the turn-off for the country club. they met an advance party of the thebold forces just north of mcentee street. there were about twenty of them, armed with carbines and submachine guns. as soon as they spotted the weird armada from cavalier they dropped to the ground, weapons aimed. senator thebold rose in his seat. "hold your fire!" he shouted to his men. "we don't shoot women, children, or crackpots." he said to professor garet, "all right, mastermind, untie me." xi a submarine surfaced on the atlantic, far below superior. it was obvious to the commander of the submarine, which bore the markings of the soviet union, that the runaway town of superior, being populated entirely by capitalist madmen, was a menace to humanity. the submarine commander made a last-minute check with the radio room, then gave the order to launch the guided missiles which would rid the world of this menace. the first missile sped skyward. superior immediately took evasive action. first, in its terrific burst of acceleration, everybody was knocked flat. next, superior sped upward for a few hundred feet and everybody was crushed to the ground. at the same time the first missile, which was now where superior would have been had it maintained its original course, exploded. a miniature mushroom cloud formed. the submarine fired again and a second missile streaked up. superior dodged again. but this time its direction was down. everyone who was outdoors--and a few who had been under thin roofs--found himself momentarily suspended in space. don and alis, among the hundreds who had had the ground snatched out from under them, clung to each other and began to fall. all around them were the various adversaries who had been about to clash. professor garet had been separated from his machine and they were following separate downward orbits. many of thebold's men had dropped their guns but others clung to them, as if it were better to cling to something than merely to fall. the downward swoop of superior had taken it out of the immediate path of the second missile, but whoever had changed the townoid's course had apparently failed to take the inhabitants' inertia into immediate consideration. the missile was headed into their midst. then two things happened. the missile exploded well away from the falling people. and scores of kangaroo-like gizls appeared from everywhere and began to snatch people to safety. great jumps carried the gizls into the air and they collected three or four human beings at each leap. the leaps appeared to defy gravity, carrying the creatures hundreds of feet up. the gizls also appeared to have the faculty of changing course while airborne, saving their charges from other loose objects, but this might have been illusion. at any rate, geneva jervis, who had been hurled up from the roof of hector's palace, where she had gone in hopes of catching a glimpse of senator thebold, was reunited with the senator when they were rescued by the same gizl, whose leap had carried him in a great arc virtually from one edge of superior to the other. don cort, pressed close to alis and grasped securely against the hairy chest of their particular rescuer, was experiencing a combination of sensations. one, of course, was relief at being snatched from certain death. another was the delicious closeness of alis, who he realized he hadn't been paying enough attention to, in a personal way. another was surprise at the number of gizls who had appeared in the moment of crisis. finally he saw beyond doubt that it was the gizls who were running the entire show--that hector i, bobby the bold, and the pseudo-scientific garet-rubach axis were merely strutters on the stage. it was the gizls who were maneuvering superior as if it were a giant vehicle. it was the gizls who were exploding the missiles. and it was the alien gizls who, unlike the would-be belligerents among the earth-people, were scrupulously saving human lives. "thanks," don said to his rescuing gizl as it set him and alis down gently on the hard ground of the golf course. "don't mention it," the gizl said, then leaped off to save others. "he talked!" alis said. don watched the gizl make a mid-air grab and haul back a man who had looked as if he might otherwise have gone over the edge. "he certainly did." "then that must have been a masquerade, that other time--all that mumbo-jumbo with the anagrams." "it must have been, unless they learn awfully fast." he and alis clutched each other again as superior tilted. it remained steady otherwise and they were able to see the ocean, whose surface was marked with splashes as a variety of loose objects fell into it. don had a glimpse of professor garet's machine plummeting down in the midst of most of superior's vehicular population. "there's a plane!" alis cried. "it's going after something on the surface." "it's the hustler," don said. "it's after the submarine." the b- 's long pod detached itself, became a guided missile and hit the submarine square in the middle. there was a whooshing explosion, the b- banked and disappeared from sight under superior, and the sub went down. * * * * * "sergeant cort," a voice said, and because alis was lying with her head on don's chest she heard it first. "is that somebody talking to you, don? are you a sergeant?" "i'm afraid so," he said. "i'll have to explain later. sergeant cort here," he said to the pentagon. "things are getting out of hand, sergeant," the voice of captain simmons said. "captain, that's the understatement of the week." "whatever it is, we can't allow the people of superior to be endangered any longer." "no, sir. is there another submarine?" "not as far as we know. i'm talking about the state of anarchy in superior itself, with each of three factions vying for power. four, counting the kangaroos." "they're not kangaroos, sir. they're gizls." "whatever they are. you and i know they're creatures from some other world, and i've managed to persuade the chief of staff that this is the case. he's in seeing the defense secretary right now. but the state department isn't buying it." "you mean they don't believe in the gizls?" "they don't believe they're interplanetary. their whole orientation at state is toward international trouble. anything interplanetary sends them into a complete flap. we can't even get them to discuss the exploration of the moon, and that's practically around the corner." "what shall we do, sir?" "between you and me, sergeant--" captain simmons' voice interrupted itself. "never mind that now. here comes the defense secretary." "foghorn frank?" don asked. "sh." frank fogarty had earned his nickname in his younger years when he commanded a tugboat in new york harbor. that was before his quick rise in the shipbuilding industry where he got the reputation as a wartime expediter that led to his cabinet appointment. "is this the gadget?" don heard fogarty say. "yes, sir." "okay. sergeant cort?" fogarty boomed. "can you hear me?" it was no wonder they called him foghorn. "yes, sir," don said, wincing. "fine. you've been doing a topnotch job. don't think i don't know what's been going on. i've heard the tapes. now, son, are you ready for a little action? we're going to stir them up at state." "yes, sir," don said again. "good. then stand up. no, better not if superior is still gyrating. just raise your right hand and i'll give you a field promotion to major. temporary, of course. i can do that, can't i, general?" apparently the chief of staff was there, and agreed. "right," fogarty said. "now, sergeant, repeat after me...." don, too overwhelmed to say anything else, repeated after him. "now then, major cort, we're going to present the state department with what they would call a _fait accompli_. you are now military governor of superior, son, with all the power of the u.s. defense establishment behind you. a c- troop carrier plane is loading. i'll give you the eta as soon as i know it. a hundred paratroopers. arrange to meet them at the golf course, near the blimp. and if senator thebold tries to interfere--well, handle him tactfully. but i think he'll go along. he's got his headlines and by now he should have been able to find his missing lady friend. help him in that personal matter if you can. as for hector civek and osbert garet, be firm. i don't think they'll give you any trouble." "but, sir," don said. "aren't you underestimating the gizls? if they see paratroops landing they're liable to get unfriendly fast. may i make a suggestion?" "shoot, son." "well, sir, i think i'd better go try to have a talk with them and see if we can't work something out without a show of force. if you could hold off the troops till i ask for them...." foghorn frank said, "want to make a deal, eh? if you can do it, fine, but since state isn't willing to admit that there's such a thing as an intelligent kangaroo, alien or otherwise, any little deals you can make with them will have to be unofficial for the time being. all right--i'll hold off on the paratroopers. the important thing is to safeguard the civilian population and uphold the integrity of the united states. you have practically unlimited authority." "thank you, mr. secretary. i'll do my best." "good luck. i'll be listening." * * * * * "as i see it," alis said after don had explained his connection with the pentagon, "senator thebold licked hector civek. father, who defected from hector, captured the senator and vice versa. but now the gizls have taken over from everybody and you have to fight them--all by your lonesome." "not fight them," don said. "negotiate with them." "but the gizls are on hector's side. it seems to come full circle. where do you start?" superior had returned to an even keel and don helped her up. "let's start by taking a walk over to the bubble gum factory. we'll try to see the gizl-in-chief." there didn't seem to be anyone on the grounds of the mcferson place. the boxcar which had been on the siding near the factory was gone. it was probably at the bottom of the atlantic by now, along with everything else that hadn't been fastened down. don wondered if superior's gyrations had been strong enough to dislodge the train that had originally brought him to town. the pennsylvania railroad wouldn't be happy about that. they saw no one in the mansion and started for the basement room in which they'd had their talk with the gizl, passing through rooms where the furniture had been knocked about as if by an angry giant. they were stopped en route by vincent grande, ex-police chief now minister of defense. "all right, kids," he said, "stick 'em up. your majesty," he called, "look what i got." hector civek, crownless but still wearing his ermine, came up the stairs. "put your gun away, vince. hello, alis. hello, don. glad to see you survived the earthquake. i thought we were all headed for kingdom come." vincent protested, "this is that traitor garet's daughter. we can hold her hostage to keep her father in line." "nuts," the king said. "i'm getting tired of all this foolishness. i'm sure osbert garet is just as shaken up as we are. and that crazy senator, too. all i want now is for superior to go back where it came from, as soon as possible. and that's up to gizl, i'm afraid." "have you seen him since the excitement?" don asked. "no. he went down that elevator of his when the submarine surfaced. i guess his control room, or whatever it is that makes superior go, is down there. let's take a look. vince, will you put that gun away? go help them clean up the mess in the kitchen." vincent grande grumbled and went away. in the basement room, hector went to the corner and said, "hey! anybody down there?" a deep voice said, "ascending," and the blue-gray kangaroo-like creature appeared. he stepped off the elevator section. "greetings, friends." "well," hector said, "i didn't know you could talk." "forgive my lack of frankness," gizl said. "alis," he said, bowing slightly. "your majesty." "frankly," hector said, "i'm thinking of abdicating. i don't think i like being a figurehead. not when everybody knows about it, anyhow." "major cort," gizl said. don looked startled. "what? how did you know?" "we have excellent communications. we thank your military for its assistance with the submarine." "a pleasure. and we thank you and your people for saving us when we went flying." "mutuality of effort," gizl said. "i'll admit a dilemma ensued when the submarine attacked. but our obligation to safeguard human lives outweighed the other alternative--escape to the safety of space. now suppose we have our conference. you, major, represent earth. i, rezar, represent the survivors of gorel-zed. agreed?" "rezar?" don said. "i thought your name was gizl. and what's gorel-zed?" "little marie bendy called me gizl," rezar said. "she couldn't pronounce gorel-zed. i'm afraid i haven't been entirely candid with you about a number of things. but i think i know you better now. i heard your conversation with foghorn frank." don smiled. "do you mean you've been listening in ever since i strapped on the transceiver?" "oh, yes," rezar said. "so recapitulation is unnecessary. but we gizls, so-called, are still a mystery to you, of course. i suppose you'd like some background. where from, where to, when, and all that." "i certainly would," don said. "so would everybody else, i imagine, especially king hector here, and mr. fogarty." "by all means let us communicate on the highest level," rezar said. "first, where from, eh?" "right. are you listening, mr. secretary?" "i sure am," fogarty said. "what's more, son, you're being piped directly into the white house--and a few other places." "good," rezar said. "now marvel at our saga." xii the end of a civilization is a tragic thing. on the desert planet of gorel-zed, the last world to survive the slow nova of its sun, the gizls, once the pests but now through brain surgery the possessors in their hardy bodies of the accumulated knowledge of the frail human beings, were preparing to flee. their self-supporting ships were ready, capable of crossing space to the ends of the universe. but their universe was barren. no planet could receive them. all were doomed as was theirs, gorel-zed. they set out for a new galaxy, knowing they would not reach it but that their descendants might. they became nomads of space, self-sufficient. for generations they wandered, their population diminishing. their scientist-philosophers evolved the theory that accounted for their spaceborn ennui with life, their acceptance of their fate, their eventual doom. they had no roots, no place of their own. they had only the mechanistic world of their ships--which were vehicles, not a land. they must find a home of their own, or die. several times in their odyssey they had come to a planet which could have housed them. but each time an injunction which had been built into them at the time of the brain surgery prevented them from staying. the doomed human beings on gorel-zed had built into the very fiber of the gizls--who were, after all, only animals--the injunction that no human being could be harmed for their comfort. this meant that the world of ladnora, whose gentle saffron inhabitants were incapable of offering resistance, could not be conquered. the ladnorans, in their generosity, had offered the refugees from gorel-zed a hemisphere of their own. but the gizls required a world of their own, not a half-world. they accepted a small continent only and made it spaceborne and took it with them. the crevisians were the next to be visited. they ruled a belt of fertile land around the equator of their world--the rest was icy waste. the gizls took a slice of each polar region and, joining them, made them spaceborne. in time they reached the system of sol. mars attracted them first because of its sands. mars was like gorel-zed in many ways. but that very resemblance meant it was not for them. mars was a dead world, as their own gorel-zed had become. but the next planet they came to was a green planet. the gizls moored the acquisitions in the asteroid belt and visited earth. here, at their planetfall, australia, was the perfect land. even its inhabitants--the great kangaroos, the smaller wallabies--breathed home to the gizls. but there were also the human beings who had made the land their own. and though memory of their origin had weakened in the gizls, the injunction had not. for a time they set up a kind of camp in the great central desert and with delight found their legs again. out of the cramped ships they came, to bound in freedom and fresh breathable air across the wasteland. but hardy, naked, black human beings lived in the desert and they attacked the gizls with their primitive weapons. and when the gizls fled, not wishing to harm them, they came to white men, who attacked them with explosive weapons. and so they took to their ships and were spaceborne again. but the attraction of earth was strong and they sought another continent, called north america. and in the center of it they found a great race whose technology was nearly as great as their own. these people had an intelligence and drive which rivaled that of their human antecedents, whose minds had been transferred to the gizl's hardy, cumbersome bodies. * * * * * rezar paused. his intelligent eyes seemed misplaced in his heavy animal body. "what attracted you to superior, of all places?" alis asked. rezar seemed to smile. "two things. cavalier and bubble gum." "what?" alis said. "you're kidding!" "no," rezar said. "it's true. bubble gum because after generations of subsistence on capsule food our teeth had weakened and loosened, and bubble gum strengthened them. nourishment, no. exercise, yes. and cavalier institute because here were men who spoke in terms which paralleled the secret of our spacedrive." alis laughed. "this would make father expire of joy," she said. "but now you know he's just a phony." "alas," rezar said. "yes, alas. but he was so close. magnology. cosmolineation. it's jargon merely, as we learned in time. osbert garet is mad. harmless, but mad." don asked rezar, "but if this built-in morality of yours is so strong, why didn't it prevent you from taking off with superior?" rezar replied, "there are factions among us now. an evolution of a sort, i suppose. nothing is static. one faction"--he tapped his chest--"is completely bound by the injunction. but in the other, self-preservation places a limit on the injunction." the explanation seemed to be that the other faction, which grew in strength with every failure to find a world of their own, felt that on a planet such as earth, with a history of men warring against men, required the gizls to be no more moral than the human inhabitants themselves. "the good gizls versus the bad gizls?" alis asked. rezar seemed to smile. the bad gizls, led by one called kaliz, had got the upper hand for a time and elevated superior, intending to join it to the bits and pieces of other planets they had previously collected and stored in the asteroid belt. but rezar's influence had persuaded them not to head directly into space--at least not until they had solved the problem of how to put superior's inhabitants "ashore" first. don, unaccustomed to his new role of interplanetary arbitrator, said tentatively: "i can't authorize you to take superior, even if you do put us all ashore, but there must be a comparable piece of earth we could let you have." "but superior is not all," rezar said. "to use one of your nautical expressions, superior merely represents a shake-down cruise. our ability to detach such a populated center had shown the feasibility of raising other typical communities--such as new york, magnitogorsk and heidelberg--each a different example of earth culture." don heard a gasp from the pentagon--or it might have come from the white house. "you mean you've burrowed under each one of those 'communities'?" don asked. rezar shrugged. "kaliz's faction," he said, as if to dissociate himself from the project of removing some of earth's choicest property. "they aim at a history-museum of habitable worlds." "interplanetary souvenirs," alis said. "with quick-frozen inhabitants? don, what are you going to do?" don didn't even know what to say. his eyes met hector's. "don't look at me," hector said. "i definitely abdicate." "look," don said to rezar, "how far advanced are these plans? i mean, is there a deadline for this mass levitation?" "twenty-four hours, your time," rezar said. "can't you stop them? aren't you the boss?" the alien turned don's question back on him. "are _you_ the boss?" don had started to shake his head when foghorn frank's voice boomed out. "yes, by thunder, he _is_ the boss! don, raise your right hand. i'm going to make you a brigadier general. no, blast it, a full general. repeat after me...." * * * * * general don cort squared his shoulders. he was almost getting used to these spot promotions. "now negotiate," fogarty said. "you hear me, mr. gizl-rezar? the united states of america stands behind general cort." there was no audible objection from the white house. "who stands behind you?" "a democratic government," rezar said. "like yours." "you represent them?" fogarty asked. "with my council, yes." "then we can make a deal. talk to him, don. i'll shut up now." don said to rezar, "was it your decision to burrow under new york and magnitogorsk and heidelberg?" "i agreed to it, finally." "but you agreed to it in the belief that the earth-people were a warring people and that your old prohibitions did not apply. but we are not a warring people. earth is at peace." "is it?" rezar asked sadly. "your plane warred on the submarine." "in self-defense," don said. "don't forget that we defended you, too. and we'd do it again--but not unless provoked." rezar looked thoughtful. he tapped his long fingernails on the table. finally he said, "i believe you. but i must talk to my people first, as you have talked to yours. let us meet later"--he seemed to be making a mental calculation--"in three hours. where? here?" "how about cavalier?" alis suggested. "it would be the first important thing that ever happened there." * * * * * for the first time since superior took off, all of the town's elected or self-designated representatives met amicably. they gathered in the common room at cavalier institute as they waited for rezar and his council to arrive for the talks which could decide, not only the fate of superior, but of new york and two foreign cities as well. apparently the pentagon expected don to pretend he had authority to speak for russia and germany as well as the united states. but could he speak for the united states constitutionally? he was sure that bobby thebold, comprising exactly one percent of that great deliberative body, the senate, would let him know if he went too far, crisis or no crisis. the senator, reunited with geneva jervis, sat holding her hand on a sofa in front of the fireplace in which logs blazed cheerfully. thebold looked untypically placid. jen jervis, completely sober and with her hair freshly reddened, had greeted don with a cool nod. thebold had been chagrined at learning that don cort was not the yokel he had taken him for. but he recovered quickly, saying that if there was any one thing he had learned in his senate career it was the art of compromise. he would go along with the duly authorized representative of the pentagon, with which he had always had the most cordial of relations. "isn't that so, sweetest of all the pies?" he said to jen jervis. jen looked uncomfortable. "please, bobby," she said. "not in public." the senator squeezed her hand. professor garet, whose wife and daughter were serving tea, stood with ed clark near the big bay window, through which they looked occasionally to see if the gizls were coming. maynard rubach sat in a leather armchair next to hector civek, who had discarded his ermine and wore an old heavy tweed suit. doc bendy sat off in a corner by himself. he was untypically quiet. don cort, despite his four phantom stars, was telling himself he must not let these middle-aged men make him feel like a boy. each of them had had a chance to do something positive and each had failed. "gentlemen," don said, "my latest information from washington confirms that the gizls have actually tunneled under the cities they say their militant faction wants to take up to the asteroid belt, just as they dug in under superior before it took off. so they're not bluffing." "how'd we find out about magnitogorsk?" ed clark asked. "iron curtain getting rusty?" don told him that the russians, impressed by the urgency of an unprecedented telephone call from the white house to the kremlin, had finally admitted that their great industrial city was sitting on top of a honeycomb. the telephone conversation had also touched delicately on the subject of the submarine that had been sunk in mid-atlantic, and there had been tacit agreement that the sub commander had exceeded his authority in firing the missiles and that the sinking would not be referred to again. maynard rubach turned away from the window. "here they come. three of them. but they're not coming from the direction of the mcferson place." "they could have come up from under the grandstand." don said. "miss jervis and i found one of their tunnels there. remember, jen?" jen jervis colored slightly and don was sorry he'd brought it up. "yes," she said. "i fainted and don--mr. cort--general cort--helped me." "i'm obliged to the general," senator thebold said. professor garet went to the door. the three gizls followed him into the room. everyone stood up formally. there was some embarrassed scurrying around because no one had remembered that the gizls required backless chairs to accommodate their tails. the gizls, looking remarkably alike, sat close together. don tentatively addressed the one in the middle. "gentlemen," he said, "first it is my privilege to award to you in the name of the president, the medal of merit in appreciation of your quick action in saving uncounted lives during the submarine incident. the actual medal will be presented to you when we re-establish physical contact with earth." rezar, who, it turned out, was the one in the middle, accepted with a grave bow. "our regret is that we were unable to prevent the loss of many valuable objects as well," he said. "mr. rezar," don said, "i haven't been trained in diplomacy so i'll speak plainly. we don't intend to give up new york. contrary to general belief, there are about eight million people who _do_ want to live there. and i'm sure the inhabitants of heidelberg and magnitogorsk feel the same way about their cities." "then you yield superior," rezar said. "i didn't say that." "yield superior and we will guarantee safe passage to earth for all its inhabitants. we only want its physical facilities." "we'll yield the bubble gum factory to help your dental problem--for suitable reparations," don said. "payment will be made for anything we take. give us superior intact, including the factory and cavalier institute, and we will transport to any place you name an area of equal size from the planet mars." "mars?" don said. "that'd be a very valuable piece of real estate for the researchers." "take it," don heard frank fogarty say from the pentagon. professor garet spoke up. "if cavalier goes, i go with it. i won't leave it." "and i won't leave you, osbert," his wife said. "will there be air up there among the asteroids?" "we are air-breathers like you," rezar said. "when we have assembled our planet there will be plenty. you will be welcome, professor and mrs. garet." "hector?" don said. "you're still mayor of cavalier. what do you think?" "they can have it," hector said. "i'll take a nice steady civil service job with the federal government, if you can arrange it." "hector," ed clark said, "i think that sums up why you've never been a howling success in politics. you don't give a damn for the people. all you care about is yourself." hector shrugged. "you needn't be so holy-sounding, eddie-boy," he said. "why isn't the _sentry_ out this week? i'll tell you why. because you've been so busy filing to the trimble-grayson papers on thebold's private radio that you haven't had time for anything else. how much are they paying you?" ed clark, deflated, muttered, "news is news." "is that what you were doing in senator thebold's gripe room on the midway?" don asked clark. "making this deal?" "now, general," thebold said. "would you deprive the people of their right to know? throughout my senate career i have carried the torch against government censorship, which is the path to a totalitarian state." "i'm sure part of the deal was that clark's copy didn't make you anything less than a hero," don said. "don't be too righteous, young man," thebold said. "'lest ye be judged,' as they say. are you not at this moment bargaining away a piece of a sovereign state of the sovereign united states? i don't happen to represent ohio, but if i did i would rise in the upper chamber to demand your court-martial." "at ease, senator!" don ordered. "you're not in the upper chamber now. you're on an artificial satellite which at any moment is apt to take off into outer space." doc bendy spoke for the first time: "oops-a-daisy! you tell 'im, donny-boy. soo-perior--the town everybody looks up to." don frowned at him. bendy had sunk deep into his chair in his corner. he acknowledged don's look with a broad smile that vanished in a hiccup. "y' don't have to say it, donny. i been drinkin'. ever since superior looped the looperior and flung me feet over forehead into the bee-yond. shatterin' experience to have nothin' but a kangaroo-hop between you and eternity. yop, ol' bendy's been on a bender ever since. but you carry on, boy. y' doin' a great job." "thanks," don said in irony. "i guess that completes the roster of those qualified to speak for superior. oh, i'm sorry, dr. rubach. did you have something to say?" but all the portly president of cavalier had to say, though he said it at great length, was that if cavalier were taken as part of a package deal, its trustees would have to receive adequate compensation. professor garet tugged at his sleeve and said, "sit down, maynard. they've already said they'll pay." fogarty's voice rumbled at don: "let's try to speed things up, general. close the deal on superior, at least, before the press get there." "the press?" "the rest of the papers couldn't let the trimble-grayson chain keep their exclusive. clark's going to have lots of company soon. the boys have hired a vertiplane. first one off the assembly line. you've seen it. lands anywhere." "okay, i'll try to hurry it up." to the gizls don said, "all right. you take superior, minus its people, and bring us a piece of mars." "agreed," rezar said. it was as easy as that. nobody objected. too many of superior's self-proclaimed saviors had been caught with their motives showing. "you've got to give up new york, though," don said. he felt as if he were playing a game of interplanetary monopoly. "well give you a chunk of the great central desert instead, if australia's willing. (would that come under the south east asia treaty organization, mr. secretary?) complete with kangaroos and assorted wallabies, if you want them." "agreed," said rezar. don sighed quietly to himself. it should be smooth sailing now that the hurdle of new york was past. but kaliz, the one alis had called the bad gizl, shook his head violently and spoke for the first time. "no," he said firmly. "we must have new york. it is by far the greatest of our conquests and i will not yield it." rezar said sharply, "we have foresworn conquest." "i am tired of your moralizing," kaliz said. "we are dealing with beings whose greatest respect is for power. if we temporize now we will lose their respect. they will think our new world weak and itself open to conquest. we have the power--let us use it. i say take new york _and_ its people and hold them hostage. the city is ready for lifting." "no!" don said. "you can't have new york." kaliz seemed to smile. "we already have it. it's merely a question of transporting it." he put a long-fingered hand to his furry chest where, almost hidden in the blue-gray fur, was a flat perforated disk. he said into it, "show them that new york is ours!" "wait!" rezar said. "merely a demonstration," kaliz told him, "for the moment at least." frank fogarty's voice, alarmed, said urgently, "tell him we believe him. new york's reporting an earthquake, or something very like it. for god's sake tell him to put it back while we reorient our thinking." kaliz nodded in satisfaction. "the city is as it was. our people under new york raised it a mere fraction of an inch. it could as easily have been a mile. do not underestimate our power." rezar was agitated. "we came in peace," he said to his fellow gizl. "let us not leave in war. there's power on both sides, capable of untold destruction. neither must use it. we are a democratic people. let us vote. i say we must not take new york." "and i say we must," kaliz told him, "in self-interest." they turned to the third of their people, who had been looking from one to the other, his eyes reflecting indecision. kaliz barked at him: "well, ezial? vote!" ezial said, "i abstain." deadlock. don was sweating. he looked at the others in the room. they were tense but silent, apparently willing to leave it up to don and his link with the defense department. frank fogarty's voice said: "sac has been airborne in total strength for half an hour, general. it was a purely precautionary alert at the time." don started to interrupt. "i know they hear me," the secretary of defense said. "i intend that they should. we don't want to fight but we will if we must. son ..." the rough voice faltered for a moment. "if necessary, we'll destroy superior to kill this alien and save new york. as a soldier, i hope you understand. it's the lives of three thousand people against the lives of eight million." only don and the gizl had heard. don looked across the room and into alis' eyes. she gave him a tentative smile, noting his grave expression. "yes, sir," don said finally. rezar spoke. "this is folly." he touched the disk in the fur of his own chest. "no!" kaliz cried. "it is time," rezar said. "we are beginning to fail in our mission." he spoke reverently into the disk, "my lord, awake." kaliz said quickly, "raise new york! take it up!" "they will not obey you now," rezar said. "i have invoked the counsel of the master." * * * * * the man was frail and incredibly old. he had sparse white hair and a deeply lined face, but his eyes were alert and wise. he wore a cloak-like garment of soft, warm-looking material. his expression was one of kindliness but strength. the doorbell had rung and mrs. garet had answered it. the old man had walked slowly into the room, followed respectfully by two gizls. "my lord," said rezar. he got to his feet and bowed, as did the other gizls. "i had hoped to let you sleep until your new world had been prepared for you. but the risk was great that, if i delayed, your world would never be. forgive me." "you did well," the old man said. don stood up too, feeling the sense of awe that this personage inspired. "how do you do, sir," he said. "how do you do, general cort." "you know my name?" "i know many things. too many for such a frail old body. but someone had to preserve the heritage of our people, and i was chosen." "won't you sit down, sir?" "i'll stand, thanks. i've rested long enough. generations, as a matter of fact. shall i answer some of your obvious questions? i'd better say a few things quickly, before foghorn frank hits the panic button." don smiled. "can he hear you or shall i repeat everything?" "oh, he hears me. i've got gadgets galore, even though i'm between planets at the moment. i must say it's a pleasure to be among people again." he nodded pleasantly around the room. mrs. garet smiled to him. "would you like a cup of tea?" "later, perhaps, thank you. first i must assure you and everyone of earth that no one will be harmed by us and that we want nothing for our new world that you are not willing to give." "that's good to hear," don said. "i gather you've been in some kind of suspended animation since you left your old world. so i wonder how you're able to speak english." "everything was suspended but the subconscious. that kept perking along, absorbing everything the gizls fed into it. and they've been absorbing your culture for ten years, so i'm pretty fluent. and i certainly know enough to apologize for all the inconvenience my associates have caused you in their zeal to re-establish the human race of gorel-zed. in the case of kaliz, of course, it was excessive zeal which will necessitate his rehabilitation." "your pardon, master," kaliz said humbly. "granted. but you'll be rehabilitated anyway." don asked, "did i understand you to say you plan to re-establish your race? do you mean there are more of you, aside from the kangaroo-people?" "oh, yes. young people. the youngest of all from gorel-zed. they were put to sleep like me, to be ready to carry on when their new world is built. i won't wake them till then. i hope to live that much longer." "i'm sure you will, sir." "kind of you. but let's get on with the horse trading. of course we won't take new york, or the two other cities." (there was a collection of sighs of relief from washington.) "but we would like some of your uninhabited jungle land--the lusher the better, to help us out in the oxygen department. we'd also like some of your air, if you can spare it. we've got a planet to supply now, not just ships." "how would you get air across space?" don asked. "at the moment," the master said, "i'm afraid we're not prepared to barter our scientific knowledge." "i didn't mean to pry. it just didn't seem to be something you could do. do you think we could spare some air, mr. secretary?" "i'll have to ask the science boys about that one," frank fogarty said. "meanwhile it's okay with australia on the desert. but your gizl friends have to agree to relocate the aborigines from that tract, and they must take every last rabbit or it's no deal." "agreed," the master said with a smile. "but please ask their stockmen to hold their fire. my friends only _look_ like kangaroos." * * * * * as don and the master were making arrangements for superior to touch down so its people could be transferred to earth, a blaze of light stabbed down from the sky. through the window they saw the vertiplane settling slowly to the campus. "it sure beats a blimp," senator thebold said in admiration. professor garet got up to look. "it's the press," he said to his wife. "you might as well invite them in. i hope we have enough tea." the vertiplane's door opened and the first wave of reporters spilled out. xiii as superior headed back across the atlantic, the earth-people were given a farewell tour. for the first time they had an authorized look at the underground domain of the gizls, which they reached through the tunnel that led below from under cavalier's grandstand. the observation room which don and jen jervis had found was connected by a hidden elevator to a vast main chamber. a control console formed the entire wall of one end of it. half a dozen gizls stood at the base of the console. from time to time one of them would launch himself upward with his powerful legs, grab a protruding rung, make an adjustment, then drop lightly back to the floor. don and alis stood for a moment watching professor garet, who was tugging at his beard as he became aware of the magnitude of the operation which drove superior through the skies and was soon to take it across space to the asteroid belt. "poor father," alis whispered to don. "magnology in action, after all these years--and he didn't have a thing to do with it." "is that why he wants to go with the master?" "i imagine so. if he stayed on earth he'd have nothing. he's too old to start again. it's kind of them to take him--and mother. in a way, i suppose, his going is justification for his years of work. he'll at least be close to the things he might have developed in the right circumstances." "he certainly won't be lonely," don said. "have you noticed the rush to emigrate? cheeky mcferson's decided to stick with his bubble gum factory. he says the gizls are a ready-made market. he saw one of them cram five super-bubs into his mouth, at one time. that's twenty-five cents right there." alis giggled. "and half of the student body of cavalier wants to go. you'd think they'd be disillusioned with father, but they're not. i guess they had to be crazy to enroll in the first place." "senator thebold's started campaigning to be named u.s. ambassador to superior. i heard him talking to the man from the _new york times_. i suspect they'll give it to him--they'll need his influence to get senate approval of the treaty with the gizls." "i had a little talk with jen jervis," alis said. "she's radiant, have you noticed? the senator finally asked her to marry him. that's all that was the matter with her--bobby the bold had left her hanging by her thumbs too long." "i guess he did." don sought a way to get the conversation away from jen jervis. "where's doc bendy? he certainly turned out to be a disappointment." "poor doc!" alis said. "he's always the first to form a committee. but then his enthusiasm wears off and he goes back to the bottle. only now he's got a keg." don snapped his fingers. "the keg. i almost forgot about that matter duplicator. if it can give you perfume and doc rum.... come on. let's reopen negotiations with the master." they found the old man surrounded by a group of reporters, being charmingly evasive with the science editor of _time_. professor garet had now joined this group, where he listened as eagerly as a student. the master was showing the vault-like chamber in which he had spent the generations since the spaceships left gorel-zed. he let them examine the coffin-sized drawer that had been his bed and indicated the others where the younger ones still slept, awaiting the birth of their new planet. don counted fewer than three dozen drawers. "is that all?" he asked. "infants and children take up less room," the master said. "there are two or three in each drawer, and still others in the ships that never come to earth. even so, we number fewer than a thousand." "but you have the matter duplicator," don said. "won't it work on people?" "unfortunately, no. transubstantiation has never worked on living cells. don't think we haven't tried. we shall have to encourage early marriages and hope for a high birth rate." "now about this transubstantiator," the _time_ man said, and garet's head cocked in delight, apparently at the resounding sound of the word. "what's the principle? you don't have to give away the secret--just give me a general idea." the master shook his head. don asked, "what will you trade for the transubstantiator and the paralysis scepter you gave hector?" the old man smiled. "not even new york," he said. "our moral code couldn't permit us to trade either. earth has enough problems already." "offer him the formula for fusion," frank fogarty's voice said from the pentagon. the old man shuddered. "i heard that," he said. "no, thank you, mr. secretary!" "this is the _clean_ bomb," fogarty said. "it ought to come in very handy in construction work on your new planet." "we will try to manage in our own way," the master said. he asked garet, "wouldn't you say that magnology was sufficient for our purposes, professor?" alis' father beamed at being consulted and hearing his own term applied to the gorel-zed propulsion system. "more than sufficient," he said enthusiastically. "preferable, in fact. magnology is safe, stressless, and permanently powerful in stasis. it is the ultimate in gravity-beam nullification. if anything can glue the asteroids back into the planet they once were, magnology will do it. you can understand how i was misled. your system so fitted my theory that i imagined it was i who had caused superior to rise from earth." "i understand perfectly," the master replied graciously. "and i cannot say how glad i am that you and mrs. garet have chosen to stay with cavalier and superior and become citizens of our new world." "what will you call your new planet?" the ap man asked. "asteroida? something like that?" "we haven't decided. i welcome suggestions." the upi man was inspired. "how about neworld?" he asked. "that describes it perfectly, doesn't it? new world--neworld?" he wrote it on a piece of paper and admired it. "thank you," the master said. "well certainly consider it." the upi man was satisfied. he had a lead for his story. * * * * * _superior, nov. (ap)--the floating city of superior, earthbound again after nearly six days of aerial meandering, prepared today to discharge its former residents. its new inhabitants, the kangaroo-like gizls who came from beyond the stars to swing an unprecedented barter deal involving the united states, russia and germany, said they would leave almost immediately to join superior with the new planet they have been building in the asteroid belt between mars and jupiter...._ * * * * * _heidelberg, nov. (ap)--this university city said good-by today to some interplanetary visitors it belatedly realized had long been burrowed under it. the first officially acknowledged flying saucer landed on heidelberg's outskirts early today and took aboard the gizls, who, but for the shrewd maneuvering of the u. s. secretary of state, "foghorn frank" fogarty, acting through a hastily commissioned ex-sergeant troubleshooter, general don cort ..._ * * * * * _moscow, nov. (reuters)--the industrial city of magnitogorsk was assured of remaining soviet territory today with the departure of , kangaroo-like aliens. these visitors from gorel-zed, the doomed world whose survivors will increase the number of planets in the solar system to ten with the creation between mars and jupiter of ..._ * * * * * from the editorial page of the new york daily news: nice knowing you, gizls, but-- _next time you visit us, how about doing it openly, instead of burrowing underground like a bunch of reds?_ * * * * * bulletin _aboard the spaceship superior, nov. (upi)--this former ohio town, adapted for space travel, took off for the asteroid belt today after transferring , of its citizens to a convoy of buses bound for a relocation center. the other of its previous population of , chose to remain aboard to pioneer the birth of the tenth planet of the solar system--neworld._ _neworld, named by the united press international correspondent accompanying the survivors of the burned-out planet of gorel-zed, will become the second known inhabited planet in the solar system...._ * * * * * "just a minute, alis," don said. "no, sir, sergeant-general donald cort, sir. not a minute longer. you tell him now." "all right. sir," don cort (gen., temp.) said to frank fogarty, secretary of defense, "has the mission been accomplished?" don and alis were in the back seat of an army staff car that was leading the bus convoy. "looks that way, son. our best telescopes can't see them any more. i'd say neworld was well on its way to a-borning." alis garet, her arms around don and her head on his shoulder, spoke directly into the transceiver. "mr. fogarty, are you aware that i haven't had a single minute alone with this human radio station since i've know him? this is the most inhibited man in the entire u. s. army." "miss garet," the defense secretary said, "i understand perfectly. when i was courting mrs. fogarty i was a pilot on the meseck line.... well, never mind that. mission accomplished, general cort, my boy." "then, sir," don said, "sergeant cort respectfully requests permission to disconnect this blasted invasion of privacy so he can ask miss alis garet if she thinks two of us can live on a non-com's pay." the driver of the staff car, a sergeant himself, said over his shoulder, "can't be done, general." fogarty said, "don't be too anxious to revert to the ranks, my boy. i'll admit the t/o for generals isn't wide open but i'm sure we can compromise somewhere between three stripes and four stars. suppose you take a ten-day delay en route to washington while we see what we can do. i'll meet you in the white house on november sixteenth. the president tells me he wants to pin a medal on you." "yes, sir," don said. alis was very close and he was only half listening. "any further orders, sir?" "just one, don. kiss her for me, too. over to you." "yes, sir!" don said. "over and out." * * * * * richard wilson, a part-time novelist, is a full-time newsman for an international press service (reuters). he is the author of two previous books and several dozen short stories in science-fiction magazines since . he finds time for his fiction writing at night and on week ends in the attic workroom of his century-old ex-farmhouse exactly miles, as the odometer on his volkswagen computes it, from times square. reviewers have not exactly compared his writing to those of some others who once labored in reuters' -year-old vineyards, among them john buchan and edgar wallace. but one _new york times_ critic praised "his whacky humor," which he said has "the bite of shrewd satire behind its madness," and the _new york herald-tribune'_s man maintained that "there's not another male in the science-fiction field who can beat wilson in the easy, intimate exposition of the private lives of the space-future." internet archive (https://archive.org) nore: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/tenantsepisodeof wattrich the tenants an episode of the ' s by mary s. watts [illustration: logo] new york the mcclure company mcmviii copyright, , by the mcclure company published, march, the tenants chapter one they were tearing down the old gwynne house the other day as we drove past, and it was not without a twinge of sentimental regret that we beheld the spectacle. the old gwynne house was what our newspapers delight to honour by referring to as an "historic landmark." in the huge, expensive, devastating, and reconstructing haste of a growing american town--a town of the middle west at that--any building twenty-five years of age is likely to be so described; but this must have numbered all of four-score. many valiant notable deeds and people were associated with it; it went through a whole epic of adventures like--as one might whimsically fancy--a stationary odysseus. at the latter end it fell to be that common drudge and slattern among homes, a boarding-house; reached the last sordid depth as a tenement; and now they are abolishing it utterly, and a new subdivision to be called, i believe, gwynne park place, will presently flourish above the grave. once upon a time there _was_ a park; it lay upon the utmost border of town, and brick walls bound with a ribbon of stone along the top, kept the house and its outlying lawns in a pompous seclusion. that was all swept away long ago; of late the ground has been reclaimed from slums and shanties and laid out in building-lots, curbed, sewered, gas-mained. but you may see here and there a single elm or buckeye, keeping yet amongst the spruce new flower-beds and within call of factory-whistles, some air of its antique dignity, remote and cool. in my time doctor vardaman's cottage, hard by where you used to turn into the gwynne driveway, was the only other dwelling hereabouts; a great, spraddling, staring apartment-house covers the site of it now. governor gwynne built his mansion--as he probably called it--in the year eighteen-thirty or thereabouts; and being an admirer of the classic and a wealthy man for those days, treated himself to a fine parthenon front, with half a dozen stone pillars in the doric taste springing from the black-and-white pavement of the veranda to uphold the overreach of the roof, "governor gwynne's attic roof," as some wit of the mid-century once styled it; that wretched pun survives to-day in a kind of deathless feebleness; it will only pass from men's memories with the house itself. much the same fashion of architecture is popular nowadays, but people pay more attention to comfort. the governor's pillars were ingeniously disposed so as to darken all the windows looking that way, whether in the double parlours on the first floor, the bed-chambers on the second, or the big ballroom over the entire house on the third. it was a rather gloomy splendour in which the old gentleman lived, i think. the rich, ponderous mahogany furniture, the dismal brocade draperies, the hair-cloth and brass nails, the ghastly white marble mantelpieces carved with mortuary-looking urns and cornucopias spilling out cold white marble fruits, with which he embellished his abode, were yet to be seen when i was a child. the hall was decorated with a wall-paper setting forth the wanderings of aeneas, wherein he and his companions marched, fought, and sailed progressively all about the walls and up the stairs, ending--entirely innocent of any irony--with the descent into hell, and the awful waves of phlegethon flaming on either side of the double-doors into the ballroom, on the top landing. the sternness of the subject somehow subdued or dominated its brilliant colouring; and i have never been able to divest my mind of that incongruous association. for me the pale helmsman still steers toward that ballroom door; and it is beside governor gwynne's ancient black walnut newel-post that i shall always behold the splendid figure of the hero lusty and living amongst the exiguous shadows. in the library the governor's law-books paraded along the shelves in close order behind the securely locked, shining glass-and-mahogany doors; in the dining-room there stood a grim old mahogany wine-cellaret like a short upright coffin; it was difficult to imagine any sort of good-cheer proceeding from that forbidding receptacle, but out of it governor gwynne had entertained andrew jackson, captain marryat, henry clay, a whole long register of celebrities. and i believe--under correction, for the date is cloudy in my recollection--that he was preparing to entertain the prince of wales with its help, when that young gentleman visited this country, had not humanity's oldest and best-known guest called upon him earlier. they used to show you the exact spot in the vast darkling front parlour on the south side where his body had lain in state a september afternoon in , and chase had pronounced the funeral oration over him. there was a full-length portrait of him scowling at a scroll of legal cap, with a big double-inkstand on the table beside him--"handy so he could shy it at you in case you disagreed," gwynne peters used profanely to suggest--hanging on the parlour wall just opposite the long mirror between the windows; the chairs and sofas were always shrouded in white linen covers; white net bags swathed the ornate gilt-and-glass chandeliers. it was a ghostly place, that room, with a clock mounted in a kind of greek temple of alabaster under a glass dome on the mantel sepulchrally ticking out the irrecoverable hours, and governor gwynne eyeing you sternly from his elevation. he looked not too well pleased with his canvas immortality and considering what he must see, it was no wonder. he was born some time during the last quarter of the eighteenth century, and therefore must have been upwards of sixty before the day when chase sonorously reminded his hearers in the south parlour that--"the history of samuel gwynne's life was, in very truth, the history of his native state, so closely was he associated with her struggles, her vicissitudes, and her achievements.... if zeal, if integrity, if courage and ability in the discharge alike of public and private duties can establish a claim upon the grateful remembrance of posterity, _then_, fellow-citizens, we may well point with pride.... _this_ was the noblest roman of them all," etc. a neat pamphlet containing the address and the resolutions of the bar association was afterwards printed and distributed; it was only the other day that i came upon a copy of it, very yellow and dusty, but bearing no marks of ever having been tampered with by a reader--indeed, some of the leaves were yet uncut--among other essays and orations of a like nature blushing unseen in the darkest corner of a second-hand book-shop. from it i extracted the rhetorical gems just cited, and it is doubtful if they will ever see the light again, yet i am confident that the old gentleman deserved much that was said of him, and would have been the first to deprecate any "pointing with pride." he was an upright judge, a temperate and god-fearing man; he amassed a handsome fortune, and served his particular section of the country through two terms as governor, rather fancying himself, i believe, in the role of statesman, and all unwittingly laying the foundations of that intolerable, absurd, and tragic gwynne family pride; it beset all his descendants and all the countless kindred of gwynnes like a curse. no more arrogantly self-righteous set of people ever existed; and no more hysterically clannish. the governor's memory held them all together for forty years after his death; only recently, with the introduction of new blood, has that strange, intangible bond dissolved. samuel died and was gathered to his fathers; and samuel, his son reigned in his stead, and busily drank himself to death in as short a time as that agreeable result could be compassed; he was not the first nor the last of the family to make thus the easy avernian descent. i have heard some of the gwynnes themselves comment upon the familiar fate and character of great men's sons, as exemplified by governor gwynne's with a kind of melancholy complacence.[ ] the governor left a queer, unjust, and wrong-headed will--realising, perhaps, how queer, unjust, and wrong-headed were some of his prospective heirs--tying up a part of his property to the third generation, devising what seemed an unfair proportion to his brothers and sisters, of whom it might be said that their name was legion--lucien gwynne, david gwynne, charlotte, eleanor, marian; i have never known anyone who could accurately catalogue all the gwynnes--and bequeathing the house and furniture to all his children in succession, as if he had a premonition that none of them would enjoy it long. there was a son who had run away to sea and was never heard of again; no provision was made for him in case he should reappear, although he was the oldest. then came sam, that died in a fit of delirium tremens; then arthur. him they found hanging to a beam under the "attic" roof one summer morning not long after he had succeeded to the kingdom of the gwynnes; and i suppose there was a horrid silence in the attic, and presently wild, pale-faced women and running and hurry and horses' hoofs churning the gravel before the door. the body was laid in the same south parlour and governor gwynne stared over his scroll at the suicide. arthur left two daughters, young women grown; by the time i put on long dresses they were two old maids and lived narrowly, doing their own work, in a little cheap house at the other end of town. they were always clad alike in the last bombazine that was ever seen among us, i am sure, and wore their hair in the ringlets of eighteen-sixty, with knobs of black satin ribbon at the temples. they had the name of being queer, but then all the gwynnes were queer. after arthur, a daughter, harriet peters, went to live in the house; she was a widow, donald peters having gone into the army--about ' or ' , i think--and died of typhus in libby prison. one would have thought the house held out very slender attractions for the remaining gwynnes, by this time; but all the heirs were pretty well straitened in means, and mrs. peters probably welcomed any way of reducing expenses. no one, least of all the heirs themselves, ever seemed to know, or be able to explain what had become of the gwynne fortune; but it is certain that ten years after the governor's death it was almost entirely dissipated, except what was held in trust or otherwise secured. this included the house, which could not be sold, as i have been told; at any rate mrs. peters had it for her life rent-free. i dare say she had pleasant enough memories of old days when she was a child and played about the pillars with her brothers and caroline; she had two children, two little boys of her own, and she liked the idea of bringing them up in what she called without the least notion of being affected, her ancestral home. all the gwynnes loved their dreary inheritance; they had as great a fondness and reverence for their name as if everyone that ever bore it had lived and died in the odour of sanctity; and doubtless regarded the house with something akin to the sacred affection of the israelites for the temple. i remember mrs. peters when she lived there, a tall woman with the thin, aquiline features and red hair of the family, going about with her black skirts and solemn face. being constantly treated by her friends as a broken-hearted heroine, the daughter of one departed patriot and widow of another, i believe the pose became not distasteful to her as years went on; i have heard her refer to herself in sounding and mournful phrase as "the last of the gwynnes,"--whereas, heavens knows there were enough gwynnes to stock a colony! she must have meant that she was the last of the governor's immediate descendants--and so she was, excepting caroline.[ ] it was at this time that i began to know the house; as i think of those days, i suffer a sharp return of that feeling which mr. andrew lang has somewhere most touchingly and truly called "the _heimweh_ of childhood." when i was a young lady of eight years or so, they used to pack me into our elderly phaeton and send me out to the country to spend the day playing with gwynne peters. i wore my white embroidered piqué, with a pink sash; and the brilliant red-and-green plaid stockings in which at that period it was the fashion to encase the legs of little girls. all glorious without was i; the feminine mind recalls these details with a photographic minuteness. gwynne was a gentle little boy about my own age and not very strong, which was one reason why they asked me, a girl, to play with him. another, which, with an elegant modesty, i refrained from mentioning first, was that gwynne was very devoted to me--i was juliet in my plaid stockings! romeo wore baggy little trousers that buttoned on a yoke about his manly waist, if i recollect aright. i had in my possession until a short while ago--i gave it to gwynne's eldest daughter the last time she visited me, finding her screaming with laughter over it and the other contents of an old desk--a solid and rumpled document reciting that: "this is to say that i gwynne peters do love you mary stanley, and we will be marrid when we grow up in witnes whareoff i have sined this with my bludd yours respektifly gwynne peters." it is painfully printed on a leaf of thick cream-coloured paper with a high gloss; we tore it out of an old photograph-album we found in the attic. that was a charming playground, crowded with the most fascinating assortment of rubbish, that a nimble imagination could convert into almost any kind of stage "property." there were broken-down chairs and tables, mildewed old pictures, carpetbags, bandboxes covered with flowered wall-paper, saddle-bags and holsters, a round-topped hair-trunk studded with nails, with mangy bare patches upon its flanks that conferred an air of reality on it when it figured romantically as a horse, camel, or other beast in our dramas. we spurred into araby on that hair-trunk, we fought with moslems, we carted off bales of treasure. when fancy flagged we could turn to two chests of mothy, mouse-eaten old books that stood under the eaves; no one ever opened the cases in the great gloomy library downstairs, notwithstanding our pleadings. gwynne, who has always been of an affectionately reminiscent disposition, said to me not so long ago: "i should like to go back and be eleven years old again, just to read 'ivanhoe' the first time. don't you remember?" indeed i remembered very well two children huddling by the low attic window with the book between them; sometimes it is in the chilly twilight of a winter's afternoon, with eerie shadows hovering in the corners, and a landscape all in sharp blacks and whites like an india-ink drawing, outside; sometimes the warm, hasty summer rain switches on the roof; sometimes there is a fresh chorus of birds beneath our window, and mating sparrows flit about the chimneys. "hound of the temple--stain to thine order--set free the damsel!" "bois-guilbert, notwithstanding the confusion of the bloody fray, showed every attention to her safety. repeatedly he was by her side, and neglecting his own defence, held before her the fence of his triangular steel-plated shield." "that's the way i'd take care of you," says gwynne, not grasping the point of bois-guilbert's assiduities about rebecca. "let's play it, and we'll play the trunk's zamor, the good steed that never yet failed his master." we could be as noisy as we chose in the attic, for the whole lofty barn-like ballroom beneath us intervened to deaden all sounds. there was no other place about the house where we were allowed to run and shout, and even outside we must go decorously. we longed to play robin hood under the beautiful old beeches and in the alleys of the garden, but someone was forever hushing us. mrs. peters would come out on the veranda, where, standing between the columns at the top of the steps in her flowing black she looked exactly like medea in the big steel-engraving of "the marriage of jason and creusa" over the sideboard in the dining room: "gwynne, my son, i am astonished. don't you know you may disturb your aunt caroline?" no one ever saw gwynne's aunt caroline. she lived in one of the large bedrooms towards the front of the house--a bedroom with iron bars at the windows. "why are those rods there?" i once asked. "it used to be a nursery--that's a place where they put babies, you know," said gwynne, flushing oddly; he had the singularly delicate, fair skin common to all red-haired people, and a change of colour showed brilliantly on his ordinarily pale face. "the bars were put there to keep them from falling out." i was satisfied; it would never have occurred to me to doubt gwynne, who was even touchily truthful. but miss clara vardaman, the doctor's old-maid sister, who kept house for him, overhearing us, frowned impartially on us both and shook her head. "gwynne, child----" she began severely; then checked herself, and turning upon me with a severity even greater, in that it was, as i felt, unjust: "you shouldn't ask so many questions," she said. "little girls should be seen and not heard." this was perplexing behaviour in miss clara, who, in general, was the gentlest and tenderest of souls. she cried when the doctor chloroformed their old cat; i think she would have cut off her hand rather than spank either one of us, although we must sometimes have tried her sorely. she used to invite us in and fill us with doughnuts or other deleterious sweets when she caught us trespassing in their garden. i remember a transient and rather resentful wonder at the pained look on her face when she thus reproved us; and she was afterwards, illogically enough, very gentle with gwynne, and gave him a notably larger share of cake than mine. it would not have been possible to keep me in ignorance forever about aunt caroline, of course, but the enlightenment came with a sort of ferocious suddenness. it is one of a good many unpleasant recollections of mine connected with gwynne's brother, sam peters. sam was the elder by two or three years, a cold, surly, hulking lad of whom i was very much afraid--with reason, for he used his superior strength to browbeat and bully us. that the two brothers should be eternally at odds is not surprising; every nursery has its tyrant, and, remembering our own childish days, we must all be uneasily aware that our youngsters fight like small savages amongst themselves, and, as in most primitive communities, might makes right, and the battle is generally to the strong. gwynne had a high spirit in his poor little weak body, and he invariably got the worst of it, yet never gave in. every way but physically he had the advantage of his brother, who was a dull boy--and, i believe, liked gwynne no better for being cleverer than himself. "smarty" was one of his favourite names for him; i have known him to pummel his junior unmercifully upon some boyish difference; yet he would sometimes come cringing to both of us for help with his grimy slate and pencil. it would be hard to say in which posture i most disliked and feared him; but i have a fancy now that there was always something uncanny about sam peters in his fits of stubborn silence, of unprovoked anger, of repellent and fawning submission. he was most often to be found about the stables, and when his mother's commands--she had scarcely any control over him, and he treated her alternately with insolent indifference, and with a kind of wild affection--or the servants' persuasions brought him indoors, came scowling in upon our mild little games, kicking gwynne's toys right and left. he took away our "ivanhoe" and kept it for days, in mere spite, for he was not reading it himself--that i could have understood and almost pardoned; but i never saw him with a book. he invented various fantastically brutal ways of torturing the pet animals; and enjoyed beyond measure our frantic tears and expostulations. sam never abated his tramping and whistling out of deference to aunt caroline; he stormed through the house when and how he chose, and on gwynne's offering a remonstrance one day: "you shut up!" said sam coarsely. "aunt caroline's crazy, and when i grow up i'm going to send her to the place where they put mad people so she won't be a bother any more." gwynne's thin face went white; he doubled his feeble fists and struck out at his brother in a blind and futile indignation. "don't you believe him, mary," he gasped. "it's a lie! how dare you say that, sam? how dare you tell?" the cook and gardener rushed in, hearing the uproar of this battle and separated the combatants, or rather the persecutor and his victim, for gwynne was helpless under his elder's hailing blows. they were old servants, for the gwynnes possessed among other ill-assorted traits, a faculty for enlisting the lifelong fidelity and affection of their underlings. "my lord, mr. gwynne, whatever is the matter?" said the cook; she took him on her knee and staunched his bleeding nose with her apron. "mr. sam, for shame! you'd oughtn't to hit your little brother." gwynne would not explain the cause of the quarrel, nor, for that matter, would sam; he went off whistling harshly. "he said miss gwynne was crazy," i volunteered. "it's a lie," blubbered gwynne. "it's a lie, ain't it, hannah?" "s-h-h, you mustn't say that naughty word--there now--now," said the cook soothingly, and she and the gardener exchanged a meaning glance. footnotes: [ ] judge lewis, whom i have quoted more than once in this history, had a way of saying with prodigious gravity that the gwynnes as a family were not without some of the weaknesses of genius; a remark which they innocently liked to repeat until gwynne peters, the only one of them all who ever discovered the slightest sense of humour, pointed out its ambiguity.--m. s. w. [ ] caroline, poor woman, only died the other day, at nearly ninety, i think; she must have outlived the "last of the gwynnes" upwards of thirty years.--m. s. w. chapter two mrs. peters died rather suddenly the spring of the centennial year. that, or the fact that hers was the first funeral i ever went to, has served to fix the date in my memory. gwynne, who would be seventeen his next birthday, came home from college; sam came home too, of course, but not from college. he never showed much aptitude for learning, nor stayed longer than six months in any of the numerous schools to which he was sent one after another. at the time of his mother's death he was away on a fishing-trip in canada, they said. the boys came home, there was a gathering of the gwynne clan; that sombre south parlour, dedicated to such ceremonies, was once more opened, the white covers came off the chairs, revealing them stark and stiff bluish rosewood and black horsehair. otherwise the house seemed nowise different; it was never a cheerful place. we drove out to the funeral with mrs. oldham, who could not afford either to own or hire a carriage herself, and was always benevolently remembered by her friends on these occasions. in spite of, or it may be, because of a gift she had of rich and spicy talk, mrs. oldham was one of the people whom no one ever forgets or overlooks. "harriet peters would be alive this minute," she remarked "if it hadn't been for caroline. taking care of caroline just about killed harriet. think of having to live with _that_ in the house all the time! i do think the gwynnes are too funny; anybody else, any other set of people under the sun would have sent caroline to an institution long ago. all these years they've talked about 'poor carrie,' and made believe she was just an ordinary invalid, when everybody _knew_, and they _knew_ they knew that she's as crazy as a loon." "oh, no, she isn't that, you know, kate," said my grandmother mildly. "she's just melancholy." "fiddle-de-dee, what's the difference? she's as crazy as arthur; they're all queer, you know it. the peters boy, sam, you know, is queer; clara vardaman told me so, she's known those children ever since they were born. what do you suppose they'll do with caroline _now_? there's nobody left, particularly, to look after her; for all their sniffing around about 'poor carrie,' they'll none of 'em take her, you'll see. i suppose governor gwynne's will must have made some provision for her--but then, nobody expected her to outlive all the others. people like that always live forever somehow." here, as we passed another carriage, mrs. oldham's face, which had been wearing a very bright and lively expression, suddenly darkened to one of decent sadness, touched with satisfaction--that expression sacred to the sympathetic friends who gather about at funerals. we have all seen it, and, i dare say, worn it ourselves, more than once. mrs. oldham bowed gravely to the other vehicle, and immediately upon its passage, turned to my grandmother with a lightning vivacity. "that was lulu gwynne--lulu stevens, you know," she said. "how old she's beginning to look, isn't she?" i remember listening to mrs. oldham with a shocked wonder; she would not greatly surprise nor offend me nowadays, i am afraid. i have gone a long way and witnessed funerals a-many since that day, and i have learned to know that she was no indifferent scoffer, but in her way, a good-hearted enough woman. she even cried a little at the funeral, perhaps recalling old times when she and harriet were girls together; i thought her, so unsparing is youth, a hideous hypocrite--yet i cried heartily myself, although i did not care in the least for poor mrs. peters! but who, indeed, young or old, is not somewhat moved by the brave and sad and beautiful words of the service? from my place i could look across at gwynne sitting quietly with a weeping female gwynne on either hand, and marvelled that he shed no tears. he stared sternly ahead; and i caught myself with shame noting that he seemed stronger, and was plainly outgrowing his clothes; his wrists stuck out distressingly, his feet were too large. and sam--was sam "queer"? he did nothing "queer" at the funeral at any rate. doctor vardaman was one of the pall-bearers. we all came away as cheerfully as if it had been a wedding, it seemed to my severe young mind; i did not know that everyone is always cheerful coming away from a funeral. the carriages trot; the hearse-driver pulls up at a wayside watering-trough; he is a merciful man and merciful to his beasts; by a remarkable coincidence there is a road-house somewhere in the background, whence he presently issues, and resumes the reins, wiping his mouth. he hails a friend: "hi, joe, want to ride?" "don't care if i do." the pall-bearers exchange cigars and smoke in their carriage. there is a gentle rain beginning to fall; the shadows lengthen; people comment on the fact that the cemetery is a long, tiresome ride from town. and as we roll along, mrs. oldham enlivens the journey by sprightly guesses at what on earth will be done with all the things in the old gwynne house. she would probably have keenly appreciated my opportunities; for, being asked out to stay with miss vardaman--who, innocent old schemer that she was, undoubtedly had certain sentimental ends in view, regarding gwynne and me--at about this time, i was a rather shy and reluctant witness to what doctor vardaman grimly denominated the division of the spoils. there was so much coming and going of gwynnes visible from miss clara's sitting-room windows that that simple spinster, who passed her life in a monotony of neat and even pretty little duties, became feverishly excited. she forgot the canary, neglected the doctor's socks, let the rubber-plant in the dining-room languish for want of water while she gazed and speculated. it is true that on one occasion miss clara retreated from her conning-tower with a scared, serious face, and asked me, fluttering a little, please to lower the shade. "we oughtn't to seem to be staring, or to notice at all--it's awful--awful!" she said incoherently, and kept to the other side of the house the rest of the afternoon. a closed carriage drove into the park, and after a space, drove out again--that was all. but i knew they were taking poor caroline gwynne to "the place where they put mad people," that sam had promised her so long ago. we wondered under our breaths whether it was sam who had ordered it; whether the two boys had agreed or quarrelled; and what the other gwynnes had said or done. the unspeakable isolation of insanity that converts a human being into a kind of dreadful chattel hung about caroline; we did not dare to ask a question. doctor vardaman knew all about it, but--"i'm afraid to say anything to john," whispered miss clara. "he wouldn't tell anyhow, you know. doctors never do. poor carrie! i knew her when we were both young, before--you know. but she never was quite like other girls. poor carrie! it's thirty years----" by the next day, however, miss clara had recovered spirits and interest; and when a furniture-van slouched up richmond avenue, and turned in between the old brick pillars at the entrance to the park, she could contain herself no longer. "mary, come here, do look--you don't seem to notice anything. that's zimmermann's wagon, i know it, and i do believe that's young charlie gwynne, horace's charlie, you know, the little one, not gilbert's charlie, he's at harvard, on the seat telling the driver where to go. nobody ever knows the way out here. now isn't that like jennie gwynne? she does just love to boss and manage everybody. i _knew_ something was up when i saw her coming out every day--she's not so devoted to the boys as all that, you may be sure. she just wants to tell 'em what to do and how to do it, and which, and where, and when, and why--some people beat everything. not but what jennie _is_ a good manager, i'll say that for her. i suppose they're going to divide the things--well, of course, they've got to be divided, but i do wonder if poor gwynne will get anything worth having. the boy's so gentle and quiet, he won't ever think of speaking up, and saying, 'i ought to have that, cousin jennie.' it would be just like her to--there goes another wagon. well, _will you look_? it's one of those nasty, dirty people, those bulgarians that keep the second-hand shops down on scioto street--well, if that doesn't pass everything! the idea of selling anything out of governor gwynne's house to those people--bulgarians! it's enough to make him turn in his grave." the doctor, who was a very tall, lean man, laid down his book, arose, and gravely looked over his sister's head, out of the window at the procession. "i don't think that's a bulgarian, clara," he observed solemnly. "what, it isn't? well, john vardaman, your eyes are failing, that's all! there, i can see the name on his ramshackle old cart. am--am--amirkhanian--there, now, what do you think of _that_?" "i think he's an armenian," said the doctor, with no abatement of his gravity. "i think they're all armenians--armenian jews----" "oh, well, tease if you want to! armenians or bulgarians it's all one; those countries where the men wear petticoats, and everybody drinks sour milk--horrid! the idea of jennie gwynne clearing out the house for _them_! i don't see how the others can let her run things that way; i don't believe she knows anything about it. do you suppose she has ever heard that those blue india-ware plant-tubs, those great big elegant things were intended to be given to lucien's wife? harriet herself told me she had found a memorandum of it in her father's desk." "well, she can't very well sell 'em to the armenians," said doctor vardaman, with an air of profound consideration. "no armenian that ever lived would want to drink his sour milk out of a plant-tub. and besides they have holes in the bottom, and he couldn't!" "oh, you may talk, john, but it's important for somebody to remember all these things. jennie hunter--jennie gwynne, i mean, ought to be told that somebody besides those two forlorn helpless boys knows about it, and she can't have everything her own way----" "better not interfere, clara," said the doctor, really serious this time. and miss clara who knew very well herself that she ought not to interfere, was silenced for a while. all the morning she seethed, watching one van after another trudge away from the house, laden, apparently, with old mattresses, stove-pipes, and table-legs; for, such is the irony of circumstance, that, let a house be ever so richly supplied otherwise, these useful and universal but singularly uncomely articles always occupy the positions of most prominence on a furniture-wagon. their view fed without appeasing the fire of miss clara's curiosity; she exhausted herself in conjecture. and doctor vardaman had not been gone half an hour on his afternoon's round of visits when she called me excitedly. "get your hat and coat; i'm going up there right away. you can't tell what jennie gwynne may be doing. i saw something sticking out of the back of the last wagon, and i won't be positive, of course, but it looked _very much_ like the top of one of the mahogany posts to that big four-post bed in harriet's room; they are solid mahogany, you know, mary, carved all the way up with a kind of pineapple-shaped thing on the top. if jennie gwynne's gone and given away that bed that was poor gwynne's own mother's, i just won't stand it, that's all! she won't stop till she's stripped the boys perfectly bare. what's that? maybe it's being sent to storage? oh, pshaw, she'd never do that, it's too handsome! for a minute i thought it was the bed in the spare-room, but i remember now that has helmets carved on top of the posts, not pineapples. is my bonnet straight? you know, of course, mary, i don't think jennie would do anything dishonest," she added hastily, her kind old face suddenly perturbed. "i wouldn't for the world have you think i meant that. but she's always run everything and everybody. i don't believe horace gwynne dares to say his soul's his own--why, you _know_ that, you've been there. jennie just can't help it--she's always perfectly sure she's right, and she never will listen to anybody, or consider anybody else's opinion worth anything." it occurred to me that, in that case, there was not much use of miss clara's rushing in with remonstrances, where much more angelically-minded persons than she might well have feared to tread; the gwynnes were not a family to brook outside interference. but, being brought up in the seen-and-not-heard tradition, i passively followed in the old lady's wake. miss vardaman's bark was, i knew, a great deal worse than her bite; and i could hardly fancy her facing down that ready, cock-sure, and energetic little mrs. horace gwynne. in fact, as we neared the house, it was obvious that miss clara's courage was going the road of bob acres'. she walked slower, commented casually on the beauty of the spring foliage, and paused in an uneasy hesitation when we caught sight of another lady--_not_ mrs. horace gwynne--descending the steps with a bundle in her arms. "it's lulu stevens," she said in an undertone. "i didn't know _she_ was out here. _cormorants!_ harriet couldn't bear her." "do you suppose i'll ever get home with this thing?" mrs. stevens greeted us cheerily. the last time i had seen her had been at the funeral, where she listened as attentively as any of us to the great and awful words in which we are warned that man walketh in a vain shadow and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches and cannot tell who shall gather them. "i came out on the cars--next time i'll take the carriage. it's the old french china punch-bowl--you know--the one that used to stand on top of the wine-cabinet in the dining-room. cousin jennie said she thought i might as well take it, she didn't believe anybody else wanted it. cousin jennie's the oldest, you know, and she has so much _judgment_. those are those two old cut-glass decanters i just wrapped up and put inside. goodness, it's as heavy as lead! you ought to see the house, clara, you just ought to _see_ it! it's cram-full of everything under the sun, i wouldn't have believed there was all the truck in it." "it won't be there long, i think," said miss vardaman, with unnatural dryness, glaring at the punch-bowl. "well, i don't know," said mrs. stevens, quite unconscious of any sarcasm, which was the last thing in the world one would have looked for from miss clara vardaman. "it'll take another week to clean it all out, i believe, though cousin jennie is awfully quick and thorough. the old garret is packed to the eaves, the things there haven't been touched for twenty-five years. you know poor harriet never was much of a housekeeper. just think, we found eighteen pairs of old shoes stuck away in a closet--_eighteen_! some of 'em had rubbers to match. and there was that pair of crutches one of the boys had when he broke his leg, and a whole great pile of daguerreotypes taken in the year one--pretty near everybody in this town--oh, i know it's perfectly awful to laugh, but you can't help it to save you--old mrs. duval, you know, clara, in a lace mantle, and corkscrew curls, and a thing like a tart on a band around her forehead! and some little girl that i think _must_ be sallie gwynne in pantalettes with a poke-bonnet--oh, there're ever so many we can't place--there's nobody alive now that remembers 'em. there're two or three trunks of old clothes, and donald peters' old uniform and sword, and about a million medicine-bottles, and a set of false teeth--_false teeth_! think of it! i'd as soon have expected to find a coffin-plate." "what are they going to do with things like that?" asked miss clara, shamefacedly interested. "why, cousin jennie sent down to some of those second-hand people on scioto street. she says it's a great deal better to sell the things and get a little money for them that can be divided up among the heirs, than to try and give them away and have everybody dissatisfied. cousin jennie's so _sensible_." "it's a shame," miss clara commented in a fierce whisper, as the other went off, radiantly. "that's that beautiful old punch-bowl with the deep gilt rim and wreath of roses. daniel webster's had punch out of that bowl. and i did so want gwynne and you to have it in your house--that is, i--i--i had set my heart on gwynne's having it, you know, my dear. well," she added reflectively, making the best of the situation, "after all, a good many of the gwynnes have taken to drink, so perhaps it's just as well. only i don't believe gwynne ever will. she didn't say a word about the governor's law-library. well, now, gwynne's going to have that, or i'll know the reason why! i do think it would be an outrage to give those books to anybody but him--governor gwynne's only grandson--that is, of course, there's sam. but if jennie sets out in that high-handed way to give them to somebody else, i'll just let her know i'm here, that's all! mercy, what a noise!" there was an unusual colour in her cheeks as we climbed the steps; her lips moved, rehearsing the biting speeches with which she meant to confound jennie gwynne. that lady was upstairs superintending the removal of one of the enormous carved wardrobes with full-length mirrors in the doors; we could hear her shrill voice pitched high in command, and the men grunting and shoving. all the doors and windows were wide open, the daylight flaunted shamelessly about the grave, gloomy, reticent old house. a constant bickering of hammers filled the air; they were taking down and boxing the pictures. half a dozen of the huge line-engravings that used to hang in an orderly row about the walls, "signing of the declaration" over one bookcase, "sistine madonna," over another, "jason and creusa," "c'est moi; scene in the prison of the conciergerie during the reign of terror"--all these artistic treasures, i say, were down and standing about the rooms awaiting their turn. the governor's portrait leaned against the white marble mantel, and you might see the dust-webs festooning the space where it had hung. "poor harriet, she didn't know a thing about keeping house!" sighed miss clara, observing them. in the library all the books were piled on the floor, and there stood gwynne, knee-deep amongst them, in his shirt-sleeves, looking a little helpless and worried. a youngster whom i recognised for one of the lawrence children was playing on the floor in a corner with a quantity of those small square flat morocco cases decorated with a sort of bas-relief all over the outside, in which daguerreotypes were once enshrined. mrs. lawrence was haranguing gwynne excitedly, yet in a subdued voice, with one wary eye on the stairs. "of course, i don't say that cousin jennie doesn't _mean_ it all for the best, gwynne, but if she would _only_ consider a little! she's positively _insisted_ on my taking the mahogany hat-rack with the deer's antlers mounted on it, you know--and even after i _said_ to her, 'why, cousin jennie, i'm sure its awfully nice of you to want me to have it, but i'd be afraid to put that thing in my house, the hall's so little, and the stairs come right down by the front door, so there's hardly any room, and i'd be afraid all the time the children would fall down the steps and put their eyes out on those prongs--it's a perfect death-trap!' now, gwynne, that's every word i said, and i didn't say it in a disagreeable way at all, i just said, 'why, cousin jennie, i'd be afraid to take that thing in my house; and i _told_ her on account of the children and all, just as nicely as i could, and she got just as mad as could be, and said she supposed i'd like to have the handsomest thing in the house, the dining-room set, or something like that, and you _know_, gwynne, i never _thought_ of such a thing, and i just wish you'd speak to her----" "i'm sorry, cousin charlotte," said gwynne, harassed and weary. "i--it's really none of my business, you know, the things belong to the estate, and i suppose cousin jennie's the best one to divide them--oh, miss clara!" he broke off to come and shake hands eagerly; he was glad to see us, i think. he had grown tall, and older-looking; his voice plunged from unnatural heights to unexpected depths with a startling and, i dare say, rather ludicrous effect. wouldn't we sit down? "it's--it's all mussed up," he said, casting an anxious glace around. he called to the carpenters to stop their racket; it was warm, wasn't it? he'd have hannah get us something, some lemonade, wouldn't we like it? no, he wasn't busy, just packing books, he'd be glad to rest. sam? why--why--sam had gone--had gone back to canada, didn't we know it? there wasn't really anything for sam to do, you know. cousin jennie was seeing to everything. "jennie has so much _judgment_, you know," mrs. lawrence put in. "we couldn't have anybody, any legal person coming in here to appraise and divide, that would be simply _horrid_--dear old uncle samuel's things. and jennie is a perfectly ideal person--so sensible and just. but then we aren't the kind of family to have any fussing anyhow." ("now wasn't that _gwynne_ all over?" said miss clara afterwards. "she'd just been giving jennie _hail columbia!_ but they might fight like cats and dogs among themselves, they'd never let an outsider know it. there's gwynne peters, the best boy that ever lived. he'd die rather than tell a lie, or take what didn't belong to him--and there he sat, just pleasantly smiling and pretending that everything was all right, when he was nearly worn out with the fuss and worry!") mrs. horace gwynne came downstairs in the rear of the leviathan wardrobe, ordering and exhorting. as the men staggered down the front steps with it, she turned into the library. "i suppose your cousin charlotte has been telling you about the hat-rack, gwynne," she began in an acid voice. "all i have to say is--oh, how do you do, miss clara. mercy, charlotte, tell marian to come away from those books! come here to cousin jennie, dearie; what have you got there? don't hurt that nice book." "it ain't a nice book," said the child resentfully. "it's revised statutes of the state of ohio--it says: 'forcible entry does not c-o-n-con-s-t-i-constitute trespass.' what's 'forcible entry,' cousin gwynne?" "put it down, dear, never mind," said mrs. horace kindly. "i want gwynne to have all his grandfather's library," she explained, turning to miss vardaman. "it's only right, you know. he's governor gwynne's only grandson--except sam, of course. but i said to all the family in the beginning that gwynne peters should have those books, it would be outrageous to give them to anyone else." poor miss clara! i could have laughed at the blank expression with which she beheld this stealing of her thunder. "i'm sure you're quite right, jennie," she said tamely. "you've always had a great deal of _judgment_. gwynne, dear, how did you get that great black bruise on your forehead?" "i ran into something," gwynne said, flushing. "oh, cousin gwynne, oh, what an awful story!" marian piped in her sharp treble. "it's where cousin sam threw the boot at you when he got mad at you the other day. cousin sam had a queer spell, i heard hannah say so." "marian!" cried her mother savagely. "hannah's getting into her dotage, and imagines things," said mrs. horace gwynne, reddening to her forehead. "i don't know what we're going to do with the poor old thing----" they all talked on desperately. it was a ghastly moment for everybody. the skeleton rattled its grisly bones in the gwynne family closet, and there was something foolishly and pitiably heroic in the gallant effort they made to silence that hideous activity. mrs. lawrence and mrs. horace, the one gwynne by blood, the other by adoption, forgot their private feud in the common defence. to your tents, o israel! "you might look over those old daguerreotypes, miss clara," mrs. gwynne said. "marian, run and get them for miss vardaman. i don't know who some of the people are, maybe you'll recognise them." gwynne opened a case. "this one is all going to pieces," he said, as the little pad of faded green brocade in the lid fell out; behind it was a slip of yellowed paper. "oh, look here, it has 'john to louise, june, ,' on it, 'john to louise'--who was that, do you suppose?" "let me see it," said miss clara. "louise? maybe that's louise andrews--she was a gwynne, you know," said mrs. lawrence frowning in an effort of recollection. "i can't think of any other louise. is there a picture of her? she was a great beauty." "did you ever see her, cousin charlotte?" "goodness, no, she's been dead i don't know how long." "i remember her," said miss vardaman. "i'm so much older than any of you. she married leonard andrews, she didn't live very long. yes, she was very pretty. that's john's picture. yes, i suppose it _does_ look funny, but that's the way they all dressed, you know, in those days. they were engaged and then they quarrelled about something--oh, dear me, it's years and years ago." "you'd better take that picture, miss clara," said mrs. horace gwynne briskly. "maybe doctor vardaman would like to have it, and--oh, i was going to speak to you about something. you know i'm managing everything and it's an awful responsibility; i've counted all the towels and sheets and measured all the pieces of goods i've found--nothing ought to be wasted or thrown away, you know. there're a whole lot of medicine-bottles upstairs, over three hundred--do you think the doctor could use them? they're very good bottles, you know, no corks of course--i thought maybe the doctor----" "john wouldn't have any use for them, i thank you, jennie," said miss clara, stiffening. gwynne's eyes met mine. "the wistaria on the dining-room porch is going to bloom, don't you want to see it?" said he, biting his lips. we retreated to the wistaria, and both of us, propped against the dining-room wall, gave away to hysterical laughter, all the more violent because we must smother it. gwynne's nerves, i think, were a little unstrung by all he had been through the last melancholy week. "i--i can't help it----" he gasped. "i know it's all wrong, but i can't help it. they're so funny!" we were presently visited with retribution for our ungodly merriment; for, as we stood there, an armenian--or bulgarian--gentleman came around the corner of the house with a wheelbarrow heaped with the spoil of the garret, and after him another bearing on his shoulders our old hair-trunk. hardly any hair was left upon it, now; but there it was long and low and round-topped with rows of brass nails black with verdigris. it was going away on the armenian shoulders--going out of our lives forever like those childish days. gwynne looked at me with a rather tremulous smile. "'ha, saint edward! ha, saint george!' exclaimed the black knight, cutting down a man at each invocation," he quoted. "don't, mary!" for i am ashamed to say that i sat down on the top step and cried openly, while the boy tried to comfort me. chapter three herewith began another volume in the saga of the old gwynne house. after nearly fifty years of gwynnes, it must now pass to other ownership. the thing happens every day, and should be no great tragedy; few americans are born and live and die in the same house, and a building of any sort rarely remains the property of one family for more than a generation. but the gwynnes, one and all, mourned aloud and refused to be comforted. governor gwynne's house, uncle samuel's house, the house that great man planned and built, whose hospitalities had been enjoyed by the very best and highest in the land! why, the state ought to buy that house! the state was of a different opinion, although the house was offered at a ridiculously low price, not more than twice what it was worth. none of the gwynnes, it appeared, could afford to buy it in, or even rent it, the expense of living there was so terrifying. at that distance from town, one must keep a horse and carriage, the street-cars being so far away; the care of the park and garden required one man's whole time; and there was the huge old house itself. it had at least sixteen rooms, and with its high ceilings, and long rambling hallways, took as much coal to heat it in our winters as three ordinary houses. besides, it had--ahem--undeniably run down somewhat during poor harriet's administration, and was in need of costly repairs. no, alack and alas! the house must be sold or leased--dreadful profanation! the furniture was at last cleared out; the governor's portrait went down to the state-house, and you may see him there at this moment, in line with all the rest of the governors, but in a rather obscure corner--such is the notorious ingratitude of republics. all the gwynne establishments in town blossomed out with relics, brass andirons, branch candlesticks, horse-hair sofas--people confided to one another that, on the whole, mrs. horace gwynne had made a pretty fair division; she herself sternly declined to take anything but the alabaster clock in the south parlour. that mausoleum-looking engine now ticks out the time from the middle of a charming white wood mantel in her eldest son's "colonial" residence. it long since ticked out eternity for mrs. gwynne, as for some of the other friends we met in the last chapter. the armenians finally accomplished the dismantling of the attic and cellar; the contents, gwynne peters once told me, brought just seventy-two dollars. "that was a little less than four dollars all around," he said with a grin. "i spent my four on my first box of cigars, and got awfully sick on the very first one i tried to smoke, i remember--as if it were for a judgment on me!" he went back to college. old hannah went, whimpering, to live in the country with a married niece. the windows were boarded up, the old iron gates chained across; and, for a while, an advertisement appeared in our papers, and, i believe, in some of the big new york and chicago ones: "for sale or lease--commodious mansion built by the late governor gwynne, delightfully situated in the suburbs, within easy walking-distance of two lines of cars.[ ] large grounds, fruit and shade trees, stable, dairy, etc. house of twenty rooms in perfect order with all modern improvements. suitable for a young ladies' seminary or summer-hotel. for further particulars address virgil h. templeton, agt. for the gwynne estate." there is a peculiar fascination in these artless notices; one may read whole columns of such paradises awaiting tenants, every morning in the journals. they are so rich in promise, so fertile in pleasant suggestion, it seems as if a person might spend a happy lifetime in the simple pursuit of renting and moving into them one after another. but, strange to say, for many months mr. virgil h. templeton piped and nobody would dance! the causes of both health and education suffered serious neglect; nobody showed the least anxiety to teach young ladies in the commodious mansion built by the late governor gwynne; nobody wanted to establish a summer-resort within easy walking-distance of two lines of cars. once in a while someone would come in, get the keys, and go out to inspect the place; but invariably "they laughed as they rode away," like the false knight in the ballad. it is possible that the disadvantages connected with living in it which the family had noticed, were, by some strange chance, apparent to would-be tenants also. templeton did his best; he placarded the brick walls of the park; he changed and re-worded his advertisements; he even lowered the terms and promised repairs! all these measures were looked upon with strong disfavour by the family; and it is safe to say that no real-estate dealer before or since has ever come in for the share of bullying and badgering that that well-meaning man received. the two old misses gwynne, arthur's daughters, put on their two old bonnets, and went down to judge lewis' office, where the unfortunate agent had a desk, declaiming loudly against the vulgarity of advertising their noble ancestral residence in the _common_ papers where every ragamuffin might read their names shamelessly printed. "want me to go 'round and whisper it to everybody, i s'pose," said templeton in a rage, when they had left. he was an excitable little man. mrs. horace gwynne visited him with the information that she, for one, would never consent to the house being rented for less than two hundred. "cents or dollars, ma'am?" asked templeton politely sarcastic. "you're quite as likely to get one as the other." steven gwynne, as "queer" a body as one commonly sees at large without a keeper--he was a southern sympathiser, and never cut his hair or beard after the fall of vicksburg--ambushed templeton in judge lewis' own room, to tell him roundly that what was good enough for governor gwynne was good enough for any damned upstart that wanted to rent his house, and that not one square inch of new wall-paper should go on those walls, so help him, if he, steven gwynne, had to camp on the doorstep with a shot-gun! the judge witnessed these passages-at-arms with mingled annoyance and amusement; it was a nuisance of course, he said; he was minded to evict templeton a dozen times--but how it did enliven the dull legal round! the gwynnes and their agent furnished that jolly and kind-hearted jurist with material for some of the best after-dinner stories he ever told. "by george," he used to say, "it got so that whenever one of my clerks came in and found a gwynne lying in wait for templeton and breathing fire and slaughter, he'd post somebody in the hall, and when templeton came along: 'hey, go slow, temp., the enemy's poisoned the well!' and templeton would shin for the street so fast you could play checkers on his coat-tail!" the fact is the poor old house was going to rack and ruin as rapidly as so solid and substantial a structure could go; the wonder was that mrs. peters had managed to get along at all in that comfortless monument to the gwynne family-pride, but living there was probably a point of honour with her, that fantastic standard of honour, to which all the race of gwynnes clung with a fanatic tenacity. no single member of the family could afford to spend any money on the house, and concerted action among fifteen or twenty gwynne heirs was, as their agent speedily found out, next to an impossibility. the only thing about which they were in entire concord was the glory past, present, and to come of their name; they saw desecration in laying hands upon the torn and mildewed wall-paper, the blistered varnish, the leaking roofs of uncle samuel's shrine. it would have taken twelve or fifteen hundred dollars to put the place in order, at the least; and indeed as time went on, it promised to take more. the viewless forces of destruction invade an empty house, and lay it waste like a devastating army. "if they would just let me shingle the roof anyhow," said templeton in despair. "but the only one of 'em all that has any sense is that young peters fellow--not the queer one, you know, the one that's on the ranch in new mexico, but that other, that nice tall red-haired boy. trouble is, he's a minor. you just wait a couple of years or so till he's twenty-one and through college, and i'll bet he makes 'em all stand 'round!" the stout, excitable little man displayed more penetration than one would have supposed he possessed. gwynne did make them stand 'round. when he came home on his vacations, you might see him prowling about the place with a delegation of unwilling relatives, arguing, explaining, persuading. being a gwynne himself, the boy knew how to get at his kin, upon what side to take them without offence. there was very little boyishness about his weary, anxious, gently humorous face, and the family all knew, that, young as he was, he already had one grave and bitter care. perhaps that made them respect him; there are some people that never grow up, and, conversely, there are some who never seem to have any youth. when gwynne came home, the estate's property all at once took on a smiling look of change. sidewalks were mended and shutters painted; the grass was cut in the park and the rubbish cleared away; he even got them to consent to putting a furnace in the house! templeton went about in jubilant relief at having someone to share his responsibilities. "told you so! that boy has a _head_! all peters and mighty little gwynne, that's what _he_ is!" in spite of their efforts, however, the house, as templeton pointed out with a solemn wagging of the head, "was not a paying proposition." going away to boarding-school at this time with kitty oldham and others of about our age, we heard and saw less and less of it. nobody of our acquaintance would risk the experiment of living in it; it was only strangers who fitfully came and went as tenants of the old gwynne house. sometimes there would be curtains at the windows, and smoke hanging from the chimneys; on our next return it would be again shut and deserted. those people? oh, yes, they were in some railroad position, and they've been moved to indianapolis. no, no one called on them, it's so hard to get out there, you know, and they were only here a few months. once the tenants scuttled out in a dreadful state of scare, declaring that arthur gwynne's ghost came down and paraded the ballroom o' nights, with his head on one side, and the rag of sheet dangling from his twisted neck! "i do hope poor cousin eleanor and cousin mollie won't hear that story," said gwynne, in concern, and painstakingly invented and retailed to them another excuse for the sudden cessation of rent. once, in the summer vacation, the board of lady managers of the home for incurables gave a lawn-party on the grounds for the benefit of their charity. there were booths set up and japanese lanterns swinging under the beeches, and a deal of noise beneath caroline gwynne's windows where we children had been obliged to go so sedately in the old days. people who had no carriages came in long weary procession from the lexington and amherst street cars--within easy walking-distance--bearing their contributions of bowls of salad and chocolate-cakes shrouded in their oldest napkins. the house was opened, and the ladies of the committee heated coffee on the crippled old built-in range in hannah's kitchen. they every one agreed in buzzing whispers that the place was a perfect rattle-trap, and they could not imagine how any people could move out leaving a house so dirty as the last inmates had done. the young men gaily took turns drawing water from the ancient clanking pump outside the kitchen-door, and bringing in armfuls of firewood. children raced and romped with a thunderous uproar in the big echoing rooms. in the evening there was a curtain rigged between the parthenon pillars, and a play was given in which teddy johns appeared and sang the kind of topical song popular in those days, of which i remember one verse: "the gloaming one day was beginning to gloam, that's all, that's all! when i heard someone say 'the incurables' home? that's all, that's all! he told me of servants they had more than eight, and he thought that the one poor old battered inmate must certainly live in magnificent state, that's all, that's all!" a humorous effort which was received with great applause, the paucity of incurables, and the disproportionate energy of their lady managers being a standing joke in our community. mrs. oldham was rumoured to have remarked acutely upon being applied to for a donation to the home, that the only thing incurable about it was the idiots who ran it. teddy sang and swaggered through his part in a very amusing fashion; he was good at that sort of entertainment. the fête--anything carried on out-doors was a fête in those days--was a success, netting _the_ incurable the handsome sum of fifty-one dollars twenty-seven cents, according to mrs. lewis' report. and the next day everyone in town was circulating the story of how some blundering or malicious person actually went up to poor gwynne peters and asked him where sam was and what he was doing! after this the house went again into one of its periods of eclipse, so to call them. no one even cared to look it over any more; and few people visited the neighbourhood at all since dear old miss clara vardaman died and the doctor gave up practice. if it had not been for gwynne i believe the house would have fallen down, and he must have had a hard pull getting the rest of them to contribute their share of the taxes and insurance. it was offered for sale at gradually diminishing terms; they had one chance to dispose of it to a german gentleman who proposed to convert it into a place of entertainment for the masses to be called silberberg's garden. templeton was enthusiastically in favour of this plan, but figure the indignation of the two old misses gwynne! even gwynne, while he laughed, was a little ruffled. "think of a band-stand and merry-go-round in the park," he said. "german waiters in their shirt-sleeves dashing from the house with beer-glasses and plates of wienerwurst, plumbers' apprentices and their girls waltzing and perspiring in our old ballroom, with a free fight thrown in now and then by way of variety! and how doctor vardaman would relish it! picnic parties, sardine-cans, paper napkins, beer-bottles, sentimental couples spooning, band scraping and tooting 'die wacht am rhein,' and 'how can i leave thee?' under his windows all day long--his property would be absolutely unsalable. we can't do it, i guess; no, not even for silberberg's twenty-five thousand dollars!" i told him he was like the arab who wouldn't part from his steed, in the poem at the back of the third or fourth reader. "my beautiful, my beautiful----" he says; "avaunt, tempter, i scorn thy gold!" and, springing on the horse's back, vanishes into the desert. thus did all the gwynnes turn up their noses--in the vernacular--at silberberg. templeton was very doleful. "you're missing the only chance you'll ever have to get rid of that damned old white elephant, mr. peters," he said. "why not let the dutchman have it? lord, what difference does it make to you whether he turns it into a beer-garden or a cemetery? it's had its day." but, for once in his life, the little real-estate agent was at fault; for, on a sudden, without notice, fully five years after the house came on the market, when it had weathered through nearly every vicissitude known to houses, and its fortunes were at the dregs, the wheel took another turn--spun clean around--came full circle, in fact. time and the hour run through the roughest day. footnote: [ ] easy walking distance! it was between five and six squares on a very indifferent plank sidewalk, as i have cause to know!--m. s. w. chapter four many warm-hearted people felt a great sympathy for doctor vardaman in his isolation and solitude after miss clara's death; i suspect that had the doctor been an old maid instead of an old bachelor, he would not have received so much attention. there is something in the spectacle of an elderly unattached male being, no matter how independent he may be, or how capable of taking care of himself, that at once engages the solicitude of all his friends, men and women alike. everybody felt sorry for him; everybody wondered how he got along. doctor vardaman was a hale old gentleman verging on seventy, it is true, but still vigorous of mind and body, and with pronounced notions of his own on the subject of diet, hygiene, and the conduct of life generally. no one could have needed benevolent supervision less; but he might well have prayed with the antique worthy to be delivered from his friends. at christmas he used to describe himself as blushing to his very heels and retreating in shamed confusion before the stern gaze of the expressman who unloaded case after case of expensive wines and spirits before his door; that he already had a whole cellar-full partly of his own collecting, partly inherited from his father, a man of means and discernment in such matters, made no manner of difference to these eager and generous givers. if he had smoked as diligently as a factory-chimney, he could not have vanquished the army of cigars he received yearly. a centipede would not have accommodated all the doctor's pairs of knit and crocheted slippers; he solemnly avowed that there were bales of smoking-jackets and pen-wipers stored in his garret. he could have paved his walk with paper-weights, yet i never saw him use but one--a glass globe with a remarkable cameo-looking head encircled by a wreath of flowers mysteriously embedded beneath the surface, which gwynne and i, clubbing our pennies, had presented to him the first christmas after we were enlightened on the santa claus subject. he used to laugh and make little jokes about his being an "universal favourite" like certain patent medicines; yet he had a sentiment for all this trash, and would not allow it to be thrown or given away, except when kindness took the form of sending some perishable delicacy for his table, a frequent occurrence after miss clara's death, as it was known he had some trouble in getting competent "help." it would have been physically impossible for the doctor to get through all the aspic jelly, mango-pickle, and fruit-cake bestowed on him, and he said that it went against his medical conscience to give these rich dainties away, yet that must be done sometimes. i myself have laboriously carried out little trays of orange-marmalade tumblers which i am sure never did any good to anybody but mrs. maginnis' children, who used to come bare-legged, with their tousled heads, freckles, and blue eyes to fetch the doctor's wash. it took no slight gymnastic ability to carry a basket or waiter of such unmanageable articles as marmalade-glasses, change cars twice, and pick one's way across the ankle-deep mud of richmond avenue, and along the wooden sidewalk full of loose uncertain boards, as far as doctor vardaman's house. on a gusty april day with a promise of rain in the air, one must go cumbered with an umbrella and overshoes; only fancy what that was to a young woman clad in the fashionable costume of eighty-one, to wit: a skin-tight navy-blue silk "jersey" waist, a navy-blue bunting skirt kilt-pleated with a voluminous round overskirt, and a pocket with purse and handkerchief securely concealed somewhere amongst the folds in the rear; french-heeled shoes, tan-coloured suède "bernhardt" gloves, and a tremendous erection of velvet and feathers that we called a "gainsborough hat" over all! these modes have mercifully gone out; but not more, i think, than the simple and kindly custom of sending glasses of jelly about to one's friends; i should not presume to ask one of my young acquaintances to perform so unseemly an office; no one either makes jelly or sends it as a present any more. fortunately i fell in with gwynne peters on the last lap of the journey, that is, the lexington and amherst cars. "here, let me take that thing," said he, and as i thankfully gave up to him my burden of sweets--my wrists, not too loosely cased in the tan-coloured "bernhardts" fairly aching with the weight--he went on: "what do you think? i believe we've got the old place rented at last! templeton's going to have some people out there this afternoon and i'm to meet them. but they've been out two or three times already, and he says they've taken a fancy to it. the man--he's a colonel pallinder from mobile or new orleans or somewhere--says it reminds him of his old home in virginia, 'befo' the wah,' you know, that's the way he talks." "are they nice? i mean--anybody we'd _know_?" "why, i don't know--yes, i guess so. they're episcopalians, they were asking templeton about trinity church. i haven't met them yet, and you can't go much by what templeton says--a fellow like that doesn't know anything except whether people are respectable or not. they're all grown-ups, no children. i think there's a young lady; templeton's lost in admiration of mrs. pallinder--told me two or three times, 'she's an elegant lady, mr. peters, very lah-de-dah manners, you know, stylish as she can be!' doctor vardaman's met them; but there's no use asking the doctor anything, he just grinned when i mentioned the pallinders, and said he didn't doubt they'd be a great addition to the neighbourhood." templeton's "livery-rig" was standing at the foot of the wide shallow steps leading up to the parthenon portico as we came in sight of it from the road. the shutters were open; feet and voices went to and fro inside. a tall slim girl in a red waist (it was a "jersey," i thought) and hat came out to the carriage and gave the driver some order. the agent appeared from the back of the house between two more tall people, a lady and gentleman. templeton gesticulated, he flourished toward the grounds, he flourished toward the façade of doric columns. the gentleman pulled his beard, which he wore in a long sharply pointing tuft on his chin, and listened with his head at an angle. "jiminy! i'm glad i got that chimney fixed!" ejaculated gwynne thoughtfully. "you know i'd like to take away those old iron stags and things from the front lawn, but cousin steven would fall down dead if i touched 'em." "oh, i don't know, gwynne, somehow they seem to suit the old place, they've been there so long. wouldn't it be nice if these people turned out really--really _nice_, so that the house would be the way it was in your grandfather's time?" "it would _so_!" gwynne agreed heartily. he looked about. some way it seemed as if the thing were not wholly improbable; the fresh hopefulness of spring was in the air; pockets of new grass showed an excellent green, the trees were faintly rimmed with colour. all the thickets piped with birds. there were arcadian vistas of many smooth mottled trunks and loftily stooping branches; the old house with its absurd classic front and assemblage of iron flocks and herds still became the landscape well. "it _is_ pretty, isn't it?" said the young man, earnestly. "i should think anybody'd like it, wouldn't you?" as he spoke, templeton, an odd enough herald of good tidings, came scrunching hastily down the gravel drive from the house. he was too excited to notice my presence. "by gummy, mr. peters," he exclaimed breathlessly, as soon as he got within hearing distance, "i've landed 'em! you come on up to the house. three years' lease--you come on up--privilege of purchase--you want to come right up and meet 'em--by gummy!" gwynne came grinning to us afterwards, as doctor vardaman and i stood in the old gentleman's porch, to describe the interview. "i went up to the house," he said, "and here were colonel pallinder, looking like the count of monte cristo, or the chevalier de maison rouge, in a low-cut vest and a turn-down collar and black string-tie, and mrs. pallinder--by jove, templeton was right, she's an awfully handsome woman, and the _youngest_ looking, she might be her own daughter! she was one of their southern belles, i suppose, only she's quite fair, light hair and a beautiful complexion--have you noticed her complexion, doctor?" "mrs. pallinder's complexion is remarkably well cared-for, i should say," said the doctor judicially. "yes, i've always understood these southern women don't do much but eat candy and fix themselves up. anyway, she's very striking-looking, much more so than the daughter. she's a very tall girl, i noticed her eyes were almost on a level with mine--big black eyes and she kind of rolls 'em around, you know----" "what did they have on, gwynne?" he paused; he meditated. "they were all dressed up," he said at last, with the air of one conveying a piece of valuable information, the result of close and prolonged study. again he meditated. "well, they were both all dressed up, you know. what's that thing you've got on, that tight jacket thing--or is it a--a waist? hers was red, with little curlycues all over it." "you mean it was braided?" "yes, that's it, braided--they were both all dressed up, you know. well, then templeton introduced us, told the colonel who i was, that is, and he welcomed me as if i had been his long-lost brother with the strawberry-mark. called me 'my dear boy' right off--i don't much care about that sort of thing," said gwynne, shrugging. "but i suppose it's his way. everybody was very cordial, and there was so much hands-all-round and hurrah-boys, you never would have thought we'd just met for the first time. it's not the way we're used to up here, but on the whole, doctor, it's rather nice--they're very interesting people, and they've got such pleasant southern voices, and they're gay, somehow, gay and kind," said gwynne, who, poor young fellow, had had little enough either of gaiety or kindness in his experience of life. "the colonel presented me to the ladies with the grandest flourish you ever saw, and said he understood this was my ancestral home, and he knew just how i felt at seeing strangers in it, but i mustn't cease to look upon it as my home just the same, and that he hoped i would come there whenever i felt like it; and he didn't know how _i_ thought about it, but for _his_ part, it seemed to him there was nothing like having a gentleman for a tenant and a gentleman for a landlord. right there," said gwynne, with a grin, "i might have sprung it on him that he was going to have quite a few gentlemen and some ladies for a landlord, but i only said, 'the house belongs to an estate, you know,' and something about our being so fortunate to have them in it--i _had_ to say something after all their cordiality. and he went right on, without paying much attention, 'ah, indeed?' he thought it quite possible he might buy it, he wanted to settle down somewhere, he was tired of travelling about, and he had got his business in such shape that he _could_ settle down at last." "what is his business, gwynne?" interrupted the doctor suddenly. "why, he's a broker, and templeton says he's agent for a big syndicate of eastern capitalists that have some kind of railroad or mining interests all over the west. he's rented an office in the turner building. i was going to bring up the subject of repairs, but it seems templeton and he had got that all settled already. pallinder's going to do a lot himself, about the bathroom and kitchen, and mrs. pallinder doesn't like the wood-work painted white that old-fashioned way, so they're going to change it, grain it to look like quartered oak or mahogany. i suppose cousin eleanor and the rest of them will go into fits, and i kind of hate to see the old white wood-work changed myself," added gwynne regretfully. "but if the colonel buys the place, and i'm pretty sure he's going to after putting out all this money on it, why, it doesn't make any difference what they do to it. the whole thing's almost too good to be true." "it _is_," said doctor vardaman, rubbing his chin. "being agent for an eastern syndicate must be a very profitable walk of life--most people aren't so willing to spend their money on a rented house. somehow or other i fear, i very much fear the danai bringing gifts. did you meet the old lady--mrs. botlisch? was she with them?" gwynne began to laugh. "i was going to tell you about her. after we had gone through the whole house, and the colonel had pointed out what he meant to change, for instance: 'those old mirrors over the parlour-mantels will do very well,' says he, pointing with his cane. 'the frames want a little----' 'put a lick o' gilt paint over the bare spots,' says templeton in a mortal stew for fear they were going to ask for something expensive. 'that'll make 'em look all right.' 'exactly--a lick of paint over the bare spots,' said pallinder, listening politely and without a smile. 'mr. templeton is quite right.' and with that mrs. pallinder began: 'i've been thinking i'll have the front parlour on the south side done in peacock-blue and old-gold, mr. peters. i saw a lovely paper with the blue ground and large gilt fleur-de-lys on it downtown that would just suit.' templeton turned green. 'well--er--um--i don't know----' says he. 'oh, i'll have that done, mr. templeton,' said the colonel--and this time he did laugh, and winked at me over the little man's head. 'you're a very conscientious agent, sir,' says he. 'but don't worry. i wouldn't expect you to gratify a whim like that. i'll let you into a secret, gentlemen, i'm a terribly hen-pecked man, and being the only one in the family, the odds are so heavily against me, three to one, that i always jump and do whatever's wanted without any discussion.' 'i guess it's pretty hard to refuse mrs. pallinder anything,' said templeton, coming out strong in a way that nearly floored me; the lady gave him a sweet smile, and miss pallinder laughed outright. 'i'm going to have a paper with pink roses all over it, and pink curtains to match in my room, if papa will let me, mr. templeton,' says she, and worked her eyes around at him like this. 'now can't you say something nice to _me_?' 'i would, but i'm afraid mrs. templeton would hear of it,' said templeton, and be hanged if he didn't roll _his_ eyes around at her," said gwynne, writhing with laughter. "and then you ought to have seen miss pallinder laugh! we finally got around to the kitchen, and while the two ladies and templeton were inspecting the closets, colonel pallinder mysteriously beckoned me outside. the man had driven templeton's hack back there so as to stand in the shade, and i thought i saw somebody sitting on the rear seat, but i just glanced at it, for the colonel said: 'ahem--mr. peters, you recall perhaps what the governor of south carolina said to the governor of north carolina? in my section of the country, sir--he pronounced it, 'suh'--we don't consider a bargain closed until we've--ahem--poured out a libation to--ah--um--morpheus.' and upon that he fished out a very handsome silver-mounted flask from his hip pocket, with a little silver top that unscrewed and telescoped into a cup. 'if you'll partake, sir----?' says the colonel, pouring it full, so we partook, i out of the cup, and he out of the bottle, and i must say if the colonel's a poor student of the classics, he's a mighty good judge of whiskey," said gwynne, with all the air of a connoisseur. "only it was a pretty stiff drink. i believe my moustache smells of it this minute," he added with concern, fingering that exiguous growth tenderly. "while we were 'partaking,' somebody snorted out so suddenly that we both jumped and nearly dropped the sacrificial vessels, 'say, billie, i don't mind if i do myself. it's pretty dry work settin' out here.' and i looked and saw the old woman leaning out of the carriage----" gwynne paused, and eyed the doctor inquiringly. "mrs. botlisch?" "mrs. botlisch. doctor vardaman, how--in--thunder, now--_how_--_in_--_thunder_ do you suppose they came to have that--that----?" "she's mrs. pallinder's mother, i believe," said the old gentleman. "yes, i know, the colonel introduced us right off, and handed over the flask and cup just as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 'here's how, bub!' the old woman said, winked at me, turned the whiskey off like an expert, handed the things back, and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. mrs. pallinder's mother! it's inconceivable! doctor, i swear you could have knocked me down with a straw. the pallinders don't seem to make anything of it--but that pretty, delicate-featured woman, and that slender spirited-looking girl, both of them so beautifully dressed, and their manners really charming, doctor--a little different from what one sees ordinarily, maybe, but charming for all that! why, the old woman might be their cook--i can't understand it! they take it just as a matter of course." "well, i don't know how else you'd have them take it," said the doctor. "she's mrs. pallinder's mother, and that's all there is to it. but mrs. pallinder did say something to me about the old lady being 'queer'--eccentric, as she put it. that's like charity--it covers a multitude of strange doings." "yes, 'queer' accounts for a good deal," said gwynne, his face sobering. doctor vardaman looked at him with regretful tenderness. he walked with us as far as the street, and patted gwynne's shoulder gently as we parted--an unusual display of feeling from the doctor, who was anything but a demonstrative man. chapter five doctor vardaman's house was called, in the day when it was built, a swiss cottage. it was a story and a half high, with a steep-pitched roof, garnished with a kind of scalloped wooden lambrequin pendant from the eaves all around. there were casement-windows with arched tops, and the whole edifice was painted a dark chocolate-brown in accordance, no doubt, with the best swiss models--at least we never questioned the taste of it. it is possible that the charming and faithful swiss cottage of to-day may be as much of an offence to the landscape in twenty-five years--so does the old order change, giving place to new. yet it will always be true that a house derives some curious character from its tenant; the doctor redeemed his cottage; he was the soul of that misbegotten body. it was shabby and down-at-heel, if you like, but it was not bourgeois. there was a charm in his unkempt garden, in the slouching ease of his worn old furniture and carpets, his multitudinous loose-backed books, his dim family portraits in chipped gilt frames. he met all hints at alteration or renewal with an indulgent ridicule. "fresh paint?" he said. "it would make the house look like a servant-girl dressed for sunday!" or: "better is a horse-hair sofa with brass nails than a plush platform-rocker and veneering therewith!" when the pallinders moved in, trailing a procession rich as sheba's past his little iron gate, the doctor viewed it with an indecipherable smile. it was in april, a day of light gusty winds, flashes of sunshine and flashes of rain; and doctor vardaman, in his shirt-sleeves, was trowelling amongst his young plants with what he frequently denounced as a frantic and futile energy. "i don't know why i do it," he would say soberly. "nothing ever grows the better for it; very often nothing grows at all. the irishman, the negro, the very chinaman whom for my sins i am constrained to employ about the house, have achieved triumphs in the way of lilies of the valley and young onions that leave me gasping in defeat. they are ignorant, unwashed, dissolute pagans. ling chee was a spectre soaked in opium; erastus absconded with all my clothes, my most cherished razors, and whatever money he could get at--yet they had but to scratch the ground and lo, the desert blossomed like the rose! you may see therein the constant allegory of vice ascendant and unrewarded virtue." he leaned on his spade in an ironically rustic attitude to watch the pallinder household goods go by--goods, not gods, for everything, as he observed, was of a transcendant and sparkling newness. most of us live in unacknowledged bondage to certain kind, familiar, sooty, and begrimed, utterly useless hearthstone deities. we cling shamefaced to our rickety old relics. the pair of vases that used to stand on mother's mantelpiece--hideous things they are, too,--the little high chair that was johnny's--he died in ' , you remember--who has not seen this pathetic lumber voyaging helplessly about from house to apartment, from town to country and back again, hobnobbing peaceably on the rear of the wagon with flower-stands and the gas-range, retiring at last to the garret, but somehow never getting as far as the junk-shop? _sunt lacrimæ rerum_--as doctor vardaman would have said, being somewhat given to latin tags after the taste of an older generation. his own house was crowded with these touching reminders; the pallinders went to the other extreme; either they sternly repressed the mushy sentimentalism that would cherish outworn sticks and stoneware for the sake of auld lang syne, or they never had had any to cherish. "they brought nothing into the town with them, and it is certain they took nothing away," said the doctor afterwards in an awful and irreverent parody. an aroma of fresh packing-stuff and varnish hung about the caravan; bright new mirrors swayed and glanced; and, since the fashions of eighty-one were more or less flamboyant, you might see from afar the roses, poppies, and what-not that bloomed upon the pallinder rolls of new carpet, the gilt and veneered scrolls, knobs, and channellings of the pallinder furniture, the pallinder tennessee-marble table-tops, carefully boxed, yet--as one may say in a figure--hallooing aloud for admiration of their size and costliness. there was one van filled with hogsheads packed with china; it was whispered that many of the things had been ordered from new york, but most of them were got in town at prices that kept the shop-keepers smiling until their bills were sent in--i am anticipating. the doctor espied the ladies in a carriage at the end, and bowed with the rather exuberant courtesy taught in his youth. miss pallinder returned the salutation; mrs. botlisch shouted a jovial "howdy, doc.!" mrs. pallinder drew back impulsively in a momentary embarrassment; she emerged almost instantly and recognised him, triumphantly gracious. but the doctor resumed his digging, inscrutably grinning at the next shovelful. the fact is, this casual passage vividly recalled his first encounter with these ladies a few weeks earlier, upon one of the occasions when they had driven out to inspect the gwynne house, before the bargain was closed. doctor vardaman, in a sleeve-waistcoat, for the day was cold, was busily spading up his beds, when a carriage drew in beside the iron palings. "i looked up," the old gentleman used thus to recount the incident, "and saw an exceedingly homely old woman with her bonnet awry; a moderately good-looking young one with hers as straight as nature intended it, and the rest of her clothes, so far as a man may judge, directly calculated to inspire all other women with despairing envy; and a very uncommonly handsome middle-aged one, whose clothes made positively no difference at all, so much did her looks eclipse them. i saw all these people craning out of their carriage, i say, and in the distance a cavalier on horseback dashing along after them in a military style. 'say, you----' began the homely old one. 'my good man,' says the middle-aged one, with an ineffable sweet patronage in her tone. 'will you take this card in to your master and tell him----' and at that moment up comes the outrider. he took me in at a glance, jumped off his horse, splashed through the mud, uncovered with a very gallant and engaging deference to my years, and: 'doctor vardaman?' says he. 'i'm sure this _is_ doctor vardaman, i'm happy to make your acquaintance. we're going to be your neighbours, i hope, and by gad, sir, you set us a good example! we find you like--ah--um--quintilius among his cabbages. sir, my name is pallinder; let me present----' the fellow's manner was perfect; for the soul of me i couldn't help warming to him. and if you think it's a poor sort of gratification to be known for a gentleman, consider how very uncomplimentary it is to be taken for a servant! 'lord--_ee_, bill!' screeched out the old woman. 'mirandy thought he was th' hired man! that's one on _you_, mirandy! called him 'my good man,' she did! and went into a choking and gurgling fit of laughter. mrs. pallinder's face turned purple. 'madame,' says i, anxious to relieve an unpleasant situation. 'i answer to the noun, but i'm a little doubtful about the adjective!' we parted in the end with great protestations on both sides; but mrs. pallinder was still red as they drove off. sir, she had made a mistake, and she never would forgive _me_ for it!" this was the first appearance of the pallinder family upon our stage. they had figured brilliantly on a good many others already, as was discovered some two years later, when occurred their exit; san francisco, denver, chicago, louisville, to say nothing of a score of minor cities knew them, birds of passage. i believe they came from memphis in the beginning, that is, if they can be said to have come from anywhere, or been native to any place. they were emphatically citizens of the world and called all skies home. i find, upon comparing recollections with friends of those days that the measures by which the pallinders established themselves in our society are, in that phrase dear to the sedate historian of far weightier matters, shrouded in the mists of--of antiquity, the historian would say. yet it is only twenty-five years, and no one now remembers, or perhaps took note at the time, exactly how these people who came from everywhere and nowhere, whom nobody knew, got themselves in the space of six months, known, liked, and invited far and wide. i fear that solid unornamental worth such as--let us be frank--yours or mine, would not have accomplished so much in as many years. mrs. pallinder must have done a deal of social campaigning in those other centres of enlightenment and culture which i have mentioned, to have become so apt and able; that little slip with doctor vardaman was the only one i ever heard recorded against her. she never referred to her life and acquaintance elsewhere, nor traded upon her experiences to advance herself with us; yet she never seemed to be pushing. she built, as it were, from the ground; and i have heard very kind and intelligent persons who were not in the least snobs, comment with astonishment on the headway she contrived to make coming wholly unknown as she did, and handicapped by such a mother. the spectacle of wealth allied to feminine beauty, talent, and virtue, struggling for notice is one with which we are all tolerably familiar. it is likely that prehistoric woman in the jungle--not prehistoric man, for man seems always to have been a creature slothful in social duties, dull, and democratic in his tastes--demurred at mingling with the same set as the jungle-lady next door; would not allow the children to play with the little cave-dwellers across the way; wanted to move to the choice and exclusive neighbourhood of the probably-arboreals, where she would have better opportunities for meeting those elect gentry. nowadays, her grand-daughter goes to church with a praiseworthy devotion, she subscribes to all the charities, she sends her children to the most fashionable schools--they are always the best--she takes courses in french literature, in current events, in bridge-playing, in cooking, yes, she would take them, decent woman as she is, in bare-back riding and ballet dancing, in everything and anything under the sun, that will bring her into contact with the charmed circle. she endures unnumbered snubs, or what is worse, the soul-blighting frigid politenesses of present-day probably-arboreals; she sheds tears in secret, she nearly drives her husband to drink, or the poorhouse. and she "gets there," she always gets there, and gleefully proceeds to visit upon the next aspirant some of the treatment she herself received. the strange thing is that you, who have been "there" all your life, who cannot understand her frantic desires, who are disposed to laugh or sneer at her, you will find her no hustling and elbowing vulgarian as you imagined, but a very charming woman, as clever and well bred as you or any of your native-born residents of the purple. she only wanted to get "there"; already she has forgot that mean struggle. as high-minded as you are, you too must at least a little admire success; and she has displayed as much courage and perseverance on her shabby battlefield as it takes to conquer a citadel. all this is by way of calling attention to the really remarkable fact that mrs. pallinder employed none of the tactics just recited; classes in bridge and current events were unknown in her day, and she went to church neither more nor less than other people. she succeeded, i make bold to say, as no one ever has before or since. and this, in spite of the rather unfavourable impression which she and her daughter had made at the start. i, for one, did not much fancy gwynne's description of miss pallinder--her name was mazie--ogling and making fun with a man like templeton; i thought her behaviour distinctly _common_. and that business of taking gwynne behind the house for a drink of whiskey--out of the _bottle_, at that!--which does not shock me at all now, was anathema in my eyes then. these opinions were shared by everybody who heard the circumstances; what made us change our minds? that is the mystery. i think now that the pallinders won upon us by that very frank gaiety and kindliness that had so touched and attracted gwynne; nothing else can account for their popularity. of course at the end of their stay everyone simultaneously discovered a number of disagreeable things; the usual wiseacres went about uttering the usual wisdom of "i-told-you-so." colonel pallinder had always been a man to distrust; mrs. pallinder and her daughter undeniably painted and were too lively in their manners; there was more poker and mint-julep going freely behind the parthenon portals than one ever saw in the best houses; and mrs. botlisch was perfectly intolerable. to be just, however, no one had ever pretended to think mrs. botlisch other than intolerable; some people even went so far as to say that it was greatly to the pallinders' credit that they did not shake off that terrific social drawback altogether. the colonel was a big man, with thick flowing grey hair under a wide-brimmed soft hat; he wore his clothing with a slashing military picturesqueness--d'artagnan in a long-skirted black broadcloth coat; and limped a little from a bullet in the thigh at missionary ridge. he had a handsome office downtown, and was always enthusiastically busy over the syndicate's affairs; maps of railroads, of iron, salt, coal and "phosphate" territory in arkansas and elsewhere adorned his walls; circulars and prospectuses gushed forth from his place of business as from a living fountain. who went up and drank at that sempiternally flowing spring--who, in plain language, invested with colonel pallinder? nobody knew; but it was easy to see that investment with him paid; the pallinders lived in the spacious ease of an unlimited income. i suppose his profession was that of promoting--a pursuit which has since been compactly described to me as selling you a cullender for a wash-basin. socially he took no hand beyond inviting young men to the house, and within an incredibly short time he did not even have occasion for that. they went, of their own motion, in droves, like all the rest of the world. and i will say here, speaking for our youth, that in spite of the cards and cigarettes and champagne, the over-eating and over-drinking, the general lax gaiety of that meteoric two years, i do not believe any of us were materially harmed. we sincerely liked the pallinders; we did not merely hanker for their flesh-pots. and even now, after twenty-five years, and knowing all the mean and dingy side of their career, i still cherish a fondness for those hearty, happy, self-indulgent, irresponsible adventurers. the old gwynne house now underwent a transformation the nature and extent of which can best be realised when it is learned that poor old caroline gwynne's room became miss mazie pallinder's; the roses of mazie's wall-paper climbed all over that tragic apartment; lace-edged muslins and flowered cretonne festooned the windows. what with a pillar obscuring the east window, and a heavy growth of wistaria matted on a frame in front of the south, you had to feel your way about at broad noon; and were liable to be suddenly assaulted on the tenderest part of the shins or ankles by some dastardly rocking-chair, lurking in the gloom like a thug, and inadvertently set in motion. surprises were pretty frequent in that room; it was not unusual to put your foot down in a box of chocolate-cream drops or through the parchment vitals of mazie's banjo abandoned on the floor. and when you came face to face with a pale glimmering phantom in a corner it might be either your own figure reflected in one of the full-length mirrors liberally distributed around the walls, or miss pallinder herself in an embroidered french night-dress, her favourite afternoon wear. the other decorations were mostly photographs of mazie in an astounding variety of costumes, and her numberless real or supposed conquests. young men in regimentals, army or navy; young men in fancy dress, striking attitudes with a sword, or making a leg in silk tights; young men with the painfully close-fitting trousers and upright brush of hair fashionable in the eighties--it was a noble array, that gallery of mazie's, particularly when she began to enrich it with certain more familiar likenesses. there you might see "j. b." taylor--everybody called him "j. b."--with the cap and gown he had worn at his last commencement; teddy johns laughing and showing all his teeth--teddy had fine teeth and knew it; bob carson, with something written on the back of the photograph that mazie made an affectation of not allowing us to read--we had all seen it nevertheless, and used to wonder if bob were really in earnest; gwynne peters, whose fair hair did not come out very well in the photograph, looking startlingly like his grandfather's portrait, with the same long thick flourish of the pen under his name as used to adorn the governor's. "yours truly, gwynne peters," and the _s_ streeling off in a comet's-tail like the final _e_ of old samuel gwynne's signature. all these young fellows frequented the house; on summer nights they could be heard as they strode away down richmond avenue, proclaiming at the tops of their several sets of lungs to a smiling world that the moon shone bright on their old kentucky-y-y ho-ome, or lamenting in concert that alas, they were no swimmers, so they lost their clementine! doctor vardaman heard them as he sat smoking the pipe of peace in his porch. "god bless the boys!" the old man used to say to himself with a sigh. sometimes they stayed over night, and came yawning downtown to their desks in the morning, sheepishly evading the paternal scowl, victims of colonel pallinder's strenuous hospitality. if mazie had no scalps strung at her belt, she at least displayed the spoils of the vanquished; gloves, bangles, and bon-bons were hers in profuse supply; when she went away on a visit she corresponded with all of them, and was reported to be engaged three deep, to our horrified delight. it is a mistake to suppose that girls envy one another these light successes; we all admired, and i am afraid some of us tried to imitate miss pallinder. it was to be noticed that she herself showed an entire impartiality; when no one else was convenient, she did not hesitate to keep her hand in on doctor vardaman, half in fun of course. the old gentleman made an open joke of it. "this is the first time i have given away my picture in forty years," he said; and wrote at the bottom of the card in his neat, clear, physician's hand: _"non sum qualis eram_----" "what does that mean, doctor?" mazie asked him suspiciously. "it is a plaint--the plaint of an elderly sentimentalist like me," he answered gravely. "'i am not what once i was in thy day, oh dear cynara,' he remarks--in effect. shall i write the english?" "no, don't. i think it's ever so much cuter this way. who was cynara?" "well--ahem----" "huh! bet she wasn't any better than she'd ought to be!" grunted old mrs. botlisch sceptically; whereat the doctor, after a momentary struggle, laughed so immoderately that we all more than half suspected she was right. chapter six if gwynne peters had supposed at the outset that the new tenants would remain long unacquainted with their set of erratic landlords, the "quite a few gentlemen and some ladies" whom he had tactfully refrained from mentioning, he would have been profoundly mistaken; but in fact he supposed nothing of the sort. he knew his kin too well; and perhaps shared tacitly templeton's openly-expressed and most devout hope that none of them would say or do anything to put the pallinders out of the notion of buying the property when the lease should expire. "they'll want thirty-five or forty thousand, if not more, i'll bet a doughnut," the agent would say in moments of gloomy confidence; "and you know, mr. peters, the place ain't worth--at least it can't be sold for--a dollar over twenty-eight, the way times are. i might screw the colonel up to twenty-nine-fifty--he seems to be a free spender, and the ladies like the house so much, he'd do anything they want. but, like as not, just as i've done that and got everything good and going, mr. steven gwynne will come in with some objection and knock the whole deal higher than gilderoy's kite. and when i think of what it will be to get 'em all combed down and willing to sign--and those children of lucien gwynne's out in iowa, you know, they've got to quiet the title--and mrs. montgomery over in chillicothe, she's another--well, i suppose there's no use crossing that bridge till we've come to it, but i tell you sometimes it keeps me awake nights worrying." the family had fallen into the habit of leaving all the business connected with the gwynne estate--it must be written thus to furnish some idea of the proportions it assumed in their minds--to gwynne's management. he had just been elevated to the bar; from thence to the bench, and to whatever corresponds to the woolsack in our judicial system was, according to them, a short step for a gwynne. the mantle of his grandfather had fallen upon his shoulders; they were proud of him in their extraordinary fashion, which combined hysterical and wholly unmerited praise with equally hysterical and undeserved blame. for a while even gwynne, who had a tolerable sense of humour, took himself with amazing seriousness. he sat in his office surrounded by that copious library of the old gentleman's, now grown somewhat out of date, to be sure, but still impressive by sheer weight and numbers; there was a photographed copy of the governor's portrait, inkstand and all, over his desk, and a massive safe in one corner. it contained at this time, as gwynne long years afterward acknowledged to me, with laughter, nothing but some of the old family silver, forks, trays, ladles, and what-not blackened with age and neglect sacked up in flannel wherein the moth made great havoc. "sam's share, you know," said gwynne, his face clouding a little, when his laugh was out. "i had to take care of it, of course." into this august retreat came daily one or another of the young fellow's connection with inquiries about that property which everyone of them called in all honesty and simplicity "my house"; and, after much futile advice, took their leave, commenting on the fact that he strongly resembled his grandfather, and adjuring him to "remember that he was a gwynne." there were so many of them they gave the place a false air of bustle and business, to which gwynne used, half in fun, to attribute his later success--"looked as if i was all balled up with work, you know, 'rising young lawyer,' and all the rest of it." but, indeed, i am afraid there were not many affairs of importance going forward among the calf-bound volumes, and gwynne defaced more than one sheet of legal cap., with gross caricatures and idle verses. if the family took an interest in the fortunes of the house before, it was redoubled now. to have the place rented at all was a novelty; but to have it rented to personages of such opulence and distinction as the pallinders satisfied the most exact standards; and the colonel's somewhat vague allusions to his design of ultimately buying it filled these sanguine souls with delight. let me do them justice: they would one and all have indignantly refused thousands from people whom they deemed unworthy. have we not seen them rejecting poor silberberg's offer with contumely? but colonel pallinder with his virginia accent and his large manner recalled a generation contemporary with governor gwynne himself, and the traditions of an antique and formal gentility. the pallinders were the only people so far who had succeeded in residing in, and dispensing the hospitalities of the old gwynne house without offence to its owners; i think the gwynnes took a kind of vicarious pride in the spectacle. one after another, the entire family called upon them, appraised them, patronised them. they drank the colonel's fine sherry: they covertly eyed mrs. pallinder's suave beauty, and mazie's bewildering toilettes; they were at first repelled and then overpowered by the rich tasteful changes in the ancient rooms; the peacock-blue plush and old-gold satin in the south parlour; the crimson wall-paper embossed with gilt figures the size of a cabbage in the dining-room; the grand piano in the north parlour and piano-lamp glorious with onyx slabs and pendant glass icicles of prisms--the gwynnes saw all these things with an indian stolidity in the presence of their tenants, but they came away pleased to the core. they went down to gwynne's office--yes, even mrs. horace gwynne went!--and both figuratively and literally patted him on the back. they were actually civil to templeton! old steven gwynne, who had been violently alarmed at first, supposing that these improvements and furnishings must be paid for by himself and the rest of the heirs, magically recovered his tranquillity so soon as he heard that colonel pallinder was doing it all out of his own pocket; he pronounced the wall-paper and new graining to be in the best of taste, although hardly the equal in appearance or cost of what governor gwynne would have provided. such was the gwynne enthusiasm that i am convinced it must have contributed largely to the success of the pallinders with our society; for, after all, as unstable as they themselves were, the gwynne position with us was of the most stable; our city had known them for fifty years. a family whose men were rigorously confined to the professions--all except horace gwynne, who was in the wholesale grocery business,--a family which numbered among its members a governor of a state--even if it also numbered one or more "queer" people--such a family held, unquestioned, the highest social rank. and mrs. horace gwynne--she was a daughter of old bishop hunter, which may be supposed in a measure to set off the grocery business--frankly considered herself arbiter not only of her husband's family, but of society in general as well; and never doubted that in the matter of assigning people to their caste and station one blast upon _her_ bugle-horn was worth a thousand men. she performed her first visit in state and ceremony in her well-ordered barouche--the horace gwynnes were fairly well-to-do, owing, people said, to mrs. horace's implacable thrift--and eying the approaches to the old house, as she drove up in a highly critical and examining mood. her sharp glance noted every change; the carefully-weeded sweep and circle of the drive, the close-cut lawn and pruned shrubbery pleased her like an incense to the governor's memory. the place had not looked so since his day. there was a length of red carpet down over the flagged veranda and stone steps such as used to adorn the sacred threshold thirty years before when she was a young bride just entered into the family; this trivial thing moved her inexplicably as such things do, and she descended at the door in a temper of less severity. it augured well for the pair of ladies within, profanely peering through their exceedingly high-priced lace curtains and wondering who on earth the funny little old lady in the chignon and her best black silk was. mazie, as soon as her acquaintance became more extended and intimate, entertained us with a picturesque and i have no doubt entirely accurate account of this and other gwynne visits. if they amused her she was by far too sharp to let it be seen; not thus do people attain popularity. mazie knew when, and in what company, and of what sort of things to make fun; no gift can be more valuable to the social aspirant. no, miss pallinder, curled up on her flowered-cretonne sofa, nibbling caramels, and telling us about the gwynnes, might have posed for the model of the ingénue, girlish, inexperienced, and youthfully gay. "we didn't know there was such a large family of gwynnes," she explained. "are any of you related to them? no? they're perfectly lovely people, aren't they? they've all called on us, and you know i think that's so kind when we came here such strangers; we were awfully lonesome for a while. if it hadn't been for doctor vardaman, i don't know what we'd have done. isn't he the _dearest_ old gentleman? mamma fairly fell in love with him at first sight; we have him up to dinner all the time, now. you know it's such a terrible job for him to get a good servant--i'm sure i can't see why. i told him he could hire me any day. i suppose it's because it's a little lonely, and his house must be so quiet. we don't have any trouble, but then we have such a gang of them they keep each other company. but you know we were so surprised after people began to call on us to find out there were so many gwynnes! mr. peters had said something about them--i think he's _lovely_, don't you? but we hadn't any idea there was such a big connection; the house belongs to all of them--did you know that? at least they all call it their house. such a dear old lady came--well, maybe not so very old, but dressed in rather an old-fashioned way--mrs. horace gwynne, of course you all know her. she was just _sweet_, and took _such_ an interest. she told mamma the piano ought to be on the other side of the room, because there was so much better light by that window, and that was where it always was when governor gwynne lived here. and she wanted to know if we had noticed that those big cut-glass chandeliers in the centre of the ceilings downstairs were an exact copy, only smaller, of the one in the state-house--that was being built at the same time as this house, and the governor had the copies made, he admired the design so much. isn't that _interesting_? and then mamma had one of the servants bring some hot coffee and little cakes, the way we always do, you know, and mrs. gwynne told us about some kind of cookies she has made that are the best she ever ate, so mamma asked her for the recipe right off--mamma can't cook a bit, and don't go in the kitchen once a month, but she's ever so much interested just the same. and when mrs. gwynne went away she said she'd had a _lovely_ time--wasn't it nice of her? and was going to have all her family call on us--wasn't that kind? and she sent us a card to her reception; and right the very next afternoon mrs. lawrence called--she's another gwynne, isn't she?--and asked us to marian's coming-out party, _so_ sweet. and, oh, girls, two such dear funny little old mai--i mean elderly, and they aren't married, you know--miss gwynne and miss mollie gwynne came--what are you all laughing at, what's the joke? well, i think you're real mean not to tell me! _i_ thought they were _nice_--well, of course, maybe they did seem kind of queer, but--well, it _was_ a little funny," said mazie, yielding to the laughter with apparent reluctance; "we took them all over the house, because we thought, you know, they'd be pleased to see the way we'd fixed it up. and they _did_ seem rather tickled; miss gwynne said she thought they had never had any tenants in their house before that appreciated it as we did. and when we got to the south parlour miss mollie wouldn't go in, and miss gwynne took us in and said in an awful whisper that everybody in the family had been laid out in that room, but she'd try to get miss mollie in to look at the chandelier which was an exact copy of the one in the state-house--and mollie hadn't been in the house for so long, maybe it would refresh her, and take her mind off the funerals, you know. so mollie came in," went on mazie, who by this time was openly laughing like everyone else, "and she took one look and covered her eyes like this, and said 'oh, sister eleanor, i can't--i can't,' and sister eleanor said, 'look up, mollie, look up'--just as if it was heaven, you know--'don't you remember the chandelier?' and then miss mollie said, 'oh, yes, i remember--shall i ever forget--boo-hoo!--it cost three hundred and twenty-five dollars--boo-hoo!--every one of 'em cost three hundred and twenty-five dollars!' but, honestly, girls, it's all very well to laugh, but it gives me the creeps to think of that room since i've known; i can't go into it without seeing a coffin spread out right where our centre-table is; and you know there's that lovely bisque monkey climbing up a cord that mamma has hanging from the chandelier--think of that dangling down over a--b-r-r! i didn't know about so many gwynnes dying here. there's enough left to keep the family going anyway, i should think. was mr. peters' brother one of 'em that died in the house? eh? what! _mercy!_ isn't that _awful_? why, i thought somebody said sam peters was in honduras or alaska or somewhere--is it the same one? _isn't_ that awful! isn't it safe to have him---- horrors! oh, girls, i think that's awful! and mr. peters is such a dear, isn't he? so _nice_! but don't you tell him i said that--now please don't, girls, i'd be ready to fall down dead i'd be so ashamed if he knew i said he was a dear. i'd never look him in the face again," said the ingenuous mazie, knowing perfectly well--who better?--that gwynne would be miraculously informed of this damaging admission before the next twenty-four hours were over. the pallinders were not quit of their landlords, for a few episodes such as those mazie described; but, as it happens, i never heard her tell of steven gwynne's visit; and only learned the details afterwards in a roundabout way from doctor vardaman and gwynne, both of whom were witnesses of that momentous event. steven was about the age of doctor vardaman and looked twenty years older; they had been boys together. when steven came in town--he lived in a weird little tumble-down cottage with a ragged little farm to match it, several miles out in the country--he always went to see the doctor, whom he called jack, and of whom he grew touchingly and somewhat embarrassingly fond towards the last of his life. i remember him a tremulous old man with wild grey hair and beard in clothing worse than shabby, and coarse boots, walking with the aid of a ferocious-looking cane, a forlorn and fantastic and rather alarming figure; yet he was really nothing to be afraid of, although i suppose he was just not quite crazy. when you came to know about him, poor old steven filled one with pity and that strange baseless remorse with which the view of weakness or suffering sometimes afflicts us. the gifts are so unjustly portioned out; simple flesh-and-blood rebels at the shame of it. these are whole, prosperous and victorious; these maimed, mad, dull, helpless, or hopeless--and who is to blame? it is none of our fault; none the less, the sight galls us to the quick; and there are moments when the spectacle of a string of navvies moiling soddenly in a ditch seems an outrage on humanity. something of this used to go through doctor vardaman's mind as he sat in his library listening patiently and most humanely to his old-time playfellow's endless rambling talk. steven was a profuse talker; he picked up crumbs of misinformation with a kind of squirrel-like diligence; all his life he had been beginning something--law, medicine, divinity, what had he not tried? he never learned anything; he could hardly spell; he used to declaim heatedly against the tyranny of schools, and had a great taste for phrases such as "nature's gentlemen." even our tolerant society could not stand steven gwynne; it was said that he was not stupid, and not much queerer, after all, than some of the other gwynnes, but--nobody could stand steven gwynne. when he had nearly run through his patrimony, the governor, who was his cousin, took him in hand, regulated his affairs, and exiled him to that little farm i have mentioned. steven was upwards of thirty at this time, but he obeyed the family great man peaceably enough; and there he had lived ever since; indulging--theoretically only, by good luck--in extraordinary beliefs about state rights--during the civil war--about science and religion, about property, about marriage, about everything and anything under the sun, harmless, distressing, and annoying. young gwynne had inherited him along with the other responsibilities of the gwynne estate; and when, rumours of the new tenants having reached him, the old gentleman appeared in the office, gwynne must take him to call upon them. "i would not wish to be lacking in etiquette," said steven elaborately. "and i'm told that colonel pallinder's family belong to our circle. it is the duty of every one of the owners, and i trust that it won't be forgotten that _i_ am one of the heirs to the gwynne estate," he added, eying the reluctant young man with some harshness, for steven was tenacious of his rights: "to--to hold out the right hand of fellowship to--to the stranger within our gates." "you never did before," gwynne objected. "we've had two or three tenants that you've never even seen. i don't really think it makes the least difference----" "i've never had this kind of tenants before," said steven--which, indeed, was an unanswerable argument. "why, they've been there six months! you don't understand about these social matters, gwynne. it's diplomacy. they're in governor gwynne's house, and it's natural they should expect the gwynne family to recognise them. why, they might take offence and leave! besides, it's the part of kindness for us to introduce them around, it--it gives 'em a place at once. people say: 'there's so-and-so, he's a friend of the gwynnes.' that--that _settles_ it, don't you see? why, now, to give you an example: jake bennett was at my house the other day, and i told him i'd pay him as soon as the rent from my property came in. he says: 'that's all right, mr. gwynne, i know i can trust you. a gwynne's word's as good as his bond,' he says. that just shows. 'a gwynne's word's as good as his bond,' he says. 'i know _you_, mr. gwynne; you're governor gwynne's cousin, and that's good enough for me, or anybody----'" "who's jake bennett?" asked gwynne abruptly. "why, he's a man i buy a load of manure from once in a while. he's a little queer in the upper story, you know," said old steven, tapping his own forehead with a wise nod. "but the poor fellow's heart's in the right place. 'a gwynne's word's as good as his bond,' he says----" "you oughtn't to be owing that man, cousin steven," interrupted gwynne. he turned to his desk. "here, this is the nineteenth, but i'll give you yours now, and then you can pay him when you get home. now, you sign a receipt for this seven-fifty, and i'll tell templeton i advanced it, so he can hold it out of yours next month. now you're getting your december money in november, see? there won't be anything coming to you from the house the first of december, understand? seven dollars and a half--sign here. and you pay that manure-fellow as soon as you get home, will you?" steven would, he said. he folded the money together and crammed it into his tattered old pocket-book; he handled it a little eagerly, never having had much to handle. "we'd better start out to see them, the pallinders, you know--right away, hadn't we?" he said, glancing at the clock. gwynne looked at him with a sinking heart. of course he was not ashamed of his kin. what! ashamed of cousin steven! gwynne would have knocked down the man who hinted it. nevertheless, it must be allowed that cousin steven was more lax in matters relating to his personal appearance even than became one of nature's gentlemen. he did not shave; he chewed tobacco; his boots manifested some acquaintance with jake bennett's unpaid-for wares. we all know that these things really do not count; a man's a man for a' that. it would be a shoddy soul that would condemn him for not blacking his boots, or cavil at the fashion of his coat. still, we are conscious of a curious confusion within us on the point; we muddle the clear stainless water of our theories with the cloudy dye of our conventions; and to most of us, the quality of gentleman seems somehow inextricably associated with clean linen. gwynne was no snob, but---- "suppose we stop in to see doctor vardaman first and ask him to lend you a collar and tie--you know that kind of high black stock he wears?" he suggested weakly. "and then you--you might wash your hands, you know, and, and--clean your nails. i should think your hands would be cold this weather, cousin steven; don't you want to buy a pair of gloves?" "gloves?" said steven contemptuously. "you're too delicate, gwynne. you've got all effeminated, living the way you do. gloves! d'ye suppose adam, the great father of mankind, wore gloves? you want to get out and live next to grand old nature, and old mother earth. those pallinders are kind of dressy people, hey? well, i don't care how dressy they are; they can wear all the gloves they damn please. i'll let you know, sir, that a gwynne in his undershirt would be enough too good for any pallinder that ever lived--yes, or anybody else either!" a mottled flush appeared on his old face; he raised his voice; he made wild hasty gestures, thumping with his cane. "you want me to spend money on gloves--drivelling ostentation! gold's the curse of this country, and you want me to----" gwynne was a little alarmed at these signs of excitement. "all right, cousin steven, never mind," he said soothingly. "i--i just wanted you to be comfortable, you know. you'd just as lief go and see doctor vardaman, wouldn't you?" steven was readily mollified--or perhaps, diverted would be the better word. jack? yes, he wanted to see old jack--he wanted to talk to him about something. jack vardaman was a man of sound sense, if he could be brought to the right views. "he's been cramped by--by his career, and his profession," said the old man, gesticulating with one hand as they walked. "i tried it, studying medicine, you know--but it's not broad enough, gwynne, not broad enough. jack finds it hard to grasp any new ideas. i said to him the last time i was in: 'john, this money trouble we're labouring under all proceeds from--from--from the circulating medium. why have any? why have any circulating medium? poverty is a lacking in the essentials of life because of waste on the superfluities through the use of money--circulating medium; you want to rid yourself of the--the--the economic compulsion to wrong-doing--i've been studying a pamphlet by william p. drinkwater that goes to the heart of the financial situation in this country.' i say, get rid of the circulating medium. gwynne, do away with it utterly, fall back on exchange of the--the products of labour, and an era of prosperity will set in such as this country has never seen!" gwynne reflected with a wry smile that it would be interesting to hear an expression of opinion from jake bennett on the subject; times were hard in eighty-one, as some of us remember, and in these disjointed arguments, gwynne recognised some echo of the political agitations of the day. to be fair, steven gwynne was no more astray in speech or manner than many of the william p. drinkwaters; the exasperating thing about him was that constant appearance of being able to control himself, if he only would, which seems to be one of the specific symptoms of unsoundness. "you will find that the lack--i mean the absence of a medium of coinage," said steven, as they climbed on the car--"by george! it _is_ cold, isn't it?" he interrupted himself, "i guess i'll put my mitts on." and, to gwynne's surprise, he produced those symbols of ostentation and effeminacy from the pocket of his overcoat, and began to adjust them with every display of comfort. they were a bright "maria-louise" purple. "knit worsted, you know," said steven. "i got 'em at billy sharpe's at the corners, for seventy-five cents----" "you're getting effeminated, cousin steven," said gwynne, soberly. "mittens! the idea! do you suppose adam wore mittens?" "well, i understand adam didn't wear breeches either," said steven, with an unexpected flash of humour. "i'm not luxurious, anyhow, like you with your kids. but you're young--you'll learn." he laid his hand on gwynne's arm affectionately. "you're a good boy, gwynne, if you do get kind of stuck-up notions, you're a good boy," he said with earnestness--and the young man's heart smote him. he found his cousin so tractable on the journey out that he began to have hopes of persuading steven to the collar and wash-basin, with doctor vardaman's help. "i'd rather mrs. pallinder saw him looking clean, anyhow--she's so dainty herself," thought gwynne, with a burning change of colour. alas! no such good luck! as they neared the swiss cottage, they beheld the lady tripping out from the door, exquisitely trim and gracious, smiling and showing all her pretty white teeth, with doctor vardaman escorting her to his gate, in his pleasantly formal old way. mrs. pallinder dimpled, and flashed her clear grey eyes under their amazingly black lashes and brows at gwynne; she was en-haloed in rich furs and soft scrolls of ostrich-plumes; she rustled and fluttered with an enticing suggestion of dainty womanliness, and there was something even in the frail absurdity of her little, thin, high-heeled and pointed-toed boots that appealed to the masculine sense almost touchingly. old steven gwynne himself felt this jewelry-box charm; he looked at her with open, child-like, rather frightened admiration. wealth and luxury for which in the abstract he had--or believed himself in all sincerity to have--so vigorous a disdain, exhibited thus concretely, stunned the old man; mrs. pallinder, to the ordinary view merely an unusually handsome and well-dressed woman, somehow represented to steven that material power, confident, lucky, successful, to which he had long ago bowed down in the person of governor gwynne; and, if it had not been for the uplifting consciousness of being that great man's cousin, steven would have shuffled and stammered before her like any school-boy. "mr. peters," said mrs. pallinder, delightedly. she withdrew a hand from her coquettishly fashionable little muff--we wore them very small in those days, a mere cuff of fur--and gave it to gwynne, who was oddly nervous, with soothing self-possession. the readiness with which she set herself to the business of putting steven at his ease was a grateful thing to see; she accepted his purple mitt, and shed on him a smile as winning as if he had been the most desirable acquaintance in the world. these courtesies, we have been assured, are, in reality, nothing but small evidences of a kind heart; yet i never thought mrs. pallinder a kind-hearted woman. her elegant cordialities were not spontaneous; she spread the conversation with a thin glittering varnish of smiles, agreeable speeches, pretty conventionalities; one sometimes felt uneasily that her tact was almost aggressively brilliant, her good manners too flawless. but gwynne, having in mind, maybe, this very incident, was quite enthusiastic about her to his intimates; mrs. pallinder was so kind, so considerate, a--a--a really sweet woman--sweet-tempered, he meant, of course, wasn't she? as for steven, he proclaimed her without exception the most polished lady he had ever met. doctor vardaman--but one could not always be sure of what doctor vardaman thought. "mrs. pallinder was an uncommon sort of woman," he used to say with an unreadable expression. "i admired her very much--almost as much as i wondered at her. when we met at my gate she contrived to look at us three men, as if every one severally were _the_ man in the world in whom she was most interested. are ladies taught these things from their cradles? i am told so; but i never saw one of them do it so well as mrs. pallinder. it's a tolerably stiff job to listen to poor steven discourse on the circulating medium. _experto credite!_ i've done it myself for hours at a stretch that i piously hope will count for me when i get to the place of punishment. but i'm sure i never could have done it with so perfect a grace as mrs. pallinder. we went up to the house, she walking the whole way with steven, gwynne and i following in the rear, humbly grateful and admiring. 'you're not a married man, mr. gwynne?' says mrs. pallinder, snatching at a change of topic in one of the pauses of steven's eloquence. 'i've met so many charming mrs. gwynnes----' 'madame, i am not,' said steven. 'do you know why the eagle is called the bird of freedom, mrs. pallinder?' here," said the doctor, with a malicious grin, "i thought i detected a sort of crooked sequence in steven's thoughts, but mrs. pallinder was as nearly gravelled as i ever saw her; and you must admit the subject was somewhat abruptly introduced. 'a--er--why, i must give it up, i am afraid,' she said. 'it's a riddle, isn't it? i'm not very good at riddles.' 'because it never mates in captivity, ma'am,' says steven profoundly. 'that's the way i am; the chains of _gold_, the circulating----' and i suppose he was going to intimate by a delicate allegory that he couldn't afford a wife and family, but we reached the house at that moment, and the changes in its appearance switched him off, as it were." the old man was, in fact, rather pathetically overawed by all the pallinder sumptuousness; he looked down at his boots doubtfully, and trod with caution on the velvet moss-roses and lilies of the south parlour. it required the telling of the cut-glass chandelier story to revive his spirit; and mrs. pallinder further smoothed matters by asking his opinion of the new wall-paper with a caressing deference. afterwards, it is true, steven went away in a mood of gracious approval, and bragged freely with no little satisfaction about his tenants in his house; but at the first moment, he was both startled and unhappy. there were gilt mirrors all about that gave back a pitiless reflection of the party, and of them all, i believe that doctor vardaman was the only one who was not faintly ill at ease. the situation was actually relieved by the entrance of old mrs. botlisch, as incongruous a figure in the scene as steven himself. "and somehow or other," said the doctor, "i am sure the look of her for once was a kind of comfort to gwynne; it seemed as if she and poor steven were a--well, a stand-off, with the balance in favour of steven. you know mrs. pallinder was always saying in a gentle regretful way that her mother was 'eccentric.' she was, in fact--ahem!--i am informed by the ladies of my acquaintance," doctor vardaman would say, with another grin, "that she was a dreadfully 'common' old person who drank and swore like a trooper, but was as sane as anybody. whereas, we all know that whatever steven's faults, he was not--was not entirely responsible." "that old gwynne feller's crazy, ain't he?" the old woman said to him as the doctor sat at the pallinder dinner-table that evening. there were a number of other guests, for the colonel's hospitalities were already well known; it was a pleasing picture of evening-coats, white shoulders, brilliant glassware, and cutlery; and mrs. pallinder at the head, lent the table a distinction like that of some expensive ornament or flower. across the way sat her mother, shovelling in french peas on the blade of her knife, that being one of the phases of her eccentricity, and disposing of everything from soup to sweets with an audible gusto. "it's astonishing!" said the doctor to himself, his glance travelling from one woman to the other. "pardon me, mrs. botlisch, you were saying----?" "i say that old gwynne feller's crazy," said mrs. botlisch. "he ain't dangerous, is he?" "what? steven?" said the doctor, and although she was very nearly right, he recoiled inwardly. "why, no, he's not crazy, he's a little--a little eccentric," he finished, conscious of a wretched irony in the phrase. "pooh, pshaw, don't you tell _me_, doc., he's as crazy as a bedbug," said mrs. botlisch coolly. "it's a pity about that young peters' folks being that way, so many of 'em, ain't it?" chapter seven it will be seen that, by the close of their period, doctor vardaman had grown to be pretty familiar in the pallinder household. mazie professed a prodigious admiration for him. "he does say the cutest things!" she remarked enthusiastically. but mazie's attitude toward the other sex was never anything but that of complete appreciation. i have seen her turn her eyes on the coloured butler when commanding a fresh relay of waffles with an expression to draw from him rubies, let alone waffles! her liking for the doctor was perhaps as sincere a sentiment as she could harbour; who could forbear a fondness for that genial, tolerant, grey-headed satirist? in him were to be found all the strangely dissonant yet most manly qualities of his generation. in the early eighties there was still extant a tribe of hearty old gentlemen who wore black silk stocks, swore freely, and knew henry clay. you may see their strong humorous faces, shirt-frills, and waving forelocks upon scores of cracked canvases in how many middle-western homes! grandfather rode circuit with swayne and tom ewing; he sat in congress with that southern statesman of whom it was said that when he took snuff all south carolina sneezed. perhaps he remembered chapultepec and the heights of monterey; it is likely that he surveyed the first turnpike, designed the first courthouse, performed the first mastoid operation in the state, in the country. in all things i think he played a man's part, and maybe something more, without any heroics; i knew many of him, and it cannot be denied that he would sometimes get a sheet in the wind's eye, and tell robustly indecorous stories after the second glass of whisky-punch sitting around the hearth of a winter's evening. there was that one about the english visitor at niagara, who, being conducted around the place by the guide, out to the little tower on table rock, and down on the _maid of the mist_ like everyone else, wrote his name in the guests' book, and a conundrum: "why am i like desdemona? because----" but, at this point, by an ingenious manoeuvre, someone invariably called me from the room! and, strange to say, i was not suffered to return; desdemona was in the nature of a prelude, i suspect. we have changed all that; who so plain-spoken as the lady-novelist of to-day, whom everybody reads, and, what is more, discusses? who so wise as our young people? nobody would be at the pains to banish them from the room. they would not laugh at or with grandpa; they would only wonder a little and pity him. they are all gone, all these humane old lads with their whisky-punches, their dreadful old fly-blown anecdotes, their extraordinary, innocent coarseness of mind. the type has vanished from among us, extinct like the dinosaur, dead as desdemona! it is hard to figure them pacing beneath the cloudy porticos of that rather shoddy gilt heaven in which they stoutly believed; but do they then wander the empty house of dis, the idle, idle land? that were a doom at once unkind and unjust; rather let me fancy them beside the cheerful hearth in some comfortable limbo of good companionship and honest material pleasures; and if that too be a heresy and interdict, may the sod rest light where they sleep! doctor vardaman differed signally from his contemporaries in being not at all disposed to punch and pruriency. he would have reddened like a winter apple at desdemona; and i am bound to say that here colonel pallinder met him on equal ground. it would be worth a moralist's while to inspect that stout piece of goods which is men's modesty beside the curiously flimsy fabric we call the modesty of women. "it's funny about men," kitty oldham confided to me once. "they can be as bad as they want to, and so, when they're good they seem an awful lot better than we are!" that may be the root of the matter; kitty was undeniably astute and observant in various small and eminently feminine ways. "nobody's all good anyhow," was another of her sayings, "nor all bad either. i know by myself!" colonel pallinder was an example, too, had we been aware of it. i have heard since from many indignant sufferers that he was a swindling adventurer; yet bayard himself could not have walked more circumspectly in certain paths. he believed with all his heart that his wife and daughter were beautiful and gifted above the ordinary lot of mortals; i think they never had a wish ungratified. that hand of his which they tell me was so ruthlessly busy about other peoples' pockets, was forever emptying his own for the satisfaction of his womenkind; the trait does not make any the better man of him, but i am sure there have been worse. his behaviour toward mrs. botlisch was a lesson in forbearance and good manners. he did more than endure her; he showed her precisely the same chivalric deference as the rest of us. perhaps he was a little florid in the southern style, and as became a military man, but i think he was never ridiculous. it happened one day that an ill-advised or maybe merely ill-bred young man having blurted out some joke, high-flavoured, derogatory to mrs. botlisch, over one of those famous juleps in the pallinder dining-room, the colonel rose up and with a severe countenance, laid his hand upon the joker's arm and jerked him upright without much ceremony. "don't mind him, colonel," interposed an onlooker. "he--he's not used to ladies' society, you know." "sir," said the colonel sedately, "i should have said he was not used to the society of gentlemen!" and with that bundled the offender out of the room and the house. nor did the action make him enemies; the rest of the male company expressed an unqualified approval. "i was a little afraid that he might want to resort to the 'code' as practised in virginia or mississippi, or wherever he hails from," said doctor vardaman, commenting on this occurrence, "and call upon my services as surgeon; but he was too shrewd, or in his way, too large-minded for that. on the whole pallinder was the most attractive as well as the most diverting humbug i ever knew or can imagine. i liked him against my will. he was generous to the last penny--with money that was shadily come by, to be sure, but what would you have? he might have been as tight as the bark on a tree. he was a brave man and had borne himself gallantly on the field, and i am sure uncomplainingly in defeat. there was no sham about that limp of his at any rate. but he never spoke of these things, nor ever flourished the lost cause in your face, that i know of. maybe it was all part of his policy, but i like better to think that he had the qualities of his defects." it is to be supposed that colonel pallinder returned the doctor's regard. the old gentleman was their nearest, in fact almost their only neighbour, and the colonel used to dilate in comic vein upon the advantages of having a physician next door, and keeping on good terms with him. "'hang it all, miranda,' i said to my wife the other day, 'what do you want to call in young sawbones--pellets--whatever his name is, the doctor-lad you had here last week for, when you can have twice his experience and ten times the gumption he ever had or will have, by merely going as far as your own front gate? pellets is a homoeop., anyhow. i don't like homoeops. give me the old school; they knock you on the head with their whacking doses and kill you or cure you, put you out of your misery any way, while the others are still measuring out their infernal four dips of this and two swallows of that. when mazie there was three years old she ate a whole bottle of sugared pills while the nurse wasn't looking. if it had been doctor vardaman's medicine, we'd have had to send for him and the undertaker and let 'em fight it out, and i'd back the doctor every time. as it was--never feazed her! day before yesterday, my coachman came to me: 'don' know what's the matter with me, boss. feel mighty bad.' i asked him if he'd been to the doctor. 'yes, sah, he give me this. i'se got to take fo' dips every hour.' 'look here, james,' says i. 'i want you to notice just one thing. you're a big man, and that's an almighty small bottle. do you think four dips of that is going to cure six-foot-two of nigger? it don't stand to reason. when i'm sick,' says i, 'i go to doctor vardaman. i want a _doctor_ to take care of _me_. quit practice? oh, pshaw, pooh! any doctor will always pull an ass out of a ditch on the sabbath day--what's that they say about the letter of the law killing the spirit? now you better go to him, too,' says i, 'if you know what's good for you. you hear _me_?' 'lordy, mistah pallindah, you wouldn't tu'n me off for not gwine to yo' doctah?' 'no, james,' says i. 'i'd turn you off for not having any sense!' i believe he did go to you, doctor, and i'm much obliged. of course you'll send the bill to me. i'm not like some people that think anything's good enough for a nigger--i want the poor devils that work for me to have the best that's going. when a man's brought up on a virginia plantation with three or four hundred of 'em around, and knows he owns 'em all, and is responsible in a way to his maker for every one of those black souls--why, sir, you can't get over the feeling all at once. here, you, george, sam, one of you bring another bottle of that twelve-year-old bourbon and a syphon of soda. i won't have any whisky in the house, sir, under seven years old, and preferably ten--preferably ten or twelve. it comes a few dollars higher a bottle, but when you're getting a thing, you might as well get it good, and if whisky's not properly aged it's raw stuff, firewater, worst thing in the world for the stomach. my wife sometimes accuses me of extravagance in the table, but i always say: 'well, miranda, we've got to _live_, haven't we?' as long as phosphate preferred keeps soaring skywards, and dividends keep rolling in without my having to do a lick of work to get 'em, _i_ don't see that we're living too high. we keep within bounds, i guess. within bounds. i don't intend to spend all my income just because my principal is invested in something as solid as a rock. by george, sir, i always save up a little wad every year--i can do it without straining myself, and manage to scratch along in tolerable comfort besides--so as to buy whatever phosphate i can lay hands on, but it's getting scarce, mighty scarce. it's been pretty well gobbled up by the big fellows with money that always get hold of all the good things; only i'm what you might call on the inside, you know, and that gives me a chance to help myself or let in a friend once in a while. but it's no use showing the figures to madame there, she can't make head or tail of 'em, women never can; she says they give her the headache. now last week, i let out inadvertently--for i try never to bring my little business anxieties home--that i stood to lose fifteen thousand if ozark field went off another point. gad, sir, she laid awake all night--thought we were going to the poorhouse right off! couldn't help laughing, though i did feel sorry for her, too. nothing i could say would reassure her--women are funny. well, i wasn't just longing to lose my fifteen thousand either, a man don't like to be inconvenienced that way, even temporarily. fifteen thousand means something to me, though it wouldn't be much to the people i'm thrown with all the time. i tell you, sir, those big capitalists, their money kind of scares you, and yet it gives you a mighty secure feeling to know that they're behind these enterprises. all their millions are made up of thousands after all, and they're not going to put a single thousand where they can't keep an eye on it, and see it breed. fortunately ozark field went up to a hundred and seventeen instead of declining--i had confidence in it from the first. i bought at eighty, you know, so i'm pretty easy in my mind just now. if anybody were to ask me, though, i'd advise 'em to buy right now, for it won't ever take another drop, and i expect it'll be out of sight by the first of the year. sam, chopped ice to doctor vardaman, and give mr. lewis a fresh glass." archie lewis sat looking into his tumbler with a rather queer expression as the waiter put it down before him after sundry dexterous operations with lemon-peel and bitters. perhaps he was thinking that, for a man who made a point of never bringing his business-affairs home, it was truly remarkable how inevitably colonel pallinder worked around to them in the course of a conversation, no matter what the subject with which it started. phosphate preferred, lone star common, ozark field--i could not begin to enumerate the "enterprises" in which the colonel and his capitalist friends were interested. the jargon of the market-place will always be jargon to me; i dare say i have not even quoted it aright. to this day i have never been able to find out what phosphate was; it may have been mined, assayed, and smelted; or strained out of a river, or compounded with retorts and crucibles for all of me. but, although nobody knew anything about it, it was, as i have said, easy to see that phosphate, in templeton's formula, was a paying proposition. look at the pallinders; people couldn't live that way for nothing; this we said to one another, thinking it clinched the argument, and not knowing that people live "in magnificent state," for nothing. who is so care-free, so luxurious in his habits, so open-handed and open-hearted as the man who never pays his debts? i know of no one more to be envied. one of the things the pallinders did was to wall in with glass the large porch of the dining-room, install a heating-apparatus, and make a conservatory of it; this, too, although they had leased the gwynne house for three years only, and mrs. pallinder was constantly complaining of their cramped and inconvenient quarters. "of course," she said languidly, "one can't expect much of a house at such a low rent, but the colonel and i have _always_ had separate dressing-rooms. i thought i could make one do, for a while; but we're too crowded for any peace or comfort. the colonel wants to buy this house and add to it--but the end of it will be we'll have to build. the colonel keeps telling me to go to an architect or send for one--i shouldn't trust to anyone in this little town, you know. we'd have to select the building-lot, and get some man from boston or new york to come out and look at it, and make the designs accordingly. but i'm so awfully lazy i can't make up my mind to all that bother and worry." such a low rent! kitty and i exchanged a glance in spite of our manners. archie lewis had told us that templeton, whom he saw every day in his father's office, had told _him_ he had made the lease at a hundred and seventy-five a month; we did not think that a very low rent, we who lived contentedly enough in houses at one-fifth that amount, like by far the greater number of our friends. but the pallinders plainly did not measure by our standards. mazie had a fresh dress for every party; she wore almost as much jewelry as her mother, and when mrs. pallinder came out in all her diamonds, she was the most resplendent spectacle our society ever witnessed. will anyone ever forget her appearance as _astarte_ at the charity ball? she twinkled all over with jewelled stars, serpents, rings, ear-drops, gew-gaws any _astarte_ might have been proud to own--"goddess excellently _bright_!" as doctor vardaman said. the ball took place during the christmas holidays--the pallinders' second christmas with us--just before mazie went to washington, and, to quote the _state journal_, "it was an event long to be remembered in the social annals of our city." odd-fellows' hall was "a fairy-like dream of beauty," the same masterpiece of descriptive rhetoric reported. mazie deferred her visit so as not to miss it, and went as _folly_ in a white dress with spangles--glittering fringes of white beads half a yard deep. kitty oldham appeared as _diana vernon_--"i can wear the big hat with feathers afterwards, you know," she thriftily remarked; she looked exceedingly trig in a scarlet waistcoat with her little chin cocked up on a white lawn stock. there was the usual supply of watteau shepherdesses--i was one of them--toreadors, continental soldiers in buff-and-blue, queens-of-hearts, pierrots, and so on. mrs. pallinder's diaphanous and low-cut magnificence, heavily hung with jewelry, outshone everybody, and was a target for considerable unkind comment. a woman of her age! it was startling, to say the least. she could have gone as queen elizabeth or lady macbeth, but this was almost too theatrical; of course, she was a beautiful woman, and looked scarcely older than her own daughter, still----! "the reporters will describe every square inch of mrs. pallinder's costume," some young fellow said to kitty oldham. "they won't have to say much," retorted kitty, with an oblique glance--a remark which, backed by her mother's well-known acidity of tongue, made kitty's, reputation as a wit in our circle. the one person whom it did not seem to amuse was gwynne peters; and he listened with a singularly grum and discomposed face, and afterwards stalked off without a word, although he was in general, genial enough. something must have gone at cross-purposes with gwynne that night; he wore a charles stuart dress, and stood about in gloomy attitudes, with his sword, black velvet, and lace collar, looking the part to perfection; and he went away quite early after showing no attention to anyone except mrs. pallinder herself. but, indeed, the young men were about her constantly, and _astarte's_ popularity was not greatly increased thereby. i remember driving home with mazie to luncheon a day or so later, and coming unexpectedly upon a decent-looking young man sitting timidly amongst the gilt legs and peacock-blue upholstery of mrs. pallinder's parlour, waiting to "interview" that lady. he represented the _state journal_, he said; and wanted to know if it was true that mrs. pallinder had worn her five-thousand-dollar diamond necklace at the ball, and if she would allow the _journal_ to publish a photograph of her in the costume. "la me, _i_ don't know; you'll have to ask her yourself," said mazie in her gay drawl. and presently mrs. pallinder came in, very tall, sweeping and elegant in a long red broadcloth coat with black fur and braid, and "dolman" sleeves; and a black and red _capote_, as we called them. laugh if you will; that was the way we dressed the winter of eighty-three--when we could afford it! the photograph appeared duly; and a picture of the necklace, too, with several more strands and pendants than belonged to it, so that we concluded the artist had drawn on his imagination or some representation of the crown-jewels of england, in order to be more effective. "pooh, that necklace never cost five thousand dollars, i don't believe it," kitty said afterwards. she was a sharp little creature, as i have hinted; and her critical view of our southern friends may have been shared by others, to judge by a remark young lewis made to doctor vardaman, as they approached the latter's gate on their way from the pallinders'. "you've got to take a long breath and get a good hold of something when the colonel's around," said archie, knocking the ash from his cigar on the wrought-iron scroll along the top of the fence. he eyed the doctor enigmatically. "i don't understand?" "if you don't you might be blown away." chapter eight it seemed written, foreordained, gwynne peters used to say, half in amusement, half in distaste, that his grandfather's house should forever be either completely retired from notice, or else figure gaudily in the limelight of a publicity that would have caused its dignified founder untold wrath and mortification. "all that newspaper gabble about the pallinders and the diamond necklace is to blame for this!" said gwynne, when he read in the _state journal_ a week after the charity ball, a circumstantial account under flaming headlines of how "the mansion of the late governor gwynne, the historic landmark in the suburbs of our city, on richmond avenue, not far from the junction of the lexington and amherst car-lines, now occupied by the well-known society leaders, colonel and mrs. william pallinder, was the objective-point of a burglarious attack last night about p. m." it appeared that the burglarious attack had failed! the diamonds were still safe--as, indeed, the thief whom "our vigilant and efficient chief of police, captain o'brien, in spite of every effort, had not yet been able to locate." friends of the family would be relieved to hear that mrs. pallinder's venerable mother, mrs. jacob botlisch, had experienced no ill effects from this exciting midnight episode; mrs. pallinder herself, on the contrary, was quite prostrated, and could not see one of the innumerable reporters who besieged the house. "it's a perfect persecution," gwynne announced with unwonted heat, having called the next day to inquire, and been ushered into a parlourful of these gentry. "here were all those fellows roosting about like vultures--and the greatest racket and confusion! just as if poor mrs. pallinder hadn't been lying upstairs sick with the fright and worry. she--she's a very delicate, sensitive woman, you know," said the young man, with the easy flush that showed so over his thin, fair-skinned face. he left his card, and not long after the florist's boy came to the back door, having received express instructions not to ring the bell and annoy mrs. pallinder, with one of those large pasteboard boxes, wherein for all their prosaic look, so much romance is carted about the world. truly a red-faced lad with a cold in the nose, and patches of alien materials applied to prominent parts of his trousers, is an odd figure to be employed upon these sentimental errands--yet such are all florists' boys. a reporter pounced on this one as he strolled jauntily around the house, whistling in a high and cheery fashion under his burden. "what you got there, johnny?" said this inquiring gentleman. "vi'lets." "who for?" "s'pallinder." "well, who from then?" "dunno. they're five dollars a hundred." the maid took them in, and doubtless mrs. pallinder's delicate and sensitive nature was greatly soothed by the tribute. the colonel showed himself most genial and accessible. interviews a column in length and photographs of everything and everybody concerned graced the front pages of the _journal_, the _record_, the _evening despatch_. a complete history of the old gwynne house up to date was "featured." the reporters even approached gwynne for a "few words." templeton saw himself in print to his huge gratification: "mr. virgil h. templeton, who has controlled the destinies of the gwynne property for many years, was seen at his office no. a wayne street, and says----" templeton bought an armful of copies of the paper and sent them about with blue pencillings around the paragraph. "_his_ office! well, i like that!" said judge lewis, in mock indignation. "thank you, i thank you for your kind inquiries, gentlemen," said colonel pallinder, as he received the newspaper cohorts. "mrs. pallinder is resting easily, and will be recovered in a few days, i think, from the nervous shock. it was what i may call a nerve-racking adventure for a woman. my daughter, i am thankful to say, is in washington, visiting some relations of ours, the lees and randolphs. i have telegraphed her not to worry when she sees the papers. she left last night on the nine o'clock train; as it happened, two of our young friends, mr. j. b. taylor and mr. johns, had driven down to the depot with her to see her off, after dining here, and came back in the carriage at my request to spend the night. we had all retired, when about midnight my wife, who is a sufferer from severe neuralgic headaches, got up, feeling one coming on, and went into our daughter's room, in search of some bromide which generally gives her relief. she did not light the gas, and was groping for the bottle in the dark when she felt a strong draught of cold air from an open window. she says her only thought was: 'how careless of mazie to leave that window open! now my head will be worse than ever!' and was going toward the window to close it, when, with a scuffle, up jumps this scoundrel directly in front of her! she says it was as if the floor had opened and belched him up at her feet. she screamed--i trust, gentlemen, i shall never hear such another cry of terror as my wife gave!" said the colonel fervently. "i sprang out of bed, and rushed to the spot just in time to see the fellow scrambling through the window. most unfortunately, i had no weapon, or i think i may safely say that would have been the last time he ever went hunting for diamond necklaces. the window is on the south side of the house; as you observe there is a vine growing on a frame directly in front of it all the way up to the roof, by which he climbed up and down. we found his tracks all around in the damp ground at the bottom, but lost them in the turf at a short distance from the house. nothing but the very strong sentiment i have for the owners of the place, which, i need hardly remind you, belongs to one of the finest old families in the state, and especially for my dear young friend mr. peters, whose boyhood days were passed here--nothing but that feeling prevents me from having the vine uprooted and the trellis torn away. the family, as is natural, are very much attached to everything about their old home. well, as i was saying, in as short time as we could manage, the young men and i got our clothes on, called the cook and housemaid to look after my wife and her mother, and young taylor and i set out to explore the grounds, leaving mr. johns here to protect the house. we searched high and low without success, and down by the gate fell in with doctor vardaman and his man huddesley just starting out on a tour of exploration on their own hook. it seems that the doctor's man had waked some little while before, thinking he heard a noise in their hen-house; and as you know we are a little uncomfortably near bucktown[ ] here--my own servants are coloured, for that matter--huddesley thought he'd better investigate. he told us he got up and looked out of the window, and distinctly saw a man walking rapidly away from the rear part of the doctor's lot where it joins the gwynne property, in the direction of this house--or, at any rate, making for the park entrance, with something under his arm which huddesley is positive was a chicken, but which was much more likely, i think, to have been a kit or bundle of burglars' tools. well, then, gentlemen," colonel pallinder continued, pulling at his goatee with a sly smile, "huddesley got himself partly dressed, and started out very courageously with the kitchen poker; but, getting as far as the gate, the park looking pretty gloomy and forbidding, and the night rather dark, he concluded discretion was the better part of valour, and turned back and aroused the doctor. we joined forces and fairly raked the premises, but to no purpose--the rascal had made too good use of his time, and we, of course, had had some unavoidable delays. i wrote a note to the chief of police, and sent my coachman down with it, and we all went to bed again. as you see, it's a very simple story, and hardly deserves your trouble. my own theory is that the thief, probably some well-known criminal whom they will have no trouble in catching, passing through town, or perhaps, making a casual stay here--that sort of gentry never have any home--read about mrs. pallinder's jewels in the papers, and thought he might make a good haul. "now i consider that you gentlemen are partly to blame for that, and i bear no malice, only i wish you'd be a little more particular. now if you'll just correct one report: mrs. pallinder's necklace did _not_ cost five thousand dollars. it cost--ah--well, gentlemen, it was a present to my wife on our last wedding anniversary, and to let the cat out of the bag, it was bought with the surplus of a little flyer in phosphate i took--now i beg you won't say anything about that in the papers--you might say, with entire truth, that it did _not_ cost five thousand dollars. the necklace and earrings together came to more than that, and i believe i bought her some other trinket at the time, a brooch or something--but the whole business was not more than eight or nine thousand, and no one item was quite as much as five. now if you'll just revise that statement, i'd be obliged. sam, bring the whisky." j. b., reading the colonel's version slightly condensed, with the truth about the diamonds carefully set forth, chuckled freely. "well," he said. "that was about the way it happened. but you ought to have heard old mrs. botlisch! she indulged in very meaty language, i never heard meatier, not even from a darky roustabout on the levee at new orleans--you know somebody said she'd been cook on a canal-boat, and i declare i shouldn't wonder if that were true. she was mad at being waked up, mad at 'mirandy,' mad at 'bill,' mad at teddy and me, and the thief and the diamonds and everything else. but let me tell you about pallinder. we started out to ransack the park; you know how it was last tuesday, a cold, sleety january night, without any snow falling, or we could have followed the fellow's tracks. as it was we just had to go prowling around the walls, and into the shrubbery. i had an old bird-gun of the colonel's, that hadn't been fired for years. it was a muzzle-loader, with a kind of sawed-off barrel, and i'll bet it would scatter like a charge of bribery in the state legislature. pallinder hadn't anything but one of these little light rattan canes. when we got down to the gate, somebody bounced out of hiding and ''alt!' says he, in a shrill voice. ''alt!' that fellow huddesley is english, you know, and drops his _h_'s; he's an awfully funny little chap. well, i ''alted.' i was taken by surprise, and i didn't want to let fly with my blunderbuss without knowing what it was all about. but what do you think pallinder did? walked right up to him, took him by the collar and pulled him out--yes, sir, that's what the colonel did, without hesitating one instant. pretty cool, i call it, for a man of his age, practically unarmed, with a lame leg. of course, i wasn't frightened; there was nothing to frighten anybody, and besides i had a gun; but i wasn't sharp and ready like the colonel; i hesitated. but pallinder walked right up, collared him and pulled him forward. 'come out o' that!' says he. 'who are you?' 'oh, lord, colonel pallinder, sir, is it you?' says huddesley, trembling all over. he was the worst scared man you ever saw. 'hi didn't know you. the doctor will be 'ere in two twos, sir. 'e told me to 'alt hanybody hi saw.' and then along came doctor vardaman with a lantern. 'what on earth is all this?' he said. 'is this your chicken-thief, huddesley?' "as we went back to the house, i said to the colonel: 'that was rather startling, wasn't it, being shouted at to halt that way?' he laughed and said yes, it reminded him of a time he rode head foremost into the yankee pickets one night--'when both armies were manoeuvring around the potomac basin--not very long before chancellorsville, you know. i was carrying despatches,' he said. i asked him what he did. 'well, i guess i did about two-forty, and it wasn't over a very good track either!' he said and laughed again. 'i lit right out. they shot my horse. i wasn't lame then, though.' and i couldn't get another word out of him. i wish he'd talk simply like that all the time," the young man added, thoughtfully. "instead of gassing around so much." j. b. himself declined to be interviewed--amiably enough, but still he declined. and doctor vardaman was another to whom the reporters appealed in vain. "the circumstances are exactly as colonel pallinder related them," he said to the only one whom he would consent to see. "and there is really nothing for me to say. i had gone to bed when my man huddesley pounded on the door and called me. i got up and found him breathless, and very much excited; he was half-dressed, had been out of doors, and as i could see, was badly frightened. one cannot expect heroic behaviour in a man of his calibre, and on the whole i think he showed a very good spirit. as soon as i understood what he had seen, i ordered him to go outside and wait until i got my clothes on, and to challenge anyone he might see about the park gate, for i immediately suspected that my chicken-house would not offer much inducement to a thief alongside of mrs. pallinder's diamonds. the man has been quite sick since from exposure and excitement. i wish you a very good-day, sir." and with this the _journal_ man and others had to be content. huddesley himself would doubtless have been more expansive, but the honest fellow went to bed with a serious sore throat and cold the day after the attempted robbery, and could not leave his room for a week. mrs. maginnis held sway in the doctor's kitchen, dispensing unlimited tea and gossip to the grocers' men, milkmen, postmen, even the baffled reporters and "plain-clothes," or uniformed detectives that called in shoals for days. "the docthor won't see yez," she told the latter, "so it's no use askin'. an' as for misther huddesley, he's on th' flat of his back, an' can't raise his voice above a whisper. annyway, he says he couldn't swear to th' man, if it was to save his immorrtal sowl. it was too dark, an' he only saw 'twas a man gallivantin' around where he'd no business. it's a foine-spurted bye he was to go afther that thievin', murderin' divil with th' poker, an' i'm glad th' docthor's got him instid of that drunken spalpeen he had befure; him that got on a tear, i mane, an' wint up to th' big house with a knife yellin' an' swearin' he'd cut th' hearrt out of iverybody--bad scran to him! it's turrible lot of men th' docthor's had intoirely." she was right; it _was_ a terrible lot of men the doctor had had. the picturesque ruffian of whom she spoke had been dismissed by the old gentleman a fortnight before at the close of a spree in which he had taken it into his drunken head to invade the pallinder kitchen, menacing the panic-struck maids with a cleaver and demanding more liquor. to him succeeded huddesley; i never saw the latter except on one occasion, but he became a familiar figure to most of us, and doctor vardaman was rather fond of telling how he acquired the only good servant he ever had. the doctor (according to his own narrative) after having at great expense of time and trouble and some personal risk, got rid of the highly emotional person with the cleaver who was haled off screeching and shackled in a patrol-wagon; and after having gone downtown and seen the wretch cared for in saint francis' hospital, inserted his usual advertisement in the _state journal_, "wanted--by a physician (retired) living in the suburbs, an unmarried man to take entire charge of his house and garden. must be experienced in cooking and indoor-work. references required. dr. john vardaman, richmond avenue. take lexington and amherst street cars." the clerk in the _journal_ office who took it in grinned at sight of him. "guess we'll have to give you a rebate on your subscription, doctor," he said cheerfully. "this is the third time this has gone in since last july. so long! happy new year!" a day or so later the doctor was sitting in the homely disorder of his library, reading a new book, when the washerwoman who came in by the day during these periods of storm and stress, stuck her towelled head around the door. "doc'thor, yer honour!" doctor vardaman did not answer, did not even hear; he was in an enchantment, his lips moving unconsciously as he read. the beauty of the lines stirred him with an almost painful sense of enjoyment. "ah, thin, docthor, asthore!" "'when you and i behind the veil are passed, oh, but the long, long while the world shall last!'" read the doctor aloud. he looked up vaguely, still under the spell. "what is it, mrs. maginnis?" "here's a man to see yez about th' pla-ace." doctor vardaman clapped omar shut briskly. in the phrase of a poet as yet unknown to the world, he turned a keen, untroubled face, home to the instant need of things. "send him in." the man came in, closed the door quietly, and stood at attention while the doctor examined him. it was evident that he was a little nervous, yet respectfully anxious to conceal it. "what is your name?" "james huddesley, sir." "you have a reference?" huddesley produced a worn letter and handed it over. the doctor read it through carefully. it certified that the bearer of this, james huddesley, was honest, sober and capable; he had lived with the writer four years as butler, and fifteen months as valet and general man. "this is dated two years back," said the doctor, as he returned it. "was that your last place?" "for steady work--yes, sir." "why did you leave it? and what have you been doing in the meantime?" "if you please, sir," said huddesley, looking down. "hi've 'ad misfortunes. hi left 'is lordship, thinkin' to better myself by settin' hup in a small way--in a pub., sir. it was no go, sir, hi 'adn't 'ad the experience, and hi didn't like the life. hi lost my money, hall hi'd saved hup, and--and----" he hesitated, fingering his hat. "and 'a little that was my wife's, if you'll hexcuse me mentioning my haffairs, sir. then she went back to 'er people, and--hi just come away, hi couldn't stand it." "i didn't want a married man," said the doctor reluctantly. "it's just the same as bein' single, sir, beggin' yer parding," said huddesley, staring out of the window. "she won't never come back to me no more--she said so. and there wasn't any children--'e died, the baby did." the doctor was touched oddly by this sordid little romance of the kitchen and backstairs. perhaps certain long, long dead and buried hopes, dreams, disappointments of his own stirred, faintly responsive beneath their graves; oh, that grim, arid little cemetery walled off in some corner of every heart! ghosts walk about it, and we call them regrets. "what have you been doing since?" the old man asked gently. "nothing much, sir--hodd jobs, waitin' in heating-'ouses, and such-like," huddesley answered openly. "'tain't what hi've been used to, but hi can turn my 'and to most anything. hi saw the paper, and hi thought hi'd like to get with a gentleman again; there was hanother hadvertisement in from the big 'ous hup there with the pillars, that hi hinquired habout--but hi found they don't 'ave nobody but coloured." mrs. pallinder recalled this circumstance afterwards, with some regret. "he was here quite a while," she said. "the cook told me making inquiries in the kitchen--but i didn't see him. such a pity--the coloured servants wouldn't have minded, but you can't expect a white man to sit down with them, you know. well," she would conclude with her charming smile, "if i couldn't have him, i don't know of anybody i'd rather see him with than doctor vardaman." the doctor put a few more questions for form's sake, and ended by engaging huddesley on the spot. "as to his references," he said, "i never troubled to look them up. a man like that is his own reference. lord what's-his-name of berkeley square, london, and what's-his-name's hall, yorks, was a trifle too far off for me to bombard him with letters about a servant whom he had probably entirely forgotten. i'll risk huddesley." the event justified him; never had the doctor lived in such comfort--never, that is, since the death of his spinster sister, some years before. his boots and broadcloth showed the ex-valet's ministrations; the old gentleman gave choice little dinners; it was his turn to send dainties about amongst his friends. the only fault he ever found in huddesley was a certain sour aversion to society for which, as doctor vardaman remarked, the man could hardly be blamed. "he never takes a day out, and won't look at a woman," said the doctor. "most men of his class, after such an experience, take for a while at least to drink, or other reprehensible courses. and indeed i suspect that huddesley didn't put in all of that dismal two years in the chaste occupations of waiting in heating-'ouses, and hother hodd jobs. but i don't want to push the inquiry. after all, he's had a pretty hard time for a young man--he's not over thirty, i think--what would you have? we're none of us saints." footnote: [ ] this was a negro settlement, a survival of old "underground railroad" days, full of bad characters, about half a mile off, towards the river. it has been improved away of late years.--m. s. w. chapter nine mazie pallinder's visit to her relatives, the lees and randolphs, was prolonged until the easter holidays, which came the last week in march that spring. it is a fact, verified by solid paragraphs of "newspaper gabble," that she _was_ visiting people of those high-sounding and brilliantly suggestive names, and moving amongst the elect. the family must have been well connected on the pallinder side at any rate--who or what the botlisch clan were, no one would like to think. we missed mazie. mrs. pallinder went about alone to teas and receptions, smiling steadily in her beautiful clothes that she wore with so dignified a grace, and reporting that she and the colonel were having a kind of ridiculous honeymoon time of it by themselves, no one calling, no banjos humming in the parlour, no impromptu little dances, no hordes of girls doing one another's hair, and munching nougat all day long in mazie's room, no prowling about the ice-chest at midnight for chicken salad and champagne. "the house is as quiet as a funeral," she humorously complained. "all our young men have deserted us, except mr. peters, who comes, i think, out of sheer humanity. my mother goes to bed very early, and there the colonel and i sit by the fire like two old fogies until we fall asleep in our chairs. the other night we actually went to bed at nine o'clock. sometimes doctor vardaman comes up and we have a game of cribbage. positively i don't know why we don't take root where we sit, and grow fast to the spot like plants. on the whole this restful time may be good for the colonel. he's been so immersed in business and those eastern men, those rich, grasping creatures, do _drive_ him so. i often say to him, 'oh, william, never mind the money. haven't you made enough by this last deal in phosphate to satisfy you _yet_?' i never ask any more how much he _did_ make--i don't know anything about business, and it frightens me to think of him handling such big sums, and taking such risks and responsibilities. he gave me this ring the other day, though, so i know that whatever it was, the venture turned out all right. isn't it a beauty? of course, i'm not sorry he's making money, but, oh, mrs. lawrence, our husbands work too hard--all our men work too hard--it's not worth it. a few thousands less would content us, and what we want more than anything else in the world is to have them in good health. shall i put you down here? oh, i'm pleased you like this little brougham; i had it lined with the dark green cloth because, to tell the truth, i thought i would look better with my fair hair against a dark green background than if it were maroon or deep blue. don't laugh, my dear, there're tricks in all trades, and it's a woman's trade to look her best. home, james!" colonel pallinder, however, never went to his office until ten o'clock in the morning, and might be seen posting home any day at about half-past three in the afternoon--"after banking-hours," he used to explain, when one met him; "there's really nothing to be done--nothing, in _my_ office, at any rate." and his gesture somehow indicated wider horizons than ours and a vista of great affairs. for all that, he had no appearance of a man harried by cares; and it may be, too, that his home was not quite so quiet and restful as it was represented. "i understand that mrs. pallinder is trying again to get a maid for her mother," said doctor vardaman, half thinking aloud, half speaking to huddesley as the latter brought him the morning paper, in company with his breakfast on the old silver-plated tray with which a previous generation of vardamans had been served; the copper of its foundation showed through here and there under huddesley's vigorous care; the delicate etched arabesque around the heraldic device and motto in the centre were almost worn away. doctor vardaman liked to fancy he could see his mother's thin, fine hands fluttering about above the cups and saucers on this tray; she, too, had had a habit of harmless and somehow perfectly dignified familiarity with her staid old servants over this one meal. the doctor opened his paper, turning at once--as everybody invariably does--to a certain concise, ominous column in the lower left-hand corner of the inside page where might be read, framed in undertakers' advertisements, and notices that so-and-so's mortuary sculptures were the best in the market, the names of yesterday's dead. close by, another column offered you a list of marriage-licenses with a fine indifference to the fitness of things; and not far away appeared the "help wanted--male--female." "i see mrs. pallinder's advertising for a maid," said the doctor. "and here, in another place, she wants a cook, too. she's had a great deal of trouble with servants this winter. there's a pair of us--_arcades ambo!_" he grinned into his coffee-cup. "only i'm very well-off now at least. this coffee's very fine, huddesley. it's a pity mrs. pallinder's having such a time." "yes, sir," said huddesley respectfully. "that kind generally does have trouble, sir." he caught the doctor's eye and coughed discreetly. "the house is large and there must be a great deal of work," said the doctor, considering with vast satisfaction how comfortable he was in his little den. "nobody minds doin' work that 'e's paid for, hi've noticed," said huddesley. "it's when you 'ave trouble colleckin' wages that you're liable to break hoff relations haltogether--speakin', hof course, sir, as a man in my position, not as a gentleman in yours." "the deuce!" ejaculated doctor vardaman inwardly. "is _that_ it? well, i don't know why i'm surprised--i might have suspected as much--in fact, i _have_ suspected as much off and on." "hof course coloured people are very precarious, sir, very precarious; you don't know 'ow they live, nor you don't want to," said huddesley, arranging the dishes. "their servants is hall coloured, sir, you know. hi halways think 'like master, like man'--that's the hold sayin', sir." "i must stop him," thought doctor vardaman guiltily. "it's disgraceful listening to a servant's gossip this way--ahem! who was that i heard you having such a squabble with at the kitchen door yesterday afternoon, huddesley?" he asked abruptly. "a fellow peddlin' shoe-strings and collar-buttons, sir--hi didn't like 'is looks and hi hordered 'im hoff pretty sharp. hi'm sorry you heard the--the haltercation, sir, but they're very 'ard to get rid of." "and you aren't any too plucky," said the doctor to himself with some amusement, remembering huddesley's not over-heroic behaviour on the occasion of the burglary. "why, i saw him going up the avenue towards colonel pallinder's afterwards, and i thought he looked like a respectable man," he said aloud. huddesley paused a moment before answering; he was folding the tablecloth with an elaborate neatness; the operation required his undivided attention. then: "beg parding, sir, that wasn't 'im you saw," he said calmly. "that was the gent that collecks for barlow & foster, goin' hup to see if 'e couldn't get something on their coal-bill; i persoom you know it ain't been paid yet. there was hanother there yesterday from scheurmann--the fourth or fifth time for _'im_, hi've lost count, there's been so many of 'em lately." doctor vardaman retreated to his library, somewhat out of countenance. "good lord!" he thought, "it's worse than i supposed--a deal worse! these servants see or smell out everything. it's not safe to let them talk to you; _i_ don't want to know anything about the pallinders' affairs." nevertheless he smiled a little as he sat smoking by the fire. "'the haltercation,'" he quoted. "huddesley certainly is a character. he reminds me of that valet of major pendennis' in the novel, that fellow morgan--only morgan turned out to be a rascal, the head villain of the story, if i remember." he took down the book--it was a first edition with thackeray's own clumsy yet spirited illustrations--and sat reading the rest of the morning. as reluctant as he was, however, the doctor, like the rest of the world, could not always keep his eyes and ears closed against those embarrassing things which we should all so much rather not know. there are bits of gossip which seem to be common and not altogether undesirable property; and there are ugly rumours which we feel it to be the part of decency to hush up. we hear, underhand, that jones is wont to skulk at home for a fortnight dead drunk, that smith's latest financial venture was curiously involved and cloudy; even if true, and even if we disapprove of jones' and smith's conduct in the abstract, it yet in no way concerns us. we are none of us saints, as the doctor himself said; we dislike especially the pose of holier-than-thou. jones and smith may not be model citizens, but let us give them the benefit of the doubt and continue to accept their dinner-invitations. doctor vardaman, an upright man who would as soon have taken a horse-whip to a servant as cheat him out of a penny, found himself averse to believe what was under his eyes every day, and obscurely whispered here and there by people in other ranks of life than huddesley's. what if the pallinders were besieged by duns, and their servants unpaid? that was none of his business; at the suggestion the old gentleman felt an irritation for which perhaps some mocking inner self was partly to blame. he found excuses for them; they were notoriously and amusingly careless, extravagant, free-handed--er--er--_southern_, in a word; the colonel might be a rogue, as he undoubtedly was a wind-bag, yet of his own knowledge, the doctor could say nothing. nobody had ever tried to trick _him_; he saw no reason why he should suddenly cold-shoulder the pallinders; their house was the pleasantest he knew. thus the doctor reflected uneasily, trying to hush that ironic sprite within; and presently he was left with fewer defences still against its sly unwelcome jeers, for the business which he took such comfort in assuring himself was not his, became his in spite of him! he was a little surprised, when, in the late afternoon of the same day, huddesley deferentially opened the library-door to announce "mr. gwynne peters." this formality of entrance was imposed on everybody by the new man, and there was an old-world flavour about it that agreed well with the doctor's house and character. huddesley, who would have been an ordinary flunkey in such an establishment as the pallinders', was already that endearing person--a trusted and trustworthy servant--at doctor vardaman's. gwynne came in, ruddy from the thin brisk march air, eager and confident of his welcome, bringing to the doctor's mind what kind memories of old days; of times when he used to come with a top, a kite, a lame kitten, and filled the childless house with childish confusion. now he was as tall as doctor vardaman, and the latter noted with an odd pang that his young face was settling into the harder lines which recalled to so many his grandfather's portrait; perhaps the anxiety that never entirely forsook him had made its mark on gwynne. at any rate it was very apparent as he said, glancing about, after huddesley had taken his hat and overcoat, and gone silently and most respectfully out of the room: "cousin steven hasn't been here, has he? i asked huddesley, but he didn't seem to know." "come to think of it, i don't believe steven has been in to see me since i've had huddesley--that's about two months, you know," said the doctor. "he knows nearly everyone now, and never seems to get the names and faces mixed up. if he'd ever seen steven, he wouldn't have forgotten him----" ("i wish i hadn't said that!" he added inwardly). but gwynne only frowned absent-mindedly, and began to feel along the mantelpiece for matches. "were you looking for him?" "he's in town; he was in the office, but i had gone out. then afterwards i met templeton on the street, and he told me he understood cousin steven to say he was coming out here. you--you haven't seen him going up to the pallinder's, have you?" "why, no. but he'll be along in a little while, i dare say," said the doctor easily--and wondered within him what steven was about _now_? he said nothing more, having in perfection the gift of companionable silence; and for almost five minutes gwynne himself did not speak, blowing a soothing cloud of smoke by the doctor's fire. then he said abruptly, not looking at his old friend, as if trusting him to follow up his thought. "i went out to see sam the other day." "ah? was he----" "just the same. he didn't know me--never does. perhaps it's just as well. the attendant spoke as if he thought sam was in very good shape--physically, you know. 'he'll probably live for years, mr. peters,' he said to me. 'he's stronger than you are this minute.' they treat him all right, i think. it's always on my mind a little, you know, that maybe they wouldn't if it wasn't for my having an eye on them all the time. i go out about once a month, but they never know when i'm coming. but you can't tell what happens in those places--even the best of them." "sheckard is a reliable man; i've known him for thirty years. he's always very careful about the attendants, as far as i've noticed; even the patients that haven't any money, the ones he takes for a merely nominal sum, or whatever their people can scrape up, are just as well cared-for, i think. and of course that isn't the case with sam----" "it takes all sam has," interrupted gwynne gloomily. "every cent." "you can't blame them. but i wouldn't worry about him, if i were in your----" "i'm not worrying. i'm simply trying to do the best i can," said gwynne sharply. the doctor caught the note of uneasy irritation in his voice with surprise. nothing could have been farther from his mind, or indeed, more unjust, than to accuse gwynne of shirking his duties, yet the young man was plainly nettled--on the defensive. "i must have been too sympathetic," thought the doctor, remembering the miserably touchy gwynne pride. doctor vardaman was the one person on earth, hardly excepting his own family, to whom gwynne would have mentioned his brother. for everybody else, sam peters was away in california, in algiers, in timbuctoo--the devices by which sam was kept in the background would have afforded material for a pitiful farce, if they had not been concerned with so pitiful a tragedy; there was about these lies a kind of wretched courage that went near to rendering their folly dignified. gwynne knew that his brother's misfortune was in no sense a disgrace; but he could not bring himself to regard it as a thing to be thought or spoken of like any other illness. too much of his life had been passed in the grimly fantastic environment of gwynne family traditions for him to be completely emancipated at twenty-four. "i want to do the right thing as much as anybody," said gwynne; he scowled into the fire, chewing the end of his cigar. "only it's not always easy to say what _is_ the right thing. in real life right and wrong aren't laid down in black and white the way they are in those tommy-and-harry books we used to have when we were children; they sort of shade off into each other. you've got to--to make compromises. you can't take any satisfaction in being right--abstractly _right_--when you're being hard and--and cruel." "what on earth is the boy arguing with himself about?" thought doctor vardaman; these not very original remarks had, for all their emphasis, the air of being offered in advocacy of some doubtful cause; there was a trace of temper and self-consciousness in them, and even the speaker himself appeared unconvinced. "he's been having trouble with steven, i suspect," the doctor concluded, remembering how capable steven was of making trouble, and how difficult it was to manage him without recourse to a tyranny from which gwynne would recoil. "that may be a good frame of mind for a lawyer, gwynne," he said pleasantly. "that disposition, i mean, to allow a certain amount of right on every side. the question of expediency----" "that's what _i_ think," gwynne interrupted eagerly. "it's as much a point of what's _best_ to do as of what's rigorously _right_ to do. but you can't make people see that; now people like----" "mr. steven gwynne!" said huddesley, opening the door. and even in the uproar of steven's entrance--he could do nothing quietly, and had a voice of thunderous volume--doctor vardaman had time to observe gwynne's start and changing colour. huddesley withdrew, taking steven's "artics" with a manner conveying his fixed belief that they should be handled with tongs; but the doctor, who generally viewed this comic by-play with profound amusement, for once let it pass unnoticed. as his guests fronted each other, the old gentleman felt a sudden menace in the air; something had gone wrong, had gone very wrong, indeed; that much was easy to read in the two lowering faces. he looked from one to the other in apprehension; he tried to relieve the situation by a gust of what he inwardly characterised as "futile patter," offering chairs and comments on the weather. that his unoffending parlour should be made the scene of a gwynne family squabble did not strike him as outrageous; he felt too genuine and humane an interest in both parties. at the back of his mind the thought was busy that steven must have been stirring up some kind of mischief with his confounded vapouring communistic and anarchistic theories, his "circulating medium," or heaven knew what other foolishness; and how was gwynne, or for that matter anybody else, to deal with him? the poor old fellow was not--not responsible; yet he could not be bullied like a slave, or put aside like a child; that would only make him worse! "it would be better, it would absolutely be better, if steven would go stark mad and be done with it (lord forgive me for saying so!)" he thought. "then, at least, he could be cared for properly. as it is, you can't excite him, you can't reason with him, you can't control him!" an acute sympathy for both of them possessed him--for steven as for a baby from whom one should tear away some dangerous beloved plaything--for gwynne because he must do this really humane thing, perforce, inhumanely. the job was obviously distasteful; gwynne wore, the doctor thought, a reluctant, even a sort of hang-dog air; and it was steven who began, ruffling and reddening in blotches over his wildly bearded face and down to his grooved and corded old neck: "you--you got my letters, gwynne?" "i got them, cousin steven," said gwynne sullenly. "you didn't answer 'em, sir." "i don't think we need to discuss this before doctor vardaman, cousin steven," said the young man. it was a dignified and temperate speech; yet, strangely enough, it conveyed to the doctor less consideration for himself than desire to avoid the interview altogether. something, either in gwynne's tone or manner, struck a false note, and doctor vardaman looked at him perplexed. "i don't see why we shouldn't talk before old jack," said steven trustingly; he at least was sincere; there was no complexity about steven; his mind worked with the directness of a child's. "i'd have asked his opinion anyhow--i meant to--that's what i'm here for----" "you haven't been to the pallinders' then?" interrupted gwynne, in evident relief. "you haven't been there yet?" "no, but i'm going." steven's eyes were uncomfortably bright as he faced the other, with all the desperate obstinacy of a weak character. "you can't stop me doing that, gwynne--you _can't_. i'm one of the heirs--i've got a _right_----" "cousin steven, if you'll just listen a minute," gwynne began with an effort. "you can't stop me--i've got a _right_--i'm not a minor," cried the old man; the words might have been ludicrous but for his pitiful earnestness. "i'm going to know where my money's gone to--i'm going to have an accounting. that pallinder fellow----" "i say you shall _not_ go there," said gwynne doggedly. "your money's all right. if you'll only have a little patience, i'll attend to it, and you'll get your share----" "you said that before--you've said it two or three times," said steven, his face working. he was evidently striving with all his might for self-control; there was a painful dignity in the effort. doctor vardaman was strangely touched to observe him; it seemed as if the battle were too one-sided, whatever its cause; as if the strong and sane young man had too much the advantage. "i'm tired of hearing that, gwynne. you don't know how to get the money, or you don't try. 'if you want your business done, go and do it yourself; if not, send!' that's a pretty good motto, seems to me. i'm going to attend to this now, myself----" "cousin steven, you can't possibly do anything--you'll only make matters worse. ask templeton, ask anybody----" "it's no use asking _you_, that's plain," said steven bitterly. "i want my money." in spite of him, his voice raised and cracked on the last words. he turned to the doctor pleadingly. "john," he said, "it ain't right--it ain't right. you'll say it ain't right, when you hear. tell him it ain't right, john, _tell_ him it ain't." he pointed to gwynne with his shaking hand. the younger man scowled back with a resentment touched by some feeling not far removed from shame; doctor vardaman looked at him in open inquiry, and was confounded to see that gwynne avoided his eye. "you'd better sit down here quietly, steve, old man," he said kindly. "now what is it you want me to tell gwynne? let's thrash it all out. we'll put it straight in five minutes, i've no doubt." he shook his head warningly at gwynne behind the other's back; and gwynne set his lips ominously and looked away. old steven began to fumble in his pockets; in his excitement he could not command his stiff trembling fingers, and cursed with impatience as he sought. "i've got it here--i've got a statement, jack," he explained twice or thrice. "i put it all down. i may not be a pin-headed, pettifogging little know-it-all attorney," he said with a withering side-glance at gwynne standing against the mantelpiece in a morose silence. "but i guess i can add up a column of figures and make it come out right just the same." doctor vardaman might have laughed at another time; but now he was too concerned for the outcome, feeling instinctively that, at its core, this was no laughing matter. the presentiment chilled him into gravity as he watched steven turn out a collection of rubbish such as any schoolboy might have owned--broken bits of slate-pencil, a disabled toothbrush, hanks of cotton string, a handful of indian corn and one of loose tobacco, numerous buttons, a large red apple--"i brought that for gwynne, but now i'll give it to _you_, john," said the old man severely. finally from the midst of this dunnage he produced a creased and soiled paper and spread it out triumphantly. "there, jack, there, i wrote it all out. 'william pallinder, esquire'--no, i'll be damned if i call him 'esquire,' it's too good for him--lend me your pen-knife, jack, i'll scratch it out when i get through reading--'william pallinder in account with steven gwynne _et al._--i remember that out of the books when i was studying law--_et al._, for house-rent due from november, , to march, , sixteen months, at one hundred and fifty dollars a month, twenty-four hundred dollars--ain't that correct? and there's twenty of us, you know, john, counting eleanor and mollie's share as one, twenty goes into twenty-four once and four over--i put that down on another piece of paper--i can't find it, but i remember anyhow--twenty into twenty-four once and four over, twenty into forty goes twice, and ought's ought, and _ought's ought_. that's a hundred and twenty apiece that's coming to us, john, ain't that correct?" he looked into the doctor's face eagerly; momentarily it seemed as if the gravity of the scene were about to evaporate in a cheap burlesque. in the variegated patchwork of steven's mental processes, theories about the superfluousness of money, and laboured calculations as to how much was coming to him found an equal place, and were matched side by side with no sense of incongruity. "yes, that's perfectly correct, steven," said the doctor, somewhat illuminated. steven eyed gwynne vindictively. "i guess i can figger all right if i ain't a pin-head----" "nobody's saying your figures aren't right," said gwynne, with a weary patience. "the colonel owes the estate that much, and if you'll let things alone, it'll be paid." "oh, yes, it'll be paid. i'll make it my business to _see_ that it's paid," said steven, nodding. he turned to the doctor, confident of his support. "ain't i right, john? gwynne there won't do anything--won't lift his hand--just lets the rent keep on piling up and piling up. calls himself a _lawyer_, and won't do _anything_--i've written him time and time again authorising him to--to sue--to sue for our rent--haven't i, gwynne? did i, or did i not write you, answer me that?" "oh, yes, you wrote me," said gwynne drily. "there, you see, you _see_, john," said steven despairingly. "that's the way he acts--just that indifferent and shilly-shally. it's seven dollars and a half a month we ought each one to have been getting all this time--seven dollars and a half," his voice cracked again--"we haven't had a cent--not a _cent_, for over a year, and he won't _do_ anything! he ought to sue, oughtn't he, john?" "why, lord bless me, steven, _i_ don't know," said the doctor, at once relieved yet remotely disquieted to learn the cause of the trouble, worried over steven, and slightly amused at this seven-dollar-a-month melodrama. "i'm not a lawyer, you know. i suppose there's some way of getting at tenants that won't pay their rent--some way other than evicting 'em bodily, i mean--you'd hardly like to do that, you know, to people like the pallinders----" "don't see why not," said steven, seizing upon this new idea with a very disconcerting readiness. "_i'd_ bring 'em to time, if _i_ had the doing of it." he directed a vindictive glance at gwynne. "'pay or quit,' that's what i'd say----" "oh, come now, steven, you wouldn't want to see the pallinders' bureaus and bedsteads out on the sidewalk. it would be a kind of discredit to the property--_your_ property--governor gwynne's house," said the doctor, struggling with an inconvenient tendency to laugh, yet diplomatically approaching steven on his most vulnerable side. "you wouldn't treat mrs. pallinder that way--she's a very polished lady--i've heard you say so a dozen times myself." "there's no occasion to bring in mrs. pallinder's name at all, i think," said gwynne, in so savage a voice that doctor vardaman started with astonishment. their eyes met. "she has nothing to do with this," said the young man constrainedly, averting his gaze almost at the instant. "we're all gentlemen, i hope, and we don't have to talk about a woman." doctor vardaman rubbed his chin. "steven," he said thoughtfully, "i think maybe you'd better let gwynne manage it his own way----" "but i _have_--i have for a year, and look how he's managed it!" cried steven; he looked from the doctor to gwynne in an exasperated bewilderment. "we aren't as well off now as we were a year ago! there's that much more owing us--and he said just the same thing then, to let things alone. damn it, we've let 'em alone, and see where we are!" there was a devious justice in this argument that, taken with gwynne's more or less disingenuous behaviour, was not without its effect on the doctor; of course, he told himself, the young fellow's inactivity was capable of some perfectly reasonable explanation; everyone knew that the direction of the gwynne affairs was a fearfully complicated task, and doctor vardaman was not desirous of going further into its details, even if gwynne had wanted to enlighten him--still he would have been better satisfied if the boy had shown himself more frank and not quite so sulky. it occurred to him, with a fine irony, that here was probably one of gwynne's cases where there was some right on both sides. the main thing at the moment, he realised, was to get steven quieted. "i'm sorry, but i--really i can't advise you, steven," he said in his most moderate voice. "have you talked to mr. templeton? he's your real agent, you know; he does the collecting, doesn't he? i'm sure if he and gwynne both think----" "_templeton!_ he's a--a _creature_ of gwynne's!" cried steven angrily. "he's no better than a--a mercenary--a--a hired bravo!" gwynne had to smile. the idea of fat little spectacled templeton in the rôle of chief-villain's handy-man, be-cloaked and be-daggered as we are accustomed to figure those romantic gentlemen, was irresistibly comic. but steven saw the smile and turned purple; he got up, choking and trembling. "very well, young man, very well!" he said, not without dignity. "i suppose you can afford to laugh--you have the upper hand. it's very funny, no doubt--but _i_ wouldn't laugh at anybody in trouble--not at my own kin anyhow--blood's thicker than water. oh, yes, i'm very funny, of course; i'm nothing but an old man that don't know anything--and--and a--a kind of a nuisance, i suppose, and and--i don't dress stylish, and it's real funny for me to want my money--oh, yes! you needn't worry, gwynne, i'm not going to trouble you any more about it--i'll attend to my own affairs after this. jack, where're my gum-shoes, please? _you_ can let things alone, if you choose, mr. peters, but _i'm_----" "what are you going to do?" said gwynne harshly--the more harshly, perhaps, because he was touched and a little shamed, against his will. almost involuntarily, he moved between his cousin and the door. "i'm going to my house, to _my_ house, to see pallinder myself," said steven, frightened yet obstinate. gwynne made a gesture of angry impatience. "he won't be at home at this time of day. cousin steven, if you'll _only_ wait a little----" "i've done all the waiting i intend to, mr. gwynne peters. if he ain't at home, i mean to see _her_----" "oh, good lord, steven, you can't do that--you can't talk to a woman about things like that!" interposed doctor vardaman, shocked. "now i'll tell you what, you stay here quietly with me, and take dinner and let gwynne see to it. gwynne'll fix it all right if you----" if you will give him time, the doctor was about to add, when the weakness of that already well-worn plea struck him. "i don't trust him, i tell you--he ain't to be trusted. i can attend to my own affairs and i _will_!" said steven fiercely. the question had by this time become to him not so much that of recovering his money as of having his own way; they would conspire against him, would they? they would keep him from having a voice in his own proper affairs? somebody had been meddling with him that way all his life; _he_ would show them, he, steven gwynne! "i won't have him interfering with me any longer--he don't suit me--i'll run my affairs to suit myself, without any leave from you, mr. gwynne peters--call yourself a lawyer--i wouldn't trust you 'round the corner with a cent of _my_ money--i wouldn't have you try a case for my dog, i wouldn't----" "then get some other lawyer that you do trust!" shouted gwynne above the other's shouting. "but right now you're not going near mrs. pallinder, d'ye hear me? it's shameful; she shan't be persecuted this way!" "i'll go where i damn please, sir. get another lawyer! precious good care you've taken that i _can't_ get another lawyer! where's the money? where's my hundred and twenty dollars, gwynne peters?" "if you'll come down to the office, i'll give you your infernal hundred and twenty now," said gwynne, steadying himself as best he could. "i'll give it to you myself out of hand, and then you can go and employ ten lawyers if you like. but if you think i'm going to turn mrs. pall--the pallinders out of doors, or hound them about the rent, you're mistaken. why, it's my money just as much as yours, and am _i_ worrying? the colonel's good for it, and even if he isn't, the house and furniture are there; they aren't going to fly away--if you'll be patient and act sensibly, i'll get your money. if you won't i'll wash my hands of the whole business. you can----" "for god's sake, gwynne," ejaculated the doctor in an undertone, "don't make things worse than they are! steven can't control himself, but _you_ can!" "why, i'm not a brute, doctor vardaman, i'm not a--a jew! i won't allow mrs. pallinder to be made wretched because of this--this--it's bad enough for me to have to stand it; but she--she----" the young man caught himself; he was on the edge of saying "she's an angel," but even in that moment of excitement some saving sense of humour mercifully restrained him. "she don't know anything about business. you can't go to _her_ for your rent! it's--it's inhuman to harry a woman like mrs. pallinder about _rent_. leave _her_ out of it at any rate, it's the least you can do." "you, sir, get me my gum-shoes," said steven determinedly, as the door once more swung to admit huddesley. it is possible that this discreet and admirably trained individual had been improving his knowledge of doctor vardaman's acquaintances, just outside the key-hole; he overlooked steven's orders, and went up to the doctor with a perturbed countenance. "doctor vardaman, if you please, sir----" there followed a whisper charged with meaning. "oh, the _devil_!" said the old gentleman desperately. he looked around. "steven, gwynne, do sit down, both of you--why, yes, of course, huddesley, certainly you can bring her in--and--and here's the key of the wine-cellar, huddesley;" he was quite flustered. the others forgot their excitement a moment to wonder at him. "bring her in, huddesley, don't keep a lady standing," said the doctor, speaking testily in his confusion. huddesley was keenly alive to the dramatic aspect of the meeting; he went ceremoniously out and ceremoniously returned, spreading the door with a flourish. "mrs. pallinder!" he announced. chapter ten it was a _coup-de-théâtre_, falling as pat as if prearranged, an unthinkable accident; the melodrama was becoming entirely too melodramatic, according to doctor vardaman's notion. "good heavens!" he said to himself, irritated; "this sort of thing doesn't _happen_--it has no business to happen!" he had what is perhaps the best tact in the world, the tact of a kind heart; but a plain man's experience does not prepare him for moments of such awkwardness, and the doctor's self-possession for once left him in the lurch. he advanced to meet mrs. pallinder, blunderingly putting on his eye-glasses, and blunderingly dropping them again to the length of their black silk ribbon, stuttering out a welcome, apprehensive of steven's next move, out of patience with the whole grotesque and intolerable situation, and fearful that he showed it. mrs. pallinder could hardly have failed to overhear something of what was going forward; steven's loud voice had been raised almost to its furthest pitch, and gwynne's, if he was more self-contained, was still forcible and distinct enough. neither one could at once adjust his threatening brows to a placid, scarcely even a natural expression, and, for that matter, the silence betrayed as much as their speech. she would have needed to be blind or deaf not to know that her presence came amiss--and blind and deaf mrs. pallinder promptly became! it was a feat; her assumption of unconsciousness was too perfect, but, if gwynne and the doctor were undeceived, they were still profoundly grateful, and steven was reduced to a kind of pathetic diffidence. the old man felt, in his dim way, that he had no arms against this dazzling feminine creature; her manners, her dress, even her delicate and finished beauty frightened him; he might as well plan to sue a fairy for rent as this detached and brilliant personage. "gwynne could have let the poor old boy go in peace," thought doctor vardaman, observing steven's altered bearing; "he never would have faced mrs. pallinder--i doubt if he could have stood up to the colonel!" "don't get up, gentlemen, don't stand for just _me_!" said mrs. pallinder, looking around on everybody and beginning to loosen her furs. "oh, mr. gwynne, what a nice surprise to find you here! doctor vardaman, you didn't tell me you were expecting mr. gwynne. you see i'm an old story to the doctor, mr. gwynne, i drop in almost every day--i wonder he doesn't run at the sight of me--it must be a relief as well as a pleasure to him to have you come in once in a while. why don't you come to see _me_, ever? we're so lonely out here--the colonel and i depend on the doctor. nobody ever comes to see two rusty old creatures like us. nobody but you, that is, mr. peters, you treat us with the respect due our age." she gave him a laughing glance; gwynne knelt down, reddening and incoherent, to take off her overshoes. the doctor had space to reflect that a pretty woman, be she never so well or so long married, seldom wholly ceases to be a coquette. and all this while steven stood, spellbound into silence, waiting for someone else to sit down. he would have liked to be gallant, cynical, daring, epigrammatic; steven's notions of society were founded on bulwer-lytton's novels, with a dash of reade, disraeli, and charles lever. he had revolved more than one graceful yet stinging speech for the humbling of the pallinders, figuring them brought down to a species of admiring submission. lo, the hour was arrived, but where was the man? all his eloquence had stolen away; he was taken at unawares, tongue-tied in an awkwardness that at once incensed and humiliated him. he almost envied gwynne his uncalculated ease. "i had a letter from mazie this morning, doctor," said mrs. pallinder, resolutely keeping the conversation going, and including steven, as it were, by main force. "my daughter, you know, mr. gwynne. you've been at your country-place all winter, haven't you?" it was thus that mrs. pallinder picturesquely referred to steven's ramshackle residence; and on her lips the phrase had a richness that pleased him ineffably. "then you don't know that my daughter has been away nearly two months--she went a little after the holidays--and, oh, mr. gwynne, did you hear about the robbery?" "_she_ don't have to make talk about the weather--trust a woman!" said the doctor inwardly, both satirical and admiring. he had an instant of suspense, wondering what use steven would make of his opportunity--and steven was as mild as a lamb! he cleared his throat, and said yes, he had heard about the robbery--they didn't get anything after all, did they? he understood--that is, the paper said--he hadn't been in town to talk to anybody--that they were after mrs. pallinder's diamonds. there had been a picture in the paper of the necklace--he was glad they hadn't got anything. "why, i didn't know you approved of diamonds, mr. gwynne, i wouldn't have dared to wear mine before you," said mrs. pallinder, tempting providence. "everybody says you're so severe and critical--and--and like all the rest of you men--you laugh at us poor women shamefully, yes, and tyrannise over us, too, you know you do!" she went on, displaying a discernment for which nobody would have given her credit. "madame," said steven, highly flattered; "you mistake me--beauty unadorned----" "oh, but mr. gwynne, i'm not in that class! now come up to dinner to-night, and i'll put on every diamond i have, and you'll see i'll look the better for it." she raised her hand. "but don't involve me in an argument--i can't hold my ground with you, you know--you're too clever for me--i remember the last time, when you demolished me utterly--you told me we didn't need money to get along--think of that, doctor vardaman, he actually told me we didn't need to use money at all, 'the circulating medium,' wasn't that what you called it, mr. gwynne? see how well i remember! and, doctor, before he got through, he persuaded me, sure enough, that we didn't need money--i believed him--at least i had nothing to say!" now how, how, i ask the unprejudiced and fair-minded observer, how could any gentleman--of the name of _gwynne_--come at so winningly simple a woman as mrs. pallinder with a low question of rent? "pay or quit" indeed! the thing was inconceivable, the moment inappropriate. "you _will_ come to dinner, won't you, mr. gwynne? mr. peters, i've a crow to pick with _you_, for never bringing him. oh, i know you hate society, mr. gwynne, but just for once----" steven faltered; he would have accepted the invitation in another moment--and if he had, who knows how this story might have ended?--but doctor vardaman intervened briskly. "steven's got to stay here, madame, i asked him first," he said, and clapped the other on the shoulder. perhaps the doctor was a shade more cordial even than his nature prompted; he felt a great pity for steven, and a certain shame at the cheap and flimsy devices by which his poor old friend could be overpowered. mrs. pallinder made a little mouth at him. "you always have your way, doctor, you've gotten the better of me ever so many times. _you've_ got huddesley, for instance," she said, not disdaining to bestow an _oeillade_ on the servant as he stood before her, offering sherry in the doctor's little old trumpet-shaped glasses; he acknowledged the compliment by a respectful grin. "and _i'm_ simply having the most _awful_ time--you don't know of a good cook, do you, huddesley?" "no, ma'am. hi don't know hanybody 'ere, ma'am," said huddesley, with a faintly superior air; and passed on to gwynne with his silver tray. it was true; he held himself apart from, and rather above, other servants. the doctor had often remarked it with an amused sympathy. "_don't_ you? isn't that a pity--i want so much to get settled in the kitchen before mazie comes home--well, if you hear of anyone, you'll remember me, huddesley, won't you?" mrs. pallinder held her glass in one hand, and shook a letter out of her muff with the other. "mazie's letter, doctor vardaman--she'll be back in a week--she's going to bring a friend--the most _english_ name--one of those hyphenated names, you know. her father's one of the secretaries at the legation. where--oh, here it is. 'muriel' _isn't_ that _english_? but just listen to the rest of it!--'ponsonby-baxter.' her father is sir julian--no, it's lucien--no, mr. peters, i believe my eyes are failing--can you make out what that word is?" gwynne, after a solemn inspection, pronounced it to be llewellyn. "i notice all these young men read my daughter's handwriting a great deal better than i can, for some mysterious reason, mr. gwynne," said mrs. pallinder pointedly, to steven, with her pretty laugh. and steven actually laughed, too! where was his animosity? where his anathemas? he was at ease, mild, pleased, interested. in fact, mrs. pallinder, looking hardly a day over thirty-five, with her fresh voice, her softly bright eyes, her trim and supple figure, was an impossible sort of person for the rôle of mother. there was a charming absurdity in her continual half-humorous, half-sentimental allusions to her years and infirmities. "when they get here, i'm thinking of having a little company in the house, mr. peters," she went on, with a confidential glance that magically comprehended everybody in the room. "some of the girls, like kitty oldham, for instance, and your cousin marian, of course, if her mother will let her come--i always say, mr. gwynne, that it's no wonder all the girls in your family are so well-bred and have such lovely manners--_gwynne_ manners, colonel pallinder calls them--it's no wonder they're all that way, they've had such careful mothers, and _such_ training! it's my despair--i'll never make mazie that way! i should like to go to school to mrs. horace gwynne myself for a while, only she wouldn't have an old thing like me around, trying to copy those beautiful, finished ways she has--the most _elegant_ woman i know! i think a little party in the house like that will make it pleasant for miss--miss baxter, i suppose we'll call her--the whole name's a little too much--_ponsonby-baxter_! and now the colonel says he'll have to have some men in the house in self-defence. such a houseful of women! it bores a man, i really think--oh, now, you needn't look that way, mr. gwynne, you _know_ it bores men sometimes to have too many women around. so we want to have some of the young men, too--of course you, mr. peters, and do you think mr. lewis would come? and then there's mr. taylor--the one you all call j. b., i mean. there're those three large rooms in the wing at the back, and the small one over the hall--plenty of room, don't you think so, mr. gwynne? you ought to know how many the house will hold." steven looked important and considered. he remembered when governor gwynne had entertained the whig campaign committee in--in--he forgot the year, but it was when van buren was elected; every room in the house had been occupied, and cots in the library--you could put ten cots in the library--oh, easily ten, end to end, you know---- "cots! oh, i don't think we'll need cots, you know, with young ladies in the party----" steven did not hear her. he was launched on an accurate description of the festivities, to which mrs. pallinder listened with a caressing attention. how much had she overheard? or how much guessed? possibly she would have been as painstakingly gracious to steven in any event; to look her best, to act her best, was mrs. pallinder's trade, and you may trust me it was not always an easy one. "_so_ interesting, isn't it? oh, it's all very well for you to smile, doctor vardaman, you remember all this, and it seems very ordinary to you, no doubt. but it's rarely one hears such reminiscences--you've met so many celebrated people, mr. gwynne--the governor knew everybody, of course, in his position, and then he was a famous man himself. oh, now i'm here, and have a chance at last, i want you to tell me again about that time the governor gave away the crimson velvet waistcoat with gold bees embroidered on it--don't you remember, you told it to me the first time we met, and i tried to tell it to the colonel afterwards, but i got it all mixed up. he gave it to tom corwin, didn't he? and then the darky waiter got hold of it somehow, and wore it to the party? i laughed so when i came to that part, i couldn't go on with the story----" doctor vardaman listened between relief and a singularly unreasonable resentment; the business of pacifying steven seemed ludicrously easy, now. his weaknesses and the adroitness with which they were approached, were alike contemptible. anything, of course, he admitted unwillingly, anything was better than having a scene; they should be thankful they were so well past that danger. yet he wondered privately what gwynne thought of this dexterous jockeying; a woman's performances in what she chooses to consider the art of diplomacy unveiled, seldom fail of moving the masculine onlooker to mingled wonder, scorn, and pity. the creature has the cunning of her feebleness; how she does juggle with honour and decency! how lightly she trips it along the unstable wire! what capital she makes of her toy emotions, her sham beliefs and unbeliefs! there is even something admirable in her serene assurance that the end always justifies the means. steven may not have talked himself, or been talked, into a complete forgetfulness of his errand; but at least the evil hour was a while postponed. he saw mrs. pallinder leave the house escorted by gwynne through the falling dusk, with genial unconcern; and reiterated to the doctor as they sat at table that evening his conviction that mrs. pallinder was a very polished lady! thus did the afternoon finish; never was there a tamer sequel to a more alarming prelude. if the doctor had received some disquieting revelations, he could still put them from his mind as no affair of his; and if a vexed anxiety about gwynne lurked within him, it needed no great effort to stifle or banish that, too, momentarily, at any rate. the boy knew what he was about--_laissez faire!_ he thought, and surrendered himself to a long evening of steven and the circulating medium with thankfulness and even some amusement. "you--you're ever so kind to poor old cousin steven, mrs. pallinder," gwynne said to her, with a good deal of feeling, as they parted in the shadow of the parthenon front. his voice trembled a little; and perhaps the lady let him hold her hand a trifle longer than etiquette prescribes. "my dear boy," she said with gentle emphasis, "my dear boy, don't _i know_---- if there is any way i can think of to make a person like that happier, wouldn't i gladly do it? that seems to me a very small thing--a woman's duty--what else are we for? i would do it for _you_ anyhow, even if i didn't feel so sorry for him." she melted into the house without waiting to gauge the effect of this touching speech, and the young man went off down the avenue with his head in the stars. all very wrong and very improper, no doubt! but, on the whole, gwynne's conduct, it seems to me, was most edifying--a pattern for any youth in his position. if mrs. pallinder had been the angel he thought her, he could not have borne himself toward her with more respect. a young man's first love, or let us call it, his first amorous fancy, is free from grossness. there was something spiritual and exalted in gwynne's devotion; i believe he figured himself, foolishly and egotistically enough, her knight, faithful without hope of reward, and gloried in his anguish. if he stood between her and the all-too-righteous exactions of his relatives and co-heirs, if he shielded her from the vials of their wrath, at the cost of some squirmings of conscience, still i am loath to blame him. there was, of course, no excuse for him, yet---- mrs. pallinder was old enough to be his mother, and married to boot; but she was a very beautiful woman, and he was softhearted and sentimental, and had had a harsh and loveless life. how can i sit in judgment on him? was i so wise at twenty-four? for mrs. pallinder herself, i say and stick to it, she was a perfectly good woman; having discovered that she could twist gwynne around her finger, she cannot be blamed, in the circumstances, for twisting him. the men may well sneer at our tools, but we must even use the tools you let us have, gentlemen, and sometimes you thrust the haft into our hands. no woman can make a fool of a man, i think, unless the man lends himself whole-heartedly to the job. and there are times when she goes at it with little relish. was it pleasant for mrs. pallinder to blarney gwynne into forgetfulness? did she enjoy listening to old steven's dreary, everlasting talk? i think that mean necessity galled her at times as much as it would have the highest-minded reader of this page. we must suppose she loved her swindling rascal of a husband, for i detect a dingy loyalty in her method of supporting him. so he cleaves to her and cherishes her, a woman cares not a jot whether her husband be honest or not; she will uphold him by such sorry arts as he himself will look upon with disfavour. so terrific is her moral obliquity that she will lie, wheedle, cozen, cheat, with an unruffled mind to protect or further him; displaying a distorted integrity of purpose that compels our grudging admiration. let anyone who doubts these statements ask the wives and mothers who unsparingly condemn mrs. pallinder's line of conduct, what they would have had her do? give up the game, and so betray her husband's interests, or engage in a little harmless flirtation to put off the hour of his reckoning? you will find that these virtuous ladies will dodge the question utterly. they will indignantly and scornfully reject either course--yet they will not be able to think of any other, and therein you have your answer. i remember once hearing doctor vardaman solemnly declare and vow that he believed nine-tenths of the shiftless, incompetent, scoundrelly men in the world were kept going in their profitless or criminal careers solely by the co-operation of some fool of a woman--"an honest woman, at that!" he added, with a laugh. gwynne walked away in a state of exaltation that obliterated from his mind all such sordid and petty considerations as twenty-four hundred dollars of rent in arrears. at the end of the avenue he turned to look back, and saw a light spring up in the bedroom window he knew to be mrs. pallinder's; he walked on slowly, watching it with what high-coloured and high-flown fancies! miranda, i am afraid, is a name that defeats the muse; but gwynne continued in this romeo attitude and meditation until he crashed into a weary, homing labourer, a resident of bucktown, most probably, faring along through the twilight with a whitewash bucket and brushes. "hy-yah! keerful, cahn't yo'? yo' 'd oughta look whar yo's g'wine, boss!" gwynne started at the words; he ought to look where he was going! he went on, slowly, frowning a little, with his head bent. chapter eleven lent dragged or slipped or scurried along according to the varying tempers of those that watched it go; of late years the speed of its passage has increased noticeably, it seems to me; successive lents shove one another off the stage with an alarming celerity. but most of us voted it dismally slow in those days. a church entertainment was given, in which mrs. pallinder figured in tableaux as _ruth_, with white draperies, her hair bound up with fillets, and a sheaf of wheat (it was really pampas grass) in her beautiful bare white arms. she looked, undoubtedly, as much like _ruth_ as she had like _astarte_; that is to say, not at all. but people were unfeignedly delighted this time, and not without reason; the curtain had to be rung up repeatedly on "ruth and boaz." i thought, to be truthful, that her features seemed hard and sharp in the strong calcium-light; perhaps she was a little too old to impersonate a character like ruth. but teddy johns assured me vehemently that she was ideal. "beau'ful creature, mis' pallinder--_hic_--s'prisin'--ruth--'starte--greek slave--no, no, didn't mean that, of course--_hic_--greek statue--always doin' somethin'--pallinders, somethin' new, all time!" he said, meeting me in the passageway of trinity parish house, where the entertainment was given. i do not know where he had been; it is generally difficult to draw young men to church-tableaux, and there were not many there. teddy had an air of surprise at finding himself in the audience; his face was very much flushed, he laughed loud and inappropriately; and judge lewis came with a grave face, and took him by the arm and pulled him away, muttering some apology to me. judge lewis was a vestryman; i saw him talking to some of the others afterwards, and their grey heads wagged solemnly; the judge could not have been telling one of those humorous anecdotes for which he was so celebrated. it was not long after this that mazie at last came home; and she lived up to the reputation that teddy had given the pallinders of always doing something new. doctor vardaman assured her gallantly that she was like the angel that came down and stirred up the pool of bethesda--"we were all stagnating," said the old gentleman, in his kind mock-serious manner; and mazie smiled and lifted her eyes at him, without, i dare say, understanding in the least where or what the pool of bethesda was. she brought with her miss muriel ponsonby-baxter; and, following upon their arrival, mrs. pallinder collected her house party. most of the young people she asked caught eagerly at the invitation; you may laugh, or perhaps jeer, but house parties were not then the affair of everyday occurrence they have since become--not in our corner of the world, certainly. we all felt, delightedly, as if we were living in an english novel--one of "the duchess'" for choice. "you know we're going to have private theatricals in the ballroom," mazie told everybody. "the girls and men in the house will all be in it, so we can have rehearsals any time. and papa is going to have a stage built with footlights and a curtain. we'll ask everyone, of course, and dance afterwards. i bought the favours for the german in new york coming home, you know. they're simply too sweet for any use." ("i baought the favuhs foh the juhman in new yawhk, yuh knaow. theah simply too sweet foh any use," was the way she said it, but i shall not attempt to reproduce mazie's speech. it had a kind of drawling vivacity; and the final sentence was in the slang of the day--very fresh and spirited it sounded then, too!) mazie pallinder was not a pretty girl; she was too tall and lank; and, except when she got her cheeks touched up, too pallid with her ink-black hair. but she had a certain air of lazy distinction, helped out by a real talent for dressing herself, and an unlimited purse--maybe an unlimited indifference to bills and tradesmen would be a better way of putting it. "the first thing on the programme is to be 'william tell,'" she said. "that's to have just men in it, you know. i think it's always best to have a lot more men than girls, and make them stand around. that's the way it is in the south, new orleans, or charleston, or anywhere i've ever been. you see them lined up all around the room waiting a chance, at dances, you know. all the girls have to split every waltz." bewildering dream of bliss! somebody, recovering from the contemplation, wanted to know what "william tell" would be like with only men in it? "oh, i've talked that all over with j. b." said mazie. "it was his suggestion, you know. they gave it at college, his senior year, and, of course, all the parts were done by men. he said it was simply great. it's a take-off of the real 'william tell.' what do you think? doctor vardaman asked if it was the real 'tell,' and he said there was a beautiful _adagio_ for the horn in the overture! i simply screamed--i laughed till i nearly fell over. you see the funny thing is there _is_ a horn--but it's a dinner horn! archie lewis comes on with it when he sings his topical song. archie's to be 'tell,' you know. he's got a hit on everyone in town--they'll all be here in the audience, of course. it begins: "'i'm a horny--horny--horny-handed son of toil! from maine to california you couldn't find a hornier, and--and--i'm---- i can't remember the rest of it. he and j. b. wrote the verses--it's awfully funny, don't you think, muriel? we've seen them go over parts of it." "yes," said muriel tepidly. we all looked at her with some curiosity; lying back in one of mazie's profuse rocking-chairs, she seemed very large by contrast with the rest of us. she had long round arms, long sloping thighs, long hands and feet, a great deal bigger than any of ours, but well-shaped, in so just a proportion one hardly noticed their size. i think i never saw so beautiful a woman. beside her large classic calm, we were as a tribe of little gesticulating marionettes. she listened to our facile laughter, our high, excited voices, with a grave and rather wondering tolerance; no one ever saw _her_ laugh. we decided it was a pose with her, thinking she was conscious, very likely, that outright mirth or any other visible emotion would somehow become her ill. you cannot imagine the bartholdi liberty laughing. such regularity of features, such steadfast, intrepid eyes had muriel; and so did she oppose to passing people and events, silence and an unmoved brow. i give the idea that she was dull; it was not so. she thought as much and as much to the point as any of us; she only lacked our fevered sprightliness. mazie went on expounding: "teddy johns is to be mrs. gessler, and gwynne peters is mrs. tell, or matilda, i forget which, and j. b.'s young 'tell.' in the play his name's _jemmy_, of all things i do think that's the funniest--jemmy! j. b. said when they found that in the libretto, they said it would be a shame to change it. i believe in the original opera, a girl always sings the part. j. b.'s all the time wanting someone to hear him speak his piece, or give him a drink of water--things like that, you know, as if he were about four years old. and he gets lost and says to the policeman that he's jemmy tell--i don't know why you want to laugh, but it's so silly you can't help it. he must be six-feet-two if he's an inch, and he's going to wear a little white piqué kilt to his knees with a sash and short socks and ankle-ties, and a red apple fastened on his head kind of skew-wow over one ear, with an elastic under his chin. simply too funny for any use!" "i don't see how he can do it," said muriel. "fancy! a kilt! i think it's horrid!" she spoke with unexpected energy; the lovely english rose in her cheeks suddenly deepened. every other girl in the room wondered what it was that had waked her up; and mazie, who was manicuring her nails (she introduced that art among us), paused with the polisher suspended, and gave her friend an acute fleeting glance. "i don't believe j. b. minds, or he wouldn't get himself up that way," she remarked airily. "we can stand it if he can. he's got an awfully good figure. after all, the kilt isn't much different from a roman costume--like what john mccullough wears in 'virginius,' you know. j. b.'s on to his own good points; he's not going to make a guy of himself--catch a man doing that. 'tell's' sort of comic opera, and do you know, girls, honestly, i can't see but that it's every bit as good as 'olivette'--you haven't seen that yet. they'll have it out here by next winter, i suppose; it's always a year before things get west from new york. we thought we'd have the other play afterwards--they aren't either of them long. that will give all the men a chance to get into their dress-clothes before the dancing begins. teddy and j. b. are both in the second one, too. it's called 'mrs. tankerville's tiara." "where did you get it? public library?" "oh, gracious, no. i shouldn't have known what to ask for, you know; why, there've been millions and _millions_ of plays written--did you know that? just _millions_! no, doctor vardaman lent me the book; i went down to the house and looked over ever so many with him. you ought to see the doctor's library; i'd never been in it before; i believe where we've got one book, he has twenty at the very least. they go all around the room in shelves with the busts of people on top, shakespeare, i suppose, and--and--well, shakespeare, you know, and men like that. and he has funny old stuffed birds sitting up between the busts. you wouldn't think that would be pretty, would you, just books, and mothy old birds, and no curtains at the windows; it isn't a bit stylish, but somehow it looks like doctor vardaman. well, we looked at the greatest pile of books of plays, and i told the doctor i thought we oughtn't to attempt anything but farce, so that we'd be sure of entertaining people. but he said if we really meant to be funny, we'd better be serious; he'd guarantee everybody would be much more entertained. doctor vardaman does say such queer things--you never know whether he's laughing at you, or with you. but he's lovely about hearing us rehearse (he's seen it on the stage, you know), and suggesting _business_--that's when you have to stand in a corner and make believe to be doing something when it isn't your turn to talk. isn't it funny you never see actors standing still, and looking stumped for something to do? they're always walking around, or they've got something in their hands to fuss with, or----" "well, that's _business_, isn't it?" "yes, but i don't see why they can't sit still just the way we are now--but if they did, it probably wouldn't look right on the stage. only how do they think up all the things they do? _business_ is a lot harder than talking, anyhow. muriel's the leading lady, she's got an awfully long part. j. b. has to make love to her, you know, and when the butler steals the diamonds, and they think muriel did it, he goes right away and proposes to her, to show that _he_ trusts her anyway----" "i don't like all that spoony part," said muriel, colouring painfully. "he don't either, i guess," said kitty. "men don't like being made to look ridiculous." kitty was undoubtedly a cat, but---- "you're in the play, too, aren't you, miss oldham?" muriel asked her. "yes. i'm mrs. tankerville's maid. i've only got about two words to say." "oh!" said muriel in her pleasant low voice. "oh!" that was all. but she had got even, to our surprise. i believe we all liked her the better for it. "we'll all have to copy out our parts," continued mazie rather hastily. "it's comedy, except where mrs. tankerville's diamonds are stolen; teddy johns is 'jenks,' the butler; in the last act he's shot, while he's hiding behind a screen, and then they find the diamonds on him, and it all comes out right, of course. and oh, girls, it opens with a ballroom scene, and we'll all have to be dressed up to the nines--wouldn't mamma be raging if she heard me say that--she thinks slang's simply _awful_!" "was that slang?" asked honest muriel, opening her eyes. "it doesn't seem to have any sense. but then one doesn't notice it, because so much of your talk is like that, in the states!" "never mind, you'll learn as you go along," said kitty encouragingly. "it may take a good while, but you're bound to learn _some_ time. everyone gets used to our slang in the end, even the very slowest ones!" mazie again intervened to shunt the conversation on a safer track; she kept on with the question of dress for the forthcoming dramatic performance; and as there were a good many changes for everybody, the scene being laid in the present day, before long she had us all in smooth water once more. mazie was her mother's own daughter, deft as a juggler among the uncertain knives and balls of social favour; she was fully awake to the difficulties of managing that most unmanageable of bodies, a set of amateur actors. but during the fortnight or so that "william tell" and "mrs. tankerville's tiara" were in preparation, she and mrs. pallinder must have been taxed to the utmost, adroit as they were, to keep things going smoothly, or indeed, going at all. teddy johns, who was somewhat given to hyperbole, or, as he himself would have said, to "tall talk," once confided to me that he had a feeling we were "all dancing on top of a volcano--like the what-d'ye-call-'ems over the thingumbob, you know," he said, gloomily. "i've read about 'em somewhere. lucky if it don't go off under us!" it _did_ go off, after a fashion, but not quite as teddy had expected. teddy johns displayed more real talent--to call his small gift by a very large name--for the stage than any of us. he was not a clever young man--he had one lamentable failing; but he could control his sallow, solemn face, and ungainly body into expressions and attitudes that would have won laughter from stocks and stones. when archie lewis in his character of "tell" came tearing across the stage, clamouring wildly in the highest style of high tragedy, "me che-ild, me che-ild! must i spank me own che-ild?" teddy could say, "do tell!" in an accent of vacuous astonishment that reduced one to helpless and i suppose perfectly senseless merriment. teddy was our sheet-anchor. unquestionably without him the whole thing would be a "fizzle." chapter twelve about this time all the papers were giving considerable attention in the columns which they headed variously: "social doings," "among the four hundred,"--a phrase just then coming into notoriety,--"the society calendar," etc., to mrs. pallinder's house-party. that lady herself, her establishment, her clothes, her diamonds had provided us with gossip, as i have endeavoured to show, for the past two years. but if we were inured to mrs. pallinder, miss muriel ponsonby-baxter was something new. everyone entertained for her; it was a matter of pride with us to give our english girl-visitor an unapproachably "good time," to prove to her how much the best country in this best of all possible worlds america was for the young, well-born, well-mannered, good-looking, and happy--ourselves, in short. not one of us had the slightest acquaintance with english society; but we were confident our own was immeasurably better. twenty-five years ago, it must be remembered, there was a chillier feeling between the two countries; and, of course, our provincialism accented it. the eagle ramped upon his perch; the lion suffered a deal of tail-twisting; hands across the sea were not quite so fervent in their clasp then as now. our demagogues flung about dark hints concerning the machinations of the "cobden club." american protectionists, american free-traders bellowed themselves purple in the face from the stump in defence of their several creeds, and strangely enough, found in england equally an awful example, and a beacon-light of progress! the last, for obvious reasons, was a very unpopular view; in those arcadian days the main diversion of a certain class of our politicians was the ferocious baiting of perfidious albion. the oriental-war scares, the race-problems, the anti-trust, and anti-railroad agitations of to-day must cause these amiable jingoes--a name, by the way, which they never heard--to turn in their graves. bless thee, bottom, how art thou translated! in that year, the pendleton civil-service reform bill was the most important measure before the two houses; and "to the victors belong the spoils," was the cry most frequently raised against it. that admirable argument, at once so condensed and so forcible, what respectable person would dare to utter it to-day? blaine was alive; tilden was alive; ben butler was governor of massachusetts, he of fragrant memory, house-cleaner of new orleans, promulgator of regulation --or was it ? iram indeed is gone with all his rose, and ben and all the rest along with him; and we have ceased, at a woeful expense, to be provincial. we were not bothering our heads _then_, about tropical canals and the philippines--oh, all-but-forgotten golden age! we were not always certain what sort of impression we were making on muriel; and, however eager we might have been to find out, there are some questions any girl would go to the scaffold rather than ask. but i know that on one point we were intolerably vain; perhaps that vanity was the most honest, creditable, endearing quality we possessed; and something of the same feeling stirs me even now. where, where on this globe, we asked ourselves triumphantly, would muriel find anything to match the ready deference, the kind, half-humorous, wholly charming devotion of the american man to his womankind? indeed, it was plain to see she was unused to this sir walter raleigh attitude; she was as much puzzled as pleased by it. i think we were somewhat disposed to patronise her; and kitty oldham declared openly she didn't believe miss baxter had ever had an offer in her life. she was an exceptionally handsome girl; she must have had a far wider social experience than ours; but, for all that, and in spite of her size and the splendid unconscious ease of her bearing, we detected in her a curious timidity. it suited her. had she attempted to imitate the brisk, fearless, autocratic american girl, she would have been merely a big hoyden. there was, after all, something sweet in her naïve tactlessness, her awkward conscientious efforts at adapting herself to ways she could not understand, and perhaps at heart, did not really like. to one of us, at least, the association was not without profit. i used to feel that someone ought in conscience to explain mrs. botlisch to muriel, to apologise for that really terrible old woman; the irritating thing was that muriel accepted her without comment, exactly as she accepted the rest of us--as if, i thought with annoyance, we were all freaks together! "mazie's grandmother is not--well--er--she's not at all--you know?" i said, feeling, notwithstanding this public-spirited effort, a little embarrassed under muriel's direct, serious gaze. "mrs. botlisch is--well, she's really not--er--very good style, nobody else here is like her--you must have noticed it. she's awfully _common_--of course, we didn't know much about the pallinders before they came here--nobody knows how they--they got _in_, you see----" "i shouldn't think you'd come to the house so much if you feel that way," said muriel. "i wouldn't." she did not mean it as a rebuke; she was only saying, as usual, precisely what she thought. but all at once, with the uncompromising harshness of youth, i saw and denounced myself inwardly for a petty groundling, eating people's bread with a covert sneer, and parading their shortcomings before a stranger. no, muriel would not have done it. _noblesse oblige!_ the pallinders, to their honour be it said, never seemed to be ashamed of mrs. botlisch. they had their notions of _noblesse oblige_, too, strange as that may sound. reflecting upon it now, i see certain a heroism in the respect they paid that dreadful, screeching, vile-tongued old termagant. i have known prosperous, reputable families, who paid the butcher and thought it a sin to play cards, wherein the unornamental older members were not treated with one-half the consideration these kind-hearted, conscienceless outlaws bestowed on mrs. botlisch. she was a fat harridan of seventy with a blotched red face, a great, coarse, husky voice like a man's and thick hands, the nails bitten down to the quick. she liked to go about without corsets or shoes in a shapeless gaberdine she called a double-gown--not too clean at that. she kept a bottle of whisky on her mantelpiece; she had a disconcerting habit of whisking out her teeth and laying them down wherever she chanced to be; you might come upon them grinning amongst mazie's music on the piano, or under the sofa-cushions. she frankly enjoyed a loose story, and made a point of telling them in mixed companies of young people. she alternately bullied the servants and gossiped with them in the kitchen; once i most inopportunely happened upon mrs. botlisch engaged in a battle-royal with one of the chambermaids over some trifle--a broken dish, perhaps--in the pantry. fortunately, i could not understand one word they uttered; and after a little, mrs. pallinder came, looking quite grey over her handsome resolute face, and took her mother away still shrieking hideous abuse. "ma is so eccentric," she said to me afterwards, with a ghastly smile; and some feeling, of mingled horror and compassion, withheld me from reporting the wretched scene. in most households, these undesirable parents can be thrust, gently or not, into the background; in fact, very many parents retire thither of their own accord. but mrs. botlisch was not of that type. "i like to set in the parlour an' see the young folks," she said. "mirandy she don't want me to, but i says to her, 'mirandy,' says i, 'don't you worry. i'm goin' ter keep my uppers an' lowers in, 'less i git a fish-bone er a hunk o' meat under the plate at dinner, an' i ain't a-goin' to no bed till i git sleepy,' says i. she says, 'ma, i'm afraid you won't be comf'ble with your--you know--on all evenin'.'" (here she gave j. b. a poke in the side and dropped her left eyelid). "'lord love you, don't set there lookin' so innercent like you'd never saw a woman undress in yer life--don't come that over _me_, young feller. she says, 'ma, i'm afraid you'll feel kinder tight an' uncomf'ble with 'em on all evenin' 'long as you ain't used to wearin' 'em much in the daytime,' she says. 'land!' says i. 'mirandy,' i ain't squoze inter my cloze by main stren'th the way mazie is. 'f i feel uncomf'ble, i'll just undo the bottom buttons of my basque an' i'll be all right, you see.'" and there she sat, true to her word, creaking in her black silk and bugles (with the bottom buttons undone!), perspiring greasily over her fat red face; and shouting rough, humorous, and frequently shrewd criticism at our amateurs during rehearsal until midnight, when we went out to the dining-room for oysters, egg-nogg, and the too lavish entertainment of colonel pallinder's sideboard. the first time this occurred teddy johns retreated precipitately from the table, and, being sought, was discovered at last, pallidly reclining on the library lounge. "i'm all right, old man," he said feebly. "just a minute, please. i couldn't stand seeing old mrs. botlisch wallop down those oysters, that's all." there lies before me now a square of rough paper (designedly rough), with jagged edges (designedly jagged), tinted in water colours an elegant cloudy blue, with a butterfly, or some such insect, painted in one corner, and a slit diagonally opposite through which we stuck a single rosebud, as i remember. slanting across the sheet in loose gilt lettering i read "programme," and a date beneath. this confection represented days of effort and ingenuity on the part of those young ladies among my contemporaries who painted china, or were otherwise "artistic." some of them took the "art amateur," at a ruinous expenditure; that publication has long since gone the way of all flesh and most print, in company, it would appear, with the amateurs for whom it was destined. nobody is either "artistic" or amateurish any more. we did the jagging with a meat-saw, i believe--what a spectacle for our accomplished posterity! if i reverse the sheet, i find upon the other side, in a correct angular hand (it may well be my own, for angularity was much the fashion in those days; and the inartistic ones let what aid they could to the task of programme-making), i find, i say, the cast of characters william tell, an opera in two acts. william tell mr. archer baldwin lewis arnold von winkelreid mr. james hathaway walter furst mr. julian todd melcthal mr. appleton wingate gessler mr. james smith rudolph mr. john porter ruodi mr. joseph randall mchenry leuthold mr. henry barnes smith matilda mr. gwynne peters mrs. tell mr. oliver hunt mrs. gessler mr. theodore e. johns jemmy, tell's son mr. junius brutus breckinridge taylor chorus of peasants, knights, pages, ladies, hunters, soldiers, etc. mr. robert carson scene: the schactenthal waterfall. the uninformed might very well inquire, as did doctor vardaman, what under heaven arnold von winkelreid was doing in this _galère_? he appeared among the other historical personages with a baseball-catcher's padded guard tied about his chest, and stuck full of enormous arrows; at one time or another every young man in the cast, including jimmie hathaway himself, was overheard laboriously explaining to muriel that it was "all just nonsense, you know; of course winkelreid didn't have anything to do with tell--but there was an arnold in the cast of the real opera--and then there was that funny old piece about arnold von winkelreid in mcguffey's reader, you know: 'make way for liberty, he cried, make way for liberty, and died!' and he somehow seemed to fit in pretty well with the rest of the foolishness. they had thought of having casabianca, too, but gave it up," and so on and so on. "don't pay any attention to their excuses, miss baxter," said the doctor fiercely, yet shaking with laughter. "it's all miserable horse-play--vandalism--desecration. 'guillaume tell' is a beautiful opera, the creation of a great musical genius. i've seen sonntag and lablache in it; it ought to be sacred from these barbarians--you hear me, boys, barbarians!" he menaced them with a closed fist; and they went on shamelessly: _gessler_ (_in a loud voice_)--who are these fellows? _rudolph_--my lord, these are swiss. _gessler_ (_louder, pointing to tell_)--who's that fellow with the freckles? _rudolph_--my lord, that is a dotted swiss. _gessler_ (_louder still_)--take away that dashed swiss! _rudolph_--my lord, i said _dotted_. _gessler_ (_very loud_)--well, i said _dashed_---- it took little enough to make us laugh, for we thought all that very funny indeed. and an interesting point might be made of the fact that "william tell," whether the men had greater abilities, or easier parts, or from whatever reason, was, as a whole, far and away superior to the play in which the girls appeared. doctor vardaman, for all his old-time gallantry, betrayed his preference more than once; but it sometimes seemed to me as if the old gentleman took a malign satisfaction in viewing our performances, theatrical and otherwise, as one who should stand by and observe the antics of so many apes with an amused detachment. "of course, of course, i enjoy the comedy. don't you want me to enjoy the comedy?" he said when i taxed him, and eyed me sidelong with his discomfiting grin. the doctor was a queer old man; not the least evidence of his queerness was the interest he displayed in our affairs. he watched us drill for "william tell" and "mrs. tankerville's tiara," day by day, appearing to find therein unfailing entertainment. to be sure he had little else to do; he had long retired from practice, and, as he said of himself, was the weak-minded victim of his own whims. with all his oddities, we were fond of him; and his advice and suggestions were a real help to such of us as took ourselves and our parts seriously. the stage was one of his many hobbies; he had collected a huge library of books relating to it; had seen all of the celebrated actors of his day and known not a few of them; and could recall laura keane in the very rôle which muriel was now essaying. "do you remember what she wore, doctor?" mazie asked him, characteristically enough, by the way. "white gauze, i think," said the old gentleman, considering. "yes, it was white gauze, and a touch of green about it somewhere." "huh! touch o' green was a fig-leaf, i s'pose--hope so, anyhow!" said mrs. botlisch, and "wallopped" down another oyster. she _was_ a terrible old woman. "i don't know what we'd do without you, doctor," said mazie precipitately. "you know so much about it--what we ought to do, i mean, and how the whole thing ought to go. it's ever so kind of you----" "not at all--the kindness is on your side," said the doctor. he glanced about with a smile in which there lurked a whimsical melancholy. "i don't aspire to the post of guide, philosopher, and fr----" "talkin' o' guides," old mrs. botlisch interrupted him. "ever hear that story 'bout the english feller that went aroun' niagry falls with a guide, out to table rock an' goat island, and down under th' falls an' everywheres, an' when they got through, he took an' wrote in th' visitors' book, 'why am i like desdemona?' that's th' white girl that married a nigger in one o' these here plays, you know. he took an' wrote, 'why am i like desdemona? becuz----'" "ahem!" interrupted doctor vardaman, with extraordinary vehemence. "you were asking me for the address of the man that sells make-up boxes, one of you the other day. i meant to bring it with me to-night, but forgot. any time you want, you can stop at my house, and in case i'm out, ask huddesley, i left it with him. it's kryzowski--bowski--wowski--some such unpronounceable russian name, and his shop is somewhere on sixth avenue, i think, but i can't exactly remember." all of which speech the doctor delivered in a rapid and vigorous outburst of words, not pausing until he was quite out of breath; and even then he had the air of one skirting by a hair's-breadth some desperate verge. "i'll stop in to-morrow," said j. b. "huddesley isn't likely to get mixed up about it, is he?" "huddesley? oh, no, trust _him_. besides i'll leave it written down. but huddesley is perfectly reliable--a remarkable man, that--never had a such a servant is my house--he's really unusual." "snake in th' grass--don't tell _me_!" mrs. botlisch grunted. she had taken a bitter prejudice against the doctor's man-servant; partly, no doubt, because although he was a good deal about the house, coming and going on the doctor's errands, he had managed to avoid both her bullying and her patronage. there is nothing more offensive than the servant whose manners are better than our own. and huddesley's manners were perfect in his degree; he was english, we supposed from the short fragment of his history we had heard, and had not been long enough abroad to lose the insular standard of domestic service, and the insular traditions of class. "huddesley'll get spoiled if you don't look out, doctor," colonel pallinder warned him. "none of my affair, of course, but, pardon me, too much notice and perhaps too much pay----" "i know some of 'em that ain't sufferin' from _that_ anyhow!" growled the old woman pointedly. "i believe ma thinks we ought to give all these lazy darkies as much as we spend on ourselves," said mrs. pallinder with an indulgent laugh. "as if they weren't eating us out of house and home already! but william's right, doctor, huddesley will be spoiled if we're not all more careful. a white servant can't stand petting and familiarity the way black ones do; sooner or later he'll presume on it. did you know that all these boys have been going down to your house to get huddesley to hear them their parts?" "it's my fault, i began it," j. b. explained, reddening. "i said to ted that if he wanted to know how an english butler behaved he'd better get a few pointers from huddesley. huddesley'd make an ideal 'jenks,' you know, as far as looks go, i mean. he's the real thing in butlers. and it's funny, he's got ever so many good ideas about _business_, you know, and all that. but we won't do it any more if you'd rather not, doctor." "pooh, you can't spoil a man like that," the doctor said. "reverence for class is born in 'em; it runs in the blood. that's what i admire about these english servants--their perfect self-respect, and idea of the dignity of their own position, without presuming on yours." "it's awfully convenient having him to prompt anyhow," said mazie, who needed a great deal of prompting. "nobody wants to sit and hold an old prompt-book and watch for mistakes. what bothers me is all those funny little pairs of letters '_r.u._' and '_cross over_' and '_sits right_' scattered all through your speech like hiccups. i don't know what _r.u._ means, anyhow." "huddesley says it means _retire up_--walk toward the back of the stage, you know." "well, but i thought you oughtn't _ever_ to turn your back on the audience." "depends on yer figger, i guess," said mrs. botlisch. "some girl's backs and fronts ain't no different--they're flat both sides like a paper doll!" "huddesley has aspirations," said doctor vardaman briskly. "i discovered that some time ago. at first i thought he wanted to study medicine; he used to be forever poking about my little room, pretending to dust and arrange the bottles, and asking all manner of questions. but since this business of your plays has come up, he's been tremendously interested in them. the fellow has some education, you know. i've found him two or three times reading in my library, with the feather duster under his arm--perfectly absorbed. he was very mortified the first time i caught him at it, and humbly begged my pardon. 'hi can't resist a book, sir, sometimes,' he said. 'hi wouldn't wish to be thought to presoom, but hi've tastes hother than my lot can gratify; and hi've 'ad 'opes--but,' says he, with a sigh, 'that's hall hover and gone, now.'" "kind of stagey, wasn't he?" "yes, of course, he must have got that out of some book. once in a while, he uses very fine language, indeed, and then i know he's been reading. i said, 'well, huddesley, it's a pity, if feeling that way, you can't raise yourself as high as you choose here in america.' i only said it to draw him out, you know. he shook his head mournfully. 'no, sir,' says he, 'hi won't never be anything but a butler--a servant pourin' out wine an' blackin' boots for the rich and light-'earted like yourself, sir.' i asked him what he would like to be if he could begin over again. 'a hactor, sir,' said he respectfully. 'hi feel the stirrin' of hart within my buzzom.' 'that's where we commonly feel 'em, huddesley,' says i. 'hi don't mean 'eart, sir, beggin' your parding, hi mean hart--with a hay, sir--that's what hi feel, but they'll never 'ave no houtlet, sir, hi'm a butler--the die is cast----' and then i escaped into the garden to laugh." "that isn't all funny--it's pathetic too," said j. b. thoughtfully. "poor devil!" at least two people in the room looked at the young man with a quicker interest--doctor vardaman and muriel, the doctor with an odd and pleased surprise in his keen quizzical face. as for muriel, she and j. b. looked at one another pretty often, as i remember. mrs. botlisch raised her hard old features from a close inspection of her empty, swept and scraped platter, and fixed the doctor with a little twinkling porcine eye. "how long you had him anyway, doc.?" "three months, or so, i believe." "oh, no, it's not that long, doctor," exclaimed mazie. "i remember huddesley came after the holidays, just as i was starting to washington. that was a little after the charity ball. i put off going so as not to miss it. i remember about huddesley because you had just got rid of that awful man that had d.t's and came up here with an axe wanting to kill somebody." "huddesley's arrival raised the tone of our neighbourhood appreciably," said the doctor, with a laugh. doctor vardaman's men were a byword in the community. men of every colour and nationality had drifted through his hands; it was a long procession of lazy, drunken, thieving rascality, or honesty so abysmally stupid and incompetent as to be equally worthless. "i'll never let him go, now i've got him," said the old gentleman. "i have a fellow-feeling for all you ladies that keep house. rather than lose him, i'd give him everything i own even unto the half of my substance." "he'll git more'n that 'fore he's through with ye," said mrs. botlisch. "you young taylor feller,"--she always called j. b. and in fact all the young men that frequented the house, by the last name--"you'd better git that bottle o' rye away from johns. he's had about enough, 'f _i'm_ any jedge--an' i reckon i'd oughter be, all th' drunks i've handled----" "pioneer times, pioneer times," said the colonel, hastily. "er--um--the ice to mr. johns, sam." "when mirandy's pa useter came home loaded," pursued the old woman, unmoved, "many's the time i've shet him in th' woodshed, him hollerin' bloody murder--'let him holler!' says i. time mornin' come i'd git him under th' pump--oh my, yes, i've had lots of experience." "pioneer times," said colonel pallinder again desperately. (but j. b. _did_ take the bottle away from teddy's neighbourhood.) "pioneer days! good god, gentlemen, when i think of what men and women had to contend with then, i'm ashamed, yes, ashamed of the luxuries we live in. you were saying, doctor----" "about--ahem--oh--ah--yes, about huddesley," said the doctor, who had not been saying anything. "i can't always make the fellow out--i'm rather puzzled----" "speakin' o' puzzles," said old mrs. botlisch, "i was goin' to tell ye that one 'bout th' english feller that the guide was takin' 'roun' niagry falls. after they had gone down under th' falls, an' out to goat island, and everywheres else, ye know, he took an' wrote in th' visitors' book, 'why am i like desdemona?' (that's the white girl that goes off with a nigger in th' play, ye know). he wrote just that: 'why am i like desdemona?' th' answer is: 'becuz----'" this time, in spite of an outburst of coughing that threatened serious results to doctor vardaman, in spite of a fusillade of loud irrelevant talk from the colonel, in spite even of teddy johns' quite unintentionally falling over a chair, this time, i say, we all heard the answer! chapter thirteen not long since i had a visit from gwynne peters' oldest boy. the little fellow is twelve, and, as i abstained from any embarrassing and inconvenient demonstrations of affection or even friendship, we became quite intimate, and i believe he enjoyed himself after a fashion. he is not like his father, neither so delicate in body, nor so gentle and winning as i remember the elder gwynne--but, in truth, i do not know if i ever found the way to his heart, with all my diplomacy; the unconquerable barrier of age divided us; childhood looks with so solidly-rooted a suspicion on our efforts to approach it; it guards its quaint jungles, its enchanted gardens with so jealous a care that we may well despair of ever touching hands. and for that matter i sometimes think we are all strangers more or less to the end, and our nearest intimacy only a painful interchange of signals in a fog. little gwynne tolerated me, and i soon ceased to ask anything else. he approved of cookies and the works of mr. alger; as these latter immortal productions do not form a part of my library, we were obliged to call upon the carnegie one a few squares distant, whence he requisitioned them at the rate of a new alger volume about every twenty-four hours until the supply was exhausted, when we began on mr. henty. this fell out very luckily, as i had discovered him asleep in a corner over "ivanhoe," and i should not have wished him to carry away so unfavourable an impression of my resources in the way of entertainment. but what i most observed in him was an indifference to, or ignorance of, his family history and traditions that seemed abnormal in a gwynne, however remotely descended. i asked him if he had ever been to see his great-grandfather's portrait in the state-house? the moment was ill-chosen, as he was profoundly occupied with a new variety of top, but he absently answered: "yep." "what did you think of it?" "nothin'," said this renegade, with astounding callousness, bending himself to the top; it was warranted to spin five minutes at a stretch, and when he had got it started, and was timing it by my watch, he felt his mind released from cares enough to volunteer indulgently: "father's got a big photograph of it in his office. it's all yellow and fly-specky, because it's so old, you know. i guess it's 'most as old as father--or maybe _you_." "doesn't your father ever tell you about him--what a great man he was, and all?" "nope." "what!" said i, then, unable to believe my ears. "doesn't he ever talk to you about governor gwynne? doesn't anybody ever tell you to remember that you're a gwynne?" the top was reeling to its fall, and he was very busy, and, as i could see, justifiably annoyed at my persistence, but this question caused him to look up sharply with the quick suspicion of his twelve years. "aw, you're in fun!" he said, eying me shrewdly. "father wouldn't talk guff like that! and anyway my name's peters--gwynne's just my given name--so it wouldn't be true, see?" guff like that! these were his sacrilegious words. nothing could have more stingingly brought home to me the lapse of years, or better illustrated the changes in men's minds. and i might here insert some valuable reflections on the vanity of human achievement, and the hollow and transitory character of fame, if i were not uneasily conscious that governor gwynne's renown, even in his heyday, was not of a kind to fill the four corners of the universe; it was only in the opinion of his family that it reached those magnificent proportions. now he and his deeds are forgotten, even by them; the fires are all dead on that fantastic altar which the gwynnes tended for so many years with so much misplaced zeal. it is not likely, i think, that little gwynne will ever be troubled by the problems confronting his father in march of the year of grace, . in fact, during this time, gwynne might have been seen any day pondering gloomily before his empty desk, under his grandfather's grimly searching scrutiny, by the hour. the pallinder business had reached a stage when he could no longer ignore it; yet he could not bring himself to any active measures. gwynne knew as much as anybody about the colonel's affairs; he had heard certain subdued but very disagreeable rumours. templeton himself had brought them to him months earlier with a countenance of fright and perplexity. it had not cleared much when he left the office; the little agent could not understand what ailed his patron. he had never known gwynne to be so indifferent, so careless of the rights and feelings of the other heirs; it was clean out of his character, and templeton felt with dismay that his surest prop had been removed. if mr. peters was becoming as queer as the rest of them, templeton was almost ready to resign from the management of the gwynne estate; single-handed, he could not "hold up his end," as he phrased it. in the years of their association he had conceived something like a real affection for the young man, and this change obscurely alarmed and distressed him. gwynne, about everything else so open, so resourceful, so patient in the control of his difficult kindred, so genially shrewd, would not allow any discussion of the pallinder delinquency; he shifted the subject, or turned upon templeton with a manner of such forbidding reticence that the agent shrank discomfited. "oh, well, mr. peters, i--i guess i'd better leave you alone to run your tenants and the family," he would say humbly, reaching for his hat in an apologetic confusion. "i--i ain't ever made such a success of it that i've any call to argue, or advise _you_ how to do," and so would shuffle meekly from the room, leaving the young man, had he known it, in a miserable humiliation. time and again, gwynne had made the resolve to have it out with the colonel; and time and again had turned aside from the act, like a hunter refusing the leap. he bargained with himself, loathing his own weakness; he would go and see colonel pallinder on such a day at such an hour; he would say to him thus and so. the day came and the hour--why was it that something invariably prevented him? once he even got so far as the door of colonel pallinder's office--and it was locked. the office was closed for the day: it was late saturday afternoon, and in his heart gwynne knew the office would be closed--knew it before he left his own. he turned away in a flash of angry contempt of himself--of pallinder--of the whole shabby business. yet the colonel was safe for that day; you cannot scour the town for a man, like a bailiff; and gwynne certainly was not going to follow him to the house, and dun him under the very roof where he himself had received so many hospitalities, such unfailing courtesy and kindness, within hearing of the fellow's innocent wife and daughter! what had mrs.--ahem!--what had those two poor women done? very likely they knew nothing whatever about pallinder's indebtedness; they were both of them touchingly ignorant of money matters. this was strictly an affair for men--he would see pallinder monday. and so gwynne strode away home, to dinner and a change of dress, and thence, by the most natural sequence in the world, to the lexington and amherst cars, and out to the pallinders'! in one of his spasms of conscience he had refused their urgent invitation to the house party--the irony of his position was apparent, even to him; but he balanced the scales by going out night after night to the rehearsals of "william tell," wherein he bore his part with a feverish enthusiasm that surprised his friends. it might have been noticed, but, as a matter of fact, i am sure hardly anybody did notice, that gwynne was the only one of the family who figured in the theatricals, or, in the pungent everyday phrase, had anything to do with the pallinders. marian lawrence had been asked to the house party, and had eagerly promised to come, but in a day or so mrs. pallinder received a charming, apologetic, and graceful little note from mrs. lawrence, declining on marian's behalf, for some vague reason. the truth is, mrs. horace gwynne, on hearing of the plan, had once again ordered out her barouche and driven over to the lawrences', upright and stern, with the stark face of doom. and after a heated conference with the mother, the note had been despatched; mrs. lawrence sat down and cried heartily with the disappointed girl when that dire act had been performed--but neither of them thought of disobeying cousin jennie. when they met mrs. pallinder face to face coming out of church next sunday morning they were both a good deal flustered; they flinched before mrs. pallinder's steadily radiant smile, and were devoutly glad, i think, to escape from her neighbourhood into the crowd. archie lewis walked home with marian, and raised his hat as a carriage spun by--"that was the pallinders with miss baxter," said archie, observing with a passing surprise that his companion made no sign of recognition. "was it? i didn't see them," said marian stoutly, looking straight in front of her with very red cheeks. not so long before, mazie had been one of her most intimate friends. look on that picture, and now on this! what was the matter with all the gwynnes? little old eleanor and little old mollie, on seeing the colonel less than half a square off, advancing upon them, already uncovered, courtly, bland, with outstretched hand--the two old sisters, i say, fairly took to their heels up a side street, with scared and shrinking faces. they gathered up their virgin skirts and fled shudderingly as from contamination. mrs. horace gwynne, alone of them all, possessed the courage of her convictions. erect in her barouche, she encountered and returned mrs. pallinder's smile with a salute so casual, so perfunctory that it suggested the recognition she would have bestowed upon her cook in event of a public meeting with that functionary. mrs. pallinder bit her lips; she reddened through her rouge--and the next moment was gaily bowing to another acquaintance as if life meant nothing to her but this pleasant exchange of civilities. "of course i never would deliberately _cut_ anybody," mrs. horace explained later; "that sort of behaviour is childish and ill-tempered. but i flatter myself i know as well as anyone how to put people in their proper place, and intimate my opinion of them, without talking or acting like a washerwoman. i wanted mrs. pallinder to understand that while i was absolutely indifferent to such a matter as the back-rent she owed me and every one of us, i did not approve of the _principle_ of the thing. she knew perfectly well what i meant. and at receptions or wherever she happened to be in the same company with me afterwards, i simply didn't see her at all! i was always talking to someone else, or had my back turned. she understood--a _person_ like that!" i dare say mrs. pallinder did understand; she was not without some previous experience, and it is likely deserved every snub and stab which mrs. horace, with the just severity of a good and upright woman, inflicted on her. so must we all lie upon the beds we make. this was the secret of the gwynnes' altered demeanour; it was, of course, not the failure to pay them their rent to which they objected, but the appalling _principle_, or lack of principle, it indicated. at least, that is what they all and severally declared afterwards. at the time, with characteristic gwynne reticence, they kept their troubles to themselves; no set of conspiring revolutionists could have been more close-mouthed. their behaviour in this instance was of a piece with the futile pride that prompted their efforts to distract the public mind from caroline--from steven--from sam peters. what! drag their noble name through the mud and riot of a common pleas suit? associate their house and the memory of governor gwynne with a debasing scandal about money! i should not care to reveal the arts by which gwynne put off the hour of retribution for the pallinders, playing upon these familiar strings with a skill he himself despised. even he, in the end, sounded the note once too often, as we have seen in the case of old steven, to whom the sum, small as it was, meant more than to the other members of the family. for steven, once away from the blandishments of mrs. pallinder, naturally reverted in the shortest possible space of time to his previous mood of brooding indignation. he had parted from doctor vardaman with a confused notion that everything was going smoothly--that gwynne would settle with the pallinders in a few days--a week, perhaps, at furthest. it had not been stated in so many words; none the less steven carried away these ideas planted within him either by mrs. pallinder's soothing flatteries, or by the doctor's well-meant efforts at comforting and diverting him. he waited a day or two, eagerly inspecting every mail; he spoke grandly of his expected remittances to his tolerant country neighbours, and alluded to gwynne with a large air as his man of business. but as the days passed and his man of business made no sign, steven's slender allowance of patience gave out once more. he wrote to gwynne, and waited a fevered while for an answer. wrote again, and with the letter, addressed and stamped, in his pocket, abandoned his design, and took the first train for town. it was with a fierce and resolute face that he stalked into the office that afternoon--and gwynne had gone out! this delay, to speak in high metaphorical terms which would have delighted steven's own taste, did not arrest the falling of the levin-brand; it only increased its momentum. in proportion as the moments lapsed, his wrath gathered head. as it happened, he found himself in appropriate company, with his grievance; when he entered the room there sat his cousins, the two misses gwynne, with their pale, furtive, startled faces framed in curls and satin rosettes, in their rigid bombazine skirts, miss gwynne tremblingly clasping an umbrella, miss mollie fingering a foolscap document whereon, if steven had cared to look, he might have seen some arithmetical calculations similar to his own. they started up, fluttering and ejaculating at his appearance; then sank down disappointed, yet, probably, a little relieved. the two not only dressed, but thought and acted in couples; either one was helpless without the other; and both now wore an air of terrified resolution such as a pair of mice, a pair of pullets might have presented in some desperate crisis of the trap or butcher's knife. even in their day, a day which recognised but one career for respectable women, which knew not women's colleges or bachelor-maids, or what we call the professional equality of the sexes, eleanor and mollie were caricatures of spinsterhood; we looked upon them with as much pity as amusement, i believe. this was a tremendous step for them to take; and horror laid a throttling hold on both at the idea (occurring to them simultaneously) that cousin steven might think them indiscreet or unladylike. but steven was much too preoccupied to spare a thought to their confusion. "huh, girls!" said he, sat down in gwynne's revolving-chair, and glowered absently out of the window, beating a tattoo on the desk, and framing the sentences in which he would open his arraignment. "waiting to see gwynne?" he inquired, rousing himself with a momentary curiosity after a while. the twins murmured inarticulately, looking at each other. "so'm i," said steven, scowling, and they might all three have proceeded to some explanations, but at that moment, upon this amiable family-group, strolled in archie lewis, on some errand from his father's office, debonair, whistling his song from "william tell," and very much taken aback at sight of the company into which he had stumbled. "it was a perfect nest of gwynnes," he said, graphically describing the episode. "i felt like daniel in the lions' den." "oh--ah--mr. gwynne--er--miss gwynne----" said he, stopping short in embarrassment. "ah--um--gwynne's gone out, i see." "he'll be back in a few minutes," stammered miss eleanor, after a moment of fearful indecision. "the office-boy said so," added miss mollie faintly. "it's almost half-an-hour now." "well, i guess i won't wait--if you'll be so kind as to tell him i was here? and i'll just put this on his desk under the paperweight--he'll understand when he sees it," said archie, depositing his bundle of papers on the desk as he spoke, and very ready to beat a retreat. but steven, eying him, suddenly growled out, "you're judge lewis' son, ain't you?" "why, yes--you know my father, of course--i've often heard him speak of you," said archie, conventionally, edging off. "sit down," said steven, imperiously motioning. "gwynne'll be along in a little. you ought to be a lawyer, young man--your father's a lawyer. i haven't seen him for years--i guess he's a good deal changed. law kind of changes people; it's seldom a man takes it up and stays honest. sit down; gwynne'll be here presently." ("and so," said archie, "i sat down. the fact is, the old fellow looked sort of queer, and though i never heard of his _doing_ anything, i didn't much like to leave him alone with those two old ladies--you never can tell, you know.") "i'd like to see the judge," said steven. "why, i'm sure father'd be very pleased----" steven waved an impatient gesture. "i'm not particular about seeing _him_," said he--and archie used to repeat this part of the story in his father's presence with infinite relish--"but i'd like to have his _opinion_, in a matter of--a matter of _debt_!" the two sisters exchanged a horrified glance; they knew what steven's errand was, now, and thought he was about to reveal the awful secret, and tarnish the name of gwynne forever. but that was by no means steven's intention; he was as tender of the family honour as they, but much more confident of his own knowledge of the world and diplomatic abilities. archie, upon whose youthfully sharp wits none of this by-play was lost, sat wondering what was to come next. "this debt--or--er--this indebtedness," said steven elaborately, "is--er--it should be, in short, collected--that is--er--measures should be taken by which it--could be, in short, collected." he fixed a profound look on the young man, pausing while he considered in what other roundabout terms he could present the situation. "is the fellow that owes you responsible--solid, i mean, you know?" asked archie, beginning to be interested. "if he's on a salary, or got a good business you might attach----" "i--i--i'm not prepared to state," said steven, appalled at the briskness of archie's deductions. "i'm just supposing a case, you understand." "oh!" said archie, suppressing a grin. "well--ah--are you supposing it to be a large sum, mr. gwynne?" "a debt's a debt," said steven, with magnificent brevity; he could not resist a sidelong glance at eleanor and mollie, commanding their admiration. "yes, of course, mr. gwynne, but there's a difference between a debt of five dollars and one of five hundred," said archie peaceably. "if you can come to some kind of compromise, it's generally a great deal better than going to law; you may get a little less than you're entitled to, but you save time and trouble and worry. i suppose i've heard my father say that to a hundred clients." this view appeared to strike eleanor and mollie favourably; something in the half-a-loaf policy appeals with a subtle power to the feminine mind. but steven's old face reddened; he darted a vengeful glance at this laodicean councillor. "compromise--_nothing_!" he snarled. "i'll see him da--i'll see him farther before i'll compromise!" "all right--all right, i was just saying that's one way of settling these things," said archie hastily. "of course you know what you want, mr. gwynne. trouble is, you go into court with a case, and you never know how long it will take to wind it up--maybe two or three years--that's perfectly irrespective of the rights of the case. whereas, if you accept some kind of settlement, you--well, in general, you come out ahead of the game," said archie, falling back on the vernacular. oh, wise young judge! the two misses gwynne listened to archie's exposition with respectful awe. i have heard him say with a laugh that at no time in his subsequent career--which has been one of considerable distinction--has he ever felt himself to be exerting so much influence, no, not in his most sustained and vigorous flights of oratory. "i might have been the almighty, instead of a smart-alecky boy, by the way those two poor old women were impressed--it was funny--funny and pitiful," he says, and shakes his grizzling head. "it's--it's very awful to have someone in debt to you, mr. lewis," miss mollie took courage to say falteringly. "not so bad as being in debt to somebody yourself, though," said archie genially. this well-intended levity was a serious mistake; they shrank--they withered before the dreadful suggestion. "we--we aren't _that_, mr. lewis," cried both old maids in scared chorus. "it's not we that are in debt--it's somebody that owes us----" "that owes the gwynne estate," said steven ponderously. he had forgot all about his supposititious case, and archie, who, as he himself might have said, was not born yesterday, had already made a shrewd guess as to the identity of the debtor. "a debt's a bad business, anyway you fix it," he said easily. "reminds me of that story father tells of himself when he was a boy borrowing money of their old coloured man to go to the circus with. 'chile,' says old mose, 'you's got to 'member this; er debt that ain't paid stahts er _roorback_! you owe me, an' i owe pete, an' pete he owes that wall-eyed niggah oveh at the liv'ry-stable, an' lakly mistah walleye, _he_ owes somebody else, an' 'twell one of us stahts the payin', nobuddy cyahn't pay--an' thar's your _roorback_!'" archie laughed. he laughed alone, for this sprightly tale, although he had recited it in a careful imitation of judge lewis' best manner, apparently failed to amuse anybody but himself. perhaps it went too near the truth to be wholly agreeable. "i never realised until that moment," he used to say with a certain naïveté, "what an awful job poor gwynne peters had for years with those people. i'll bet nobody knows or ever will know what he put up with!" his new sympathy put a greater warmth into his greeting when gwynne at last came in, a few minutes later. archie, as he explained his errand, noted inwardly that his friend's face was drawn and tired; nor did he wonder much at the grim look gwynne cast around the waiting family-circle. "you're late, gwynne," said old steven, fierce-eyed under his shaggy brows. "i know it," said gwynne, in a harsh voice. "i had to go out to the country this morning, and that put me back with everything." "you mean to the house? you've been out to the house?" steven asked eagerly. "you've talked to pall----?" gwynne looked at him steadily. "no, i haven't. i've been out to see sam. will you please let me have my chair, cousin steven? i want to make a note of this for judge lewis." "it's no matter," said archie hurriedly, anxious to escape as much on the gwynnes' account as on his own. ("i was afraid they were in for a regular family-row and i wanted to get out," he said. "why, you might have known something was wrong with gwynne, by his coming out about sam that way. that was the first time i ever knew him to do anything like that!") "never mind, gwynne--father said you could keep them as long as you wanted. i'll stop in some other time. you're--you're busy now." "i wish you'd stay, arch," said gwynne desperately. the others sat in a ghastly silence, even the old man. he got up and surrendered the chair to gwynne without a word. the sisters hardly dared look at each other, in the trepidation produced by the mere mention of sam's name. thus carelessly or rashly to flaunt sam in the public view, and invite attention to him seemed to them nothing less than a profane assault on the temple of the gwynne reputation--that edifice propped and shored through so many years by what profitless sacrifices, what wrong-headed devotion, what pitiful and heroic subterfuge! at this rate gwynne might say something about his aunt caroline, they thought in quaking panic. the veil of the sanctum was rent in twain--what would he do or say next? he did nothing; and after archie had taken his leave, it was eleanor who quavered, frightened, yet with a real sympathy for him stirring at her elderly maiden heart: "is anything the matter, gwynne? with--with sam, i mean?" "yes, dr. sheckard sent for me. they think he'll have to be taken away--sent to some other place. he's--well, restless, you know." "that'll take money, gwynne," said steven abruptly. now that archie's restraining presence had been removed, he was eager to get to the business in hand, and designed by one or two tactful remarks of this nature to lead up to it. eleanor and mollie shrank a little; they were genuinely and self-forgetfully interested in their unfortunate kinsman. "i'll manage it, somehow," said gwynne briefly. he put aside his domestic tragedy without much effort; to the observant mind the facility with which we get used to our lives is the one great everyday miracle. let them visit us with what trials they will, we defeat the gods by our submission. gwynne addressed himself to the task of the moment with no further thought of sam. "you wanted to see me about something, cousin eleanor?" he asked, foreseeing drearily what the answer would be. but in spite of all their preparation, the direct question startled them; the neat and perfectly ladylike speeches in which eleanor and mollie had coached each other for days vanished from their minds--from their one mind, i might almost say. they looked at him with stricken faces. "there is something you wanted to see me about, cousin mollie?" repeated gwynne--and could have cried "for shame!" at the forbidding coldness of his own voice. "oh, gwynne," said miss mollie, trembling a good deal, and thrusting her paper at him. "i--we--eleanor and i don't want you to think that we are unappreciative, or--or that we've any fault to find with the way you've managed our property--you've done everything you could, we _know_ that, gwynne, and you're always so good to us." her voice broke, but she went on resolutely. "but i--we don't know whether you've noticed anything lately, or whether any of the others have told you--you're so busy--and we know a woman oughtn't to interfere, or ask questions about her money, gwynne--and--and we oughtn't to come to your office, we _know_ that--it's no place for a lady--but we're--we're so worried, we couldn't help it. you don't mind our being here, do you? we thought at first we'd write, only it takes so much longer----" here poor miss mollie broke down completely and began to cry in a noiseless and unimpeachably ladylike manner into her black-bordered handkerchief. miss eleanor took up the thread, having conquered her own tears: "we thought perhaps you didn't know, gwynne, if mr. templeton hadn't told you, but the pallinders--that is, colonel pallinder, you know, they haven't paid us any rent for our house for over a year--it's on the paper, we added it up--i know it's right, because we did it by long division, and then multiplied to make sure--and it's a hundred and twenty dollars they're owing us, gwynne, and--and we thought you'd do something, if you knew----" "well, you needn't worry--he _won't_!" said steven, savagely satirical. both handkerchiefs were going now; but the two old maids scarcely heard steven; they regarded gwynne with a heart-breaking confidence. "why--yes--i knew about this, cousin eleanor," the young man began, with a wretched feeling of humbug. "the only thing about commencing proceedings to recover--bringing suit, you know--is the--the publicity--you might have to appear in court and testify--and it would all be in the papers, like a--a scandal----" "oh, scandal--bosh!" cried steven wrathfully. eleanor and mollie were looking at gwynne with affrighted eyes over their handkerchiefs; but steven's masculine mind, even if none of the strongest, could not in nature be always wrought upon so easily. these arguments were old to him and their effect was dulled. "scandal! there's no scandal about going to law to get your money!" he said impatiently, and with justice. "and as for publicity, you could fix all that, if you wanted to, gwynne, you know it. they could--they could make oath before a notary, couldn't they?" "we--we wouldn't have to do anything, if he could just get us a _little_ of it--the--the way mr. lewis said, you know, mollie," eleanor faltered. "arch? did you tell him about this?" gwynne asked, disturbed. "no harm if we had," said steven, contentiously. but mollie looked at gwynne in dread. "no, no--we didn't say a thing--we didn't say a word, gwynne--but he just happened to say that debts were sometimes compromised--you took some, not all, you know, but you didn't have any lawsuit----" "if we could get a little----" said eleanor anxiously. "a _little_! that's like a woman!" said steven in strong disgust. "a _little_! don't you pay any attention to 'em, gwynne!" "do you need money, cousin eleanor?" asked gwynne gently. mollie began to cry hysterically again. "we don't want you to advance any, gwynne," said old eleanor, trembling and turning very pale. "you've done that before, and--and now you will need all your money for poor sam. and--and besides, gwynne, i--i--we're not fit to be trusted with money--i--i was going to tell you, only it's so hard--but we're--we're--we've been very wicked women!" she burst out sobbing. gwynne might have smiled at this lurid statement from two such timid, plaintive and abjectly respectable old maiden ladies if the circumstances had left him any heart for smiling. "why, what's the matter, cousin eleanor?--don't cry that way!" he said, distressed. "it's not your fault, you know. now i promise you i'll see about it--i'll get your money for you--these things are bound to take a little time, you know----" "huh! you said that before--you've said it a dozen times!" said steven. he looked at gwynne with open suspicion. "will you come with me over to pallinder's office now?" "no, no, don't do that; wait till i've told him everything, steven--wait a minute gwynne!" cried eleanor, laying her damp hands and handkerchief on the young man's arm. "gwynne!" she said tragically, "it's quite true--we're wicked, wicked women! we took--mollie and i took all our money--it was that thousand dollars that we got when cousin lucien died, you know, that we'd always put away to use if we were sick--or, or got married--or anything, and some besides that we'd saved up--it was last year--and we thought the rent would be coming in all the time, and we counted on that--you know we were quite sure, gwynne, or we wouldn't have done it--and--and--we'd heard about so many people making money in stocks--caleb spicer--that's the vegetable-man we've taken from for ever so long, and i _know_ caleb's honest--he told us about his brother-in-law--only caleb didn't tell us about _this_ stock, gwynne, it wasn't caleb's fault at all, i wouldn't have you think that--his brother-in-law's stock was some other kind, i don't remember what now. and we--we bought some stock, gwynne--it was 'phosphate'--a mine, or was it a well, sister mollie? we--we've never had any money, gwynne, i mean much, you know--and we--we've had to save so, and go without a girl and all--and make our own clothes--and we did so want to have a little more--and we thought it would get to be worth double or treble in the least little while, the way those things do--the way caleb's brother-in-law's did--and besides colonel pallinder said it would----" "_what!_" said gwynne. he got up. his face blanched; the likeness to old samuel gwynne leaped out upon his features so strong, so lowering, that eleanor and mollie involuntarily drew back, appalled. they supposed the confession had angered him. "we didn't know anything about it, gwynne," they both began. "we didn't know--we didn't mean to do anything wrong!" "you didn't do anything wrong," said gwynne, with an effort. "go on. what has happened?" "it was all my fault, gwynne," said eleanor, generously. "i put it into mollie's head--it was my fault, all of it." "it doesn't make any difference about that, nellie," said mollie. "i was just as much to blame--you couldn't have done it without me. we--we've found out a terrible thing about 'phosphate,' gwynne--it's--it's not going to double at all. we thought we'd get some money right away, and we didn't--and then we waited--and we didn't get any--and we were afraid to ask colonel pallinder, for fear it would look as if--as if--we didn't believe in him--don't, gwynne, don't look that way! and then at last we went down to the third national where our money used to be; we got mary to go with us, because we were afraid to go by ourselves, and besides it's not ladylike; she knows your friend, mr. taylor, that great big tall young man that's in there back in the brass-wired-off place, you know, gwynne. and mary wasn't a bit afraid; she just asked for him, and he came out and took the paper--it's a certificate, isn't it?--and looked at it, and then went back into the president's room, and we heard some men laughing, gwynne. and then mr. mcalpine himself came out after a while, and he came up and said he knew we'd believe him, because of his being president, and he was sorry to have to tell us, but that stock wasn't worth the paper it was printed on, and he wanted to know whose advice we had acted on in buying it. so he and mary and mr. taylor and you are the only people that know anything about it, gwynne, and--and--if it don't go any farther than that, it won't--it won't be a disgrace to you or the family," said poor old mollie with tears. gwynne looked at them helplessly. that these two shy, fearsome, frugal, penny-wise old gentlewomen could have ventured their all upon one reckless stake like the worst and wildest gambler that ever tossed his last dollar on the cloth, was well-nigh inconceivable--but the thing had happened! it was not merely unexpected, it was impossible--and it had happened! if he had been asked to name the members of his family who might most safely be trusted to hoard and watch over their lean inheritance, he would have pitched upon eleanor and mollie; he would have supposed them impregnable behind their barrier of timorous ignorance, entrenched forever in the habit of grinding economy--and lo, that very childish inexperience, that thriftless parsimony, had been their undoing! "well, but whose advice _did_ you take?" he asked. "you surely asked _somebody_ besides caleb what's-his-name? why didn't you come to me--or cousin jennie?" "but jennie wouldn't have let us do it, you know," said eleanor, with entire simplicity. "there wouldn't have been any use asking _her_. and we were so _sure_--we thought colonel pallinder's advice was enough--we knew you wouldn't go to the house so much if you didn't think he was to be trusted--you wouldn't go where anybody was dishonourable. but i don't believe he _is_ honourable, gwynne; of course, he's had misfortunes with 'phosphate' like ourselves, but if he were really honourable, he'd pay our rent." the young man was silenced; anger and shame surged together within him. the most expert of fencers could not have pricked him closer home than eleanor with her simple earnestness of belief. their faith blackened him in his own eyes; their affection stung; their tremulous apologies scourged. "never mind, cousin mollie--don't cry--i'll take care of you," he said, huskily, at last. "now let me get a carriage and send you home--and don't worry about your money, nor the rent--i'll get it back for you some way or another----" mollie and eleanor cried harder than ever; mingled with their ghastly visions of ultimate destitution, and much more concretely awful, had been the fear of what gwynne would say, of what he would think when he heard the shameful news. their tears comforted them; and i dare say that many a real sinner has touched thus the utter depth, and found there a like unexpected peace. "oh, gwynne, you're so good to us--and with poor sam on your mind all the time, too--but you never think about yourself at all!" gwynne almost smiled. sam? what care had he given to sam or sam's interests of late? and of whom had he been thinking, if not solely of himself? "now promise me you won't worry," he said, urgently kind. "i'll fix it all right----" "you've been saying that a good while to _me_, and nothing's come of it so far," said steven distrustfully. "hope you ain't forgetting that it's sam's money, too, you've been letting go all this year and a half?" "i'm not forgetting it, cousin steven," said gwynne, turning his haggard eyes on the other. "i won't forget sam." after they had gone, gwynne went back to the office and sat a long while with his set face staring at that other face on the wall, under whose shadow he had lived his whole life, without, as it would seem, profiting much by the association. there he sat--and i think we may very well refrain from spying on him. doubtless he did full justice upon gwynne peters that spring afternoon, alone with his condemning thoughts; doubtless every selfish lie, every mean evasion rose up and confronted him; doubtless he took himself to task more sternly than he deserved, and fancied he sat, a broken man, amongst the ruins of a dishonoured life. hardly, i am sure, at his present age, can gwynne look back upon that hour with an equal mind; when it recurs to him, the taste of his folly must yet be bitter on his tongue. he is to-day a successful man, greatly liked, greatly respected. mrs. gwynne peters, i believe, is a very happy wife and mother, not at all jealous, and having no cause to be. but has gwynne ever mentioned mrs. pallinder to her? he might do so without a blush, but he probably feels that it would be an unprofitable business; let the old ashes lie, and let the lost corners grow up with weeds and be forgot. wives and husbands, if they be wise, will not go prospecting in the remote places of each other's hearts, lest they chance upon some of these disquieting ruins--ugly little cairns, decrepit old tombstones. the days were lengthening, yet it was twilight as gwynne walked home; street-lamps burned dimly through the foggy spring air, and the newsboys were crying the last edition. chapter fourteen doctor vardaman was not a wealthy man; he occupied what he considered the golden mean, the "neither poverty nor riches" of the preacher; enough to live in a simple, uncalculating ease. his chief pastime, as he used to describe it with some amusement, was the practising of certain small economies whereby he accumulated enough to indulge himself once in a while with an expensive new edition, or rare and equally high-priced old one. like most professional men, he had no turn for affairs, and no temptation ever assailed him to "take a flyer in phosphate," or anything else. it was, therefore, without any idea of investment that he scaled the stairs leading to colonel pallinder's office a few days after the misses gwynne had visited gwynne's to explain their operations in finance. he was, in fact, bent on an errand that took him past the colonel's door, and into the rear of the turner building, where the city superintendent of parks and gardens had a retiring, little, unfrequented room. the doctor wanted to file objections against the setting up of several monumental bill-boards and advertising signs on the vacant lots along the west side of richmond avenue, facing number . "as a physician in good standing, sir," he expounded vigorously, yet not without a smile, to the city superintendent, who was an old acquaintance and ex-patient. "i dislike to be confronted every time i open my front door with 'geary's purple pills' for various disorders not commonly referred to in polite society. and as a patriotic citizen, i don't want to see our town disfigured by any such monstrosities!" coming away with his point half gained, he once more passed colonel pallinder's office door. at that time the turner building was at the very core of our business district. there was a bank on the ground floor, the old third national--j. b. had some position in it, assistant bookkeeper, perhaps. one used to catch fleeting glimpses of the young fellow's big shoulders in shirt-sleeves, and sleek, dark head on an altitudinous stool behind gilt wire screens, through the plate-glass windows on the market street side. on his last visit he told me that he had gone down market street and walked past those old windows in a sentimental mood, recalling the brave days when he was twenty-one. "i got sixty a month," he said, "and thought i was doing first-rate! it's hard to believe that that old rookery was the best office building in town. we hadn't the beginnings of an idea about fire-proof construction; but there was an elevator, and the bank had a floor of black and red tiles, remember? the passages were so dim the gas had to be kept burning at noon-day. the steam-heating apparatus must have been one of the first put in; anyway it never did very well, and was forever breaking down. i've worked in my overcoat many a time, with a blue nose, figuring away with my stiff fingers. harvey smith--you know, jim's brother--had a law-office with some other young chap, i've forgot who, now, on the third floor, and they set up a sheet-iron cannon-stove to keep from freezing to death. there wasn't much business coming harvey's way in those days--we used to wonder how he made out." that part of town is now given over to warehouses and junk-shops. the dirty, draughty hallways of the turner building are very empty and melancholy. they used to be handsomely carpeted with cocoa-matting, and in the odd corners one came upon little pyramids of tin spittoons piled up handily by the janitor, either just washed or in need of washing. the place was as busy as an anthill that morning when doctor vardaman paced along the cocoa-paths on his way out. near the top of the stairs--which were generally preferred to the elevator--he encountered colonel pallinder ushering from his office somebody with a shawl and bonnet and fat black umbrella, whose outlines in the semi-obscurity appeared vaguely familiar to the old gentleman's casual glance. "is that you, doctor? come in, come in, sir," said the colonel, promptly relinquishing his client ("in point of fact, he dropped her like a hot potato," the doctor said afterwards), when he saw who was approaching. and, overriding the doctor's demurrer, "oh, nonsense, i say come _in_, sir! why, we've got a little business together, forgot that, hey?" he smote doctor vardaman a light, humorous, affectionate blow on the shoulder and pushed him into the office. "i don't want to interrupt you----" the doctor began, accepting at last the handsome leather chair his host pulled forward. he glanced about curiously, rolling the colonel's excellent havana between his fingers. the pallinders possessed the secret of a delightful spontaneous and whole-souled hospitality; the stranger within their gates was unaffectedly welcome to the best they had--and the best they had was very good indeed; self-denial was a virtue they never needed to practise, apparently. the atmosphere of their house was always kind, gay, care-free, and they themselves highly ornamental. colonel pallinder bustled about the doctor with a dozen pleasant little attentions, yet contrived somehow never to be officious. it is a strange thing, and a depressing instance of the inborn tendency to evil of the human race, that it has been within the experience of everyone of us, i think, to lodge with and suffer the kindnesses of many virtuous families to whom the name and the habits of the pallinders would be anathema--and we shrink from remembering how incredibly we were bored thereby! the office was a rich, comfortable place. everything was new; the colonel's mahogany roll-top desk, the leather lounge, which, doctor vardaman noted inwardly, had the air of being pretty constantly in use, the brilliantly glazed maps of "phosphate" territory gleaming on the walls. a great accumulation of mail loaded the desk; the colonel's correspondence was evidently something colossal. there were numberless pamphlets, circulars, prospectuses, and newspaper clippings with rows of figures accompanied by at least half-a-dozen ciphers printed conspicuously at the top. "_the arkansas consolidated phosphate, coal, and iron company, capital and surplus $ , , . ._" "_el paso & rio grande extension_ is the _best zinc stock_ on the market at the price. _el paso mines_ have paid over $ , , . in dividends. we strongly recommend this _stock for investment_. ballard & co., wall st., n. y. william pallinder, agt." doctor vardaman surveyed these and like documents with a kind of satirical interest. "of course," he used to explain, "i had had more than a suspicion for a good while that 'phosphate' and 'zinc' and the colonel's capitalist friends were all more or less mythical. you can't be as intimate as i was with a man like that for two years and not 'get a line on him,' as the boys say. and then there was steven and that terrific flare-up he had with gwynne about the rent in my own library. latterly i had begun to have a pretty well-defined notion that pallinder was in a tight place--getting near the end of his rope in our town, at least. along in the fall sometime he had borrowed fifty dollars of me on some pretext; and i not unnaturally supposed that he wanted to corner me into lending him another fifty, or maybe thought that with my hazy ideas about business he might make a sale of 'phosphate.' i was a good deal interested to see how he would go about it; i'd quite made up my mind not to do either, you know--lend him the fifty, or buy any stock, i mean." what then was the doctor's astonishment when colonel pallinder impressively brought out an elegant dark green russia-leather purse and card-case combined, with "w. b. p." intertwined in a gold monogram on one side, and from a thick layer of greenbacked bills therein selected a fifty-dollar one and laid it on the old gentleman's knee! doctor vardaman stared at it as if it had been a specimen from the flora of another planet. "now, now, now, no objections! i _insist_," said the colonel, rather unnecessarily in view of the doctor's dumb surprise. "it's a matter of principle with me, even about such paltry sums as this, that short settlements make long friends," he continued, conveniently oblivious of the fact that he had been in the other's debt for this particular paltry sum more than six months. "never could understand, sir, how a man can go on owing and owing people simply because he knows they're his friends and won't dun him. that's a queer idea of honesty, seems to me," said the colonel, looking doctor vardaman in the eye with a frank and open smile. "you don't come down this way very often, doctor. i suppose you think all this--" he waved his hand around--"market-place--beasts at ephesus, hey?" "i'm a--i'm a little out of place, i fear," the doctor stammered, still in a confusion. "i hope i didn't drive your client away." colonel pallinder threw back his head in hearty amusement. "oh, lord, that wasn't a client, doctor, that old creature--what was her name now, macgonigal, macgilligan, macsomething? no, i was trying to get rid of her as gently as might be without hurting her feelings. for after all people like that have feelings, you know; they are worthy of some consideration; hang it, a gentleman has only one kind of manners. i'm glad she came in while my clerks were all out, and saw me instead of any of them--you know what jack-in-office is. why, sir, you have no conception of how we are bothered by that kind of person. they watch the stock market for a while, or get to talking with their friends, and then the first thing you know they come in here all agog with their savings--a hundred, two hundred, perhaps three hundred dollars, wanting to _invest_! it's the hardest thing in the world to make them understand that we can't handle little dabs like that; they're twice as much trouble as other people's tens of thousands. your small investor is eternally writing and making inquiries about this stock and that stock, wanting to change, wanting to transfer, wanting to sell, wanting to buy, wanting to be reassured perpetually at the slightest fluctuation of the market. 'do you think my stock is all right? will it go any higher? will it go any lower?' like as not he sees some perfectly worthless stuff advertised broadcast and promptly sit down and writes me, all on fire: 'william pallinder, esq., dear sir: would like your opinion about the enclosed clipping relating to timbuctoo and south pole railway shares. hadn't i better take my dime's worth of phosphate preferred and put it into t. &. s. p.? yours truly, jack ass.' oh, you may laugh, doctor, but it's no joke. and then, doctor vardaman, there's another side to it that i never lose sight of," said the colonel, leaning forward and tapping the old gentleman on the hand with a grave look. "that, sir, is the question of _moral obligation_. take the case of that old woman. 'why, mrs. mac-what's-your-name,' says i, 'if i understand you, this is all the money you have'--it was four hundred and odd, i believe--'and you want to put it into lone star common. now,' says i, 'of course that's a perfectly safe investment, solid as united states bonds, non-taxable, pays nine per cent., and will double in value in the natural course of events before another six months; and what you say is quite true, that you will never have another opportunity of getting it as low as forty-five'--she was really a shrewd and intelligent woman for her class, and for a minute i was almost tempted to let her have her way, for, of course, there wasn't the slightest risk. 'now,' said i, 'if you had two or three thousand or even one thousand to spare, mind you, i say _to spare_, i should say to you, go ahead, by all means. but,' says i, 'i can't take the responsibility of letting you invest your last cent this way, just on my say-so. i've got my own money in it, but my money and your money are two very different propositions. go and consult your lawyer, get the advice of your friends, go to another broker for that matter, if you choose. all i would urge is, _do it soon_, or you may lose a great chance, such as don't come along every day.' she was very reluctant, but i finally persuaded her; she was just going as you came along. oh, of course, i know very well, nobody better after all my experience, that she may have gone straight off to some other broker as i suggested, and _he'll_ get the commission, not being so--well, so squeamish as i am, but william pallinder isn't that--kind, doctor; we can't help the way we're made, and i'm--not--that--kind!" he spaced the last words out, emphasising them by a gentle blow with a ruler on the palm of his hand, and leaned back, surveying his companion through a haze of cigar smoke, with the expression of one who might have added, were it necessary: "behold in me a monument of integrity!" doctor vardaman gazed at the el paso and rio grande circulars with a new respect. was it possible, he asked himself, that he ought to revise his opinion of pallinder? to be sure, huddesley had hinted--but what does a servant's chatter amount to? and then there was that business of the unpaid rent--but gwynne had not seemed to take that very seriously, and surely he should know. as to that flourishing manner of the colonel's, we are prone to associate it with--well, with buncombe, in plain words; yet it was, in fact, entirely natural, the direct result of certain traditions, early environment, and upbringing. he had reached this point in his reflections, smoking silently, when the colonel was most unfortunately inspired to remark: "i see you're looking at that map of phosphate territory in arkansas. it's a wonderful thing the way the southwest is opening up, wonderful! all due to northern enterprise and vigour, sir, every bit of it. we'd be nowhere without you. you'll find few men from my section of the country that will acknowledge it, but it's _so_. i never did believe in keeping up that spirit of mutual distrust and jealousy--waving the bloody shirt and all that; let bygones be bygones, i say; let's all work together for the common good, and give honour where honour is due. why, sir, it was a northern man--lewis sheister, from some little town up in new york state, that discovered and worked the first phosphate vein in arkansas. the people down there in the ozarks were ready to run him and his men out of there with shotguns when he started in--and now i guess they bless the day sheister turned up. he's worth five hundred thousand dollars to-day, and he's been a factor in enriching that whole state. yes, sir, there's millions right here." he rose, and, drawing a pencil from his waistcoat pocket, defined a small circle on the shining brittle surface of the map. "right in that little zone, sir, millions for anyone, even with a very limited capital--ten for one, sir, ten for one is what dozens of my clients are drawing at this moment," said the colonel, pointing with his pencil, like a teacher of mathematics demonstrating at the blackboard, and eying the doctor profoundly. "ever think of investing, doctor?" he added, indifferently, resuming his seat, and picking a thread from his coatsleeve as he spoke. alas, the gentleman had protested too much! "you'd find me one of your troublesome small investors, i am afraid," said the doctor, wishing uncomfortably that he could believe in pallinder. "it's rarely a professional man lays up any money, you know." "oh, you'd be a different pair of shoes," said colonel pallinder genially. "i'd rather handle a couple of hundred for a man like you than a couple of thousand for some others i could mention. now i always contend that stocks such as i deal in are a heaven-sent boon to the man of moderate means. say you only have a hundred or so. you put it into ozark field or--well--yes, you _could_ get half-a-dozen shares of lone star. i know a man, a banker in new york, a personal friend, you understand, that i think i could persuade into parting with a little block like that, although they hate to like the devil--but i believe he'd do it for me. now these things advance so rapidly that in a month or six weeks you could sell out to great advantage--if you didn't want to wait for your dividends, or found the speculation kept you lying awake o' nights," he interpolated, with jovial sarcasm. "of course, doctor, i hardly need to tell a man of your intelligence and breadth of view that--um--ah--'there's a tide in the affairs of men,' you know--the time is coming when nobody but the kings of finance will be able to buy and control these shares, they're going up so fast; but if you were already _in_ the _ring_, as i may say----" "i doubt if the kings of finance and i would hit it off very well," said the doctor soberly. colonel pallinder laughed uproariously. he slapped his knees and laughed, and wiped his eyes and laughed again. never had the doctor's dry humour received such appreciation; and not being acutely conscious of having been humorous, he observed the colonel's manifestations of delight with a good deal of interest. "you talk in a rather disparaging vein about the business ability of professional men, doctor," he said, when his mirth had somewhat subsided. "but the fact is, i've met with just as much shrewdness among them as anywhere else. a successful lawyer, a widely-known and successful physician like yourself--why, he's _got_ to be very much above the average in intellect and education both. a man like you can take hold of anything, no matter whether he's had any previous experience or not--he can take up anything and do well at it. now, look at you! i suppose you've hardly ever been in a broker's office before in your life, and you come in here, and with scarcely a word of explanation from me, grasp the whole subject at once! i tell you what, i'd like you to meet sheister, and just hear him talk phosphate once. he's a self-made man, doctor, no gentleman-of-the-old-school such as you, but for that very reason i think you'd find it an interesting experience. he'll talk by the hour about his early trials and struggles--it sounds like a romance. he has the whole history of phosphate at his finger-ends. of course _i_ can't talk about the stuff except in a business way--i only know that it's been a gold mine for sheister and the men he got to go in with him. sir, i knew that fellow when he hadn't but one shirt in the world, and he didn't know where his next meal was to come from--and now he's travelling round in his private car with a valet and a cook! i've done pretty well in phosphate myself," said the colonel, with becoming restraint; "but i'm not a patch on sheister. really, i'd like you to see mrs. sheister's diamonds, just for a curiosity. my wife can't bear her--thinks she's _common_, and all that--you know how women are--but i tell her she's down on mrs. sheister just because she's jealous of her diamonds." "mrs. pallinder has no cause to be jealous of anybody's diamonds, i think," said the doctor smoothly. "our young people will be giving their entertainment in a few days now," he added, thinking it high time to change the subject. and the colonel glided away on the new tack as gracefully as if the manoeuvre had been of his own suggestion. "yes, and what do you think that daughter of mine said to me the other day? it seems they have to make a great show of jewelry in the second play--what's the name of it--'mrs. tinkleton'? mazie's '_mrs. tinkleton_,' and she's going to pile on all her own and her mother's too. so she comes to me: 'oh, papa, wouldn't it be nice if we could have a real tiara? we've got to fix ma's necklace to look like one, but i think those little coronets they have at tiffany's are just too utterly sweet.' that's the way the girls and boys talk nowadays, doctor, 'too utterly too,' 'too intensely all but,'--can't understand half the gibberish they're saying; but i grasped the meaning of _that_! 'why, good heavens, my child,' i said, 'do you think i'm _made_ of money? there's your mother's necklace cost me thirty-five hundred--the papers made it five thousand, but you know, doctor, they always blow around and talk big--not so very long ago, not more than two years, i believe, and now _you_ want a tiara.' 'well, papa, you know you said ma's necklace was just bought out of that rise in phosphate, and it was like getting it for nothing, and you'd never miss the money because the dividends were so much more than you had expected. won't something else take a rise?' and in fact, doctor," continued colonel pallinder, pulling at his goatee with a ruefully comic grin, "she rather had me there. it was just as she said, the stock having gone up beyond my wildest expectations. i realised treble what i'd been looking for, and i always like to make my wife some little gift when anything of that sort happens. but a tiara at tiffany's! i couldn't quite go _that_. must you be going? well, good-bye. when you feel like looking into phosphate a little farther, drop in. i've some figures i think would interest you." doctor vardaman took his way from the turner building, walking fast in a brown study; such was his preoccupation that twenty steps from the entrance he collided with a young man carrying a green cloth bag, weighted with books or papers, heading for the stairs. "hello, doctor!" he began to apologise. "i didn't know it was you. why, it's great to see you down here. come up and take a look at my office." "i've just been up in the building, harvey," said the old gentleman, recognising him. "i ought to be home sitting down to my luncheon this minute. huddesley would discharge me if i were not on time. i went up to see ogden about those signboards on richmond avenue." he paused and then some indefinable feeling prompted him to add: "fine office colonel pallinder has, hasn't he? the building is certainly very complete and well-equipped; you ought to have seen the two-story frame shanty where i first hung out my shingle. it was over a grocery with an outside stairs leading up to it." young smith eyed him with a certain apprehension in his keen boyish face. "oh, yes, the turner building is said to be one of the finest in the west; but i understand they are going to put up some in chicago that'll beat us all hollow. pallinder's a great friend of yours, isn't he, doctor?" "we are neighbours, you know," said doctor vardaman, diplomatically, and smiled, meeting the other's eye. "don't be uneasy. i haven't been investing." "why--i--i----" harvey stammered, crimsoning in his confusion, yet plainly a little relieved. "i just couldn't help wondering if you had, you know. the colonel's a great old blatherskite, isn't he? of course, i don't mean--that is, i mean----" "harvey, harvey," said doctor vardaman, wagging his head solemnly, "i'm afraid that's not the way counsel for the defence should open his remarks." "well, it's _so_, you know, anyhow," said the young fellow ingenuously. "jim sees a lot of them; he goes out there all the time. he's in that shindy they're going to give on the twelfth. say, have you heard that about gwynne peters?" "no, what was it--oh, here's my car--never mind, harvey. i don't need any help." chapter fifteen fate, who, as doctor vardaman's favourite classic assures us, calls, equal-footed, upon carpenters and kings, must surely have laid a directing hand on the old gentleman's shoulder that morning; not yet were his adventures over, even when he reached his own door. the lexington and amherst street car crawled with him laboriously as far as the corner of amherst and richmond, where he must disembark and trudge the remaining five blocks of board sidewalk to number . the trolley whisks you out there in five minutes now. not long ago i saw in somebody's back yard, a back yard of the proletariat, next door to a tenement, one of these dilapidated old horse-cars, pygmy ancestor of a race of giants, thrown aside, weather-worn, ancient as the palæolithic period, serving as a play-house for the proletarian youngsters. the windows were all out of it, even the purple glass lights overhead; but you might dimly discern the legend: "no. . lexington and amherst. no. ." along its battered sides. the thing was as romantic as a derelict galleon; sentimental melancholy possessed me as i looked at it; all my youth rode in that decrepit chariot, if not with comfort, at least with tolerable satisfaction. will the rising generation treasure so picturesque a memory? i think not. in cold weather there was a layer of straw, doubtful-tinted, breathing strange odours, in the bottom of it, thoughtfully provided by the street-car company to protect its patrons' feet. it was lit by two oil lamps, in two niches, fortified by wire-work, one at either end of the car. these vehicles were banded about the body with a wide stripe in various colours to distinguish the various lines, an amazingly ingenious idea if people had only been able to see after dark, like cats; and, as the spectrum had been exhausted by the time the builders got around to the lexington and amherst line, they designated these cars, in a creditable burst of originality, by a sash of black-and-red squares, like the rob roy plaid. immediately arose some genius with an equally fertile invention and baptised them "the checker-board cars," a title which they wore to the end. there was one very steep hill at the foot whereof it was the custom to hitch on an extra team of mules; i know of no more gallant spectacle than that furnished by a quadriga of mules nobly breasting wade street hill, with a checker-board car plunging in the rear. when it got off the track, as not infrequently happened, all the male passengers got out and helped push it back. we were firmly persuaded that this was rapid transit! yet spare your merriment, youth of to-day; impartial fate is waiting for your admired institutions, too, your twentieth century flyers, your automobiles, your seven-league-boots. in twenty-five years, how will your sons and daughters deride you; with what longing, with what amused tenderness, will you not look back to these kind, simple days! doctor vardaman, then, with destiny stalking viewless at his side, swung off the checker-board car, and began the homeward walk. some way ahead of him he saw a figure diminished by distance, plodding through his yard toward the kitchen door; and as he drew nearer, two more figures emerged from his front porch. the doctor recognised bob carson, and in the over-tall, lankily-graceful young woman, mazie pallinder, in an extremely modish tan-coloured cloth coat with dark brown plush collar and pocket flaps. mazie's sleeves were about as tight as bob's trousers--that is to say, they were as tight as human skill could make them, or human arms and legs endure. thus were we clad in the eighties. "oh, hello, doctor," said bob, dropping mazie's hand--i suppose he had been fastening her glove--and addressing the old gentleman with unusual vivacity and a notable increase of colour. "ah--we--we've just been getting huddesley to hear us our parts--in 'mrs. tankerville,' you know." "i hope you have mastered yours," said doctor vardaman, without a smile. bob's part, as he and everyone else knew, might have been omitted altogether without materially damaging the performance; he was a footman in "mrs. tankerville," and his lines were hardly more than "yes, sir," and "no, sir," stated at the proper intervals. he got redder than ever under the doctor's grave survey, and affected to be busy knocking invisible mud from his boot heel with his cane as they stood by the gate. mazie did not blush--for the best of reasons. her face was too carefully arranged to permit of it. and, besides, what was there to blush about? bob changed colour almost whenever she looked at him; but then bob was a quiet and rather shy youth. "huddesley's simply _fine_!" she said with enthusiasm. "i asked him how he came to know so much about the stage, and he says he was dresser for an actor once when he was right young, and used to be behind the scenes a lot. come home and take lunch with us, won't you, doctor?" "i can't very well to-day. i was just about to ask you to stay here. huddesley, you can get us up something, can't you?" "bit of 'am and a glass of porter, sir," said huddesley deferentially, holding the door open. "beg parding, doctor vardaman, sir, but mrs. maginnis is 'ere with your wash." "i guess we'd better not stop so long's i've got so much company in the house," said mazie. "good-bye, doctor; you'll come up this evening, anyway?" and as they walked away, the doctor heard bob say, "isn't huddesley _immense_, though? 'bit of 'am and a glass of porter.' sounds just like dickens, don't it?" the doctor, still squired by unseen fortune, went upstairs to his bedroom--and there, it may be presumed, the goddess left him, having executed her appointed task. mrs. maginnis awaited him, and huddesley was already laying the doctor's shirts out of the basket. the laundress generally performed this rite herself, but to-day she stood watching the man with an oddly flustered manner, twisting the fringes of her old shawl between her fingers. her bonnet, that feathered and beribboned structure indigenous to washerwomen, had worked askew a little; her face, with its premature wrinkles, its sunken mouth, was flushed with exercise or excitement. the doctor, observant as all physicians from lifelong habit, looked at her in some surprise. it crossed his mind that at some prehistorically distant time, when mrs. maginnis was a fresh barefoot girl, running the green swards of connemara, she might have been pretty; her irish blue eyes, faded with years, with toil, with sickness, with care, were quite bright to-day. a kind of tremulous happiness, an anxious joy, irradiated her; she was like a child to whom one should have given a new toy, scarcely daring to be glad yet in its possession. "got change for a fifty-dollar bill, mrs. maginnis?" said the old gentleman jocosely. "yez will have yer joke, now, won't ye, docthor?" she retorted with gaiety, and tossed her head with the upstanding plumes in a roguish manner. "niver moind. some day i'll change ut for yez aisy enough. 'taint much longer i'll be comin' 'round for me dollar and a half, at all, at all." "has tim got well? is he going back to work?" asked the doctor, beginning to fish for the required sum amongst the loose silver in his pockets. he spoke of her husband. tim was what doctor vardaman called a "non-combatant." to say that he was a washerwoman's husband describes him. who ever heard of a washerwoman with a husband that was worth anything? "naw, it ain't that, docthor," said mrs. maginnis, looking momentarily a little dashed. "naw, tim's awful bad with rheumatics this spring. but it's meself that's afther ma-akin me fortune in--in stocks. yez didn't see me in the turrner buildin' th' marrnin'?" doctor vardaman's hand paused, rigidly suspended over the money spread on his palm. "what--what's that you say?" he asked abruptly. "i was goin' to ask yez to spake a wurrd to me characther wid misther--i mane meejor pallinder," went on mrs. maginnis, happily unconscious. "but he seemed to be in a hurry, an' says i to meself, 'betther not worry him, nora maginnis. th' meejor's thrustin' yez anyhow, an' ye're thrustin' him an' iverythin's fair an' square an' aboveboord. 'taint as if yez were a gurrl goin' to ta-ake a new pla-ace, ye goose,' says i. so i just held me tongue, an' walked off. it's a grand gintleman th' meejor is intoirely," she finished enthusiastically. the doctor looked at her through a mist. "what have you been doing?" he said at last, striving to speak in his natural voice. he might have spared the trouble; mrs. maginnis was only too proud and pleased at his interest, at her own importance. "ah, thin, i've been investin'--investin' in stocks--or is it shares, i dinnaw?" she said eagerly, lifted her skirt, and drew out a paper, carefully hoarded, from a pocket in her petticoat. she held it toward him. "i got a letther about thim in th' mail, a printed letther, an' ut says: 'dear madame, we want to call your attintion----' like that ut begun, docthor. i can't raymimber th' rest of ut, but yez ought to hear me little danny, he's got ut by hearrt. anyway, i was to call on or com-communicate with william pallinder, turrner buildin', like what ut says there. they was iver so many on our sthreet got th' sa--ame, th' hogans 'crost th' way, an' th' schwartzes nixt dure but wan, but they ain't anybody wint but me, an' th' meejor says it's a grreat pity, an' they'll all git left, for they won't be anny more shares or stocks, whichever ut is, sold so low. an' it's just loike pickin' money off of trees, he says, yez git tin for wan. that's four thousan' i'll git, docthor, for it's four hundred i'm ta-akin out o' th' buildin' an' loan, where we been puttin ut for th' last tin years--an' weary wurrk ut is, too, savin' so slow, nothin' loike this, where yez just put in yer money, an' set back an' twiddle yer thumbs! it kapes goin' higher ivery breath yez draw purty near, th' meejor says. an' whin i give him th' money, he wrote off a grand pa-aper, a receipt, he called ut, an' says he: 'i congrat'late yez, mrs. maginnis,' says he. 'it's th' smarrt woman yez arre, an' plucky, too,' says he. 'nothin' venture, nothin' have, yez may have hearrd th' sayin',' he says. 'that's the way i begun meself,' says he. 'i had just a little, 'twasn't be half so much as yours, an' i put ut in, an' ut kep' a-goin' up an' a-goin' up, an' there i was, like a big fool'--that's what he said, docthor--'shiverin' an' shakin' an' layin' awake noights, for fear somethin' would happen to ut, an' whin ut doubled, i fair et up th' road gittin to th' office to sell out--an' th' very nixt day it was thribbled already! but i'm all over thim days now,' he says, laughin' that way he has, 'an' yez can see wid wan eye shut how i live, mrs. maginnis. well, all that come from that little lump o' money not be half so big as yours, as i was just afther tellin' yez, an' that's where yez'll be, too, inside of a year, if yez'll be guided by me,' he says. indade, it's th' foine gintleman he is, an' th' koind man, to be doin' all that for th' loikes of me, an' so i tould him." for the second time that day doctor vardaman gazed silently at "el paso & rio grande," "$ , , . in dividends," until the characters swam before his eyes. "at least you'll want your dollar and a half in the meantime, mrs. maginnis," he said finally with an effort, and counted the money into her hand. she had on a pair of black worsted gloves, the fingers too long for her own, crooked, hardened and disfigured with work. she took the coins clumsily, and some of them dropped and rolled about the floor. "troth, what'll i do whin i'm a la-ady, settin' in me kerridge, wid kid gloves on, i wondher," she said with a laugh. "i'm that awkward wid these, i'd betther be learnin', i think. i'm goin' to have maggie ta-ake pianny lessons, docthor, an' i'm goin' to git a pair of va-ases for th' parlour mantelpiece, an' a wheel chair for tim. that's what i'm goin' to do whin th' firrst o' th' money comes in. i made up me moind to that as i was walkin' along wid yer wash th' marrnin', an' thin all to oncet, i says to meself. 'an' what'll th' docthor be doin' for somewan to clear-starch his shirrts th' way he loikes? an' to do up thim white lawn cravats that's all cut on th' bias, an' sthretches somethin' awful--thim stocks yez call 'em, docthor. faith, there's stocks an' _stocks_, think o' that, now?" she laughed a little, hysterically, gulping at her own joke. "yez wouldn't belave ut, docthor, for all i was so happy, i cud ha' set right down an' cried to think that somewan might git hould o' thim, some naygur, mebbe, that 'ud ruin 'em!" the tears came into her faded blue eyes. "it's th' good man yez arre, docthor varrdaman, an' it's koind yez have been to me all these harrd years, an' i'll niver forgit ut. whin i'm settin' in me parlour, wid th' pitchers an' th' rogers group like i mane to have ut, rockin' in me chair, an' listenin' to maggie play, i'll be thinkin' of yez often an' often, docthor, an' of th' ould days, whin i was sthrugglin' along at th' tub an' yez helped me." doctor vardaman mechanically twisted his features into a smile. "i wish you luck with all my heart, mrs. maginnis," was all he could say; but the irishwoman was too emotionally wrought up to heed the strangeness of his manner. her sky was radiant with dreams. "sure, i kin have thim masses said for me mother--rest her sowl!" she said, crossing herself fervently; and the next moment, in gleeful anticipation: "an' buy me a black silk, docthor, a black silk dhress, me that hasn't had a new rag to me back for eight years!" she went; and doctor vardaman sat down before his table. he took out the colonel's fifty-dollar bill--the colonel's! it was mrs. maginnis', like all the rest of the bills in that handsome russia-leather case! the doctor was as sure of it as if it had been sworn to in his presence. he stared at it miserably. of course, he told himself, he had known all along that pallinder was a humbug, had known in a sort of way that he was a scamp. but the truth is, you and i, even the most experienced, even the wisest and worldliest and most wary of us, knows very little about scamps. the doctor had lived his seventy years with such vicissitudes as fall to the lot of the ruck of mankind, and had encountered no greater rascality than that of some patient who ignored a bill or refused to pay it--an offence which he himself was the first to excuse or condone. by nature a humane and sympathetic man, he had learned in his profession a large charity, a habit of making allowances which he now denounced savagely for a contemptible shirking of responsibilities. _laissez faire_, indeed! and one-half the world, not knowing how the other half lives, need not care! yes, pallinder was a scamp; but doctor vardaman found, with a wretched surprise, that he had had no real comprehension of what the word meant--the thing it denoted. this was its meaning, this shabby trickery, this cheap deceit; the discovery came upon him like a blow. there is an extraordinary bitterness to any generous mind in beholding the uncovered shame of a friend; we hate to see the feet of clay; the pain is two-edged and strikes us either way with the sense of his unworthiness, of our own folly. the doctor had liked pallinder; liked him still--liked him and despised him. he sat wondering at his own weakness. "if it had been me," thought the old gentleman, "if it had been me that he had cheated, fleeced, bamboozled in this way, or anyone of my class, i could almost say the game was fair and have my laugh at the dupe; it's our business to know better. but that poor old woman, that poor, ignorant, faithful, trusting creature, that honest, simple drudge!" he thought of her tired, work-worn hands in those pitiful gloves with a throb of pain and unreasoning self-reproach. colonel pallinder's hands were large, white, and very well-kept; a seal ring in pretty taste, _simplex munditiis_, adorned his little finger, the only piece of jewelry he wore. it was paid for, if at all, the doctor reflected grimly, out of the pocket of some other mrs. maginnis. the flavour of the colonel's cigar was yet on his lips; what washerwoman, what widow, what patient, laborious wage-earner's little savings had paid for _that_? he got up and walked the floor restlessly. there was a kind of irony in the thought that he, john vardaman, must suffer this travail of spirit, while the guilty one himself pursued his way unmoved, tranquil, eating and sleeping in triumphant ease. "after all," said the doctor inwardly, "am i my brother's keeper? no. but i have sat at pallinder's table, smoked with him, drunk with him, laughed with him, sanctioned and encouraged him. all the while i knew he was a rogue; i did it open-eyed; i shared the spoil--it's late, late in the day, jack vardaman, for you to cry fie on the thief! dozens of others are daily doing the same thing; why not? the pallinders amuse them. of what stuff are we all made?" his glance fell on the bill again; he picked it up and smoothed it out mechanically, wondering what had prompted pallinder to pay him out of all the people he owed. it was certainly not from any warm friendship, for colonel pallinder liked everybody equally well; his cordiality, his generosity emulated the very sunshine in their wide diffusion. if he stole meanly, he gave away magnificently--after his own desires were indulged. he was quite capable of picking mrs. maginnis' pocket one day, and relieving her distress with coal and warm blankets the next; and it is more than likely that he would have paid the first comer, whether doctor vardaman or somebody else, if the matter had occurred to him, and if the sum were not inconveniently large. huddesley, coming in with the tray of luncheon, was astonished at the doctor's haggard look; he moved about noiselessly, disposing the dishes to the old gentleman's liking, and once or twice sending a sharp glance into his face unobserved. "shall you be going up to mrs. pallinder's to dinner this evening, sir?" he asked at length respectfully. "miss pallinder said something about you----" "no," said doctor vardaman sternly. "no. i shan't be going there again." huddesley looked at him with singular blankness. "beg parding, sir, did you say----?" "i said i was not going there again," repeated the doctor with deliberation. he thought a moment. "i'll write a note and ask the younger gentleman here to dinner next friday night, huddesley, and you can take it up to mrs. pallinder. it's the night of their party; we shan't see much more of them," said doctor vardaman, checking a sigh. he would not acknowledge to himself how much he should miss the careless jollity, the youthful fun and freedom of the last two years. huddesley was leaving the room when the doctor abruptly called him back: "huddesley!" "yes, sir." "i--i seldom interfere in the affairs of my servants, huddesley," said doctor vardaman, hesitating. "i realise that i have no more right to meddle with your business than you with mine. but i--i should like to ask you if you have ever had any business dealings with colonel pallinder? if you--you have ever bought any of his mining or 'phosphate' stocks, in short?" huddesley, after a moment's puzzled silence, so far forgot his usually impeccable manners as to utter a queer unpleasant sound between a sneer and a laugh. "me?" said he. "not much. think i'd be roped in by any such con game as that? i guess _not_--bet your bottom dollar!" he caught the doctor's startled look, and faltered. "hi--hi 'ope you'll hexcuse me, sir," he said in genuine and very alarmed confusion; "hi 'ear so much rough talk sometimes, hi can't 'elp picking it hup----" "never mind," said doctor vardaman kindly. "i thought you were too shrewd a man and had seen too much of the world to--to be taken in, as you say. i should be sorry to think of your losing money--especially through over-confidence in--in any friend of mine. i wouldn't like to feel that you were influenced in that way," the old gentleman concluded rather sadly. the servant eyed his downcast face with an unfathomable expression. he fumbled with the door-knob; then he cleared his throat and spoke with something of an effort. "you're mighty kind to me, doctor vardaman," he said huskily. "you treat me mighty white--and i won't forget it." it was the second time within the hour that doctor vardaman had received this agreeable assurance. "'mighty white,'" he quoted to himself, almost smiling, as the door closed. "i'm afraid huddesley is becoming americanised." chapter sixteen among the forgotten fashions of the years from eighteen-eighty to eighty-five was that of giving our parties, evening or afternoon, for young people or old, of whatever kind, in short, in our own homes; the easy hospitality of clubs or fashionable hotels was not yet known. houses with double-parlours and a dining-room back were considered ideal for any sort of entertainment; and, of course, such an architectural triumph as the old gwynne house with that splendid ballroom on the third floor, was _hors concours_. there was not another home in town to compare with it. mrs. pallinder could entertain without disturbing a single piece of the peacock-blue and old-gold furniture; she meant, however, to have the whole place floor-clothed the night of the twelfth. "i can't risk my moquette carpets with a mob of young people tearing around all over the house, you know, my dear," she said with a smiling pretence of severity; and her guests, eying the rich scrolls and garlands underfoot, gravely acquiesced. everywhere else, all the movables, except the bookcases and piano, were marshalled upstairs or out on the back porch. the little sofas in our parlours generally went into retirement under the stairs at the rear end of the hall. in the afternoons we were just beginning to have progressive euchres, and what we actually called "high teas." it is doubtless impossible for the mind of to-day to conceive of a society so devoid of education and good taste as to call any species of entertainment a "high tea," but such is the appalling fact. you may pick up a _journal_ or _evening despatch_ of that date, and read not one but many notices such as this: "at mrs. henderson p. gates' high tea on monday in the fashionable crush were observed: mrs. colonel pallinder in a toilet of ottoman silk and silk plush in two shades of electric blue, with garniture of chenille and pearl fringes, and a capote of feathers en suite. miss pallinder in wine-coloured surah with sleeves and draperies of spotted silk grenadine. miss ponsonby-baxter wore a redingote of crushed-strawberry pekin opening over a brocaded front in shades of the same, with panels of----" no, i have not the heart to go on with the gaudy details of muriel's panels and passementerie. but i remember that dress well, and, believe it or not, she looked as nobly and placidly beautiful in the crushed-strawberry redingote as had she been draped like the winged victory. mrs. gates continued her party with a dance that same evening. "the house was all torn up anyhow," lily gates told us; "and mamma thought she might just as well go ahead." muriel and j. b., or mr. taylor, as she decorously called him,--he was only j. b. to college mates or others who knew him well,--were sitting out a waltz on the top step of the henderson p. gates' stairs. it was a long flight, turning sharply at a little landing to reach the upper hall; and the musicians penned in the alcove behind the steps on the first floor were discoursing "a medley of popular airs," with admirable command of rhythm and expression. "wh-i-te wings," "swee-ee-t vi-o-_lets_," the sounds travelled up to them as through a chimney. there was a smothering scent of lilacs--the house had been decorated with them--and in pauses of the noise one could hear the window-panes shuddering to the assaults of successive blasts of wind and rain commingled. the spring was early that year. a discreet twilight on the top step held out opportunities for flirtation which mazie pallinder never would have neglected in the world; but neither j. b. nor muriel had any notion of taking advantage of them. the girl was absorbed in a certain dilemma; her even delicate brows were slightly drawn as she studied the pattern of her fan, and wondered how she could lead, draw, drag the conversation around to the desired point. and j. b. was thinking that "pretty pond-lilies" was a good waltz, and if it hadn't been so hot, and miss baxter something of an armful to pull around--and she couldn't reverse--he would have suggested a turn. he looked at her. it would be desirable, i suppose, to record minutely what muriel wore that night; i refer you to the columns of the _journal_; but does anyone remember that full dress in the eighties--in common with dress for all occasions--comprehended those two aids to beauty, "bangs," and "bustles"? muriel's pretty copper-brown hair was arranged in the fringe down to the eyebrows, the knot low on the nape of her neck, to which a famous stage-beauty had lately given her name; and i am afraid her black lace skirts were crinolined in the height of the fashion. but the young man thought she looked like juno--juno with a bustle! they had been talking about doctor vardaman. "the doctor's really awfully fond of his queer old things," j. b. remarked. "if you show the least interest--and it's not put on with me, i _am_ interested--he'll take you around, and explain to you who all the big-bugs, his ancestors in the portraits were, and what they did, and tell you about his first editions, and the old wine he's got laid away, and the autograph-letters to his grandfather from benjamin franklin and all the rest of it." "how odd!" said muriel. "yes, i suppose it's funny to you, but you see over here we don't have all that the way you do. people aren't used to seeing it about them all the time. i expect that's the reason huddesley fits in with the doctor so well; he cares for everything and understands--the way old family-servants do in novels you know. he's so english----" "no, he isn't," said muriel decidedly. "you think so, but none of you _know_. nobody talks like that at home." "well, not nice people of course, but servants----" "no, not servants either. he's no more like a real servant at home than our stage-yankees are like you." "you've never come into contact with his class much, i guess," said j. b., remembering that the treatment accorded servants varies widely. "everything is different with us; now the doctor likes to make him talk. we're all going down there to dinner friday night, did you know it?" "what, all of us? why, that's the night we----" "no, only the men, i mean. the doctor told mrs. pallinder he'd like to have us, and he thought maybe she'd just as lief we were out of the house, while all of you were getting ready for the performance. there are so many of us, you know, for 'william tell.' some of the fellows have sent their clothes out to his house, and are going to dress there." muriel looked at him timidly. he was unconsciously opening a door for the entrance of that all-important topic; she was not quick, however, and besides she was in doubt whether--whether it would be quite proper for her to speak to him about it at all! next moment the opportunity was gone. "if we get everybody in a good humour with the first performance, they won't care if 'mrs. tankerville' _is_ a little rocky," j. b. observed sagely. "teddy isn't so good as _jenks the butler_. he's not--not convincing. ted doesn't look as if he could steal a potato, let alone a hatful of diamonds. and then he hasn't the chances to be funny there are in 'tell.' nobody knows their part yet, and here the thing's set for friday!" "i'm rather sure of myself all except one place," muriel said. "we've been going so we haven't had much time to study." "i know. it's an awful rush this season. the girls can stand it, of course; they rest in the daytime. but a fellow's got to go to business. somebody said to arch. lewis the other day, 'oh, never mind. they don't need you at the office.' he said, 'yes, but hang it all, i don't want 'em to find that out!'" muriel listened and assented vaguely; she was not accustomed to young men who had businesses and offices. time was passing, and they were no nearer the point than they were ten minutes ago. she hesitated; and j. b. admired, yet a little wondered at, the swift changes of colour in her cheeks. "these english girls beat everything at blushing," he said to himself; and then removed his eyes with a sudden guilty flush over his own face as he realised that he had been staring too hard. but, jove, what a beauty she was! "you all think mr. johns is very good in his part, don't you?" said muriel, nervously conscious that they had been silent too long. american men, she had noticed, expected the girls to do the most of the talking; and, somehow, the girls did. "why, yes, especially in 'tell,' don't _you_?" "well, i--i don't always understand, you know. and the last night we rehearsed, after we went to that dinner at the ellises', i couldn't even make out some of the words he said, he spoke so----" "he--he wasn't very well--we had to call the rehearsal off, you remember?" interrupted the young man hastily. muriel was surprised to see him redden and avoid her eyes. there was an awkward pause--the kind of pause that, had muriel been an american girl, with their uncanny sharpness of intuition, she would not have allowed to occur. but, had muriel been an american girl, this history would have remained forever unwritten. but for her visit to the pallinders' there would have been no 'tell,' no 'mrs. tankerville,' no dinner at doctor vardaman's--who can say what might have happened instead? "ted can imitate billy rice first-rate," said j. b., anxious to steer gracefully away from an uncomfortable situation. "we had a minstrel-show one time, and he made up to look like rice and sang that song of his: "arthur, they say, will em-i-grate," "then all the rest of us had to shout, you know, "when?" "bye-and-bye! into the ma-tri-mo-ni-al state." "when?" "bye-and-bye!" "they're all the time getting off something about the president marrying again, you know. teddy was as good as rice any day." "billy rice?" repeated muriel. she had not thought the fragment of comic song very comic (and therein i dare say she was right), and she knew no more who billy rice was than--than the average reader of these lines. time has dismissed that fat, jolly troubadour. upon what bank of misty acheron does he now perform his melodies? and where are the snows of yester-year? "he's a big fat fellow--a white man, you know. they're all white, but blacked up, in the minstrel-shows," j. b. explained patiently. "fancy! what do they do?" "why, sing and dance; buck-and-wing, and all that. it's rather knock-down-and-drag-out fun, some of it; and some's pretty good." "i don't believe i'd understand the jokes," said muriel forlornly. "it's so different at home--it's quite simple. everyone always knows when to laugh. but you know that song you sing in 'tell,' 'the maiden on the icy plank,' that first verse--would you mind explaining? you know where it says: "the maiden on the icy plank showed conduct quite surprising, she went and got a cake of yeast-- then fell instead of rising!" i--i don't quite see it--the--the point, you know." "oh, that's just nonsense, you know--it's just silly. the fact is--_yeast_, you know, _yeast_, well, it makes things _rise_, and she _fell_----' "oh, she _ate_ the yeast?" said muriel with a charming smile. "oh, that's very droll!" she almost laughed. "it didn't say that, you see. that's why i didn't understand. but she _ate_ the yeast!" "yes, she _ate_ the yeast," said j. b. resignedly. "one can't quite explain a thing like that somehow. it's only meant to be silly." "most of your american jokes are like that, aren't they? i mean they have to be explained. at first i thought it was because i was slow--but you say such _queer_ things--and one can't ever be certain whether you're in fun or earnest." "i suppose it _is_ hard for a stranger. is there anything else--any other joke, i mean, that you'd like to get at the true inwardness of?" muriel recognised the opportunity she had sought. "i--i wish you'd tell me, if you don't mind, you know that costume you wear in the play, that kilt--why do you wear that, mr. taylor?" j. b. surveyed her perplexed. "why do i wear the kilt and all the rest of it? why--why to make a little fun, you know." "i _thought_ that was it," said muriel earnestly. "but, you see, it's really not funny." "oh, isn't it?" "not a bit," muriel assured him; and then her heart dropped dismally at the expression on his face. he did not looked pleased somehow. "i--i didn't mean that _you_ aren't funny, you know, i mean _it_ isn't funny." "i'm afraid i don't catch the distinction," said the young man a little drily. bitter is the cup of the unappreciated joker. "i mean--i--i----" quavered muriel miserably. "maybe it's because i'm not used to your fun--i don't see things--it's always really funny at home--so different from here--so much easier. but--i--i think you're too--too nice to wear a kilt!" the tears came into her eyes; tears of embarrassment and perhaps some deeper unanalysed feeling. amazement encompassed j. b. what on earth was the matter with her? it was not possible she thought the kilt indecent! "and--and that little red apple on the corner of your head!" faltered muriel. "it all makes you look so foolish--not at all funny. and you're not foolish--really and truly not the least bit foolish--and i think it's a shame for you to make yourself look so!" at the moment j. b. looked exceedingly foolish. her interest was gratifying, of course; there was something almost maternally sweet in it. but it put him, as he phrased it to himself, in an awful box. "you--you're not vexed, are you?" said muriel, holding her chin steady by an effort. the young man glanced at her, and surprised an expression that caused him to look away, crimsoning. the next instant he inwardly cursed himself savagely for a despicable cad. couldn't a nice girl look at him without his imagining----! "oh, i wouldn't get mad about a little thing like that, miss baxter," he said heartily. "i'm feeling pretty stuck-up about your--your speaking of it at all, you know. of course, it _is_ a tom-fool costume, but i've let myself in for it now, and i can't very well back out, and leave them without anybody at the last minute. and i won't look any sillier than the others--not so silly as ted for instance, in women's clothes." "oh, he doesn't make any difference!" said muriel, almost with impatience. "well, he thinks he's pretty important, anyway," j. b. said, wondering privately what they would have done without the comparatively safe and conservative ground of teddy johns' character and abilities for a retreat, when the conversational horizon grew overcast. "in the second play especially--making away with peoples' diamond coronets and things! mrs. pallinder's going to let us have all hers. she's got some sparklers, you know, regular headlights; you've seen her wear them? tell you, if i were in ted's place, i wouldn't want to have 'em in my charge, even for a few minutes--and it's all through the last two acts--until the place where they drag him out from behind the screen, after i'm supposed to shoot him, remember?" "yes, where you say: 'don't put the handcuffs on a dead man, men!'" "and billy potter says: 'he ain't dead; you can't kill that kind with a blast o' dynamite. i guess these here's your tiary, lady.' ted's going to have it all done up in a package in his inside pocket. he says he's going to keep the things in his clothes the whole time. there are so many servants around, and the carpenters to fix the scenery, and the caterer's men--you can't be too careful. 'twouldn't do to leave a five-thousand-dollar diamond necklace lying around loose; everybody in town knows about that necklace, i guess." "do you suppose mr. potter really looks at all like a detective?" j. b. laughed. "no. he cocks his hat over one eye, and acts that tough way, just to give the part a kind of snap--a little go, you know. but the only detective i ever knew was a very quiet, gentlemanly sort of fellow. we had a little trouble at the bank once, and had this chap--his name was judd--there for a couple of weeks, in plain clothes, you know. he didn't look like vidocq either--not a bit. he looked like--like--well, a nice young fellow clerking in a shoe-store, say." "fancy!" the music achieved its final chord; and the stairs promptly filled with resting couples. mrs. gates came out of the parlour with an armful of gilt shepherds' crooks and wreaths of tissue-paper roses. she looked up at the long slant of young people, nodding and signalling; and went back to speak to the musicians. the "juhman" was about to begin. "i do think it's too funny for any use," said kitty oldham across her late partner to the nearest girl, "the way britannia throws herself at _somebody's_ head. simply monopolises him the _whole_ time." "oh, they were just sitting out one dance," said the man with her, displaying an unexpected acuteness. "never mind looking at me that way, miss kitty. i know whom you were talking about. j. b. just didn't want to dance it, i guess." "no wonder. self-preservation's the first law of nature," said kitty with undaunted pertness. "funny they don't teach 'em to _dance_, on the other side, isn't it?" "oh, she thinks she's dancing," said kitty, lazily scornful. "it's a delusion they all have, i suppose. j. b.'s the only man around big enough for her--except gwynne, and he's tall, but he's too slim. he's dropped out of the play--did you know?" "why, no--what for?" "i don't know. if he'd been here to-night, i'd have asked him. he just walked off, and nobody said anything, for fear of putting their foot in it. i guess there never was a thing of the kind yet, that there wasn't a lot of fighting about. it's bound to be that way, you know. nobody will be on speaking-terms before it's over." "have they got someone to take his place?" "i believe joe mchenry is going to do matilda, and they're going to leave out joe's old part--it wasn't much anyway, and somebody or other can take his speeches. pretty nearly every man in town that can sing or act at all is in it already, you know. archie says he doesn't know what they'd do, if anyone were to be taken sick." "but why do you suppose gwynne----?" "goodness knows! it's a bother, we'd fixed up all the programmes with his name on, and there isn't time to make a whole new lot now. you can't tell anything about it--there's a queer streak in all the gwynnes, you know." chapter seventeen doctor vardaman's house wore something of a festive look on friday night when the "all-star cast," as some ribald jeerer had christened them, of "william tell," began to arrive. it was partly due to the appearance of huddesley in his worn evening-clothes, carefully brushed and pressed. how he contrived to get the dinner--and it was a good dinner--cooked and ready for serving, and yet present himself in the doctor's little oil-clothed entry to open the door whenever the bell tinkled, clean, cool, and unhurried, ready to take charge of overcoats and hats--how huddesley did all that, i say, would have been a mystery to any woman. even some of the young men spoke of it afterwards with enthusiasm. as i have already stated, it happened that i never saw huddesley except once, later in this same fateful friday evening, as we shall presently hear, so that i am unable to describe him; but he achieved a certain measure of immortality in much better-known and more widely-read columns than mine will ever be. and in fact there could not have been much about him to describe; i think he was undersized and lean, a decent-looking, temperate, capable creature. but nothing in his appearance, they tell me, would have moved one to a second glance at him; and perhaps it was that very neutrality of face and figure that adapted him so well to his position. that, and his manners, prudently balanced between respectful reticence and respectful interest. he had contributed in no small share to the coaching of everybody in the all-star cast; he knew these young men as well as any subordinate can know his superiors--yet he took their coats in sedate silence, recognising them only by his grave "yes, sir," and "no sir," and retiring to his kitchen as soon as his services were no longer needed. just once did j. b. imagine that he detected a faint flavour of--call it irony or covert impudence in the man's bearing; and he presently dismissed the idea from his mind as too fantastic. it was when huddesley was hanging up teddy johns' coat alongside the others on the old-fashioned iron hat-rack, wrought in the semblance of a grapevine with tendrils and bunches of fruit that decorated the hall between two life-size oil-paintings of the doctor's "big-bugs." "who's that, huddesley?" asked teddy affably, indicating by a nod the one to the right. "the respectable-looking party in the knee-breeches, i mean." "that's doctor vardaman's grandhuncle, i believe, sir; 'e's dead." "no, you don't say? tst, tst! too bad! that's the first i've heard of it. when?" "habout heighteen-twelve, hi hunderstand, mr. theodore," said huddesley, paying the tribute of a deferential smile to the other's jocularity. "well, well, in the midst of life--the doctor's bearing up tolerably, however, i see. do you suppose it was a good likeness? what a terrific big red nose the old boy had, didn't he?" "hi'm hafraid 'e was haddicted to the bottle, sir," said huddesley respectfully. "that's what comes of the 'abit hoften." "hey? the bottle?" "yes, sir--'e took a drop too much, i dessay," said huddesley without the slightest change of expression. "but a great many gents did in those days compared to what does now, hi'm told. heverybody's very temperate _now_, sir, as you must 'ave noticed. 'e probably began hearly, the hold gent yonder; you might say 'e was brought hup on the bottle." j. b. eyed the man as teddy, colouring a little, turned hastily into the parlour; but huddesley's face was guileless. it was impossible to guess how much the fellow knew or meant to hint, though, indeed, it would have required no great penetration to discover poor teddy's weakness. the wonder was that huddesley, the silent, the discreet, should have allowed himself to touch upon the subject at all. it struck j. b. that he was almost too innocently humorous; he wondered if they had spoiled huddesley, as colonel pallinder had predicted, by their unthinking familiarity. muriel's words recurred uncomfortably to the young man's mind: "you think he's english, but you don't _know_." "he's no more like a servant at home than our stage-yankees are like you." but the idea of his being anything else, of his perpetrating an elaborate hoax extending over two months and involving disagreeable manual labour, for no conceivable end, was too preposterous. the thought, hardly more than half-formed, floated across j. b.'s mental horizon, and vanished like a shred of cloud before the wind. yet his confidence in huddesley was oddly shaken; he halted, wavering at the fulfilment of a plan he had had in mind but a moment earlier. to say: "look here, huddesley, i wish you'd not fill mr. johns' glass as often as the rest of us, and never quite full anyhow"--surely that would have been a small matter, and no disloyalty to his friend, rather a kindness. and huddesley was discreet--yes, that was just it, confound his wooden-faced discretion! all at once it savoured to j. b. of slyness. this uncertain mood was new to him, and while he hesitated in a kind of irritated wonder at his own lack of resolution---- "beg parding, mr. breckinridge, sir, did you want to speak to me?" said huddesley. that settled it. j. b. felt as if those respectful eyes had bored through into his thoughts. "no," he said shortly; and followed teddy into his host's presence. doctor vardaman's guests sat down some ten or twelve strong, the doctor at the head of his table, in a dress-coat the fashion of which antedated even huddesley's, with his iron-grey hair brushed forward in a tuft over each ear; with a black stock such as he had worn since the year ' ; his eyeglass on a black ribbon aslant across his shirt-front like an order; and a pair of labrador-stone buttons in his cuffs, dark watery-green with a crumb of fire eerily visible in the depths of them. these cuff-buttons signalised the dinner as a gala-occasion; the doctor marked the day with a labrador-stone. he only wore them when the event was of enough importance to justify such a display--a queer sentimental tribute to certain queer sentimental recollections. they had been given him who knows how long ago, and by whom? so do we all in secret offer some absurd and pathetic oblation before the shrines of the past. i dare say when the doctor opened the top drawer of his high-shouldered mahogany bureau and took his labrador-stone buttons out of their dingy little green morocco case, for one moment the breath of a vanished spring saluted him, and the roses still bloomed by the calm bendemeer. thus did the old gentleman preside, invested with the kind dignity of his age and character, and of his noble and beautiful profession; and i have no doubt his ancient bachelor heart warmed a good deal at this exercise of hospitality, at the brave sight of the double row of young men's faces before him, and the deep and pleasant sound of their laughter. the other end of the table was held by mr. j. breckinridge taylor, as the journals persisted in reporting him; and huddesley brought in the soup. the doctor served it himself from a tub of a tureen, with a silver ladle not less than a yard long, both of which had graced the tables of his mother and grandmother--there were giants in those days!--as had all the other furnishings of this memorable dinner. "there was one of those three-story-high cut-glass things, with tiers of cups on circular platforms--i don't know what you call 'em--filled with shaky jelly stuff and cream all foamy on top of it," one more than commonly observant young man told me afterwards. "that was in the middle of the table. and two silver castors with red bohemian glass bottles full of vinegar and oil and things like that, you know, on each side of it; you could whirl 'em around, and pick out the bottle you wanted. and there were shallow glass dishes with jelly and two tall ones like big champagne-glasses, with kind of thick sticky preserves--they had lids, the tall ones. after the soup, everything came on at once, game, prairie-chicken, at the doctor's end, and just plain john smith chicken roasted, about the middle, and boiled leg of mutton with this white sauce that has hard-boiled egg and little green things like pickled shoe-buttons"--he meant capers--"all through it, for j. b. to carve, and oysters and a ham, and four or five vegetables all over the table. there were the funniest old steel knives with ivory handles, and thin old silver forks and spoons with the doctor's crest, and a motto, '_foy tiendrai_,' whatever that may mean, on the backs. everybody had half-a-dozen wine-glasses; and to begin with there were four decanters of sherry, one at each corner of the table, and when we'd finished those--well, you _had_ to have a lot of liquor to get through a dinner like that, you know--huddesley brought out three other kinds." j. b. conscientiously carving the joint at his end of the table, viewed the shrinkage in the decanters with considerable uneasiness. there was nothing prim or kill-joy about j. b. he had no idea of affecting the virtue that denies to another man his cakes and ale. but he was a hard-headed young fellow, not given to self-indulgence of any kind; and although in the state of his birth and earlier years over-drinking was anything but uncommon, he confessed to a sort of contemptuous impatience with the man who did not know when he had enough. it seemed as if one or two of the present company had nearly reached that desirable condition; and still huddesley travelled about the table, impartial as fate herself, leaving no glass unfilled; or even half-full. j. b. could see doctor vardaman's face but imperfectly around the erection of custard-cups in the centre, but he thought an anxiety equal to his own appeared and vanished there by turns. once or twice the old gentleman seemed on the edge of signalling huddesley to hold his hand, but some feeling rooted, most probably in his old-fashioned notions of hospitality, must have restrained him. "tell you what," said j. b.'s next neighbour confidentially, "johns is about as full as i like to see him; it don't take much, you know. he's just good and jolly now, but if he gets much more----" he shook his head dubiously. "say, have you heard anything more about the colonel? i saw gwynne peters on the street to-day----" "hock or madeira, sir?" said huddesley in j. b.'s ear. "hock, sir? yes, sir." "it seems the pallinders--i don't care, hock, i guess. what's the difference anyhow? i don't know one of these wines from the other." "what about the pallinders _now_?" asked j. b. at that very moment, the length of the table away, archie lewis was saying, "suppose you've heard that about gwynne peters, doctor?" doctor vardaman set down his glass with unusual emphasis. "that's the third or fourth time this week that i've heard 'that about gwynne peters,'" said he. "and in spite of it, i've never found out yet what 'that about gwynne peters' is!" "_what!_ didn't you _know_? why, i thought somehow you knew all about the gwynnes. haven't you heard about the fuss with pallinder and all?" the doctor shook his head, and motioned to huddesley for fresh glasses. "never saw anything like the way the boys are getting through the wine," was his inward comment. "and how warm they all look!" then aloud: "so _that's_ the reason gwynne dropped out of the play; i thought it a little odd when he declined my dinner," he said, fixing a thoughtful gaze on archie. "there's been a fuss with the colonel, has there? what was it about?" he fully expected to hear archie say, "why, you know old steven gwynne----" had done this or that. but the young man only looked at him inquiringly. "i thought you always knew all there was to know about the gwynnes," he repeated. "templeton, their agent, has a desk with us--do you know _him_?" "no--yes, i've seen him. he's short and stout and wears spectacles, doesn't he?" "yes, that's templeton. you must have heard father's stories about him and the gwynnes; he has this little real-estate business, and scratches along somehow, i believe the gwynne estate's the biggest part of it. father says it's no trouble at all now compared to what it was before gwynne peters took hold; father says there were two or three years when gwynne was away, before he got through harvard, you know, when templeton's life wasn't worth living." "well, i never understood that gwynne managed the estate personally," said the doctor, recalling, however, a recent scene in his library with considerable interest. "no, he don't. he--well, he manages the family--i guess that's about the size of it. gwynne's getting a pretty good law-practice, you know; he couldn't take his time to run around looking at roofs and down-spouts. that's templeton's job. when he leased the house to colonel pallinder, you ought to have seen templeton! i'll bet he was the happiest man in washington county. he's a nervous, excitable little fellow anyhow. he said pallinder leased it for three years at a hundred and fifty a month, and it was a perfect miracle; the house is awfully old, and it was all out of repair and hadn't any modern improvements, except a furnace. why, you remember what it was like, doctor. well, then, the question of repapering and putting it in order came up, and he told the colonel flat he couldn't allow but just so much (one month's rent, i think) for repairs. it was too funny, doctor, to hear him telling father about it. 'you know there's about twenty of the gwynne heirs, judge lewis,' says he, 'and nobody's got any money, and everybody's got a say; and i simply _couldn't_ promise to do all the colonel wanted. every time i paint a porch or fix somebody's sink, those two old miss gwynnes take to their beds!' you just ought to have seen templeton telling all this, doctor, with those big glasses shining, and his adam's apple kind of working up and down the way it does with nervous men. i guess it's not all pie attending to the gwynnes' affairs, even now. they're all so queer--except gwynne peters, _he's_ all right. finally the colonel said he rather expected to buy the house anyhow, and if they had no objection he'd go ahead and fix it to suit himself, _at his own expense_. this is templeton's side i'm giving you, you know; i guess it's as near the truth as we'll ever get. seems to me templeton was pretty careless, not to have it all in writing. anyhow, you know what they did, doctor; built that little conservatory, and put in all new plumbing, and had the house painted and papered and grained from top to bottom--the lord knows what all the bills will come to--the lord knows and he won't tell! but somebody else will," said archie with a grin. "well, what's happened?" "everything," said archie concisely. "the wonder is, it didn't happen before. in the first place, the plumber turns up in our office the other day with his unpaid bill for six hundred and sixty-four dollars and eight cents. he can't get anything out of pallinder--pallinder cannily refers him to the owners of the property. he comes in with fire in his eye, wanting to sue templeton or the estate--father says he's got a case, too. the plumber's a german, and pretty excitable, and i told you templeton was excitable, so you can imagine what it was like. we tried to smooth 'em down, but we all got so full of laugh, we made it worse, i think. one of the boys in the office says: 'oh, come now, mr. scheurmann, let him down easy, knock off the eight cents, won't you?' 'i vill nodt gompromise! i vill haf my money! i vill nodt knock off von pfennig!' i tell you the office was a lively place for about two minutes, with scheurmann jumping up and down and shaking his fists on one side, and templeton jumping up and down shaking his on the other!" "well, but what's all this got to do with gwynne?" "why, he came in after a while with some papers that i'd taken over to his office a day or so before, when i found that old gwynne fellow that lives out on the farm, you know, and the two little old gwynne twins sitting around like crows waiting for gwynne to come in--i told you about that, didn't i? i was pretty sure right then that there was going to be some kind of trouble. anyway gwynne came into our office, and templeton and the plumber left off jumping on each other to light into him. as if gwynne had had anything to do with it! i never felt so sorry for a man in my life; he's the kind that always shoulders all the responsibility and gets blamed for everything, somehow. he takes the whole business terribly to heart; he'd been to see pallinder, and i guess they'd had it hot and heavy. he was all broken up over it. he told father there was a poor devil of a gardener that had done some work about the greenhouse, and came to him with a bill for twelve dollars; his wife was sick, and he wanted gwynne to see if he couldn't get the money out of the colonel. gwynne didn't say so, but i know he paid that fellow out of his own pocket--he's that sort. he told father if he could he'd rake and scrape and pay the whole thing himself rather than have such a miserable scandal connected with the family. he seems to feel as if it all kind of came back on him--over sensitive, _i_ call it. you'd think it was all his fault." "i think i can understand the feeling," said the doctor. "i'm afraid we've all bowed ourselves in the house of rimmon." "hey? the house? oh, yes, i was going to tell you about that, it all comes out now, the rent hasn't been paid, not one cent, since the first six months! gwynne's going to bring suit. he said he wouldn't do it on his own account, but he's sam's guardian--you knew about sam being out at the asylum, or whatever sheckard calls his place?--and he was responsible for sam's money. i guess he had a devil of a row with pallinder--he wouldn't talk about it. you'd think anyone could have seen all along that the colonel was nothing but an old bunco-steerer, but i suppose gwynne actually thought he was all right until this came up!" "the idea of accepting the pallinders' hospitality doesn't sit heavy on your conscience at any rate," said the doctor. archie looked up, surprised; then he flushed a little and laughed. "why, no, why should it? pallinder's debts aren't worrying me any. and as for talking about him, why, doctor, it's been all over town the last three days." the doctor's wine and the pallinder's affairs circulated in about equal proportion; and there was a good deal of speculation as to how long the present state of things would last--how long the colonel could hold out. "i hope nothing's going to happen--not while that miss baxter, that nice english girl is here, that's all--the papers always go for anything of that kind tooth-and-nail," said j. b.'s neighbour. "and you know, after all, in his way, he's been kind of pleasant to know--i've had some awfully good times up there." "so have i. it seems low-down talking this way, but everybody does," said j. b. the other let his eyes rest on j. b. a moment, half-amused, half-inquisitive. "i wonder--i do wonder what she thinks of us anyway." "she? who?" "why, miss baxter." "pretty small potatoes, i guess," said j. b. absently, one eye on teddy. "she thinks _you're_ all right, old man." "bosh!" said j. b., resenting the tone more than the words. "she told me the other day she thought breckinridge was a beautiful name. 'why, miss baxter,' i said, 'you ought to go to kentucky; that's j. b.'s old home. it's so full of breckinridges, you can't throw a stone without hitting one of 'em!' 'really?' she says, just like that. 'really?' she thought i was in earnest!" "every breckinridge you hit would have a gun in one hip-pocket and a flask in the other," said j. b., turning the talk from muriel as best he could. "bad men to throw stones at, on the whole----" "champagne, sir?" "no! good heavens, do you suppose the doctor expects us to eat all that pudding and jelly stuff, and fruit and nuts and cheese into the bargain? it's--what d'ye call it?--homeric, that's what it is--a homeric feast!" "whash savin' up for, j. b.?" teddy shouted from his seat; and j. b.'s face darkened. he directed a meaning look at teddy's nearest neighbours; but by this time all the young men were beginning to be somewhat flushed, whether from too much eating or too much drinking, and there was an amazing amount of loud talk and hilarity. teddy repeated his question: "why'n't you drinkin', j. b.? huddesley, you've lef' out mr. taylor. mr. taylor's _my_ frien', huddesley. all my frenge here----" he made a sweeping gesture, and knocked over a preserve-dish with a stunning clatter, gazed at the ruin a minute, then burst into a yell of laughter, in which, sad to relate, he was joined by more than one at the table. teddy suddenly straightened up and looked around with profound gravity. "somebody's makin' great deal noise!" said he, with elaborate distinctness of utterance. and then returned to the charge: "why'n't you take some champagne, j. b.? free's air, doctor's champagne. you do' wan' hurt doctor's feelingsh, j. b.?" he inquired pathetically. "i want to be so i can sing my part," said j. b. good-humouredly. "it's hard to sing on top of a big dinner like this, you know, ted. better look out, hadn't you?--for heaven's sake, somebody tell huddesley not to give him any more!" he added in a whisper to his neighbours, and tried to catch the servant's eye. but huddesley was bending all his energies to scooping up with exemplary method and expedition the mess of syrup and broken glass; it seemed impossible to attract his attention. and in another tour of the table he filled teddy's glass again, no one remembering, or perhaps noticing at all, j. b.'s telegrams of consternation. "well, damn it, i'm not his keeper!" said the latter to himself, in a rage. "everybody's forgotten that ted's pretty near the whole show, and they're letting him drink himself blind drunk. he won't be able to stand up after this--i've done _my_ best anyhow," and in a spirit of savage recklessness, he swallowed his own champagne at one gulp, and turned to find huddesley at his elbow with another bottle. caution returned upon him. "say, huddesley, didn't you see me shake my head when you gave mr. johns that last glass? he's had all that's good for him already. now you quit it, you hear me?" said j. b., conscious of some confusion in his own head where _his_ last glass was apparently hurrying to and fro uneasily. he spoke with huge severity; the more as huddesley met his eye with disconcerting intelligence. "oh, lord love you, mr. breckinridge, 'e ain't 'ad enough to 'urt," said he soothingly. "hi won't let 'im get hout o' hand, sir." j. b. all at once found himself standing up. why was he standing up? the occasion somehow seemed to require it. "you mind what i tell you. he's got a very impartont port--i mean a perry veportant imp--i say a very important-part-in-the-play-and-i-don't-want-him-to-be-too-drunk -to-speakstinctly," said j. b. painstakingly. "that's all right, mr. taylor, you just sit right down in your chair--it's a nice chair; you just sit right down, now won't you?" said huddesley still soothingly--too soothingly by far to suit j. b. "don't you give me any impudence," he said darkly. he sat down surveying the assembly with scorn shading into pity. _he_ wasn't drunk, anyhow. but now doctor vardaman had risen in his place at the head of the table, and was asking silence at the top of his lungs--not the best way in the world of getting it, to the mind of a disinterested onlooker, but, as nobody was so far gone yet as not to heed the host of the evening, he was finally obeyed, after teddy, under the mistaken impression that he was being called on to give his justly famous rendition of the farmer about to kill a turkey, had been quelled. "gentlemen," said the doctor, casting a look of some anxiety over his table-full, "let us not forget, that, however much we may be enjoying the present hour--i speak for myself"--here a number of voices assured him heartily, "so are we! you bet!" and so on--"i say, gentlemen, we must not forget that time is passing, and we are due for the entertainment of our friends at nine o'clock. it would never do, i think, to keep the ladies waiting. and, having their convenience in view, i propose that we drink a final glass--" said the doctor, unable to avoid a slight stress on the adjective--"a _final_ glass to the success of the performance and adjourn. reversing what seems to have been the practice of scriptural times, i will offer you a very rare and choice old vintage--you will pardon the conceit that calls attention to its excellence--a wine that was laid down by my father, gentlemen, in eighteen-fifteen, the year of the battle of new orleans, the waterloo year, and, as it happens, the year of my birth. he obtained it--for it has its history--of a dutch merchant in cadiz, and we have since called it, not knowing in truth what its real name should be, mynheer van der cuyp's wine. huddesley----" here huddesley stepped forward, and set before the doctor with something of a flourish two thick black bottles, dusty as to the shoulders, with the corks drawn, and a tray of the smallest variety of glasses--rather miserly provision, it might appear, for such a company, but doctor vardaman, not without considerable show of embarrassment, proceeded to explain: "i--i find myself obliged to warn you, gentlemen, inhospitable as it seems, that mynheer van der cuyp's wine, what with age and the richness of its ingredients, is of an unexampled potency. it is at once smooth and heady, and--and i would not have you taken at unawares. in short, boys," he added earnestly, abandoning his formal manner, "it's the very deuce to go to one's head, and you all have to be careful. huddesley----" again that invaluable person began to circulate. doctor vardaman did not get through his little speech (which he delivered in a style quaintly reminiscent of the after-dinner orators of his youth, in an attitude with one hand beneath his coat-tails) without some uproarious interruptions; the momentary pause that followed had the surprising effect of clearing the brain of at least one in his audience. whatever the others felt, j. b. suddenly realised, as he afterwards put it, that "he had reached his limit." he knew when _he'd_ had enough, and the trepidation visible in the doctor's face as mynheer van der cuyp's wine went on its devastating way, was repeated in his own. if the truth were known, the old gentleman had been congratulating himself on bringing off what he considered a tolerably clever _coup_ to end a sitting which promised disaster to some of the company; and doing it without offence. but alas! for the best-laid plans of mice and men! the catastrophe had occurred; some, perhaps most of the men were a little the worse for liquor; a few minutes of cool night air would cure them; but teddy johns, their prime performer, the peg upon which hung all their hopes of success, teddy was hopelessly drunk. no night air, no applications of crushed ice and wet towels would cure _him_. teddy was very good-natured; he sang, he winked, he joked, he told stories, he lavished endearments on his "frenge." even in his worry, the doctor found time for the reflection that wine in, truth out is the most solid of maxims; liquor puts nothing into a man's nature that was not there already, it can but reveal him naked; and if he will be a brute in his cups, it is odds but you shall find him a brute at heart out of them. there was nothing brutal about poor teddy; you could no more be angry with him than with a child. too late the doctor regretted his hospitality, too late he lamented the love of good cheer and youthful company that had prompted him to this inordinate abundance. he was in the frame of mind to write a temperance tract; and a sarcastic grin fled across his features as he pictured what that celebrity of his earlier years, mr. t. s. arthur, would have made of the scene--the moral he would have drawn therefrom. once i myself had the privilege of tasting the wine of mynheer van der cuyp. it was a dark and heavy liquor, pouring like oil, rich of aroma, searching the veins with subdued fire. perhaps few of doctor vardaman's guests could appreciate that marvellous flavour; at any rate teddy was the only one to express a clamorous approval: "pretty goo' for ol' chickencoop! give us s'more, huddesley!" and huddesley stolidly gave him some more, oblivious to signs. it is with great reluctance that this historian enters a record of the disgraceful scene--but the thing must be done. the horrid tale of mynheer van der cuyp's wine cannot be omitted. of course, no man who reads about doctor vardaman's banquet has ever so far forgot himself as to get drunk, not even when he was a boy; he always had the strength of character to resist that beastly temptation. and any woman knows very well that instead of an assemblage of fairly decent and manly young fellows, the doctor's guests were all low, swilling louts and boors. so be it; it is true that they turned out, as years went on, to be tolerable citizens most of them, good husbands, fathers of families for whom they toiled honestly and provided handsomely--but all that has nothing to do with the matter in hand. j. b. bounced up with great, even unnecessary vigour, crying out: "oh, this has got to be stopped--one of you fellows take it away from him!" "no use now, breck," said archie dolefully. "that jag will last till morning." "jag yourself!" said teddy epigrammatically, if somewhat indistinctly. "take away his glass, i say!" "shan't either," said teddy, grasping it unsteadily. "j. b., for shame! you're drunk----" he got to his feet wavering; everybody was up by this time. "doc' vardaman, 'pol'gise--j. b.'s condition--sorry----" he tried to carry the glass to his lips, failed, and it crashed on the floor. teddy stood swaying, he smiled benevolently upon the doctor, "sorry," he murmured. "look out! hold him up!" "huddesley----" "here--hold on----!" a chair went over. huddesley sprang to the rescue. "sorry," repeated teddy sleepily, "lead horsh to water--can't make him stop drinkin'--sorry." he drooped on huddesley's shoulder. "'old hup, mr. theodore," said the latter amiably. "lord! 'e 'as 'ad a leetle too much, ain't 'e? never mind, gents, hi'll get 'im hupstairs, hi've 'andled 'em before." "here's a nice how-de-do, now what's to be done?" said j. b. despairingly as teddy was dragged off. he looked around on the suddenly sobered and very shame-faced group. mr. t. s. arthur could not have pointed a moral half so well as did the spectacle of that drunken lad; for somehow every man there felt himself at fault. dr. vardaman was not a little downcast; he saw himself in the unenviable posture of an old silenus, leading boys astray. "i am to blame for this, boys," he said, glancing about in genuine distress. "i--i----" "no, you aren't, doctor, we were all taking too much," somebody said. "and we're old enough to know better. we ought to have looked out for ted." "what i want to know is, what are we going to do now?" repeated j. b. and in the silence of blank looks that followed, huddesley came back. "'e'll do nicely now, gents," he announced cheerfully. "hi'll go hup and get the rest of 'is clothes hoff hafter a while. 'e was a _leetle_ fractious habout being' hundressed, but hi persuaded 'im 'e was goin' to put on 'is costoom for 'william tell,' and 'e let me take 'is coat like a lamb." "'william tell,' hey?" said archie grimly. "it's all up with 'william tell' now." "sir?" said huddesley aghast. "worse than that--it's all up with 'mrs. tankerville,' too." "five minutes to nine! we ought to be there now." "well, we'll just have to tell them that he's been taken sick----" "everybody knows what that means," said j. b. impatiently. "might as well tell the truth." "good lord! what will the girls think? and miss baxter, too--what will _she_ think? what will everybody say? we'll never hear the last of it! can't anybody--can't one of you fellows take his part? here, ollie hunt--or you, joe?" vain hope! "i'm doing gwynne peters' part as it is," said joe, helplessly. a hurried canvass revealed the dire fact that the one or two men who were of a size to wear the dress either were already provided with parts of too much importance to be left out, or could not sing the music allotted to _mrs. gessler_. nobody remembered the dialogue in either play; but that was a small matter, if only someone could be found, a dummy, a straw man, anybody to appear on the stage and read the lines. things looked black--and already the carriages of prompt arrivals were beginning to roll into the pallinder gate. "couldn't you give him some stuff--something strong that would bring him around, doctor?" it was asked as the old gentleman returned from a look at his guest. "they won't be surprised at an amateur performance being late--and an hour might straighten him out." the doctor shook his head. "nothing i know of in the whole range of medicine," said he briefly. "he's sound asleep, stupefied, dead drunk, or whatever you choose to call it--as if he'd been drugged. mynheer van der cuyp's wine was the last straw--terribly strong stuff." "i guess there's no way out of it--we'll have to give the thing up or postpone it," said archie gloomily. "nice job for the pallinders, isn't it? think of the staging and lights----" "and the house all floor-clothed and decorated----" "and the orchestra----" "_i'm_ waiting to hear what old botlisch will say, that's all!" "we'll have to stand from under when _she_ begins, i guess." "can't be helped now, fellows, we'll have to take our medicine. but who's going to tell 'em?" "beg parding, mr. breckinridge, sir, but you ain't goin' to give hup the plays on haccount of mr. theodore, are you?" huddesley inquired with a face of consternation. "have to, huddesley," said the doctor. "there's no one to take his place, you know." "but, beg parding, sir, 'ow'll you hexplain?" "why, somehow--anyhow--get up some kind of story." "doctor vardaman, sir," said huddesley, wagging his head solemnly. "murder will hout. wotever story you get hup, you'll 'ave--if you'll hexcuse my saying it--you'll 'ave the devil's own time." "well, we've thought of that, but----" "you 'aven't thought hof heverything, sir," said huddesley in a melodramatic undertone. "the papers, sir!" (and nothing but the largest capitals will express the curdling whisper with which he brought out the words). "'hawful horgies hamong the four 'undred! private life of heminent physician revealed! days hof hancient rome recalled! hextry! hall habout the scandal in 'igh life!' that's what it will be sir, as sure as fate!" his face and gestures were vividly pictorial; headlines such as he suggested in letters half-a-foot high on the first page of the morning journals loomed upon everyone's mental vision. j. b. looked at the man and again suspicion awoke within him. "any editor that publishes lies like that will get a horse-whipping," said he deliberately (j. b. was not born a kentuckian for nothing). "and if any story of the kind gets out, the man that starts it will get another. if you want to be bought off, huddesley, you've come to the wrong people." "i wasn't thinking of that, mr. breckinridge," said huddesley, cringing. "i only wanted to save trouble." "save trouble how?" "why, if it isn't presuming too much, sir, i--i could do mr. johns' parts, i've heard him often. i don't want to be putting myself forward, sir, but i gave him some suggestions about the _business_, and you yourself were so kind as to say that they were good ones." j. b. and the doctor stared at first incredulously, then with a glimmer of relief. the servant was plainly in desperate earnest. his forehead was wet, there was colour in his sallow cheeks, he twisted the napkin in his hands. but j. b., as he afterwards confessed, paid little enough attention to the changes in huddesley's manner, singular as they were; he was too much occupied with this possible way out of their difficulty. if huddesley _could_ do it, the day might yet be saved. no one but the performers need know it; in the _mrs. gessler_ make-up teddy was unrecognisable from the front, as also when he appeared as _jenks the butler_ in mutton-chop sidewhiskers. they were all men in "william tell"; in the second play, his rôle would not bring huddesley into offensive contact with the girls; they would have to be told, but trust mazie pallinder to carry off a situation like that! if huddesley could manage to get through, some excuse could be found for his non-appearance afterwards; nobody would suspect anything, and when the truth did come out, gossip would have been staved off for a little while at least, and people rarely halloo long on a cold scent. j. b. questioned the doctor with a glance; then called to the others: "i say, you fellows, come here a minute, i want to talk about something!" chapter eighteen when i meet some fellow-performer in the pallinder theatricals nowadays we seldom fail to hark back to that noteworthy occasion before we have had out our talk. there were many of us and we have since scattered wide to widely differing lives, yet, i think for most this episode of the eighties probably bulks largest in the dun landscape of our respectable careers. this is no tragedy; we all married--or by far the greater number of us--and lived happily at times, at times unhappily, as people do, ever after. but we never came nearer to adventure. reviewing that night with a friend, i am always amazed at the stirring events that took place within the notice of only one or two persons; we each cherish a different recollection. so much seems to have happened to us individually, it is after all not surprising that something tremendous should have happened to us collectively. not long since, as we were discussing it in a company, someone said: "wasn't it awful when i fell over the jardinière right out by the footlights?" nobody else remembered the shocking occurrence! this heroine is now a comfortable matron of forty-odd with two daughters at bryn mawr; she has a handsome establishment, and an excellent dressmaker; her only anxiety, i believe, is her youngest son, who is a delicate child. it is strange to think of this sensible middle-aged woman, who, like all the rest of us, has lived out her romance, seen the world, suffered who knows how many griefs and disappointments, and yet had her share of happiness, it is strange to think of her harbouring all these years the stinging memory of how she fell over the jardinière. the mind has a vexatious pet-animal trick of picking up and storing away trivialities; what would we not all give to remember what is worth remembering--and to forget! i said we were many; for, besides the cast of "tell," "mrs. tankerville's tiara" demanded a practically unlimited number of young people in full dress for the ballroom scene. i have since suspected that mazie, the diplomatic, selected the play for that very reason. she asked all the débutantes, and every one else who was "anybody"; and, no matter what we said, we were all sufficiently tickled to figure so publicly in a new dress, even if only for a few minutes, and in what i have seen aptly ticketed a "thinking part." such was my own, and i was divided between a feeling of relief that i had no speeches to remember and deliver in the hollow expectant silence of the audience-room, and an inward conviction that had i been cast for a leading rôle, i should have done much better than anyone else. the performance was, of course, late in beginning; but everybody expected that, and although people had been invited for nine, many did not arrive until long after. to this day i can remember the look of the ballroom,[ ] very high, wide, and chilly, rows of empty chairs drawn up across the floor, spirals of smilax twisted around the pillars--it was a hard place to decorate, so big and bare--and mrs. pallinder erect by the door, with a grove of potted plants behind her. she had to receive by herself, as mazie took part in the second play, and did not care to dull the effect of her first costume by letting it be seen prematurely. mazie had a fine idea of dramatic proprieties, and a certain sense of climax. the colonel did not show for some reason; i believe he was downstairs, welcoming the men as they came in, to the punchbowl on the sideboard. mrs. botlisch had providentially gone to bed with a bilious attack; she had entertained us with a particular account of her symptoms, remedies, and their results at luncheon. so mrs. pallinder received, looking rather haggard, i thought, in spite of her rouge; perhaps it was because she was not wearing those famous diamonds, and one missed their generous brilliance. jewels were eminently suited to mrs. pallinder; her fair hair and clear stone-grey eyes seemed to gain a needed lustre from her necklaces and pendants, and she was the only woman i ever saw who could wear an earring gracefully. that barbaric ornament set her ear like a drop of dew on the petal of a flower--there was no hint of mutilation about it; and i believe she could have sported a stud in her nostril without offence. she was placed to the utmost advantage; her delicately classic head and white shoulders were detached upon the background of dark foliage with a charming cameo-like effect. but she was all one faint exquisitely-faded colour in an ashes-of-roses silk, and that or something else more subtle made her look strangely older. she had surrendered her diamonds with many playful-serious cautions to _mrs. tankerville_, that is, mazie; and that young woman was decorating her languid oriental person with them in the depths of her den of rocking-chairs and mirrors. the chorus of "william tell" arrived a long while ahead of the stars, who, as we have seen, were dining with doctor vardaman. even by the time the chorus had finished dressing--there was only one of him, as i believe i have intimated elsewhere, a tall fair young man, who wore eye-glasses in private life and was a great admirer of mazie's,--the rest of the cast had not yet put in an appearance. i suppose if we could have known what was going forward in the swiss cottage we would have been much exercised; but we had no apprehensions, and no quick means of communication, if any doubts had assailed us. few private houses had a telephone in those days, not even the pallinders--which was, no doubt, owing in large part to the inconvenient habit prevailing among telephone-companies from the earliest times of demanding quarterly payments in advance, and removing the instrument if they were not forthcoming. so far from worrying, however, we found some pleasurable excitement in the long wait behind the scenes, and stealthy peeps through the eye-hole. the setting for "tell" was the same throughout its two acts as i recall, a swiss picture with alps in the background, canvas trees and foliage to the front, and a "practicable" well with a gigantic sweep, whence they brought up pails of water and diluted the contents of _tell's_ milk-cans--he was a dairyman in the burlesque; this was the _schactenthal waterfall_, and was the subject of many noble apostrophes from all the actors; even _gessler_ and _jemmy_ had something to say about it. there was a trap-door in the floor of the stage and a servant stood to hand up buckets as they were needed. "most people," the chorus remarked to me, "would have had to put up a lot of money for all this. the colonel got a carpenter from the grand opera house, not the head man, i suppose, but some second-best fellow they could spare, to plan and oversee it all, so that everything would be safe. that's the man over there now; he told me the bill for the lumber alone would be thirty-five or forty dollars--and it's good for nothing but kindling-wood after to-night, you know." we were sitting together on a green baise-covered mound, very much in the way, doubtless, as we watched the men getting things in position. i had no business to be there at all, but i was dressed and ready for my part, and so alive with curiosity and excitement, i could no more stay in one place sedately than a young kitten or puppy. the stolid professionals at work on the scenery endured our presence on the principle, perhaps, that bids us to suffer fools kindly. "the pallinders must be awfully well off," i said. my companion eyed me soberly. the chorus was a serious and practical young fellow; at the present time he is conducting a great milling business somewhere up in michigan. they make two or three kinds of breakfast-foods, i think, and have been extraordinarily successful. but we were not dreaming of that the night we perched together on the make-believe mound behind the swaying drop-curtain; rather must his thoughts have been occupied with mazie pallinder, her long serpentine figure, and sprightly drawl. for i noticed how his eyes wandered constantly in the direction whence she might appear. "i wish the boys would get here," he said, wrinkling his brows. "it's half-after already. they're beginning to crowd in pretty thick--last time i looked all the first fifteen rows were taken. is--ah--is miss pallinder going to come and help her mother receive? i didn't see her. but if she is, i--ah--i really ought to go and speak to them." he coloured furiously at the mere mention of her name; and it struck me as exquisitely humorous that his goddess was probably at that instant producing just such a blush on her own well-tried cheeks by what mysterious agency! pink nail-paste and talcum-powder had a good deal to do with it, i believe. "she isn't there, and you shouldn't go in costume anyhow. nobody ought to be seen beforehand--mazie says so. she's all dressed and sitting in her room until 'mrs. tankerville,' begins. how did it happen you didn't go to dinner at doctor vardaman's with the others?" "why, i had to go down to the train to meet susie; she's coming on from new haven with the two children to make us a visit. her train was due at eight, but it's five hours late--stalled at a washout just this side of pittsburgh, the fellow at the ticket-office told me. he said all the pan-handle and b. & o. trains were coming in anywhere from one to nine hours behind the schedule-time. freshets, you know; the ohio's on a boom. they're having an awful time in cincinnati, they say, biggest flood in years. there, isn't that j. b.'s voice?" i beat a hasty retreat for mazie's room, where the entire feminine cast of "mrs. tankerville" was by this time collected. we had to be bestowed in some place where we could talk in safety; and no talking could be allowed "behind" while the plays were in progress, even such a scatter-brained crew as we were, knew that. but from time to time one of us would steal out to the wings, watch the familiar antics, listen to the familiar jokes a while, and bring back a report. i believe we enjoyed this excited hour or two more than anything that went before or after. in mazie's room the gas flared high; the chairs, the lounge, the bed were heaped with finery. we pulled a big pink silk screen in front of the door so that the arriving audience, taking off its wraps in the other bedrooms, might not see us. there was a green-room atmosphere (we thought) of flowers, candy, perfume, acid gossip; and now and again we could hear one of the men rushing through the hall outside to their quarters in the wing, for a change of clothes; or a thunderous burst of laughter, "like a dam giving away," kitty said, when the dining-room door in the hall below swung open. "it's going all right," she reported, returning from one of these expeditions with very bright eyes and flushed cheeks. she looked distractingly neat and coquettish in her black frock, cap, and short ruffled apron as the maid; and i was afterwards told that one of the men had caught and kissed her in a dark corner behind the prompter's chair. they all seemed to be in wonderfully high spirits. "only it's so funny the audience sometimes laugh in places where we didn't expect 'em to at all! you ought to see j. b. taylor. he looks perfectly _immense_ in that kilt; i didn't _know_ he was such a big man; great big round pink arms like this! and the kilt kind of peaks down right in the middle of the back; harry smith called him doctor mary walker; and _gessler_ said he ought to have a bustle--right out loud so that the people could hear! they call that _gagging_ the part." she sent a glance of sparkling malice, suggestive, somehow, of a file of small new pins, toward muriel. "j. b.'s the _silliest_--you can't help laughing to save your life." "did they laugh at teddy?" "like everything! he's a little husky, or else it's too much dinner, his voice sounds kind of queer, but i guess that will wear off in a minute." she added in a rapid whisper, as mazie's back was turned, "girls, it's _rich_! he's got himself up to look about as fat as mrs. botlisch in an old gingham wrapper without corsets, you know, and he's sort of taking her off, he's simply _splendid_, people just roll over and laugh every time he opens his mouth." "is doctor vardaman there?" "what, behind? no. he's not here at all, one of the men told me. he had to go and sit up with some sick person, or something. don't you want to see j. b., muriel?" "no," said muriel flatly. she was looking acutely distressed, like a large sorrowing madonna. "i think mr. johns must look a great deal sillier," she said with a kind of defiance. "or that other--what is his name?--the one that pretends to be the chorus, just one of him--he's _very_ silly!" "how is bob doing?" mazie asked. bob was the chorus. he was no actor; but the part only required someone with a voice, and he had a really beautiful high sweet tenor. all he must do was to appear in season and out of season and jodel, which he did to admiration, with a perfectly grave face, for as i have said, he was of a sober disposition, and to tell the truth saw nothing comic in it. but about the seventh or eighth jodel the audience fell into paroxysms of laughter and so continued whenever the chorus came on. bob made one of the hits of the evening, to his own great confusion and the frank surprise of everyone else in the cast. "bob? oh, all right. but that's one of the things they're laughing at; isn't that funny?" "why not, if he's funny?" said muriel, puzzled. "oh, i don't mean funny _that_ way, you know, i mean _funny_. why don't you come and look on a while, maze? bob'll do better if you're there." "oh, i guess i don't care to," said mazie with indolent emphasis. "i'd tear my dress or something. it's all full of ropes and nails and pegs behind there." she leaned back in her rocker, contemplating the sweeping breadths of her dull red silk train, spangled with jets; the front of her low corsage darted light from innumerable facets of jet and diamonds. in the absence of an actual tiara, her mother's diamond necklace had been fastened on a symmetrical frame of silver wire, and gleamed abroad from mazie's dead-black hair, arranged in a forest of bangs. without a single pretty feature, she wrought a curious illusion of dark and brilliant beauty; and kitty gave her the tribute of an unwilling admiration. a girl, and not a handsome girl at that, who was too lazy or too stiff-necked to walk half-a-dozen steps to show herself when she was looking her best to a man, who as we all knew was in love with her, and who would be no poor match either--such a girl, i say, commanded all the respect of which kitty's small soul was capable. then i adventured again, alone; and harvested a sensation. for, while i was standing in the left wings, between two blocks of scenery, with my skirts furled as close as the fashion of the day would allow, to avoid casual tacks, teddy johns came off, followed by a gratifying, yet somehow a little awesome, burst of applause. he stood close beside me breathing hard, for his humour was largely acrobatic, and dabbing the perspiration from his forehead and cheeks with a corner of handkerchief, daintily so as not to mar his paint. and the audience clamoured a recall. i suppose there were not more than a couple of hundred people in the ballroom, yet the noise they made was deafening in so contracted a space; there was something formidable and pitiless in that great insistent voice. sudden comprehension of what stage-fright might be came to me, and i looked at teddy with admiring wonder. what must it be to face that hydra of a creature, that thing of many souls fused into one unthinkable whole out there beyond the footlights! "weren't you frightened?" i whispered. he turned towards me--and it was not teddy johns at all! it was a man i had never seen before. i was so startled i could only gasp and stutter; the light was good enough, yet i thought it must have misled me, and peered into his face anxiously, expecting his familiar chuckle. his features were a mask of paint, apparently laid on at random, but as i know now, with real skill and knowledge of effect; he wore false eyebrows and a wig with a grotesque "slat" sunbonnet pushed halfway off, and held by the strings knotted under his chin. his body was padded shapelessly. and while i strove to find teddy under this disguise, he suddenly bestowed on me a grin so vicious and repellent, that i almost screamed aloud. whether that expression of amusement was involuntary on huddesley's part, or whether he feigned it out of deliberate deviltry, i have often wondered. i must have uttered some sort of queer noise, for he said in a biting whisper: "hold your tongue, you--fool!" and in the same breath was back on the stage, bowing to the tumult. he made the leader of the orchestra a sign, the instruments crashed out the opening bars of his song, and he began over again. i did not faint or go into hysterics, for i was a healthy and after all a tolerably sensible young woman; but it is impossible to convey any idea of my bewilderment. fortunately it lasted only a moment or so. huddesley made his second exit to the right, for the sake of variety, maybe; and the chorus, crossing the stage, stationed himself in the wings almost at my side, that he might be heard jodeling "off," in stage-phrase. "no, that isn't teddy," he whispered, in answer to my excited murmur. "yo-de-la-_hee-ho_!--teddy's sick, that's the doctor's man--la-he, la-he, la-he, ho!--huddesley, you know; they got him to take ted's place, mighty lucky he can, too--yo-de-la--_hee_-ho, yo-de-la-a-a!" footnote: [ ] it was the last time i saw it; in fact, i doubt, on thinking it over, if any of us were ever inside the old gwynne house again.--m. s. w. chapter nineteen doctor vardaman viewed the departure of his guests with mingled relief and chagrin; the evening had not ended quite according to his expectations, and he could not decide whether the disaster was his fault or theirs; perhaps on the whole, they were lucky the outcome was no worse. the young men of this generation lacked the self-control or the physical fibre of their sires, he told himself irritably; and then a queer smile twitched his lips as he remembered his own father saying the same thing. to every age its own faults, and also its own standards of judging them. in his day people used to speak tolerantly enough of a man who drank; it was held a contemptible, but hardly a disgraceful weakness. are we grown better, or only more prudent? we go to church less, but we certainly bathe a deal oftener. the creed of keeping one's health is no such poor creed, when all is said; a man will diet to save his mortal body with twice the vigour and conviction than he will pray to save his immortal soul--and who shall say that it is not right, or at least expedient for him to do so? for after all the health of his soul is his own affair, but the health of his body vitally concerns the welfare of others. thus the doctor, moralising a little far afield from the events of the evening; and he shrewdly suspected that to the rest of the young fellows, ted's drunkenness was not so unforgivable an offence in itself, except for the monstrous inconvenience of it. "and i am afraid i _am_ responsible for that," he said with half a sigh. "if i had married and brought up a family, i should have known better how to manage the lads. eh, louise?" he uttered the last words aloud with a pensive glance at his labrador-stones, and started at the eerie sound of his own voice raised in sentimental monologue beside his empty hearth. "i'm getting maudlin myself, now!" he thought, and went to close the hall door swaying and creaking dismally in a rush of damp, chilly air. it was raining pitilessly; it had rained for nearly two weeks. the doctor, standing in his doorway, beheld the arrowy slant of water shining against the dark where the hall light irradiated it; amongst the irregularities of his brick-paved walk small puddles showed an unsteady glistening surface. the bushes in half-leaf on either side drooped and shone. farther away there was an incessant rumour of wheels, and he was aware of the measured approach and passage of carriage-lamps in pairs, directed toward the pallinder gate. doctor vardaman watched them absently for some time, while the swift wind refreshed his house; then he remembered teddy, whom he had refused to leave alone, slammed the door and went upstairs. the young man was sleeping heavily, spread out upon the doctor's staid old four-post bed; not in years, if ever, had that respectable piece of furniture witnessed such a spectacle, and the doctor had a quaint fancy that it withdrew itself shudderingly from the contamination. it had been his mother's, and a kind of feminine severity appeared in its starched and ruffled valance, as of indignant petticoats. he leaned over and scanned teddy's face, holding his own chin in his hand, with knotted brows; then he felt the sleeper's pulse, listened to his thick breathing, shook his head with a perplexed look, and began mechanically to gather up the clothes thrown here and there about the room. he went back and surveyed the bed again. "very strange," said doctor vardaman. and again: "very strange!" he went downstairs, and, not without a sardonic grin, brought up a pitcher of ice-water, and placed it in readiness on the little old mahogany candle-stand at the sufferer's right hand. the dining-room was a woeful picture as he re-entered it. in the middle of the table, the pyramid of jellies and cream had partly dissolved and trickled down to mix with a waste of crumbled cake, cigar-stumps and ashes, nut-shells, soiled napkins, shattered china--the doctor sat down amid the desolation, likening himself to marius among the ruins of carthage. there was a dreary odour--an odour? a _stench_, doctor vardaman vigorously characterised it--of stale wine, stale coffee, stale tobacco. fragments of cheese swam in pudding-sauce; spent bottles cumbered the sideboard; the door was open into the kitchen, affording a vista of plates piled in tottering heaps, pots and pans crowded on the cold range, a bowl of dishwater crowned with scum in the sink, half-eaten meats and vegetables stiffening grimly in lakes of discoloured gravy. "faugh!" said the doctor in strong distaste, and closed the door on the depressing scene. he sat down in his place at the head of the table. huddesley would have a job of cleaning up this squalid hole on the morrow, he thought, and wondered how the man was getting on in his new sphere; smiled, too, as he reflected that the dream of huddesley's life was being fulfilled. he had wanted to be a "hactor," and indeed he had some turn that way, poor creature! it was strange to think how unequally the gifts of fate are distributed: now there was huddesley, an honest man, not at all a dull man, who, if he had been born in any class but the servant class, even in a less respectable one, might have made more of himself! that inherited attitude of servility was a greater bar to his advancement than dulness or vice; in america it might have been different; we have no definite classes, and no traditions of behaviour. but in england a man who habitually says "sir," and drops his _h's_--here the old gentleman came bolt upright in his chair, upon a sudden moving recollection. huddesley had not dropped a single _h_ nor added one on, since assuming teddy's character! during all the talk that had followed his proposal, and when he had hurriedly recited for them a number of teddy's speeches, his accent had nowise differed from their own. the fact, noted in some obscure corner of the doctor's brain, now in the silence of the vacant room, obtruded itself with an unwelcome insistence. it was a slight thing, yet of a curious significance; a person could not thus at will abandon the habit of a lifetime. say it were not such a habit, what then? why, then the dialect was put on, like a garment; and for what reason? if that was the case, huddesley was by far too much of a "hactor" to be officiating in the doctor's kitchen. we do not look for, nor somehow relish so much versatility in one of huddesley's degree. doctor vardaman's thoughts hardly proceeded in so orderly a sequence as they have been here set down, but by vague speculative turns and windings they reached the last conclusion. he began uncomfortably to review the manner of his engaging huddesley, and was startled to realise how little he actually knew of the man, how haphazard had been his methods of hiring servants. "i'll write to that lord whatever-his-name-was to-morrow," he told himself--and then had to smile a little at this access of belated caution. the whole thing, of course, was capable of some very simple explanation, he thought impatiently, unwilling to own himself baffled; there was not necessarily a dark, bloody mystery about a person's speaking in dialect one moment and in the queen's english the next. it might be that huddesley was the exiled black sheep of some decent, even gentle family--well, perhaps, not a black sheep, but at least a brindled one, not good enough for the station to which he had been born, too good for that to which he had sunk; stranger things than that have happened. he had told a perfectly straight story; even if it were an invention, that, so long as the man behaved himself, was no concern of doctor vardaman's. "and when he misbehaves," said the doctor inwardly, "why, then, like dogberry, i'll let him go, and thank god i am rid of a knave! i don't believe he _is_ a knave, but certainly i've always had an idea he was no ordinary man. maybe i'd better have a talk with him to-morrow." now that suspicion, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, a kind of doubting curiosity, had been aroused in the doctor's mind, it would not down; a dozen instances of slips or inconsistencies in huddesley's conduct thronged upon him. he sat a long while, frowning in uncomfortable recollection; then got up at last, and halfway to the mantelpiece to get a cigar, paused again in puzzled meditation with his gaze on the floor. at his feet there lay the broken bits of teddy's final glass in a sticky morass of mynheer van der cuyp's wine, that calamitous beverage, seeped into the nap of the carpet. doctor vardaman gathered up the largest pieces gingerly, and tried to fit them together; that set of glasses had been his mother's when she went to housekeeping. it was beyond mending, however, and he was on the point of tossing the shards into a waste-basket, when a fresh discovery restrained him. he sniffed at them, sniffed his fingers, got down on all-fours and laboriously sniffed the stained carpet. he rose; "teddy didn't drink that glass," he said aloud. "he only drank the first one huddesley gave him. but he had been drinking all evening." he smelled at some other glasses standing near the young man's place, but apparently could make nothing of them. he went hesitatingly toward the door of a little room opening upon the hall, and at the very threshold wavered in indecision. "oh, this is all foolishness," he said. "how could huddesley--what possible motive----?" he opened the door. it was a dark, windowless place, little more than a closet, which the doctor had put to all sorts of uses, experimenting with chemicals, photographic plates, raising mushrooms, the hundred-and-one devices of industrious idleness. everything there was in a kind of handy masculine disorder, and he often boasted that he could go there in the dark and pick up whatever he wanted without a moment's hesitation. but now he struck a match, and ran an anxious eye along the shelves; he breathed a little freer when he discerned the bottle he sought in its accustomed place with contents undisturbed; it was colourless stuff. "all fancy! i'm getting as notional as an old woman," he said to himself, and was turning away, when some second thought prompted him to reach the bottle down from the shelf. his match had gone out; the doctor went into the parlour, where all the gas-jets were burning wastefully high, and some red tulips he had bought that afternoon to decorate his banquet flagged miserably in the old french china vases. he deliberately removed the cork, smelled it, hesitated, touched the bottle to his tongue. "well, i'll be----," he ejaculated, facing his own pale and perturbed image in the old-fashioned gilt mantel-glass. doctor vardaman did not finish saying what he would be, but with a mechanical precision, poured the rest of the liquid into a vase of tulips. "there wasn't enough there to hurt him," he said thoughtfully. "i _thought_ he didn't seem like a plain drunk somehow. he'll be pretty sick when he comes to, but he'd be that anyway." he sought a cigar, and sat down by the fireless grate with his hands on his knees. "the question is, what next?" said he. "what is the bottom of all this? and what on earth ought i to do?" the old gentleman smoked his cigar out with his queries unanswered, and sat staring intently at the mantel-board, his mind travelling up and down in a fog of doubt and futile conjecture. the mantel-board exactly fitted the opening of the fireplace, and was covered with pale green wall-paper, having an arabesque border in white and gold all around the edges, and in the middle a design of a watteau gentleman and lady kissing beside a fountain at the foot of a flight of marble steps with a temple in the background. clouds, roses, swans, butterflies and turtle-doves contributed to the scene, and on a ribbon scroll beneath one read: "_dolce far niente._" it was an interesting mantel-board and at least fifty years old. the doctor stared so long and so hard that presently he experienced no surprise at finding himself on his way to morning-service at the temple with a bunch of tulips in one hand and a bottle of mynheer van der cuyp's wine labelled somewhat erratically "caution. poison. _antidote, very strong black coffee_," in the other. he was obliged to take passage in a boat with old mrs. botlisch, and when huddesley came around to collect the fare, discovered to his mild annoyance that he had omitted to put on his trousers--a lapse from conventionality which nobody else noticed, however. there arose a terrific storm of thunder mainly, and someone began to be very seasick--and--and---- and then the doctor waked up, with a jerk and the well-known but perfectly indefinable feeling of lateness in the air. he looked around blinking. certain dismal sounds from the bedroom overhead accounted for one feature of his dream, and a fusillade of knocks on the front door supplied the thunder. "why, i believe i've been asleep!" said doctor vardaman, slowly collecting his faculties. a pause, and then more knocking; voices muttered together, feet went to and fro on his porch, somebody fumbled for the bell-handle, struck a match and found it, and directly the bell sent forth a shattering broadside of sound in the waste and deserted kitchen. "i'm coming!" shouted the doctor, adding a brief anathema under his breath, and went to the door. outside the rain had ceased, but a wet wind shook and tip-toed among the trees. there was a ghostly twilight abroad; it was possible dimly to descry the outlines of the landscape. stationary before his gate the lamps of a carriage burned dimly. it was dawn! the doctor repressed an exclamation of surprise and turned to his visitors. there were three of them; one was a policeman in a shining waterproof cape-coat; he was a head and shoulders above the others, and stood back from them deferentially as one in the presence of his superiors. before a word was spoken doctor vardaman observed confusedly that all three drew together, and closed up in front of the opening door, and the policeman shortened his grasp on the baton he carried. "somebody hurt?" inquired the doctor, following up the first idea suggested by this apparition. he was met by a counter question. "doctor vardaman?" said the foremost. the doctor looked at him. he was a commonplace man in commonplace clothes, stoutly-built and active, with rather hard features and quick black eyes. the other might have been his twin, save for a certain youthfulness in his alert gaze; he leaned against the door-post chewing the fag end of a dead cigar. there was a vague hostility in the appearance of these people; in the unbecoming light of early morning, everyone wore a haggard and unkempt air, except the burly fresh-faced policeman in his trim wet-weather gear. "i am doctor vardaman," said the old gentleman. "is anyone hurt or sick?" "no, it's all right, doc., take it easy, nobody's needin' you," said the first speaker. "sorry to knock you up this time o' night, but it couldn't be helped. if my train had 'a' got in on time, i'd 'a' been here not much after supper; but we're just in, i come right up from the deepo. i gotta hump myself, or i wouldn't 'a' thought o' disturbin' you. here's my card. say, you got a man named huddesley, ain't you?" "huddesley?" echoed the doctor, in helpless bewilderment. during the above speech, which had been delivered in a brisk, authoritative, but carefully lowered voice, the speaker had walked in without the ceremony of waiting to be asked, and now stood in the middle of the hall, apparently inventorying everything in it with a swift and practised eye. his subordinates followed, the policeman halting at the door-mat and respectfully wiping his shoes. "yes, huddesley, had him about eight or ten weeks, ain't you? little dark, stocky fellow; talks like he was english; says he was butler to the nobility over there--ain't that him? is he in the house now?" "i don't think so," said the doctor, at once disturbed and resentful. "he had to go out this evening. if you will oblige me with your name, sir, and the object of this visit----?" "you got it there on the card," said the other. "take your time, doc., don't go off at half-cock. i know it's kinder sudden, and i'm sorry, but i guess i'll have to pinch your man. where is he? where'd he go? don't you know whether he's in or not? who's that upstairs?" "that is a guest of mine who is ill," said the doctor with rising irritation. "if you will please to explain, sir----" "i gotta hump myself, or i wouldn't 'a' bothered you, doc.," said the man, civilly enough. "soon's you've got the sleep outa your eyes, you can just look at that card i give you. we ain't goin' to make _you_ any trouble, you know, any more'n we can help, that is. where's his room? upstairs? to the back? go up there and look, judd. here, you, one-o'-the-finest, what's your name?" "clancy, sor," said the policeman, and put a finger to his helmet. "go 'round to the back, and keep your eye out. i'll stay here. is there any other outside-doors, doc.?" "no," said the doctor shortly. "is--ah--is this your card, sir?" "keep your shirt on," said the other soothingly. "you're comin' along by the slow freight, but you'll get there directly. go easy, and when you're through readin' let me know." the doctor, diverting his astounded mind from the spectacle of a strange man of uncouth appearance and no manners giving orders in his house, and another strange man going upstairs seemingly to search it, adjusted his glasses and bringing them to bear on the card which the leader had thrust into his passive hand, read: john p. hopple, collector. mercantile and commercial protective association. d. b. stands for dead beats. b. d. stands for bad debts. we collect bad debts from dead beats everywhere for everybody. we can collect yours. we collect regardless of lodge, politics, or religion. do business with us and we will both make money. _some people don't like us._ "ain't nobody up there," said the ancient, returning from the exploration of doctor vardaman's upper rooms. "except the sick dude in the front room. say, maybe he ain't been on a bat, ain't he? oh, no, i guess not!" "do i understand that huddesley has got himself in trouble owing someone?" asked doctor vardaman, finding the situation somewhat illuminated. "it appears to me, mr.--er"--he glanced again at the card--"mr. hopple, it appears to me that your methods of collecting are unduly--shall i say vigorous? to rout people out at this hour--i've no doubt the man would have paid you without all this to-do. what is the amount, if i may----" "say, ain't you barking up the wrong tree?" interrupted the other, eying him in perplexity. "or--here--say, that's funny, i give you the wrong card. excuse _me_, doc., my mistake. that's a man's business-card i met in the smoker coming from n'yawk. this is _me_. just read that, will you? it's all square, doc., i've got a reference--and judd here's from your own p'lice headquarters anyhow." again the doctor applied himself to a card and found thereon the following legend: william o. grimm. paterson detective bureau. "we never sleep." it was hardly reassuring, in spite of the last statement; but before doctor vardaman had sufficiently collected himself to ask for further enlightenment, the policeman appeared in the doorway. "why--er--say," he remarked, "there's a party in a hack outside here wants to know the way to colonel pallinder's. i told him that there big house standin' back with them big pillows up the front, ain't that right?" "that's the place," said the doctor, half-listening. "an' why--er--say, he said he see by the papers they was a party at colonel pallinder's to-night and do you guess they've gone to bed yet, becos he's met a lot o' kerridges comin' away from this di-rection like it was over, an' he'd like to get there, becos he's gotta hump, he says." "blamed if that ain't hopple!" exclaimed the detective, in admiring wonder. "well, don't that beat the dutch!" "they ain't but that one pallinder in town, is there?" asked the policeman. "he says if they's anybody up yet, he's going to hump right along and ketch 'em." "somebody may not have gone to bed yet," said the doctor, sparing a moment from his own muddled affairs to wonder what this late arrival, and energy of pursuit might mean. "in fact it seems my man huddesley has not got back from there yet. tell him to drive straight on and turn to the right at the gate. did you say you were looking for huddesley, mr. grimm? what for?" "why, for a number o' things, doc., bustin' up a safe at the farmers' an' traders' bank o' sharontown, missouri, an' makin' a get-away with the specie, thirty-two hundred dollars in coin an' greenbacks, for one thing. that was in july, . if he's the man i'm looking for, his name's tuttle, or cohen, or jimmy the toff--he goes by all of 'em--and he's wanted in boston besides for a jewelry-shop job last year." doctor vardaman gazed speechless. mr. grimm's words, delivered in a dry, curt, and entirely unsensational manner, fairly rattled about the old gentleman's ears like hail. he was conscious of anger, of resentment, and in the same breath of a ghastly and growing conviction. "impossible!" he gasped; and then felt involuntarily for his cuff-buttons. "jewelry-shop job! you mean huddesley's a thief!" "put it there," said the detective, nodding encouragingly. "good lord! why--i--i can't believe it. he's been in my house for over two months, and i've never missed a thing!" "i guess you didn't have nothing worth while," said grimm, casting the glance of a connoisseur about him. "he thought it was a good place to hide, or else he was fixing to bring off some other job." "that's what!" said judd briefly. "i--i--it don't seem as if it _could_ be! don't you think there's some mistake?" "not likely," said judd, without emotion. "i spotted him that time i come up here peddlin' collar-buttons--t'ain't more'n two weeks ago--an' i'll bet anything he spotted me, too. he's pretty fly, that fellow." mr. grimm produced a bundle of papers from the inside pocket of his coat, fished out a bit of pasteboard and held it before the doctor's eyes. "that him?" he queried. doctor vardaman surveyed it a while in silence. "i'm afraid so," he said at last, with a sigh. "this is clean-shaven, and huddesley wears mutton chop side-whiskers, but it's the same face, undoubtedly." the detective nodded with a satisfied air, and returned the photograph to its place. he repeated his former question. "did you say he'd gone out? was it to this party to-night? how'd that happen?" "the--the circumstances are a little peculiar," said the doctor. "won't you sit down, mr. grimm? the fact is the young gentlemen of the party--it's an entertainment, private theatricals--were dining with me, and one of them was taken sick----" "the feller upstairs, hey?" interposed mr. judd, smiling slightly. "ahem--yes. well, then, huddesley, who knew his part, volunteered to take his place in the play, you understand. it was a great accommodation----" "hold on a minute. didn't it strike you as kinder queer he should 'a' been so well up in the stage-business? fact is, he _has_ been an actor, he's been pretty nearly everything, but you didn't know that of course. but didn't you ever have any suspicions?" "well, i had always thought the man was rather--rather unusual--a little above his station, perhaps. but _this_! it never occurred to me. you may have heard that there was an attempt at robbing the pallinder residence this winter, and huddesley was one of the first to discover it, and rouse the----" he paused, seeing the two detectives exchange a meaning glance. "told you so," said judd. he got up, walked to the door, spat into the porch, and returned to his seat. "i was _on_--not right off, but pretty soon," said he. "go ahead, doc., you say huddesley took your friend's part in the play----" "i suppose he had seen these young men go through their parts a dozen times. it didn't seem at all odd to us; it would be a long story to go into all the details, but we--we found it most fortunate that he could supply the sick man's place. i wish to say, mr. grimm, that i have no cause, personally, to complain of huddesley. his conduct since he has been with me has been most exemplary, i have never observed anything suspicious----" the doctor came to a dead stand-still, for at that moment his discovery of the evening flashed into his mind with inconvenient abruptness. "you're a kind-hearted man, sir," said grimm, with warmth, "to say what you can for the fellow, but i've got his record. it's queer he ain't back yet." he looked at his watch. "they keep it up pretty late, don't they? it's after three." he got up briskly. "i guess we'd better leave clancy here, judd, an' go on up to the house. looks to me like that'd ought to be our next move. all ready?" he stood a moment frowning over some new thought. "this here party, doc., i guess it was goin' to be pretty swell, wasn't it? i mean ladies all diked out with diamond earrings an' breast-pins, hey?" doctor vardaman, gripping the arms of his chair hard, stared at the detective transfixed. if the various revelations which had visited the old gentleman during the last moment had assumed the concrete, tangible form of so many successive clubbings, he could not have been more stunned. and in the ensuing short silence, teddy's voice could be heard upstairs mournfully requesting more ice-water for god's sake. "got himself good and tanked, didn't he?" said the detective, grinning. "mr. grimm," said the doctor, with difficulty, "i have reason to believe that my young friend has been drugged. i think huddesley found something among some few medicines i keep--it was a preparation of chloroform--and put it in his wine. i happened to examine the bottle, and it had been filled up with water. and the young man's glass smelled perceptibly of the stuff--i was at a loss to account for it--why huddesley should want to drug him, i mean, but i--i am beginning to understand. and--wait a minute!" he interposed as both of the others opened their mouths on a question. "in one of the plays which they were to perform, there is a question of some diamonds being stolen--the plot turns on that episode, in fact. jewels were loaned for the young people to use--very costly ones. i am told mrs. pallinder's necklace alone is valued at----" "told you so!" shouted judd, starting to his feet. grimm quieted him with a gesture. "well?" he said. "teddy's part--the part huddesley contrived to get himself substituted in, was that of a butler who steals the diamonds----" "_well_, well?" "well, sir, he would have them on his person, in his possession, at his mercy, for the last two acts, the better part of an hour----" "_and he ain't back yet!_" screeched mr. william o. grimm. he made a frantic gesture. "have they got a telephone? where's your telephone?" "i have none," said the doctor, feeling as if he were confessing to arson. "the nearest is the drug-store corner of----" mr. grimm uttered an oath direct and brilliant as a lightning-stroke. then he commanded himself with an effort. "judd!" he bawled, making for the door, and even in headlong flight, discharged a shaft of melancholy satire: "no telephone! say, doc., it's a good ways to broadway, ain't it?" said he, and waved a farewell. "so long! many thanks! see you later!" he flashed forth from the house, his retainer at his heels. the doctor saw their tumultuous passage down the walk, saw them scramble, clamber, struggle into the waiting hack, saw it hurl upon its way with vociferations--and silence fell like a blow. there stood doctor vardaman and the policeman staring at each other in the empty porch. "that fellow can hump, can't he?" said clancy admiringly. "you just _gotta_ where he comes from. tell you, new york's th' place!" chapter twenty before "william tell" was half over it became evident that teddy's place was more than filled. there were those among the audience who assured me later that they had penetrated the disguise early in the performance; but, if so, they exhibited rare powers of self-control, for they did not remark upon it at the time, nor indeed until the whole calamitous story had come out and been town-talk for days. some queer _esprit de corps_ kept the girls from spreading the miserable truth about teddy. sick! we knew only too well what was the matter with him; but that was no reason why we should proclaim it to the world. we entered into the conspiracy of silence, partly from a real generosity of spirit and desire to shield the poor fellow, and partly because, as mazie sagaciously pointed out, talking about it would certainly discredit a girl (in a manner of speaking) with the other men. mazie undoubtedly possessed some of the qualities of a born leader, among them that of getting herself listened to, without being either disagreeable or ridiculous; no one of us, not even kitty, would have questioned her knowledge of men and their ways. we knew a dozen who were prettier, better bred, cleverer, and kinder than mazie pallinder, but, when it came to influence, they were nowhere beside her. even now, i believe if she came into my life again, with her sallow, paint-touched face, her slip-shod pronunciation, her odd flat black eyes, her ineffably appropriate and beautiful clothes--i say, even now, i should probably follow and imitate her as i did then! but when the curtain went up on "mrs. tankerville's tiara," and the moment arrived when huddesley must appear as teddy with no disguise save that of a livery and false whiskers, we trembled for the success of the deception. we might have spared our worry; huddesley came on in the ballroom scene with which the play opened, handing a tray of ices--and he was so like teddy in face and movements that even upon the stage where the devices of his make-up could be studied close at hand, the effect was startling. _plus roi que le roi_, he was; he passed his tray not like a butler imitating a gentleman, but like a gentleman imitating a butler; he dropped his _h's_ and stumblingly forgot to drop them with all teddy's humorous self-consciousness. he managed his double part so well, no light task even for a finished actor, that he achieved a kind of equality with us; we forgot that he was doctor vardaman's servant. the thing was so much a matter for gratulations that i think we scarcely remembered it was also a matter for wonder. if j. b. or the other men felt any uneasiness they did not reveal it; but, so ingenuously self-centred is youth, it is probable we were much too deeply interested, everyone in his own appearance and the impression he was making, to be genuinely concerned about anybody else. the audience about whom i had had such fearsome fancies must have been singularly lenient, even more so than such audiences usually are to such performers. my recollection is that, excepting huddesley, we were too bad even to be funny. "mrs. tankerville" is a good stirring comedy-drama, of the type boucicault and tom taylor made so popular during the quarter-century succeeding ; there is an abundance of vivid dialogue, with plenty of "points," and plenty of "situations." but what it all became in our hands is a dire memory. mazie, it is true, made a splendid figure on the stage, and was quite dashing and theatrical, but she forgot two-thirds of her lines, and in the great scene where she accused muriel of the robbery, had to be prompted at every other word. and muriel--well, there was no blinking the fact, muriel was a "stick." she was so big and gentle and honest-looking that no sane person in stage-land or out of it, could have suspected her for a moment of anything more criminal, say, than hopping into bed to say her prayers because her feet were cold! the excitement flushed her so that it was visible through her paint, and she did not look so statuesquely calm and finished as usual; nervousness, which is unbecoming to everybody, set particularly ill on a person of her weight and inches. she knew every word of her part, and recited it with the conscientiousness which she would have shown to the catechism--and with much the same expression! she replied to mazie's halting tirades in the tone and with the air of someone declining a cup of afternoon tea. "will you drive me into the street?" she remarked amiably, and her manner suggested: "well, all right, just wait till i get my hat on!" kitty mimicked her in the bedroom, until the rest of us were feeble with laughter. owing to colonel pallinder's forethought, the machinery of the curtain and footlights worked perfectly, and the stage-settings were orderly and accurate; but aside from these, every accident known to the production of amateur theatricals befell us. at one juncture, when there should have been a "loud crash" behind the scenes, none occurred, no one in particular having been entrusted with that feature of the performance; and, in the midst of a dead silence, jimmie hathaway found himself obliged to exclaim, "good heavens! what is all that infernal din about?" to make matters worse, some over-zealous person immediately thereon made a "loud crash," and jimmie, lacking the presence of mind to repeat his former remark, went on with the next speech: "everything is quiet as the grave, now. what could it have been?" the general verdict was that j. b. did very well, even in the love-scenes where we had thought he would make a failure of it; but j. b. was deservedly popular anyway. he triumphed by sheer force of personality. the young fellow was so kind and hearty and good-looking he could not but be pleasing. whatever applause "mrs. tankerville" brought forth (and that of a sadly feeble and perfunctory nature, i fear) went to him, and none of us grudged it. the play has three acts, and our much-enduring audience had sat through two of them, when huddesley waylaid mazie behind the scenes as she was rushing back for one of her numerous changes of costume. these afforded a species of entertainment that was "not in the bill," as some humourist observed; "mrs. tankerville's" clothes were one of the few points of real interest about the performance. "miss pallinder?" said huddesley, timidly halting in her way. "yes, what is it?" "here's the di'monds," said huddesley, presenting the box, done up for the sake of stage-effect in a rather large and lumbering parcel. "i've been carrying 'em around like you told me to, so they'd be safe. i didn't want to give 'em to hanybody but you, and i've got to go now. you know i don't have to show again, except where mr. taylor comes in and sees me in the mirror, and plugs me over with the pistol-shot, and then they drag me out from behind the screen. and i thought anybody could put on the clothes for that, as long as the audience don't see anything but just a body----" "yes, but what's the matter? why can't you finish?" asked mazie, a little startled. she took the box mechanically, and edged toward her room. "if you please, ma'am, i ain't feelin' very well. i think maybe it's the wet cold night. it's just come over me--i've got a kind of bad turn on the stomach and----" "oh, i'm so sorry," interrupted mazie, fearful from his manner that huddesley was about to enter on some embarrassing details. "better go down and ask my father for some whisky--he's in the dining-room--tell him i sent you. but what shall we do--oh, mr. carson?" the enslaved chorus, who figured in a small part in "mrs. tankerville," approached; he was always hanging around whenever mazie went on or left the stage, in hopes of a word. but the girl now saw him, to her surprise, in overcoat and hat. "you're not going?" she asked, with a pang of regret; she wished, momentarily, that she had been "nicer" to him. whether a woman cares for a man or not, she never sees him leave her without dismay. "you're not going?" said mazie, directing a troubled and wistful smile upon him. "can't help it, miss pallinder," said bob, warming to the very marrow at her glance. "i--i hate to awfully. but it's getting late, you know, and i've got to meet my sister; her train will be in about midnight." "oh, it's not that yet." "pretty near." "but, mr. carson, i don't know what we--i don't know what i shall do without you. i haven't anybody to go to but you. such a pity about mr. johns, isn't it--his being taken sick, i mean--it's upset everything dreadfully. here's huddesley----" huddesley explained volubly--"and if you, or somebody of the young gentlemen could just put on the clothes, mr. robert, the audience will never know the difference; they don't see anything but the body when they drag me out after mr. taylor's shot me. i've got a bad turn on my stomach and----" "all right," said bob hastily. "is that package the diamonds? they have to find 'em on you, don't they? here, i'll do it--i guess i can make the train anyhow. come along and get the costume off, huddesley, you want to hurry." mazie stopped him, with a hand on his arm. "oh, mr. carson, we--i ought to give huddesley something, oughtn't i? for coming this evening? it was very accommodating, you know, he isn't like a darky servant. what ought i to give him? five dollars? ten dollars?" she whispered, with a manner of special confidence that was like a caress to the young man. "never mind, ma--miss pallinder," he said, absurdly tremulous and excited. "i'll see about it--don't worry--it's like you to think of it--you're so--that is----" words forsook him. "i'll fix huddesley, you know," he faltered, chafing privately at the limitations of etiquette and the english language. mazie rewarded him with a long look, and walked off. by this time, in the crowded area behind the scenes, what with gas-jets burning full head on, the smell of cookery coming up the back stairs, sawdust, recent paint, cut flowers, innumerable other odours perfectly impossible to classify, the air had grown well-nigh unbearable. everybody was overheated and out of temper; the play dragged on stupidly. i went down to the second landing for a breath of fresh air, and was standing there by the open window, in, i suppose, the only quiet and cool spot in the whole house, when someone came with a rush down the stairs. it was huddesley. i remember being struck, as i turned and saw him, with the sharp rigidity of his features; devoid of paint and false beard, they resembled a parchment mask. there was an animal swiftness in his movements, yet he stopped short as we faced, taking the last three steps with an air of leisure, and a certain reckless and impudent triumph in his glance. he had something in his hand, and i recall the jaunty motion with which he tossed and caught it--it was a gold coin--and thrust it deep in his pocket; bob's money, no doubt, but i knew nothing of that, and seeing the man pause, looked at him inquiringly "why, if there ain't little tootsie that i made a face at!" he said. "sorry i scared you, toots! bye-bye!" and while i yet stood in a helpless stupor of surprise, passed an arm around my bare shoulders, twitched my chin into his hand, and--he was gone with a laugh, out of the house, and out of our lives! i may fairly say that of all that company i was the last to have any dealings with huddesley; and i took care, as may be imagined, that no one else should know the picturesque circumstances of his departure. fortunately my testimony was not necessary, was not even asked. he went, and the night received him into its dark world of wet and wind and tossing branches. no exit could have been more appropriate, more typical. a moment later the thunderous rumble of chairs and outburst of voices overhead announced that "mrs. tankerville's tiara" had at last run its disastrous course. it was very late; "william tell" had not begun until nearly ten o'clock, and the encores had taken up a good deal of time. the second play had not been prolonged by undue enthusiasm from the audience, at any rate; yet i doubt if they were as weary of it as we. it hung on in spite of us; the speeches that we had heard till flesh and spirit fairly recoiled from the sound of them (and yet no one knew his own!) simply would _not_ get themselves said. we had reached the mood when we hated the smooth and conscientious politeness of our hearers. "up at the 'peoples' they'd guy this thing off the stage," one young man said to another. "and serves us right, too!" "i wish to goodness we'd stopped with 'tell,' the audience wouldn't have been so tired----" "audience! it's a congregation!" said kitty oldham savagely. "and i'm glad the obsequies are over. 'mrs. tankerville' is dead and buried--for mercy's sake, don't anyone mention her name to me again!" "you did awfully well, miss kitty--you reminded me of lotta." "of course," said kitty with neat sarcasm. "now go and tell muriel she reminded you of bernhardt!" "she looked more like mrs. langtry, didn't she?" said her companion diplomatically. "but miss pallinder now did have a kind of likeness to bernhardt, she's so tall and thin. i thought she was stunning in that red dress and the diamonds--why didn't she put them on again? right at the end there, where they find them, i mean?" "i don't know, unless she wanted to shorten up the last scene, and get through. she said she was going to give them back to her mother as soon as it was over." "mrs. pallinder's not wearing them, though. what became of huddesley toward the last there?" "mazie said he had to go, the doctor had sent for him or something, i didn't catch what it was. that was bob in his clothes, you know." "say, teddy's had a lot of substitutes this evening, hasn't he? do you suppose anyone suspects?" "nobody's said anything to me anyhow." "hello, here's capoul!"[ ] "oh, capoul--rats!" said bob, reddening with vexation. he had a secret conviction that a tenor voice lacked manliness, and mistook the felicitations of his friends for artfully disguised raillery. "people will be poking that 'la-_hee_-ho' business at me from now till doomsday, i suppose." "we were just wondering if anyone knew about ted." "guess not; i haven't heard anybody say a word about it." "look here, how do you happen to be here yet, my son? i thought you said you had to go and meet susie." "well, i do, but not right away. i got one of the cab-drivers outside--there's about fifty of 'em, you never saw such a jam in your life--to go down to the drug-store and telephone, and they say the train from new york won't be in till two o'clock or after. tell you, the telephone's an institution, isn't it? it's like jules verne coming true; they say they'll have 'em all over in private houses and everywhere before long. have you seen miss pallinder? i've got this next waltz--oh, there she is with her mother." he drifted off, and kitty gave her partner a meaning look. "bob means business, i guess," said the latter, returning it. his hostess welcomed the young man with a wan vivacity. "how do you do, mr. carson? this is the first chance i've had to congratulate you. everybody did _so_ well. you were especially good at the last." undoubtedly mrs. pallinder was not her usual suave and confident self that night; her attention wandered. she had forgot what part bob took, and there was no graciousness in her fixed smile; it might have been painted on her face like some of her other adornments. "the last was the best part of the whole performance, i guess, for the audience," said bob, grinning. "that was me they dragged in from behind the screen, you know. it's not everybody that can make believe to be dead as artistically as i can. i'm the second-assistant-deputy-ted johns. miss pallinder told you about huddesley, didn't she? she said you knew." "yes--very unfortunate, wasn't it?" said mrs. pallinder, smiling mechanically. "i mean fortunate, of course--that he could take mr. johns' part, that is. did you--have you got my necklace, mr. carson?" "me? why, no," said bob, in surprise. "they were supposed to find the jewels on _jenks'_ body, you know, in a bundle, and miss pallinder took them. don't you remember where she says: 'oh, my tiara! that poor child! what has become of her?'" mrs. pallinder ought to have remembered it, for mazie had begun with: "'oh, my child! that poor tiara, what has become of it?'" so that a number of the audience and nearly all the actors had been extinguished in giggles. but she only said vaguely, "oh, ah, yes, i believe there was something of the kind said. mazie, honey, i've just been asking mr. carson what he had done with the tiara, the necklace, i mean--i reckon he thinks _i_ think he's stolen it!" "oh, i didn't even undo the parcel," said mazie languidly. "i just pretended to on the stage. i couldn't worry around with the thing. that play's too long anyhow; i cut it short right at the end there on purpose. we had the necklace all twisted up on wires, you know. i just pitched it into the bureau-drawer and locked it up. it's safe." "i'm afraid you're tired," said bob, as mrs. pallinder, with a return of her accustomed tact, moved unobtrusively away. "i'm afraid you're worn out," repeated the young fellow tenderly. "you had the hardest part of anybody." footnote: [ ] happening to mention capoul the other day, i discovered that none of my hearers remembered that dashing _faust_, _count almaviva_, _romeo_ of twenty-five years ago. "and who was capoul?" their blank looks seemed to ask. _sic transit gloria!_--m. s. w. chapter twenty-one it was over at last--the party was over; like everything else in life, things had turned out neither quite so good nor quite so bad as we had expected. "mrs. tankerville" was a failure--but then "william tell" had been a success, so the score was even. the curtain had gone down on both of them, and was about to descend upon another little drama, if we had known it. everyone said the evening was a great success, one more feather in the pallinder crown; downstairs, under the colonel's benevolent supervision, limitless champagne flowed; the supper was a triumph; the german one of the prettiest ever danced. muriel led with j. b., and some of the older people stayed to see it, and talked for days afterwards about the favours mazie had brought from new york; the figure where the men got little silver pencil-cases and the girls painted gauze fans; and that other figure where they all looked so pretty with japanese parasols and paper lanterns; and the figure where they had the easter eggs--that was charming! but it was all over at last; blank dreariness and silence settled upon the ballroom, the last carriage rumbled away, the musicians sacked and boxed up their instruments and disappeared, featureless and unremarked, along with the caterers' men rattling their dishes, and banging amongst their folding chairs--"into the dark went one and all." they left behind a tired and not too good-tempered mob of young people; on the stage and behind it everything was in a frenzied disorder; and when in the pinched and colourless small hours, we went yawning to our beds, those useful articles of furniture were hardly to be found cumbered as they were with wreckage. there were hats, dresses, damp towels, artificial flowers and withering natural ones, slippers and odd stockings, soiled and tumbled veils, handkerchiefs, gloves, fans, the gilt and tinsel scraps of favours--it was a wilderness where the most amazing things turned up in the most amazing places. somebody found a comb in a box of candy; a pair of corsets wrapped carefully together with some fine damask table-napkins, and sticking upright in a water-pitcher (an empty one by good luck); and old mrs. botlisch's teeth (the lower set) jammed firmly between the strings of a guitar that had been used in "tell"--these were some of the discoveries. we were too tired to be amiable, and there were some sharp wrangles over lost nightdresses, and the ownership of tooth-brushes in the girls' quarters before we settled down for what was left of the night--the morning, rather. we were two in a bed, one on the lounge, and always three or four in a room according to the pallinders' happy-go-lucky style of hospitality. the men, very likely, retired with even less formality; they had some big rooms in an ell running out from the main building at the back given over to their use. it seemed as if i had no more than closed my eyes (and, as i afterwards found, it had actually only been about ten minutes since the last door locked and the last gas-jet was turned off) when the consciousness of disturbance somewhere about the house roused me. someone was shouting out of a window, and being answered from below. the sash slammed; and presently there was the sound of stockinged feet padding downstairs. kitty waked up, and crossly suggested that one of the guests had forgot something, and come back for it. "of all things at this time of night!" she snapped. "might have waited till daylight, seems to me. some people have no sense!" the bolts of the front door rattled, the hall-gas flashed up, sending a dim shaft of light through our transom; and a rumble of voices arose. then the feet padded back, and there was some stir in mrs. pallinder's room. "oh, bother! whatever it is, they'll never find it to-night in this mess," said kitty vigorously. she sat up in bed. "why don't they tell 'em to go home, and let us have a little peace and quiet?" that simple expedient, however, did not seem to occur to anyone else. one of the girls awake in the next room called in that somebody must have lost some money or jewelry--"they couldn't be coming back for anything else." again the feet padded down. the rumbling talk increased in volume. we distinctly heard colonel pallinder's voice, raised in explanation or argument, it was impossible to guess which; mrs. pallinder or someone in skirts went rustling along the hall. apparently she paused to lean over the banister and listen a while. lights began to start up elsewhere in the house; there was some movement among the men in their reservation; and old mrs. botlisch challenged raucously from her room at the end of the passage to know what was the matter. no one answered her, and after a moment there came a tap at our door. i got out of bed and opened it, full of uneasy wonder. there stood mrs. pallinder in a flowered blue silk tea-gown flung on anyway over her nightdress, and flowing about her in a huddle of lace and ribbons; she clutched it together at the throat; thin wisps of straw-coloured hair hung around her face. there was something indefinably alarming in the very haste and carelessness of her appearance, she who was always powdered and corseted to a fashion-plate correctness. she looked the scared ghost of her everyday self, immeasurably older, and a surprising likeness to mrs. botlisch came out on her harassed features. "so sorry to disturb you, my dear," she said, with a tortured smile. "but can you wake mazie--i want to speak to her." "nobody's sick, is there?" i asked, startled. "is it a telegram? it's not bad news for anyone, is it?" kitty cried out apprehensively from the bed. "no, no, it's nothing--really nothing at all," repeated mrs. pallinder--and this was so palpably false that even i could see through it. "tell mazie to come here, please, i want to speak to her." "i'm coming," said mazie drowsily, beginning to fumble in the dark for her slippers. and somebody, muriel, i think, scrambled out of bed and lit the gas. "you mustn't get up, don't any of you get up," said mrs. pallinder excitedly. "i tell you it's only mazie i want to speak to. all of you go back to bed and go to sleep. shut your doors and go to bed!" her usually soft voice broke shrilly; she laid a hot trembling hand on my shoulder and pushed me back within the room. by this time, however, everybody was broad awake, staring, listening, and wondering. and mrs. botlisch began again: "what's the matter? is it fire? mirandy, where are you? is the house took fire?" "no, it ain't, ma. shut up, will you?" said mrs. pallinder roughly. astonishment struck us all dumb; never before had we heard her speak so to the old woman. mazie, looking very long and limp in her white gown with strands of black hair sailing down her back, came to the door, and her mother dragged her outside, slamming it on us sharply. more low-voiced confusion ensued. mazie gave a high exclamation, and mrs. pallinder hushed her violently. all the girls congregated in the room, in wild array of curl-papers and "mother hubbards." in the hall one of the men could be heard asking what was the matter, and excuse him, but could he be of any use? "what on earth do you suppose has happened?" said kitty, no longer out of temper, but on edge with curiosity; before anyone could offer a guess, mazie came back. she did not look at any of us; she did not speak; she walked straight to the bureau in her room, took a package from its top drawer, and walked straight out again. for so simple an act it was the strangest bit of pantomime that can be imagined; so quick and purposeful were her movements in contrast to her ordinary languor, that no one had a chance to ask questions, even if we had dared; but i believe we were all a little frightened by the unexplained change in her bearing and her mother's. there was a controlled menace about the girl; she dominated us to the last; and when she went out, closing the door not fiercely as her mother had done, but with a resolute gentleness, we should not have been surprised to hear the key turn in the lock. the scene was not without its ludicrous aspects; there we were eight or ten night-gowned girls, shivering in the draughts, perched here and there amid the rich, fantastic disorder of that room, while mystery whispered in the hall outside. we did not talk; we were all openly listening, and such was the tension that when muriel said suddenly: "there's a carriage coming!" everyone in the room started violently. a girl by the window put the blind aside and peeped out cautiously. "why, there's one here already!" she said, and then: "there're two men in the other; they're just getting out----" upon the words, a strange voice, a man's voice, cried out in the hall below, with mingled anger and surprise, "damnation!" it shouted, "what d'ye mean by _this_?" mrs. pallinder screamed harshly like a strangling animal, and with a truly melodramatic fitness, the door bell began furiously to ring! that was too much for us. i don't know who was first in the hall; it seemed as if we were all there at once. the immediate person i saw was mazie standing against the opposite wall. she had snatched up some kind of shawl or blanket and wrapped it around her over her nightgown; her face was white, but she was laughing in a hysterical way. at the head of the stair mrs. pallinder clung to the newel. from the hall there arose a clamour of excited voices, punctuated by peal after peal on the bell like the knocking at the castle-gate in the awful scene of the murder from "macbeth." the door of mrs. botlisch's room was open, and there was the old woman sitting up in bed, a tremendous figure in her red flannel nightdress, roaring out questions to which no one paid any attention. "oh, do go back, girls, do go back, here 're the men!" said mazie, still giggling feebly. "men!" cried her grandmother, catching the word. "time enough! i'd like to see someone with some sense. where's that taylor feller?" "taylor--what taylor?" said i, bewildered. i thought, for an instant, the old woman had suddenly gone crazy, and wanted to be measured for a pair of breeches. anything seemed possible in the hurly-burly. "here i am," said j. b., presenting himself in trousers and a night-shirt, one red sock and one polka-dotted blue one, and his suspenders trailing in the rear. "he went the kilt one better, didn't he?" said kitty, recalling his appearance later, and she wondered what muriel thought. but if the men were a weird crew, what were we? "here i am," said j. b. "what's the matter? can i do anything?" he afterwards said that everything under the sun that could have happened went through his mind, from fire and murder to the reappearance of arthur gwynne's ghost--everything that could have happened, except the inconceivable thing that _had_ happened! mazie ran to the banisters. "do somebody open the door! can't you hear the bell?" she screamed. "find out who it is first! find out who it is--don't let them in without finding out!" mrs. pallinder called out desperately. "you taylor, for the lord's sake, see what it's all about!" cried mrs. botlisch. "mirandy, gimme my teeth----" a fresh outbreak of voices downstairs announced that the door had finally been opened. mazie came running back as colonel pallinder limped up the stairs. "there! _huddesley!_" she exclaimed and burst into shrill laughter. "they're asking for him. the minute that man opened the package i thought about huddesley. never mind, ma, they can't come on _us_ for anything. huddesley's got the laugh on everybody!" mrs. pallinder all at once broke into sharp crying. "i can't stand it, i can't stand it any longer!" she screamed out, and beat her hands together. "i can't stand this life, i tell you, i can't stand it!" "all right, honey, you shan't have to," said the colonel, trying to soothe her. "i'll take care you shan't." she pulled away from him furiously. "oh, _you_!" she said with fierce scorn. "oh, _you_!" and then in some strange and violent revulsion: "no, no, i didn't mean that, willie, i didn't mean that, my dear!" and began to cry wildly in his arms. it was horrible. i relate these circumstances as faithfully as i remember them; but it is difficult to give any idea of the mirthless farce, the grotesque tragedy of that night. it was at this moment, i believe, as we were all standing in a miserable embarrassment, and irresolution and (speaking for the girls, at least) something not unlike fright, that one of the strange men whom we had heard, came up the steps. he paused as his head rose above the landing, and he caught sight of us. well he might! we must have been a fearsome picture. "sorry to intrude, ladies and gents," said he, hastily dropping back a little, and removing his hat. "but i gotta hump----" j. b. came to the head of the flight, and, as it were, took command of the situation. he was no great figure of a hero with his suspenders slapping at his heels; but for all that he looked a manly and masterful young fellow, and i think we were all both grateful and relieved at his assumption of responsibility. no one else seemed equal to the needs of the hour. "look here," said j. b. quite pleasantly and firmly. "you can't come up here. these ladies must not be disturbed any more, do you understand? now who are you and what do you want?" "that's business," said the other frankly. "i'm a detective. my name's grimm. i've got another plain-clothes man from your police headquarters downstairs, if you don't believe me, ask him----" "mr. taylor--isn't that mr. taylor?" said someone from below. "don't you remember me--judd--don't you remember me at the bank?" "that's all right," said j. b. "i remember you. go ahead, mr. grimm, what do you want?" "well, say," said another voice a little farther down, "young fellow, if you're bossing this, my name's hopple, and i----" "one at a time," said j. b. forcibly. "go on, mr. grimm." "right you are, sir," said grimm fervently. "i thought i'd struck an asylum full of lunys at first, but i guess it ain't so after all. i'm looking for a man named huddesley--that is, he called himself huddesley here--that's wanted for several crooked jobs all over the country. i've been after him for six months. it's a dead cinch huddesley's the man--judd here's had an eye on him for six weeks----" "that's what!" said judd, with emphasis. "----he was in the house to-night. is he here now, do you know?" "huddesley has been here," said j. b., commanding his surprise. he turned his face towards us, and hushed us with a gesture. "huddesley has been here, but he left the house some time ago, i don't quite know when. miss pallinder, do you remember when he went?" he had to repeat the question twice before mazie could get herself together enough to answer it. "when he went?" she said vaguely. "when he went?" someone else said it was before midnight; at last mazie exclaimed that it was three hours, oh, yes, she was sure it must be quite three hours since he had gone. "he said he was sick and was going home--that is to doctor vardaman's, where he is employed," said j. b. "if you will go there, you may find him, the house is----" "find him the hell!" interrupted mr. grimm with dismay in his face. "when he's had three hours' start!" he made a gesture of finality. "it's all off!" said he. "why, i've been to doctor vardaman's, mister, how'd you s'pose i happened to come here?" "somebody's tipped it off," said judd, below stairs. "that's what you get for peddlin' collar-buttons, sonny," said grimm. "he was onto you from the word go!" "if he's not at the doctor's, i suppose he got wind of you somehow, and skipped out," said j. b., overriding these cryptic remarks, and anxious to end the business. "anyhow that's none of our affair. is that all you wanted to know, mr. grimm? for we're all tired and we'd like to go to bed." "here, wait a minute--" said hopple, vigorously, and the detective, sweeping us with a comprehensive glance, spoke at the same moment: "hold on, young man, no affair of yours, hey? well, i ain't so sure about that. the old gent said he would likely have the handling of some valuables, a necklace or something. will you kindly ask all those ladies if they'll take account o' stock and see if they're missing anything?" the unseen mr. hopple uttered a strong exclamation. every girl made a movement toward her bedroom, or nervously grabbed at some part of her person as her own particular treasures occurred to her. every girl but mazie, that is; and her next words, pronounced with entire calm, by the way, were comparable in effect to the explosion of a bomb amongst this singular company. "oh, mercy-me!" she said. "how slow you all are! can't you _see_? why, i saw it right off! i believe he's got the necklace!" there was an instant of appalled silence. then: "told you so! always said he was a rascal!" cried mrs. botlisch triumphantly. "huddesley got the necklace?" said j. b. aghast. "why, how could he? he gave it back to you. bob carson had it, didn't he?" everybody spoke at once. the detective whistled, swore softly, then he stooped to mutter with judd. "that's what!" said the latter vehemently. two or three of the coloured servants had collected on the third-floor landing above us, and hung over the banisters, giggling and nudging. in the darkness their faces were nothing but shining teeth and eyeballs, reminding me, oddly enough, of a picture in "alice in wonderland," of the cheshire cat's grin materialising; gwynne and i had had the book when we were little. i cannot think why i should have thought of it then, of all times; or, indeed, why the incongruous memory abides with me now. mazie was speaking in a high, strained voice. "i never opened the package," she was saying. "why, you know i didn't. i just took it from him and i never opened it. after 'mrs. tankerville' i locked the thing up and never thought of it again. i wouldn't have dreamed of suspecting huddesley; why, he's been in and out of the house all day long for _weeks_, hasn't he, ma? hasn't he, girls?" there was a kind of defiance in her voluble explanation. "tell that hopple man, will you?" she urged the detective, forgetting that "that hopple man" was almost within arms' reach of her. "he'd better go after huddesley if he wants his necklace--_we_ haven't got it. huddesley must have banked on my not opening the package; but anyhow, he was out of the house and gone long before i had a chance to----" "who's bob carson, and who's mrs. tankerville, and what package are you talking about?" grimm inquired succinctly. "well, this is the package, i guess," said hopple's voice, and two hands reaching up delivered to mr. grimm a crumpled piece of wrapping-paper, and about a ladleful of carpet tacks. "there's your diamond necklace," continued the voice in hoarse satire. "leastways there's what was given me for a diamond necklace. i don't know huddesley from adam's off ox, but it's a pretty slick sort o' story, seems to me." what mr. hopple looked like, i cannot say, for none of us saw the gentleman. he made a movement to ascend the stairs, but j. b. looming very large and square on the top step intercepted him. "are you another detective, sir?" asked j. b. in his mild and steady voice. "no, i ain't," returned mr. hopple, sulkily, yet not uncivilly this time. "then," said j. b. with increasing mildness, "perhaps you will be good enough to explain what you are doing here?" "i'm collecting a bill for goldstein brothers--that's my business, collecting. i know it's a little bit late at night, but i can't help that. i've got to hump myself; i thought i might find somebody up on account of the blow-out----" "it's an outrage, sir, an outrage which no southern gentleman----" said colonel pallinder, turning from his wife. "i repeat, sir, no southern gentleman----" "if we had the money, don't you suppose we'd pay your old bill?" cried mrs. pallinder, in a kind of hysterical screech. her face was red and swollen with crying; her fair hair hung in strings. she ran to the banisters and shook her slim fist at the man, a tousled virago, unrecognisable in her rage. "why don't you believe us? as if anybody _wanted_ to owe you--as if anybody _liked_ to owe you! it's too silly--you act perfectly crazy! we'd have given you the necklace if we'd had it, but we haven't _got_ it--huddesley's stolen it. what are you staying around here for? we haven't got the money and we haven't got the necklace, i tell you! why don't you go away? you haven't any right here--you're a cheat, trying to collect for that necklace when we haven't got it. make him go away, willie!" "that's right, mirandy, you talk to him like a dutch uncle!" said old mrs. botlisch with keen enjoyment. "i don't care--i'm glad huddesley _has_ got it!" said mazie fiercely. "owing to circumstances--a temporary shortage of funds, sir," said colonel pallinder, addressing j. b., blandly, "i have been unable to satisfy this fellow's monstrous, his preposterous demand. but if--mr.--ah--mr. hopple will come around to my office to-morrow at half-past eleven _sharp_, i----" mr. hopple's voice invited him to teach his grandmother to suck eggs. "this here bill's been owing three years, and i'm going to collect it, don't you worry--i'll be at the office. i'm going to collect if i've got to hang around this town till the cows come home!" "you can't get blood out of a turnip," said mr. grimm philosophically. j. b. interrupted this lively exchange of metaphor. "mr. grimm," said he, "it's pretty plain, i think, that the criminal you want, this huddesley, has got away with the diamond necklace. why we never suspected him seems strange enough now; i can think of a dozen things that should have put us on our guard, but the fact remains we never did. if you'll just step downstairs, and wait until i can get some clothes on, i'll tell you all that we know about him. mr. hopple, you can see for yourself that there's nothing to be done here now. your business can very well hold over until to-morrow--until daylight, that is--it's none of my business, of course"--he interrupted himself, glancing inquiringly at colonel pallinder, and as that gentleman remained silent, went on--"but i think it's about time you went to your hotel, and let these people go to bed----" "huh! i don't take my orders from you, young fellow!" "oh, don't be a fool, hopple," said the detective impatiently. "he's right. go along; you can't do anything here." j. b. descended a step. "you don't have to take my orders, mr. hopple," said he gently. "but i should think you'd rather take an order than a kick." "noble boy!" ejaculated colonel pallinder, much affected. "there spoke a son of old kentucky!" the collector retreated with sundry mutterings. j. b. came back, dusting his hands lightly together. "sir," said colonel pallinder, holding his wife with one arm, and stretching out the other in a fine gesture. "your hand! a southern gentleman, sir----" "oh--er--that's all right," said j. b., embarrassed. he turned a kind troubled glance upon us. "i wish all you girls and everybody would go to bed. it's--it's all right, you know. i'm going to see those fellows, and they'll go away presently." "you're a number one, that's what you are, taylor," said old mrs. botlisch, in high approval. "you got more gumption in your little finger than all the rest of 'em in their whole bodies, d----d if you ain't!" mrs. pallinder dried her eyes, and began to arrange her dishevelled dress with fluttering hands. "you mustn't mind ma, girls," she said, resuming her smile. "she's really awfully eccentric." chapter twenty-two next day the crash came. the papers revelled in it; the pallinders' affairs occupied the place of honour (or at least of supreme notoriety) in the first column of the first page; the pallinders' creditors assembled and filled the air with thunder; muriel was incontinently recalled to washington; excited gwynnes rushed upon the scene. and when at last the smoke of conflict lifted, where were the pallinders? nobody knew; nobody cared--except scheurmann and goldstein brothers, and perhaps a few others. within a fortnight there was a red flag, flaunting garishly on the lawn among the budding lilacs and faintly greening beeches. templeton had out sandwich-men and yard-long posters announcing an auction in the house--"everything without reserve to the highest bidder." the armenians reappeared, and various other greasy-looking, dark-skinned birds of prey flocked through the rooms, rapping on the mirrors, testing the peacock-blue and old-gold draperies between their dirty talons. i met mrs. maginnis coming out of doctor vardaman's yard, boo-hooing and calling on all the saints to bless him, with a tribe of little maginnises at her heels. what had the doctor done? i do not know. the old gentleman went quite shabby that summer in an old linen duster we had not seen on him for years; and it is certain he bought no more first editions for a long while. and here closes the episode--for episode it truly was, and no story, as must have been discovered by this time. a story, properly conceived and executed, must have a beginning and an end, and this lacks both; it even lacks a hero and heroine. fiction would have demanded, and a conscientious storyteller would have supplied, a much more picturesque and appropriate final act. the diamonds should have been restored, and (let us hope) the bill paid; muriel should have married j. b.; bob should have married mazie; the curtain should have gone down on the lovers embracing and everyone else shaking hands. i have not been a novel-reader all these years for nothing, and nobody need remind me how a romance should end; if this narrative finishes in open defiance of all the proprieties, i can only offer the mean apology that it is all, or nearly all, true. _pars minima fui!_ some of it i saw, some heard, some merely guessed, and alas, none of the beautiful things mentioned above came to pass! looking back on it now, with the compliant wisdom of forty-odd, i am satisfied it is as well those marriages did not take place. muriel would hardly have been a success transplanted; and the pallinder connection would inevitably have proved disastrous to poor bob. as for huddesley, i cannot sincerely say i was ever sorry that that entertaining and original scoundrel escaped; in other and more gallant days, he and the pallinders alike might have figured as a sort of pirates, differing in degree and methods perhaps, hardly at all in kind. there is humour in the spectacle of one of them preying on the other. and, for the soul of me, i cannot be angry with either. _bon voyage_, oh ye adventurers! what shores have you not coasted, and what men essayed in all these twenty-five years! at least i did not suffer by you, and therefore, with a noble generosity, i wish you well! i fell in with j. b. the other day, after a long interval; and he had a good deal to tell me in the pleasant hour we spent of, "don't you remember----" and "whatever has become of----?" j. b. goes up and down the world, and knows many men and their cities these days; he is getting a little bald and massive, yet is still a notable figure, not greatly changed; and, "what do you think?" he said, "i've seen huddesley, and he knew me at once! it was the year of the st. louis fair; that's the last time i was west, you know. i went from there to the town of joliet, illinois, where you know the government runs an elegant home for ladies and gentlemen whose society and services the community doesn't need all the time. "i went out there--voluntarily," he added, with a chuckle. "it was the fourth of july and blazing hot, and i had three hours to put in before my train left. the man i went to see told me i'd find the pen 'very instructive.' but when i got there, they were giving all these wretches a holiday, in honour of uncle sam's birthday, and i tell you they were a pretty hard-looking set. the guard was showing me through a yard, when suddenly one of these jolly, cursing, sky-larking parties in stripes dropped out of a bunch of them, and, says he, getting in the way, and staring hard at me: 'mr. breckinridge, don't you know me?' i didn't at all, for a minute, although really, considering his age, and the kind of life he must have led, he hasn't changed much. then: 'will you 'ave 'ock with your hoysters, sir?' said the scoundrel with a wink--and it flashed on me who he was! 'huddesley!' i shouted out. the attendant was perfectly petrified; he thought i must be some old pal of huddesley's--i had to explain before he would let us talk. eh? why, _sure_! as the children say, _sure_! i talked to him, and he asked after everybody with the greatest interest. he even got quite autobiographical and confidential after a while; told me he was up for five years this time (for a little trouble he got into in new orleans, he said delicately), but he had served two-thirds of the sentence, and would be out in six months, his time having been shortened for good behaviour. 'there's nothin' to it, anyway, mr. breckinridge,' says he, in a serious manner. 'i guess i ought to know, i've tried both ways. it's me for the simple life after this; my eyes are kind of troubling me, and i'm getting along in years. i'm goin' to square it after i get out this time----' he meant he was going to live honestly, you know. 'in all i've spent eighteen years in the stir'--that's slang for the prison, it seems--'with a sentence here and a sentence there, since the first time of all in pentonville, 'long back in ' . that's a good while out of a man's life that ain't but fifty-five years old. i'm going to cut it out after this. i begun pretty young and i'm through now.' he told me he was london-born, seven dials, some slum, i suppose--'that's where hi got the haccent,' he said, grinning again. he had a chequered career before we knew him, footman, errand-boy, sneak-thief, actor, preacher, insurance-agent, confidence-man--it would be hard to say what he hadn't been. there was an interval when he was apprentice to a pastry-cook--i think he was honest then, for about a year, until the till was left open one evening. he said that was where he learned the trade of cook--'but i was always was one to pick up things quick, _you_ know that, mr. breckinridge,' he said with a funny swagger. i asked him if he had had an eye on mrs. pallinder's diamonds from the first, or whether he just took the chance when it came. he gave me an odd look. 'say, you don't mind asking questions, do you?' he said. and then, quickly with a half-laugh: 'oh, well, mr. taylor, you're straight, i know you wouldn't throw me down, and it's twenty years, anyhow.' he went on to say that he had landed in town just about the time of the charity ball, when the papers were full of the diamonds--you remember, don't you? the pallinders were it then. 'i thought i might get the job of butler at the house, and applied,' he said. 'nothin' doin'--their help was all coloured. the very next day doctor vardaman's advertisement came out; say, i was right there with the goods. he was easy, the old gent was. i hadn't spieled my little spiel five minutes before i saw it was 'm' lud, the carriage waits,' for mine. and let me tell you, mr. taylor, i was wise to the pallinder game from the start; i knew pallinder was due to blow up any day, and your uncle james would have to hustle to get those diamonds, or somebody else would. that's why i went after 'em by the romeo-and-juliet route, 'stead of taking it slow and easy, and getting to be like a son of the house like i'd planned. well, you know that deal fell through owing to mrs. pallinder's neuralgia; if you and the colonel and everybody else had stepped a little livelier, you'd 'a' nipped me. as it was, i just barely had time to get back home; and then what does the faithful, devoted, all-to-the-square-dealing huddesley do but wake up doctor vardaman, and lodge an information against himself----' 'what?' i cried. 'you were the burglar?' to tell the truth, i hadn't quite been able to follow huddesley's flights of metaphor for the last few sentences, until all at once it come over me what he meant. 'you mean you were the burglar all the time?' i asked him. he grinned with a queer kind of pride. 'sure i was. but, say, didn't i play it smooth? couldn't i give hen. irving cards and spades, though? next day i _did_ have a sore throat--i'm subject to 'em--but i wasn't sick like doctor vardaman thought. i kept up the game--stayed in bed and passed up the cops and the high-brows with the stylographic pens--i couldn't risk seein' 'em, you know. i don't know how that fellow judd got on the trail--i guess he had a little more grey matter than the rest of 'em. of course they had photos and descriptions of me all over the country. anyway, when he turned up, peddlin' collar-buttons about six weeks later, i was next right off. i knew i'd better beat it for the tall and waving--but i did hate like poison to go without those rhinestones--after all the trouble i'd took, too.' the fellow's persistence and patience were something astonishing," said j. b., with wonder. "enough to have insured his success at any honest undertaking, you'd think. he told me it was very hard to keep up the rôle. 'sometimes i'd forget--about the talk, and all, you know,' he said. 'and then i'd lay awake at nights in a cold sweat for fear somebody had noticed it. yes, sir, i'd been studying and studying, making myself solid with everybody, and playing the faithful-and-devoted racket until i was sick of it--and no diamonds in sight yet! then "mrs. tankerville" came up, and all at once i began to see a ray o' light. but just as things was going like greased rollers on a toboggan-slide, hanged if the doctor didn't sour on the pallinders! said he was never going there again. 'stead of shooting the chutes, looked like i was due to bump the bumps.' "'in the end, that was the best thing that could have happened--because, you know, the old gent invited you all to dinner, and the minute he did that, i saw the chance. i knew johns was a good deal of a lusher, and if i could get him stewed good and plenty, why, i could turn the trick. if some of the rest of you got a little how-come-you-so, not batty, you know, just a little googleish, it wouldn't hurt. but i wasn't taking any chances on johns; i fixed him with some kind of rock-a-bye-baby dope out of the doctor's closet. you remember what happened after that. say, i enjoyed it--honest-to-goodness i did; i liked all you boys first-rate. say, if i'd been different, if i'd been born and brought up like you, for instance, i'd have cut a pretty wide swath, now, wouldn't i? it's all in the start a man gets, ain't it?'" j. b. paused. "i dare say huddesley could imitate me better than i can him," he said. "but wasn't that last a funny thing for a man like that to say? he was in earnest, proud of his peculiar talents, and a little regretful. i didn't know what to say, but i knew better than to sermonise." "do you suppose he really did 'square it' after he got out?" "not likely, i think. good resolutions aren't very lasting with that class. i've no doubt he meant it at the time. he asked about doctor vardaman. i told him, and do you know the fellow's face clouded over for a second. i believe he really was pained. "'well,' he said. 'the doctor was an old man, and of course it wasn't to be expected he could live very much longer. i might have known. but it makes me feel bad, mr. taylor. i kind of expected to go and see him when i got out this time, and tell him i was going to finish out on the square. he was the whitest man i ever knew. i never took the value of a cent from him, though i had plenty of chances; yes, sir, he was the real thing, that old gent was.' and, just as i was leaving he said: 'i'd like mighty well to know who that nice little trick was that i kissed on the back stairs when i was dusting out with the necklace. i didn't know her name, i guess she didn't ever come to rehearsals when i was around. kind of a fat little girl, with brown eyes--she was too surprised to squeal; it was a fool thing to do, but i felt pretty good, and she was just my size in girls.' i couldn't place her for him, but i shouldn't wonder if it was kitty. it would be like kitty to keep quiet about it." i agreed with him that it would be much like kitty; her eyes are blue, by the way, but j. b. had forgot that. his face was a little sober as he answered some of my questions. "i met the colonel in new york not long ago," he said. "he looks pretty old and seedy and shifty-eyed these days. he talked just the same; had a few shares to sell--just a few, you know, they were soaring up in price and in a week would be unobtainable for love or money, but he wanted to let me in on the ground floor--in a gold mine down in eastern tennessee. "don't laugh; it wasn't funny. he was too anxious to be so fluent and convincing as he used to be in the old days; he reminded me of a poor, hungry, eager old dog. i bought some of the shares, for the sake of auld lang syne--i couldn't help it. and there was something sordidly pathetic in the air of affluence he put on after he'd gathered the money up in his trembling old hands. i suppose he hadn't handled so much in months; yet the sum was not large. he insisted on my going home to dinner with him; they were in a dingy boarding-house over in brooklyn. it gave me a start to see mrs. pallinder; i actually thought for a minute it was the old botlisch woman, although she died years ago, the colonel told me. mrs. pallinder's got to looking exactly like her, but she has more manner, you know; she put on a lot of 'side' for my benefit. the boarding-house people were very much impressed. i shouldn't wonder if my visit bolstered up the pallinder credit a good deal--i'm so solidly respectable. but do you know, i'm sure, that aside from any motives of self-interest, the pallinders were honestly glad to see me; they talked about old times the same as you and i are doing now--just as if they hadn't left owing everybody and under a cloud generally! i wouldn't have opened my mouth about the diamond necklace, and that last night, but mrs. pallinder brought it up right away; she rather flourished it before the other boarders. huddesley and her jewels, and what she said, and what so-and-so said--it was rather diverting to hear her version." "mazie wasn't with them, was she?" "oh, no, mazie's married. married an army-officer, and they're living in the philippines. mrs. pallinder told me the name, but i've forgotten it." "we used to think that bob carson----" "yes. bob's never married--he was awfully in earnest. remember what a sweet voice he had? they used to get him to sing 'comfort ye, my people,' in trinity the last sunday in advent, don't you remember? poor old bob!" "rich old bob, you'd better say! he's made a lot of money. susie's children will get it all, most likely. he's very fond of them; he sent the youngest girl to europe last year to study music, somebody told me. maybe, if mazie knew, she'd be sorry she wouldn't have him. but it's better so; they wouldn't have been happy. do you suppose he ever asked her, though?" "well, a man don't--one isn't likely to know about things like that," said j. b. somewhat embarrassed. "but i believe he did--right after the party, in the midst of the rumpus when the pallinders were getting it right and left from everybody." "and she refused him? i think it was fine of bob to ask her. like you and muriel, wasn't it?" "hey?" said j. b., very much startled. a sudden flush appeared on his amiable, middle-aged countenance; he goes clean-shaven now, he who was so gallantly moustached in eighty-three--such are the mutations of fashion. "i mean in the play--in 'mrs. tankerville,'" i added hastily. "oh, the play--oh, yes, i remember." he looked down meditatively, fingering the stem of his wine-glass as we sat at luncheon. muriel would not have refused _him_, had she been asked in good earnest; i wondered if he knew it--but i think he was at once too gallant and too simple--honest, kindly j. b.! "i saw her when i was over this last time," he said. "she's the countess of yedborough now, you know. she's got eight children! the oldest girl looks something like her, but not so handsome as her mother was at her age--oh, not to compare. she was the handsomest woman i ever saw." "has she changed much?" "well, these big women--she's got awfully fat--fine-looking still, of course, but she's too fat." then, catching my eye inadvertently directed on his own not inconsiderable expanse of light waistcoat, he grinned good-naturedly. "guess i'd better be careful how i throw stones around here," said he. "i'm living in a glass house myself." "did muriel ask after any of us?" "oh, yes, wanted to know about everyone--even ted johns. i told her they'd found out that huddesley put some drug in ted's wine that night, so that it wasn't liquor that was the matter with him. i thought i'd save his reputation that much, if i could. poor ted, how he did waste his life! no man ever had better chances at the beginning, but he was his own worst enemy." "you might say that of all of us." "yes, i suppose so. but we don't all drink like fish. kind of sad about teddy; he got some appointment in the commissariat when our troops went to cuba, and died of the fever at siboney in ' --you knew that? he ought never to have risked going to that climate; he couldn't have had any constitution left by that time." i assented, and we paid teddy's memory the tribute of a moment's silence; yet i dare say we were not thinking so much of him and his career, as of our own youth and the inevitable years. "well, this has been very pleasant, but i must go," he said presently and rose. "next time i come west i'm going to bring my wife; i want her to meet everyone here--the old set, i mean. she's heard me talk about you so much. i wish we could meet a little oftener, but living so far apart--you know----" well, _fuit ilium_! _fuimus troes!_ j. b. will find both the old set and the old town changed greatly (for the better, no doubt) when he returns. the coming generation--nay, the generation that has already arrived, will not remember the look of things as they were in my time. as i was saying, they were tearing down the old gwynne house the other day. +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ transcriber's note: italic text has been marked with _underscores_. please see the end of this book for further notes. the thorn in the nest by martha finley, author of "the elsie books," "signing the contract," "wanted a pedigree," "the mildred series," etc., etc. "he puts a thorn in our nest to drive us to the wing, that we may not be grovellers forever." new york dodd, mead & company publishers copyright, , by dodd, mead & company. table of contents page chapter i. chapter ii. chapter iii. chapter iv. chapter v. chapter vi. chapter vii. chapter viii. chapter ix. chapter x. chapter xi. chapter xii. chapter xiii. chapter xiv. chapter xv. chapter xvi. chapter xvii. chapter xviii. chapter xix. chapter xx. chapter xxi. chapter xxii. chapter xxiii. chapter xxiv. chapter xxv. chapter xxvi. chapter xxvii. chapter xxviii. chapter xxix. chapter xxx. chapter xxxi. chapter xxxii. chapter xxxiii. the thorn in the nest. chapter i. "a malady preys on my heart, that medicine cannot reach." our story opens in spring of , in a sequestered valley in western pennsylvania. on a green hillside dotted here and there with stately oaks and elms, and sloping toward the road, beyond which flowed the clear waters of a mountain stream, stood a brick farm-house--large, roomy, substantial; beautiful with climbing vines and flowering shrubs. orchard, meadow, wheat and corn fields stretched away on either hand, shut in by dense forests and wooded hills; beyond and above which, toward the right, towered the giant alleghenies; their summits, still white from the storms of the past winter, lying like a bank of snowy clouds against the eastern horizon. but night drew on apace, the light was fast fading even from the mountain tops, and down in the valley it was already so dark that only the outlines of objects close at hand were discernible as our hero, kenneth clendenin, mounted upon romeo, his gallant steed, entered it from the west and slowly wended his way toward its one solitary dwelling. the road was familiar to both man and horse, and ere long they had reached the gate. a negro boy perched on the top of the fence, with his hands in his pockets, whistling softly to himself in the dark, broke off suddenly in the middle of his tune, sprang nimbly to the ground and took the bridle, exclaiming, "ki, massa doctah! t'o't dat you and ole romeo comin' up de road. ole aunt vashti she tole me watch out hyar an' ax you ef you's had yo' suppah, sah?" "yes, zeb, tell her i have and shall want nothing more to-night," answered the traveller, alighting. "rub romeo down and give him a good feed." "dat i will, massa doctah; i neber 'glects ole romeo," returned the lad, vaulting into the saddle and cantering off to the stable, while the gentleman walked quickly up the path leading to the house. within a wood fire burned brightly in the wide chimney of the living room. an arm-chair stood on each side of the hearth, the master of the house occupying one, his wife the other, she with her knitting, he half crouching over the fire, watching the flickering flames in moody silence. at a table on the farther side of the room, a little girl was poring over a book by the light of a tallow candle. she had seemed very intent upon its pages, but at the first sound of the approaching footsteps sprang up and ran to open the door. "at last, kenneth!" she cried, in a joyous but subdued tone. "yes, little sister," he said, laying his hand caressingly for an instant on her pretty brown hair, and smiling into the bright, dark eyes. "i'm glad to find you up, i thought you went to bed with the chickens." "not to-night--the last--o kenneth! kenneth!" and she burst into passionate weeping. "marian, my little pet sister," he whispered, sitting down and drawing her to his breast with a tender caress, "try to be cheerful for mother's sake." "i will," she answered, hastily wiping away her tears. "i have a parting present for you, kenneth," she went on with a determined effort to seem bright and gay; "a pair of stockings made of my own lamb's wool, and every stitch knit by my own fingers--i took the last to-night, and you're to travel in them." "many thanks," he said, "my feet will surely keep warm in such hose, though the nights are still very cool." "yes, come nearer to the fire, kenneth," said the mother, who had been watching the two, silently, but with glistening eyes. she was a woman of middle age, gentle mannered, with a low and peculiarly sweet-toned voice, a tall and stately figure, and a face that told a story of trial and sorrow borne with patience and resignation. kenneth resembled her strongly in person and manner, he had the same noble contour of features--the broad high forehead, the large dark gray eye, keen yet tender in expression. "thank you," he said, coming forward and taking his stand upon the hearth, where the firelight fell full upon his tall, manly form, "its warmth is by no means unpleasant." "sit down, kenneth; sit down, and take me on your knee," said marian, bringing him a chair. "are you not growing rather large and heavy for that?" the mother asked with a slight smile, as kenneth good-humoredly complied with the request. "i'll be bigger and heavier before he has another chance," remarked the child, putting an arm about kenneth's neck and gazing wistfully into his eyes. "but not too big, never too big, to take your seat here," he responded, drawing her closer. "ah, there will be many a lonely hour when i shall long for my little sister, long to feel her weight upon my knee, her arm about my neck, just as i feel them now." "why do you all talk so much?" queried the older man sharply, speaking for the first time since kenneth's entrance, and turning somewhat angrily toward the little group. "you leave me no peace of my life with your incessant gabble, gabble." with the last word he rose and withdrew to an inner room. no one answered or tried to detain him: the shade of sadness deepened slightly on the mother's calm face, and marian's arm tightened its hold on kenneth's neck, but no one spoke and the room was very still for a moment. then the mother, glancing at the dial-plate of a tall old-fashioned clock, ticking in a corner, said, "marian, my child, it is growing late, and you will want to be up betimes in the morning." the little girl, heaving a sigh, reluctantly bade them good-night and retired. kenneth looked after her. "what a sweet creature she is! what a lovely woman a few years will make of her," he said; but catching the expression of the mother's countenance, he ended abruptly, with almost a groan. she had dropped her knitting in her lap, her face had grown very pale, her lips quivered, and there was a look of anguish in her eyes. kenneth longed to comfort her, but could find no words. he brought a glass of water and held it to her lips. she swallowed a mouthful, and as he set the glass down on a stand by her side, took up her work again with a slight sigh. the spasm of pain seemed to have passed, and her face resumed its accustomed expression of patient endurance. he stood gazing down on her, his eyes full of a wistful tenderness. "mother," he said, bending over her and speaking in a voice scarce raised above a whisper, "our god is very good, very merciful, surely he will hear our united prayers that it--that fearful curse--may never light on her." "his will be done with me and mine," she answered low and tremulously. "though he slay me, yet will i trust in him." he turned and paced the room for several minutes, then came back to her side. "and i--am i right to go and leave you thus?--alone--unprotected, if--" she looked up with a great courage in her noble face. "yes, go, kenneth; i do not fear, and it is best for you and for him. you forget how fully we have both been convinced of that." "how brave you are, how strong in faith!" he cried admiringly. she shook her head in dissent. "you do not know how my heart fails me at times when i think of my dear boy far away in that northwestern territory fighting his battle with the world among strangers, often exposed to the pitiless storms, or in danger from wild beasts or savage indians; coming home from his long rides over prairies and through forests, wet, cold, and weary, and finding no one to cheer him and comfort him." there were tears in her eyes and in her voice. "don't be troubled about me," kenneth said cheerily, "i am young and vigorous, and shall rather enjoy roughing it, in the pursuit of my calling?" "a noble calling to one who follows it in the right spirit, kenneth. your arrangements are all completed?" "yes; we meet at the cross-roads an hour after sunrise." she gave him a troubled, anxious look, opened her lips as if to speak, then closed them again. "what is it, mother?" he asked. "why should you hesitate to say to me all that is in your heart?" "miss lamar! i saw her the other day. she is sweet and fair to look upon, and very winsome in her ways, but--" the sentence was left unfinished, while her eyes sought his with a yearning, wistful look. "i will be on my guard," he said, huskily. "i know that marriage is not for me--as a physician i am convinced of it as another might not be--unless--oh, there will come to me, at times, a wild hope that there may one day be an end to this suspense--this torturing doubt and fear!" "too many years have passed," she answered sadly. "i have no longer any expectation that it will ever be cleared up this side the grave." "do not say it," he entreated, "it must be done! i shall never resign hope till--i have attained to some certainty; and yet, and yet--in either case it must be grief of heart to me." "my poor boy!" she murmured, regarding him with tenderly compassionate gaze; then after a pause, "kenneth," she remarked, "there is little clendenin about you except the name; you strongly resemble my mother's family in both disposition and personal appearance." "and yet," he said, with a melancholy smile, "there is nothing more certain than that i am a clendenin." "well," she said, gazing upon him with loving pride, yet with eyes dim with unshed tears, "it is a family of no mean extraction; and an honest, pious ancestry is something to be thankful for." chapter ii. kenneth clendenin, having completed his medical studies at philadelphia, graduated with honor, and afterward spent a year in the hospitals there, was now about emigrating to chillicothe, a town recently laid out by general nathaniel massie, in what was then the northwestern territory; now the state of ohio. none of his family were to accompany him, but he was to act as escort to two ladies, who, with their children, were also going thither to join their husbands. one of them had under her care a young orphan girl, bound to the same place, where she was to make her home with a married brother, major lamar. the clendenin household were early astir on the morning succeeding the events related in the former chapter. before the sun had peeped above the mountain tops they were summoned to a savory and substantial breakfast, prepared by old vashti, who had been cook in the family since kenneth's earliest recollection. he was the first to answer the call; coming in from a farewell tramp about the premises, to find the faithful old creature in the act of setting the last dish upon the table. "i'se done my bes', honey," she said to him, with tears in her eyes. "it mos' breaks dis ole heart to tink you won't eat no mo' dis chile's cookin'." "i don't know that, aunt vashti," he responded, smiling, "i'm not going quite out of the world." "'pears mighty like it, honey," she said; then seeing his eyes wandering uneasily about the room and the porch beyond, "you's lookin' for ole marster?" she whispered, coming close to his side. "he was off to de woods wid his gun 'fore daylight. 'spect he didn't want to say good-by." "probably," he answered, with a slight sigh; then turned with an affectionate greeting to his mother and marian, who entered the room at that instant. they sat down at once to their repast, without the husband and father, no one remarking upon his absence, or asking any questions in regard to it; the meal was, indeed, almost a silent one; the hearts were too full for much speech. kenneth's saddle-bags and portmanteau were in readiness, packed by the mother's loving hands, and romeo stood pawing at the gate. zeb's horse, too, was there, tied to the fence near by, while its rider was eating his breakfast in the kitchen. the travelers had no time for loitering, for many miles of rough road must be passed over that day. the adieus were quickly spoken, and the windings of the road soon hid master and servant from the view of the weeping, disconsolate marian and her sorrowful-faced mother. kenneth's heart, too, was heavy, spite of the cheerful air he had assumed for the sake of the dear ones he was leaving behind; but zeb seemed in fine spirits. he was young and light-hearted, had no relatives to leave, in fact loved "de doctah" better than any other human creature. and he was going to see the world, a prospect which thrilled him with delight. the sun was now shining brightly, birds sang cheerily in the trees that bordered the roadside, the morning air was fresh and exhilarating, and zeb's spirits rose high as he cantered along at a respectful distance behind his master. a mile away from glen forest, as the clendenin place was called, they came out upon a cleared place where stood a little country church in the midst of an enclosure, whose grass-covered mounds, with here and there a stone slab, proclaimed it the settlers' last resting place. here kenneth drew rein, and calling to zeb bade him ride on to the cross-roads and there await his coming; and if their fellow travellers should arrive first, tell them he would join them in a few moments. "yes, sah," returned the lad, whipping up his horse, while kenneth dismounted and made his way to a spot where four or five little graves, and one somewhat longer, were ranged side by side. giving only a glance at the others, the young man turned to this last and stood for some moments gazing down upon it with a look of grave, sad tenderness upon his noble, manly face. "angus clendenin, aged fourteen," he murmured in low, moved tones, reading from the inscription on the headstone. "ah, brother beloved, why were we so soon parted by grim death? we whose hearts were knit together as the hearts of david and jonathan!" but time pressed and he must away. plucking a violet from the sod that covered the sleeping dust, and placing it carefully between the leaves of his note book, he remounted and pursued his journey. as he reached the place of rendezvous, where zeb was lazily sunning himself, seated on a fallen tree, with his horse's bridle in his hand, three large wagons came toiling along the intersecting roads; beside the foremost a graceful girlish figure, tastefully attired in riding hat and habit, and mounted upon a beautiful and spirited pony, which she was managing with the utmost apparent ease and skill; curbing its evident impatience to outstrip the slower and more clumsily built animals attached to the vehicles. at sight of kenneth, however, she loosened her hold upon the rein, and came cantering briskly up with a gay "good-morning, dr. clendenin." the face that met his gaze was so fair and winsome, so bright with youthful animation, that the grave young doctor could not forbear a smile as he returned her greeting with courtly grace. nellie lamar's beauty was of a very delicate type--a sylph-like form, delicately moulded features, a sweet, innocent expression, complexion of lilies and roses, a profusion of pale golden hair, beautifully arched and pencilled brows, large melting blue eyes, "deeply, darkly, beautifully blue," and fringed with heavy silken lashes, many shades darker than the hair. she was but fifteen, just out of school and quite as guileless and innocent as she looked. a charming blush mantled her cheek as she caught the admiring glance of kenneth's eye. "so, so, fairy, be quiet, will you?" she said, tightening her rein with one hand, while bending low over her pony's neck she softly patted and stroked it with the other. "if those clumsy, slow-moving creatures would but travel faster!" she exclaimed with pretty petulance, lifting her head again and sending an impatient glance in the direction of the approaching wagons. "neither fairy nor i can well brook having to keep pace with them." "they are somewhat more heavily laden than she," he said smilingly, with some difficulty restraining the impetuosity of his own steed, as he spoke; "she should have charity for them. but i fear romeo is disposed to join her in leaving them behind. we will lead the van, however, miss lamar, and sometimes indulge these restless spirits in a run of a few miles ahead; if it is but to return again." "ah, that will be delightful!" she cried with almost childish vehemence. "i have fairly dreaded the thought of travelling at this snail's pace all the way to chillicothe." the wagons had now come up, and from the foremost peered out two chubby, rosy boy faces. "o doctor clendenin! won't you take me up behind you?" shouted the owner of one, the other chiming in, "me, too, doctor, me too!" "hush, tom! hush, billy! you should not ask such a thing. doctor, don't mind them," quickly interposed the mother, showing her cheery, matronly face alongside of theirs. "good morning, mrs. nash," kenneth said, moving to the side of the wagon. "we have an auspicious day for starting upon our long journey." "yes, indeed, doctor; and how thankful i am that we're all well and so comfortably accommodated." "you don't seem to care at all for the old home scenes and friends we're leaving behind, sarah," whined a woman's voice from the second vehicle; "but for my part i shall never, never forget them, and i think it's dreadfully hard i should have to go away from them all into that howling wilderness, as one may say," and the voice was lost in a burst of sobs. "but we're going to our husbands, nancy, and they ought to be more to us than all the world beside," returned mrs. nash, cheerfully. "dear me, i'm just as glad as can be to think that in a few weeks my robert and i will be together again for good and all." it was characteristic of the two, who were sisters-in-law, the one always looking at the bright side of life, the other at the dark; the one counting up her mercies, the other her trials. "it'll be a rough, hard journey, and some of us will be sure to get sick," sighed mrs. barbour. "flora's always been a delicate child, and i'll never take her there alive." "she's looking well," remarked kenneth, glancing in at the bright eyes and pink cheeks of a little girl, sitting contentedly by mrs. barbour's side. "and we'll have the doctor handy all the way, you know," suggested mrs. nash. "tom, tom, be quiet," for the boy was still clamoring for a ride on romeo. "so you shall," kenneth said, lifting him to the coveted place, "and, billy, you shall have your turn another time." the third wagon carried no passenger; its load consisting of baggage, household stuff, a tent and provision for the way, for there were few houses of entertainment on the route and it would often be necessary to camp out for the night. the roads were new and rough; in many places in very bad condition. sometimes there was a mere bridle path, and bushes and branches must be cut away, or fallen trees removed, to allow the wagons to pass. at noon of this first day they halted on the banks of a bright little stream, dined upon such fare as they had brought with them, and rested for an hour or two; allowing their horses to graze and the children to disport themselves in racing about through the underbrush in search of wild flowers, in which miss nell presently joined them. kenneth, leaving the two women sitting together on a log, strolled away in another direction, toward zeb and the drivers who were keeping guard over the horses and wagons. "dear me!" sighed mrs. barbour, "what a journey we have before us! how we're ever to stand it i don't know; i am tired already." "already!" echoed her sister; "why i don't intend to be really tired for a week." "i'd like to know what intentions have to do with it," returned the first speaker, rather angrily. "a good deal, i assure you," asserted mrs. nash, with decision. "make up your mind to be miserable and you can't fail to be so; resolve to enjoy yourself, and you're almost equally sure to do that." "humph!" grunted her companion, turning away with a scornful toss of the head. "what's wrong?" asked miss lamar, coming toward them with her hands full of delicate spring blossoms. "wrong! where?" returned mrs. barbour, sharply, thinking the query aimed at her. "yonder," nell answered, gazing anxiously in the direction of the group about the wagons; "they all seem to be busying themselves about that wheel." "there, i knew it!" cried mrs. barbour, "something's broken, and we'll be kept here all night; and we'll be having such accidents all the way. nobody ever was so unfortunate as i am." "why you more than the rest of us?" asked her sister, dryly. "if one is delayed, we all are." "it was only a broken linchpin, already replaced by another," announced kenneth a few moments later; "and now, if you please, ladies, we will go on our way again." at dusk the party arrived at a lonely log cabin in the woods, where they found shelter for the night. fare and accommodations were none of the best--the one consisting of fat pork, hominy, and coarse corn bread, the other of hastily improvised beds, upon the floor of the lower room for the women and children; upon that of the loft overhead for the men. mrs. barbour, according to her wont, passed the time previous to retiring in fretting and complaining; talking of herself as the most ill-used and unfortunate of the human race, though no one else in the company was in any respect faring better than she, and all were not only bearing their discomforts with patience and resignation, but cheerfully and with an emotion of thankfulness that they had a roof over their heads; as a heavy rain storm had come on shortly after their arrival, and continued till near morning. but that was another of the complainer's grievances; "the roads would be flooded, the streams so swollen that it would be impossible to cross with the wagons." nell, hearing these doleful prognostications, turned an anxious enquiring look upon kenneth. "do not be alarmed," he said, leaning toward her, and speaking in an undertone of quiet assurance: "the rain is much needed and therefore a cause for thankfulness; and if streams cannot be forded immediately, we can encamp beside them and wait for the abating of the waters." "but our provisions may give out," she suggested. "then we will look for game in the woods, and fish in the streams. no fear, little lady, that we shall not be fed." nell liked the title, and felt it restful to lean upon one who showed so much quiet confidence in--was it his own powers and resources or something higher? the journey was a tedious and trying one, occupying several weeks; and kenneth's office as leader of the party was no sinecure. there were many vexatious delays, some occasioned by the wretched state of the roads, others incident to the moving of the cumbrous and heavily laden wagons; which latter might have been avoided had he travelled alone, or in company with none but equestrians. but kenneth was of too noble and unselfish a nature to grudge the cost of kindness to others. and on him fell all the care and responsibility of directing, controlling, and providing ways and means; settling disputes among the drivers, and attending to the safety and comfort of the women and children. these various duties were performed with the utmost fidelity, energy, and tact, and all annoyances borne with unvarying patience and cheerfulness; even mrs. barbour's peevish complainings and martyrlike airs failing to move him out of his quiet self-possession, or goad him into treating her with anything but the greatest courtesy and kindness. he showed the same to all in the little company, and to those with whom they sought temporary lodgings here and there along the route; more especially to any who were sick, exercising his skill as a physician for their relief, and that without charge, though sometimes it cost him the loss of a much needed night's rest. mrs. barbour was too completely wrapped up in herself and her own grievances, real or imaginary, to take note of these things beyond a passing feeling of wonder that dr. clendenin should bestow so much attention upon people who were not likely ever to make him any return; but ere the journey's end they had won for him a very high place in the respect and esteem of the other adults of the party, and in the hearts of the children. nell, who was often sorely tried by these same vexations and delays, formed an unbounded admiration for kenneth's powers of forbearance and self-control. she gave expression to it in talking with mrs. nash, as they found themselves alone for a few moments on the evening previous to their arrival at their destination. "yes," was the reply, "i am astonished at his patience; particularly with nancy. she exasperates me beyond everything--she is such a martyr. yes, always, in all places, and under all circumstances, she's a martyr." chapter iii. within five or six miles of chillicothe an approaching horseman was espied by our travellers, and, as he drew near, mrs. nash and her two boys recognized him with a simultaneous cry of delight. "robert!" "father, father!" to which he responded with a glad "hurrah! so there you are at last!" as he put spurs to his horse and came dashing up to the side of the wagon containing his wife and children. there was a halt of several minutes while joyous greetings, and eager questions and answers were exchanged; then leaving mr. nash in charge of the slow-moving vehicles, kenneth and nellie rode on toward the town. it was the afternoon of a perfect day in may. their path led them, now through the depths of a forest where grew in abundance the sugar maple, black walnut, buckeye, hackberry, cherry and other trees which give evidence of a rich soil; now across a beautiful prairie covered with grass from four to five feet high, and spangled with loveliest wild flowers, which with the blossoms of the plum tree, mulberry, crab apple and red and black haw, fringing the outer edge of the prairies, filled the air with delicious perfume, and feasted the eye with beauty. nellie was in ecstasies. "it is a paradise, dr. clendenin! is it not?" she cried. "an earthly one," he answered with his grave kindly smile. "may you find much happiness in it, little lady." "and you too, doctor," she said gaily, turning her bright, winsome face to his. "i'm sure you ought." "you think it a duty to be happy? and you are right." "a duty? i never thought of it in that light," she said laughing lightly. "ah! are we not bidden to be content with such things as we have, and to be always rejoicing?" they had become excellent friends--these two--as day after day they rode side by side a little in advance of the wagons. there was some ten years difference in their ages, a good deal seemingly at nell's time of life. she looked up to kenneth as to one much older and wiser than herself, and won by his ever ready sympathy and interest, talked to him with the charming frankness of her confiding nature and extreme youth. she told the history of her past years, particularly the last five, which had been spent in a boarding school in philadelphia, and about the brother she was going to:--how he fought bravely for his country in the continental army, had been taken prisoner by the british, what he had suffered on one of those dreadful prison-ships, till peace at last set him free, that he had married since and now had a family of children. he was very much older than herself, she explained, being the eldest born while she was the youngest, and as both parents had died while she was a mere infant, he was like a father to her. kenneth seldom spoke of himself, but she sometimes led him on by her questions to talk of his home at glen forest, his mother and marian, for both of whom he evidently cherished a deep and tender affection. nell remarked that she had seen them at church once or twice, had thought mrs. clendenin very sweet and noble looking, and marian the loveliest of little girls. "you read them both aright," was kenneth's answer, with a look and smile that made him, nell thought, the handsomest man she had ever seen. "if he were not quite so old," she said to herself, "perhaps, i don't know, but perhaps i might fall in love with him. it would be very foolish though, for of course he could never care for such a silly young thing as i am." she had observed that he seemed a skilful physician and surgeon, and had discovered that he could tell her a vast deal about trees and plants and the birds and wild animals of the woods through which they passed. they had never met in philadelphia though living there at the same time, but it was pleasant to talk with him about the city and its various attractions. so they had not been at a loss for subjects of conversation, nor were they to-day. silence fell between them for a few moments after kenneth's last remark, then nell said, with a saucy smile, "so you, i suppose, are never sad, dr. clendenin." "alas, miss lamar," he answered with a far away look in his eyes, an expression of keen anguish sweeping across his features, yet passing away so quickly that she could hardly feel sure it had been there, "my theory and practice do not always agree." "well," said she, "i don't believe there is anybody in the world who is not sad at times. yet we have a great deal to make us glad, and just now i feel as blithe as a bird. we are coming to a river." "yes, the scioto." "oh, then we must be near chillicothe, are we not?" "yes, here is the ferry, and yonder, on the farther side, lies the town." "that! i see only a few log cabins scattered here and there in a dense forest." "true, miss, that is just what it is," said the ferryman, pushing off, for they were already on board his flat boat; "but you'll find more houses than you'd think, and the streets marked out quite straight and wide." "and can you tell me in which major lamar lives?" nell asked eagerly. "certainly, miss, there are not so many of us that we don't all know each other's faces, and houses too. the major lives on walnut street, but a step from where i shall land you. and yonder he comes," he added as the boat touched the bank and romeo and fairy bounded ashore. another moment and the girl was in her brother's arms, weeping for very joy, as if her heart would break, he soothing her with caresses and tender, loving words. "there, there, nell, darling, my sweet little sister, we're together at last, and don't mean to be parted ever again. come, come, don't spoil your pretty eyes with crying." she brushed away her tears at that, raised her head, saying, "o percy, i'm so glad, so happy! how are clare and the children?" then without waiting for an answer, "oh how forgetful i am!" she cried turning to kenneth, who with half averted face and dewy eyes, was thinking of marian, and could almost feel the clinging of her arms about his neck. "percy, this is dr. clendenin, who has cared for me like a brother, through all this long, tiresome journey." the two grasped each other's hands warmly, and the major insisted on carrying kenneth off with him to share the hospitality of his house. it was a pleasant home circle into which he was presently introduced,--mrs. lamar, a fair, graceful, bright-faced lady, still young, and three or four rosy, bright-eyed boys and girls. he received a warm welcome, while nellie was embraced, kissed and rejoiced over to her heart's content, a heart that went out in strong affection to her kindred and craved a full return. the evening meal was already prepared, the table set in the living room. its snowy linen, delicate china and shining silver would not have disgraced a much more lordly dwelling; and the viands which presently came in smoking from the kitchen, fresh fish, game and hot corn-bread, might have tempted the appetite of an epicure; much more that of our travellers, who had fared but indifferently well for some days past. the major's house was but a log cabin, the only kind of building in the settlement at that time, simply furnished, and consisted of only three rooms beside kitchen and garret; yet a great deal of comfort and enjoyment were to be found there, and kenneth was not ill-pleased to be tendered the freedom of the house, and accepted the offer with hearty thanks. "we elect you our family physician, sir, if you will not decline the office," said the major, as they rose from the table; "and as such you will of course consider yourself perfectly at home among us." kenneth was beginning to express his sense of his host's kindness when he was interrupted by a hasty summons to the bedside of a sick woman at the other end of the village. "come, nell, and take a look at chillicothe," the major said, leading the way to the grass plot in front of the house, where they seated themselves upon a log. there were many such lying about the streets, many trees and stumps of those which had been felled, still standing; in fact nearly the whole town was still a wilderness; yet though not a year old, it already contained, beside private dwellings, two taverns and several stores and shops of mechanics, but among them all there were but four shingled houses, and on one the shingles were fastened with pegs. the streets were very wide and straight, crossing at right angles; not all cleared yet, but marked out by blazing the trees of the thick wood in whose midst the town was located. there were many indians in the vicinity. they had a town not far away, on the north fork of paint creek, and here in chillicothe their wigwams were interspersed among the dwellings of the whites as nellie noticed with some uneasiness. but her brother reassured her. "there is no danger," he said, "they are perfectly friendly." "ah, but they are a treacherous race," she sighed with a dubious shake of the head. "quite a change from philadelphia, nell," clare remarked, joining them with her knitting in her hand. "yes, but it is many weeks since i left there." "is it nice in philadelphia, aunt nellie?" asked bess, the eldest of the children, hanging affectionately about the young girl. "do tell us what it's like, and about the pretty things in the shop windows." "another time, bess," interposed the major. "run away to your play now, and let older people talk. nell, you saw washington more than once?" "ah yes! many times--and he asked for you, percy, in the kindest way, speaking in the highest terms of your services to the country." "it is like him," the major exclaimed with emotion. "and this young doctor, nell," pursued clare, with a meaning smile, "what is he like?" "just what he has shown himself to-night," the girl answered, blushing slightly, as she had a trick of doing, the rich blood showing readily through the clear, transparent skin. "a handsome, polished, courteous gentleman, intelligent and well informed above the generality, that is about all one could learn in so short an interview," and clare laughed low and musically. "but you have had an opportunity to study his character pretty thoroughly." "a thing i never thought of doing," returned nell, with some annoyance; "but i can tell you that he is very patient and very kind." "any one might well be that to you, nell," remarked her brother, regarding her with a proud, affectionate smile. "but it was not only to me, but to everybody, and to the very horses and dogs. he seems to be always thinking of others, never of himself, and to have a kind look or word or smile for the humblest and meanest creature that crosses his path, and," low and hesitatingly, "i believe it's because he is a real, true christian." "i know it, one can read it in his face," said the major heartily, "and i am rejoiced; for such men are needed here." "there they are!" cried nell, starting up. "see! the wagons are just crossing the ferry!" the nashes and barbours had been old friends and neighbors of the lamars before the emigration of the latter to ohio, and the major and his wife now hurried to meet and welcome them; nell and the children following. kenneth, having bestowed all needed attention upon his patient, was hurrying toward the ferry also, as indeed was nearly every man and women in the village, all alike rejoicing in every new accession to their numbers, and eager for news from the older settlements. there were joyous greetings, hearty handshakings, and quite a crowd gathered around kenneth, giving him welcome, expressing unfeigned satisfaction with the advent among them of a good physician. "why, hollo! i recognize an old friend! kenneth clenendin, i was never more surprised and delighted in my life!" cried a familiar voice, and our hero's hand was warmly grasped in that of a former schoolmate, a young man of pleasing, open countenance, and bluff, hearty manner. "is it you, godfrey dale?" kenneth exclaimed, shaking the hand cordially, his face lighting up with pleasure. "why, where did you come from?" "from tiffen's tavern over yonder, the sign of the general anthony wayne," returned dale, laughing. "you are here as a settler?" "yes, and as land agent and lawyer. it's a fine country, kenneth, and men of both your profession and mine are needed in it. come, let me show you my quarters. you must share them for the present, at all events." and linking his arm in that of his friend, he led the way, nearly all the men of the crowd following. the general anthony wayne was no spacious modern hotel, but like its neighbors a log building with windows of greased paper, its accommodations of the plainest. a cheerful wood fire blazed in its wide chimney, but the evening was a warm one for the time of year, and the company preferred the outer air. they grouped themselves about the door, sitting on stumps and logs, or leaning against the trees, while kenneth, the centre of the throng, patiently answered questions and gave all the information in his power regarding matters of public interest both at home and abroad. the sun went down behind the hill overlooking the valley on the west, the stars shone from a clear sky overhead, and lights twinkled here and there among the trees. nell, standing in the doorway of her brother's house, asked what they were, remarking: "they are many more in number than the cabins." "yes," answered clare, "do you not know that the indians have a way of lighting up their wigwams with torches made of the splinters of birch and pine?" "i wish," murmured the girl, with a slight shudder, "that they could be kept away--miles away from the town." chapter iv. early hours were the rule among the settlers in those primitive days, and by nine o'clock all was darkness and silence in the dwelling of the lamars. a bed stood in one corner of the large family room, a trundle bed beneath it, which was drawn out at night; and here slept the parents and younger children. one of two smaller apartments between this and the kitchen was appropriated to nell; the other occupied by the older children. the young girl was roused from her sleep in the middle of the night by something falling down the wall close to her side. "percy! percy!" she screamed in affright. "what is it, nell?" answered the major, springing out of bed. "oh, i don't know, i don't know! it's too dark to see! but, oh, come and bring a light quickly!" that was more easily said than done; friction matches were as yet an unknown luxury; the choice was between flint and steel and the fire covered upon the kitchen hearth. he chose the latter, but it was a work of time to hunt out a coal from the ashes, and blow it into life till it would ignite the wick of a candle. the thing was accomplished at last, however, and the light revealed a viper beneath nell's bed. the major succeeded in killing it, and soothing his sister's alarm with a few kindly reassuring words, again retired to rest. it was some time before nell's fears were forgotten in sleep, and a grumbling voice from the kitchen woke her early in the morning. "dear me, who's been rakin' ober dis fire? it's clar out, every spark of it; an', tig, you'll have to run over nex' do' for a bran' to start it wid." silvy the cook was evidently very much out of humor. "pshaw! you didn't cober it up right," returned the boy. "you git along!" was the wrathful answer. "i reckon you done raked it ober yourself; and i'll tell de major ef you don' quit cuttin' up sech shines. be off after dat bran' now, fast as you kin go." nell turned over on her pillow and listened. "percy must have forgotten to cover up the coals again," she said to herself. "what a narrow escape i had! what with indians and vipers in the town, bears, wolves and panthers in the woods, i seem to have come into a dangerous place." she sighed rather drearily, a homesick feeling creeping over her, spite of her love for percy and the rest. but that presently vanished before the beauty of a balmy, sunshiny may morning, the sight of the well-spread breakfast table, and the affectionate greetings of her brother and the children. "i'm going shopping, nell," announced mrs. lamar two hours later, when the house had been set to rights, and silvy given her orders for the day; "will you go with me?" "shopping!" echoed the young girl in incredulous surprise. "yes; do you think philadelphia is the only place where one may shop?" "no; but here in the woods?" "yes, here in the woods we can shop; we have already three stores." so they donned their bonnets and sallied forth. it was pleasant walking in the shade of the great forest trees, traversing at the same time woodland paths and village streets, the twitter of birds and rustling of leaves in the breeze mingling with the busy hum of human voices and the sound of the woodman's axe; for men were engaged here and there in laying the foundations for new dwellings or clearing spaces preparatory to doing so. not many rods from the general anthony wayne they came upon dr. clendenin and his friend godfrey dale, standing together in earnest conversation, while some workmen stood near apparently awaiting their directions. the gentlemen lifted their hats, kenneth with the grave, quiet smile nell had learned to know so well, godfrey saying "a pleasant morning, ladies." "are you going to build?" asked mrs. lamar, nodding in return. "yes; a double office with a hall between," said dale. "we think it will be sociable." a man came staggering up axe in hand. "i--i'm after--a job; and you--you wa--want these trees cut down?" "we do, davis, but you're in no condition to wield an axe at present," returned dale; and growling out an oath the fellow staggered away. "it's perfectly dreadful the amount of drunkenness we have here of late!" remarked mrs. lamar looking after him. "yes, whiskey's too cheap," said dale; "men, women and children are getting drunk." "how is that?" enquired kenneth, "there is no distillery in the vicinity?" "no; but since keel boats have begun to run on the scioto the monongahela whiskey manufacturers have rushed their firewater in here in such quantities that the cabins are crowded with it and it has fallen in price to fifty cents a gallon." "they'll be making work for you, doctor," said mrs. lamar, "and i hope you'll try to convince the people that whiskey taken in such quantities is ruinous to health." "ruinous to body and soul," he said. "you may rest assured, mrs. lamar, that my influence will be decidedly against its use." "we will take a stroll round the town, nell, before making our purchases," clare said, moving on. "what a grave, quiet manner dr. clendenin has, for so young a man!" it was a new phase of life now presenting itself to the young girl, and she found it interesting. her attention was presently attracted by a squaw walking a little distance ahead of them, wearing a shawl completely covered with silver brooches. "they get them at detroit in exchange for furs, moccasins and baskets," explained clare. "you know, i suppose, that they are quite skilled in ornamental work with beads and porcupine quills." the major joined them and they extended their walk for a mile or more through the woods, climbing the hill that forms the western boundary of the valley, from which they had a birdseye view of the village and the surrounding country, a beautiful landscape, in all its native wildness, diversified with hill and valley, forest and prairie, traversed by streams of living water. returning, they called upon mrs. nash, whom they found in excellent spirits, full of enthusiastic delight with her new home and her restoration to the companionship of her husband, after months of separation. that seemed to make amends for everything: accustomed comforts could be done without, inconveniences easily borne, they would soon be remedied, and in the meantime were mere subjects for mirth. "she's a cheery and wise little woman," was the major's remark, as they went on their way again. "yes; always the same," assented his wife; "but we'll hear a different story here," as they approached another cabin. "this is where the barbours live, nell, and i know nancy of old." "so do i, and we part company here," said the major laughingly, lifting his hat to his wife and sister, and hurrying on his way, while they drew near the open door of the dwelling. "walk in, ladies," said mr. barbour, putting his little girl off his knee, and trying to give them seats. "how do you do?" said his wife, coming forward. "i was just wondering if you two were going to be formal with an old friend like me. how fortunate you are in being able to run about enjoying yourselves, while here i've been hard at work since daylight; no time to rest after my long journey, but i must go to work washing up our dirty clothes the first thing." "no, now, nancy," expostulated her husband, "you needn't have done it. i told you there were camp-women about, from wayne's army, that would be glad of the job." "and i wouldn't have one of them near me if i never have any help," she retorted; "but i never get any thanks from you, work as hard as i will." "father's been at work too," put in flora, leaning up affectionately against him; "and so have i, and we've got most everything fixed now." "yes, you look quite settled already," mrs. lamar remarked, glancing round the room. "it needn't take long for that when you've but one room and next to nothing to put in it," whined mrs. barbour. "but perhaps it's just as well not to have much, or it might be stolen from you; for i dare say those camp-women and soldiers are thievish; and i don't suppose there's any sort of government here yet, to protect property." "i've never heard of anything being stolen here," said mrs. lamar; "though to be sure the town is not a year old yet." "well, there was a suspicious looking woman prowling about here last night; she came in making an excuse that she wanted to light her pipe at the fire, and stared round as if she was taking note where things were, in case she should get a chance to help herself." "pooh! only idle curiosity," said mr. barbour. "you're always meeting trouble more than half way, nancy." "we're out shopping," remarked nell, willing to change the subject of conversation. "shopping!" echoed mrs. barbour with a derisive laugh. "yes," said mrs. lamar, rising; "and that reminds me, nell, that we should be attending to it at once." it was no very arduous undertaking; in the first store they entered they were promptly supplied with the darning needle and skein of thread they were in search of. change was made in a novel way; literally made by cutting a silver dollar into halves, quarters and eighths. the merchant, an unmarried man, was extremely polite and courteous, and while waiting upon the ladies cast many a furtive, admiring glance at the slight, graceful figure and fair face of the major's young sister. kenneth had a call that afternoon to a case of delirium tremens, which took him past the dwelling of the barbours. he knew they were not in, having seen them but a few moments before strolling in the opposite direction, and was therefore surprised, within a few yards of the cabin, to see a man issue from the back door, with a bundle under his arm, and disappear among the trees. the doctor paused for an instant, with the thought of giving pursuit, but the call for his services was urgent, and he hurried on again. turning a corner the next moment he came suddenly upon a man and woman conversing together in low tones, who at sight of him shrank guiltily back into the shadow of the trees; but not before his quick eye had caught a sight of their faces in the gathering gloom, for twilight had already set in, and his ear a few words of their talk. "a pretty good haul considering." "yes; and now we'd best be off." suspicious words enough, but kenneth had no time to think of them then, nor for hours afterward--so critical was the condition of his patient. it was only when on returning about sunrise the next morning, they were recalled to his mind by the sound of mrs. barbour's voice lifted up in scolding and lamentation. "yes, they're gone, every one of them;--that overcoat, just as good as new, the shirt i finished only the day before i started from home, and that elegant bandanna handkerchief. i told you somebody would get in and rob us in our sleep, if you didn't fasten the door well. perhaps you'll believe another time that my opinion's worth something." "there, there, nancy, don't go on as if everything we had was lost. the town isn't so large that a thief can keep himself hid very long in it," mr. barbour was replying as the doctor stepped up to the open door. "good morning," he said, "i accidentally overheard mrs. barbour's lament, in passing, and i think i can throw some light on this matter," then went on to tell of what he had seen and heard the previous evening. "so you see, nancy, we weren't robbed in our sleep after all," was mr. barbour's comment, addressed to his wife. "no thanks to you, anyhow," she retorted; "and it's your fault all the same; because i wouldn't have gone out and left the house alone if i'd had my way." mr. barbour subsided. why could he not learn how utterly useless it was to attempt to justify himself under the accusations of his wife? "and there you sit never moving hand or foot to find the thief and get your own out of his clutches!" she whined, moving about with disconsolate and martyrlike air at her work of preparing the morning meal. "well, well, i'll go and see what can be done," he said, rising and putting on his hat. "doctor, would you recognize the thief?" "i am quite sure i should know again the suspicious looking persons i have been telling you of," kenneth answered as they stepped out together. "now don't be gone all day, mr. barbour; breakfast will be on the table in half an hour," his wife called after him. "very well," he said looking back, "am i to let the thief escape rather than keep you waiting for an hour?" "of course you'll do one or the other--probably both," she fretted, as he walked on without waiting for an answer, "though it needn't take half that time to scour this wretched little town from end to end." it did not; scarcely ten minutes had elapsed before it was known by every inhabitant that a theft had been committed, and that a man named brannon and his wife, people of low character, whose absence would be gain to the place, had absconded during the night. they were not desirable citizens, but the stolen property must be recovered, and the larceny punished. a hot pursuit was immediately begun, and before noon the culprits were taken and brought back in triumph. but as yet the town had no constituted authorities. what was to be done? the citizens gathered together on the river bank, chose one of their number, a mr. samuel smith, as judge, and proceeded to try brannon in due form; a jury was empanelled, the judge appointed godfrey dale as attorney for the prosecution, and another young lawyer, maurice gerard by name, for the defence. witnesses were called and examined. the goods had been found in possession of the accused, but he stoutly affirmed that they were his own. barbour, however, was able to prove property, and dr. clendenin's evidence was strong against the prisoner, whom he identified without hesitation as the man he had seen carrying away a bundle from barbour's cabin the previous evening. there was other testimony, but kenneth's was the most conclusive. the judge summed up the evidence, the jury retired to a short distance, and in a few moments returned with the verdict of guilty, and that the culprit be sentenced according to the discretion of the judge. the latter presently announced his decision:--ten lashes upon the naked back of the prisoner, or that he should sit upon a bare pack-saddle on his pony, while his wife taking it by the bridle should lead it through every street of the village, pausing before the door of each house with the announcement, "this is brannon who stole the great-coat, handkerchief, and shirt." brannon chose the latter horn of the dilemma, and a responsible person was appointed by the judge to see the sentence immediately and faithfully executed. the crowd waited to see the man mounted upon the pony, then scattered to their homes or other positions favorable for watching his progress through the town. he submitted to his punishment in dogged silence: glancing about him with an air of sullen defiance as he took his seat. then his eye caught that of kenneth fixed upon him in grave pity, and the look was returned with one of bitter hatred and revenge. "curse you!" he muttered under his breath, "the day will come when you'll repent of this." chapter v. the brannons fled immediately upon being released, after the carrying out of the sentence. no one mourned their departure: but nell lamar, having heard from dale of the look the culprit had cast upon kenneth, rejoiced not a little in secret that they were gone. "dr. clendenin had been so kind to her on her journey," she explained to herself, "that in common gratitude she must care for his safety." naturally, being both friend and physician to the major's family, kenneth was a frequent visitor at their house. though noticeably quiet and undemonstrative in manner, he soon became a great favorite with them all, from the parents down to the youngest child; and nell saw no reason to appropriate his visits to herself, even when unprofessional. nor had she any desire to do so; and in fact his conversation was seldom directed to her. yet it did not escape clare's quick observation that the calm gray eye saw every movement of her young sister, and that no tone of the sweet girlish voice ever fell unheeded upon his ear. she was well pleased, nell could not help loving such a man, or being happy with him, so would soon be provided for, and the major relieved of her support. that last would never have been the major's thought, his darling little sister was esteemed no burden by him. he was one of the wealthiest men in the place, held a highly responsible office under the general government, and had received large grants of land in compensation for his services in the revolutionary war. nell was fond of her brother, yet stood somewhat in awe of him. he was a reserved, rather taciturn man, and military life had increased a natural tendency to sternness of manner toward those under his authority which belied his real kindness of heart. he had never a harsh word or look for nell, yet she dared not lavish upon him the demonstrations of affection her loving young heart longed to bestow; dared not offer him a caress; and he rarely gave them unasked to her or to any one else except the youngest of his children. clare was more demonstrative and really meant to be very kind, but was as dictatorial and domineering in her way as the major in his, and before many days had passed she began to treat the young girl as a child, checking, criticising, reproving, and directing with the most exasperating persistency, and as having an undoubted right. this was very trying to nell's sense of womanly dignity; and though by no means an ill-tempered little body, she sometimes found it difficult to possess her soul in patience. "where now?" asked clare one morning, addressing her. "to the woods with the children, after wild flowers and mosses," returned the young girl gaily. she was standing in the doorway swinging a broad-brimmed hat by its strings, her beautiful uncovered hair glittering like burnished gold in the sunbeams sifting down upon it through the leaves of the overshadowing trees, as they stirred restlessly to and fro in the pleasant summer breeze. she was in a happy mood, light-hearted and free from care as the birds warbling overhead, and had been humming snatches of song till interrupted by clare's question. "you have been here nearly a week now," pursued that lady in precisely the tone she would have used to one of her children, "don't you think it is time to begin to make yourself useful? life was never meant for a perpetual holiday." nell's cheek crimsoned. "what would you have me do? offer my services as assistant to silvy the cook, maria the nurse-maid, or tig the stable boy?" she asked in a slightly sarcastic tone. "silvy is an excellent cook, and it might not be at all amiss for you to take some lessons of her," said clare. "but there are other employments. the children need instruction, and you ought to be able to give it. then there are spinning and sewing." "i don't know anything about spinning." "i'll teach you, in return for the lessons you give the children in spelling, reading and writing." "very well, we'll talk of it when i come back from my walk," nell answered, tying on her hat. she was willing enough to make herself useful, but clare's manner was irritating. her annoyance was, however, soon forgotten in the prattle of the children, and the beauty of the woods. they wandered about till weary, then sat down on a log to rest. "now if i only had a book," remarked nell. "why didn't you bring one?" asked bess. "i don't mean a sunday book, such as those on the shelves in the sitting-room," was the half scornful reply. "aunt nell, there are some other kinds of books up in the garret." "what kinds?" "oh, i don't know; stories, i believe, but not fit for me to read, mother says." nell rose eagerly. "come, let us go back," she said, "i must see those books. but how came they there?" bess explained as they wended their homeward way, she walking soberly by her aunt's side, the boys racing on before, climbing and jumping over stumps and logs. the major had formerly been in the mercantile business, and in the garret were stowed away boxes of goods--a medley of many odds and ends which had fallen to his share in the division of unsold stock made by himself and partner in the winding up of the joint concern. the garret was the favorite resort of the children when kept within doors by stormy weather, and bess had made herself well acquainted with the contents of the boxes, turning them over and over in search of "pretty things" with which to bedeck her dolls and herself. the books proved to be novels--"claremont" complete in several volumes and an odd volume of "peregrine pickle." nell seized upon them with delight and carried them off to her bed-room. books were rare luxuries in those days, there were no newspapers or magazines published in that region of country, and as yet there was no regular mail. nell read and re-read "claremont," devoting to its perusal every spare moment when she could steal away unobserved to the solitude of her room, and carrying a volume with her in her rambles with the children. then she took up "peregrine pickle," but with sore disappointment that the first volume was missing; so much so that she at length plucked up courage to ask her brother what had become of it; though quite fearful that he would disapprove of her reading it. "well," he said with a smile, "i suppose my former partner has it, and somebody is probably as anxious for this as you are for it. i'm sorry, for your sake, that we were so careless in dividing our stock." "it is just as well," said clare; "time can be more profitably employed than in the reading of such trash." "i consider it a very innocent amusement," replied the major, shortly; not over-pleased with the remark, seeing that it called a flush of wounded feeling to nellie's fair cheek. "i remember that i enjoyed reading it myself. if it were in my power to get it for you, nell, you should have it." she thanked him with a look, then rose and left the room. "this is but a dull place for her after philadelphia," he said to his wife. "i have no doubt she misses the weekly newspaper and many another source of entertainment which she enjoyed there, but must do without here." "probably; but she is no worse off in regard to those things than any of the rest of us," said clare coolly. "you forget, my dear, that you have me," returned the major with playful pleasantry. "and the children," he added, taking his youngest on his knee. "we're worth a good deal, aren't we, ralph?" the major so sincerely regretted his sister's disappointment that it was frequently in his thoughts during the next week, and he was seriously considering the feasibility of sending to philadelphia or new york for a box of books such as she would find both entertaining and instructive, when the want was supplied in an unlooked for manner. dr. clendenin and his friend dale had pushed forward their office building as fast as possible and taken possession. making a call upon kenneth one afternoon, the major found him unpacking books and arranging them upon shelves he had had put up along the wall. "books!" cried the major. "you have quite a library. all medical works?" "oh, no," said kenneth. "will you step up and look at them? my stock is not large, but valuable, to me at least, and i hope to add to it from time to time." "valuable! yes, indeed, to a lover of literature," remarked the major running his eye over the titles. "shakespeare, milton, pope, dryden, gray, goldsmith, gibbon, plutarch, rollins, etc., etc. poetry, history, fiction are well represented, and i see you have a goodly supply of religious works of the best class, also. medical books, too, in plenty, but of their quality i am no judge." "yes, i shall not want for good companionship here in my somewhat rough bachelor quarters," kenneth answered, surveying his treasures with an air of quiet content. "but i do not mean to be selfish, major, make yourself at home among my friends." "thank you," returned the major heartily, wishing that nell had been included in the invitation; when kenneth, as if in answer to his thoughts, said, "the ladies of your family, too, might find something here to enjoy." then the major told of nell's disappointment, and half an hour later was on his way home, carrying her the "vicar of wakefield," and the assurance that dr. clendenin's entire library was at her service. nell's face sparkled with delight at the news, and the sight of the book. "how kind in him!" she said. "i'll handle them with the greatest care." for many months those books and the talks with their owner which naturally grew out of their perusal, were her greatest enjoyment; for as yet she had very few companions near her own age. but as the town grew there was a corresponding increase in its young society and in the sources of amusement and entertainment open to her. she had many admirers and kenneth stepped quietly aside, as one who had no desire to win the prize. mrs. lamar did not understand it, no more did dale, or nell herself, though kenneth had never comported himself as a lover and she had not consciously thought of him. there were other things about kenneth that puzzled dale. he seemed to have some secret grief; there were times when his look and manner betokened inexpressible sadness, though he always shook it off and assumed an air of cheerfulness on being spoken to. dale's curiosity was piqued, and indeed he would have rejoiced to give all the sympathy and comfort that might be in his power; but there was a quiet, reserved dignity about kenneth that forbade any intrusion into his private affairs. he rarely spoke of himself or his own concerns; he sometimes mentioned his mother or sister, always with the greatest respect and affection, but his talk when they were alone together was of literature, of the interests of the community in which they lived, the state, the country, the acts of the government, and what was going on in foreign lands, or of dale's own plans and prospects, in which kenneth took the most generous, unselfish interest. as a physician he was untiring in his efforts to relieve, patient and sympathizing, in manner gentle even to tenderness with the aged and with the little ones. he soon came to have great influence in the community and it was always cast on the side of right. a man of pure morals and an earnest christian, he was as ready and competent to pray with the sick and dying, and to point out to the troubled soul the paths of peace, as any minister could be. these offices were performed as simply and easily as those others in which the healing of the body only was concerned. another thing dale noticed, with the thought that it was decidedly odd, that kenneth took evident pains to make acquaintance with all the indians in the vicinity, and of every white man who had visited their tribes, whether near or far off, or had had much to do with them in any way: that he asked many questions, wording each with care to avoid arousing suspicion in regard to his motives, and that invariably his main object seemed to be to gain information in regard to whites living among the indians. once dale ventured to ask if he had ever had a friend or relative carried off by them; but the answer was a quiet "no," that while it left his curiosity entirely unsatisfied, gave no encouragement to further questioning. they were in dale's office; kenneth had come across the connecting hall with some enquiry in regard to a piece of land for the disposal of which dale was the agent, and a casual mention of the indians had made a favorable opening for his query. a moment's silence followed kenneth's reply, then zeb came rushing in. "somefin goin' on down to de rivah, sahs, squire smith goin' for to hol' court, dey say. sent de constable to cotch the tief an' fotch him along double quick." dale sprang from his chair and caught up his hat. "my services may be needed," he said, laughing, "though the squire doesn't make much account of law. come on, doc; if the sentence should be flogging you may be needed too." a man named adam mcmurdy, who cultivated some land on the station prairie below the town, had come in to squire smith with a complaint that during his absence the previous night, some one had stolen his horse collar; that he had examined the collars on the horses of the ploughmen at work this morning, recognized one of them as his, and claimed it of the horse's owner, bill slack. that slack had not only refused to restore it, insisting that it was his own, but used very abusive language toward him (mcmurdy), and threatened to whip him for accusing him of the theft. on hearing the story the squire immediately despatched his constable in search of slack, with strict orders to bring him and the collar at once into court. the court had already convened under the trees by the river side, and the constable was hurrying toward it with the collar in one hand, the accused tightly grasped in the other, as dr. clendenin and dale stepped into the street. they followed quickly on the heels of the constable. life had so little of the spice of variety then and there that even so trivial an affair created some stir and excitement. also the squire had an amusing method of dealing out justice that made a trial conducted by him somewhat entertaining to those who were spectators. nearly all the men of the town were there. the prisoner being arraigned at the bar of justice, the squire turned to mcmurdy and asked, "how can you prove this collar to be yours?" "if the collar is mine," he replied, "mr. spear, who is present, can testify." mr. spear, the presbyterian minister, stepped forward. "if the collar is mcmurdy's," he said, "i wrote his name on it, on the inner side of the ear." "hand it to me," said the squire. taking it from the constable and turning up the ear, "yes, here's the name. no better proof could be given, and my sentence is----" "if the court will excuse the interruption," began dale, a mischievous twinkle in his eye; "let me say that according to law, as----" "no, the court won't be interrupted," returned the squire, frowning him down. "all laws were intended for the purpose of enforcing justice. i know what's right and what's wrong as well as the man that made the laws; therefore stand in no need of laws to govern my actions. "my sentence is that the prisoner be tied up forthwith to your buckeye and receive five lashes well laid on." it was done and the crowd dispersed. the trial had occupied scarcely five minutes and every one was satisfied except the culprit. chapter vi. "there's even-handed justice for ye, stranger?" a stalwart backwoodsman in hunting garb of dressed skins was the speaker, and the words were addressed to kenneth, near to whom he had stood during the brief trial of bill slack. dale had walked away in company with a brother lawyer, and kenneth was turning from the unpleasant scene with a thought of pity for the weakness and wickedness of the unhappy criminal. "yes," he answered, "squire smith is a man of discriminating mind and judgment, very impartial in his decisions, and prompt in seeing them carried out. but what a happy world this might be if all were honest and upright!" "that's true; but we've got to take it as it is. "got quite a town here," pursued the hunter, moving along by kenneth's side as he walked up the street. "last time i was round here in these parts, there wasn't so much as an injun wigwam to be seen; nothin' but the thickest kind o' thick woods." "i thought your face was quite new to me," said kenneth. "may i ask where you are from?" "you kin ask, sir, and i haven't the least objection in life to tellin'. i've been huntin' and trappin' all through this northwestern territory, along the ohio and the little miami, and away up north by the great lakes; and even as far as the head waters of the mississippi. and i come back with a lot of furs and skins. sold 'em mostly in detroit." "ah!" exclaimed kenneth, with interest. "you must have had an adventurous life, and fallen in with many tribes of indians." "humph! yes, young man; saw a good deal more of the ugly, treacherous varmints than i cared to. i hain't no love for 'em, and no more have they for me." "you have had some encounters with them?" "more'n a few, stranger. i've taken their scalps, and been mighty near losin' my own; have been in their clutches several times, run the gauntlet twice, and would have been burnt at the stake if i hadn't made my escape. however, i haven't any more to tell than any other man that's been huntin' and trappin' for ten or a dozen years." kenneth invited him into his office, set food and drink before him, and by dint of adroit questioning drew from him a good deal of information in regard to the various tribes among whom he had been. "have you ever met with any whites living with them?" he asked at length. "yes, occasionally. there's simon gerty; i saw him, and he's a worse savage than the redskins." "but any others? any women?" "i met another man that was a prisoner, got away afterwards; and saw children at different times, girls and boys, both, that they'd stole away from their folks and adopted. and i saw a white woman a few weeks ago, that's been with 'em for years, and is married to an injun; got a family of pappooses." in reply to further questions he went on to describe the situation of the indian village where he had seen this woman, but could give no description of her, except that she was very much tanned, dressed like the squaws, and had scarcely a more civilized look than they. "i hope she's no kin o' yours?" he remarked, looking keenly at his questioner. "no; i never had friend or relative taken by them," kenneth answered, "though our family were pioneers, and several of them lost their lives by the indians." "humph! then i reckon you hain't no love for 'em either?" "not so much as i ought to have, i'm afraid." "how's that? can't say as i see any call to love 'em at all." "they are human creatures, and christ died for them as well as for the white man. doubtless they are equally dear to him," kenneth answered, with gentle gravity, fixing a kindly look upon his rough companion. "well, now, that may be," the man returned thoughtfully. "fact is, i've never paid much attention to those things. minister, are ye?" "no; a doctor." "find much to do about here?" "not just now," kenneth answered aloud, adding to himself, "happily i can very well be spared for a few days." upon the departure of the backwoodsman from the office, zeb was summoned and directed to saddle romeo and have him at the door by the time his master should return from a round of visits among his town patients. "i am going off on a hunt, zeb, and shall want my gun, blanket and some provisions; get me some parched corn, bread and a little salt, and pack them in one end of my saddle-bags," was his final order. "yes, sah. you'll take me 'long, i s'pose?" interrogatively. "no, zeb, i'm going alone; i must leave you to take care of the office and see who calls. i shall be away for two or three days, or longer, and shall want to know when i return who have been wanting the doctor, that i may go to them at once." "'tain't jes' the very bestest time ob yeah for a hunt," muttered the boy, watching his master as he strode rapidly down the street. "wondah what sort ob game massa doctah's gwine arter." by noon of that day kenneth had put several miles of hill and valley between him and chillicothe. he had gone, telling no one whither, or on what errand he was bound, and those who saw him leaving the town took it for granted that he had had a call to some sick person in the country. his course was northwesterly, and for days he pressed on sturdily in that direction, taking an hour's rest at noon, subsisting on the provisions in his saddle-bags, and such small game as came in his way, at night kindling a fire to keep off the wild beasts, and sleeping on the ground, wrapped in his blanket, with his horse picketed near by. his way lay through pathless forests and over trackless prairies where perhaps the foot of white man had never trod; the solitude was utter and the compass his only guide; not a human creature did he meet; but during the hours of darkness his ears were greeted with the cry of the panther and the howl of the wolf, now far in the distance, now close at hand. but brave by nature and strong in faith, kenneth committed himself to the care of him who neither slumbers nor sleeps, and there in the wilderness rested as securely in the shadow of his wing, as though in the midst of civilization and compassed by walls and bulwarks. but in regard to the success or failure of the object of his journey he was not equally calm and trustful. how is it that our faith is apt to be so weak in respect to our father's loving control of those things which affect our happiness in this life, even when we trust to him unhesitatingly the far greater interests of eternity? ah how slow we are to believe that word, "we know that all things work together for good to them that love god." such was kenneth's experience at this time, earnestly striving, yet with but partial success, to throw off the burden of care and anxiety that oppressed him, now urging his steed forward with almost feverish haste, himself half panting with eagerness and excitement, and anon bringing it to a walk, while with head drooping and heavy sighs bursting from his bosom he seemed half inclined to turn and retrace his steps. this hesitation, this shirking from the result of his quest, grew upon him as he advanced; but at length, "what weakness is this?" he cried aloud. "god helping me, i will throw it off and meet this crisis with christian courage. should the very worst come, it cannot peril that which i have committed to his hand. blessed be his holy name for that gracious word, 'i give unto them eternal life: and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hand.'" with the last words his voice rang out triumphantly on the silent air. romeo pricked up his ears at the sound and quickened his pace to a rapid canter. "right, my brave fellow!" said his master, patting his neck; "on now with spirit, we are not far from the end of this long jaunt." they were crossing a prairie, a sea of waving grass bespangled with flowers of many and gorgeous hues, beyond which lay a thick wood. it was afternoon of the third day and the sun near its setting, as they plunged into the wood. here the light had already grown dim, and soon darkness compelled a halt. kenneth dismounted, secured his horse in the usual way, gathered dry branches and leaves, and with the aid of flint and steel had presently a bright fire blazing. a couple of birds which he had shot during the day, hung at his saddle bow. these he quickly stripped of their feathers and prepared for cooking, which he managed by suspending them before the fire, each on the end of a pointed stick whose other end was thrust well into the ground. a bit of corn-bread from his saddle-bags, and water from a running stream near by, filled up the complement of viands that formed his simple repast. he had but just begun it when a slight sound like the crackling of a dry twig, near at hand, made him look up. the flickering firelight showed him a tall dark form creeping stealthily toward him, another and much smaller one close at its heels. he instinctively put out his hand for his gun, lying by his side, then drew it back as he perceived that the approaching strangers were a woman and child. the former was wrapped in an indian blanket, and carried a papoose on her back. "me friend," she said in broken english. "me hungry; papoose hungry," pointing to the little one trotting at her side. "sit down and i will feed you," kenneth answered, making room for her near the fire. she seated herself upon the roots of a tree, the child crouching at her feet, laid the babe, which was sleeping soundly, across her lap, and taking the food he offered shared it with the other child. something in her look and manner half startled kenneth. he hastily threw a pine knot upon the fire. it burst into a bright blaze, throwing a strong light upon the face and figure of the stranger, and kenneth's heart throbbed as he looked keenly at her, at first beating high with hope, then almost it stood still in disappointment and despair. "she is too young," he sighed to himself; then speaking aloud, "you are a white woman," he said. "squaw," she answered, shaking her head. "you have grown up among the indians and perhaps forgotten your own parents," he remarked, gazing earnestly upon her, "but your blood is white; you have not an indian feature; your eyes are blue, your hair is red and curly." she evidently but half comprehended what he was saying, gave him no answer save an enquiring bewildered look. he called to his aid the slight knowledge he had gained of the indian tongue, and at length succeeded in making himself understood. at first she utterly denied that she belonged to the white race, repeating her assertion that she was a squaw, but finally admitted that he was right, acknowledging that she had a faint recollection of being carried away by the indians in her very early childhood. he asked if she would not like to go back; at which she answered very emphatically that she would not, she was the squaw of a young indian brave, and the mother of these his children; loved husband and children dearly, and would on no account leave them. she had strayed from her camp that day and lost her way in the woods, but would find it again and go back to the indian village, distant not more than two or three miles, when the moon was up. he ceased his persuasions, but regarded her with interest, thinking how sad it was that the child of civilized, perhaps christian, parents should have become so entirely savage. he asked if she knew of any other white woman among the indians. she did not. he talked to her of god and of christ, telling the sweet story of the cross, but was doubtful how much of it she was able to grasp. she listened with a half interested, half puzzled air, a gleam of intelligence occasionally lighting up her somewhat stolid face. but the silvery rays of the moon came stealing through the branches overhead, and, rousing the older child, who had fallen asleep on the ground at her feet, the woman arose, shouldered her still slumbering babe, and wrapping her blanket about her, gave kenneth a farewell nod, and with the little one trotting at her heels as before, quickly disappeared amid the deep shadows of the wood. the object of kenneth's journey had been accomplished; the tiny flame of hope enkindled by the information gleaned from the hunter had gone out in darkness, and naught remained for him but to take up again his burden of secret grief and care, and go on with life's duties with what courage and patience he might. weary with the day's travel, he yet made no movement toward preparation for sleep. long hours he sat over his fire in an attitude of deep despondency, hands clasped about his knees, head bowed upon his breast; then kneeling upon the ground he poured out his soul in prayer. "lord, the cross is very heavy, the cup very bitter, yet how light and sweet compared with what thou didst bear and drink for me! forgive, oh, forgive the sin of thy servant! who am i that i dare complain or murmur? lord, hear the cry of thy servant! strengthen him that he rest in the lord and wait patiently for him; though it be till his feet stand upon the other shore." chapter vii. there was as yet no post-office in chillicothe, and no regular mail. one came occasionally, brought by a man on horseback, and its arrival was always an event fraught with deep interest to most of the inhabitants. this occurred during kenneth's absence, for the first time in many weeks. there was a letter for him from glen forest, of which dale took possession, paying the postage. "when will your master be home?" he asked of zeb, who was lounging before the office door. "dunno, sah; he didn't say, sah." "where did he go?" "dunno, sah; said he gwine on a hunt; wouldn't be home for two or three days." "two or three days! and he's been gone nearly a week," exclaimed dale, stepping into his office. "nearly a week," he went on thinking aloud, as he seated himself at his desk and laid the letter on it. "i wonder if we shouldn't turn out in a body and hunt for him; he may have met with an accident or--the treacherous savage!" he frowned anxiously at the letter for a moment, then with sudden recollection turned from it to busy himself with his own correspondence. several letters had come for him, and they must be read, digested, and answered. they absorbed his attention for some hours, then came the call to supper, and still dr. clendenin was missing. dale was growing very uneasy; kenneth had become as a brother to him. "i must do something," he said to himself on his return to his office, taking up the letter again and gazing earnestly at it. "what can have become of him? where can he have gone? if he isn't here within an hour, i shall go and consult the major. "ah!" he went on musingly, still gazing at the missive in his hand, "wouldn't he put spurs to his horse, if he knew this was here waiting for him, that is, if he's alive and free? how eager he always is for these letters, yet never opens one before anybody, never alludes to their contents. "and they always seem to increase that mysterious trouble that he keeps so carefully to himself, and tries so hard to throw off, even when he and i are quite alone together." but at that instant there was a sound of horse's hoofs in the street without, then a glad exclamation from zeb, "ki, massa doctah! thought the injuns got you dis time, suah!" and, throwing down the letter, dale rushed to the door to greet his friend. kenneth was in the act of dismounting, saying in a kindly tone to zeb, as he gave him the reins, "no; here i am quite safe. has there been any letter or message for me?" "yes; there was a mail to-day," dale said, stepping forward and grasping his friend's hand with affectionate warmth. "a letter for you. come in, i have it here. but," with a look of surprise and concern at the haggard face and drooping figure, "you are ill, my dear fellow!" "not at all, only somewhat weary and worn," kenneth answered, with a faint smile that had neither mirth nor gladness in it. "but the letter, godfrey! is it from--" "glen forest? yes; the superscription, i noticed, is in the usual hand, post-mark the same as on the others. here it is. take this chair, and while you read i'll run over and tell tiffin to see that they get a hot supper ready for you." putting the missive into kenneth's eager, almost trembling, hand, he hurried away before the latter could utter a word of thanks. for weeks kenneth had been hungering for this letter, yet now that he held it in his hand he seemed to have need to gather up courage for its perusal. for a moment he sat with closed eyes, lips moving, though no sound came from them; then he broke the seal and read; at first eagerly, hastily, with bated breath, then, turning back to the beginning, with more care and deliberation, dwelling upon each sentence, while the shadow deepened on his brow, and again and again his broad breast heaved with a heavy sigh. at length, at the sound of approaching footsteps, he rose and retreated to his own office, at the same time refolding the letter and putting it in his pocket. dale had delayed purposely on his errand, stopping to chat now with one, now with another, in the tavern, then in the street. at his own door he was met by major lamar with the question, "any news of the doctor yet?" "yes, he's just back; looking quite worn out, too." "ah! i'm sorry to hear that. i can see him, i suppose?" "oh, yes; walk right in. i left him--why, no, he isn't here! sit down, major, and i'll hunt him up." but here let us go back and tell of some occurrences of the previous day in the major's family. early in the afternoon tig was standing with elbows on the fence and chin in hands, lazily watching the sports of the children as they vied with each other in the agility with which they could leap over stumps and logs, when silvy's voice came sharply to his ears, "tiglath pileser, you lazy niggah, what you doin' dar? didn't i tole you to clean de knives? now miss nell is ready for to go ridin' and you just go right 'long and fotch de hosses roun' soon's eber you kin git dem saddled." "am i to go 'long, mother?" queried tig, turning with alacrity to obey; for the horses were the pride of his heart, a ride with miss nell his greatest delight, especially when he was her sole companion and protector; and to-day he thought he should be, as he knew of no other escort. his mother's reply confirmed his hopes. "course you is; you always gets dat honor when dar ain't no gentleman 'bout." tig made haste to the stable, saddled and bridled fairy and a pony belonging to the major with unaccustomed speed, and led them round to the front door, where miss nell was waiting in riding hat and habit. "you were very quick this time, tig," she said with an approving smile. "ki! miss nell," he answered, grinning from ear to ear, "no wondah; i'se in a big hurry, les' some dem gentlemen mout be comin' 'long 'fo' we gets off." "what gentlemen, tig?" she asked, laughing, as she stepped upon the horse-block and sprang lightly into the saddle. "oh, de doctah, or mistah dale, or some dem other gentlemen. 'tain't often dis chile gets a chance to take care ob you, miss nell." "do you think you can take care of her, tig?" asked mrs. lamar, coming to the door with a basket in her hand. "guess i kin, mistis, i ain't 'fraid no injuns, nor b'ars, nor painters!" cried the boy, straightening himself with an air of injured dignity. "don't boast, tig, till your courage has been put to the test," answered his mistress. "here, take this basket and see if you can get it full of ripe mulberries for tea. nell, i really don't feel quite sure that i ought to let you go without a better protector." "nonsense, clare! i've done it before," returned the young girl, her color rising. "and the responsibility is not yours, i'm old enough to decide such matters for myself." and with that she touched fairy lightly with the whip and cantered off, tig following close in her rear. it was a lovely summer afternoon, the heat of the sun tempered by a cool, refreshing breeze. fairy had scarcely been out of the stable for a day or two and was full of spirit, and nell reveled in the delight of dashing away at almost headlong speed through the forest and over the prairies. so enjoyable did she find the swift movement, with the sense of wild freedom it gave her, the beauty of the landscape, the sweet scent of the woods and wild flowers, that she went much farther than she had at first intended, or, indeed, was aware of. then coming back she stopped with tig under a cluster of mulberry trees on the edge of a prairie, to fill the basket with fruit. not caring to stain her pretty fingers, she left the boy to fulfil the task alone, while she wandered to and fro, gathering flowers. the sun was getting low as they remounted. "we must hurry, tig," nell said, glancing uneasily toward the west. "i did not think we had been here so long." they sped across the prairie and entered the wood that lay between it and the town. here it was already dusk, and nell urged fairy on, her heart beating fast, while she glanced hither and thither, seeming to see an indian, a bear, wolf, or panther behind every tree. suddenly she caught sight of a pair of fiery eyes glaring upon her from an overhanging branch, and the next instant, with a low, fierce growl, something leaped upon the back of her horse, a huge paw was laid on her shoulder, a hot breath fanned her cheek, while a wild shriek from tig rang in her ears, and fairy reared and snorted with fear. oh, the mortal terror that seized upon nell, almost freezing the blood in her veins! closing her eyes she leant forward and threw her arms about the neck of her pony, clinging to it in frantic terror for what seemed an age of suffering, but was in reality scarcely a moment. a bullet, sped by an unerring hand, struck the panther in the eye, and it fell to the ground dead. a horseman, hurrying from the direction of the town, put spurs to his steed at sound of the report of the gun, and almost before its echoes had died away, nell was in her brother's arms. he soothed and caressed her, she lying on his breast, sobbing and speechless with fright. "ugh! big fellow!" grunted a voice near at hand, and nell, looking up, saw a tall indian standing over the prostrate wild cat, the outline of whose form could be dimly discovered in the fading light. "wawillaway," said the major, holding out his hand to the chief, "you have saved my sister's life, and i can never fully return the obligation! come with us to chillicothe. my house shall be your home whenever you choose to make it so." wawillaway grasped the offered hand in one of his own, while with the other he held the bridle of fairy, who was shying at the dead panther, and trembling and snorting with fear. "indian good gun," he said. "indian go to white man's wigwam. come, white squaw very much 'fraid." "yes, nell, we had better go; for it grows darker every moment. can you sit your horse now?" "yes," she whispered, "i must. but oh, percy, keep close to me!" "as close as i can. i will lead your horse," he answered, as he placed her in the saddle. "but where is tig? i thought he was with you." tig had fled in overpowering terror, at the instant of the discharge of wawillaway's gun, and on reaching home they found him there, telling an incoherent story of attacking indians and wild cats, that filled the household with alarm. great was their relief at the sight of the major and his sister, though nell was in a state of nervous prostration and excitement that made it necessary to put her at once to bed and watch by her during the night. the next day she was but little better, and on her account her brother had been anxiously looking for dr. clendenin's return, and had now come in search of him. kenneth was not long in making his appearance. his manner was calm and quiet as usual, and shaking hands with the major, who expressed hearty satisfaction at seeing him again, he asked if the family were all well. "all but nell," was the reply, "and i don't know that there's much amiss with her. but i should like you to see her. she had a terrible fright yesterday, and doesn't seem to get over it." kenneth's look was anxious and inquiring. "i supposed you had heard--" the major began, but dale interrupted, "no, no, he hasn't had time to hear anything yet, or even to eat; and here comes zeb with his supper. i told him to bring it over to your office, doctor." "thank you," said kenneth, "but it can wait. i will go with you at once, major." but the major would not hear of it. "there is no hurry," he insisted. "besides you ought to hear the story of her fright before seeing her, and may as well do so while breaking your fast." kenneth yielded, for he had not tasted food since early morning, and felt in sore need of it. "what can we do for her?" asked the major in conclusion. "divert her mind from the subject as much as possible," returned the doctor. "dosing is not what she needs." "my opinion exactly," responded the major, "but i must crave your assistance in applying your prescription." "certainly, my dear sir, i will do my best." it was a fair summer evening, the sun just touching the treetops, as kenneth left his office in company with the major. people were gathered about the doors of their dwellings or places of business, the day's work done for most of the men, though the busy housewives still plied the needle, sewing or knitting; thus exemplifying the truth of the old adage, "man's work is from sun to sun, but a woman's work is never done." children played hide and seek among the trees, their glad voices ringing out upon the quiet air in merry shouts and silvery laughter; but many of them, on catching sight of kenneth, left their sport to run and take him by the hand, welcoming him with eager delight, and asking him where he had been so long. older people, too, crowded about him with a like greeting and the same question. he parried it as best he might, not feeling disposed to be communicative on the subject, returned the handshakings and kindly greetings, and asked after the health of each family represented. "you have won all hearts here, dr. clendenin," the major remarked, when at length they had parted with the last of the friendly interrogators and were drawing near his own door. "oh, i believe it is so!" kenneth answered, with a glad lighting up of his grave, almost sad face, "and i sometimes wonder how it has come about." "love begets love, and so it is with disinterested kindness also," the major answered. mrs. lamar, coming to meet them, caught the last words. "quite true," she assented, holding out a hand to kenneth, "and i know of no one else in whose case we see such an exemplification of that fact as in dr. clendenin's. doctor, running away so suddenly and mysteriously, you left many an anxious heart behind you." she gave him a look of keen curiosity as she spoke. but he would not take the hint. "my friends are very kind and i would not willingly cause them a moment's uneasiness," was all he said. it was gently spoken, but tone and manner did not invite a further display of inquisitiveness. nell, seated in the doorway in a listless attitude, rose suddenly on perceiving her brother's approach and who was with him, and, overcome by an unaccountable fit of shyness, hastily retreated into the house, her heart beating fast, the hot blood dyeing her cheek. then, much vexed with herself, she turned at the sound of kenneth's voice saying "good evening," and gave him her hand with a murmured "how do you do, doctor?" he made her sit down, and drew up a chair for himself close to her side. "don't be afraid of me because i come in my professional capacity," he said in a playful tone, again taking her hand and laying a finger on her pulse. "you needn't," she said with a little pout, and seeming half inclined to jerk the hand away. "i'm not sick. i wonder what nonsense percy's been telling you." they were alone; the major and his wife had wandered on up the street; the children were sporting outside with their mates. "none at all," he answered with his grave smile, "only that your nerves have had a shock from which they do not find it easy to recover." "i'm not sick, and i won't be called nervous! i just wish people would let me alone!" she cried angrily, bursting into tears in spite of herself. "oh dear! oh dear!" she sobbed, "i don't know what has come over me! i never was so ill-tempered or so babyish before!" "don't be vexed with me for saying it is because you are not well," he answered soothingly. "let the tears have their way and they will relieve you greatly." she cried quite heartily for a moment, then wiping away her tears, said with half averted face, and in a tone of suppressed horror, shuddering as she spoke, "oh, i cannot forget it!--those fiery eyes gleaming out at me in the darkness, the heavy paw on my shoulder, the hot breath on my cheek! i seem to see and feel them all the time, sleeping or waking. what shall i do?" "try to forget it," he said gently; "turn your thoughts as much as possible to other things, and the effect of your fright will gradually wear away." "i cannot forget it," she answered sadly. "i shall always be afraid to go into the woods now, and my walks and rides were the greatest pleasures i had." "ah, well," he said, "the wild animals will soon be driven from our immediate neighborhood; and in the meantime you must go well protected. my dear miss nell," he added in lower, sweeter tones, "you know there is one whose protecting care is over us at all times and in all places. try to trust in him with a simple, childlike confidence; such faith will do more to give you calmness and peace than anything else can." a moment's pause; then turning the conversation upon other themes, he exerted himself for her entertainment till the major and his wife came in, when he shortly took his leave; for there were other patients requiring his attention. chapter viii. "how did you find miss lamar, doctor? anything much the matter?" asked dale, sauntering into his friend's office that evening, shortly after the return of the latter from his round of visits among his patients. kenneth sat at his table, spatula in hand, making pills, a slight cloud of care on his brow. his reply was not a direct answer to the question. "sit down, godfrey," he said. "i've been thinking of calling in your aid in the management of this case." "mine?" laughed dale. "yes, as consulting physician." "you are certainly jesting, yet you look as grave as a judge on the bench." "i wish," kenneth said, pausing for an instant in his work and looking earnestly at dale, "that there was more young society here, more to amuse and interest a young girl like miss lamar. can't you help me to think of something new?" "boating parties," suggested dale. "that will do for one thing. now what else?" "get up a class in botany. i'll join it. you are quite an enthusiast in that line and know a great deal more on the subject than any one else about here." "thank you. i should enjoy it if others would. anything more?" "no, i should say i'd done my share of thinking, and you must finish up the job yourself, you who are to pocket the fee," returned dale laughing. "now i'm off, prescribing a night's rest for you, to be taken at once; for you are looking wretchedly worn out." very weary kenneth certainly was, yet the friendly counsel was not taken. his work finished, he pushed his implements aside, and sat long with his folded arms upon the table, his head resting on them; not sleeping, for now and again a heavy sigh, or a few low breathed words of prayer came from his lips. "oh lord, for them, for them, i beseech thee, in the midst of wrath remember mercy! let them rest under the shadow of thy wing, till these calamities be overpast." both dale's suggestions in the line of amusements were promptly carried out, and with excellent effect upon the patient. she was fond of plants and flowers, and kenneth proved a capital teacher. mrs. lamar and several others, both married and single, joined the class and they had many a pleasant ramble over hill and valley in search of specimens. the major provided a boat for the rowing parties and frequently made one of them himself, taking special care of his young sister. when he was not present kenneth took his place in this particular, but not at all in a lover-like way; his manner was fraternal, "sometimes almost paternal," nell thought, with an emotion of anger and pique at "being treated so like a child." "it is because i was so silly as to cry before him! he thinks me a mere baby," she said to herself now and again, in extreme vexation. she was apt to be frank in the expression, or rather exhibition of her feelings, and kenneth was at times not a little puzzled to understand in what he had offended. he never blamed her, however, but, attributing her displeasure to some fault or awkwardness in himself, redoubled his kindly attention, and his efforts to give pleasant and healthful occupation to her thoughts. with this in view he would often take a book from his pocket, when he found himself alone with her, read aloud some passage that he particularly admired, and draw her into conversation about it. also he tried to interest her in his patients, occasionally taking her with him where he knew her visits would be welcome, and engaging her to prepare dainties to tempt the sickly appetites, and clothing for such as were poor enough to need assistance of that kind. his only thought, so far as she was concerned, was to comfort and relieve, and it did not occur to him that there might be danger in the cure, for her as for himself. yet there was; for how could the girl gain such an insight into the noble generosity and unselfishness of his character, without learning to love him? it was not only his unvarying kindness towards herself, his patient forbearance even in her most petulant and unreasonable moods, but also his sympathy for, and gentleness toward, even the very poorest and most uninteresting and ungrateful of those who invoked his aid as a physician, his anxiety and untiring efforts to relieve suffering, and his unselfish joy when those efforts were successful. also his deep, humble, unassuming piety, and earnest desire to lead to the great physician, that there might be healing of soul as well as body. her admiration and respect grew day by day, until he seemed to her an example of all that was good and great and lovable. dale, too, unwittingly helped on the mischief. he had some notion of courting pretty nell himself, so did not care to interest her too much in kenneth; but his thoughts were often full of the latter, the strange secret that seemed to darken his life; and remembering kenneth's expressed desire to engage nell's thoughts upon matters that would take them from herself and the unfortunate occurrence that had shaken her nerves, and calling to mind also that she had come from the same neighborhood with kenneth and would be likely to know the family history of the clendenins, he deemed it no harm to broach the subject one day when alone with her, and ask if she could guess what their friend's sorrow was. "no," she said in surprise. "i never heard of anything that could cause him such grief. they are well-to-do people, living on a lovely place of their own; they are most highly respected too. i frequently heard them spoken of, always in the highest terms, and never heard of any trouble, except that kenneth's twin brother was drowned ten or twelve years ago. but surely he could not be grieving so over that now!" "no, it can't be that." dale said musingly, "it is evidently a deeper sorrow than any such bereavement could bring, or at least a grief and burden of a different sort." "are you not mistaken? may it not be a mere fancy on your part?" queried nell. "dr. clendenin has always struck me as a very cheerful person." "he is not one to obtrude his griefs upon others," observed dale in reply. "he forces himself to be cheerful when in general society, and seldom allows even me, his intimate friend, to perceive that he has a burden to bear; but i have reason to believe that he sometimes passes half the night pacing his office instead of taking the rest he needs after his day's toil." from that, he went on to speak of kenneth's late mysterious, lonely journey, and to describe the state in which he had returned. nell's heart was deeply touched. "how noble he is!" was her mental exclamation. "but mr. dale should not have told me, it seems almost like betraying his friend's confidence. i suppose he does not look upon it in that light, but i am quite sure dr. clendenin would never have done so by him." "of course," said dale, breaking the momentary silence, "this is between ourselves. i have never mentioned these things to any one else, and never shall." "nor shall i, mr. dale," she answered. she did not, but from that time she watched kenneth more closely than ever before, and that with the growing conviction that dale was right. it became with her an absorbingly interesting subject of thought; her heart was more and more filled with pity for kenneth's silent suffering, and pity is akin to love. but what could be the cause of this strange, silent anguish? was it unrequited love? she spurned the thought. what! he of all men to sue in vain? it could not be! what woman's heart could withstand such a siege? she did not care for him in that way--oh no, not she; but that was quite another thing, he had not sought her, and she was not one to give her heart unasked. the town was growing, the country rapidly filling up with settlers, mostly of the better class, refined, intelligent, educated and pious people. also many gentlemen from the older states, principally virginia and kentucky, came to look at land with a view to purchasing, and these always sought out major lamar and were hospitably entertained by him. thus nell saw a great deal of society. she enjoyed it too, was a general favorite, and formed some pleasant friendships with these guests of the family; but half unconsciously she made dr. clendenin her standard of manly perfection, and found all others short of it. while, however, in some of these visitors possible lovers might have been found, many were men in middle life, old companions in arms of the major. and these were not the least welcome to nell, for she loved to sit and listen to them and her brother as they fought their battles over again around the fire in the cool spring or autumn evenings; or on the green sward before the door in the warm summer nights. few of them came in winter, and at that season boating, botanizing and long rambles into the country had of course to be given up, yet that less favored time was not without its quiet pleasures. there was much spinning, weaving, sewing and knitting going on, the ladies often carried their work to a neighbor's house and spent a sociable afternoon together, winding up with an early tea. there were also social gatherings about the fire in the evenings, enlivened by cheerful chat, the cracking of nuts, several varieties of which were found in great abundance in the woods around the village, and scraping turnip, these last being used as a substitute for apples, until time had been given for their cultivation. thus had the summer passed, the autumn too, and midwinter had come, finding nell fully recovered from the effects of her fright, her fears dispelled, her nerves as steady as ever they had been. it was the second winter since her arrival in chillicothe, and she had become really attached to the place and its cheerful social life, so free from formality and restraint. calling at the major's one evening, kenneth found her alone in the sitting-room, quietly knitting and thinking beside the fire. the wide chimney was heaped high with hickory logs, and the dancing, flickering flames filled the whole room with a cheerful, ruddy light. nell's back was toward the door and she did not perceive his entrance, till he spoke close at her side, his pleasant "good evening, i hope i do not intrude?" rousing her from her reverie. "oh no, doctor, you are always welcome in this house," she said, rising to give him her hand, and inviting him to be seated. "i knocked," he said apologetically, "but no one seemed to hear, so i ventured to admit myself." "quite right," she answered, "though i do not understand how i happened to miss hearing your rap." "preoccupation," he remarked with a half absent smile, gazing thoughtfully into the fire as he spoke. "you are all quite well?" "quite, thank you. my brother and sister are out spending the evening; and the children are in bed." he did not speak again for several minutes, but sat watching the flames as they leaped hither and thither, but evidently with thoughts far away; and nell, furtively studying his countenance, read there the silent suffering dale had spoken of. her woman's heart longed to speak a word of sympathy and comfort; but how should she when she knew not what his sorrow was? "i am glad," he said at length, "to hear that you are all well. i am going away, and could not feel satisfied to do so without learning that my services were not needed here." "going away?" she echoed. "we had not heard of it." "no; it is scarcely an hour since i knew it myself." "where? how long?" she asked impetuously, with changed countenance; then blushing to think she had betrayed so much curiosity and interest--"excuse me, but percy and clare will be anxious to know; some of us may be taken sick." "yes; but we will hope not," he said, in the same calm, even tone he had used all along, his gaze still fixed upon the fire. "i go out into the wilderness, miss nell, and the time of my return is uncertain." "now! in this most inclement season of the year?" she exclaimed. "isn't it running a great risk? would it not be wiser to put off your journey till spring opens?" "i think not," he answered slowly; "life is uncertain, and what my hand finds to do must be done with my might." "but if you lose your life?" "it will be in the path of duty; and there are some things worth even that risk, miss nell." he turned his head, and his eyes looked full into hers. "they must be of very great importance," she answered, returning his look with one as calm and quiet as his own, though her pulses quickened at the thought that he was perhaps about to appeal to her for sympathy in his mysterious sorrow. but he did not. "do you not agree in my opinion?" he asked. "yes; if i had been in percy's place when the war broke out, i would have done just as he did--periled my life and all i had for my country," she said with kindling eyes. he smiled approval, then rising, "good-by, miss nell," he said, taking her hand in his, "i must away." "what! to-night? and do you go alone?" "i start to-night, wawillaway is to be my guide a part of the way," he said; "after that my horse and gun will be my sole companions." "oh, can't you get wawillaway to go with you all the way? i should feel--so much more hopeful for your safe return!" she exclaimed; then blushing deeply, as she saw his face light up with pleasure while he asked, "do you really care for that?" she hastily withdrew her hand, saying almost pettishly: "of course i care to have you here in case any of the family should be taken sick. you understand our constitution, and are the only doctor in the town that we have the least confidence in." his countenance fell, and she thought she heard a faint sigh as he turned sadly away, and with a silent bow left the house. she dropped into a chair, hid her face in her hands, and burst into a passion of tears. "oh, how could i! how could i! when he has been so good and kind to me!" she sobbed. "it's just as if i had struck him a cruel blow, and oh! i could beat myself for it!" her words, and yet more her tone and manner in speaking them, had indeed wounded kenneth. he had brought a care-burdened and sorrowful heart into her presence, and he carried it away with an added pang. he was himself surprised to find that she had power to wound him so deeply. he had not known before how dear the wilful little maiden had become to him; but this pain opened his eyes. "ah, what have i been doing?" he cried, half aloud, as he strode onward toward his office, "and why am i regretting that for which i should be unutterably thankful--that i alone suffer, because of my imprudence? i must, i will be grateful that she has not given her young heart to such a one as i. and yet--and yet--but ah me, this is hoping even against hope! yet will i not utterly despair, for with god all things are possible." chapter ix. nell cried till she brought on a slight headache, then made that an excuse for going to bed before the return of her brother and his wife. she did not want to face the keen scrutiny of clare, who would be sure to detect the traces of tears and to make a shrewd guess at their cause. the girl had ample space for repentance, overpowering anxiety and dread in the next two or three weeks; and though she continued to hide her feelings from those about her, seeming quite as light hearted and gay as was her wont, the darkness of night was witness to many sighs and tears. dale came in on the evening after her late interview with kenneth, and seizing an opportunity for a few words in private, asked her what she thought of dr. clendenin's starting off upon such a journey at that inclement season of the year. "why should i trouble myself about it?" nell asked, with a slight toss of her pretty head. "i presume the doctor knows his own business." "possibly," returned dale, with gravity, "but can you conjecture what that business is?" "can you?" she asked. "perhaps some indian chief is ill, or has a sick wife or child, and wishes to test the skill of the medicine man of the whites." "your ingenuity does you credit, miss lamar," remarked dale, poking the fire, "but i am satisfied that clendenin has gone on the same errand that took him before; and that is a chase after a white woman living among the indians." "a relative?" queried nell, with interest. "no; he told me he had never had relative or friend taken by them; and that is what makes his evident anxiety to find her so puzzling, so utterly inexplicable to me." "neither relative nor friend," pondered nell, as she lay awake that night, listening to the sough of the wind around the house, the creaking of the trees in its fierce blast, the rattle of sleet against the outer wall, and the distant howl of the prairie wolf, and thinking of kenneth without shelter from storm or wild beast, "if it were his lady love he would never say that." this was not a heavy or lasting storm, the morning sun rose in a clear sky, and several days of mild bright weather followed. after that it grew bitterly cold, and for many hours a fierce tempest raged, and the snow fell fast, the wind whirling it furiously about till all the roads and paths were blocked up with it, and in places the drifts were many feet deep. kenneth was on his homeward way when this storm began, with, as he had said, no companion save his horse and his gun. on the latter was his principal reliance for a supply of food, though he had in his saddle-bags sufficient coarse corn-bread to keep him from actual starvation. and well was it for him that he had come so provided, as the whirling, blinding snow rendered the pursuit of game impossible for the time being. indeed he soon found it impossible to continue his journey, and coming upon a comparatively sheltered spot, at the foot of a rock, he dismounted, secured his horse, and with some difficulty collecting a supply of dry branches, twigs, bark and leaves, finally succeeded in kindling a fire with his flint and steel and a bit of burnt rag which he carried for the purpose in his tinder box. his mission had not been successful and his heart was heavy with disappointment, care and grief, as he sat there over his fire listening to the howling of the storm as the wind swept through the forest, the giant trees bending and creaking in the blast, groaning, breaking, falling before it and beneath the weight of snow and sleet. at length there was a slight lull in the tempest, and kenneth crept out from his hiding place and wandered hither and thither in search of fuel with which to replenish his fire. plunging into a snowdrift his foot caught in something and he had nearly fallen over--what? was it a log? surely not! his heart gave a wild throb, he stooped, and hastily brushing away the snow found an indian lad sleeping that fatal sleep, that, undisturbed, ends in death. exerting all his strength, kenneth took the boy in his arms, shook him roughly, shouted in his ears, and catching up a handful of snow, rubbed it briskly over the half frozen face. he dragged him to the shelter of the rock, but not close to the fire, and continuing his efforts at length succeeded in rousing him, and finally in restoring circulation and warmth to his benumbed limbs. then he took him to the fire, fed him and made him share his blanket, taking him in his arms that it might cover them both: and so with their feet to the fire, and each hugged close to the other's breast, they slept through the dark, stormy night. the morning broke bright, clear and cold, icicles depending from the trees, snow heaped high on every side, too high to admit of moving more than a few paces from their sheltered nook. it was as if they were shut up in prison together. the lad knew that kenneth had saved his life and he was very grateful. he was a shawnee, and had been travelling from one indian village to another, but blinded by the whirling sleet and snow had lost his way and at last, overcome with fatigue, hunger and cold, had lain down to rest and sleep. he could speak but a few words of english; but kenneth had gained considerable knowledge of the shawnee tongue since making acquaintance with wawillaway, and was able to converse with the boy to their mutual satisfaction. they remained together for some days, keeping up their fire and feeding on some wild turkeys kenneth fortunately succeeded in shooting; then parting with kindly adieus and a hearty shake of the hand, each went his way, kenneth toward chillicothe, the indian lad in a nearly opposite direction. while yet two or three miles from the town, kenneth saw in the distance a white man and an indian coming toward him from thence. they were dale and wawillaway, and as they drew near the former uttered a joyous shout. "hello, doc! so here you are, safe and sound! we feared you were buried in the snowdrifts and we'd have to dig you out." there was a hearty shaking of hands as they met. "did you come out in search of me?" asked kenneth. "we did," said dale, "and are rejoiced to have found you so easily. your friends have been exceedingly anxious in regard to your safety, fearing you could hardly have weathered the heavy storm of last week. how did you manage it?" dale and the indian had wheeled about, and all three were ploughing their way through the snow in the direction of the town. kenneth answered the question as they went, with a brief account of his sojourn at the foot of the rock in the wilderness. he said nothing of the object of his journey or whether it had been successful; but dale's furtive yet searching glances read a fresh and bitter disappointment in the weary, haggard face, and drooping figure. "and my friends have been anxious for my safety, you say?" kenneth said inquiringly, and with a wistful look in his large gray eyes, thinking of a fair young face that had sometimes brightened at his coming. "yes," said dale, "it has been for the last three days the most exciting theme of conversation with old and young. it's a fine thing to be a doctor, if you care to have high and low, rich and poor interested in your safety." it was the middle of the afternoon. mrs. and miss lamar plied the needle within doors while the children were engaged in winter sports without--sledding, sliding and snow-balling. suddenly they came tearing in, half wild with joy. "oh, mother and aunt nell, he's come! he's come!" "who?" and nell's heart beat fast and loud. it had been well nigh breaking with the thought of a manly form lying still and cold out in the wilderness with a snow wreath for its winding sheet, yet she had given no sign, but seemed the gayest of the gay. "dr. clendenin!" cried the children in chorus; "he didn't get lost in the snow or killed by the indians, we just saw him ride by with mr. dale and wawillaway." nell stitched away, apparently quite indifferent to the news, but her heart sang for joy, and all the rest of the day her ear was strained to catch the sound of his approaching footsteps. the major brought him home to tea and though mrs. lamar welcomed him most cordially, and the children hailed his coming with delight, nell's manner was reserved and quiet almost to coldness. he took the limp, passive hand in his for an instant, as he gave one wistful glance into the unmoved face, then with the thought, "she does not care for me, and it is well," yet sighing inwardly, turned away and entered into conversation with the major and his wife. "we have been very anxious about you, doctor, ever since that fearful storm set in," mrs. lamar was saying. "we feared you must perish if exposed to it. did you not suffer terribly?" "oh no," he answered cheerily, "i fared very well," and went on to tell of the sheltered rock he had found, and that he had a fire, a good blanket and something to eat. "tell us all about it," the children begged, clustering round him and climbing upon his knees. "were you all alone?" asked bess; "i do think it must be dreadful to be alone in the woods at night." "no, i was not quite alone through it all," he said, stroking her hair. "oh, i know! you mean god was with you?" "yes; but i had a human companion, too, an indian boy, who told me his name was little horn." nell asked no question, but she was not the least interested of those who listened to the story of the finding of the lad and the way in which the two passed their time while storm-stayed together in the wood. she was furtively studying kenneth's face while he talked, sorrowfully taking note of its worn, thin look, and the deepening of the lines of grief and care that made it seem older than his years warranted. its expression at this moment was cheerful, as were the tones of his voice, but she had no need to be told that for him "disappointment still tracked the steps of hope." chapter x. time passed on; a year, two years rolled away. settlers had continued to move into the town and adjacent country, and kenneth's practice had grown with the growth of the population. this was, perhaps, one reason why there had been a great falling off in the frequency of his visits, other than professional, at major lamar's. it was, at all events, the excuse he gave, for that and for absenting himself from nearly all the pleasure parties and merry-makings of the young people. genial and pleasant in his intercourse with old and young, he yet was no ladies' man; seldom paid attention to any of the fair sex, except in the way of his calling; he had no time, he said, but always found abundance of it to bestow upon the sick and suffering. his whole heart and soul were in his work. some silly people began to call him an old bachelor, though he was still under thirty, and far from old looking. dale also was still single, and the two were as intimate and warm friends as ever. godfrey was attentive to business, but, unlike kenneth, indulged a great fondness for ladies' society, and generally made one in every little social gathering and pleasure excursion, whether it were a moonlight row on river or creek, a picnic, or expedition in search of nuts or wild fruits, a visit to a sugar camp in the spring, or a gallop on horseback at almost any time of year. he was very intimate at major lamar's, and never happier than when he could secure miss nell as his special partner in whatever festivity was going on. she liked dale, for he was gallant, courteous, well-informed, and a good talker of either sense or nonsense, but she took care not to receive too much attention from him, or to encourage hopes she never meant should be realized. she was developing into a noble, lovable woman, fair and comely in more than ordinary degree. she had a fine form, a queenly carriage, and kenneth's eyes often followed her with a wistful, longing look as she passed, either riding or walking. yet he stood quietly aside and left it to his fellows to strive for the prize he coveted above all other earthly good. that strange, mysterious burden still rested on him, but was borne with a brave, cheerful resignation that was heroic. there were times of deep depression, of bitter anguish of soul, of fierce conflict with himself, when the trial seemed more than mortal strength could bear; but these came at rare intervals, and faith and grace ever triumphed in the end. letters from home, where he had not visited since emigrating to chillicothe, and his lonely journeys into the wilderness, of which he had made several in the interval we have passed over, seemed alike ever to bring him increased sadness of heart. yet few but dale knew this, kenneth's mastery over himself enabling him to put aside his private griefs and cares when in the company of others. thus his heart was ever at leisure from itself and ready to sympathize in the interests, the joys and sorrows or physical sufferings of those about him. as a natural consequence, there were many who cherished for him a very warm friendship. the nashes had removed to a farm a mile or more from town. mrs. nash was still the same cheery, genial soul she had shown herself on the journey to ohio, and nell lamar, who had ever been a favorite with the good dame, loved to visit at the farm-house, and would sometimes tarry there for a week or a fortnight, when conscious of not being needed at home. she and mrs. barbour were both there one sultry summer day, nell expecting to make a prolonged stay, the other lady intending to return home in the cool of the evening. she had now two children younger than flora, and had brought all three with her. "it was a great deal of trouble," she complained in the old whining, querulous tones; "children were such a care! always in the way and making no end of trouble if you took them along, and if you left them at home you were worried to death lest something should happen to them." this was repeated again and again, with slight variations, till her unwilling listeners would fain have stopped their ears to the doleful ditty, and mrs. nash, quite out of patience, at length exclaimed: "nancy, i should think you'd be afraid to fret so about your worry with the children, lest providence should take them away! i don't deny that it is a good deal of work and care to nurse and provide for them; but they're worth it; at least, mine are to me, and there's nothing worth having in this world that we don't have to pay for in one way or another. and for my part, i'm willing to pay for my pleasures and treasures," she added, clasping her babe fondly to her breast. the nash family also had increased in numbers. tom and billy, now grown great hearty boys, were with their father in the field, and two little girls sat on the doorstep, each with a rag doll in her arms, which the busy mother had found time to make and miss nell's skilful fingers had just finished dressing. the baby boy on the mother's knee was the last arrival, six months old and the pet, darling and the treasure of the entire household, from father down to two-year-old sallie. "you never did have any sympathy for me, sarah," whimpered mrs. barbour, lifting the corner of her apron to her eyes. "i wasn't born with such spirits as you have, and it ain't my fault that i wasn't, and i don't believe i'm half as stout and strong as you are; and it's just the same with the children, yours are a great deal healthier than mine, and that makes it easier for you in more ways than one. you and nash don't have the big doctor bills to pay that we have, and you don't get all worn out with nursing." "well, nancy," returned her sister-in-law, "maybe i'm not as sympathizing as i should be; but there is such a thing as cultivating good spirits and a habit of looking at the bright side, trusting in the lord and being content with what he sends, and that has a good deal to do with health. perhaps if your children had a cheerier mother, they'd have better spirits and better health." "there it is! i'm always blamed for my misfortunes; that's just the way dr. clendenin talks to me, and barbour too, and i think it's a burning shame," sobbed the abused woman. "i'm sure i wish i was dead and done with it! and so i shall be one o' these days; and then perhaps you and tom will wish you'd treated me a little better." "my brother tom's a very good husband to you," remarked mrs. nash coolly, "and i don't feel conscience smitten for any abuse i've given you either. it's bible doctrine i've been urging on you. it bids us over and over again to be content, to be free from care, casting it all on the lord, to rejoice in the lord, to be glad in him, to rejoice always, to shout for joy. "and well we may, knowing that life here is short, and no matter how many troubles we may have they'll soon be done with and we shall be forever with the lord; that is, if we're his children." here nell broke in upon the conversation with a sudden exclamation. "that cat is acting very strangely!" and as she spoke the animal came rushing in from an adjoining wood-shed and dashed wildly about, gnashing its teeth furiously, its tongue hanging out and dripping with froth. both women sprang up with a scream. "it's mad! it's mad! it's frothing at the mouth!" mrs. nash clutching her babe in a death like grasp and springing toward the other children to save them, mrs. barbour snatching her youngest from the floor, while nell caught up the next in age and sat it on top of a high old fashioned bureau, at the same time calling to flora, who was outside, to "run, run! climb a tree or the fence!" then seizing a broom she rushed at the cat and drove it under the bed. "oh what'll we do? what'll we do?" shrieked mrs. barbour, the children screaming in chorus. "why didn't you drive it out of doors?" "you run out yourself and take the children with you. i did the best i could," returned nell, her voice trembling with agitation. "you, too, mrs. nash, save the children and i'll fight the cat. where's your clothes line? quick, quick! oh, i see it!" and snatching it from the nail where it hung, in a trice she had it opened out and a noose made in one end. then tearing off beds and bed clothes, tumbling them unceremoniously upon the floor, she mounted the bedstead, lifted a slat or two from the head, underneath which the cat crouched, snarling, spitting, foaming, biting in a frightful manner. nell shuddered and shrank back with a cry of terror as the infuriated animal made a spring at her, but gathering up all her courage, let down the noose and swung it slowly to and fro. a moment of terrified, almost despairing effort, followed by success, the noose was drawn tight, the rabid creature lay strangled and dead, and the brave young girl dropped in a dead faint upon the pile of bedding on the floor. the others had obeyed her behest and fled from the house, leaving her to battle single-handed with the enraged animal, while they filled the air with cries for help. a horseman came at a swift gallop up the road, putting spurs to his steed as the sounds of distress greeted his ear. "what is it?" he asked, drawing rein in front of the house and springing from the saddle. "oh, dr. clendenin, there's a mad cat in the house, and miss nell's trying to kill it!" cried the two women and flora in chorus; but the words were scarcely uttered before he had dashed in at the open door. his heart leaped into his throat at sight of the prostrate form on the confused heap of bedding, the body of the strangled cat so near that the toe of her slipper touched it. "oh, my darling!" he exclaimed in low, moved tones as he sprang to her side. then in almost frantic haste he searched for the marks of the creature's teeth on her hands and arms. there were none. he tore off her shoes and stockings, his hands trembling, his face pale with a terrible fear. "thank god!" he said at last, drawing a long breath of relief. he knelt down, loosened her dress, laid her more comfortably, her head lower, doing all with exceeding tenderness, and turning to mrs. nash, who had ventured in after him, leaving her little ones in mrs. barbour's care, said huskily: "some cold water! quick! quick! she has fainted." "oh, doctor, is she hurt?" asked the woman in tremulous tones, as she hastily handed him a gourd filled with water from the well bucket. he did not answer for a moment. he was sprinkling the water upon the still, white face, his own nearly as colorless. would she never revive? those sweet eyes never open again? ah, the lids began to quiver, a faint tinge of rose stole into the fair, softly rounded cheek. "i hope not," he said with an effort. "it was the fright probably. a fan, please." mrs. nash brought one and gave it in silence. nell's eyes opened wide, gazing full into his. the faint tinge on her cheek deepened instantly to crimson, and starting up in confusion, she hastily stammered out some incoherent words, and burst into tears. "lie still for a little, nell," kenneth said, gently forcing her back. never were tones more musical with tenderness, never had eyes spoken a plainer language, and the girl's heart thrilled with a new, ecstatic joy. for years her hard but determined task had been to school it to indifference; but now, now she might let it have its way. he, so noble, so good, would never deceive her, never wrong her. "oh, nell, you are not hurt? not bitten?" exclaimed mrs. nash almost imploringly. "hurt? bitten?" repeated nell, in a half bewildered way. then as her eye fell upon the dead cat and the whole scene came back to her with a rush, "no, no," she said, shuddering and hiding her face in her hands; "it sprang at me, but missed and fell back on the floor, and at last it ran its head into the noose, jerked away and strangled, and"--laughing hysterically--"i don't know what happened after that." mrs. nash knelt down by her side and began putting on her stockings and shoes. "the doctor pulled them off to see if you'd got a bite there," she explained. "oh i'll never cease to thank the lord that you escaped! i feel as if i'd been a mean coward to run off and leave you to fight the mad thing all alone. but it wasn't myself i was thinking of, but the children." "i know it," murmured nell, "and i told you to go." kenneth had moved away to the farther side of the room. his face, which was turned from them, was full of remorseful anguish. alas! what had he done, won this dear heart that he dared not claim as his own? oh, he had thought the grief, the pain, the loss all his own! but it was not so, she too must suffer and he could not save her from it, though for that he would freely lay down his life. "is it dead, have you killed it?" queried mrs. barbour timorously peering in at the open door. "yes," answered mrs. nash shortly, and stepping in, followed by the frightened but curious children, mrs. barbour dropped into a chair. "oh!" she cried, "it's just awful! i'm nearly dead, was most scared out o' my wits, and shan't get over it for a month!" then catching sight of the dead cat, "ugh! the horrid thing! why don't you take it away, some of you? i feel ready to faint at the very sight of it. doctor, you'll have to do something for me." "there is nothing i can do for you, mrs. barbour," he said coldly. "you must help yourself, by determined self-control. after leaving miss lamar to face the living, furious animal alone, you may well bear the sight of it lying, dead, with all the rest of us here to share the danger, if there be any." "there it is, just as usual," she sobbed, "i'm always blamed no matter what happens. i had my children to think of." "never mind," said nell, sitting up; "it's all over and nobody hurt." "nobody hurt!" was the indignant rejoinder. "maybe you ain't, but i am: i've got an awful headache with the fright, and feel as if i should just die this minute." a loud hallo from the road without stopped the torrent of words for a space. "is dr. clendenin here?" shouted a man on horseback, reining in at the gate. kenneth stepped quickly to the door. "what is it?" he asked. "you're wanted in the greatest kind of a hurry, doctor; over there in the edge o' the woods, where they're felling trees, man crushed; not killed, but bad hurt--very." kenneth was in the saddle before the sentence was finished, and the two galloped rapidly away. "people oughtn't to be so careless," commented mrs. barbour, as they all gathered about the door watching the horsemen till they disappeared in a cloud of dust. "why don't they get out of the way when the tree's going to fall? how quick the doctor went off. he's ready enough to help a man, but wouldn't do anything for poor me!" "he told you what to do for yourself," said her sister-in-law, a mixture of weariness and contempt in her tones. "as if i could! there never was anybody that got so little sympathy as i do," she fretted, turning from the door and dropping into her chair again. "but i'll have another doctor. i'll send for dr. buell." "dr. walter buell; 'dr. water gruel' they call him," laughed flora, "because he won't let 'em have anything hardly to eat. he'll starve you, mother." "be quiet, flora," was the angry rejoinder. "i'm not going to have you laughing at me. you ought to be ashamed of yourself, poor unfortunate creature that i am, and your mother too! "to think that i should have happened here to-day of all days, when i don't stir from home once in a month! but that cat wouldn't have gone mad if i hadn't been here." but her complaining fell upon inattentive ears. mrs. nash was busy ridding the house of the dead carcass and setting things in order, and nell's thoughts were full of the new joy that had come to her, and of questionings as to when and where she should again meet him who had possessed himself of her heart's best affection. would he return that evening? verily she believed he would. but no, he did not; and when she went home the following day, clare greeted her with the news that dr. clendenin had gone east; he had been suddenly summoned to glen forest by a letter; some one was very ill, and as a pirogue was just leaving for cincinnati, he had taken passage and gone down the river in it. nell's cheek paled a trifle and her eyes looked with mute questioning into those of her sister. "he left good-by for you," said clare. and that was all--all! the girl's heart seemed to stand still with pain. what could it mean? chapter xi. the tops of the alleghanies loomed up darkly against the eastern sky as it flushed with the rosy hues of a new day; the delicate shades of rose pink and pale blue changed to crimson and gold, and anon the increasing light aroused old vashti from the heavy slumber into which she had fallen some hours before. she started up, rubbed her eyes, and glancing from the window, muttered, "'bout time dis chile was wakin' up and lookin' after tings. sun's jus' gwine to peep 'bove dose mountings. wonder how ole marster is 'bout dis time?" she had thrown herself down upon her bed without undressing. finishing her remarks with something between a sigh and a groan, she slowly gathered herself up and went stumbling from the room, hardly more than half awake yet, having lost much sleep in the last two or three weeks. but reaching the upper chamber where her mistress had kept solitary vigil through the night, she entered very quietly, extinguished the candle, drew aside the window curtains, letting in the morning light and air, then stepping to the foot of the bed, stood silently gazing upon its occupant, the big tears stealing down her sable cheeks. the form lying there was attenuated, the face thin, haggard, deathly; the sunken eyes were closed, and the breath came fitfully from the ghastly, parted lips. mrs. clendenin seemed unconscious of vashti's entrance; her eyes were riveted upon that pallid face, the cold hand was clasped in hers, and her heart was sending up agonizing petitions. they were granted; he stirred slightly, opened his eyes, looking full into hers with a clear, steady, loving gaze, while the cold fingers feebly responded to her tender clasp. "my wife, my darling!" he whispered, and she bent eagerly to catch the low breathed words. "god bless you for your faithful love! i'm going--going home to be with christ; and it's all peace--peace and light." the eyelids drooped, the fingers fell away from her grasp, the breast heaved with one long-drawn sigh, and all was still. she fell upon her knees at his side, still with his hand in hers, her face radiant with unutterable joy. "oh, thank god! thank god!" she cried. "my darling, my darling! at rest, at rest, and safe at last!" "dat he is, dat he is, bress de lord!" ejaculated the old negress. for many minutes the new-made widow knelt there gazing fixedly into the calm face of the dead; then rising she gently closed the eyes and composed the limbs of him who had been to her nearer and dearer than aught else on earth, not a tear dimming her eyes, but a light shining in them as in those of one on whom had been suddenly bestowed an intensely longed for and almost despaired of boon. "no strange hands shall busy themselves about thee, my beloved," she murmured, "mine, only mine shall make you ready for your quiet, peaceful sleep, 'where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.'" vashti looked on in wonder and surprise, silently giving such assistance as she might, without waiting for orders, bringing needed articles and making the room neat. at length, the task completed, vashti went down to her kitchen, but mrs. clendenin lingered still by the side of the beloved clay, gazing with hungry eyes upon the face that must soon be hidden from the sight beneath the clods of the valley. a light step crossed the threshold and a slight girlish figure stood beside her. in an instant marian's arms were round her mother's neck, her kisses and tears warm upon her cheek. "precious, precious mother! oh, don't let your heart break!" "no, darling!" she whispered, clasping the weeping girl in her arms; "it is full of joy and thankfulness for him, for he has laid down his heavy, heavy cross and received his crown, the crown of righteousness bought for him with the precious blood of christ. "ah, my angus, how blest, how blest art thou!" she cried, bending over the still form and pressing her lips to the cold brow. they lingered over him for some minutes, the girl weeping and sobbing, the mother calm and placid; then together they went down-stairs and out into the shrubbery. there were no curious eyes to watch them as they paced slowly up and down the walks, for the nearest neighbor was a full half mile away, on the farther side of the western hills. the mother talked low and soothingly to her weeping child, speaking of the glories and bliss of heaven, and of the loving care of the lord for his saints on earth. "mother, mother!" cried the girl, "i feared your heart would break; but instead you seem full of joy!" "ah, dear one, life has been a terror to him for many years; and shall i mourn that he has at last gotten the victory? that he is gone home to his father's house, where there is perfect safety and fulness of joy forever more?" "mother," whispered the girl with a shudder, "what did he fear? why have i never been told?" "dear child, do not ask! oh, never ask that!" cried the mother in a startled tone, and turning a look of anguish upon her questioner. the girl's face reflected it. "oh, why is it that i am not to be trusted?" she sobbed, almost wringing her hands in her bitter grief and distress; "why should i be deemed unworthy of confidence, even by my own mother? would i--". but sobs choked her utterance. "my darling, my precious child, it is not that, not that," faltered the mother, clasping her in her arms with tender caresses. "but let us speak of this no more, let us forget his sufferings, as he has forgotten them now. it is what he would have wished. shall we not try, daughter?" "yes, yes, my poor, dear mother, i will for your sake," sobbed the girl. "ah, if kenneth were only here! when will he come?" "i do not know," said mrs. clendenin, sighing slightly. "it is now several weeks since my letter went, but there are often delays, and it may not have reached him yet. i think he would start at once on receiving it, but the journey is long and tedious at the best, and there may be unlooked-for detentions consuming much time, so that we can hardly expect him for many days to come." the letter she spoke of was the same that had caused kenneth's sudden departure from chillicothe only the previous day. a month later he reached glen forest. mrs. clendenin, seated at the open window, saw him alight at the gate, and hastened out to meet him. there was a silent embrace, then an earnest scanning by each of the other's face, noting the changes wrought by time and the wear and tear of life. kenneth's eyes grew misty, for the dear face before him had aged very much since last he had looked upon it, and the dark hair had turned to silvery white. she was regarding him with wistful tenderness. "yes," she said, answering his unspoken thought in a half playful tone, yet smiling through gathering tears, "i am growing old, and you, my dear boy, are not quite so young as you were. come in. ah, it is good to have you here, at home again! you have heard, of course--" "yes, since arriving in the neighborhood, but i knew from your letter that all would be over long before i could reach you. it was a sore trial to think that even the small comfort and support of your boy's presence must be denied you." "it was all right," she answered in low, sweet tones. "he was with me who has promised never to leave nor forsake those who trust in him." "i knew he would be, and that was my consolation," kenneth returned in moved tones. then glancing about as they entered the house, "where is marian?" he asked. the mother explained that she had gone on an errand to a neighbor's half a mile away, and would not probably be back for an hour or more. vashti was summoned, bade her young master welcome with tears of joy, and hastened to set refreshments before him. but he did them scant justice. his heart was too full of contending emotions to allow of much appetite, though he had not tasted food for some hours. gazing upon the loved face he had not seen for years, listening to the well remembered tones of the dear voice that had been wont to soothe his childish griefs, to give the well earned meed of praise which was the highly prized reward of his boyish efforts to be and do all that was good, noble, and manly, he forgot to eat. she had much to tell of all that had occurred in the family during his absence, but her principal theme was the sickness and death of her husband. kenneth listened with intense, sorrowful interest to her description of that last scene, and seemed to feel no surprise when she told of the joy and thankfulness with which she had parted from her heart's best treasure. he had risen from the table and drawn a chair to her side. "dear mother," he said in faltering accents, taking her hand in his, "what a life yours has been! what but the grace of god could have sustained you through it all!" "blessed be his holy name, it has always been sufficient for me!" she answered. "'hitherto hath the lord helped me,' and i am persuaded that he will help me to the end." a moment's silence, which kenneth was the first to break. "tell me of marian, mother," he said. "she has grown? i shall doubtless find her greatly changed." "more perhaps than you think; the dear child has shot up into a tall, graceful, blooming girl, very sweet and lovable, in her mother's eyes at least, with a beauty that oftentimes makes me tremble for her future. kenneth, kenneth, the child will surely be sought in marriage, and what shall we do?" with the last words her voice took on a tone of keen distress and the eyes she lifted to his were full of anguish. "it must not, must not be!" he answered hurriedly, his brow contracting in a spasm of pain. "mother, keep her secluded here with you; let her have no communication with the other sex, old or young." "alas, i fear the utmost vigilance will not prevent it!" she cried, heaving a deep drawn sigh. "oh, my darling, my darling, your mother's heart bleeds for you!" "dear mother," he said, again taking her hand and speaking low and tremulously, "can you not cast this burden also upon the lord?" "sometimes," she said; "ah, i should die if i could not! but, kenneth, what shall we do? would it not be better to tell her all--to warn her in time?" "never!" he cried with energy, "it were too fearful a risk; it might cause the very calamity we so dread." "too true! too true!" she sighed, clasping her hands in her lap and closing her eyes, while her very lips grew white. he bent over her, taking her cold hands in his, repeating low and tenderly the precious promise, "'when thou passest through the waters, i will be with thee: and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.'" "yes, yes, sweet words, sweet words!" she murmured. "lord, increase my faith! but, kenneth," opening her eyes and looking up earnestly, entreatingly, as it seemed, into his face, "you are sure, quite sure that this is the best, wisest, kindest course? not risking a greater danger than the one avoided?" he answered her question with another. "if we take the other course shall we not be running into a certain danger in the effort to avoid one that may never threaten us?" "perhaps. but ah, what a hard choice we must sometimes make! yet he knows and will never send one unneeded pang; will cause all things to work together for good to them that love him. may he in his tender mercy forgive my unbelieving fears!" oh, how kenneth's heart yearned over her, as he gazed into the dear, patient, sorrowful face, how he felt that he would willingly give the best years of his life to remove every thorn from her path! and yet--and yet, was not the love which permitted them to remain, infinitely greater than his? silence again fell between them for a short space. then looking tenderly upon him she asked: "but what of your quest, kenneth?" he shook his head sorrowfully. "nothing yet, absolutely nothing. hopes raised now and again but to be utterly disappointed." "my poor boy," she sighed, "yours is a heavy cross! but if borne with steadfast patience your crown of righteousness will be all the brighter; for our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." he looked at her with glistening eyes. "yes," he said, with a slight huskiness in his voice, "and even in this life it may be lightened." "i fear not," she answered in gentle, pitying tones. "so many years have now passed there seems little hope that she yet lives, and even if she does, if she should be found, there may be nothing gained." "i know, i know," he returned with emotion, and rising to pace the room, "and yet there are times when hope is still strong within me." at that instant a slight, graceful, girlish figure came swiftly into the room, and with a glad cry, "kenneth, kenneth, you have come at last!" marian threw herself into the manly arms joyfully opened to receive her. she clung about his neck weeping from very excess of happiness. "oh, i have wanted you so much, so much!" she cried. "i thought you would never come! i wish you would never go away again." he folded her close to his heart with tenderest caresses, then held her off that he might gaze into her blooming face, drinking in its loveliness with feelings of mingled joy and anguish. it was and yet was not the little pet sister he had left when he went away; she stood on the verge of womanhood now, innocent and fair, with a sweet blending of childish and womanly graces. ah, must that deadly curse fall on her? he shuddered at the thought, and almost groaned aloud. she saw the pain in his face, and redoubling her caresses, "what is it, kenneth?" she asked; "my poor kenneth, you are not happy. has some one been unkind to you? ah, i know," she added quickly, in a lower tone, "it is for poor, dear father you are grieving; but you know he is so, so happy now, while here he was always sad and suffering." he sat down and drew her to the old seat upon his knee. the mother had left the room and they were quite alone for the moment. "how long since you sat here last!" he said, "and how glad i am to have you in the old place again." and truly he was, yet peradventure not entirely for her own sake. to hold this sweet young creature close, to pet and caress her to his heart's content, was it not some slight relief to the longing desire to embrace that other one who was dearer still? had his thoughts some magnetic influence upon marian's that led her, the next instant, to look up in his face and ask for news of "that pretty miss lamar"? "what do you know of her, little one?" he asked gently smoothing the shining hair, conscious of the tell-tale blood mounting to his forehead, but avoiding the curious gaze of the soft, bright eyes. "i saw her in church the sunday before you left, and thought her very sweet and pretty. and do you know, kenneth," giving him a hug and an arch, bewitching smile, "it's all my own notion and i never told anybody before, but i've had a sort of presentiment that some day you would make her my sister. ah, i've always wanted a sister so much! but oh, kenneth, i didn't mean to pain you!" she cried, noting the expression of his face. "please forgive me and i'll never mention it again." "don't, darling!" he said hoarsely. "marriage is not for me. i can not tell you why," as he read the question in her eyes; "but," with a strange, forced smile, "i want my little sister always to lay her plans to devote herself to the dear mother while she lives, and if it should please god to take her away first, then to come to be the light and joy of her bachelor brother's home." she half withdrew herself from his arms, her features working with contending emotions. "what is it, little sister? do you not love me? do you not want to share my home?" he asked soothingly. "yes, yes, you know i love you; you know i'll be glad to be always near you," she cried, flinging her arms about his neck; then hiding her face on his breast in a burst of passionate weeping, "but why do you and mother have secrets from me, family secrets, as if i were not worthy to be trusted?" "ah, my little sister, be content with your ignorance!" he said in moved tones, drawing her closer to him. "can you doubt that we love you well enough to tell you all if it would add to your happiness?" "but i want to know," she sobbed. "if there is trouble or sorrow i ought to bear my share. do you think i could be so selfish as not to prefer to do it?" "no, dear sister, i believe you bear a very unselfish love to your mother and brother, and, therefore, i am sure you will not distress them by refusing to trust to their judgment of what is best in regard to those things. believe me, the knowledge you crave could bring you nothing but grief and anguish. it is all it has brought me. the day may come when you must be told, but do not try to hasten it. i can be here but a short time to arrange matters for mother and you, and while i stay let us try to be happy." "oh yes, yes!" she cried, clinging to him and weeping afresh. "kenneth, kenneth, why can't we have you always? i'll try to be content not to know anything; but just tell me one thing: why do you search for a white woman among the indians? i've learned from some of your letters about your long journeys in the wilderness, why are you so anxious to find her, so grieved when you fail? surely i may know that, may i not?" he considered a moment. "yes," he sighed, "if you insist upon it i will tell you, though i know you will regret having asked, for the knowledge can bring you only sorrow. shall i tell you?" she gave an eager assent; but at that moment the mother returned to the room, and he whispered in marian's ear that they would defer it until another time. some days later, a fitting opportunity presenting itself, she hastened to claim the fulfilment of his promise; but when he answered the question she burst into bitter weeping, crying as she clung about his neck, "oh, kenneth, kenneth, why did you tell me, why did i ask? i wish i had not!" and he had much ado to comfort her. chapter xii. the episode of the mad cat had given a severer shock to nell's nerves than she was at all aware of at the time. the joy and the new-born hope that sprang to life within her in meeting that look of ineffable tenderness in kenneth's eyes buoyed her up at first, but the news of his sudden departure, leaving neither note nor message for her, was a heavy blow, and brought on the natural reaction from the excitement of her struggle with the rabid animal. for days her prostration was so great that she could do little but lie on her bed, and when alone often bemoaned herself with bitter sighing and weeping, although in clare's presence she constantly assumed a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, yet that deceived even that keen-eyed individual. at length her woman's pride helped her to rally her failing energies. she rose from her bed and went about her accustomed duties and pleasures with a determined will to seem her old self; hiding her well-nigh breaking heart behind a smiling countenance. she learned from dale that kenneth's summons had been to the dying bed of his father, and that though he could not hope to traverse the intervening distance in season to witness the closing scene, he yet felt it imperative upon him to make all haste to give his widowed mother the comfort and support of his presence at the earliest possible moment. "ah, he had no time to write before leaving!" thought nell; and hope whispered that he would perhaps do so from some station on the way, or from glen forest immediately on his arrival there. she waited and watched, now hopefully, now with feverish longing, and anon in almost utter despair, as weeks dragged on their weary round, bringing no word from him, no evidence that she was not completely forgotten. she grew absent-minded, and would catch herself sitting in listless attitude, silent and abstracted, while others chatted and laughed gaily at her side; or moving about with a languor that attracted clare's attention, and brought upon her vexatious questions and remarks. "what was the matter? she was certainly not well, for it was not like her to be so dull. she was losing her appetite too. she should take more out-door exercise. why did she stay in the house so constantly of late? where would she like to go? what was there that she could eat? really she must try to keep up, if only till dr. clendenin returned, for he was the only physician in the place in whom the major felt any confidence." nell answered, not always in the most amiable of tones, that she was perfectly well and did not know why people should persist in believing otherwise. she was in no haste for dr. clendenin's return, and hoped he would stay six months or a year if he felt inclined to do so. still, spite of her protestations, she continued to grow pale and thin, ate less and less, and at last was forced to take to her bed with a low, nervous fever. it was now far on in october, but kenneth had not returned, and dr. buell was called in by the major, much against the patient's will. "i don't want him or his medicines," she said. "i'm not sick." "why, what nonsense!" said clare; "why do you lie here if you are not ill?" "because i'm tired, tired!" sighed the girl, turning away her head. "i only need rest, and all i want is to be let alone." "the fact is, you don't know what ails you or what you need; and you're not going to be let alone," remarked clare, with the assumption of authority always so distasteful to her young sister-in-law. the words, but especially the tone, brought the color to nell's cheeks and an indignant light into her eyes. she opened her lips to reply, but clare had already left the room, and the next moment re-entered it, bringing dr. buell with her. his remedies had no good effect. nell drooped more and more. major lamar became extremely anxious and uneasy. "i wish," he said to his wife again and again, "that clendenin would come home. it is very unfortunate that he should be absent just now." "doesn't any body hear from him?" she asked, hearing the remark for perhaps the fiftieth time. "i don't know. i'll go and ask dale," he answered, taking up his hat and hurrying from the house. he had not gone a hundred yards when he espied--welcome sight!--kenneth himself walking briskly toward him. they met with a hearty handshaking and words of cordial greeting. "come at last," said the major, "and just when you are sorely needed. i believe in my heart nell's in a dangerous condition, and buell's doing her no good. i must take you home with me at once." "but--" "no but about it," interrupted the major bluntly. "he was called in with the distinct understanding that the moment you returned the case would be put into your hands, you being the family physician." kenneth made no further objection, but went with his friend, asking a few hurried questions by the way in regard to the nature of the malady and the length of time that had elapsed since the patient's seizure. nell, lying alone on her bed, heard the well-known step and voice in the outer room. what a thrill the sounds sent through her whole frame, making every nerve tingle with excitement! she half started up, flushing and trembling, then as step and voice drew nearer, fell back again, closed her eyes and hid her face in the bed clothes. "nell, are you ready to see the doctor?" asked clare's voice at the door. "no, nor ever shall be. i should think that you and percy might be convinced by this time that his visits are doing me no good," answered the girl, in a tone of irritation. "but it's dr. clendenin this time, nell," said clare, stepping aside and motioning him to enter. nell lay perfectly still and kept her eyes shut, resolved to appear utterly indifferent to his presence; but hers was a tell-tale face to him; he saw that the indifference was only assumed, yet failed to fully understand it. "i grieve to find you so ill," he said, bending over her, and speaking in the tone of extreme gentleness and compassion that ever touched her heart to its inmost core. she resented it, she did not want to have any kindly feeling toward him; she was determined she would not, so averting her face, answered, almost rudely, that she was not very ill, and would do well enough if she could only be left alone; then unable through weakness to maintain her self-control, burst into a fit of hysterical weeping. "you see she's dreadfully nervous, doctor," remarked clare, a little maliciously, for she knew that nell could not endure the imputation. "tears will bring some relief; i will be in again in the course of an hour," said kenneth, and was gone almost before he had finished his sentence. when he came again he found his patient more composed, but the pale, sunken cheeks, and the great, hollow eyes filled him with remorse and anxiety; he could scarcely command his voice for a moment. "excuse my rudeness, doctor," she said, holding out a thin white hand. "i believe i'm just sick enough to be very cross." she had resolved not to look at him, but, as she spoke, involuntarily raised her eyes to his and read there such yearning affection, such tender compassion as caused her to drop them instantly, while the hot blood dyed cheek and brow, but only to vanish again, leaving them paler than before. and he? a wild impulse, scarcely to be restrained, seized him to catch her in his arms, fold her to his heart, and pour out the story of his love. the desire was so overpowering that it may be he would have yielded to it had not the major's entrance at that instant prevented. but nell had read the look, and the sweet story it told was as a cordial to her fainting spirit. she rallied from that moment, the next day he found her sitting up, and in a week she was able to drive out. after that his visits, which had been but few and brief from the first, were rarer and shorter still, and soon they ceased entirely. she seldom saw him now, except at church or on the street, when they would exchange a passing bow and smile, and yet he had not told the story of his love, save with his eloquent eyes. but she blamed herself for that; for with the strange inconsistency of human nature, she had shrunk from being left alone with him, studiously avoiding giving him an opportunity to speak the words for which her very soul was hungering and thirsting. during all this time wawillaway had been a frequent visitor at the house of major lamar, coming often to chillicothe with baskets of his own weaving for sale, and never failing to call upon these friends who had made much of him ever since his signal service to nell. when he remained over night in the town it was usually as their guest, sleeping on the kitchen floor, wrapped in his blanket, and with his feet to the fire. he was an especial favorite with nell, and the liking was mutual, he having a great admiration for the "white squaw" whom he had saved from the panther's teeth and claws, while she felt that she owed him a debt of lasting gratitude; a debt that was doubled by an occurrence that took place some months subsequent to her recovery from her late illness. mounting fairy one bright spring morning, she sallied forth with the intention of paying a visit to her friend mrs. nash. wild animals were now seldom seen in the vicinity of the town, and she felt secure in taking a short ride without escort; but on the way found herself confronted by danger of another kind which she had not taken into account. she was passing through a bit of woods, when a man suddenly sprang from behind a tree, seized her bridle, bringing her pony to an abrupt halt that had nearly thrown her from the saddle, and with a lecherous, impudent stare into her face, and a demoniacal grin, said: "i'm powerful glad o' this meetin'; ben a wantin' to scrape acquaintance this long while; fur you're a mighty purty gal." nell's cheek blanched and an involuntary shiver of fear crept over her. the man was a tall, broad shouldered, powerfully built fellow, of the border ruffian class, whom she had seen about the streets and in the stores of the town a number of times in the last few months. she knew little of him except his name, which seemed to her strangely appropriate, such was the ferocious and animal expression of his bronzed and bearded face. she had felt instinctive loathing of the man from the first casual glance at him, had seen his evil eyes more than once following her furtively with a look that filled her with a nameless terror; and it may well be imagined that she was now filled with affright at this unexpected encounter in the lonely wood. a conciliatory course seemed wisest, and with a heroic effort to hide her alarm, she addressed him politely. "i am in haste, mr. wolf; please be good enough not to detain me." "not yet, my beauty, can't let you go just yet; we'll have a little chat first. come, i'll help you to 'light, and we'll go and sit together a spell on that log yonder," he said, taking hold of her left arm. "unhand me! how dare you?" she cried, her cheeks crimson, her eyes flashing with indignation, and bringing her riding whip down on his hand with all the force she could muster. the stinging blow made him release her for an instant, but he kept his hold on the bridle, and an attempt on her part to urge her pony forward only made the creature rear and plunge in a dangerous manner. "no, you don't!" cried the ruffian with a derisive laugh; and uttering a fearful oath, he threw his arm about her waist and had nearly lifted her from the saddle. "help! help!" she shrieked wildly till the woods rang again with the sound, and striking madly at him with the whip. she was answered instantly by the indian warwhoop close at hand, and half a dozen savages, armed with rifles and tomahawks, sprang out from the wood, not a hundred yards away. wolf, having left his gun leaning up against a tree at some little distance, was unarmed except the hunting knife in his belt, and seeing himself about to be overpowered by numbers, fled with the utmost precipitation, plunging into the forest and instantly disappearing in its depths. nell, not knowing whether to look upon the red men as friends or foes, felt her heart leap into her mouth, expecting to be tomahawked and scalped on the spot; but the next moment, recognizing in the foremost warrior her friend wawillaway, she uttered a cry of joy. "very bad white man," he said coming up to her, "want killee you." "no, i hope not," she said carefully steadying her voice, "but i am so glad, so glad you came and drove him away, wawillaway. oh, you have done me a greater service to-day than even the killing of the panther!" she added with an irrepressible shudder. it was long before nell ventured again beyond the limits of the town without a protector; but fearing wolf's vengeance upon her brother, should he bring the ruffian to punishment, as he undoubtedly would should he hear of this day's peril to her, she carefully concealed the occurrence, exacting a promise from her indian friend to do the same. chapter xiii. at about the same time that nell lamar met with her adventure with wolf, important events were transpiring at glen forest. mrs. clendenin was summoned away to a distance from home by the serious illness of a sister of her late husband. ignorant of the precise nature of the disease, she was unwilling to expose marian to it, and though almost equally reluctant to leave her behind, decided upon that as the safer course. so with much tender, motherly counsel bestowed upon this child of her love, and many an injunction to vashti to watch over her darling, she took her departure. the young girl felt inexpressibly lonely without the mother who had been to her friend, teacher and almost sole companion, everything in one, for they had led a very secluded life, paying and receiving few visits; indeed, seldom going anywhere but to church, except that marian took many a ramble and many a ride on her pony through the adjacent woods and over the nearer hills, usually unaccompanied save by caius, a huge mastiff who had hitherto proved a most efficient protector. mrs. clendenin had indeed never been neglectful of the christian duty of ministering to the sick and suffering so far as lay in her power, and marian was in this regard following in her mother's footsteps. a mile away over the eastern hills lived two elderly maiden ladies, esther and janet burns, the one a paralytic, the other feeble and nearly blind from cataract. they had a farm, the rent of which yielded them a support, but their lives were lonely, and marian's visits were a great boon. she had fallen into the habit of going over almost daily to woodland, as their place was called, and spending an hour in reading to them from the works of one or another of her favorite authors. the clendenins had been for generations great lovers of books, and the library at glen forest, though what would be considered small and of little value in these days, was large and select compared with those of their neighbors. marian continued her visits to woodland after her mother had gone, and, because she found it so much less lonely there than at home, sometimes lingered half the day, to the great content of the misses burns. they would gladly have induced her to take up her abode with them during her mother's absence, but to that she would by no means consent; home was home after all, and though it might be pleasant to spend a part of the day elsewhere, when night came she wanted to be in her own familiar room, with old vashti within call. on sunday marian always attended service in the little country church spoken of in a former chapter. the neighborhood was a very quiet one, few coming or going, the same faces showing themselves in the sanctuary sunday after sunday, and the sight of a new one was always a source of no little interest; it may therefore be supposed that the advent among them, a week after mrs. clendenin set out on her journey, of a fine looking young man, a total stranger, well dressed, and of serious and gentlemanly deportment, created some little stir and excitement; especially among the younger portion of the congregation. he sat in the pew of mr. george grimes, who kept the nearest inn, the sign of the stag and hounds, and the services had not been over many minutes before every one knew that he had engaged board there for a month, and that he was an englishman, apparently wealthy, having brought a valet with him. the congregation had passed out into the churchyard, and a subdued hum of voices exchanging neighborly greetings and inquiries after each other's health, mingled pleasantly with the twittering of birds, the sighing of the wind through the forest, and the low murmur of the stream on the farther side of the road. the stranger stood aside, looking on and listening with a well bred air of kindly interest. "who is that, grimes?" he asked, his eye following admiringly a graceful girlish figure as it tripped past them down the path that led out to the road where the horses were tied, and, with the assistance of one of the young men, who stepped eagerly forward to give it, sprang lightly into the saddle. "miss marian clendenin, of glen forest, mr. lyttleton: one of the prettiest young ladies in the county, if i'm a judge o' beauty," replied grimes, lifting his hat to the fair girl. "she sits her horse well," remarked the stranger, still following her with his eyes as she cantered away in the direction of her home, caius bounding nimbly on by the pony's side. "but she seems quite alone, is there no more of the family?" "most of 'em lie yonder," replied grimes, pointing to a row of graves not far from the spot where they stood. "children all died young but this girl and an older brother who went west years ago. father died within the last year, and the mother's away nursing a sick sister, i hear." lyttleton seemed interested, asked several more questions, walked over to the graves and carefully read the inscriptions on the tombstones; grimes standing by his side and going on with much garrulity to tell all he knew or had ever heard of the family, and that was not a little, for he was a great gatherer and retailer of news, for which few had better opportunities. he spoke of the late mr. clendenin as a man of singularly secluded habits, upright and honest in all his dealings, but strangely averse to the society of his kind. "and i suppose," he added, "that's what has kept his wife and daughter pretty much shut up at home: at any rate the girl's never seen at a cornhusking or quilting, or any sort o' merry making, and the young fellows never get a chance to wait on her. about the only place she does go to is woodland, to read to those poor sickly old ladies; but she's there every day i'm told." "she is then of a literary turn, this young heroine of yours?" sneered the stranger interrogatively. "that's just what she is, sir, so i've heard on good authority, they're a bookish family." and as they rode homeward grimes went on to expatiate at length upon marian's reputed literary tastes and acquirements. "you are a good trumpeter," remarked lyttleton. "pray tell me, are the clendenins wealthy?" "glen forest's a valuable place, and there's only the two of them, as i told you, after the mother dies." "and the son doesn't get it all, as is usually the way with us?" "no: and i dare say there's money laid by, too." the next afternoon marian, reading to her friends in the wide, cool porch that ran along the front of the house at woodland, saw a horseman coming leisurely along the road, as, looking up from her book, she sent a casual glance in that direction. "it is the english gentleman," she said in a low tone, as he drew rein at the gate. it was long since either esther or janet burns had been able to go to church, and monday's visit from marian was anticipated with even more than ordinary eagerness because of the detailed account she would bring of all she had seen and heard the previous day. of course she had not, on this occasion, omitted to mention the stranger in grimes's pew. "where, my dear?" asked purblind janet, straining her eyes in a vain effort to see him. "is he riding? i surely heard horse's hoofs." "yes, and he is alighting at the gate," said her sister. "what can he want here? marian, child, will you call kitty to see what he wishes?" "i'se here, missus," the girl answered for herself, coming round the corner of the house. "what do you want, sah?" hurrying down the path to meet the approaching stranger. "i am very thirsty and would be thankful for a glass of milk or cold water, my good woman," he answered, lifting his hat to the ladies. at that miss janet stepped forward and hospitably invited him to come in and rest himself for a little, remarking that the day was very sultry and he must have found the heat of the sun very oppressive. "i have indeed, madame," he said, accepting the offered kindness with alacrity, and stealing a glance of mingled curiosity and admiration at the fresh, blooming face of the young girl guest. "i think the sun shines with a fiercer heat here than in europe, and if i do not intrude shall be very glad to rest in this shady nook until he approaches somewhat nearer his setting." both the sisters assured him he was welcome, and kitty was directed to bring a glass of morning's milk and some home-made cake for his refreshment. the misses burns were good, simple-minded, unsuspicious women, lyttleton an accomplished man of the world, thoroughly unscrupulous and selfish, but able, when it suited his purpose, as it did on this occasion, to conceal his true character by polished manners and a most pleasing and insinuating address. he was a fluent talker and knew how to adapt his conversation to those with whom he was thrown, in whatever station in life. he addressed the older ladies almost exclusively, but his eyes continually sought marian's face, which glowed with interest and intelligence. he stayed for more than an hour, and made himself so entertaining that they were sorry to see him go, and gave him a pressing invitation to come again, which he readily promised to do. with thanks for their hospitality and a courteous adieu, he at last took his departure. "a very fine-looking, intelligent and well-bred gentleman," remarked miss esther, as man and horse disappeared down the road. "he has evidently been accustomed to good society," added her sister, "has travelled a great deal and knows how to describe what he has seen; but while he talked to us, his eyes sought marian's face for the most part." "surely that was but natural, seeing how much younger and fairer than ours it is," miss esther said, with a pleased smile and an affectionate, admiring glance at the now blushing maiden. "i am sure she makes a pretty picture sitting there under the drooping vines, with caius crouching at her feet." "how did you like him marian, dear?" asked miss janet; "my dim eyes cannot judge whether he is as comely as esther says." "i do not think him quite so handsome as kenneth," marian answered with some hesitation, "he doesn't look so good and noble and true. but," she added quickly, the color deepening on her cheek, "i do not know him well enough yet to judge of his character, and he talks very well. now shall we go on with our reading? i can only stay to finish the chapter, for you see the sun is getting low." lyttleton, as he rode briskly on toward his temporary home, was saying to himself, with an evil smile, "a pretty girl, very young, hardly sixteen i should say, and as innocent as a child; i flatter myself 'twill be no difficult task to win her confidence and learn all she knows. how much that may be i have yet to discover." determined to make diligent use of his opportunities, he became from that time a daily visitor at woodland, and so conducted himself as to win the entire confidence of all three ladies, and cause them to look upon his visits as a great treat. he had travelled much and had many adventures to relate, and stores of information to impart in regard to the strange lands he had seen. he had spent some weeks in paris during the late revolution, had witnessed the execution of marie antoinette and of many of the nobility, and had had some narrow escapes of his own; all of which he described to his little audience with thrilling effect. often, too, he brought a book in his pocket, usually shakespeare's works, milton's paradise lost, or some other poem, from which he would read passages in a rich, mellow voice so exquisitely modulated that it seemed to double the beauty of the author's words. marian's soul was full of poetry, and she would listen like one enchanted, her eyes shining, her lips slightly apart, her breathing almost suspended lest she should lose a single word or tone. lyttleton, without seeming to do so, noted it all with secret delight. after a little he fell into the habit of accompanying her on her homeward ride or walk, whichever it might be, and of meeting her in her rambles, thus gradually placing himself on a footing of intimacy. and marian had forgotten her first intuitive perception of his character; his charms of person and manner had come to exert a strange fascination over her; she thought of neither the past nor the future when he was by her side, but lived only in the blissful present, while he saw and exulted in his power. he made no open declaration of love, but when they were alone in the silent woods it breathed in every look and tone, filling the innocent girlish heart with a strange, exquisite, tremulous happiness. caius, always by her side, or crouching at her feet, was the sole witness of these interviews, and marian could not bring herself to speak of them even to her two old friends, who, in their guilelessness, had no thought of harm to her from the daily intercourse of which they were cognizant. sometimes lyttleton drew her on to talk of herself, her home, her absent brother, and asked many questions in regard to him, which marian answered readily because it was a pleasure to speak of kenneth. she was eager in his praise, she would have delighted to show him to her new friend. "you and he were both born at glen forest?" lyttleton one day remarked, inquiringly. "no; only i," marian said, a slightly troubled look coming into her eyes; "i and the brothers and sisters who died very young. kenneth is many years older, and it was when he was a babe that my parents came here to live." "ah? and where did they live before that? where was kenneth born?" "somewhere in eastern tennessee; i cannot tell you exactly, for there was no town, no settlement, just my father's cabin in a little clearing he had made in the forest, and another, a neighbor's, half a mile away." marian spoke hastily, with half-averted face and a perceptible shudder. "why that shudder, my sweet girl?" he asked, gently pressing her hand, which he had taken in his. "i was thinking of the terrible occurrence that led my father and mother to abandon the spot," she said in low, tremulous tones; "an attack by the indians in which several were killed. it is scarcely ever alluded to in the family and i never heard the full particulars." "then we will speak no more of it," he said, and began to talk of other things. some days later they were again alone together; they had been climbing the hills till quite weary, and were now resting, seated side by side upon a fallen tree, within sight of glen forest, the pretty mountain stream that flowed past it singing and dancing almost at their very feet. marian had her lap full of wild flowers which she was arranging in a bouquet, lyttleton watching her with a curious smile on his lips, glancing now at the deft-fingers, now at the glowing cheeks. she looked very pretty, very sweet and innocent; she had thrown off her hat and the dark brown curls fell in rich masses over neck and shoulders. caius, upon her other side, seemed to be keeping jealous watch over her, regarding lyttleton with something of a distrust she did not share; she had perhaps never been so happy before in all her short life. neither had spoken for several minutes, when lyttleton, leaning over, said softly, "do you know, pretty one, that i leave you to-day?" marian dropped her flowers and looked up with a start, her cheek paling, and her eyes filling with tears. "shall you be sorry to see me go?" he asked tenderly, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. her eyes fell, her lip quivered, one bright drop rolled quickly down her cheek. it was a rude awaking from her blissful dream. "oh, why did you come at all," she sobbed, "if you must go away again? and so soon!" she did not see his exultant smile. "why you know i must go," he said, "since my home is not here; but i am very glad i came, as otherwise i should never have known you, my pretty darling, the very sweetest, the dearest little girl i ever saw;" he bent fondly over her and touched his lips to her forehead. but she shrank from the caress, her cheek crimsoning. "no, no; you must not do that. i--i cannot allow it." "but why not? why should we not be kind and affectionate to each other? ah, don't move away from me, don't avert your sweet face, or i shall think you quite hate me, and i am going away to-day." she covered her face with her hands to hide the tears that would come, and struggled with the sobs that were half choking her. all the brightness seemed to have suddenly gone out of her life. "why had she let herself care for him when he was going away and would never, never come again?" "don't weep, sweet girl, dear marian; it breaks my heart to see your tears, my own darling," he murmured low and tenderly, moving nearer and venturing to steal an arm about her waist; "and yet there is a strange pleasure in the pain, because they show that you are not wholly indifferent to me, that you have yielded to me at least one small corner of your precious little heart. is it not so, dearest?" surely this was the language of love, and her heart leaped up with joy in the midst of her pain. she did not repulse him now, but let him draw her head to a resting place on his shoulder and kiss away her tears. "don't shed any more, vein of my heart!" he whispered, "for i will return to you, perhaps in a few months, certainly within a year." "oh, will you?" she cried, smiling through the tears, lifting her eyes for an instant to his to meet a gaze so ardent that she dropped them again, while a crimson tide swept over face and neck. the sun had touched the western hilltops, and the trees cast long shadows at their feet, when at last they rose and moved slowly on in the direction of glen forest. he would not go in, and they parted at the gate with a long tender embrace. "do not forget me, sweet marian; i will come again," he repeated. "no, no, never! i shall never forget!" she sobbed, "but, you, you will forget me when you are far away and meet other and prettier girls." "i have seen thousands, but never one half so lovely or half so sweet," he whispered, as for the last time he snatched a kiss from the rich red lips. he was gone, hidden from her by the windings of the road, and marian hurried up the path to the house, sat down on the porch step, and with her arms round the neck of her faithful dog, her cheek resting on his head, wept as if her heart would break. old vashti found her thus. "what de mattah, chile?" she asked, "you didn't hear no bad news?" marian shook her head. "i'm so lonely!" she sobbed. "well dat's bad nuff, chile, but don't fret yo' heart out dat way; de missus come back soon, please de lawd; so cheer up, honey, and come and eat yo' suppah. i'se cooked a chicken and made some o' dose muffins you's so fond of." but marian was destined to be more lonely still. sad news reached glen forest the next morning just as she was preparing to pay her usual visit to woodland. miss janet, in her blindness, had missed her footing at the top of the stairs and fallen down the whole flight, striking her head with such force that she was taken up insensible, and in a few minutes had ceased to breathe. the shock of the terrible accident brought a second stroke of paralysis upon the bereaved sister, and in a few days they were lying side by side in the little churchyard. they had been lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in death were not divided. chapter xiv. one beautiful october day two well-mounted gentlemen, each followed by a servant, came galloping into chillicothe, and halted at major lamar's door. in the one the major instantly recognized an old friend and companion in arms, captain bernard, now a wealthy virginia planter; the other was introduced as an english gentleman, mr. lysander lyttleton, his guest for some weeks, whom he had persuaded to accompany him on a visit to this new state, of whose beauty and fertility they had heard the most flattering accounts. the major gave them a hearty welcome, and proffered the hospitalities of his house, a larger and more commodious dwelling than the one he had occupied at the beginning of our story. tig was summoned to take charge of the servants and horses, and the major himself conducted his guests to the parlor and introduced them to his wife and sister. dinner was already on the table; two more plates were added and they sat down to partake of the meal, but while in the act of taking their places their number was augmented by a new arrival, a very plainly dressed, sober looking man, who came in with the air of one who felt quite at home, giving and receiving a cordial greeting. "ah, tommy," said the major, shaking hands with him, "you are just in time. tig, set up a chair and bring another plate for mr. dill." having been introduced in due form to the other guests, and requested to ask a blessing, the new comer bowed his head over his plate, each one present copying his example, and with outspread hands and closed eyes, poured out a long prayer of fervent thanksgiving for the food set before them, and all other blessings temporal and spiritual, mingled with much humble confession of sin, and very many petitions; winding up with this remarkable one: "o lord, we beseech thee to go into the highways and byways and hedges of our hearts and drive out the canaanites, and the hittites, and the hivites, and the perizzites, and the girgashites, and the amorites, and the jebusites." the elders of the family preserved a grave and decorous silence to the end, which the guests and the children had some difficulty in doing; the latter, especially the little boys, being almost convulsed with suppressed laughter. at length the amen was pronounced, mrs. lamar hearing it with an involuntary sigh of relief, for she had been very uncomfortably conscious that her dinner was growing cold, and she particularly prided herself on always having her meats and vegetables served up hot. she mentally resolved to enjoin it upon the major never again to call upon tommy dill to ask a blessing when other guests were present. but the guests showed no lack of appreciation of the fare, partaking of it with keen appetites and praising the viands without stint. "such game as this would be considered a rarity in my country," remarked lyttleton, as the major heaped his plate for the second or third time; "but i presume it is abundant here?" "plenty of it to be had for the shooting," was the reply; "our woods are full of wild fowl, deer, bears, rabbits, squirrels and coons; and the rivers abound in fish. and such crops of corn as are raised in this scioto valley you never saw, i venture to say. i'm glad you've come out here, bernard; i shall take delight in showing you the land." "ah, the major is riding his hobby now," laughed mrs. lamar; "he is quite convinced that ohio, you know we have just been admitted into the union, mr. lyttleton, is the finest of all the states." the englishman bowed an assent, a half mocking smile playing about his lips. nell saw it and her eyes flashed. she thought he despised her country. "how long since you left england?" asked the major, addressing lyttleton; and then began an animated discussion of the political situation in europe, the attitude of france and england toward each other, the career of bonaparte, then the french revolution, particularly the reign of terror, mr. lyttleton greatly interesting the company by a graphic description of those of its scenes of which he had been an eye-witness. he turned frequently to nell as he spoke, for he read intense interest in her bated breath, changing color, the kindling of her eye when he told of some heroic deed, the tears that suffused it and the tumultuous heaving of her breast when the anguish of the wretched victims was his theme. a connoisseur in female beauty, he was struck with admiration at the first sight of nell, the delicacy of her complexion, the perfect symmetry of form and features, the queenly grace of every movement, and the abundant wealth of beautiful hair that crowned her shapely head. there was no little display of artistic taste in its arrangement, and in the simple elegance of her attire. lyttleton mentally pronounced clare also a fine-looking and intelligent woman. she bore a prominent part in the conversation, while nell contented herself almost entirely with silent listening, though from neither lack of ideas nor bashfulness, as her speaking countenance and quiet ease of manner fully attested. lyttleton wanted to draw her out, to hear her opinion on some of the controverted points, so seated himself at her side, when the dining-room had been forsaken for the parlor, and asked what she thought of the sentiments expressed by himself and others. he found she had an opinion and was able to maintain it with spirit and ability. they were still talking earnestly when kenneth came in; so earnestly, that they were not aware of his entrance until the major pronounced his name in introducing captain bernard. "dr. clendenin." lyttleton turned hastily at the sound and scanned the tall, manly figure and noble face with ill concealed eagerness and curiosity; then as the major named him, "mr. lyttleton, lately from england," rose with a slight bow, and accepted kenneth's offered hand with a show of cordiality and a "most happy to meet you, sir." but neither then nor afterward did he give the smallest hint of his acquaintance with marian, or his visit to the neighborhood of glen forest. he had read marian's nature, delicate, sensitive, reserved, and felt sure that she would confide to no one the secret of their solitary rambles, their stolen interviews, much less of the wooing of his looks and tones, scarcely put into plain words by his wily tongue. "i have not committed myself, did not ask her to be my wife, or even say 'i love you,'" was his inward thought; "and she would die rather than own that she had been so lightly won." kenneth declined an invitation to be seated. "i am summoned in haste to a very sick patient," he said, "and merely stepped in, in passing, to ask mrs. lamar's kind offices for another who is suffering from the lack of proper nursing." "those poor devils of country doctors have a hard life of it," remarked lyttleton superciliously, when kenneth had gone. "it is a noble, self-sacrificing life," replied nell, with some hauteur, "i know of none that is more so than dr. clendenin's." she would not have kenneth pitied or patronized by this insolent stranger, and she glanced with scorn at the white hands, delicate and shapely almost as a woman's, one of which was toying with the seals of a heavy gold watch chain in a way to display to advantage a brilliant gem that glittered on the little finger. they were alone at the moment, the major and his friend having followed mrs. lamar and kenneth to the outer door. lyttleton lifted his eyebrows meaningly, and with a slight expressive shrug of the shoulders: "ah, i beg pardon, miss lamar! an intimate and particular friend of yours? i was not aware of it; and in fact was merely speaking of the class in general." "and i was defending the whole profession," remarked nell, "of which dr. clendenin, our family physician, is the representative to us. we owe him much for his kind and faithful services in more than one dangerous illness among us." lyttleton remarked that her sentiments did her honor; then with a desire to introduce a fresh topic, "you have an odd character in that mr. dill," he said, "or is that the sort of grace usual at meals in this part of the world?" "i never heard such from any one else," nell answered with gravity. "he is an excellent man, but slightly deranged. there was a meeting of one of our church courts in town yesterday, and he always attends. but he has gone now to his home and we shall probably see no more of him for some time." "i'm going with the major to take a look at the town; will you go along, mr. lyttleton?" captain bernard spoke from the open door. "thank you, yes;" and with a courteous "good-afternoon" to nell, lyttleton followed the others into the street. he had come to chillicothe with the undivulged intention of taking up his residence there for some months, and having made the tour of the town he called at the general anthony wayne and engaged board and lodging for himself and servant; his choice secretly influenced by the discovery that it was there that dr. clendenin took his meals; for lyttleton had his own private reasons for wishing to see and hear all he could of kenneth and his manner of life. captain bernard made a like arrangement, though for a shorter period of time; then having seen their luggage bestowed in their rooms and refreshed themselves by a change of linen, they returned to the major's for the rest of the day and evening, in accordance with his urgent invitation. mrs. lamar being still absent on her errand of mercy, it fell to nell's lot to do the honors of the tea-table; a duty of which she acquitted herself with an ease and grace that increased the admiration lyttleton had already conceived for her. primitive customs still prevailed in chillicothe; the tea hour was so early that when they rose from the table the sun had scarcely set behind the western hills. and the hunter's moon shone full-orbed over the tree tops. the captain proposed a walk, remarking that the evening was much too fine to be spent within doors, and he and the major set off together, strolling along in leisurely fashion, smoking and talking of "the days of auld lang syne." they had invited nell and lyttleton to accompany them, but both had declined; the one pleading the necessity of attending to some domestic duty devolving upon her in her sister's absence, the other that he found himself already sufficiently fatigued with riding and walking. "never mind me, major," he said, seating himself in the porch, and coaxing little three year old bertie to his knee; "i'll amuse myself with these little folks till you return." he soon had the whole flock about him, telling them stories and singing them songs, and they were having a merry time when aunt nell came to the door to say that it was their bed time and maria was waiting. daylight had quite faded out of the sky and the air grown so chill that the warmth of the blazing wood fire in the parlor was far from unpleasant to lyttleton as he followed the children into the house. begging the guest to excuse her for a moment, and to make himself entirely at home, nell went away with maria and the children. lyttleton stood by the fire musing. "what a handsome girl! and her manners would not disgrace a court. she's some years older, and more formed than clendenin's sister; quite as fine looking too, though an entirely different style of beauty; not over twenty i should say. the other i take to be fifteen. clendenin admires her vastly; i saw that in his glance, and that he saw in me a possible rival. well, i shall enjoy getting into her good graces none the less for that." two candles were burning on the table, and beside them a piece of delicate embroidery which nell took up on her return to the room. lyttleton drew a chair to her side and exerted his conversational powers to the utmost for her entertainment; evidently not without success; her low musical laugh rang out again and again, she gave him many a bright glance from her liquid eyes, and many a quick word of repartee. he grew more and more interested in her and congratulated himself on his good fortune in having come upon such a gem "here in the wilderness." suddenly he started, turned pale, and half rose from his chair with a low exclamation of fear or dismay. his eyes seemed fixed upon some object behind nell, whose back was toward the hall door, and she turned her head hastily to see what it was. a tall indian, dressed in native costume, tomahawk and scalping knife in his belt, and feathers in his hair, stood there regarding the englishman with a contemptuous smile. "ugh! big baby!" he grunted. "wawillaway!" cried nell, springing up and shaking hands with the chief in the most cordial manner; "you are welcome, always welcome to my brother's wigwam! mr. lyttleton, you need not be alarmed; wawillaway is my very good friend, and has always been a brother to the white man." the major coming in at that moment with captain bernard, echoed his sister's words of welcome, as he grasped the chief's hand and shook it heartily. the captain did likewise, gazing with admiration upon the tall sinewy form and well developed limbs of this untutored son of the forest. leaving the gentlemen to entertain each other, nell led the way to the dining-room, and with her own fair hands set before the chief an abundant supply of the best food the house afforded. he ate heartily, then wrapping his blanket about him, stretched himself upon the kitchen floor with his feet to the fire. "pray do not deem me a coward," lyttleton said in a low aside to nell on her return to the parlor. "it was my first sight of an indian, i unarmed, and i expected to see that tomahawk go crashing through your brain." "i shall endeavor to make all due allowance," nell answered courteously; but he fancied that he read contempt in the smile that accompanied her words. it nettled him, and he mentally resolved to seize the first opportunity of proving to her that he was not lacking in courage. chapter xv. "what do you think of this englishman?" dale was pacing kenneth's office with his hands in his pockets, while the latter, seated before his table, where were arranged various bottles, gallipots, and a delicate pair of scales, was busily engaged in weighing out medicines and putting them in powders. he smiled slightly, then answered in a grave, somewhat preoccupied tone: "handsome, intelligent, travelled, apparently wealthy! can be very interesting in conversation, but haunts my office a little more than is perfectly agreeable to a man whose time is often more than money." "no insinuation i hope?" returned dale, laughing and shrugging his shoulders. "not at all, godfrey, i feel at liberty to invite you to retire when i wish to be rid of you." "thank you; i regard that as an incontrovertible proof of friendship. but to return; i don't fancy the fellow; he's too highly polished; his extreme suavity of manner fills me with a desire to knock him down. there's nothing like an air of patronage to make my angry passions rise." "and then he's forever at miss lamar's side, robbing every other fellow of the least chance to bask in her smiles. i haven't been able to exchange a dozen sentences with her in the week that he's been in our town. i vote that he be sent back to his own country." dale did not see the half spasm of pain that contracted kenneth's brow for an instant. "i must go now, have to ride ten miles into the country," he said, folding the last powder; then bestowing them, along with such other medical and surgical appliances as he might have need of, in his saddle-bags, he summoned zeb to put them on his horse, ready saddled, at the door, and donning overcoat and hat, hurried out, mounted and away at a rapid gallop. the principal streets had now been cleared of trees and indians wigwams alike; they were very wide and straight, giving an extended view and plenty of room for the passage of equestrians and vehicles. far ahead of him kenneth could see a lady and gentleman on horseback cantering briskly along; he overtook them, and in passing caught, and returned, a smile and bow from nell lamar and the englishman. they were out for a ride through the gay, beautiful woods this delicious october morning. something akin to envy of lyttleton stirred for a moment in kenneth's breast; but he struggled against it. "why should i grudge to him the prize that can never be mine?" he asked himself. "and am i so utterly, so abominably selfish, that i cannot rejoice in her happiness, though it be with another? faster, faster, good romeo," he continued aloud, patting the neck of his noble steed; "let us bestir ourselves, my boy, for we are needed yonder, and jealousy and envy must be left behind." the intelligent creature seemed to understand, and urged by neither whip nor spur, flew over the ground with almost the speed of the wind. far in the distance a farm-house loomed up into sight, and as they drew rapidly nearer kenneth could descry a horseman galloping furiously toward it from the opposite direction. his first thought was that it might be another messenger from the house to which he was bound, some miles farther on, and where a patient lay very ill. but no; the man drew rein at the gate of the dwelling already in sight, and as kenneth came dashing up, was in earnest colloquy with the farmer. they hailed him. "hollo, doctor! stop a bit. have you heard the news?" "no," he answered, coming to a sudden halt alongside of the other horseman, whom he now recognized as a farmer living some distance down the prairie. "are you the bearer of evil tidings, coe, an accident, some one hurt? i have hardly time to stop unless my services are needed." "worse than that, doctor; he's beyond your help, poor fellow; but you'd best listen, for all that!" "yes," put in the other man, with an oath, "it's the doin's o' those cussed red skins, an' if ye don't look out doc, they'll be takin' your scalp afore ye know it." "what! you don't mean that the indians have begun hostilities again, wolf?" "yes, sir; i do!" he cried with a yet fiercer oath, and bringing his fist down heavily upon the palm of the other hand; "here's coe brings news that captain herrod's found lyin' in the woods murdered and scalped; captain herrod, a man greatly loved by his neighbors, as ye must know, and of course it's their work; and the next thing they'll be burning down our houses about our ears, and butcherin' and scalpin' men, women and children, as they did afore mad anthony wayne whipped 'em into good behavior. the dirty, sneakin', treacherous rascals!" he went on, "i hate 'em like pizen." "is there any positive proof that herrod met his death at their hands?" kenneth asked, turning to coe. "no; but it looks likely; and i'm out to warn the settlers in the valley that we'd best be moving close together and building block-houses for protection." "that we had," exclaimed wolf, again cursing the savages as cruel and treacherous. "they have often proved so in past times," said kenneth; "yet there have been some noble exceptions, and certainly we have not been guiltless in our treatment of them." "we've paid 'em back in their own coin," wolf answered with a savage grin; "and we'll do it again; i'd as lief shoot a red skin as a dog any day." "yet it is as truly murder as to kill a white man," said kenneth, "for god hath made of one blood all nations of men. but we have no time to talk, coe. you go on to chillicothe?" "yes, and beyond, warning everybody to be getting ready for the worst. i must be off. good day to ye both, gentlemen." he put spurs to his horse, but kenneth called after him: "stay a moment; i passed a lady and gentleman riding out from the town. be on the lookout for them and warn them to hurry back, will you?" "all right, doc!" and each sped on his way, kenneth's thoughts divided between grief for the violent death of a friend and neighbor, and anxiety for his patient, and for sweet nell lamar, who might be even now in danger from the savages. alas, to have to trust her to the englishman's care, and he in all probability entirely unarmed! it was sorely against his will that kenneth continued to increase the distance between her and himself. nor did he tarry unnecessarily in the sick room or snatch even a moment to refresh himself with food, though in need of it and urgently pressed to sit down to a well spread board. "do now, doctor, stop and take a bite," entreated the lady of the house, following him to the door; "why it'll be the middle of the afternoon or even later before you can get back to chillicothe." "thank you kindly, mrs. bray," he said, tightening his saddle girth as he spoke, "but i really do not feel hungry, and am in very great haste to return." "excited over this news of poor captain herrod?" she said. "well, it's just as likely to have been the work of some white man as of the indians, i think; somebody that's had a grudge against him." "he was much beloved, mrs. bray." "that's true too, and yet i've heard he had an enemy." "i do not know, but hope it may not prove the beginning of hostilities," kenneth returned as he sprang into the saddle. "good afternoon, madame. now, romeo, good fellow, on at the top of your speed." he glanced warily from side to side, alert but courageous, as he skimmed over the prairies and plunged through the forests; yet no sign of lurking savage rewarded his vigilance. he did not halt or slacken his pace till fairly within the limits of the town; then allowing his panting steed to fall into a walk, he looked up and down the streets. people were hurrying along in unusual haste, or standing in groups talking earnestly, with grave, sad, anxious faces. major lamar, detaching himself from one of these knots of talkers, called to kenneth to stop, then coming to his side asked if he had heard the news. "of poor captain herrod? yes. what is thought of it, that it's the doing of the indians?" "there are various opinions. we have held a town meeting, resolved to prepare for the worst, discovered that there is no ammunition in town, and started a party down the river in a pirogue, to bring a supply from cincinnati." "no ammunition in town, is it possible, and we may be attacked at any moment!" "true: but we do not hear of any indians being seen on the war path. we will hope for the best." "miss nell?" inquired kenneth, "i passed her and lyttleton as i left town this morning." "yes; they met coe and came back in something of a panic. nell hardly the more alarmed of the two, i fancy;" and there was a sly twinkle in the major's eye, an almost imperceptible smile lurking about the corners of his mouth. "she is safe then? i was a little uneasy, not knowing how far they meant to go." by this time quite a little crowd had collected about romeo, and kenneth was plied with eager queries as to the road he had been travelling, and whether he had seen any signs of hostile indians. his replies negativing the last question, seemed to afford some slight satisfaction, some hope that there was less occasion for alarm than had been feared. still all were in favor of proceeding with the work, already resolved upon in the public meeting, of fortifying the town. kenneth was dismounting at his office door when barbour hailed him, with a request that he would come at once to his house, as his wife seemed in a very bad way. "what is the matter?" asked the doctor, hurrying along by barbour's side. "i hardly know, doc; she's a good deal alarmed with this story of captain herrod's murder, and really seems hardly able to breathe." "hysteria, doubtless." "dangerous?" "no, not particularly so," returned the doctor dryly. but mrs. barbour managed to detain him in attendance upon her for a couple of hours, insisting that she should certainly die if he left her, till at last he was compelled to tell her that he could not stay another moment, nor was it at all necessary that he should. returning to his office he found major lamar waiting for him, with an invitation to tea. kenneth demurred, though beginning to be most uncomfortably sensible that he had not tasted food since an early breakfast, but the major would take no denial. "i have some very fine game, and have set my heart upon sharing the enjoyment of it with you," he said; "and i shall be quite in disgrace with my wife if i fail to bring you according to promise. bernard and lyttleton are to sup with us too; so that you may feel assured of a feast of reason and a flow of soul," he added, jocosely; "the englishman is a good talker, you know." "yes, his conversational powers are enviable," kenneth answered in a tone of hearty good will. "and since you are so kindly urgent, major, i will go with you." a vision of lyttleton basking in nell's sunny smiles, calling forth her silvery laughter with his mirth-provoking sallies, thrilling her with his stories of wild adventure, or moving her to tears with the pathos of his description of human suffering or heroism in times of danger, had brought about this decision, erroneously ascribed by the major to the attractiveness of the picture he had drawn. kenneth made a hasty toilet and they walked over to the major's together. full half of lyttleton's time during this week in chillicothe had been spent there, as kenneth knew to his no small disturbance. in vain he reminded himself that he could never claim nell as his own, therefore had not the shadow of a right to stand in the way of another; he could not school his heart into a willingness to utterly resign the faint hope that would linger there, spite of reason's mighty arguments against it. chapter xvi. lyttleton and nell were in the gayest spirits that morning as they sped briskly onward through forest and over prairie, talking cheerily of the sweetness of the air, the beauty of the woods, and exchanging many a little harmless jest, no thought of danger troubling them. they were several miles out from the town when they espied a small cloud of dust far ahead which seemed to be rapidly drawing nearer. "what is it?" cried nell, reining in her pony, while she sent an anxious gaze in the direction of the approaching cloud. "ah, i see, it is a man riding as if for life." "after a doctor, i suspect," observed lyttleton; "some one hurt, perhaps." "but he must have passed dr. clendenin," returned nell, "so it can hardly be that." and as the man at that moment came dashing up she turned her pony aside to let him pass. instead he halted close beside them with a suddenness that nearly threw his horse upon his haunches. "go back," he panted; "turn right around and go back to the town as fast as you can make your beasts move; don't spare whip nor spur, for there's no tellin' but the woods may be full of injuns this minute. they've found captain herrod lyin' dead and scalped in the woods, and i'm out to rouse the neighborhood; for of course it's altogether likely to have been the doin's o' the redskins." "captain herrod!" exclaimed nell, tears starting to her eyes; "can it be? it is not more than a week since he dined at my brother's table, and we all liked him so much." "yes, miss, he was a fine man, liked by a'most everybody," said coe. "but we'd best be moving on. we'll put the lady in between us, sir, for her better protection. and now for chillicothe!" as the three came galloping furiously into the town, people rushed to their doors and windows, and coe, checking his horse, and calling aloud that he was the bearer of important tidings, an eager, questioning crowd quickly gathered about him, and the news spread like wildfire through the place. lyttleton dashed up to the major's door, and only waiting to assist nell to alight, he remounted and hurried back to the spot where they had left coe; then giving his horse into his servant's care, he followed the crowd and was present at the town meeting. "what a precious pack of fools, to be caught so!" he muttered on hearing the announcement that there was no ammunition in the place. "i say, captain," to his friend bernard, who stood by his side, "i wish we were well out of this, i've no mind to stay here and be butchered by the wild indians." "better go at once, then," sneered the captain. "go? through the woods where they are probably swarming? thank you, no; 'twould be a greater risk than to stay where i am." "suppose then you go with the party in the pirogue, down the river to cincinnati?" "nonsense! that would be scarcely safer; the savages might easily pursue it in a canoe, or fire on us from the shore." "then my advice to you is to stay and meet the danger like a man." "of course, of course," stammered lyttleton; "but i wish i'd never come. i shouldn't, if i hadn't understood that all danger of hostilities was entirely past. i've no mind to go home to old england without my scalp." "if that's your only concern," returned the captain dryly, "you may set your mind at rest; there's no danger that you will go back without your scalp." "you mean that they'll finish me if they get the chance," muttered lyttleton, turning away with a look of intense disgust. "he's a coward!" said the captain to himself; and nell lamar was at that very moment expressing the same opinion to clare at the conclusion of a breathless narration of the events of the last hour. "perhaps not, don't be too ready to judge him hardly," returned clara, who was partial to the englishman's handsome person, winning address, and apparently full purse, and would have been more than willing to bestow nell's hand upon him. "i have no wish to be unjust or uncharitable," said nell, "but he was so pale and so agitated from the moment he heard the news till he left me here at the door that i was even forced to the conclusion that he was afraid." the afternoon was full of excitement. dale ran in for a moment to say good-by. he was one of the party detailed to go for ammunition. "you will be in danger?" nell said inquiringly, as they shook hands. "yes, probably: yet perhaps not more so than those who stay behind. i'm not specially uneasy on that score, in fact, have but one objection to going upon the errand, that in case of an attack during our absence i shall not be here to help defend you." he seemed excited but full of a cheerful courage. "don't be too anxious, ladies, i cannot help hoping the whole thing will blow over," were his last words as he hurried away. an unspoken fear lay heavy at nell's heart, dr. clendenin, where was he? coe had told of his warning to him, but that he had gone on his way all the same as if no danger lay in it, and nell reflected with a feeling of exultant admiration, that he would never desert the post of duty through fear of consequences to himself. but should she ever see him again? he might be even now lying dead and scalped by the roadside or in the woods, as captain herrod had been found, or perchance wounded and bleeding, dying for lack of help. how she shuddered and turned pale at the very thought, while now and again a wild impulse seized her to mount her pony and away in search of him. at length the suspense and anxiety were unendurable, and hastily tying on her garden hat, she hurried out into the street. she had gone scarcely a square when at no great distance she descried, glad sight, romeo and his master surrounded by a little crowd of eager, excited men, and with a sigh of intense relief she turned a corner and walked briskly on, her heart full of joy and thankfulness. but kenneth could never have guessed her feelings from her quiet, almost indifferent greeting that evening, and indeed was sorely pained by the contrast of her manner to him and to lyttleton, whom in her heart she despised. the latter hovered about her all the evening, admiring the delicate embroidery growing beneath her white, taper fingers, paying her graceful compliments and indulging in witticisms that now and then provoked a saucy reply or a ripple of silvery laughter. apparently they were full of careless mirth, while the others, sitting together about the fire, discussed with grave and anxious faces the present threatening posture of affairs. kenneth bore his share in the conversation, being frequently appealed to by the major, as one whose opinion was worthy of all consideration, yet furtively watched nell and her vis-a-vis; the seeming favor in which lyttleton was held pained him, yet nell was not consciously coquetting. both the major and the captain had seen something of indian warfare, and the transition was natural and easy from the threatened danger of the present to the perils and exploits of the past, each having something to tell of the daring and bravery of the other. at first the stories were of encounters with the red men of the woods, then revolutionary scenes were recalled. "major," exclaimed the captain, "do you remember your big hessian?" "yes, perfectly: that is, his general appearance; he was not near enough for his features to be very strongly impressed upon my memory." "and he has never appeared to you?" queried the captain with a laugh. "no," returned the major, gazing meditatively into the fire; "what right would he have to haunt me, captain, seeing he was killed in battle?" "none, of course; and he shows his sense of justice in refraining." "what were the circumstances?" inquired kenneth, with interest which seemed to be shared by all present. "it was on one occasion when our forces and those of the british were drawn up in line of battle in full view of each other," said the captain, "that a big hessian officer stepped out in front of his men and with a good deal of angry, excited gesticulation and loud vociferation in his barbarous tongue, seemed to be defying the american army much as goliath defied the armies of israel. "the impudence and effrontery of the thing roused my ire; i turned with an indignant remark to the major here, he was only captain then, by the way, but before the words had left my lips he had taken a gun from a soldier and shot the fellow down where he stood." "some of those hessians were very brutal," remarked kenneth. "yes," said the captain, "war was their trade, and what better could one expect from men who fought, not for country or for principle, but simply for hire; the more shame to the government that employed them against freemen battling for their liberties!" "yet preferable, i should say, to the wily and treacherous savages the americans have been accustomed to fighting." lyttleton's tone was flippant. "i'd sooner encounter an infuriated hessian, frenchman, any kind of white man, or even ghost, than a whooping, yelling painted savage on the war path, as they call it." "that's an acknowledgment," remarked the captain dryly; "especially in view of the fact that they, too, were employed against us by the mother country, as americans once delighted to call her." "however, that is all past, and certainly we owe no grudge to you, lyttleton," he added turning toward the latter with a genial smile. "all indians are not cruel and treacherous," observed nell, her fair cheek flushing and her violet eyes kindling; "tecumseh is a noble exception; wawillaway also; i would trust my life in his hands without the slightest hesitation." "yes, wawillaway is a good indian," assented her brother; "has always been friendly to the whites. nor shall i ever forget his good service to you, nell." the major referred to the adventure with the panther, which he had related to his guests on a former occasion; of the more recent and greater service rendered her by her indian friend, he knew nothing. but nell was thinking of it, recalling with a slight shudder wolf's lecherous stare; her eyes were on her needle-work. kenneth could not see their expression, but he wondered at the trembling of her slender fingers as she drew the needle in and out, and the varying color on her cheek. a moment of silence following the major's last remark, was suddenly broken by a thundering rap upon the outer door. all started to their feet, with the common thought that the threatened danger had come, and kenneth turned with a quick, protecting gesture toward nell, while lyttleton glanced hurriedly around, as if in search of some hiding place. neither movement was lost upon the young girl; she saw and appreciated both; more afterward than at the moment. but their alarm was groundless. tig had gone to the door and a voice was heard asking for dr. clendenin. "what is it, gotlieb?" he asked, stepping out to the hall, and recognizing in the messenger a german lad whose parents lived next door to the barbours. "mine mudder she send me for you, doctor, to goame right quick to meeses barbour; she pees ferry seeck." kenneth had his doubts about the correctness of the report, yet nevertheless, bidding a hasty good-night to his friends, hurried away with the messenger. he found the patient again in violent hysterics, which gotlieb's mother was vainly trying to relieve. "o doctor," she cried, "it is goot you haf come. i know not what to do for dis womans. she schream and she laf and she gry, and i can't do notings mit her." "what caused this attack, mrs. hedwig?" he asked. "vell, doctor, i prings mine work to sit mit her, and i zay 'i must make dese flannel tings for mine childer pefore de injuns comes; pecause it pees very cold in de woods for mine lena, and mine gotlieb, and mine karl, when dose injuns take 'em.' and just so soon i say dat, she pegins to schream and to laf and to gry lige--lige von grazy womans." she seemed much disturbed, and alarmed, inquiring anxiously, "do you dinks she fery bad sick, doctor? vil she die?" "oh no," he said, "she'll be over it directly." "she might have known better than to talk about the indians coming. it frightens me to death," sobbed the invalid; "and tom was shamefully thoughtless to send such a person in to sit with me. he ought to have stayed himself; there are plenty of other men to work at fortifying the town. but nobody ever thinks of poor me." "it would be far better for you if you could forget yourself, mrs. barbour," said kenneth. "drink this, if you please, and then go to sleep." "go to sleep, indeed, and she sitting there working on those flannel garments, just as if the indians would let her children live to wear them, if they come." it was late when kenneth returned to his office, and he was weary in mind and body; yet hours passed before he retired to rest. his thoughts were full of nell, going over and over each scene in his life in which she had borne a part, recalling every look she had given him in which he had read the sweet secret of her love, his features now lighted up with joy, now distorted with pain, cold drops of agony standing on his brow. "what a heartless wretch must i appear to her!" he groaned, pacing his office with folded arms and head bowed upon his breast. "oh my darling! i would die to save you a single pang, and yet i dare not tell you that i love you. i must stand by in silence and see another win you. perhaps even now your love is turned to hate, and if it be so i cannot blame you." chapter xvii. it was long past noon: the sun shone, but as through a veil, a soft october haze mellowing the brightness of the beautiful woods where a solitary figure, that of a tall indian, was following the trail with long, rapid strides. it was the shawnee chief wawillaway; not on the war path, for though armed as usual with gun, tomahawk and scalping knife, no war club was in his hand, no paint on his face. he had been on a peaceful errand to old town, to dispose of his baskets, game and peltries, and was now quietly wending his homeward way. no report of herrod's death, and the consequent excitement and alarm among the settlers in the scioto valley, had reached wawillaway, and when he saw three white men, wolf and two men whom he had hired to assist him on his farm, coming toward him, no thought of hostile intention on their part or his own was in his heart. they met him in the trail and he shook hands cordially with them, inquiring about their health and that of their families. a little talk followed and wolf proposed to the chief to exchange guns, took wawillaway's on a pretence of examining it with a view to purchase, slyly blew out the priming, and handing it back, said he did not care to swap. wawillaway had seen his treacherous act, but still unsuspicious, took his own gun handing back the other. "have the indians begun war?" asked one of wolf's companions. "no, no," said the chief, "the indians and white men are all one; all brothers now." "why, haven't you heard that the indians have killed captain herrod?" asked wolf. wawillaway looked astonished, and incredulous. "no, no! indian not kill captain herrod," he said. "captain herrod not dead?" "yes, he is; it's certain that he was found dead and scalped in the woods a few days ago," said wolf. "maybe fire water; too much drink make fight." "no, herrod hadn't any quarrel with the indians; and we don't know which of them killed him." "maybe some bad white man killed captain herrod," suggested wawillaway; then shaking hands all round again, he turned to go on his way, when the dastardly wolf shot him in the back, mortally wounding him. the brave chieftain, wounded as he was, and deprived of the use of his gun, turned upon his cowardly assailants with his tomahawk, and spite of the superiority of numbers, killed one, and severely wounded wolf and the others. a distant sound of horses' hoofs sent them flying into the woods, leaving the lifeless body of their comrade, and the bleeding, dying chief lying in the trail. nearer and nearer came the sounds, and in another moment two farmers returning from chillicothe to their homes, had come to a sudden halt beside the prostrate forms and were gazing with grief, horror and dismay upon the bloody scene. "it's wawillaway!" cried one, hastily dismounting and stooping over the chief. "who can have done this cruel, wicked deed, for he has always been the white man's friend! ah, he's not dead, thank god! come, miller, help me to raise him up." they did so as gently as possible, but life was ebbing fast; they saw it in his glazing eye and the clammy sweat upon his brow. another horseman came galloping up and drew rein close at hand, then leaping to the ground came hurriedly toward the little group. "dr. clendenin," cried miller, "you have come in the nick of time!" "no," sighed kenneth, taking the cold hand of the chief, "he is beyond human help. wawillaway, my poor friend, whose fiendish work is this?" with a great effort the chief rallied his expiring energies sufficiently to tell in a few broken sentences, of wolf's perfidious and cruel deed, then gasped and died. "he is gone," kenneth said in a voice tremulous and husky with emotion, "and this foul deed of a blood-thirsty, conscienceless wretch, will in all probability be visited upon our infant settlements in a tempest of fire and blood." "wolf! the scoundrel is rightly named," muttered miller between his clenched teeth. "andrews," to his comrade, "we should be scouring the woods in search of him at this moment. if we could catch and deliver him up to justice, it might go far toward averting the threatened storm." "yes, and there's no time to be lost; but the first thing is to hurry home and secure the safety of our families." "the alarm should be given at once in chillicothe," said kenneth, hastily mounting as he spoke; "that shall be my task, and doubtless a party will be sent out at once in search of this cowardly villain, wolf." in another moment all three had left the scene of blood and death, and were galloping furiously through the woods; the farmers toward their homes, kenneth in the direction of the town. the sun had set some time before, it was already growing dark, and when he reached chillicothe many of the people had retired for the night. coming in at the end of the town farthest from major lamar's house, and stopping to call up and consult with several of the other influential citizens, whose dwellings lay between, he was late in reaching it. nell was roused from her first nap by a loud knocking on the outer door, and a familiar voice calling, "major!" she sprang to the window and opened it. "what is it, doctor?" she asked, her voice trembling a little with excitement and alarm in spite of herself. "i am very sorry to disturb you," he answered, something in his low, earnest tones sending a strange thrill through her whole being, "but there is not an instant to be lost. dear miss nell, rouse the household and dress yourself with all haste, not forgetting a shawl and bonnet, for the night air is chill in--" the door opened at that moment and the major's voice was heard. "what's wrong? ah, is it you, doctor?" "yes, major, wawillaway lies dead out yonder on the trail to old town, slain treacherously in cold blood, by that scoundrel wolf, and of course we may expect an attack from the indians as soon as they can get here after the news reaches them. it has been decided that the women and children shall be collected in ferguson's house; that being the largest in town. can i be of any assistance in getting yours there?" "no, no, thank you. i'll have them there directly, and you will be wanting to warn others." the doctor rode rapidly away, while the major shut the door and called to his wife and children. "up! dress yourself as fast as you can! nell!" "yes," she answered. "i'll be there in a moment." she had heard all and was hurrying on her clothes with trembling fingers, the tears rolling down her cheeks. "o wawillaway, wawillaway, you have died for me!" she sobbed. "o that cruel, cruel wretch! worse than the wild beast that shares his name!" sounds of commotion came from below, the little ones crying, clare calling in frightened tones, "nell, nell, do come help with the children, if you can! i shall never get them dressed." the servants added their terrified clamor, as they rushed hither and thither in obedience to the orders of master or mistress, collecting such articles of value or necessity as could be thought of and found in the hurry and alarm of the moment. the major alone preserved his calmness and presence of mind, and thus was able to control and direct the others. at clare's call nell dashed away her tears, snatched up hat and shawl and ran down-stairs. "dressed!" said clare. "you've been very quick. now help with the children. they're too frightened or too sleepy to get into their clothes, and maria's so scared she's of no use whatever." "calm yourselves, wife and sister," said the major, coming from an adjoining room. "we must put our trust in god, who we know will not suffer any real evil to befall his people; and the indians can hardly reach the town under an hour or two at the very earliest." his words and the quiet composure with which they were uttered had a soothing effect upon the ladies, calming their agitation and reviving their courage. in a very short time the whole family were in the street rapidly winding their way to mr. ferguson's, toward which terrified women and children were now hurrying from every quarter. the town was thoroughly awake; lights gleamed in all the houses, and every possible preparation was being made to receive and repel the expected attack. sentinels were posted, and an old man who had served as drummer in the revolutionary war was appointed to give the signal, the roll of the drum, should the enemy be seen approaching. as the major and his family neared the place of rendezvous, they fell in with captain bernard and lyttleton, who followed them into the house inquiring if there were anything they could do to make the ladies more comfortable. as the light of a candle burning in the hall fell on nell's face, lyttleton saw the traces of tears on her cheeks and bright drops still shining in her eyes. "do not be too greatly alarmed; doubtless we shall succeed in keeping the savages at bay," he whispered protectingly. "i have a brace of pistols here, and you may rest assured will make your safety my special charge." "i am not afraid," she said, drawing herself up slightly, while the color deepened on her cheek--"no, i believe i am; but it is not that that causes my tears;" and they burst forth afresh as she spoke. "what then?" he asked in surprise. "i weep for my friend, my poor murdered friend, lying stiff and stark yonder in the woods," and the tears fell like rain. "what, the indian!" he exclaimed in utter amazement. "yes, for wawillaway. did he not save my life? yes, twice he has rescued me from a wild beast, first a panther, then a wolf," she said with a shudder. "aunt nell, aunt nell, i so sleepy, i so tired," sobbed little bertie, her three year old nephew and especial pet; "please sit down and take me in your lap." she had the child by the hand; the crowd was pushing them on; was between them and the rest of the family, and now separated her from lyttleton. "oh, here you are! come this way," the major said, appearing in an open doorway at the end of the hall; and snatching up bertie, he hurried back into the large living room, nell following. tig had brought a great armful of buffalo robes, deer and bearskins, of which he was making a very comfortable couch in one corner, under the direction of his mistress. clare soon had the children laid upon it, and snugly covered up with shawls. she then sat down beside them with her babe in her arms. "can't you lie down too, nell?" she said. "there's room enough, and you'd better sleep while you can." "that is not now," nell answered with a sigh, "but i will sit down here beside bertie." she seated herself on the farther side from clare, where her face was in shadow, and little bertie laid his head in her lap. she bent over him, softly stroking his hair and dropping silent tears upon it. she could not forget wawillaway. the room; the house; was full of terrified women and children--many of the latter crying violently from discomfort and fright, while the tearful, trembling mothers vainly strove to soothe and comfort them. mrs. barbour, occupying a distant part of the same room with the lamars, paid small attention to hers; being too much taken up with her own feelings, too busy bewailing her hard fate, somehow much more to be commiserated than that of any other person present, and now and then going off into a violent fit of hysterics. mrs. nash was there, quiet, patient, cheerful, doing the best to allay her sister-in-law's excitement and alarm, and that of her own and her brother's children; nor were her kind ministrations entirely confined to them; she contrived to speak words of hope and cheer to others also. the room was dimly lighted by a candle burning on a table which had been pushed into a corner to be out of the way of the numerous beds spread upon the floor. mrs. hedwig placed her two younger children under this table, bidding them "go to shleep and nefer fear dose inguns; your mutter vil pe right here and take care off you;" then getting possession of a chair, she sat down close beside them, drew the candle near her, snuffed it carefully, opened a bundle she had brought with her, and began sewing most industriously. "how can you, mrs. hedwig?" cried mrs. barbour: "you're the most cold-blooded creature i ever saw!" "dish ish flannel to keeps mine childer warm; mine childer must haf dese flannel tings to wear in de woods mit de inguns," explained the german woman, dashing away a tear. "but i hopes dose inguns nefer gets here to shteal mine leetle dears." "if they do come, they'll kill a good many more than they steal," sobbed another woman. "oh, dear, oh, dear! if our men only had plenty of ammunition it wouldn't seem half so bad!" "do stop such doleful talk, all of you," said mrs. nash. "you'll frighten the poor children to death." "where are the men? what's become of my tom?" fretted mrs. barbour. "the men are doing their duty," answered mrs. nash; "some are guarding this house, some posted as sentinels on the outskirts of the town, others collecting bows and arrows, clubs, knives, tomahawks, anything they can fight with, or putting their valuables in some place of safety." "and they have sent out a party in search of wolf," added mrs. lamar. "i heard the major and captain bernard speaking of it; and if they can catch the wretch they will hang him, or give him up to the indians and let them wreak their vengeance on him, as in justice they should, instead of on the innocent." "let us trust in the lord and try to sleep," said a pious old lady who had laid herself calmly down beside her grandchildren. "we need rest to strengthen us for the morrow's duties and trials; most of us profess to be christians, and why should we not be able to feel that we are safe in our father's hands? "'not walls nor hills could guard so well old salem's happy ground; as those eternal arms of love that every saint surround.'" a silence fell upon the room as the sweet old voice ceased, even mrs. barbour being shamed into momentary quiet. clare laid her babe down, stretched herself beside it and the older children, and her regular breathing soon told that she slept. but nell still sat with bertie's head in her lap, her face hidden in her hands, while tears trickled between the white slender fingers, for her thoughts had gone back to her murdered friend. "i shall never see him again in this world," she was saying to herself, "and oh, shall i meet him in another? why, why did i never speak to him of jesus? now it is too late, too late!" some one sat down beside her and a voice said in low, rich tones, "i will not be afraid of ten thousands of people, that have set themselves against me round about! dear miss nell, some trust in chariots and some in horses; but we will remember the name of the lord our god." "thank you," she said, uncovering her face and hastily wiping away her tears, "but oh, it is not that, not fear of the indians," she sobbed, the tears bursting forth afresh. "dr. clendenin, you have not forgotten what i owe to wawillaway, and you know but the half!" "i know that he saved you from the panther," he said with a look of surprise. "yes; and from i know not what at the hands of this very ruffian, wolf." and in a brief sentence or two she told of her danger and her escape, adding with a low cry of pain, "and oh, i fear that it was in revenge for this that poor wawillaway was slain. he has died for me!" kenneth was much moved, indignation against wolf, gratitude for the fair girl's rescue, admiration of the brave chieftain, grief for his sad end, contending for the mastery in his breast. "the wretch!" he said, "he is not worthy to live! he has killed a better man than himself. i too, grieve for wawillaway. but, miss nell, you are looking sorely in need of rest; as your physician i prescribe a few hours of sleep." he gently lifted the curly head from her lap to the couch, and bade her lie down beside the child. "the major is with the party who are in pursuit of the assassin, and has left you and the rest of the family in my care; so that his authority is vested in me for to-night, in addition to that which i may lawfully claim as medical adviser," he said with one of his rare sweet smiles, "so do not venture to disobey my order, fair lady, and," he added in a still lower whisper, "let me give you this for a pillow to rest your weary head upon: 'i will both lay me down in peace and sleep: for thou, lord, only makest me dwell in safety.'" chapter xviii. overcome with grief and weariness nell unconsciously obeyed orders ere many minutes had passed, and as the hours dragged on bringing no new cause of alarm, very many followed her example, even mrs. barbour at length succumbing to the spell of tired nature's sweet restorer. they had a rude awaking. with the first streak of dawn in the east, the sudden, loud roll of the drum burst upon the startled air;--the appointed signal of the near approach of their savage foe. women and children sprang up with wild shrieks and cries of terror and despair. kenneth, who had been pacing the hall, a self-appointed sentry, stepped hastily in at the door of the room where the lamars were, his eyes turning anxiously toward their corner of it. mrs. lamar sat on the side of the couch, trembling with agitation, clasping her babe close to her breast and trying to soothe the older ones, who were clinging about her, with the exception of bertie whom nell, deathly pale, but calm and quiet, was sheltering in her arms. watching her with tell-tale eyes, kenneth essayed to speak; but could not make his voice heard amid the weeping and wailing. "o doctor, save me, save me!" shrieked mrs. barbour, rushing toward him with outstretched arms and streaming eyes. "i'll be the first they'll attack; i know i will, and tom isn't here to take care of me." "yes, he is," shouted mr. barbour hurrying in, "yes, he is, nancy; though there's no great occasion, for it's a false alarm, all a mistake. the indians are as much scared as we are, and are running the other way." the excitement toned down rapidly while he spoke, and now the room was nearly quiet, all who were old enough to understand being eager to catch every word. "god be praised," ejaculated kenneth fervently. "but the signal, why was it given?" "ah," said barbour, smiling, "our old friend had gone back, in feeling at least, to old revolutionary times and could not refrain from sounding the reveille." "'twas just good sport for him, no doubt, to frighten a parcel of poor women and children nearly out of their wits!" was mrs. barbour's indignant comment. "not at all," said her husband; "he thought every body would understand it." mothers caressed their little ones with murmured words of joy and thankfulness, feeling as if they had been suddenly rescued from impending horrible death, or captivity hardly less to be feared; neighbors and friends shook hands or embraced with mingled smiles and tears, congratulating each other that they were, after all, in no immediate danger. the party sent in search of wolf returned without him; he had made good his escape from that part of the country. there was a large body of indians at that time near greenville, and to them chillicothe presently sent a deputation of her prominent citizens. the indians, among whom was the celebrated chief, tecumseh, gathered in their council house, received the white men and listened to their account of the late unfortunate occurrence, their detestation of wolf's bloody deed, their ineffectual efforts to catch him, and determination to put him to death if ever they could secure his person. the indians replied that they knew nothing of these matters and desired to remain at peace with the whites, and finally tecumseh and some others of the chiefs were persuaded to return with the deputation, and repeat these assurances to the people of chillicothe and its vicinity. a day was appointed, and the people gathered, an immense throng, to look upon and listen to the great shawnee chief. major lamar, his wife and sister were there; the older children too, for the major said it would be something for them to remember all their lives. captain bernard and lyttleton contrived to be near the lamars, the latter close at nell's side, leaning over her now and then, with an air of devotion and proprietorship exceedingly distasteful to kenneth, who furtively watched them from afar. but when tecumseh's tall, commanding figure stood before them, and he began to speak, every eye turned toward him, every ear was intent to listen to his voice and that of his interpreter, a white man who had been a prisoner among the indians. even as translated the speech was full of eloquent passages. he spoke in the strongest terms of the friendly relations existing between the whites and the indians; said they were brothers, and that the indians would never violate their treaty. he hoped both parties would abide by it forever, and the peace and brotherly love between them be as lasting as time. a shaking of hands followed the speech, and the throng quietly dispersed. chapter xix. the indian sachems departed, and life in chillicothe fell back into its accustomed grooves. captain bernard left for his virginia home, but lyttleton remained a boarder at the general anthony wayne, a self-appointed spy upon kenneth's movements, and very frequent visitor to the hospitable dwelling of major lamar. he continued to be a favorite with clare, but found scant favor with nell, whose politeness was sometimes freezing, while at others she would be only tolerably gracious. she was constantly comparing him, and always to his disadvantage, with dr. clendenin. lyttleton was handsome, polished, and an accomplished conversationalist, but kenneth was fully his equal in these respects, and oh, how much more noble, brave and true; what an earnest, unselfish, useful life he led; how different from that of this gay idler who seemed to have no thought of anything but his own ease and pleasure! she had about made up her mind that lyttleton was a coward, too, remembering how pale he had turned on his first sight of wawillaway, and having heard that he showed great agitation at the roll of the drum which so frightened the women and children with its false alarm that the indians were almost upon them. and nothing else so excited nell's scorn and contempt as cowardice in a man. besides he now and then indulged in some remark disparaging to kenneth, insinuating that he was of low birth and connections, less highly educated than himself, unskillful in his profession, pharisaical in his religion, and wanting in ease and refinement of manner. all utterly false, as nell knew; and she never failed to retort with cutting sarcasm, stinging rebuke, or a panegyric upon dr. clendenin so warm and earnest that she recalled it afterward with burning blushes. what if her words should reach dr. clendenin's ears! what would he think of her, for with a sore heart she was compelled to acknowledge to herself that eloquently as his eyes had spoken once and again, his lips had never yet breathed one word of love to her; and not for worlds would she have him think she cared for him. but there was no danger that lyttleton would report their conversation; he would be loth indeed to give kenneth the pleasure of knowing how high he stood in miss lamar's estimation, nor would he dare repeat his own base innuendoes. it dawned upon him at length that depreciation of his rival was not the best means of ingratiating himself into the fair girl's favor, and he changed his tactics, avoiding as far as possible all mention of dr. clendenin's name in her presence. but she neither forgot nor forgave what he had already said, and in revenge threw out an occasional hint that she had grave doubts of his own bravery, while at the same time she lauded that of dr. clendenin to the skies. lyttleton was deeply mortified and cast about in his mind for some way of proving to her that he was not wanting in the manly attribute of courage. "you seem to have an unbounded confidence in dr. clendenin's valor," he said one day in a tone of pique; "pray tell me what he has ever done to prove it?" "with pleasure," she answered in grave, sweet accents, but with kindling eyes and a slight smile hovering about the lips, "i have seen it tried, or known it to be so, in many ways during the several years of our acquaintance;--in unhesitating exposure to contagious disease, in encounters with the fierce wild beasts of our hills and forests, in long lonely journeys out into the wilderness, all endured without flinching. "so much for his physical courage. his moral courage is fully equal to it. he is not afraid or ashamed to show his colors, to stand by his principles, to acknowledge his allegiance to his divine master by work or act, in whatever company he finds himself. he is not afraid of ridicule, of taunts or jeers, and i am sure would never hesitate to espouse the cause of the downtrodden and oppressed." "i hate cant," said lyttleton, coloring, "and never could abide these people who set themselves up as so much better than their neighbors." "i entirely agree in those sentiments," replied nell, "and so would dr. clendenin. he never obtrudes his sentiments or talks cant; and has a very humble opinion of himself; yet his life is such, so pure, earnest, self-denying and useful, that no one is left in doubt as to whose servant he is: and oh, he knows how to speak words of comfort and hope to the weak and weary, the sin-burdened and sorrowing!" "and permit me to add, is most fortunate in having secured so fair and eloquent an advocate," returned lyttleton with a bow and a mocking smile; "yet i must beg to be excused for my inability to see in him the paragon of perfection your rose-colored glasses would make him." "if my glasses are rose-colored, permit me to say, yours are evidently begrimed with london smoke," retorted nell. "you hate me because i am an englishman," he said gloomily; "and it is most unjust, since i had personally nothing whatever to do with what you americans are pleased to style the oppressions of the mother country." "no, i don't think i absolutely hate you, mr. lyttleton," she said meditatively, staying her needle in mid air for an instant; "on the contrary i have occasionally found your society not at all disagreeable; but," and the needle again went swiftly in and out, while her eyes were fixed upon her work, "i think if i were in need of a protector from--any great immediate danger--an expected attack by hostile indians for instance, i should prefer one of my countrymen by my side." "now, nell, that was really too bad," remarked clare, after lyttleton had gone. "the english are hardly less brave as a nation than ourselves." "of course, i don't deny that, but he's an exception, and deserving of all and more than i gave him for his mean way of depreciating a--" "an absent rival," put in clare with a laugh, as nell paused for an appellation suited to kenneth's worth. "really i think you might forgive his evident jealousy, which is certainly flattering to you." "no, not a rival but a far better and nobler man than himself," said the girl, the rose deepening on her cheek. lyttleton went away full of anger and chagrin, and lay awake half the night trying to contrive some means of convincing miss lamar that no more valiant man than himself was anywhere to be found. he summoned his german valet at an unusually early hour the next morning. "hans," said he, while the man was busied about his person, "you are from hesse, i think, and were over here during the war?" "yass, mynheer, that ish so; but i dells it not to dese peobles." "no; of course not; and you need not fear that i shall betray you. but your experience may enable you to be of use to me in a new capacity." "vat ish dot, mynheer?" "have patience, hans, and i will explain all in good time. were you an officer?" "nine, nine, mynheer; not so goot as dot; vat you galls a brivateer?" "a private, you blockhead," corrected lyttleton, with a laugh. "well, i wish you had been higher, though," he added meditatively. "if i could but get hold of the uniform of a hessian officer, it would not matter now." "vell, mynheer, an' you gan keep von leedle segret, i dinks dot gan be found?" "what! here in this little out of the way village?" hans nodded wisely. "yaas, i finds him pooty quick." "if you will do so and will make use of it as i direct," said lyttleton, "you shall be handsomely paid for your trouble. and may rest assured that i will never betray your secret." "vell den, mynheer, i dell you, and i porrows de gloes, and does de work. karl hedwig was in de war, an--vat you call it?" "officer?" "yaas, and he's got de soldier gloes." "now? here?" hans answered in the affirmative, going on to explain that hedwig, whom he recognized as an old acquaintance, and his former superior in the army, had begged of him not to divulge the fact that he had served against the americans: fearing that it would render him unpopular; but doubtless if it could be done without incurring that risk, he would lend his uniform for a consideration. lyttleton authorized hans to hire it for the winter, naming a liberal sum and enjoining secrecy. "i expect to find use for it one of these days or nights, which is all you need to know at present," he concluded. hans promised to attend to the commission promptly, and with due care that none should know of it save hedwig and himself. godfrey dale ran in to major lamar's that morning, directly after breakfast, to say that the young people were getting up a riding party for that afternoon, and to ask nell if he might be her escort. "you must please excuse my coming at so early an hour," he said, with a mischievous smile; "it was in order to forestall the englishman, who almost monopolizes you of late, it seems to me." "no, he does not," said nell, looking but ill pleased. "he is here a great deal, i know, but i cannot forbid him the house." "i left him in clendenin's office," remarked dale. "he is generally to be found there when he is not here; seems to admire the doctor prodigiously, tells me he has conceived a very warm friendship for him." "then he is an arrant hypocrite!" exclaimed nell, her eyes flashing with indignation. "he is always saying or hinting disparaging things of him to me." dale looked surprised, then angry, then laughed lightly. "to you, miss nell? well, i suppose he dreads clendenin's rivalry, and thinks all is fair in love." "i shall think but ill of you, mr. dale, if you uphold him on any such plea as that," nell said with vexation. "uphold him? no, indeed, miss nell. i only wish to be as charitable as the case will allow." chapter xx. night was closing in dark and stormy after a day of clouds and incessant rain, mingled with sleet and snow; the wild november wind swept madly through the streets, whistled, shrieked and roared in the wide chimneys and through the forests, bending the trees with its furious blast, and causing a solitary horseman to bow his head almost to the saddle bow in the vain effort to shield his face from the fierceness of its wrath. "courage, my brave romeo, this has been a hard day for you and me, but rest and shelter and food are not far off now," he said, patting the neck of his steed with gentle, caressing hand, as a temporary lull succeeded a more than ordinarily fierce onset. they had crossed the last prairie, threaded the mazes of the last forest, and were close upon the outskirts of the town. it had, indeed, been a hard day, and the doctor was cold, wet and hungry; icicles had gathered on hair and beard, and the heavy overcoat he threw off on entering his office was stiff with frozen rain. zeb had a bright fire blazing, and on his master's entrance hastily lighted a candle and set it on the table. "ah, this looks comfortable," said kenneth, shaking off the icicles and drawing near the fire. "hurry, zeb, and attend to romeo. but first, has any one called?" "yes, sah; de major lef' word you please step roun' dar; one ob de chillen sick." "much the matter, zeb?" "dunno, massa doctah; 'spec' you kin tell best 'bout dat when you gets dar; yah, yah," and zeb vanished. i think kenneth sighed a little inwardly, and cast a somewhat regretful look upon the comforts he was leaving behind, as he made ready again to face the storm, donning a fur cap and a camelot cloak which he took down from a nail in the wall. as he threw it off in the hall at major lamar's, the parlor door opened and a sweet voice said, "come in, doctor. it was really almost too bad to ask you to come through this storm, and i think my brother regrets having done so; for little bertie does not seem to be seriously ill now, though some hours ago he had quite a fever." "ah, i am glad to hear so good a report," kenneth said, taking the soft white hand held out to him, and smiling down into the violet eyes. "but what sort of doctor should you think me if i were afraid to face wind, rain and sleet at the call of sickness?" "come to the fire and warm your hands," she said lightly, ignoring his query; "they are much too cold for the handling of my pet boy." "you are right," he returned, holding them over the blaze. they stood there side by side for several minutes, chatting on indifferent topics, the weather, the state of the roads, cases of sickness in the town. he thought he had never seen her look so lovely, the beautiful, abundant hair gleaming like gold in the glancing firelight, the full, red lips, the large liquid eyes, so intensely blue, that now looked half shyly into his, now drooped till the heavy silken fringes swept the fair cheek whereon the soft color came and went with every breath. her dress was simple, but extremely becoming, plain gray in color, made with a long full skirt that fell in soft folds about her graceful figure, and neatly-fitting bodice, edged at neck and wrists with ruffles of delicate lace. her only ornaments were a knot of pale blue ribbon in her hair and another at her throat. she was in one of her gentlest, most lovable moods, and he could scarce control the impulse to catch her in his arms, hold her to his heart, and cover the sweet face with kisses. but he must not, he dare not, and at that instant the door opened and the major came in, carrying the sick child, and followed by his wife. "ah, doctor, glad to see you; though, since this little chap has suddenly changed so much for the better, i'm more than half ashamed of having called you out in such weather." "no matter for that, major, it is no new thing for me to face a storm," returned kenneth, shaking hands with mrs. lamar, then turning to examine his little patient. nell slipped away to the privacy of her own room for a moment. her cheeks were burning, her heart throbbed wildly; she had read kenneth's impulse in his speaking countenance. "he loves me, he does love me!" she murmured, pacing hurriedly to and fro; "his eyes have said it over and over again, but why does he always force back the words that i can see are sometimes trembling on his very lips, as though it were a sin to speak them? o kenneth, kenneth, what, what is this separating wall between us," she cried, leaning her burning brow against the window frame and looking out into the storm and night. a fierce gust of wind sent the sleet with a furious dash against the window pane and she shivered with a sudden cold. the room was fireless, for in those days it was not thought necessary to heat any but the living rooms, and the air was damp and chill. but she could not go down again, not yet; and wrapping herself in a thick shawl, she again paced silently to and fro schooling her heart into calmness. the summons to supper found her so far successful that a slightly heightened color was the only remaining trace of excitement. dr. clendenin had accepted an urgent invitation to remain and there was one other guest, a lady friend of mrs. lamar, from one of the neighboring settlements. she had been in chillicothe a day or two and now found herself storm-stayed. they were a cheerful party, enjoying the light and warmth and savory viands all the more for the cold, darkness, and fierce warring of the elements without. nell seemed the gayest of the gay, full of mirth and jest and brilliant repartee: but she avoided meeting kenneth's eye, while he saw every look, every movement of hers, and when in passing an empty cup to be refilled, their hands touched, it sent a sudden thrill through both. kenneth was very weary and could not prevail upon himself to decline a seat for the evening beside the major's warm, hospitable hearth, nor refuse his eyes the privilege of feasting upon nell's beauty, his ears that of drinking in each low sweet tone of her voice and the silvery sound of her rippling laughter. "where's your master?" asked dale, looking into kenneth's office, where zeb was luxuriating in front of a blazing, roaring fire, seated in the doctor's arm-chair, hands in pockets, pipe in mouth and heels on the mantelpiece. "gone to de major's, sah," answered the boy, bringing his feet and the forelegs of the chair to the floor with a loud thump, and removing the pipe, as he turned to look at his interlocutor. "he has, eh? and you're having a good time in his absence?" "yes, sah, massa doctah neber grudge dat when de work's done." "no, i daresay not," and dale drew back his head and shut the door. "gone to the major's, eh!" he soliloquized as he stepped back into his own den; "well i reckon i'm about as storm proof as he, so i'll follow, not being in the mood to appreciate solitude, and feeling that my hard day's work merits the reward of a little rest and recreation." lyttleton had come to a like resolve and was at that moment closeted in his own room with his valet, to whom he seemed to have been giving some directions; his last words as he wrapped himself in his cloak and went out, were, "come towards midnight, for though these people accustom themselves to such confoundedly early hours, i'll manage to keep them up for once, and follow my orders implicitly. we could not have a more favorable time, the darkness, the storm, why if spirits ever walk abroad one would expect it to be on such a night as this," he concluded with a mocking laugh. "dat ish so, mynheer, and i dinks von vill valk dese shtreets pefore morning goomes," returned hans, echoing the laugh. arrived at the major's, dale found the family and guests seated around the fire, the ladies on one side, the gentlemen on the other. the circle widened to admit him, nell laughingly expressing great surprise at seeing him on such a night. "well i don't know," he said, "why i should be supposed less storm proof than the doctor here, and to tell the truth, fair ladies, i couldn't endure the thought of his basking in your smiles, while i sat alone in my dingy office." "you forget," said kenneth, "how often the case has been reversed, godfrey. if you follow me up in this fashion i shall never be even with you." "not at all necessary that you should, my good fellow," remarked dale, toying with nell's ball of yarn, for she, as well as the other ladies, was knitting, and he had drawn his chair close to hers, with a familiarity kenneth regarded with a jealous pang. "alas that he could not have forestalled dale in this! and did she care for dale," he asked himself, watching them without appearing to do so. how could he bear it if she did? yet better that by far, than seeing her in the possession of lyttleton. his absence would be at least one advantage reaped from the increasing fury of the storm. lyttleton was not a rugged pioneer like themselves, and would surely remain closely housed until it had spent its wrath. he was mistaken; scarcely had the thought passed through his mind, when there came a loud rap upon the outer door, quickly followed by the englishman's entrance. "what you, too, sir, out in this terrific storm!" exclaimed dale, not too well pleased, as the circle again widened to admit the new comer. "why, yes," said lyttleton, "i'm not a milk-sop, my dear sir, and finding both the bar-room at the tavern and my own apartment extremely dull, i ventured out, trusting to a heavy cloak for protection from wind and rain, and to the kind hospitality of these friends for a welcome here." "you are heartily welcome, sir," said the major; "but draw up closer to the fire, for i am sorry to see that the cloak has not proved a perfect protection from the wet." "thanks--no; i found i had miscalculated, to some extent, the force of the wind," laughed lyttleton, with a downward glance at his nether limbs, as he accepted the invitation. it was unworthy of nell, but seized with a sudden impulse to vex kenneth, and excite his jealousy, by way of revenge for his strange, his unaccountable silence toward her, she seemed for the next hour scarcely conscious of his presence, while at the same time she lavished smiles, sweet looks, and pleasant words upon his two rivals. it did pain him sorely, though he gave no sign by word or look, and the sharpest pang was the thought that she was less noble and true, less worthy of the exalted place she had hitherto held in his esteem, than he could have believed. but the storm grew wilder, the air was full of weird and eerie sounds, and an awed, half fearful silence fell upon the little company. they drew their chairs nearer together, and lyttleton, breaking the silence, began telling legendary tales of storm and flood in his own and other lands, following them up with stories of second sight, of murder, suicide and ghostly visitants, fit to curdle the blood with horror. the lady guest and mrs. lamar, too, had some to match these last, and though the major, the captain, kenneth and dale, listened with incredulous looks and smiles, it was with an interest that made them, as well as the others, unconscious of the lapse of time till dale, glancing casually at the tall old clock ticking in a corner, exclaimed that it was half past eleven. lyttleton had just finished one of his most thrilling and horrible ghost stories, which had wrought up the female portion of his audience, at least, into a state of extreme nervous excitement; and at that instant there came a blast that seemed to shake the house to its very foundations, the door flew open, and in stalked a tall hessian in officer's uniform, drawing his sword and vociferating loudly in his native tongue. the ladies shrieked, the hessian advanced toward the major, brandishing his weapon, gesticulating wildly, and yelling with a fury that drowned the noise of the raging tempest! the gentlemen seemed stunned with astonishment. lyttleton was the first to recover himself. "begone!" he cried, hastily placing himself so as to shield nell from the approach of the enraged foreigner, and drawing a pistol from his pocket, "begone, sirrah, or i will shoot you through the heart." with that the hessian turned about and beat a hasty retreat, grumbling and swearing as he went. lyttleton stepped quickly to the door and secured it after him, then returned to nell's side to whisper with triumphant air, "ghost or mortal, i have driven the wretch away, and you are safe, fair lady." the other two ladies, pale, trembling, half-fainting with terror, hailed him gratefully as their deliverer; but nell had recovered from her fright in the very instant of uttering the shriek called forth by the sudden apparition. was there not something familiar in the face, the form, the stride with which he crossed the room? she looked lyttleton keenly in the eye, then returned his whisper with another. "did it require any great stretch of courage to order your valet out of the house?" she had drawn her bow at a venture and was surprised to see by his air of overwhelming confusion and chagrin, that her arrow had sped straight to the mark. "your hessian as sure as i stand here, sir!" cried captain bernard, recovering himself and clapping the major on the shoulder. "well, well, i'll believe in ghosts hereafter. i never was more astonished or taken aback in my life. lyttleton, you showed yourself the most quick-witted and self-possessed of any of us. allow me to congratulate you on the laurels you have won." "i--i--" stammered lyttleton with a deprecating glance at nell, whose lips were curling with scorn. "we will spare your modesty," said the major, grasping the englishman's hand warmly, "but let me tender you the thanks of the company." lyttleton was strangely confused and embarrassed; the ease and perfect self-possession on which he so prided himself, had on a sudden entirely forsaken him; he darted a quick, imploring glance at nell, and half in pity, half in contempt she returned an answering look that told him his secret was safe. the others saw this by-play with varied feelings of wonder, curiosity and surprise, but no one understood it. captain bernard was the first to speak. "well, gentlemen, it is growing very late and no prospect of abatement of the storm. i move that we adjourn _sine die_. mr. lyttleton, shall i have the pleasure of your good company to our hotel?" chapter xxi. never had scheme more signal failure than that of lyttleton for convincing pretty nell lamar of his dauntless bravery; he went away from the major's that night crestfallen and angry, cursing his ill-luck and her quickness of perception. nor was fair nell herself in a much more enviable state of mind; there was a sad, reproachful look in kenneth's eyes as he bade her a courteous good-night, which haunted her for days and weeks like a nightmare. she purposely avoided him when he called the next morning to enquire about bertie, and when the weather permitted her to resume her walks and rides, was careful to select those in which she was least likely to meet him. he was not slow to perceive this and it wounded him deeply; particularly as lyttleton was very frequently her companion and his society seemed not unpleasant to her, if one might judge from her bright looks and smiles. yet nell despised lyttleton heartily, and at times herself scarcely less. "nell lamar, you are becoming an arrant and shameless coquette!" she would exclaim almost fiercely to herself in the privacy of her own room. "i'm ashamed of you! no wonder dr. clendenin looks at you as if he despaired of you and pitied you for your depravity. well, whose fault is it but his; why do his lips refuse to speak what his eyes have said over and over again? oh, it is mean and shameful! i will not care for him or his reproving looks! he is no better than i, and yet--and yet--o kenneth, kenneth, you are good and noble and true, though i cannot understand it!" thus she was by turns angry and repentant, now reproaching him, and now herself. she did not, however, give lyttleton much encouragement. as she had said to dale, she could not forbid him the house, neither could she avoid being in the same room with him when there, as no other, the kitchen excepted, was warm enough for comfort at that inclement season, nor could she prevent his joining her in the street. she usually declined his attentions when it could be done without positive rudeness, yet he persevered, the prize seeming to him all the more valuable because of its difficulty of acquisition. dale looked on with vexation and a growing dislike to lyttleton; but clare gave the latter her countenance, making him always welcome to the house, saying little things that flattered his vanity, and vaguely hinting that nell was capricious and might be won in time by clever courting. the major was apparently oblivious of the whole matter, while the gossips of the town compared notes and speculated as to the probability that the englishman's suit would eventually prosper. these queries and conjectures now and then reached kenneth's ears, inflicting a sharp pang all unsuspected by the talkers; for it had come to be the popular opinion that dr. clendenin was a confirmed bachelor, utterly indifferent to the charms of the softer sex; and not by word or tone, or so much as a change in the calm gravity of his demeanor, did he let them into the secret of his silent suffering. and it was not slight; many a night of sleepless anguish it cost him to think how "his darling, his own precious little nell," as he must call her, was being wiled away from him by one who could never, he was sure, half appreciate her worth, and was far from deserving so rich a prize. but could it be possible that she would throw herself away thus, that she would give her hand without her heart? for was not that all his own, had not those beautiful, eloquent eyes betrayed her secret to him spite of herself? and yet, and yet--had he, beyond a doubt or peradventure, read that look aright? oh, if he might but go to her, pour out the story of his love and sue for hers? but alas, alas, he dare not, 'twould be a more grievous wrong than to keep silent and let her think what she would of him. and though he longed continually for her sweet society, though he felt as if shut out of a heaven on earth while staying away from her dear presence, he must constrain himself to do so, always have some excuse ready when the major urged upon him the hospitalities of his house. and what right had he to accuse the dear girl in his heart of fickleness and coquetry? he, and he alone, was to blame for her conduct, because his looks had told the story of his love and his lips failed to confirm it. there was, perhaps, more than usual sociability among the young people of chillicothe that winter, and lyttleton was invited everywhere, generally accepting; always when he knew that miss lamar would be one of the guests; and not unfrequently she was much vexed by the marked attention he was pleased to bestow upon her. some of the other young ladies would have received them with far more complacency, deeming the handsome, fascinating, and apparently wealthy englishman no mean prize in the matrimonial lottery. of course nell was teased and jested with about her adorer, but to the surprise of the well-meaning jokers, their witticisms were received with hauteur, and sometimes positive anger, leaving no room for doubt that the subject was an unpleasant one. still most of them made up their minds that it was only their remarks that were so distasteful to her, and not the man himself, or his evident predilection. nell usually enjoyed the sleigh rides, the quiltings, the social tea-drinkings, and evening parties which constituted the winter festivities of the town, and was the life of them all; but this season she was glad to get away from them, or rather from lyttleton's society, to the quiet and seclusion of mr. nash's farm-house, to which she was carried off by its mistress one bright december morning, for a fortnight's visit. mrs. nash had come into town to exchange butter and eggs for dry goods and groceries. that done she called at the major's, proposed to nell to take a vacant seat in her sleigh, and return with her, and was delighted by a prompt acceptance of the invitation. "i don't know how mr. lyttleton will be able to endure so long a separation," remarked clare demurely. "and i don't care!" returned nell, with spirit. "i shall enjoy it extremely, and selfish as it may seem, that is all i am concerned about." "how about dr. clendenin?" queried mrs. nash with a roguish smile. the girl's face flushed, then paled. "he is seldom here and will not miss me," she said in a quiet tone as she left the room to make the necessary preparations for the trip. "your english friend will be sure to follow you," said clare as they bade good-bye. "he would not dare!" cried nell. "but don't you let him know where i am, for there is no saying how far his audacity may carry him." "quite as far as you travel to-day, i've no doubt," laughed clare. "nell," said mrs. nash, as they glided swiftly over the snow, leaving the town behind. "i hear that englishman is very attentive to you; but i can tell you dr. clendenin is worth a dozen of him." "what has that to do with it?" asked nell dryly, screening her face from view in the folds of a thick veil. "they are not rivals." "i don't know what you mean, my dear child. i do know that dr. clendenin loves you." "he has made you his confidante?" nell's tone was a mixture of inquiry, pain, incredulity, anger and pique. "not intentionally; but words could not have told it more plainly than his looks, tones and actions when he found you lying insensible beside the carcass of that mad cat, and thought you had been bitten." "all your imagination, _mon ami_, dr. clendenin and i are nothing to each other." nell strove to speak lightly, but there was an undertone of bitterness which did not escape her friend. mrs. nash mused silently for a moment, saying to herself there had probably been a lovers' quarrel, but she hoped it would all come right in the end, and she would be on the lookout to do anything in her power to bring about a reconciliation. she was not one of the prying kind, however, and knew that nell would be quick to resent any attempt to worm her secrets from her, so when she presently spoke again, it was upon a widely different topic. they had a pleasant sociable time together for several days, nell finding positive pleasure in helping her friend to make up winter garments for the children. then came a heavy snow storm followed by bright weather, clear and cold, making excellent sleighing. mrs. nash had carefully avoided broaching the subject of nell's love affairs, but they had, nevertheless, been seldom absent from her thoughts, which had busied themselves with projects for restoring harmony between the two, whom she supposed to have had a misunderstanding. she had cast about in her mind for an excuse for sending for the doctor, that so they might be brought together and given an opportunity for mutual explanation. so anxious for this was she that it seemed hardly a matter for regret when she found she had taken cold with the change of weather, and had a slight sore throat. mr. nash was going into town and she requested him to call at the doctor's office and ask him to come out and see her. nell heard, and it sent the blood to her cheek and made her heart beat quickly. she had not exchanged a word with dr. clendenin since that evening when she had read, or fancied she did, reproof in his eye and voice because of her flirtation with lyttleton; and she both longed and dreaded to meet him. the latter feeling increased as the time drew near when he might be expected; the merry jingle of sleigh bells, and the sight of a cutter with a gentleman in it wrapped in furs, dashing up to the gate, had almost sent her flying from the room, so strong was the impulse at that moment to avoid him. but a second glance told her that was not kenneth's noble figure which sprang from the vehicle and came hurrying up the path to the house. she sat still and in another moment lyttleton stood smiling and bowing before her, hat in hand. "excuse this intrusion, fair lady," he said, "i have felt like a peri shut out of heaven since your withdrawal from the major's house, and i come as bearer of a letter which i must even hope may secure me a welcome." he tendered it gracefully as he spoke. "ah, thank you!" she cried, her face flushing with pleasure, for letters were a rare thing in those days. he bade her read it while he sat by the fire and chatted with mrs. nash, to whom, with his usual tact and skill, he soon managed to make himself extremely entertaining. "now, fair lady," he said, turning to nell as she refolded her letter, "may i not claim a reward for the slight service i have had the happiness to render you?" "of what kind, sir?" she answered with a saucy smile. "the privilege of taking you out for a short drive. the sleighing is superb." nell was in a most gracious mood, and then here was the wished for chance to escape the dreaded meeting with dr. clendenin. she consented at once and hastily donned cloak and hood. "i'm afraid you will find it very cold," objected mrs. nash, more anxious to detain the young girl for kenneth's coming, and to prevent any acceptance of attentions from his rival, than she would have liked to acknowledge. "oh no, madame," hastily interposed lyttleton, "i have a foot-stove and plenty of robes, and there is no wind; indeed i assure you it is quite delightful out to-day, the air is so pure and bracing." "and i am warmly dressed, and have a thick veil," added nell. lyttleton tucked the robes snugly about her, saying, "i trust you will not suffer from cold, miss lamar." "oh, no!" she answered with a gay laugh. "now which way shall we travel?" he asked, gathering up the reins. with the thought that dr. clendenin would be coming from the town, and the desire to avoid a meeting, nell named the opposite direction. but they had not gone half a mile when that very thing occurred. dr. clendenin had a patient some miles farther out from town, had called there first, and was intending to take mr. nash's in his way home. he bowed with grave courtesy to nell and her companion, in passing, recognizing the latter with a jealous pang that was like the stab of a sharp knife. nell's cheeks flushed and her eyes fell; she was thankful that her veil hid her agitation from dr. clendenin; but then and many times through the succeeding weeks and months, she would have given much to deny to him the knowledge that she had accepted this attention from lyttleton. in vain she asked herself what concern was it of his, what right he had to object? she could not shake off the feeling that she was in some way, to some extent, accountable to him. from that day she was as ready with excuses as kenneth himself when the only alternative was to permit lyttleton to be her escort. chapter xxii. lyttleton cordially hated clendenin, but endeavored to conceal his dislike and ill-will under the mask of friendship, haunting the doctor's office all through the winter and spring with nearly as great persistency as during the first week of his sojourn in chillicothe. he indulged a like feeling toward dale, though to a less degree; hating him as a rival in love, kenneth as that and something more. spring opened early. bright, warm days with hard frosts at night made the sap in the sugar maples run freely, and many farmers in the vicinity of the town were busied in catching and boiling it down. then visits to the sugar camps became one of the popular amusements of the young people. dale got up a party to go on horseback to one five or six miles away, inviting lyttleton, but taking care first to secure to himself the honor of playing escort to miss lamar. lyttleton was very angry when he learned this, but having promised to go, tried to console himself with the young lady he considered next to nell in beauty and fascination. he managed to conceal his ill humor, the others seemed in high spirits, and they had a merry time. in returning they made a circuit through the woods. they were following the course of a little stream when dale, who was taking the lead, suddenly gave a loud "hurrah!" "what is it? what is it?" cried the others, hurrying up. "a bear's stepping place," he answered gleefully, pointing to some deep indentations in the soft, spongy ground; evidently the tracks of some large wild animal, and leading off from the water's edge into the woods. "a bear!" cried lyttleton, horrified, "then let us hurry these ladies home with all speed." "not much danger, sir," remarked a young fellow named bell; "bears are lazy at this time of year, and we all have our guns. if the ladies are not afraid, i'd like very much to follow up the track and see where his bearship lodges." "so should i," said dale. "however, we can note the spot and return to it to-morrow." "no, lead on; i'm not afraid," cried nell. "he's likely to be in his hole any how, isn't he?" "yes; unless he's on his way to the water here, for a drink. they come after that about once in two or three days." a consultation was held, and a majority being in favor of following up the track, they did so, finding it led them to a large hollow tree distant some few hundred yards in the depths of the wood. nothing was seen of the bear himself, but the young men, familiar with his habits, made no doubt that he was inside the tree, and promised themselves fine sport in hunting him out, and a grand feast upon his flesh; the fat part of which is said to make a very luxurious repast when boiled or roasted with turkey or venison. bell proposed to climb the tree, which was rough and knotted, and look into the hole; but to that the ladies objected. so they turned about and went home, the young men arranging on the way for the proposed hunt. the next day, their number augmented by the addition of major lamar and dr. clendenin, they returned to the spot. bell, armed with a long pole sharpened at one end, climbed the tree, the others looking on near by, each with his gun loaded and ready for instant use. "here he is," cried bell, peeping in at the hole in the tree. "out o' this, sir bruin! out i say!" prodding the creature with his stick as he spoke. the beast uttered a low growl, but did not move. but bell continued to punch, prick and order him out, until finally he obeyed, moving heavily to the hole and slowly dragging himself out. as soon as he was fairly clear of the hole, dale and the major, who had been selected for the duty, fired; taking aim so accurately that the animal fell dead instantly. tig, zeb and hans were directed to take care of the carcass. bell, who upon starting the bear had slipped out on to a large limb and nonchalantly awaited the shooting, dropped to the ground and with the rest of the hunters moved on in search of other game. "you are a daring fellow," observed lyttleton admiringly, to bell. "i was really alarmed for your safety." "oh, i didn't feel myself in much danger," returned bell, with a light laugh; "for you see i had time to slip aside, after starting him, before he could get clear of the hole, and i knew dale and the major would not miss their mark." the party had traversed some miles of forest, shooting several deer and a number of wild turkeys, when they came upon the "stepping place" of another bear, and then upon bruin himself returning from the stream where he had been slaking his thirst. this one was of less amiable disposition, or wider awake than the first, and when lyttleton, who happened to be nearest, fired at it, aiming so carelessly in his haste and excitement that he only wounded without disabling it, the creature turned, rushed at him in fury and rose on its hind legs prepared to give him a hug which would have left no breath in his body. but there was a sharp report, a bullet whizzed past him, almost grazing his cheek, entered the creature's eye, penetrating to the brain, and it dropped dead at his feet. he staggered back pale and trembling. "you are not hurt?" asked kenneth's voice close at his side. "yes; no--i--i can hardly tell." "well done, doc!" cried the major, running up to them; "he's a big, powerful fellow," looking down at the bear, "and could have given a tremendous squeeze, such as would crush a man's bones to bits. lyttleton, i think dr. clendenin has saved your life." lyttleton stammered out some words of thanks, then moved away muttering to himself, "confound the thing, he's the last man i'd willingly owe such a debt to!" chapter xxiii. spring deepened into summer and still lyttleton lingered in chillicothe, though with no apparent object unless it might be the hope of winning miss lamar. he continued to be a constant visitor at the major's, welcomed by him and clare, but seeing little of nell, who took particular pains to avoid him, by going out at such times as he was likely to call, or busying herself in another part of the house when he was in the parlor. he noticed this with anger and chagrin, yet as we have said, difficulty of attainment only increased his estimate of the value of the prize he sought; and suspecting, in his egregious self-conceit and egoism, her conduct to be merely an affectation of coyness with the purpose to bring him to a formal declaration of love, for how could any woman resist such fascination as his of person, manner and fortune, he determined to seize the first opportunity to make her an offer of heart and hand. with that end in view he dropped in one day at the major's just at tea time; ostensibly for the purpose of inquiring if they had heard a piece of news that was creating some little excitement in the town, and sure of an invitation to stay and partake with them of the evening meal. the news was concerning wawillaway's assassin, the dastardly ruffian wolf. he had fled to kentucky to escape the merited punishment of his crime at the hands of the two sons of the murdered chief, who, in accordance with the indian code, making it the right and duty of the nearest of kin to kill the slayer of their relative, had vowed vengeance upon him. the murderer may, however, purchase his life at a price agreed upon by the family of his victim, and wolf had employed an agent to make terms with the two young men. it was now announced that these terms had been agreed upon, and the business would be concluded by an interesting ceremony at old town, to take place the following day. lyttleton had heard several gentlemen say they meant to be present and to take their wives or sweethearts with them, and had determined that he too would go, if possible as miss lamar's escort. but dale had the start of him this time, as on several former occasions, and was already in the major's parlor, discussing the news with the family, and engaged to conduct miss nell to see the ceremony, when lyttleton came in; as the latter presently learned from the conversation. he was disappointed and angry, but so sure of success in his more important errand that he comforted himself with the thought that this was dale's last chance to serve him such a trick. dale, for his part, had no idea that any such calamity awaited nell or himself, and having a little urgent business matter to attend to, went away shortly after tea to which both callers had been hospitably invited, in a very cheerful frame of mind, leaving the field to lyttleton. he knew the englishman to be a rival, but did not consider him a dangerous one; and at all events nell was secured to himself for the coming day. clare, though at one time quite sure that dr. clendenin and nell cared for each other, had now entirely given up the idea of ever seeing them united. she could not worm out the facts from nell, but concluded that there must have been an irreconcilable quarrel. "well, she was not sorry, for this englishman was certainly very much in love, and would make a better match, from a worldly point of view at least." so she did what lay in her power to favor and advance his suit. something in his look or manner told her of his purpose to-night, and she contrived that the two should be left alone in the parlor soon after dale's departure. lyttleton seized the opportunity at once, poured out passionate expressions of love, and in plain words asked nell to become his wife. she tried in vain to stop him, he would be heard to the end. "mr. lyttleton," she said, rising with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, "i thank you for the honor you have done me, but i cannot entertain such a proposition for a moment. nay, hear me out," as he seemed about to enter a protest, "even as you have compelled me to hear you. i would have spared you the pain of a rejection, but you would not let me." "my dear miss nell--miss lamar," he stammered, "it cannot be that i hear aright! or if i do that you understand what it is that you are rejecting. i will say nothing"--with an affectation of humility--"of any charms of person or address that some may attribute to your humble servant, but an honored and ancient name, an assured position among the english gentry, fine estate, large fortune--" she interrupted him, drawing herself up to her full height, while her eyes flashed and her cheek crimsoned with indignation. "if i ever marry, mr. lyttleton, it shall be neither position nor estate--least of all money." "what more can you ask, pray?" he inquired, folding his arms and throwing back his head with an air of hauteur. "something of infinitely greater worth," she replied, her eyes kindling, "infinitely better and higher; the love and confidence of a true and noble heart, the heart of a man who lives not for himself, but for others, who is not content to pass his days in inglorious ease and idleness, but does with his might what his hands find to do to glorify god and benefit his fellow men." "clendenin, curse him!" he muttered between his clinched teeth. her quick ear caught the words not meant for it. "yes," she said, with a peculiar smile, "dr. clendenin answers the description very well, but not he alone; i am thankful to say there are others among my countrymen who do." "your countrymen! always your countrymen," he blazed out growing very red and angry; "a set of clodhoppers who are obliged to earn their bread by the sweat of their brows. mark my words, miss, you'll see the day when you would be very glad to share the inglorious ease of a member of the favored class denominated the english gentry." "no, sir," she answered with spirit, "i am heart and soul an american, and our differing nationalities would be an insuperable objection to the acceptance of your offer were there none other." at which, boiling with rage and disappointment, he hastily caught up his hat and left the house. nell's conscience pricked her with the reminder that those last words were untrue; since, had lyttleton been an american, and kenneth an englishman, it would have made no difference in her feelings toward either. lyttleton hurried on through the streets and out into the country beyond, neither knowing nor caring in his rage and disappointment what direction he took. all he wanted was to avoid observation until he could recover his accustomed self-control; lest otherwise the story of his rejection should be bruited about and himself treated to scorn and ridicule in consequence. unconsciously he struck into the trail that led to old town. the sun had set, but there was yet sufficient light to show him the stalwart figure of a huntsman with his gun on his shoulder and a string of birds in his hand, coming to meet him. lyttleton stood still for a moment, debating in his own mind whether to go on or to retrace his steps, when the other called out in a well-known voice, "dat you, mynheer? it ish goot you haf come. i have some dings der dell you." "what things, hans?" asked lyttleton moving on to meet his valet, to whom he had given permission for a day's sport in the woods. "i dells you pooty quick, mynheer," returned hans close at his side; then went on to relate how he had fallen in with a party of indians on their way to old town to take part in the coming ceremony, and that they had among them a white woman who seemed, from her looks and actions, to have been with them a long while. lyttleton listened eagerly, and when hans had finished his story, tried to elicit further information by asking questions in regard to the height, complexion, demeanor, and apparent age of the woman. when these had all been answered. "it may be she," he said musingly as if thinking aloud; then in a quick, determined way, "hans, you must take me at once to see this woman. it may prove of the greatest importance that i should see and talk with her this very night." hans, already weary and footsore with his day's tramp, would have greatly preferred to move on to chillicothe and get a warm supper at the general anthony wayne, followed by a lounge on the bench before the bar-room door. accordingly he showed some unwillingness to obey the order. it was, however, speedily overcome by the offer of double wages for that week. he turned about at once and by the light of the moon, just rising over the tree tops, the two followed the trail till it brought them to the indian town, where after some search they found the object of their quest seated alone at the door of her wigwam, smoking a pipe and seemingly wrapped in meditation, enjoying the moonlight and the cool evening breeze which was particularly refreshing after the day. lyttleton accosted her courteously in english, and she answered in the same tongue, inviting him to take a seat on the bearskin by her side. "thank you, i do not wish to crowd you, i will sit here," he said, appropriating a stump close at hand. hans, by his master's direction, had refrained from approaching very near, and was resting himself on a fallen tree a few hundred yards distant. he saw that lyttleton and the woman were soon in earnest conversation, but could not hear the words spoken. some of the indians were nearer, but few of them had any knowledge of english, the language used by both speakers during the interview, most of them none at all, and only from looks, tones and gestures, could they gather any hint of the subject of the conference. it lasted for a full hour; then lyttleton rose and stood before the woman, talking and gesticulating with great earnestness. he seemed to be vehemently urging some request which she was inclined to deny; at length he drew out a silken purse full of broad gold pieces which glittered in the moonlight as he held it up. "promise me," he said, "and this is yours; keep your promise till i see you again and it shall be doubled." "give it me then," she cried, stretching out an eager hand. "you promise?" "yes, yes; why not?" he dropped it into her open palm, saying impressively, "remember. now, good-bye," and turned exultingly to go on his way. "stay," she cried. "well, what more?" he asked facing her again, "is it not enough?" "yes; but you have not told me who you are, or why you--" "it does not matter; all you have to do is to follow my directions," he interrupted somewhat haughtily, and strode rapidly away. "your errand shpeed so petter as goot, mynheer?" queried hans as they struck into the trail again. "i flatter myself it will all come out right in the end, hans," was the reply; then there was a muttered word or two that sounded like an imprecation upon some absent person, with a threat of vengeance for some real or fancied injury. chillicothe seemed sleeping when they re-entered it; the streets were silent and deserted, the houses closed and dark; only from the bar-room window of the general anthony wayne gleamed the light of a single tallow candle. master and man entered there without noise or bustle and presently slipped quietly away to the room of the former. chapter xxiv. curiosity was rife in chillicothe and its vicinity in regard to the ceremony about to take place at old town, and as the set time drew near very many whites of both sexes might have been seen approaching the spot, singly or in parties. clendenin, hindered by the demands of his profession, was one of the last to arrive on the ground. he found the indians drawn up in a hollow square, outside of which was the concourse of white spectators, inside wolf with his promised bribe,--a horse, a new saddle and bridle, and a new rifle for each of the sons of his victim. kenneth had come alone. he knew that dale had preceded him, and whom he was to escort thither, and there they were on the opposite side of the square; nell in a becoming riding hat and habit, sitting her horse with accustomed ease and grace; dale by her side, the picture of content and good humor. kenneth sighed involuntarily; what would he not have given to be in dale's place, yet he was glad to see his friend so favored rather than the englishman. the next moment he perceived that lyttleton also was one of the assembled throng; at some little distance from those two, but in a position to get a good view of their faces, and that he was watching them closely, with a look of jealous rage. kenneth's eyes turned to nell again to see hers fixed for an instant upon the burly form and ruffianly face of wolf, with an expression of disgust and horror. but the ceremony was beginning, and for a little claimed the attention of all present. the two young men came forward into the hollow square, wolf presented his horses and trappings, they lifted their hands toward heaven invoking the great spirit, and declaring that to him alone they transferred the blood and life of wolf forfeited by the death of their father. they then shook hands with wolf in token of their forgiveness, saluted him as a brother, and lighting the calumet of peace, smoked with him in the presence of the great spirit. the scene was one of deep solemnity and many eyes filled with tears as they gazed upon it. but it was over and the crowd began to disperse, tongues were loosed, and kenneth, silently threading his way among the talkers, casually overheard the remark, "there is a white woman here, they say, who has been a great many years with the indians." he almost caught his breath for an instant as he suddenly reined in his horse, his heart beating like a hammer, a wild hope springing up within his breast, a rush of mingled emotions surging through his brain. strange that he had not thought of such a possibility. he turned back, dismounted and secured his horse to a sapling; doing it all mechanically. then he strolled about among the indians, shaking hands with them and kindly inquiring after their health and that of their families, patting the heads of the papooses, nodding smilingly to the older children, and scanning with furtive, but keen scrutiny, the face of each elderly squaw. at length he came upon the object of his search, a woman past middle age, whose features were unmistakably those of the white race. she sat on the grass in the shade of a tree, near the door of a wigwam, her fingers busily employed in embroidering a moccasin. she seemed scarcely aware of his presence as he stood before her vainly striving to still the tumultuous beating of his heart. controlling his voice by a great effort, he addressed her in english, in a quiet tone. "how do you do, mother?" she looked up for an instant, shook her head slowly, and dropped her eyes upon her work again. "you understand me?" he said inquiringly, "you have not forgotten your native tongue?" "me squaw," was the laconic answer, unaccompanied by so much as a glance. he sat down on a stump near at hand, the very same on which lyttleton had seated himself the previous night, and watched her silently for a moment, while he considered the best manner of approaching her so as to win her confidence and learn whether she could indeed tell him aught of that which all these years he had been trying to discover. "you are a white woman, why should you wish to conceal the fact?" he said at length in a soft, persuasive tone. "i have no design against you, but on the contrary would gladly do you any service in my power." again she raised her head, this time giving him a steady look, and was it fancy that for a single instant there was something like a gleam of recognition in her eye. if so it was gone again before he could be sure it had been there; while she answered indifferently in the shawnee tongue, that she did not understand what he had just said, and that she was not a pale face but an indian woman, the wife of a shawnee brave. kenneth sat for a moment in perplexed silence; her assertion that she did not belong to the white race was evidently false, yet what could be her motive for making it? if she preferred to remain with the tribe no one could force her away, or would be likely to care to do so. as he watched her again busied with her work, apparently wholly careless of his presence, and studied her face, recalling the description that had been given him, calculating what her age might be, and the changes produced by the hardships and exposure of her wild life, the conviction grew upon him that it was possible, even probable, she was the very woman for whom he had so long and vainly searched. he determined upon a bold course. leaning toward her and gazing full into her face, "reumah clark," he said, "have you quite forgotten the old life in the little valley among the mountains of eastern tennessee, the husband and children you then loved so dearly, the kind neighbors at whose house you were when the indians swooped down so suddenly upon you all?" she had not been able to repress a slight start at the unexpected sound of that name, or to entirely preserve the stolidity of countenance with which she had begun the interview. she rose hastily and disappeared from view within the wigwam. the action left in kenneth's mind little room for doubt of her identity, but alas, of what avail that he had found her, if she could not be induced to speak of those long past occurrences and to reveal the secret which, if known to any mortal, was possessed by her alone? his heart beat almost to suffocation while he forced himself to sit waiting quietly there at the door of her wigwam in the forlorn hope that she might return in a truthful and communicative mood. he was alone, no one near, though at the distance of a few hundred yards, the young indians were engaged in active sports and their shouts and laughter occasionally broke the stillness of the woodland scene. he waited what seemed an age to his tortured nerves, perceiving neither sound nor motion within the tent, then rose and moved slowly toward the spot where he had left his faithful steed. he had not quite reached it when a hand was laid lightly upon his arm, and turning he found a tall young brave standing by his side. "does the pale face forget?" he asked in good english, holding out his hand. "have we ever met before?" asked kenneth, earnestly scanning the lad's face, while he took the hand in a cordial grasp and shook it heartily. "indians never forget good white men," continued the lad, "white man find little horn in the snow, take him in his arms, carry him to his fire, wrap him in his blanket, feed him. white man very good. indian boy love good white man." "oh i remember you now!" cried kenneth, joyfully, shaking hands with increased cordiality, while his face lighted up with his rare, beautiful smile. "i am glad to meet you again. tell me, can i do anything more for you?" "little horn's turn now. what would my friend with white swan, the warrior black eagle's squaw?" "i wish to talk with her about my mother and father, whom she once knew," said kenneth. "but she refuses to listen or to speak." "has my friend heap money?" "i have some. will money open her lips?" the indian gave an expressive grunt, then went on to tell of lyttleton's visit to their camp and interview with the woman, of which he had been an unnoticed witness. he had not heard or understood all the talk between them, but enough to enable him to gather by the assistance of their tones and gestures, the holding up of the purse, and the eager hand outstretched to receive it, that a bribe had been offered and accepted, and her conduct of to-day, which also he had closely watched, had convinced him that her promise had been to maintain silence toward kenneth, of whose intended visit lyttleton must have known. clendenin listened in great surprise. who could it have been? he did not know that he had an enemy in the whole world, and this visit was entirely unexpected even to himself. but little horn's communication gave him fresh hope. "would he be his messenger to the white squaw," he asked earnestly; "would he go to her and say that if she would talk with the pale face, and answer his questions as well as she could he would give her as much money as the pale face visitor of the previous night had promised her if she kept silence?" the indian accepted the commission, went at once to the wigwam, kenneth slowly following, passed in, and a few moments after reappeared in company with the woman. a change had come over her face; it no longer wore the stolid look kenneth had seen upon it during their earlier interview, the features were agitated and there were traces of tears on the cheeks. his words had recalled half forgotten scenes of bitter sorrow, terror and despair. "speak! i listen," she said in the english tongue, seating herself and motioning to him to do the same, then burying her face in her hands. he dropped upon the grass by her side and began at once in low, quiet, almost mournful tones. "many years ago, before i was born, there stood two log cabins, some half mile apart, in a little valley among the mountains of tennessee. a young couple named clark, with a family of several small children, lived in one; the other was occupied by two couples bearing the same family name, clendenin; the men were distantly related; one older by twenty years or more than the other; he had married a widow with one child, a daughter, and she had shortly after become the wife of his younger kinsman." kenneth paused. "go on," said his hearer, in smothered tones. little horn, with native delicacy, had withdrawn and thrown himself upon the grass just out of earshot. kenneth went on. "these two families were the sole residents of the little valley; the nearest white neighbor lived miles away on the other side of the mountains, and between lay forests filled with wild beasts and hostile indians. "one lovely summer day mr. clark was helping his neighbors in the field, his wife visiting theirs. she had taken her children with her and they were at play in the door-yard. "in the course of the day both mother and daughter were taken sick, and two babes were born within half an hour of each other. "mrs. clark had her hands more than full in attending upon the women, and the children, both boys, hastily wrapped in a blanket and laid in the same cradle, had received no further attention, when a scream from her own little ones, 'mother, mother! the injuns! the injuns!' sent her flying to their rescue." "yes, yes," sobbed his listener. "oh, my darlings, tomahawked and scalped before my very eyes! i see their bleeding corpses now! their father's too, shot down as he came running from the field to try to save us. and then i was dragged away never to see home or relations again!" "then you are indeed reumah clark?" kenneth's voice trembled with agitation as he asked the question. she bowed assent, her face still hidden in her hands. but suddenly dropping them she gazed eagerly, searchingly, into his face. "and you, you who look so like the dead, who are you?" "one of those babes born on that terrible day," he answered with emotion; "which, i do not know; and that is what i have hoped even against hope, that you could tell me. you laid us down together, you remember, and to this day the question remains unsolved which was the uncle and which the nephew. did you observe any mark upon either, anything at all to distinguish him from the other?" clendenin was greatly agitated as he put this question, and his breathing was almost suspended as he waited for the reply. "yes," she said; "one had a very peculiar mark on his breast. i was sort o' expecting it, and looked for it right away." "what was it, and on which child?" he asked with the tone and manner of one to whom the answer must bring life or death. "wait," she said, "let me tell it in my own way. clark he'd been a cabin boy aboard a ship, and an old sailor had tattooed an anchor on his arm. 'twas fur up above his elbow, and didn't show except he took pains to roll his sleeve up a-purpose." she spoke hesitatingly, as one who had half forgotten the use of her mother tongue, and to clendenin the suspense was agony well nigh unendurable; but by a strong effort he kept himself quiet. "well," she continued, "the oldest mrs. clendenin was over to our house not a week afore that awful day, and clark he showed her that mark on to his arm, and i saw that she turned kind o' sick and faint at the sight, and then quick as thought she slipped her hand into the bosom of her dress. "clark, he'd turned away with a laugh, and gone out o' the door; and i asked her what she did that for, and she said she was afraid her child would be marked, and if 'twas to be she wanted it where it wouldn't show. "then she got up to go home, and says she, 'we'll not speak of this, reumah, and i'll try not to think of it, so there'll be less likelihood of mischief coming of it.'" "and it was her child, the older woman's?" cried kenneth, breathlessly; "and is this what you speak of?" tearing open his shirt bosom as he spoke. "yes, that's it, as sure as i'm a living woman!" she answered, gazing curiously at the deep red mark in the form of an anchor on the left breast. "and now you know which o' the two you are." he drew a long, sighing breath of relief, as one who feels a heavy weight fall from his shoulders, clasped his hands, and lifted his eyes to heaven, his face radiant with unutterable joy and thankfulness, his lips moving, though no sound came from them. she watched him in wonder and amazement. "what's the difference," she asked, as he resumed his former attitude, "and how comes it that your mother didn't know by that very mark that you were hers?" "she died within the hour," he said with emotion; "raising herself in the bed, and looking through the open door, she saw her husband slain, his reeking scalp held aloft by a savage, and with a wild scream she fell back and expired." "and the rest?" "the younger clendenin gained the house barely in time to secure the door before the indians reached it, and keeping up a vigorous fire through a chink in the wall, his wife, ill as she was, loading for him, there happening to be two guns in the house, he at length succeeded in driving off the enemy. "a few weeks later they left forever the scene of the terrible tragedy, taking the two babes with them." the interview lasted some time longer, kenneth expressing his gratitude to the woman with much warmth and earnestness, and urging her to return to civilized life. this she steadily declined to do, saying that she did not know of a living relative among the whites, had an indian husband, children and grandchildren, and had learned to like her wild life. hearing that, he ceased his importunity, gave her all the money he had with him and a written promise of more, tearing a leaf from his note book for the purpose; then with a cordial shake of the hand, and an invitation to visit him the next day in chillicothe, that he might redeem his promise, bade her good-bye. as he turned to go little horn rose from the grass and came toward him, asking of his success. in reply kenneth told him he had learned all he wished to know from the white squaw, and was greatly indebted to him for his timely assistance. he would have added a reward, but the lad utterly refused to accept it, saying it was very little he had done in return for what he owed to the saviour of his life. and then he added that his influence with the white squaw was due to the fact that he was her son, and that he had informed her of the great service kenneth had done him years ago. chapter xxv. never since early boyhood had clendenin borne in his bosom so light and glad a heart as that with which he left old town upon the close of his interview with reumah clark. one thought--that there was now no barrier between him and his sweet and beautiful nell, unless indeed, she herself had created one, filled him with a joy and thankfulness beyond the power of words to express. but an enemy lay in wait to rob him of it. lyttleton, closely watching clendenin, had noticed that he tarried behind in the indian camp while others were leaving it; but carefully abstaining from any allusion to the fact, he conducted the young lady whose escort he was to her home, then leaving the town by the opposite side, made a circuit through the woods that brought him back to a hill overlooking the trail to old town, ascending which he waited and watched for kenneth's return. very impatient he grew toward the last, but not to be baulked of his prey by hunger or weariness, he remained at his post of observation until his eyes were gladdened by the sight of the manly form of clendenin mounted on his gallant steed and following the trail at a brisk canter that was bringing him rapidly nearer. lyttleton now hastily descended the hill, galloped across a bit of prairie and struck into the trail just in time to meet the man whom he cordially hated in his heart while in outward seeming he was the warmest friend. "so here you are at last, doctor," he said with a genial smile, "i declare i was actually growing uneasy about you." "how so?" returned kenneth in surprise, "it is nothing unusual for me to be out scouring the country at any or all hours of the day and night." "yes, but among the savages you know. i saw that you lingered behind as the rest of us set out on our return to the town, and i thought it not at all impossible that the wild creatures might be moved to do you a mischief." he looked keenly at kenneth as he spoke, thinking to read in his countenance how his errand had sped. he had never seen it half so bright and joyous. "ah, he has won," he said to himself with a pang of mingled disappointment and envy. "he has learned all, and it is in his favor. curse him, he shan't have her too if i can prevent it! "you seem to have had a pleasant time," he said aloud, "i think i never saw you look quite so cheery." kenneth only smiled, he felt so free and happy, as light and joyous as a bird on the wing. "i congratulate you on your good luck, whatever it may have been," continued lyttleton, still eyeing him curiously; "and i must ask a return in kind from you, for i too have been made a happy, yes, the very happiest of men to-day." clendenin turned upon him a startled, questioning look, his very lips growing white; he tried to speak, but could not find his voice. "yes," lyttleton went on with a cruel delight in the pain he saw he was giving; "i am sure you will think so when i tell you that miss lamar is my promised wife and i shall soon be the husband of the finest woman in america." kenneth answered not a word, the blow was so sudden, so terrible, so stunning; for it never occurred to him that those words which sounded the death knell of his fondest hopes were a falsehood, and, ah! he had thought it impossible that nell could ever give herself to one so utterly devoid of noble qualities as this stranger who was now boasting of having won her. lyttleton perceived with savage exultation how he had wrung the heart of the man whom he hated;--hated all the more bitterly because he owed him his life and because of his own ill-desert as a trifler with sweet marian's affections: whose sworn foe he was even before leaving england for america; his very errand to this country being one of wrong to him, an errand which he now foresaw was likely to miscarry through the information gleaned from the white squaw of the shawnee brave. they were passing a farm-house; some one standing at its gate hailed the doctor, and with a slight parting inclination of the head to lyttleton, kenneth turned aside and obeyed the call. the sun was touching the top of the hill which bounds chillicothe on the west, as he resumed his homeward way, a different man from the one who had left old town so full of joy and glad anticipation; the very dropping of his figure, as he moved slowly along with the bridle lying loosely upon romeo's neck, spoke of utter dejection. what was life worth without his love, his darling? oh, why had not this knowledge come to him a little sooner, this that unsealed his lips. why had he not yielded to his impulse that stormy night as they stood alone together by the fire, and poured out the story of his love? how much wiser and kinder to have done it, even though he had to tell her, too, that an impassable barrier stood between them! he could see it so plainly now, but then, his eyes were blinded. and she, how could he blame her if her love had at last turned to aversion and she had given herself to another? but alas, alas, how ill she had chosen, a man devoid of principle and utterly selfish; for so far had kenneth succeeded in reading lyttleton's true character. but these were vain regrets; he must school himself to bear bravely his grief and disappointment; trouble did not spring out of the ground, and the loving father above never sent to his children one unneeded pang. and was life indeed all dark to him? was it nothing that a terrible dread had been taken away? that he had reason, intellect, education, health and strength, that god had given him skill to relieve pain and suffering? ah, his mercies were far beyond his deserts, and life could not be a desolate waste while power was granted him to minister to the comfort and happiness of others; and while there remained to him, not only the love of the two dear ones at glen forest, but also the sweeter, dearer love of him who saith to his children: "lo, i am with you always even unto the end of the world." "i have loved thee with an everlasting love." "i will never leave thee nor forsake thee." the precious comforting words came to him almost as if spoken by an audible voice, and were as balm and healing to his wounded spirit. there were business matters claiming his immediate attention, and he now resolutely turned his thoughts upon them. he decided upon an early visit to his old home; he must see her whom he had always called mother, but who, as he had learned from reumah clark, was in reality his sister; sweet marian, too. ah, she must never know that he was less nearly related to her than she fondly believed. it would but give her unnecessary pain. but first of all steps should be taken to get reumah clark's evidence in a form that would make it available legal proof of his identity, for there was much dependent upon that. on reaching the town he at once sought godfrey dale, and they were closeted together for an hour or more. in this interview dale learned what had been his friend's secret grief, that it had in a measure passed away with the knowledge of his true parentage, though it was sorrow of heart to him that it proved the tie of kinship with the dear ones at home less close than he had once believed, and the importance, for certain grave reasons, of his being able to bring forward indisputable proof of his identity. dale understood the management of the business; the first step in which was to get the woman into the town and have her deposition taken before a magistrate. it was probable that she would come in the next morning of her own accord, in order to receive the money for which she held clendenin's note; if she did not dale was to go in search of her. "it is to be hoped that secret foe of yours will not get hold of her again in the meantime," he remarked. "who can he be? i know of no one who has cause for enmity toward you, unless, indeed, as a rival in the good graces of a certain fair damsel," he added jocosely, "and, why kenneth, man, that would be lyttleton! and he's mean enough to serve you such a scurvy trick, too. but then, on second thought, how would he know anything about the woman or your interest in her? no; i confess i am nonplussed." "beside," said kenneth sadly, "he tells me he is a successful rival, so he might well afford to refrain from any interference with my welfare." "he successful with miss nell?" cried dale with scornful incredulity. "don't you believe it! and yet," with a sudden change of tone, "women are strange, unaccountable creatures, and it is possible her seeming contempt and dislike were only assumed to hide her real feelings. heighho! i really thought your chances better than mine; those last by no means so poor as lyttleton's." a party of the merchants of the town were to start three days from this time for the east, to buy goods. their custom was to go in companies, as, a great portion of the country being still in wild state, much of it was covered with immense forests, containing but a few widely scattered dwellings. they must, perforce, carry a good deal of money with them and it was unsafe for one to travel alone. kenneth had announced his intention to join this party, but that evening's mail brought a letter from glen forest which so filled him with anxiety and alarm, made his presence at home so urgently necessary, that he at once decided to risk going with no companion but zeb, and to set off at dawn of the coming day, leaving to dale the whole care and responsibility of getting reumah clark's evidence into proper shape. dale used every argument and persuasion to induce his friend to wait for company; two days he thought would make so little difference, and the risk to a solitary traveller was so great; but all to no purpose; clendenin would hardly stay to hear him out, there was so much to be attended to in the few hours that remained before he should leave for an absence that might extend to months. several patients must be visited and recommended to the charge of a brother physician, some purchases made, and some friends called upon for a word of farewell. it would seem a strange, unkind, ungrateful thing to go without saying good-bye to major lamar and his family, who had always made him so entirely one of themselves. and nell? ah, he could not, would not go away without learning from her own lips if lyttleton's story were true. and if it were not? but ah, he dare not think any further. his heart beat almost audibly as he opened the gate and hurried up the path to the house. the bright moonlight showed him the major sitting alone in the porch. "ah, good evening, doctor," he said, rising to shake hands and set a chair for his guest. "i am especially glad to see you to-night, as i am just in the mood for a friendly chat." "thank you, major, but i am in unusual haste," kenneth answered. "can i see the ladies?" "sorry to say i cannot give you that pleasure to-night, doctor," was the laughing reply. "mrs. lamar has gone to bed tired out with the exertion and excitement of the day, and nell is not at home; won't be for a week or two, at least; has gone home with a friend living fifteen miles from town." kenneth almost staggered under the blow. then a wild impulse seized him to follow her and know his fate from her own mouth, though it would delay his journey for one day, if not for two. but recalling some words of the letter just received, words that made him feel that every moment's delay on his part was hazardous to sweet marian, he put it from him with heroic self-denial, briefly explained his errand, parried some remonstrances such as dale had already wasted upon him, and with a cordial parting shake of the hand and a farewell message for the family, turned and went away. lyttleton's heart that afternoon was like a cage of unclean birds full of malice, envy, anger and hate. kenneth having left him in answer to the summons to the farm-house, he pursued his way to the town muttering imprecations upon the head of his late companion and mentally resolving schemes for his injury. "curse him!" he said again, "is he to have all and i none? would that fate were but kind enough to remove him out of my path!" "do it yourself!" it seemed an almost audible suggestion. he started and glanced around with a shudder, half expecting to see the tempter. "no, no, i am not so bad as that!" he answered aloud. "i could never stain my hands with blood, but if the indians should slay him in the woods, as they did capt. herrod, or if his horse should happen to stumble and he fall and break his neck, well, it would not grieve me very deeply, ha, ha! "i suppose the girl wouldn't have me even then," he continued with a gloomy scowl, "but i'd have undisturbed possession of--but nonsense! i must deal with things as they are." he continued his cogitations, but had not yet succeeded in arranging any definite plan when he arrived at his lodgings and dismounted, giving his horse in charge to hans. however, the knowledge casually gained in the course of the evening, of kenneth's intended departure early the next morning for the east, and with no companion but his negro servant, brought a sudden suggestion to his mind which filled him with fiendish delight. a letter from england, like clendenin's received by that evening's mail, furnished a plausible pretext. hans was summoned and given orders to make everything ready to leave chillicothe at once. "dish night, mynheer?" queried the man in astonishment. "yes, this night; there is a moon and we can travel by her light. i have news from england and must return thither with all speed." "de horses pe not shtrong enough to go day and night, mynheer," remarked hans, scratching his head and looking not over pleased; for he was loth to lose his night's rest. "that's my affair; you have nothing to do but obey orders," was the haughty rejoinder. lyttleton knew that nell was out of town, and now was glad that it had so happened, as he did not care to meet her again, yet felt that it would not look well for him to leave the place without a parting call on the family. he met clendenin coming away, passed him with a cold bow, and joined the major who was still on the porch, its sole occupant as before. "what you, too, sir?" he exclaimed, when lyttleton had explained the object of his call. "the doctor was in but now to say that he leaves unexpectedly in the early morning; but it seems that you are making even greater haste to forsake us. coming back again, i hope." "doubtful, my good sir, and i must leave my adieu to the ladies with you, regretting deeply that i could not deliver them in person," lyttleton said, lying with a glibness that was the result of long practice. he tarried but a few moments, and again the major was left to his solitary meditations, which now ran upon the question whether nell had aught to do with the sudden migration of these two admirers of hers. he could not tell, for the girl had kept her own council in regard to her feelings toward them, and lyttleton's offer of the previous day. chapter xxvi. dale was in his office, very busy with some writing, when lyttleton looked in. "excuse the interruption, mr. dale," he said, holding out his hand, "but i did not like to go without saying good-bye to you and the doctor. he, however, i find is not in." "good-bye! you're not going to leave chillicothe to-night, are you?" cried godfrey in surprise, as he laid down his pen and took the offered hand. "yes; immediately, hans has everything packed, and the horses saddled and at the door. had a letter from home to-night, and find i must tarry no longer. please give my respects and adieus to the doctor," he added, as he hurried away. "i wonder he's not afraid to risk travelling with only that rascally looking servant, who might rob and kill him and nobody any the wiser," thought dale. "well," he remarked aloud, resuming his pen, "i suppose it's no affair of mine." was it a haunting doubt of hans's fidelity or some other motive that led lyttleton to turn to him, as they left the town, and bid him ride by his side instead of behind him? however that may have been, he kept a sharp watch upon his valet's movements. presently he took him into his confidence in some degree, partially unfolding a plot to get clendenin into his power, and securing the hessian's co-operation by the promise of a bribe. they pressed forward all that night and the next day, pausing only for a short rest when their horses showed signs of exhaustion. the greater part of the way was very lonely; they had met no one since early morning, when toward the close of the day they overtook a man mounted on a sorry nag and jogging along in silence and solitude; a villainous looking fellow, in whom lyttleton at once recognized one of his intended tools; whose acquaintance he had made on the outward bound journey of some months ago, and whom he had casually discovered to be an enemy to dr. clendenin. it was in fact brannon, who had never forgotten or forgiven the part kenneth had had in his conviction of the theft of the great-coat, handkerchief, and shirt, abstracted from the dwelling of the barbours. lyttleton hailed him with, "hello, brannon, you're the very man i was wanting to see." "and who may you be?" returned the fellow surlily, showing a scowling face as he glanced back over his shoulder at the speaker; then suddenly wheeling his horse across the narrow path so as to bar their further progress, "what do you want with me?" he demanded in a tone of one who feels himself at enmity with his kind. "to furnish you with a bit of employment very much to your taste," answered lyttleton. "and what may that be? ha, i remember you now, the english gent that was a goin' out to chillicothe some months back, and had so many questions to ask about dr. clendenin. curse him! well, did ye find it all out?" "it?" "yes, it, whatever you wanted to know." "yes; i found out, what i suspected before, that he is very much in my way: and--but before i lay my plans open to you i must have your promise, your oath of secrecy." "them's easy given," the fellow answered with an unpleasant laugh; "i promise and swear never to tell no tales consarnin' what you're agoin' to say." "very well. clendenin is travelling in this direction, with no companion but a young negro servant who, i take it, is neither very brave nor strong." a malicious gleam of satisfaction shone in brannon's eyes. lyttleton noted it with pleasure. "we could not have a better opportunity," he went on; "you who have an old score against him, and i who find him as i just said entirely too much in my way." "what are you at, mister, out with it plump and plain," brannon said with an impatient gesture and a volley of oaths, as lyttleton came to a pause and looked hesitatingly at him. "i ain't no fancy for this 'ere beating about the bush. is it his life you want, or not?" "no, no; i'm no murderer!" lyttleton exclaimed with a shudder and a fearful glance from side to side. "but patience, man, and i'll explain in a few words. we'll call this doctor a mad fellow, perhaps it isn't so very far from the truth, ha, ha, and we'll take him prisoner, and keep him such somewhere in these woods until i can make arrangements to remove him to a mad house." brannon listened with a grim smile. "but look ye here, stranger," he interrupted, "what if he should get free and peach on us?" "we must take care that he doesn't; and i'll make it worth your while to take the risk. can you get help in capturing him?" brannon nodded. "here comes one now that'll bear a hand willingly if you give him his price;" and as he spoke he waved his hand toward a tall, burly figure just emerging from the wood a few paces from them. "dree of us," muttered hans, watching its approach; "dat ish pooty goot; and mynheer, too; dree, four against two. we takes dem brisoner mitout fail." the last comer was drawing near with long and rapid strides. "what's that?" he asked sharply and bringing his rifle to his shoulder. "ah, is it you, jack! what's up?" "yes, it's me, bill shark," answered brannon. "come on; here's a gent as has a job suited to the likes of us." as the fellow came near enough for a distinct view of his features, lyttleton involuntarily shrank from him, so brutal and forbidding was their expression. but recovering himself instantly, he repeated substantially, and under the same promise of secrecy, what he had been saying to brannon. "i'm your man, if we can agree on the terms," was the rejoinder. "i'll want a pretty stiff price, mind ye, stranger, for it's like to be a risky business, more so than if ye wanted him put clean out o' the way; for 'dead men tell no tales,' you know." lyttleton shook his head. "no, no, i can't stain my hands with blood, his or that of any other man." the ruffian regarded him with a brutal sneer and a muttered sentence, of which the only audible words were "white livered coward." lyttleton writhed under the charge but dared not resent it. in fact he began to feel himself in a perilous position; darkness was already settling down over the forest, he had not full confidence in his valet, and these others were evidently unscrupulous scoundrels. "how much ahead are you, did ye say?" queried shark. "i think we have the start of him by from six to eight hours," replied lyttleton. "besides, we have pushed on more rapidly than he would be likely to, as you may judge by the condition of our horses." "h'm! then he'll most likely be along here about this time, or a trifle earlier, to-morrow, stop fur his lodging at brannon's, just above here, a little back in the woods, or at my shanty five miles furder on. 'twont make much difference; whichever he stops with, the other'll help entertain him. and, stranger, we kin turn out purty strong on occasion. i've two strappin' sons and a nevvy, and the old woman can lend a helpin' hand too, when she's wanted. "s'posen' you and brannon and this other feller come over home with me now, and let's talk it over. we'll determine just what's to be done, and i'll set my price." lyttleton had felt a cold chill running down his spine during this speech and at the moment would gladly have put many miles between him and what he began to suspect was an organized band of robbers and cut-throats. but evidently it would not do to show fear. carefully steadying his voice, he courteously thanked shark for his invitation, but declined it on the plea that they all, himself, hans and both their horses, were in sore need of rest; for which reason they would stop for the night with brannon; his house being so much nearer. this seemed satisfactory and thither they all went. chapter xxvii. the sun had not yet risen, and few of the townspeople were astir, when kenneth and his faithful zeb set forth upon their journey. they rode slowly through the almost deserted streets, the master in seemingly absent mood, quiet and thoughtful even to sadness, the servant glancing briskly from side to side with a nod and grin for each visible acquaintance with whom he felt himself upon terms of something like equality. "good-bye, tig; dis heyah niggah's off for glen forest," he shouted as they passed the major's. tig, who was cutting wood in the kitchen door-yard, dropped his axe to gaze after them in wondering incredulity. "oh, you go 'long wid yo' tomfoolin'," he muttered, as he stooped to pick it up again, "'taint no sech ting; and the doctah ain't never goin' so fur, 'tout sayin' good-bye to our folks; and miss nell she's away whar he can't git at her. 'spect i knows who's powerful fond of her, and who tinks he's mighty sight nicer'n any ole britisher." they were early risers at the major's, and mrs. lamar having retired the previous night several hours before her usual time, had slept off her fatigue and found herself ready to begin the day earlier than was her wont. from her chamber window she, too, saw kenneth and his attendant ride by. "why, there goes dr. clendenin equipped as for a journey, valise, saddle-bags and servant!" she exclaimed, addressing her husband who was still in bed. "yes, he's off for pennsylvania." "for pennsylvania, it's very sudden, isn't it?" "yes; he had bad news last night, sickness in the family i believe, that hurried him off in great haste. he called to bid us good-bye, but found no one but me. "but you will be more surprised to hear that lyttleton left town last night in obedience to a summons from england. he, too, called and left his adieus for you and nell." mrs. lamar faced round upon the major a face full of astonishment, not wholly unmixed with disappointment and vexation. "gone!" she cried, "actually gone for good! i must say, percy, that i am completely out of patience with nell." "with nell, pray what has she to do with it?" "she has rejected him. i suspected it before; now i am sure of it. news from england indeed!" and she turned away with a contemptuous sniff. "possibly you are correct in your conjecture," the major remarked, recovering from the surprise her words had given him; "but if she has rejected lyttleton, she had a perfect right to do so, and i am inclined neither to blame her nor to regret her action." "why it would have been a splendid match, percy, and such a chance as she is not likely to see again." "not in my opinion. he seems to be wealthy, but i do not admire his character. and it would have robbed me of my little sister, taking her so far away that i could hardly hope to see her again in this world. i should far rather see her the wife of clendenin." "i gave that up long ago," returned his wife in an impatient tone, as she hastily left the room. "i believe something has gone wrong between them; i wonder what it can be," soliloquized the major while making his toilet, and at the same time taking a mental retrospect of such of the interviews of nell and dr. clendenin as had come under his notice. but having no proclivity for match-making, and no desire to be relieved of the support of his young sister, whose presence in his family he greatly enjoyed, he shortly dismissed the subject from his thoughts. not so with kenneth; as he passed the house he involuntarily glanced toward the window of her room, half expecting to catch a glimpse of the face dearest and loveliest to him of all on earth, then turned away with an inward sigh, remembering sadly that each step forward was taking him farther away from her. very much cast down he was for a time, having had in hans's story to zeb, that his master was but going away temporarily for the purpose of making suitable preparations for his approaching nuptials, what seemed confirmation strong of the truth of lyttleton's assertion that he was nell's accepted suitor. but ere long he was able to stay himself upon his god, and casting all care for himself, and those dearer than self, upon that almighty friend, resumed his accustomed cheerfulness and presently woke the echoes of the forest with a song of praise; zeb, riding a few paces behind, joining in with a hearty goodwill. they had left chillicothe far in the rear and the nearest human habitation was miles away. they made a long day's journey and bivouacked that night under a clump of trees on the edge of a prairie, and beside a little stream of clear dancing water. it was clendenin's intention to be early in the saddle again, and great was his disappointment on the following morning to find romeo so lame that a day's rest just where they were was an imperative necessity. it was a strange and perplexing dispensation of providence; yet recognizing it as such, he resolutely put aside the first feeling of impatience as he remembered how sorely he was needed at glen forest; how the dear ones would be looking and longing for his coming. there must be some good reason for this apparently unfortunate detention, so he submitted to it with resignation and passed the day not unpleasantly or unprofitably in reading; it was his habit to carry a pocket volume with him while travelling, or wandering through the adjacent wood. they were able to move on the next day, but only slowly, as the horse had not fully recovered; and while halting for an hour's rest at noon, they were, to their great delight, overtaken by the other party from chillicothe. it consisted of three merchants, messrs. grey, collins and jones, and a stalwart backwoodsman and hunter, tom johnson by name. they also were much pleased at the meeting, which they had desired but hardly hoped for, though they had set out a day earlier than had been expected, the merchants hastening their preparations when they found that by so doing they would secure the company of the hunter, who for fearlessness, strength, and skill in the use of fire-arms, was a host in himself. each merchant carried his money in his saddle-bags, and the whole party were well armed. greeting clendenin with a glad, "hello!" they hastily dismounted, secured their horses, and joined him, producing from their saddle-bags such store of choice provisions as made zeb's eyes dance with delight, for the lad was in his way quite an epicure. the sight of the goodly array of weapons of defence, and stout arms to wield them, gave him scarcely less pleasure, for zeb's courage was not always at fever heat. "golly, massa doctah!" he exclaimed, showing a double row of white and even teeth, "i 'spec's we needn't be 'fraid no robbahs now. gib um jessie ef dey comes roun' us." "best not to be too jubilant, zeb," said his master; "you and i may have to fall behind because of romeo's lameness." "no, no, never fear," said the others, "we are not going to forsake you, doc, now that we have joined company." they did not linger long over their meal and were soon in the saddle again, riding sometimes two abreast, at others in single file, but always near enough for exchange of talk. kenneth bore his own burden bravely, was quite his usual cheerful, genial self, and no one suspected what a load of sorrow and anxiety was pressing upon him. they journeyed on without mishap or adventure, and late in the afternoon came to a two story log dwelling standing a little back from the road, or rather trail, for it was nothing more. there was nothing attractive about the aspect of the house or its surroundings, but the sun was near his setting, the next human habitation was in all probability ten or fifteen miles further on, and the way to it lay through a dense forest where, doubtless, panthers, bears and wolves abounded. a moment's consultation led to the decision that they would pass the night here if they could get lodging in the house. an elderly woman of slatternly appearance, hair unkempt, clothing torn and soiled, had come to the door. "what's wanted?" she asked in a harsh voice. "shelter for the night for men and beasts," returned clendenin, who had been unanimously chosen leader of the party. "well, i dunno 'bout it, i haven't no man about, but if ye'll 'tend to yer beasts yerselves, yer can stay." they agreed to the conditions. she pointed out the stable, and they led their horses thither, curried and fed them, remarking to each other, meanwhile, that they did not like the woman's looks; she had a bad countenance. she had gone back into the house, and as she moved here and there about her work, muttered discontentedly to herself, "there's too many o' 'em. bill, he won't like it. but i wonder if the right one's among 'em. wish i knowed." hearing their voices outside again, she stepped to the door. "ye'll be a wantin' supper, won't ye?" "yes, let us have it as soon as you can, for we're tired and hungry." "she mout put some pizen in de wittles, massa doctah, don't you tink?" whispered zeb, close at kenneth's ear, and shuddering as he spoke. "if you think so, it might be as well to watch her," was the quiet half-amused answer. "dat i will, sah!" and zeb bustled in and sat himself down between the table and the wide chimney, where he could have a full view of all the preparations for the coming meal. the woman scowled at him and broadly hinted that he was in the way, but zeb was obtuse and would not take a hint. he watched her narrowly as she mixed corn-bread and put it to bake, as she made the rye coffee, and fried the ham and eggs. it would have been impossible for her to put a single ingredient into any of these without his knowledge. nor did he relax his scrutiny until he had eaten his own supper, after seeing the gentlemen safely through theirs. "she mout put sumpin into de cups wen she pours de coffee," he had said to himself. it did not escape him that she listened with a sort of concealed eagerness to every word that was said by her guests, and that she started slightly and looked earnestly at dr. clendenin the first time he was addressed by name in her hearing. "what shall we call you, mother?" asked the hunter, lighting his pipe at her fire for an after supper smoke. "'taint perticlar, ye can just call me that, if ye like," she returned dryly. "you don't live here alone," he remarked, glancing at a coat hanging on the wall. "where's your man now?" "off a huntin'. where's your woman?" "don't know, hain't found her yet," he laughed, taking the pipe between his lips and sauntering to the door, outside of which his companions were grouped. the air there was slightly damp and chill, but far preferable to that within, which reeked with a mixture of smells of stale tobacco, garlic, boiled cabbage and filth combined. it was growing dark. the woman lighted a candle and set it on the table, muttering half aloud, as zeb rose and pushed back his chair: "i'm glad you're done at last." then she bustled about putting the food away and washing her dishes. johnson finished his pipe and proposed retiring to bed, as they wanted to make an early start in the morning. a general assent was given and the woman was asked to show them where they were to sleep. she vouchsafed no answer in words, but taking from the mantel a saucer filled with grease, in which a bit of rag was floating, she set it on the table, lighted one end of the rag, picked up the candle, and motioning them to follow her, ascended a step-ladder to the story above; letting fall drops of melted tallow here and there as she went. reaching the top of the ladder, they found themselves in an outer room that had the appearance of being used as a depository for every sort of rubbish. crossing this, their conductress opened a door leading into a smaller apartment, communicating, by an inner door, with still another. there was a bed in each and a few other articles of furniture, all of the roughest kind. dirty and untidy in the extreme, the rooms were by no means inviting to our travellers, but it was hobson's choice, and they found no fault to the hostess. "you white folks kin sleep in them two beds," she said, with a wave of her hand toward first one and then the other, "and the nigger, he kin lop down outside on them horse blankets, if he likes." and setting the candle down on top of a chest of drawers, she stalked away without another word. "massa doctah, and all you gentlemens, please sahs, lemme stay in heyah," pleaded zeb in an undertone of affright. "dat woman she look at me down stairs 'sif she like to stick dat carvin' knife right froo me." no one answered at the moment; they were all sending suspicious glances about the two rooms, and zeb quietly closed and secured the door. "ki! massas, jus' look a heyah!" he cried in an excited whisper, and pointing with his finger. "what is it?" they asked, turning to look. zeb sprang for the candle, and bringing it close showed a small hole in the door. "a bullet hole, sure as you live," exclaimed grey, who was nearest. "and exactly opposite the bed," added jones, stepping to it and beginning to throw back the covers. in an instant they were all at his side, and there was a universal, half suppressed exclamation of horror and dismay, as a hard straw mattress, much stained with blood, was exposed to their view by the flickering light of the candle, which zeb in his intense excitement had nearly dropped. they looked at those tell-tale stains and then into each other's faces. a trifle pale at first most of them were, but calm and courageous. clendenin was the first to speak. "we have evidently fallen into a den of thieves and murderers, but by the help of the lord we shall escape their snares." "yes, we'll trust in god, boys, and keep our powder dry," said grey. "and heaven send us a more peaceful end than some poor wretch has found," added collins, pointing with a sympathetic sigh to the gory evidences. "we must keep a sharp lookout, for we may depend that thar hunter'll return to his wife's embraces afore mornin'," remarked johnson, grimly. they at once set about making a thorough examination of the rooms, but found nothing more to arouse uneasiness, except the fact that the window of one opened out upon the roof of a shed, by means of which it was easily accessible from the ground. then their plans were quickly laid. they would all occupy that one room, and take turns in watching, two at a time; thus giving to each about two-thirds of the night for rest and sleep. the arms were examined and every man's weapon laid close at his hand, ready for instant use. these preparations completed, grey turned to kenneth, saying softly: "doc, we seem pretty well able to defend ourselves in case of attack, but it wouldn't hurt to ask help from a higher power." "no," said kenneth, kneeling down, the others doing the same; then, in a few appropriate, low-breathed words, he asked his father to have them in his kind care and keeping, and if it was his will grant them safety without the shedding of blood. chapter xxviii. down-stairs the woman was moving about her work, stopping now and then for a moment to listen to the sounds overhead. "why don't they get to bed and to sleep!" she muttered at length with an oath. "bill and the boys must be sharp set for their supper and will come in most ready to take my head off. 'tain't no fault o' mine, but that'll not make no difference. well, i'll call 'em anyhow, for them fellers ain't comin' down agin to-night." so saying she set her light in the window and hurried her culinary operations, for she was getting ready a second and more plentiful meal than the one she had set before the travellers. ere many moments four men, great broad-shouldered, brawny, rough looking fellows, on whose faces ignorance, vice and cruelty were plainly stamped, came creeping stealthily in at the open door. "well, old girl, what have you bagged?" asked the eldest, in whom we recognize bill shark, the confederate of brannon and lyttleton. "i conclude it's somethin', since we've been kept a starvin' till this time o' night." his tone, though suppressed, was savage, and his look angry and sullen. she held up a warning finger. "hush-sh-sh! they're up and awake yit. more quiet, boys. let up now, and go to work. the vittles is all on table." "are ye a goin' to tell me what i asked?" demanded her husband in a fierce undertone, as he sat down and began helping himself liberally to the smoking viands, but looking more at her than at them. "it's him," she answered, with a slight chuckle; "and he's as nice lookin' and soft spoken a chap as ever you see." "an' what o' that?" sneered one of the sons. "his purty face ain't a goin' to save him." "maybe not, abner; but i'm afeard they're too strong fur ye." "how many?" "six, countin' the nigger, and one on 'em's tom johnson." this announcement was received with a volley of oaths and curses, not loud but deep, bill adding: "he'll count two at least." "the other two fellers'll have to come and lend a hand whether or no," said abner gloomily. "don't you let 'em off, dad. with them and brannon we'll be seven. and if we come on 'em asleep, why, we'll not have such hard work, i take it." "time they were asleep now. how long since they went up there?" there was an angry gleam in bill's eyes as he turned them upon his wife. "long enough to have got to sleep twic't over, i should think. but they hain't done it. hark! they're a movin' about, and talkin' too, i believe." "then you didn't mind my orders, and ought to be licked." a volley of oaths followed, and he half rose from his chair and seized her by the arm. but his sons interfered. "are you mad, old man?" pulling him back into his seat; "we'll not have a ghost of a chance if you kick up a row now." he yielded, though with an ill grace, and the woman, not in the least disconcerted by his brutal behavior, said in her ordinary tone, as she replenished his empty cup: "'twasn't no fault o' mine, bill; i'd a drugged 'em, every one, if that nigger would a took his eyes off o' me for a single moment; but it did beat all, the way he watched me back and forad and all the time. i hadn't the least mite of a chance." this explanation seemed to appease the man's wrath, and the meal was concluded without further disturbance. a whispered consultation followed; then two of the younger ruffians went out and plunged into the forest in the direction from whence they had come. at no very great distance they came out upon a little clearing where stood a tiny cabin, roughly but strongly built of unhewn logs, no window save an aperture scarce a foot square near the roof, and the one door, of solid oak planks, furnished with heavy bolts and bars upon the outside. this was the prison intended by lyttleton for the safe keeping of clendenin, the man to whom he owed his life. heretofore it had been used by the sharks as a depository for their ill-gotten gains. near at hand, but concealed from view by the thick undergrowth, the englishman and his valet lay sleeping upon the ground, wrapped each in his blanket, and with sword and gun within reach of his hand. a few minutes' search disclosed their whereabouts to the sharks, and it was no gentle waking that ensued. "ho! rouse up, i tell ye, and wake your master!" growled abner, touching hans with his foot. "you're both wanted at the house." "yaas," grunted hans, sleepily, "but i dinks you petter leaves mynheer to dake his sleep." "what is it? what's wanted this time of night?" demanded lyttleton, starting up and glancing about him in no amiable mood. "you're wanted," was the gruff, unceremonious reply. "game's bagged, but such a lot we must come on 'em as strong as possible." "what! you've got clendenin?" lyttleton's tone was jubilant. "humph! he's there, but he ain't took yet, and there's four more stout fellows beside the nigger, and one on 'ems ekal to any two o' us. so come along, both o' ye." "no," said lyttleton, "you have undertaken the job, and it's no part of my plan to assist in the fray. i'll pay liberally when it's done; but as i told you in the first place, i can't have clendenin get sight of either my face or that of my valet." "black your faces, or tie a handkercher over 'em," suggested abner's brother. "no; he'd recognize our voices." "you're a----coward," sneered abner. "no use argufying with the white-livered critter, josh. he won't git his job done, 'tain't likely, if he don't help, that's all. come on back. p'raps brannon's there by now, and if the fellers'll only quiet down to sleep, i for one am willin' to try it for the sake o' the plunder, and the cash we'll have in hand afore we let these ere chaps have their way with the one they're wantin' to git shut of." "what a vulgar wretch!" muttered lyttleton, in a tone of extreme disgust, as the two ruffians turned and left the spot to make their way rapidly back to the house. they found brannon there, waiting with the others for the slight occasional sounds overhead to cease, as they dared not make the desired attack with their intended victims awake and prepared to meet and repel it. but they waited in vain; our travellers hearing men's voices, conversing in subdued tones in the room below, understood for what they were waiting, and not wishing for a fight, took care to let them know that they had not all succumbed to sleep. in fact the hunter, listening intently with his ear to a crack in the floor, heard the woman say, "not yet, they're not asleep yet, for i hear 'em movin'." "ye do, eh?" he growled in undertone, "well, ye'll likely keep on a hearin' it till them he wolves o' yourn goes back to their den in the woods." at last as a faint streak of dawn began to show itself above the eastern horizon, the ruffians drew close together and held a whispered consultation, the result of which was the decision to give up attacking here, leave at once, and hastening on ahead of the travellers, post themselves at a certain spot favorable for an ambuscade, where they would play the highwayman, "relieving the fellers o' their plunder," as they expressed it, and letting them go with their lives if they were wise enough not to show fight, but taking clendenin prisoner for the sake of slaking brannon's thirst for revenge and obtaining lyttleton's offered reward. the first part of their plan was at once put into execution, and with no small sense of relief our travellers heard them depart. "up, boys, now's our time," said the hunter; "day's breakin', the thieves has left for the present, and we'd best git out o' this instanter." the others being of the same opinion, they hastily gathered up their guns and saddle-bags, unbarred the door, and as nearly in a body as might be, the hunter taking the lead, descended the step-ladder to the room below. the woman nodding in her chair beside the smouldering embers of the fire, was its only occupant. she started up, saying, "why you're airly, ain't ye? i hadn't thought of gettin' breakfast yet." "never mind, we don't want any, mother," said johnson dryly. "why, ye ain't goin' a'ready? ye'd better stay for breakfast. i'll not be long gettin' it." "no," they answered, "we must start at once." "ye didn't sleep much, i think," she remarked sullenly, following them to the door. "how do you know?" queried johnson, giving her a sharp look. "oh, i was up myself, and i heard ye movin' around." clendenin stepped back to enquire, and pay her charges for the entertainment of the party, and thought she eyed him strangely during that transaction, with a sort of repressed eagerness and cupidity, and somewhat as if she were trying to estimate his strength, and calculate whether she dare measure it with her own, and would gain anything thereby. he puzzled over it for a moment as he hastened to rejoin his companions, who were at the stable busied in saddling their horses, then dismissed it from his thoughts with the conclusion that it was his purse she wanted to secure. it was now quite light and the sun began to show his face above the treetops, as they mounted and away, felicitating themselves on their fortunate escape. "i see now," said kenneth in tones of thankfulness, "why that seemingly unfortunate delay was sent me. it was certainly a special providence." "ho, comrades!" cried the hunter, suddenly reining in his steed across the path so as to bring the whole party to a halt. "i have a thought!" "better keep it for a nest egg then, tom," laughed collins, overflowing with animal spirits in view of their recent deliverance. "no, i hadn't, sam; i'd better by half use it to save our plunder, if not our lives. you must know, lads, that tom johnson's no stranger to these here woods, and knows the trail better'n the doc there, and the rest o' you readin' men, knows a book." "now, tom, my boy, that hasn't an over modest sound. but what's that thought of yours? let's have it at once." "listen then. about six or seven miles furder on, there's a place where the trail runs through a little valley, between two hills that's covered thick with trees and bushes; and now i tell you them cut-throats is just lyin' in wait there, injun style, to ketch us between two fires as we come along." "then what's to be done?" was asked in various tones of inquiry and dismay. "why, we'll just keep out o' the trap. i'll take ye round it. i know the way, and though it'll give us a few more miles, and hard ones at that, it'll be better than makin' ourselves a target, or rather half a dozen of 'em, for those scoundrels to shoot at. won't it?" "yes, yes," from all the voices in unison. the hunter wheeled his horse and galloped on, the rest following in single file. he kept the trail for a while, then struck off into the thick woods, and for a couple of hours they had a toilsome time, pushing their way through thickets, leaping logs and fording one or two streams; then taking the ordinary trail again, beyond the point of danger, they were able to go forward with comparative ease and comfort. with the purpose to make his assaulting party as strong as possible, bill shark sent brannon to urge lyttleton and his valet to join them where they were to lie in ambush. lyttleton once again roused from slumber, received the messenger surlily, declined to go with him, but fearful of the consequences of utter refusal to comply with the demand, for the message was couched in terms that make it such, promised to join them shortly, after refreshing himself with food; and made brannon describe the locality and manner of reaching it so particularly as to enable him to find it without a guide. the moment brannon was out of earshot, lyttleton turned to his valet. "what say you, hans, are those fellows to be trusted not to turn on us, if it happens to suit their fancy, after they have finished with the other party?" "mynheer, i dinks dey is von bad lot." "then we won't put ourselves in their power. listen; we will not join them, but will hide in some place where we can watch their proceedings unknown to them; and if events don't turn out as we could wish, we will slip away through the woods and continue our journey, and so escape their hands. now kindle a fire and prepare me a cup of strong coffee." with no small difficulty, and damage to their clothing from thorns and briers, master and man at length succeeded in taking up a position advantageous for the carrying out of lyttleton's plans. shark's party had divided, posting themselves three on one side of the little valley, three on the other, and less than half way up the hills. lyttleton's ambush was on the eastern of the two hills, considerably higher up, where from behind a screen of bushes and interlacing vines he could see all that might occur in the valley below. he found, to his satisfaction, that he could also overhear whatever was said by the ruffians in an ordinary tone of voice. the first sound that greeted his ear was a sullen growl from the elder shark, familiarly styled bill. "what's a-keepin' that thar confounded britisher and his dutchman? i tell you, lads, they're a brace o' cowards and don't mean to take no share o' this here fray. i'd go after 'em and give 'em a lesson if i was sure o' gettin' back in time, but the other fellers may be along now any minnit." "i likes to send de lie de droat down off dot von pig schoundrel!" muttered hans, laying his hand on the hunting-knife in his belt. an imperative gesture from lyttleton commanded silence. brannon was saying something in answer to bill's remark, but the tones were so low that lyttleton could catch only a word here and there, not enough to learn its purport. a long silence followed, broken occasionally by a muttered oath or exclamation of impatience, then a low-toned consultation, which resulted in the despatching of one of the younger villains to reconnoitre and try to discover why their intended victims delayed their appearance. another long waiting, and then the scout returned. "been all the way back to the house," he reported, loud enough for every word to reach the listeners above, "and not a sign of 'em to be seen. the old woman says they left thar at sun-up, so if any o' you kin tell what's become of 'em it's more'n i kin." "must ha' smelt a rat somehow, and pushed through the woods another way," cried bill, pouring out a volley of oaths and curses so blasphemous, and in tones so ferocious, that lyttleton's blood almost curdled in his veins. then his heart nearly stood still with affright as the ruffian went on, in the same savage tones: "well, there ain't no use in waitin' here no longer. they've got off safe and sound, and we not a penny the richer; but there's that britisher, with a pocket full of tin that'll come as good to us as the other fellers'. let's hunt him up and help ourselves. easy work it'll be, six agin two." hans and his master exchanged glances. lyttleton held up a finger in token of silence, and again they strained their ears to hear the talk going on below. the ruffians seemed to be of one mind in regard to robbing him, impelled to it by their cupidity and their indignation at his failure to join them according to promise. fortunately for him they had no suspicion of his vicinity, and presently set off in a body to search for him at the scene of his late bivouac. the moment they were out of sight and hearing he and hans rose, scrambled down the hill, mounted their horses, which they had left at its foot, concealed in the thick wood, and striking into the trail at the nearest point, pushed on their way eastward with all possible despatch. chapter xxix. clendenin's heart beat quickly between hope and fear. he was nearing the home of his childhood and knew not in what state he should find the dear ones there, for he had had no later news of them than that contained in the letter written so many weeks ago, and received the night before he left chillicothe. he had pressed on as rapidly as circumstances would allow, yet the journey had been long and tedious, made to seem doubly so by his haste and anxiety; for faith was not always strong enough to triumph over doubts and fears. he had passed the previous night some ten miles west of glen forest, and taking an early start entered the little valley two hours before noon. it was a sweet, bright summer day, trees dressed in their richest robes of green, wild wood flowers scattered in lavish profusion on every side, fields clothed in verdure, the air filled with the music of birds and insects, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of kine, and the fretting, gurgling, and babbling of the mountain stream, as it danced and sparkled in the sun. each familiar scene had charms for kenneth's eye, yet he lingered not a moment, but urged romeo to a brisk canter, until, as he came in sight of the house, his eye was suddenly caught by the gleam of something white among the trees that bordered the rivulet. he halted, looked more closely at the object, then hastily dismounted, and, giving the bridle into zeb's hands, bade him go on to the house and say that he was with miss marian, and they would both come in presently. marian had wandered out an hour ago to the spot where she and lyttleton had sat together for the last time, on the day he bade her a final good-bye. it had been her favorite resort ever since. thither she would carry book or work, or go to sit with folded hands and dream away the time that seemed so long, so very, very long till he would come again. that was all she was doing now, seated on the grass with her arms clasped about caius's neck, her cheek resting on his head, and her eyes fixed with mournful gaze upon the rippling water at her feet. kenneth drew near with so noiseless a step that she knew not of his coming, and he had leisure to study her face for several minutes while she was entirely unconscious of his scrutiny. his breast heaved, his lip quivered, and his eyes filled as he gazed; for a sad change had come over the fair, young face since last he looked upon it, the bloom was all gone from cheek and lip, the temple looked sunken, the eyes unnaturally large, and, oh, the unfathomable depth of sadness in them! and the slight girlish figure had lost its roundness; the small, shapely hands were very thin and white. a bird suddenly swooped down from a tree and skimmed along just above the stream. caius uttered a short, sharp bark and made a spring toward it, and with a deep sigh marian awoke, released him, and turning her eyes in kenneth's direction gave a joyful cry. in a moment she was clasped in his arms, her head pillowed on his breast, with convulsive sobbing and floods of tears, while he held her close and soothed her with tender words and caresses. "o, kenneth, how glad i am you have come at last!" she said when she could command her voice. "it seemed so long, so very long that we had to wait; and yet you are here sooner than mother thought you could come." "i made all the haste i could, dear child," he answered, "starting early the morning after the letter reached me with the news that you were not well. what ails you, marian, dear?" "i'm not sick, kenneth," she said, a vivid blush suddenly suffusing her cheek. "but you have grown very thin and pale, and do not seem strong," he said, regarding her with tender, sorrowful scrutiny. "something is amiss with you, and surely you will tell me what it is, that i may try to relieve you?" she only hid her face on his shoulder with a fresh burst of weeping. a terrible fear oppressed him as he went on questioning her about the symptoms of her disease, she still insisting that she had no pain and was not sick, though she could not deny loss of appetite, weakness and palpitation of the heart upon slight exertion. at length her reserve gave way before his loving solicitude; for she had been wont to confide her childish joys and sorrows to him in the old days before he went to ohio, and could tell him now what she would not breathe to any other creature. "o, kenneth!" she cried, "can't you see that my body is not sick, that it's my heart that is breaking?" his very lips grew white. "what can you mean, my poor, poor child?" he asked huskily, drawing her closer to him with a quick protecting gesture, as if he would shield her from the threatened danger. "oh," she cried in bitter despairing tones, "i thought he loved me, he said it with his eyes and with his tongue; he said i was the sweetest, fairest, dearest girl he ever saw, and he promised to come again in a year at the very farthest; but more than a year has gone by and never a word from him." his first emotion as he listened to this burst of anguish was utter astonishment; the next the fear that she was not in her right mind, for he had every reason to suppose that she had never met other than to exchange the merest civilities of life with any man. her mother had no suspicion of the real cause of her child's suffering. marian had not confided in her, had never mentioned lyttleton's name; and the death of the misses burns, followed very shortly by the removal to a distance of their maid kitty, had left no one in the neighborhood who had been cognizant of even that small part of the intercourse between marian and lyttleton of which woodland was the scene. but the ice once broken, the pent up waters of the poor child's anguish speedily swept away every barrier of reserve, and the whole sad story was poured out into kenneth's sympathizing ear. it brought relief from the fear for her reason, but filled his heart with grief and pity for her, mingled with burning indignation against the author of her woe. "and who is this wretch?" he cried in tones quivering with intense emotion. the answer was so low that he bent his ear almost to her lips to catch it. "lyttleton!" he exclaimed, "lysander lyttleton? i know the man; and marian, my poor deceived and wronged little sister, he is utterly unworthy of even your friendship; 'twould be the consorting of the dove with the vulture." she gave a sharp cry of pain. "o, kenneth, kenneth, you can't mean it?" it was hard to see her suffer, but best that she should know the truth at once. in a few brief sentences, carefully worded to spare her as much as possible, he told of lyttleton's approaching marriage. she did not cry out again, but asked, in a tone of quiet despair, to whom. it cost kenneth an effort to speak nell's name, and something in his voice thrilled his listener with an instant consciousness of what she was to him. she lifted her face to his, the wet eyes full of tender pity. "you, too, kenneth, my poor dear kenneth?" she said in low, tremulous tones, "has he wronged you too? then he is cast out of my heart forever. i cannot love one so base, so unworthy." but with the last words her head went down upon his shoulder again with a passionate burst of weeping. a storm of feeling swept over kenneth as he held her close, not speaking, for he could find no words, but softly smoothing her hair, gently pressing one of the small, thin hands which he had taken in his. he could not forgive lyttleton at that moment, he felt that he could crush him under foot as he would a viper that had stung this precious little sister, and poisoned two other lives. his own must be dark and dreary without sweet nell, and what better could hers be, passed in the society of such a wretch, nay, more, in the closest union with him. alas! alas! hers was the saddest fate of all, and none the less to be pitied because she had in some measure brought it upon herself. in some measure? ah, was he utterly blameless, kenneth clendenin? the question came to him with a sharp pang of self-reproach. he had won her affection, his lips had never breathed a syllable of love. then who was he that he should be so fierce against this other transgressor? the tempest of emotion had spent itself, and marian lay pale and exhausted in his arms, trembling like a leaf. very gently he raised her, and bidding her cling about his neck, bore her in those strong arms to the house, caius running on before to announce their coming. mrs. clendenin met them in the porch, her face full of anxiety and alarm. "kenneth! what is it?" "she is wearied out now, mother, but will be better soon. let me lay her in her bed." she had already fallen into the sleep of utter exhaustion. he placed her comfortably on the bed, while the mother drew down the blinds and caius stretched himself on the floor by her side. "kenneth, my dear boy, oh, what a comfort to have you here again!" whispered mrs. clendenin, as they clasped each other in a long, tender embrace. leaving caius to watch the slumbers of their dear one, they withdrew to the sitting-room. "what do you think of her?" there was another, an unspoken question in the mother's pleading anxious eyes. kenneth's answer to it was, "let your poor heart be at rest, mother, it is not that." a cloud of care, of deep and sore anxiety lifted from her brow, and she wept tears of joy and thankfulness. "anything but that," she sighed, "any other burden seems light in comparison with that. but, kenneth, the child is certainly ill, have you discovered the cause of her malady?" "yes," he said, "and have brought her a cure which, though it must be painful at first, will, i doubt not, prove effectual in the end." then he repeated marian's story, having won her consent that he should do so, and added his own knowledge of lyttleton. the mother's surprise was not less than his had been, and her tears fell fast over the sorrows of her sweet and gentle child. "i take blame to myself for leaving her alone," she said, "and yet it was what seemed best at the time." "i would not have you do so, mother, dear," he said, gazing tenderly into the patient yet troubled face whereon sorrow and care had left their deep and lasting traces, "no blame rightfully belongs to you; and let me say for your consolation, that if i read her aright, there is one drop of sweetness in this otherwise bitter cup, she will never love again." she gave him one earnest look, then dropping her eyes, seemed lost in thought for several minutes. "yes," she said at length, "i think you are right. and she has passed this trying ordeal safely?" "yes." clasping her hands in her lap and lifting her eyes to heaven, "i thank thee, oh my father, for that," she murmured in tones so low that the words scarcely reached kenneth's ear. he stood looking down upon her with loving, compassionate eyes. ah, if it were but in his power to remove every thorn from her path! that might not be, but her face had resumed its wonted expression of sweet and calm submission. she glanced up at him, her fine eyes full of affectionate pride. "you have told me nothing yet of yourself, kenneth. how fares it with you, my boy? sit down here by my side and open all your heart to me as you used to do. i see you have something to tell," she added, watching the changes of his countenance as he took the offered chair, "something of joy and something of sorrow." "yes, mother, i have learned that long sought secret, and it brings me both gladness and grief," he answered with emotion. "you have found her?" she asked in almost breathless, half credulous astonishment. "yes, mother, reumah clark, and--" "wait one moment," she faltered, pressing her hand to her heart. he knelt at her side and threw an arm about her waist. she laid her head on his shoulder, heaving a gentle sigh. "now," she whispered, "tell me all. oh, that terrible, terrible day. i can never recall it without a shudder." his story did not go back to the scenes of that dreadful day on which he first saw the light. he merely gave a brief account of his interview with reumah clark, confining himself chiefly to her explanation of the mark which proved his identity, and her assertion that she had looked for and seen it at the time of his birth. mrs. clendenin raised her head, showing a face radiant with joy and thankfulness. "oh, my dear boy, what glad news for you, what a burden removed! and yet--ah, i am not the happy mother of such a son!" and her eyes filled with tears. "no, that is the bitter drop in the cup, sweet mother, for i must still call you so, unless you forbid it. and, thank god, we are of the same blood." "yes, yes, my own mother's child by birth, mine own by adoption, we are very near and dear to one another," she whispered, clinging to him in a close and tender embrace. for a moment there was utter silence between them, then she spoke musingly, as if half talking to him, half thinking aloud. "i have often wondered over that mark, but could find no clue to it, for my mother never mentioned the occurrence to me, and i knew nothing of the mark upon clark's arm. ah, had i known, how much of anxiety and mental suffering might have been spared us both!" "yes," he assented with almost a groan, thinking of his lost love. she saw the anguish in his face and with tender questioning at length drew the whole story from him. "do not despair," she said when he had finished, "i think the man has told you a falsehood. i understand woman's nature better than you can, and such a girl as you have described would never give herself to such a man. and now the seal is taken from your lips and you may declare your love and sue for hers in return. ah, my dear boy, i trust happy days are in store for you even on this side of jordan." she looked into his eyes with hers so full of loving pride, tender sympathy and joyful anticipation, that hope revived in his desponding heart. chapter xxx. "one thing more, mother, before marian joins us," kenneth said, breaking a pause in the conversation; "she surely need know nothing of the discovery we have made. i once at her earnest request told her of the doubt, and she was sorely distressed by it; to use her own expression, could hardly endure the thought that i might not be her very own brother! shall we not let her remain in ignorance of that which could bring her nothing but sorrow?" "you are right, kenneth, we will bury it in our own hearts, so far as she is concerned, along with that other, terrible secret," sighed the mother in low, tremulous tones. they were silent again for a little, there was so much food for perplexing thought in the circumstances that surrounded them; then, "who is this lyttleton?" she asked. "coming first here, taking pains to ingratiate himself with marian, asking many questions about you, afterward appearing in chillicothe, having in the meantime visited virginia, very possibly tennessee also; does it not look as if he had a design in it all, a purpose to carry out?" "it does indeed!" cried kenneth in surprise and perplexity; "and if so, doubtless he will cross my path again; perhaps marian's also; but woe to him if he attempts further harm to that dear child!" he added with stern and angry determination. "o kenneth, beware!" exclaimed the mother half frightened at such vehemence in one usually so self-controlled, "if he have evil designs toward our darling, we must baffle them by keeping her out of his way." "we must indeed," he said in quieter though not less resolute tones; "and while i am here she shall be my special care." a few days later light was thrown on this dark question by a letter forwarded by dale from chillicothe, enclosed in one from himself stating that he now had reumah clark's evidence in proper shape. the enclosure was from england, and brought news of the death of a brother of kenneth's own father, the last of that family. he had left a very considerable property, to which kenneth was the rightful heir, both by law and the provisions of his uncle's will, in case he could prove his identity; failing that, lyttleton, though only very distantly related, would inherit for lack of a nearer heir. he had therefore a strong motive for wishing to destroy whatever proof of kenneth's real parentage might exist, unless he could make sure that such proof would be in favor of the supposition that kenneth was the child of his reputed parent, the younger of the two clendenins of the tennessee tragedy. hence his efforts to bribe reumah clark to silence. he had visited the neighborhood of the tragedy and learned just enough to assure him that if any living person could supply the missing link in the evidence, it was she and she alone. if he could prevent her doing so, kenneth's claims must inevitably fall to the ground, and by its failure his own succession be secured. in his interview with the woman he was made aware of the fact that one of the children bore a distinguishing mark, but it was impossible to discover whether kenneth were that one or the other. in these letters, written by the attorney of the deceased gentleman, kenneth was informed of the antagonism of his own and lyttleton's interests, warned that the latter might be supposed to entertain designs against him, and informed that he had gone to america. these letters and the answers to them were shown to mrs. clendenin and quietly discussed with her when marian was not present. it seemed, in the light of these revelations, almost a foregone conclusion that lyttleton was the man who had so nearly succeeded in preventing kenneth from gaining the all-important evidence of the white squaw of the indian brave; and while the discovery of the englishman's perfidious character gave clendenin increased hope that his boast of having won miss lamar was false, it also augmented his anxiety for her in case it should prove true. the impulse to return at once to chillicothe and seek an interview with her was often strong upon him. yet he put it resolutely aside for marian's sake; so all-important to her seemed his watchful care just at this crisis. and most wisely, tenderly, lovingly was the duty performed. they were seldom apart in her waking hours, and he exerted himself to the utmost to comfort and soothe, to amuse, to entertain, and by interesting her in other matters, to keep her thoughts from dwelling upon her grief and disappointment. it was no longer unrequited love, for she had, as she said, cast lyttleton out of her heart the moment she had discovered his utter unworthiness; but the heart was sore, nevertheless, and the niche once filled by the now broken idol, an aching void. her newly awakened woman's pride, too, was deeply wounded, and yet it came to her aid, helping her to bear up with resolution against the crushing sense of loss and humiliation; deceived and wronged she had been, but none should know how deeply; none, save the two to whom she was so dear, suspect that any such calamity had befallen her. kenneth kept his patient much in the open air. the days were long, warm and bright, and the two, or sometimes it was the three, when household cares could be laid aside by the mother, taking an early start, and carrying lunch, books and work with them, would seek out one or another secluded spot, some little glen among the hills, or some level place along their sides, or on their summits, that gave them a fine view of the lower country, and where tree or vine or towering rock shielded them pleasantly from the too fervid rays of the sun, and there while away the hours, till the lengthening shadows warned them it was time to return. from her earliest recollection marian had loved kenneth with well-nigh passionate devotion; he was to her the impersonation of all that is good and noble. her father had been a perplexity and at times almost a terror to her; silent, gloomy, his presence ever like a dark shadow in the house, ever imposing a vague restraint upon all manifestation of mirth and gladness. her mother had heart and mind so intent upon him, that, while loving her child very dearly, she had little time or opportunity to study her disposition or win her confidence. she was one indeed respected, honored, looked up to as counsellor and guide, an authority never to be questioned, but it was kenneth, her one brother, who was her closest intimate and confident of all her childish joys, sorrows and perplexities. in his early childhood the father had been a different man, bright, cheery, pleasant tempered and genial; the mother able to do all a mother's part by him. he understood the change and its cause; understood also marian's needs, and earnestly strove to supply to her whatever was lacking by reason of the strange and sad vicissitude that had come upon the family. angus, born in the same hour with kenneth, was the eldest child, marian the youngest and the last of the four or five who filled the gap between, and who had passed away from earth while she was still a mere babe. thus everything conspired to make kenneth all in all to her in the early days before he left home to pursue his medical studies. since that he had been in all his absences her one correspondent; and except in the one matter of her acquaintance with lyttleton, she had been wont to pour out to him, in that way, her thoughts and feelings without reserve. during the last year she had written but seldom, and the alteration in the tone of her letters, the few that he had received being short and constrained, had greatly puzzled and troubled him. now he comprehended the cause. but the old unrestraint and confidence had returned, and the poor girl found the greatest consolation and support in kenneth's presence, kenneth's sympathy and love. "her dear, dear brother," she called him, and he did not intend she should ever learn that he was not. thus cheered and comforted, she soon began to regain strength, flesh and color; spirits too, till at times her silvery laugh rang out quite merrily. one morning, several weeks after kenneth's return, he and marian were out among the hills at no great distance from home, where they had left mrs. clendenin busied with some domestic duty. marian ambled along on her pony, kenneth walking by its side, caius leaping and bounding, now before, and now behind, now in silence and anon waking the echoes with joyous bark. the sagacious creature evidently rejoiced over the improvement visible in his young mistress. "here is prospect hill," remarked kenneth; "do you feel equal to climbing it? the slope is very gentle on this side, and i think your pony will carry you full two-thirds of the way up. for the rest you shall have the support of my arm." "oh, yes," she answered almost eagerly; "we have not been there together for years, and i always enjoy the view so much." they made the ascent slowly, stopping now and again to take in the view from different points. when the way grew too steep for the pony kenneth tethered him to a tree, and lifting marian from the saddle, half carried her to the top of the hill. the prospect here was very fine; looking off from a precipice two hundred feet high, they could take in the whole extent of their own little valley and many miles of country lying beyond it, beautifully diversified with hill and dale, meandering streams, forest and cultivated fields, farm-houses and villages stretching away far as the eye could reach, toward the west and north; while on the south and east the lofty alleghenies shut in the view, seemingly at no great distance, though in reality miles away. with a folded shawl laid over the roots of a tree kenneth made a comfortable seat for marian within two or three yards of the edge of the cliff; then threw himself down beside her, and they fell into cheerful chat, calling each other's attention to the varied beauties of the landscape spread out before them, and talking of other days when they had gazed upon it together. neither of them had cast a look behind as they came up the hill, so they had not seen a man who stepped out of the woods into the road below just as they began the ascent, and stood for a moment gazing after them, then stealthily followed, not by the path they were pursuing, but creeping along a little to one side, under cover of the bushes and trees that thickly clothed that part of the hill. reaching the top, still unnoticed, for their faces were turned from him, he concealed himself behind a clump of evergreens whence he could take cognizance of both their movements and their talk, without danger of discovery. it was lyttleton, who had followed kenneth into this neighborhood and was prowling about with no very settled purpose, but with a vague idea of finding some means of removing him from his path. it might be that with the assistance of his valet alone he could, if circumstances should favor the design, carry out even yet the plan which had so signally failed under the auspices of bill shark and brannon. he had spent many an hour in watching the brother and sister and listening to their mutual confidences, when they little dreamed of his vicinity. thus he had learned of marian's changed feelings toward himself and how he had sunk in her estimation. his vanity was sorely wounded, and as blessings brighten as they take their flight, he began to grow very desirous to win back her esteem and affection. suffering had spiritualized her beauty, and watching the play of her features and her changing color as she conversed so unreservedly with kenneth, he sometimes pronounced it superior to that of miss lamar. yes, he began, now that it was beyond his reach, to covet the jewel he had won, then carelessly and heartlessly thrown aside. she had never looked lovelier than on this particular morning, and the impulse came strongly upon him to go to her and make an effort to recover lost ground. why should he not present himself as having just come, after unavoidable detention, to fulfill his promise of return, he queried with himself, forgetting for the moment that he had told kenneth he was engaged to miss lamar; thus proving that he was false to marian; and only remembering that kenneth could know nothing of the plots against his liberty and his inheritance to his uncle's estate. he would have preferred to see marian alone, his inordinate self-esteem assuring him that in that case he would have little difficulty in re-establishing himself in her good graces; but clendenin was always with her. therefore no time could be better than the present; and just then, as if to favor his design, kenneth rose and left her; going to the very verge of the precipice, where he stood for several minutes gazing down into the little valley at its foot. lyttleton approached her with quick but noiseless tread, and happening to raise her eyes they encountered his as he stood close at her side intently scanning her features. she uttered a little cry of mingled surprise and alarm, at which kenneth turned instantly and flew to the rescue. "don't be alarmed, sweet one," lyttleton said; but the words had scarcely left his lips when he found himself confronted by kenneth, who with form erect and flashing eyes, sternly demanded of him, "how dare you, sir, venture to address my sister after the shameful manner in which you have acted toward her?" "she is your sister, is she, sir? that is good news for me," lyttleton said, with a malicious gleam in his eyes. "i am most happy to hear it." "i am her natural protector and intend to prove myself such in good earnest," returned kenneth. "as for you, sir, i have lately become aware of, not only your perfidious conduct toward this poor innocent child, but also who you are and your probable errand to this country." lyttleton grew pale with anger and fear. he did not think at the moment of clendenin having received news from england, but supposed shark, brannon or hans had betrayed him; or perhaps reumah clark; though she could have told nothing save that he had bribed her to silence. a moment he stood shamefaced and irresolute, then anger getting the better of fear, he turned furiously upon his antagonist, heaping the most virulent abuse upon him, calling him coward, villain, supplanter, accusing him of robbing him of fortune and lady-love, and vowing sleepless revenge. he drew nearer and nearer to kenneth, as he spoke, using violent and threatening gesticulations; and the latter confronting him with calm, quiet, yet sternly determined face, kept constantly stepping back to avoid a collision, till again he stood on the very verge of the precipice; but with his back to it, and in the forgetfulness caused by excitement, utterly unconscious of his danger. whether lyttleton was aware of it is uncertain, but he struck him a blow that sent him toppling over, and with a wild cry, echoed by marian, the terrified witness of the whole scene, he disappeared from sight. lyttleton shrieked, fell on his knees and crawling, shuddering and trembling, to the edge looked over. there down at the bottom of the steep descent of two hundred feet, lay something, indistinctly seen because of the distance and intervening trees, that looked like a confused and lifeless heap. "oh my god, have mercy! i have killed him!" he cried, springing to his feet. "i've killed him! i've killed him!" he repeated clenching his hands and groaning aloud in an agony of terror and remorse. "i've killed him, but god knows i didn't intend it!" he glanced at marian. she lay in a little white heap apparently as dead as the one at the foot of the precipice. then with flying footsteps he fled down the hill, by the way he had come, nor paused, nor looked back till he reached the spot, some half mile distant, where he had left hans and the horses. the valet, spite of all his natural stolid indifference under ordinary circumstances, was startled into an exclamation of wonder and dismay at sight of his master's pallid, terror-stricken countenance. "mine gott! mynheer, vat ish happen you, to see von pig ghost?" lyttleton shivered with the thought that he had evoked a ghost that would haunt him all his days. "nonsense," he said in a hoarse whisper and glancing fearfully behind him; "there's been an accident; clendenin has fallen down a precipice and is probably killed, and i may be suspected of having had something to do with it. i must mount and away in haste. i shall take yonder road and travel east. do you go and settle our bill for board, and follow me with the luggage. "all haste, we must be miles away from here before the thing is discovered! fortunately i had expressed my intention of leaving to-day or to-morrow, so that our sudden departure need excite no suspicion. "not a word of the accident to any one, remember; be discreet and prompt, and you shall not fail of your reward." with the last words he vaulted into the saddle, put spurs to his horse and galloped away at the top of his speed. what cared he for the helpless girl whom he had left lying insensible and alone upon the hill top? ah, he cursed her between his clenched teeth, and wished she might never wake again to tell of his foul deed; she, its only human witness. chapter xxxi. no, marian was not quite alone; her four-footed friend and protector would not forsake her, though for a time he seemed divided between the duty of watching over her and succoring kenneth. when the latter fell, caius sprang forward with a loud bark, as with the double purpose to save him and to avenge him upon his cowardly assailant; but marian's cry recalled him instantly to her side. he stood over her, gazing into her white, rigid face with a low whine, then he gently tried to rouse her, pulling at her dress, then licking her hands, and then her face. at last she opened her eyes, sat up and looked about her. where was she? what had happened? where was kenneth? it all came back to her, and with an anguished cry she staggered to her feet, drew tremblingly, shudderingly near to the edge of the cliff and looked down. nothing to be seen but rocks and trees and the little stream quietly wending its way through the valley below. "kenneth!" she shrieked wildly, "kenneth! kenneth!" but there was no answer, and now her eye caught that little confused heap. was it he? she seemed to recognize the clothing he had worn. oh, he was dead, how could it be otherwise after that fearful fall! she swooned again and caius dragged her away from the perilous spot and renewed his efforts to revive her. how long it was before he succeeded she could never tell, or how, when at last consciousness returned, she made her way to her pony, untethered him and got upon his back. she left him to his own guidance, and he took the right road for home. she seemed to see nothing but kenneth lying cold and dead at the foot of the precipice, to know nothing but that he was gone from her forever, and that lyttleton, the man she had once loved, was his murderer. the pony stopped at the gate; marian lifted her head. what, who was that coming slowly and with limping, halting gait to meet her from the other direction? she looked again, and a cry of joy, so intense that it was near akin to pain, burst from her pallid lips. torn, bruised, scratched, disheveled, clothing hanging in tatters, the difficult, awkward, evidently painful and toilsome movement, as different as possible from his accustomed free, manly, energetic carriage, it was yet, without doubt, kenneth himself. caius bounded toward him with a joyous bark of recognition, and marian sprang to the ground and rushed with outstretched arms to meet him, crying, "o, kenneth, kenneth, is it, can it be you? oh, i thought--i thought--" the rest was lost in a burst of weeping, as she clasped him close, then, holding him off, gazed shudderingly into his face, so bruised, wan and bloody that she might well have doubted if it were indeed he. "yes," he gasped, staggering and catching at the fence for support, "i have had a wonderful deliverance. and you, darling? oh, the lord be praised that you are here safe and sound!" their approach had been seen from the house, and mother and servants now came running to ask what had befallen, every face full of agitation and alarm at sight of kenneth's condition. but seeing that he was half-fainting, the mother stopped all questioning till he could be got into the house, laid upon a bed and his wounds dressed. there were no bones broken, he presently assured her of that, but the jar to the whole system, the bruises and cuts, would confine him to his couch for some days. great was her astonishment when told whence he had fallen. "how is it possible you can have escaped alive?" she exclaimed, her usually calm face full of emotion; "it seems nothing short of a miracle!" "yes," he said, with deep gravity, and a far away look in his eyes; "my thought, as i felt myself falling, was that i was going to certain, instant death; but there was a joyful consciousness that all would be well." "but what saved you?" she asked, in almost breathless excitement. "the trees and the sand, joined to my light weight, were my heavenly father's instruments to that end," he answered with his grave, tender smile. "the bank of the stream just there is a deep bed of soft sand; that is overhung by waterwillows with very thick, very pliant branches; and towering above them, from fifty to seventy feet high, are oaks and other varieties of trees. i must have fallen first into those, and without striking any large branch, from them into the willows, and from them on to the bed of sand. "i was there when i came to myself; how long i had lain there insensible i cannot tell, but it must have been a good while. i had a good deal of difficulty in dragging myself home; could not get to marian by any shorter route, and thought to send zeb for her. "poor child! i was very anxious about you," he added, with an affectionate glance at her, "for i did not know but the englishman might have carried you off." "he's bad enough, no doubt, if he had wanted me," she cried indignantly; "but it seems he did not, fortunately." she alone, of the three, showed any feeling of bitterness toward lyttleton; with the others resentment was swallowed up in thankfulness. they made no effort for the apprehension of the criminal, and indeed let it be supposed by their friends and acquaintances, and even their own servants, that kenneth's fall was accidental. they heard casually, in a day or two, that lyttleton had been a boarder for several weeks past at a solitary farm-house some miles distant, but had left on the day of dr. clendenin's accident, travelling in an easterly direction. the sudden turn affairs had taken proved a decided benefit to marian. her thoughts were turned from herself and her sorrows to her suffering brother. she was his nurse; quite as devoted and affectionate as he had been to her, and, in her detestation of lyttleton's crime, she lost the last vestige of regard for him, of regret of his desertion. she could never again be quite the careless child she was of yore, but grief and disappointment had lost their keen edge, and she would one day emulate the calm, placid resignation of her mother. the change that came over her greatly lightened the hearts of the two who loved her so dearly. for kenneth, too, clouds and darkness were breaking away, and the star of hope shone brightly. he at first thought lyttleton's accusation against him, that he had robbed him of his lady-love, referred to marian; but on reflection he felt convinced that it was miss lamar the man meant; the admission being unguardedly made while half maddened by anger and resentment. it seemed very unlikely that he would have left chillicothe just then, so suddenly and for such a length of time, and without bidding adieu to nell, if they were really engaged. beside, dale in his last letter had expressed in strong terms his conviction that lyttleton's boast was utterly false. as kenneth thought on these things and remembered that he was now free to win the long coveted prize, if he could; as he talked it all over with her whom he still called mother, his impatience to get back to chillicothe grew apace. a visit to england would be necessary for the settlement of his affairs there, but the business which called him to chillicothe was of far more importance in his esteem, and must be attended to first. he took marian into his confidence as far as might be without causing her sorrow and distress, and with the promise of a visit to glen forest both on his way to the sea-board when about to set sail for england, and on his return, reconciled her to his departure for ohio as soon as he was sufficiently recovered from his fall to be able to travel. chapter xxxii. evening was closing in upon the scioto valley after a day of incessant rain often accompanied by sharp flashes of lightning and heavy peals of thunder; the streets were flooded, the trees, shrubbery, all things not under shelter, were dripping with moisture; and still the rain fell in torrents and at intervals the thunder crashed overhead, waking the echoes of the hills and frightening the timid and nervous with its prolonged and angry roar. it was just as it had grown too dark for those within doors to distinguish passers by, who, indeed were very few and far between, and during one of the heaviest showers, and the most terrific discharge of thunder and lightning, that dr. clendenin and his attendant, zeb, came dashing into the town and hastily alighted at the door of the doctor's office. hearing, between the thunder peals, the sound of horses' hoofs, and clendenin's voice giving directions to zeb, dale rushed to the door to greet his friend; in his great delight more than half inclined to embrace him after the fashion of womankind. "hello, doc! are you actually here _in propria persona_? well i must say this is a most agreeable ending of an intensely disagreeable day. i am glad to see you; think i was never gladder in my life!" he went on, shaking kenneth's hand again and again; "but i wonder how you had the courage to push on in spite of such a storm. must have had trouble in crossing some of the streams, hadn't you?" "yes, we had to swim our horses several times," kenneth answered, beginning to divest himself of his wet outer garments. "i'd have taken refuge in some hospitable farm-house till the storm was over," said dale, helping him off with his overcoat. "we stopped and had supper at shirley's, and i was strongly urged to stay till morning; but really felt it impossible to sleep within five miles of chillicothe," clendenin said with a gayety of look and tone that struck dale as something new in him. "hello! old fellow, you seem in rare good spirits," he remarked in a tone of mingled surprise and pleasure. "i believe i am; and yet a little anxious too," kenneth answered, his face growing grave. "how are all our friends here?" "all flourishing at the major's," laughed dale, with a quizzical look. "ah ha! i believe i have an inkling of the reason why you couldn't stop short of chillicothe. but you'll not think of making friendly calls in such weather. they'd think you crazy, man." clendenin's only reply was a quiet smile. truly he meant to be knocking at the major's door within the next half hour. what, live in suspense till another day, while within three minutes walk of her who held his fate in her hands? impossible! 'twould take a severer tempest than the one now raging to keep him from her side. dale, watching him with curious scrutiny, read all this in his speaking countenance, yet was morally certain he would not enter the major's doors that night--duty would erect a more impassable barrier than the fiercest war of the elements. "doc," he said with rueful look, as he perceived that his friend was nearly ready to sally forth upon his eagerly desired errand, "i hate most confoundedly to have you disappointed, but the truth is--" "what! godfrey, you surely said they were all well? has--has anything--" "no, no, you needn't turn pale, or be in the least alarmed. it's only that you're called another way. fact is flora barbour's lying at death's door; buell's given her up, and barbour's been round here several times to-day, knowing that i'd got a letter and you were expected, and made me promise over and over again to get you there as soon as possible in case you came. you see they have the greatest confidence in your skill, and can't give up the hope that you can save her yet." without a word, but scarcely able to suppress a heavy sigh, kenneth at once began preparations to obey the unexpected call. "i declare it's a shame!" cried dale, "i wouldn't be a doctor, to come and go at everybody's beck and call, for a mint of money." "it's a noble profession, godfrey, spite of some serious drawbacks," returned clendenin, constrained to smile at his friend's vehemence, albeit his disappointment was really very great. protecting himself as well as might be from the deluge of rain that as yet knew no abatement, he hurried on his way. the barbours had, like most of their neighbors, exchanged their log cabin for a comfortable two story dwelling, and from an upper window the light of a candle gleamed out upon the darkness of the street. kenneth glanced up at it with the thought that there the sick girl was lying. mr. barbour met him at the door. "thank god you have come; though i'm afraid it's too late," he said in a hoarse whisper, wringing kenneth's hand. "don't despair, while there's life, there's hope," kenneth answered feelingly. "shall i go to her at once?" "yes; but maybe you'd like to see buell first. he's in here," opening an inner door. dr. buell, who was seated at a table measuring out medicines, rose and came forward to meet dr. clendenin. the two shook hands cordially, buell saying, "i am very glad to see you, sir! you are the family physician, and i trust will now take charge of the case." "i should like to consult with you, doctor," kenneth said. "what is the disease?" in answer dr. buell gave a full report of the symptoms and the treatment thus far; the two consulted for a few moments, then went together to the sick room. they entered noiselessly. the room was silent as the grave. the patient lay in a deathlike sleep; and beside her, motionless as a statue, watching intently for the slightest movement, sat, not the mother, she was too nervous, too full of real or imaginary ailments of her own, to be a fit nurse for her child, but nell lamar, sweeter, fairer, lovelier in her lover's eyes than ever before. his heart thrilled with ecstatic joy at the sight, but her eyes remained fixed upon the deathlike face on the pillow, and a slight deepening of the rose on her cheek alone gave token of a consciousness of their entrance. they lingered but a moment, withdrew as noiselessly as they had entered, and held a second consultation. both pronounced it the crisis of the disease and thought that the next few hours would decide the question of life or death. "miss lamar has proved herself an excellent nurse," said dr. buell, "and has promised to stay with her through the night. i meant to share her vigil, if you had not come, clendenin, but i have lost a good deal of rest lately and have a very sick patient of my own." "it is my turn," was kenneth's prompt reply, "and i shall not leave her till the crisis is past." dr. buell now took his departure and dr. clendenin found himself compelled to spend some time in attendance upon mrs. barbour, and in comforting and encouraging the distressed husband and father. at length he was free to return to the sick room, and in another moment was standing close beside her who had for years held dominion over his noble, manly heart, and into whose ear he longed with inexpressible longing to pour out the story of his love. yet must he remain mute, for no word might be spoken to break the silence of the room where life and death were trembling in the balance. but he stood gazing down upon the loved face till some magnetic spell forced the beautiful violet eyes to lift themselves to his. ah, words were not needed! his eyes now spoke joy and entreaty too, as well as love, and she knew that the barrier which had so long separated them, whatever it might have been, was swept away. her eyes dropped beneath his ardent gaze, a vivid charming blush suddenly suffusing her cheek, then again yielding to that magic spell were timidly raised to his. he held out his hand, she laid hers in it and found it held fast in a warm tender clasp that would not let it go, that seemed to speak proprietorship; and strangely enough, considering how highly she had always valued her liberty--she did not care to resist the claim, nor did she repulse him even when, presently, he bowed his head and pressed a passionate kiss upon the white fingers. the patient slept on; the family retired to rest and utter stillness reigned through all the house; outside there was the incessant drip, drip of the rain, but not a solitary footstep passed; it seemed as though they two were alone in the world save for that motionless form on the bed. there came another terrific peal of thunder, yet the sleeper did not stir, but nell instinctively drew nearer her companion, while he with the impulse to protect her, threw an arm about her waist and drew her close to his side. neither intended it, but the next instant their lips met and they knew they were betrothed. blushing deeply, though her eyes shone and her heart thrilled with an exquisite joy, nell would have withdrawn herself from his embrace, but he gently detained her; she was his and he could not let her go yet; and again she yielded to his stronger will. she wondered at her own submissiveness as she realized to-night that it was a positive pleasure to be ruled. the hours flew by on viewless wings; it was no hard task to keep that vigil, yet the physician was not forgotten in the lover. toward morning the patient awoke and recognized her watchers with a pleased smile. the crisis was safely passed. nell knew it instantly by the glad look in the doctor's face. he held a cup to flora's lips, saying in a low quiet tone, "swallow this, my child, and go to sleep again." she obeyed. he drew a long sigh of relief. he had been bending over her in intense anxiety for the last half hour. "saved! the lord be praised!" he whispered, turning to nell with shining eyes. then, taking her hand, "my darling, my own, is it not so?" she astonished herself and him by bursting into a passion of tears. it was simply overwrought nerves. she had been exceedingly anxious about flora and had watched beside her day and night for nearly a week. after months of mental disquietude because of apparently unrequited love, the revulsion of feeling was too sudden and too great for the worn out physical frame, and this was the result. he understood it in a moment. "let the tears have their way," he said tenderly; "it will do you good. i will leave you for a little, while i carry this good news to the anxious parents." by the time he came back nell had recovered her composure, but was too shamefaced to look at him. "well, fair lady, will you vouchsafe an answer to my question now?" he asked, kneeling before her and taking both hands in his, while he looked into her eyes with his own brimful of tenderness, love and joy. "i'm not worth having," she answered with unwonted humility, speaking in the whispered tone that he had used. "that is for me to judge," he returned, with laughing eyes. "but do be kind enough to answer my question. or let me put it in another form. will you have me, have me for protector and provider, lover, husband and friend?" "yes, if you will take me in exchange, and not think it a bad bargain," she said with a sudden impulse, and hid her blushing face on his breast as he folded her close with a glad solemn "god bless you, my darling! i shall be the gainer a thousand fold!" chapter xxxiii. the storm was over and the rain drops on tree, shrub and flower, glittered like untold wealth of diamonds in the bright rays of the newly risen sun, as clendenin and nell walked down the street together. there was nothing in the looks or manner of either to excite curiosity or suspicion in those who saw them pass. he left her at her brother's door with a half playful order, not from the lover but the physician, to take some breakfast and go directly to bed and to sleep. "i shall not promise," she answered saucily, lifting a a pair of bright, roguishly smiling eyes to his face, "i have not resigned my liberty yet, you know." "ah well, i think i may count on obedience," he said with the grave, tender smile that had first won her heart. "i want you to rest all day and let me come to you this evening," he whispered, bending down to speak close to her ear, "i have much to tell you, my darling. you have a right to know what so long prevented my lips from repeating the story you must have read a thousand times in my eyes, if they spoke the true language of my heart." "never mind, i am quite content without the knowledge if, as your face seems to say, it is something painful," she said with generous confidence, and sudden gravity of looks and tone. "nay, dearest, you shall hear it. i will have no secrets from her who is to be 'bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh,' the nearest and dearest of all created beings," he said, lifting her hands to his lips. her eyes filled with happy, grateful tears, as from the vine covered porch where they had had their chat, she watched him hurrying away down the street, then turned and went into the house. "was that dr. clendenin?" asked clare, meeting her in the hall. "yes." "why didn't he come in and take breakfast with us?" "i didn't ask him." "you didn't? nell lamar, i'm ashamed of your rude behavior to that man! if he treats you henceforward with the coldest politeness, i am sure it will be no more than you deserve." a curious smile trembled about the corners of nell's lips for an instant, then was gone. "flora has passed the crisis," she remarked, "and the doctor says will get well if she has proper care." "oh, i am glad!" "can you take my place for to-day? he wouldn't let me stay, and her mother would kill her with the fretting and worrying." "no wonder he wouldn't let you stay. you look wretchedly tired. yes; i'll go over presently. you'd better eat your breakfast at once and go directly to bed." "i will," nell answered with unaccustomed meekness, and proceeded to redeem her promise without delay. kenneth, too, needed rest after his wearisome journey and long night vigil, but did not seek it till a letter telling of his great happiness had been written to the dear ones at glen forest, and sent to the mail by zeb. nell came down at tea-time to find the major alone in the parlor. he looked up on her entrance, with a smile that brought swift blushes to her cheek, then rose and came to meet her. "i know all about it, nell," he said, giving her a brotherly kiss. "you have made me very happy by the wisdom of your choice; i shall be proud of my new brother. ah, here he is just coming in at the gate! you must let me share the pleasure of his society now, and after tea i will take care that you have the parlor to yourselves." kenneth's eyes shone at sight of his betrothed. sleep had refreshed her and restored her bloom, and her simple white dress with no ornaments save a few delicate, sweet-scented blossoms at her throat and in her hair was very becoming. the major kept his word, and early in the evening they found themselves sole occupants of the parlor. then, seated by her side, with her hand in his, kenneth told the story of his birth and the accompanying tragedy; then went on to tell of the removal of his supposed parents to glen forest, and of the life there. he described his childhood as bright and happy. angus and he believed themselves, and were believed by others to be twins. they were devotedly attached and almost inseparable. the parents made no difference between them, and indeed, had no reason for so doing, as they were entirely unable to decide which of the two was their own child. the boys knew nothing about the circumstances attending their birth except that at or near that time there had been an attack by the indians in which their mother's stepfather had been slain, and that the shock had killed his wife; she being just then very ill and weak. they could perceive that their mother was at times oppressed with sad memories of that fearful past, but for the most part she was very cheerful, and they found her ever ready to sympathize with them in joy as well as grief. the father was inclined to be somewhat strict in his discipline, but kind and genial, a parent whom they sincerely loved and respected. nell listened with intense interest; wondering within herself too, why the doubt as to which of the two couples were his true parents should have been, as she began to perceive that it had, a reason why dr. clendenin should feel that marriage was not for him; in either case his birth was not ignoble. he paused, seeming for a moment lost in painful thought, then casting it off with a slight sigh, went on. "yes, ours was a very happy childhood till we, angus and i, were about twelve years old. then sickness and death came into the family, two little sisters being taken away within a few weeks of each other. "the heart of the tender mother seemed well-nigh broken; but alas! the time came when she was unutterably thankful for their early removal to a better land. "there were still two little ones, a brother and sister, left, and within the next two years marian was born. "troubles came thick and fast during the first year of her life. there was a great and sudden change in our father. he had received a package of letters and papers from england, and from the hour of their perusal was a strangely altered man; silent, morose, disinclined to mix with his fellows, or even with his own family, and at times looking haggard and wretched in the extreme. "it was a sad mystery to us boys, but mother, who seemed to have a sorrowful understanding of it, hushed every enquiry into its cause, and would suffer no allusion to it in her presence. "a few months later came one of the sorest trials of my life," continued kenneth, his voice trembling with excess of feeling. "angus, my twin brother, my second self, was accidentally drowned. i cannot dwell upon the particulars, but shall never forget my mother's look of woe, her white despairing face, as the dripping corpse was borne and laid down before her, nor the strange unnatural laugh, the expression of mingled agony and triumphant pleasure, with which the father bent over his dead son, saying, 'it's better so! wife, why do you grieve? i've no tear to shed for him.' "i was inexpressibly shocked and very angry at what i deemed his heartlessness. "this mother saw, with deep sorrow; she loved her husband devotedly, and could not bear to have him unjustly blamed. she felt, too, that it would be necessary at some time for me to know the fatal secret. so one day, after the grave had closed over all that remained of our loved one, she sought me in my room and told me all. "her husband was an only child, had lost his father by death shortly before coming to this country. of his mother he had no recollection, but had always understood that she had died soon after his birth. "that, however, was not the case, and those letters from england had revealed to him the fact that she had only just died, at the time when they were written; died in a mad house, a furious, raving maniac, having been in that condition for many years; also that such had been her mother's fate, and that of several others of the family; in short, insanity was undoubtedly hereditary. "from the moment of learning all this he had felt that his doom was sealed, and that of each of his children also. "i cannot describe to you the horror and fear that came over me as i listened to the tale. then mother told me, oh, so gently and tenderly, of the mystery that hung over my birth; leaving, while it almost orphaned me, a faint hope that that fearful curse was not mine. "and now you know, sweet one, why, when i would fain have poured into your ear the story of my love, my lips were sealed. i could not ask you to link your life with that of one for whom so sad a fate might be in store. i dared not risk the transmission to future generations of a curse so fearful. "but god, in his great mercy, has sent me the knowledge that it is not mine," he added, with a look of deepest gratitude and joy. "and i was at times shamefully angry with you," murmured nell, penitent tears shining in her eyes. "i cannot blame you under the circumstances," he said, smiling tenderly upon her. "and this was the explanation of the rumors that reached us of some white woman, living among the indians, giving testimony before the squire in regard to some matter of importance to you?" "yes, it was reumah clark." and he went on to give a narrative of his interview with her, then to finish his story of the life at glen forest. the two remaining little ones older than marian, had followed angus to the better land in the course of a few months, leaving her sole inheritor--after her father--of that terrible curse. he described, in moving words, his own and the mother's anxiety for her, and for the wretched husband and father; the wife's life of devotion to him, the long years of fear and care, of untiring sympathy and love, of faith and submission; rewarded at last by seeing him pass peacefully away to another and happier existence, for he had gone trusting in a crucified and risen saviour. marian, still spared to them, was now their one great anxiety, but he was hopeful for her. she had stood some severe tests of late, and it might be, he trusted it was the case, that her mental powers and peculiarities were inherited from her mother's side of the house, or her father's paternal ancestors; all of whom were free from that dreaded taint. "we have endeavored, and thus far with success, to keep the fatal secret from her," he said, "deeming that her danger would be greatly enhanced by the knowledge. "she has long known there was a grievous thorn in the clendenin nest, but what it is she does not know, and i trust never will. her mother and i have also another innocent concealment from her. she still believes that i am her brother by right of birth; and we do not intend that she shall ever be undeceived." "no; it would be very cruel to rob her of the blessedness of believing that," nell said, with the sweetest look in her beautiful eyes, "to be your sister would be the greatest happiness, except to--" but she stopped short, blushing and confused. "except to be something far nearer and dearer? ah, tell me that was what you were thinking," he whispered, his eyes shining, as he bent his head for a closer look into the sweet, blushing face. "now, don't be too inquisitive, dr. clendenin," she said, in pretended vexation and pretty confusion. "never mind the doctor," he returned gayly. "kenneth is three syllables shorter and easier." "but not so respectful." "quite sufficiently so, however. it is marian's and my mother's name for me, and i hope will be my wife's also," he whispered. "oh, dearest, how soon may i claim the right to call you by that sweetest of names?" "ah, don't speak of that yet!" she said, hastily, her cheeks crimsoning, her eyes drooping. "forgive me, i am very selfish," he replied, "but it must be very soon or not for long weary months, while an ocean will roll between us; to say nothing of the hundreds of miles of land that will separate us besides." "what can you mean?" she asked, with a start and look of surprise and dismay. then he told her of his inheritance in england and the unfortunate necessity it entailed of a speedy visit there. it could not well be deferred till the ensuing spring, and must therefore be undertaken soon if he would avoid the dangerous storms likely to be encountered in the fall. "and you must go?" she said, struggling to keep back her tears. "yes," he sighed. "i cannot tell you how hard it is to think of leaving you just now, or how sweet it would be to call you mine before i go; and to know that, if anything should befall me, you would--" "oh, don't, don't!" she cried, the tears coming now in good earnest, "i can't bear it! i--i think you might ask me to go with you." "would you, oh, would you?" he exclaimed joyously. "my dear girl, how very sweet and kind in you to propose it." "did i?" she asked, smiling through her tears, as she gently released herself from his enraptured embrace. "i thought i only suggested the propriety of your asking me." "i feel very selfish in so doing, dearest nell," he said, "but will you go?" "yes, if you really want me and will take me." "only too gladly, ah, you cannot doubt that, but have you thought of the long, tedious journey overland, and the dangers of the voyage?" "yes; and how can i let you meet them alone?" "ah, my darling, you are the most unselfish of women," he exclaimed, regarding her with tender, loving admiration, "and i the happiest of men." "but," said nell presently, "you will have a poorly attired bride. i shall have no time to get new dresses made." "very much wiser to wait for that till we reach new york, london or paris," he answered, with his grave, tender smile. "'tis the bird i would secure, sweet one, and i care not for the color or quality of the feathers she may wear." so it was all settled, after a little more talk, and in a week they would be setting off for europe on their wedding tour. great were clare's astonishment and delight when she heard the news. "just the match i've always wanted for you, nell, even when i'd no idea he was going to be so rich." "he didn't say it would be riches," returned the young lady, supremely indifferent to such trifles. "but i dare say it will. at all events you are going to europe for your wedding trip. won't the other girls envy you? yet i don't know, nell, i should be afraid of the sea. what if you should be drowned?" "i hope we shall not," nell answered gravely, "but even if we should, i'd rather die with kenneth than live without him. and as to the envy the other girls may feel, i should think it would be because of him rather than anything else," she added, her cheeks glowing and her eyes shining. "oh, i suppose so!" laughed clare. "it's a great shame, though, that we can't have a grand wedding and elaborate trousseau. still the means can be provided for that last, all the same; and it will be lovely to have it bought in paris." the end transcriber's note: minor spelling inconsistencies, mainly hyphenated words, have been harmonized. obvious typos have been corrected. a "table of contents" section has been created especially for the e-version of the project for the benefit of the reader. generously made available by the canadian institute for historical microreproductions (www.canadiana.org).) mound-builders by rev. w. j. smyth, m.a., b.sc., ph.d. _pastor of st. joseph street presbyterian church, montreal._ published by request of natural history society, toronto. montreal: gazette printing company. april, . mound-builders by rev. william j. smyth, m.a., b.sc., ph.d. when the early settlers began to pioneer the unbroken forests of north america, they considered the various indian tribes to be the true aborigines of this continent. but long before the red man, even long before the growth of the present forests, there lived an ancient race, whose origin and fate are surrounded with impenetrable darkness. the remains of their habitations, temples and tombs, are the only voices that tell us of their existence. over broad areas, in the most fertile valleys, and along the numerous tributaries of the great rivers of the central and western portions of the united states, are to be found these wonderful remains, of the existence and origin of which, even the oldest red man could give no history. following in the track of these ancient tumuli, which have been raised with some degree of order and sagacity, we are bound to believe that they were constructed by a very intelligent and somewhat civilized race, who during long periods enjoyed the blessings of peace, but like most nations of the earth, at times were plunged in the horrors of war. we cannot tell by what name these strange people were known during their existence. but archæologists, to keep themselves safe, have given them the name of "mound-builders," from the nature of the structures left behind them. of this wonderful, semi-civilized, prehistoric race, we have no written testimony. their mysterious enclosures, implements of war, and comparatively impregnable fortifications, together with a few strange tablets, are the only evidence of their character, civilization, and doom. no contemporary race, if such there existed on this continent, has left any record of them. the mounds they have left are found in the western part of the state of new york, and extend, it is said, as far as nebraska. and as they have lately been found in the northwest, they have thus a much more northern limit than was at first thought, while the southern limit is the gulf of mexico. having seen only a few mounds in illinois, indiana and kentucky, i must confine my paper to those found in the state of ohio, where, during a residence of seventeen months, i made the closest investigation my time and duties permitted. in ohio, the number of mounds, including enclosures of different kinds, is estimated at about , , though it requires the greatest care to distinguish between the mounds proper and those subsequently erected by the indians. in some parts they are very close together, which is strong evidence that these regions were densely populated. in others, a solitary mound, with adjacent burial mounds, gives us the idea of a rural village or town. enclosures.--in the state of ohio, alone, there have been found , enclosures. some of these have walls ranging in height from three to thirty feet, enclosing areas of from ten to acres. those areas, enclosed by strong walls, erected in regions difficult of access, were undoubtedly intended as military enclosures; while those areas enclosed by slight walls, with no mounds to cover the openings, were intended as sacred enclosures. i shall leave the consideration of the sacred enclosures until i describe the temple, or sacrificial mounds, giving a brief outline of some of the famous fortifications built by those strange people. within convenient distance of the city of xenia, on little miami river in warren county, ohio, can be seen at any time that famous enclosure known as "fort ancient." there can be no mistake as to the intention of this wonderful enclosure. it is situated on the east bank of the miami on a most commanding position. on the east, two ravines originate, running on either side towards the river, leaving the great fortress on an elevation of feet above the river. the whole is surrounded by a wall of five miles in length, but owing to the uneven course of the river, there are only enclosed one hundred acres. the wall has numerous openings, which, however, are well protected by inner walls, or mounds. these openings could be occupied by warriors while the interior would not be exposed to the enemy. within the enclosure are disposed twenty-four reservoirs, which could be dexterously connected with springs, so that in time of siege, they would be comparatively independent. the strength of this fortress does not depend on the walls alone, which range in height from five to twenty feet, but upon its isolated position and steep sides. near the fortification are two large mounds from which run two parallel walls for , feet, and then unite, enclosing another mound. we cannot tell what part these outer walls and mounds played in the defence of this fortification. but we know that all give evidence of an immense garrison occupied by an ancient and somewhat civilized race, whose numerous enemies, doubtless, forced such strong defence. in point of inaccessibility, engineering skill, and strength, this famous enclosure will compare not unfavorably with edinburgh castle, the stronghold of quebec, or the impregnable gibraltar. another stronghold of considerable importance may be seen at fort hill, in highland county, on an elevation of feet, and enclosing an area of forty acres. there is another near piqua, on a hill feet high; and another near the city of dayton, on a hill feet high, where a mound is enclosed, which like the ancient watch-towers of scripture, can command a view of the whole surrounding country. near carlisle lies the site of another remarkable military enclosure, which overlooks the fertile valley, between the twin and miami rivers. two deep ravines fortify the north and south sides, while an almost perpendicular bluff fortifies the east. the wall which is partly of earth and partly of stone is , feet in length, and encloses a beautiful area of fifteen acres. the settlers state that in early times there were two stone mounds and one stone circle, which contained such excellent building stone, that they removed them for building purposes. they had to cut a way and grade it, to remove the stones, which those rude architects of early prehistoric times found no difficulty in taking from a distant quarry to that high elevation. we must therefore agree that their knowledge of the mechanical powers was far superior to anything the indian race has shown. about the largest fortification in ohio may be seen at bournville. it encloses a magnificent area of fertility, on an elevation of feet. the sides are remarkably steep, and are washed by small creeks, that empty into paint creek hard by. within the fortification are several depressions, where water remains most of the year. the area, of itself, would be a beautiful farm, as it consists of acres. the wall, which was about - / miles in length, is very much in ruins, being chiefly built of stone. some years ago the whole place was covered by the trees, and on the dilapidated stone wall, may still be seen immense trees, whose growth among the stones helped to displace them. the decayed wood beneath some of these trees indicates that successions of forests have flourished since these forts were abandoned by those who made them. graded ways.--it is well known that, in most of these valleys; there are several terraces, from the river bottom or flats, up to the high lands in the distance. near a place called piketown there is a beautiful graded avenue. the third terrace is seventeen feet above the second and the second about fourteen feet from the river flat. these terraces form, when graded, this avenue, which has walls on either side in height twenty-two feet. these walls run for , feet to the third terrace, where they continue to run for , feet, terminating in a group of mounds one of which is thirty feet high. some distance from these walls another wall runs feet at right angles, and then turns parallel for feet, when it curves inwardly for feet. mounds.--i stated at the outset that the mounds in ohio were very numerous. they are of various sizes, ranging from those which are only a few feet in height and a few yards at their base, to those which are about feet in height, and covering some acres at their base. these mounds are mostly composed of earth, the material often differing greatly from the surrounding soil. when we consider the multitudes of these mounds, and the immense transportation of earth and stones required in their structure, it needs no stretch of imagination to conclude that the mound-builders were a mighty race. most of these mounds are located near large rivers or streams, and, consequently, in the valleys, although some few are to be found on high lands, and even on hills very suitable for military purposes. sometimes they may be seen in clusters, indicating a great business centre and large population, while again only one may be found in a journey of fifty or one hundred miles. during the last fifty years, these tumuli have been carefully examined, and, from their contents, shape and position, they are now classified as temple or sacrificial mounds, burial or sepulchral mounds, symbolic mounds, signal mounds and indefinite mounds. i shall briefly describe the characteristic of each class and give a few examples. _temple mounds_.--these mounds are not so numerous in ohio as in some other states, yet they occur in sufficient numbers to deserve a small share of our attention. the city of marietta has slowly encroached upon some interesting remains of a sacrificial character, which consist of two irregular squares containing and acres respectively. they are situated on a level plain feet above the level of the ohio and muskingum rivers. the smaller square has ten gateways, which are covered by mounds, while the larger square, being strictly a sacred enclosure, has no mounds to cover the openings, but contains nevertheless four temple mounds of considerable interest. on the top of these mounds, doubtless there were erected capacious temples, as there are significant avenues of ascent. there may still be seen the remains of the ancient altar, where, without doubt, these people assembled for worship, and where, from the presence of human bones, we may conclude human beings were offered in sacrifice. in all the sacred enclosures, evidences of altars have been found, on which, doubtless, the sacrificial fires blazed for ages. often are to be found successions of alternate layers of ashes and blue clay, indicating a desire for pure sacrifice. in the neighborhood of newark, ohio, at the forks of licking river, may be seen most elaborate enclosures, square, circular, and polygonal in their form, covering in all an extent of four square miles. like the ancient temples of the druids, most of the enclosures have their openings to the east, or rising sun, so that the first rays shall strike the altar where doubtless a priest, from the early hour of dawn, performed mysterious rites. on the west, there is erected a mound, feet long and feet in height, which overlooks the whole works, and has been styled "the observatory". to the east is a true circle , feet in circumference, the wall being feet in height. to the north of this is an avenue leading from the circle to an octagon of fifty acres, in the wall of which are eight gateways, which, however, are covered by mounds five feet in height. from this strange eight-sided figure run three parallel walls. those to the south are about two miles in length, and those running towards the east are each about one mile in length. about a mile east, where the middle line of parallel walls terminates, is a square containing twenty acres, within and around the walls of which are disposed seven mounds. to the north-east of this is an elliptical work of large dimensions. on the south-east is a circle, in the centre of which is the form of a bird with wings expanded. the body is feet, the length of each wing feet, and the head of the bird is towards the opening. when this structure was opened, there was found an altar, proving that, in this circular place, this ancient people must have assembled for worship. there is a place three miles north of chillicothe, where an extensive enclosure--now called "mound city"--contains well formed and regularly disposed mounds, covering an area of acres. many of those mounds contained altars at their base, but have been subsequently converted into ordinary mounds. one mound, which is feet in diameter at the base and - / feet in height, contained an altar, within the basin of which was found a layer of solid ashes three inches thick, in which were numerous pieces of pottery and shell-beads. on the top of the altar was a layer of sand, then gravel for two feet, then a thin layer of sand, then one foot of gravel. buried three feet below the apex of the mound, were found two well developed and highly preserved skeletons, which, however, were not those of mound-builders, but rather of the indians who were buried there long after the mounds were abandoned. one altar was covered by a layer of opaque mica, which must have been brought from a great distance. in the centre of the basin was found, besides numerous other relics, a large heap of burned human bones, which would indicate it an altar of human sacrifice. from other evidences, we may safely conclude that they were sun or fire-worshippers. as to the cause of these altars being afterwards changed into common mounds, it is difficult to determine. many such mounds are found, which for a long time were used for purposes of sacrifice, and then covered over by many feet of earth. we may not wonder, however, at this, as even now many old churches are abandoned to the fate of being turned into dwelling houses or barns. it may be, however, that after the decease of the priest who performed his sacred functions before the altar for many years, the people, to whom he had so long ministered, laid, or burned his remains on the altar which they so much revered, and then, like the ancient builders of the pyramids, erected a monument to departed worth, and during the strange ritual deposited beside the respected remains whatever implements or ornaments they could part with, in honor of the dead. _burial mounds_.--as in modern days, a place of sepulture is usually selected some distance from the city or town, so the burial mounds may be expected without the enclosures. in our own time we find some cemeteries densely populated with graves, and others have but few. so it was in the days of the mound-builders; for we find in some places groups of burial mounds, and in other places only a few may be found scattered over the plain. burial mounds are of various sizes, i presume, according to the dignity of the individual entombed. sometimes one large mound is found to possess a skeleton, and some interesting relics, which indicate the position of the departed, while a group of smaller mounds is situated around it. the large one perhaps contained the skeleton of a leader, surrounded by a few of his intimate followers. or perhaps it was that of a patriarch, surrounded by his numerous progeny, much as, in our own day, burial plots are set apart for families. grave creek burial mound, which stands at the junction of grave creek, virginia, with the ohio, is one of the largest and most important burial mounds in america. it is feet in height and at its base it is , feet in circumference. when this mound was opened, two vaults were found, one at the base contained two skeletons, one of them a female. the logs of which this vault was composed were all decayed, and the earth and stones lay upon the skeletons. in the upper vault there was a single skeleton very much decayed. within these vaults and beside the illustrous dead, were found more than , shell-beads, ornaments of mica, copper bracelets, and other stone carvings. around the lower vault were found ten much decayed skeletons, all in a sitting posture. the skeletons in the vaults, doubtless, were the remains of royalty, or some distinguished chiefs, whose memory these devoted people desired to perpetuate, while the ten skeletons, which surrounded the vault, were perhaps some of their loyal subjects who were sacrificed according to the custom of some of the heathen nations both ancient and modern. foster, desiring to draw a comparison or rather identify this mode of burial with those of the greeks and other nations, directs our attention to herodotus, book iv, chaps. and . and for identifying the ceremonial with the funeral of achilles, our attention is called to the odyssey, book xxiv, with the burial of hector in the iliad, book xxiv. dr. wilson identifies the burial of the living with the dead by giving an account of the burial of black bird, the great chief of the omahas more than years ago. he caught the smallpox at washington, and dying on his way home, he gave instructions to his braves around him how he was to be buried. "his body was clothed with the gayest indian robes, decorated with scalps and war eagle plumes, and he was carried to one of the loftiest bluffs on the missouri. he was placed upon his favorite war horse, a beautiful white steed. his bow was placed in his hand. his shield, quiver, pipe, medicine-bag and tobacco-pouch hung by his side, for his comfort on his journey to the happy hunting grounds of the great manitou. after a significant ceremonial, the indians placed turf and sod about the legs of the horse; gradually the pile rose, until living horse and dead rider were buried together in this memorial mound, which may be seen from the banks of the missouri." but to come back to the mound, i now describe a sandstone disk, - / inch in diameter and / inch thick, taken up from near the skeleton in the lower part of grave creek mound. according to schoolcraft's analysis, communicated to the american ethnological society, "of the alphabetic characters, correspond with the ancient greek, with the etruscan, with the old northern runes, with the ancient gaelic, with the old erse, with the phoenician, with the old british," and he also adds that equivalents may be found in the old hebrew. it is, as some writers have described it, an exceedingly accommodating inscription. the following readings have been given:-- by m. levy bing: "what thou sayest, thou dost impose it, thou shinest in thy impetuous clan, and rapid chamois." by m. maurice schwab ( ): "the chief of emigration who reached these places, has fixed these statutes forever." by m. oppert: "the grave of one who was assassinated here. may god, to revenge him, strike his murderer, cutting off the hand of his existence." we can only say of these readings what a hebrew rabbi said to an indolent student, who in reading a verse in the psalms in the original, gave the translation of the next verse, "gentlemen, that is a very free translation." besides this, other readings have been given, all of which have the advantage that few can contradict them. in the scioto valley, where there are many very interesting remains of the mound-builders, there are many burial mounds which have lately been opened. in many of these, the casts of unhewn logs are still visible, showing that the dead were placed in a rude vault, which was afterwards covered by soil. one skeleton was found to have round the neck several hundred beads, made mostly of marine shells, others made of the tusks of animals and a few laminæ of mica. in the same mound from which this skeleton was taken, the vault gave strong evidence of its having been set on fire during the burial ceremony,--the large quantity of charcoal proving that it was suddenly quenched by the fresh soil heaped upon it. if these mound-builders were sun-worshippers, as may safely be concluded from tablets and from rock markings, as well as from the fact of their sacred enclosures mostly looking towards the east, where the early rays would fall upon the altar, we may easily account for the fire having a share in the burial ceremony. some have concluded that the blazing fire signified "life," and that the sudden quenching signified "death." let it not be thought, however, that there are no burying places but these few mounds. i believe the mounds of a burial character were only for persons of distinction, while in reality there are thousands of ancient cemeteries of vast extent, where multitudes have received common burial. the spring freshets yearly uncover many of these, exposing not only their bones, but many ornaments and implements that were used by this wonderful people, and which were deposited beside them when consigned to the silent tomb. _symbolic mounds_.--there can be no mistake in affirming that the strange mounds, so prevalent in wisconsin, and frequently found in other states, were the result of intention rather than accident. these are sometimes called "effigy mounds." in wisconsin, even implements, as well as animals, are symbolized. the beaver, the tortoise, the elephant, the serpent, the alligator seem to be their favorite animals, whose images they have endeavored to perpetuate in mounds, of course on a large scale. in adams county, ohio, on a steep bluff, feet above the level of brush creek, may be seen a huge serpent. it is called the "serpent mound." the head of the serpent lies towards the point of the spur, and then like the serpent, its body winds gracefully back for feet, the tail curved into a triple coil. from this and other evidences lately collected, we may assume that the serpent was among the sacred animals. between the jaws of this serpent there is a stone mound, bearing marks of long use as an altar. the body, which is a mere winding wall, is, on an average, five feet in height, and thirty-feet broad at the base near the centre. doubtless this wall was much higher when first made, and owing to the rains of centuries it has become lower and broader. another mound, the shape and proportion of an alligator, may be seen in licking county, ohio, about one mile from granville. this is also on a spur of land near the licking river. its length is feet and height about four feet. its whole outline is strictly conformable to the alligator with which animal they must have been familiar along the mississippi, where they could easily journey by boat. rather than transport the animal from the south, they doubtless erected this representation of what they must have held sacred. in the state of wisconsin there is one symbolic mound more worthy of notice than any other. it is called "the elephant mound," from the fact that it bears the proportion and conformability of the mastodon. this people must have known something of this animal which in early times roamed over this continent. i think we should not be going too far if we supposed that the mound-builders lived contemporaneously with the last of these monsters of the prehistoric forests. _signal mounds_.--it seems quite in keeping with what we have already seen of the sagacity of this wonderful race, that they should erect stations of observation in various suitable regions, so that signals could be given to the multitudes who dwelt in the plain, when they were threatened by an approaching enemy. if a fire were lit on a much burnt mound at the ancient fort near bournville, it could be seen over a large portion of the valleys, where numerous works are found. no doubt, this was a signal mound, where the appointed watchman, like the watchman of scripture, could give the alarm of the coming foe, enabling the industrious people to reach the fortress in safety. on a hill feet high, near chillicothe, ohio, there is a mound, which in the days of the mound-builders must have been a signal mound. a light on this can be seen for twenty miles either up or down the valley. the great mound at miamisburg, ohio, which is feet high and feet in circumference at its base, served, no doubt, this important department of warfare, as a fire kindled on it could flash light into butler county, near elk creek, where it would again be taken up by the watchman there, and light flashed in the direction of xenia, and from one signal mound to another until it would reach the great works at newark. thus in the course of an hour the whole southern portion of the state of ohio could be warned of danger and prepare for combat or shelter. such a system has been used by all nations, both civilized and savage. we need not wonder that the mound-builders with such sagacity and forethought, should establish such a system of alarm by which the inhabitants could be apprised of invasion. _indefinite mounds_.--of this class there are many. thousands of such indefinite mounds and squares and circles are to be seen scattered over the various states of the union. their structure, composition and contents, give us no clue by which they may be assigned a place. it is believed that many of the strange works that abound in butler county, ohio, and which cannot be classified, are among the incomplete works, that is, works left unfinished by the builders. implements.--the people of ohio have appropriated the implements of the mound-builders to a large extent. almost every homestead in ohio is ornamented with some of those ancient implements and relics, yet tons have been taken away to grace private and public museums in all parts of this country, and even the museums of europe and asia. among the implements are to be found spear heads, arrow heads; rimmers, knives, axes, hatchets, hammers, chisels, pestles, mortars, pottery, pipes, sculpture, gorgets, tubes, and articles of bone and clothing. fragments of coarse, but uniformly spun and woven cloth have been found, of course not in preservation, but charred and in folds. one piece, near middletown, ohio, was found connected with tassels or ornaments, and may be seen at the smithsonian institute at washington. in anderson township, ohio, native gold has been found for the first time. several small ornaments of copper have been found covered with thin sheets of gold. earrings also, made of meteoric iron, have been found, and a serpent cut out of mica. some terra-cotta figures also, which give us an idea of the way the hair was dressed in the days of the mound-builders. i cannot here name all the implements and ornaments that have been discovered. though most of them are of hard stone, yet many have been found made of copper. mining, etc.--that these people were miners, is evident from the prevalence of various mineral fragments and implements. at mound city, near chillicothe, has been found galena, none of which can be found in ohio. obsidian also is found in the shape of instruments, which they must have transported from the rocky mountains. ancient mining shafts are found in minnesota, where the solid rock had been excavated to the depth of feet. on isle royal there are pits feet deep, worked through nine feet of solid rock, at the bottom of which is a rich vein of copper, and in the two miles of excavations in the same straight line have been found the mining implements in great numbers. such advancement in mining, sagacity in warfare, industrial pursuits, and geometric skill, as their works display, prove their great superiority of race over the modern indian. their implements, some of them most elaborately made, their brick-making and various other ingenious works, enable us to place them high as an industrial people, while their sacred enclosures, and altars, and tablets, together with the numerous evidences of their being an agricultural nation, enable us to place them far above the modern indian in the scale of civilization. the people of the united states, though much to be commended because of their prudence and forethought in laying out their modern towns and cities along the various water courses, which serve as the different highways of commerce, have by no means shown a superior sagacity in that respect to the mound-builders, whose great centres of population are now mostly occupied, or are encroached upon by the modern cities. we may with safety assert that the population about newark, and xenia, and mound city, was far above what it is now. the country about dayton, miamisburg, oxford, hamilton and marietta was, undoubtedly, in the days of the mound-builders moving with a greater mass of human beings than it can boast of to-day. and if those peaceable and industrious inhabitants were as numerous as their remains indicate, what must have been the strength of those invading hordes who caused their downfall and perhaps wiped out forever every living representative of that ancient race, who could leave no more lasting memorial of their existence and struggles than those mysterious mounds which have given them their name. antiquity of the mound-builders.--upon this point there are many theories, some regarding them as the earliest of the indian tribes. others give them a very great age and claim them to belong to preadamite man. by far the greater number of archæologists, however, place their existence at about , years ago. in favor of the latter view we may call as evidence the present forest trees, which, though of great age, still flourish on some of the ancient remains. on one of the mounds at marietta, ohio, there stood a gigantic tree, which, when cut down, displayed rings of annual growth. in many other places, trees of the age of years have been cut, and underneath them evidences of previous forests found. one tree years old was found to have underneath it, on the walls of one of the forts in ohio, the cast of another tree of equal size, which would carry us back at least , years since those trees began to grow on those deserted walls of that ancient fortification. we have some data in the vegetable accumulations in the ancient mining shafts near lake superior, as well as in the vegetable and other matter deposited in the numerous pits and trenches found among the works. though these evidences cannot give the exact time of their accumulation, yet they give it approximately, by comparison with similar recent deposits. there is another still stronger argument in favor of their antiquity, viz., the decayed condition of the skeletons. the skeletons of the oldest indian tribes are comparatively sound while those of the mound-builders are much decayed. if they are sound when brought out, they at once begin to disintegrate in the atmosphere, which is a sure sign of their antiquity. we know that some skeletons in europe have lately been exhumed, which, though buried more than , years, are comparatively firm and well-preserved. we are, i think, bound to ascribe a greater antiquity to the mound-builders' skeletons than to those found in the ancient barrows of europe. other considerations, such as stream encroachment, and river-terrace formation, might also be brought in as presumptive arguments in favor of their great antiquity. origin of the mound-builders.--this is a question not easily answered. it brings me into no discredit before the educated world to acknowledge ignorance on this mysterious point. the study of craniology and philology, in connection with ethnology, shall alone throw light on this subject. dr. wilson says, in his "prehistoric man" (p. ), "the ethnical classification of this strange race is still an unsettled question," and he declares without fear of contradiction, "that especially concerning the scioto mound skull, the elevation and breadth of the frontal bone, differs essentially from the indian, and that the cerebral development was more in accordance with the character of that singular people, who without architecture have perpetuated, in mere structures of earth, the evidences of geometric skill, a definite means of determining angles, a fixed standard of measurement, and the capacity as well as the practice of repeating geometrically constructed works of large and uniform dimensions." undoubtedly they were skilled in agriculture, from the remains of ancient garden-beds, which were cultivated in a methodical manner. the modern indians give no such evidence of labor. for wherever they are found they love to roam in undisputed possession of the forest, and lead an indolent life. of course i do not assign this as a valid reason for their not being identified with the mound-builders. an ancient race may have a degenerate offspring. nor shall i attempt to find in the various inscriptions any clue to their hebrew origin, or to identify that ancient people with the lost tribes, as some have dared to do. foster inclines to regard them as emigrating from the tropics, rather than coming from the north. this would involve us in investigating the antiquity of the mexican and peruvian ruins, where vast works of high architecture and more advanced civilization were found than among the mound-builders. there is little difficulty in concluding that the aztecs, who occupied mexico during the spanish invasion under cortez, were the conquerors of several races that preceded them. among these conquered races, no doubt, were the toltecs, who were afterwards found in such great numbers, and in an amazing state of advanced civilization. the crania of the mound-builders and the toltecs correspond. now, whether they migrated to the north from the tropics, or journeyed south from the north, i cannot say. i should incline to the latter theory. industry is sure to advance. the rude mounds of the united states are far surpassed by those immense pyramids in mexico and peru, surpassing the egyptian in size. and those fine architectural palaces and temples, whose history we cannot fully know, far eclipse anything in the northern part of america. whoever they were and wherever they came from, they were doubtless driven southward by the invading tribes of the north. they nobly fought their way, contesting every foot, until superior numbers took them by force. thus these quiet and inoffensive creatures were finally expelled from their home which doubtless their fathers had occupied through centuries. if any escaped they, no doubt, found an asylum southward, where there were other tribes equally civilized, and, forming an union with them or conquered by them, they began a higher and better civilization as seen in mexico and peru. * * * * * transcriber's notes: page : octogon has been changed to octagon. page : smithsonion has been changed to smithsonian. [illustration] _copyright, by h. p. m'knight, a. d. ._ [illustration] _prison poetry_, _by_ _h. p. mcknight_. [illustration] _in leisure moments cast a look upon the pages of this book; and if your thoughts they should engage, just think of me who wrote this page. and if by chance, in your time of leisure, you, in these pages, should find pleasure, then dart your mind up to this cell, for here i live in an earthly hell._ _dedication._ go forth, thou little volume, i leave thee to thy fate! to those who read thee faithfully thy leaves i dedicate. but if your fate should be so sad as mine who thee have writ, i'd be so vexed to think that i had made such a poor "hit." but if by chance you meet a friend along life's road so dreary, just cheer his mind till he is blind, and never make him weary. teach him the way, the live-long day, to lend a helping hand, and never turn or even spurn those wrecked on life's hard strand. if chance should be you return to me, along with harvest's golden, i'll vouch for thee to all who see, that thou wilt not embolden. and now go forth, thou little book, i leave thee to thy fate! to those who read thee faithfully thy leaves i dedicate. _preface._ in the preparation of the verses that fill these pages i have been helped by some of the prisoners of this institution. the donors have been somewhat few, for which i return thanks; but each and every verse is a fair representation of the many phases that the mind of a prisoner passes through, and of his true sentiment. those that have been donated by my fellow prisoners are accredited to them by either their name or serial number. some of the verses have been published in our prison "news," but inasmuch as they have reached only an inconsiderable few outside the prison walls, i prepare this little volume and hand it to the wide, wide world. my motto, in so doing, is: may you who enjoy the blessings of liberty and worldly freedom, partake with us of our solitary musings, and enjoy our noblest thoughts and resolutions, as well as for us to enjoy yours; and that you may know that we are not devoid of true, manly, noble principle simply because we are cast--some justly, others unjustly--into prison. may we exchange greetings with you all--shake--and if by chance i have been fortunate enough to interest you, i am well compensated; but if i have been more fortunate, and given you--even one of you--a line of noble, good thoughts and advice--i say, "may the seed fall on good ground and bring forth good fruit; may it not be wasted upon barren rock." in my work on "crime and criminals" many of these verses will appear in the "appendix." very truly yours, h. p. mcknight, a. d. . o. p., columbus, o., u. s. a. _introduction._ true models of poetic art. should please the ear and touch the heart: stamp on the plastic mind of youth due reverence for eternal truth. paint field and flower in nature's hues, give to the world the heart's best news, or, lightly tripping o'er the page, rejuvenate the blood of age. the sacred muse should ne'er descend. vice to guild, nor wound a friend. heaven gave no man poetic art, save to improve the human heart. you may not find, in coming page, the ripened wisdom of the age: yet you _will_ find, untrained by art, the deathless music of the heart: and truth shall caress each flaming line. inspired by the tuneful nine; no fear of man nor greed of praise shall make or mar our tuneful lays; we simply voice the ripest thought of prisoned souls with meaning fraught. yours it is to praise or blame my effort to deserve a name! _contents._ page. acrostic to warden and mrs. coffin, by mcknight - acrostic to chaplain and mrs. winget, " " - acrostic (initial), " " acrostic to capt. j. c. langenberger, " van weighs acrostic to dr. h. r. parker, " harrison acrostic to harry smith, " van weighs a tribute to capt. geo. w. hess, " " " a letter from home, " a memorial ode, " van weighs - a prisoner's thanksgiving, " mcknight - a prisoner's lamentation, " " - a prayer for justice, " " a prison vision, " harrison - a query, " morse - a sad warning, " harrison - an appreciated friend, " mcknight - be lenient to the errant one, " harrison birthday musings, " van weighs coming in and going out, " carr - conclusion, " mcknight dreams, " " ella ree's revenge, " " - erratic musings of unfettered thought, " harrison - forget? no, never! " mcknight freedom, " " god bless them, " " guilt's queries and truth's replies, " harrison - hope, " law hope--eternity, " mcknight how to be happy in prison, " in prison, " harrison influence, " law judge not lest ye be judged, " " kindness, " roth lines to my cell, " mcknight - lines to my wife, " harrison love's victim, " mcknight - last night in the dungeon, " " - midnight musings, " " - mother, " overstreet my lawyer, " gilbert - my mother, " carr - my prison garden, " mcknight our board of managers, " " - one and a few, " - out of the depths, " harrison prison pains, " " prisoners, " mcknight perfect peace, " mcknight reflections, " " - rhyme and reason, " " - stray thoughts, " " - salome's revenge, " " - she loves me yet, " harrison soul sculpture, " doane the storms of life, " law the prisoner released, " col. parsons the convict's prayer, " harrison the great "o. p." " mcknight the fall of sodom, " " - " " " canto second, " " - there is no death, " " the murderer's dream, " " - the prisoner's mother, " mrs. wirick the reformer, " law the under dog, " barker - the phantom boat, " harrison - to a departed idol, " van weighs - tribute to dr. g. a. tharp, " " " tribute to the wolfe sisters, " harrison - tribute to the wolfe sisters, " mcknight - tribute to capt. joseph smith acheson, " harrison tribute to capt. l. h. wells, " van weighs - the mind's the standard of the man, " mcknight - the author's farewell, " " - two letters, " harrison - weight and immortality of words, " mcknight - which loved her best, " " - wine vs. water, " " - would they know, " collier prison poetry. _prelude._ if you prefer the sounding line, go read some master of the nine! good taste perhaps you will display; let others read my simple lay that gushes from an honest heart unawed by fear, unstrained by art. i ne'er will prostitute my muse the rich to praise, nor poor abuse; but simply sing as best i can whate'er may bless my fellow man; i dare not stain a single page with outbursts of unreasoning rage, but if one sorrow i can soothe or one his rugged pathway smooth; one pain relieve, one joy impart, 'twill ease the burden of a heart that has known for weary years no solace save unbidden tears. hard is the heart that will refuse due merit to the prison muse. may heaven watch the prisoner's weal and mankind for his sorrow feel! [illustration] _my prison garden._ in this mind's garden thoughts shall grow, and in their freshness bud and blow; thoughts to which love has beauty lent and memories sweet of sentiment. now, if i cultivate them right good, they'll furnish me with my mind's food. my enemies may my corpus hail, while onward, upward, thoughts will sail to realms above, where all is peace, and where the soul may rest with ease. _rhyme and reason._ in contravention of the laws of right, man's cruel passion and his guilty might, has bound me tightly with a galling chain of heaped-up malice and unjust disdain! from front rank lawyer to a felon's cell, through perjured villains, not by sin i fell! by fiat law my body was consigned to this grim cell for guilty ones designed. yet i'm no convict--i have never known the deep remorse by guilty wretches shown! i am a martyr--doomed by adverse fate to brave the billows of malicious hate! yet i am free, for nature's august plan makes mind not _matter_ constitute the man. tho' men may curse me and cast out my name, like some vile bauble on the sea of shame; brand me as murderer or catiff thief, or atheistic infidel--steepid in unbelief; foe to all that's pure and good--wretch unfit to live; outlaw whom no honest man can even pity give! yet my soul will still defy your prison bolts and bars, and soaring far on eager wings beyond the faintest stars, live in a world to you unknown, where only poet soul can bask in beauty undefiled by cankering control! in vain is all your hate and scorn--vain your prison blight; god loves me, and i feel assured that all will yet be right! i know one law--a perfect law, by nature's self designed-- 'tis heaven's dearest gift to man--the freedom of the mind! if minds and hearts were easy read as faces we can see, society would lose its dread and many a prisoner free! but what, alas! do people care what's in another's brain? they only seek to hide their share of misery and pain. were all compelled to truthful be and show their inner life-- great heavens! what a jamboree of sin and shame and strife! how few would measure half a span if mind alone we closely scan! where is the man on this broad earth, so pure, so good, so true, that never gave an action birth he dared not bring to view? the christ alone was sinless here, none other lives aright; all human goodness springs from fear of death's approaching night! there is no soul so white i know but what temptation's power its purity can overthrow and all its good deflower! disguise the truth as best we can, he _errs_ the most who most is _man_! come, let us take a journey, with cathode rays supplied, and view the greatest and good in all their pomp and pride! examine first the churches, where the godly crew teach poor erring mortals what is best to do. they tell us human nature is _once_ and always wrong, and prove man's deep depravity in sermon or by song. all natural passion is denounced as deep and deadly sin, and _truth_ and _virtue_ painted as graces hard to win. heaven, they tell us, is a place with blisses running o'er; hell, a lake of torture, where fiery billows roar! a choice eternal all must make between their birth and death; it may be made in early life or with expiring breath! but how this choice must be made each gives a separate plan, that clearly proves how narrow is the erring mind of man. one tells us naught but good pursue, all evil to eschew; another swears without god's grace no mortal thus can do; one bids us work salvation out with trembling and with fear, another swears that god's elect should never shed a tear; one says all must live the life jesus lived on earth. another says it can't be done without a second birth! some say _work_, others _trust_, others still say _wait_; some deem us mere automatons, saved or lost by _fate_! some, with philanthropic views, declare all must be saved, since christ, the perfect offering for _all_, death's horrors braved! since christians never will agree, 'tis best that every man should listen to his conscience, and do the best he can! god ever _has_ and _will_ do right! in his eternal plan the time will come to set _aright_ the numerous wrongs of _man_! see yonder's pompous deacon, with diamonds clear and bright; he looks a model christian--just turn on him your light. great heavens! what a medley of _cant_ and sin and shame! if the half we see was ever told 'twould ruin his good name! but turn on yonder pastor your strange, mysterious light; i know he is a real good man, who loves eternal right. ye holy saints, protect us! _he_ too has gone amiss! when siren voice allured him with a seductive kiss! if half the prayers we utter be not a sounding lie, it is but little marvel that we are doomed to die! for each will plead forgiveness for thought or action done, and _none_ by spotless merit eternal bliss hath won. then gently judge your fellow, his failings lightly scan; like you, he can not corner _all_ the brains of man! see, yonder is our congress, where wits and fools unite, to declare by the nation's statute what _is_ fundamental right! they yell of patriotism and the majesty of law, and are for once unanimous--their salaries to draw! alas! alas! 'tis ever thus within our halls of state; sweet justice is blacklisted--the _dollar_ is too great. aye, even on judicial bench, where justice should be done, how scattering are the cases where _right_ the victory won! lawyers, judge and jury _exparte_ view the case-- an angel would be ruined in the defendant's place! in vain is protestation, in vain a blameless life; some _must be_ doomed to prison when prejudice is rife! law must keep its servants in stations high and proud, tho' every hour should furnish a coffin and a shroud! the modern shylock of today, unlike his friend of old, demands the pound of quivering flesh and _all_ his victim's gold; nor feels content until he sees his victim's hated face behind a wall of rock and steel in garments of disgrace. then he will raise his dainty hands and loud applaud the law that _can_ protect such beings, who live without a flaw. _he_ has no pity for the weak, who thro' temptation fall, but freely spends his _time_ and _means_ the guileless to enthrall. he heaps _his_ mighty wrath and scorn on every evil done, and speaks in tones of pure disgust of poverty's pale son. but if you bid him look within and study his own heart, he has a task herculean--'tis such a _tiny_ part! and as for mind--ye angels! in fair creation's plan 'twas given to his victim, and left him _half a man_! the modern clytemnestra no dagger needs to use; she slays her agamemnon within your _legal_ pews, since judges now are willing to sunder marriage ties, and juries are so truculent when blushing beauty lies. or if she be a _helen_, and paris suits her taste, she hastes without compunction to lay her honor waste. "society" allows her to have "a special friend," and a husband is _so_ handy her good name to defend! but alas! aspasia _no mercy_ need expect; her pericles _lionized_, but none _her_ worth detect! and as for poor thargelia _none_ will take _her_ part; she lives a social outcast, with broken, bleeding heart; but each base seducer, in our social plan. makes poor, trusting woman bear the sins of _man_! many men are now misjudged, and meet an awful fate, whose innocence is published, but alas, it is too late! many, too, are breathing freedom's precious air whose vile conduct merits prison dress and fare. only _little_ rascals in your prisons _die_, while _stupendous_ villians liberty can buy! each one strives with fervor his neighbor to outshine, and he who has the most of gold is reckoned half divine. you scatter dark temptations around the poor man's path, and when he falls you pour on him _all_ your vicious wrath. poverty in public lives all her deeds are seen; wealth can build a castle her _wickedness_ to screen. yet many a noble woman and kingly man is found as toilers in your factories or tillers of the ground! if cathode rays were freely used to bring to human sight the dirty methods villians use to _damn_ eternal right, many men would be set free and others take their place who now can roll in luxury and laugh at their disgrace. a judge and jury now can sit and _hang_ a man at will, but they say 'tis open _murder_ if but _one_ dares kill! take a ring of brass and plate it o'er with gold, and 'tis only _business_ when the fraud is sold! adulterate both food and drink, deal in deadly pills; law will aid your _robbery_ and collect your bills! give to your profession but a sounding name, then cut up the devil without fear or shame. be sure to call it _business_ whatever you may do, and if you have sufficient _gall_ that will pull you through. now throughout this prison rays cathodal dart, and read the hidden secrets of each convict heart. some have wrought vile deeds, and wrought them o'er and o'er, that surely proves them rotten to their inmost core. and here are wretched fiends, who with consumate art, ravish every instinct of the human heart. some men of wit and letters, cultured and refined, others moral lepers, with heart and conscience blind. from drawing room and brothel, farm and city slum, some by acts of justice, some through perjury come; the innocent and guilty, callow youth and age, all can be imprisoned in this christian age! but they who seek for liberty no innocence must plead-- gold, and plenty of it, will be all they need. some young souls are making, for a stated time, this, their maiden effort, on the sea of crime. oh, christians, teach them early what to me is plain; crime ever _has_ and ever _will_ result in lasting pain. do not be _too_ lenient, nor _too_ soon forgive, lest all _vice_ should flourish and no _virtue_ live. society demands it, the _guilty_ should atone-- but take care you punish those, and those _alone_! keep them in your prisons till by _virtue_ shown they will know what _is_ and what is _not_ their own. but let all be careful lest by _word_ or _act_ those who should _reform_ them from their _good_ subtract. rule them wisely, gently--by some _humane_ plan, all their faults to conquer as best becomes a man. when your work is finished and their habits changed, give them honest labor, by the state arranged; show them honest labor _can_ a living gain, while the _social outcast_ harvests _want_ and _shame_! treat them fairly, kindly; teach them all the true will be friendly with them while _the right_ they do. both principle and policy declare this course is wise; then why longer act the fool and wisdom's voice despise? crime never _can_ nor _will_ decrease until in _wisdom's school_ men learn the noted lesson, "right _through_ law should rule." all tried plans are failures, this none dares deny; now give _common sense_ a show and failure dare defy. do _this_, and lash and pistol, now your sole defense, shall give place to reason and plain common sense! courts are far too careless when they give men life for offense unnoticed save in time of strife. naught but some poor chicken or a ham he stole-- shall the devil purchase at such price a soul? if such petty crimes as this deserve such prison fare, come now, honest reader, what is _your_ just share? was that old greek right, who, tho' a man of sense, could mete out death to all for each small offense? apply his heartless rule, and can you truly say any man or woman would be left to slay? man is only mortal, and to sin is prone; never cure another's faults till you quit your own. many are convicted by the _press_ at large; the public mind is rarely heaven's peculiar charge. bring the judge and jury who declared my fate for the shining dollars furnished them by hate, and their guilty conscience by my own arrange, and then tell me frankly if my fate should change! yet i had sooner die behind these bars of steel than to have a heart of stone that _could_ not feel! i know such human tigers, who fatten on distress, never _can_ and _never_ will enjoy one hour of rest! until all hate and malice, all greed and other sin is burned by awful torture to leave them pure within! god _will_ forgive each penitent whate'er his sin may be, whose heart is overflowing with _love_ for bond and free. oh listen! brothers, listen--'tis jehovah's plan-- and a _time is fixed_ to right the wrongs of man. _freedom._ how sweet thou art, o freedom. to every human heart-- man's privilege most sacred. his being's noblest part. thou priceless, great possession, without thee life were done! its sun gone down forever, for thou and life are one. how dear thou art, o freedom-- our birthright here below! chief blessing of all blessings kind heaven doth bestow. deprived by dark misfortune of every other joy, naught while thou still remainest can happiness destroy. but thou, o prison penance, dark shadow by life's board! of all that men hold mournful thou art the fullest stored. there's naught on earth worth having if't must be shared with thee-- o happy, holy freedom! o heaven, set me free. [illustration] _god bless them_ god bless the mothers of this land! they are so good and true; and all the sisters of their band, they are so noble, too. if we don't treat them with respect, and court their wholesome 'fluence, our morals will not be correct, and we will suffer hence. if women are not treated with respect, and made to exercise an influence over the social world, the standard of private virtue and public opinion will be lowered, and the morals of men will suffer. _forget? no, never!_ there are things we'll not remember, and much will be forgot, as in the bleak december when our coffee was not hot; when the butter was much younger, when the bread was sour and dry; when are felt the pangs of hunger, with regrets and many a sigh. how the memory used to vex us as 'twould o'er our senses steal; how we wished they might "annex" us, so we'd get one good square meal. other things may be forgot in this busy, hustling age, but one thing we ne'er can blot from off our memory's page, that we never can forget in a hundred months of junes; it will long our memories fret-- _those prunes--those rotten, wormy prunes_. _mother._ by overstreet. who is it, in this life so drear, that pines for the wandering boy, and ever ready with words of cheer to turn sad thoughts to joy? mother. who is it, when all others do forsake and leave us to our grief, that will for long hours lie awake and pray for our relief? mother. who is it, when the world laughs on and gives our sighs no thought, that thinks of the boy who looks upon this life that's come to naught? mother. who is it, when from prison freed-- the boy goes forth so sadly-- that receives him in his hour of need with tears of joy--yea, gladly? mother. who is it, when the end has come, looks fondly on her child, and prays to god for a happy home for the boy that's been so wild? mother. [illustration] _a prisoner's thanksgiving._ what if the gold of the corn lands is faded to somber grey? and what if the down of the thistle is ripened and scattered away? there's a crowning golden harvest, there's turkey the heart to cheer, there's a basket from home with plenty of "pone," tho' 'tis bathed in a mother's tear. what 'f our friends are far from us and they know not where we are? what if those who are dearest live ever away so far? there's room for us by th' fireside, where in childhood days we'd play; 'tis comfort to think, tho' we stand on the brink, that we will be there some day. what if our hearts are lonely as we toil in our enemy's hand? what if our sad looks betray us as we take a true manly stand? there's a coming golden harvest, there's a time when we all'll meet, when prison locks and iron bars will fail to ther pris'n'r keep. what care we for the pang at heart? 'twill all be gone some day; and then tho' our enemies'ld crush us, they'll be scattered far away. tho' this is a sad thanksgiving, a better one's coming our way, when we'll all be home to share in the "pone" and hear our angeled sister pray. what if the gold of the corn lands is faded to somber grey? and what if the down of the thistle is ripened and scattered away? away to the east in a far off land there's turkey the heart to cheer. where the dear ones are partaking and thinking of one that's here; there's father and mother and sister and brother, all so far away. there's a blessed time a-coming-- the prisoner's thanksgiving day. _hope--eternity._ the heart bowed down with silent grief. despair its portals soon assails. oh! let such moments be but brief when spirit lost o'er man prevails; think not of friend who, false, betrayed. nor sweetheart's change, nor colder wife-- recall those oaths when passion prayed for vengeance and for foeman's life. we pass dear friends but once this way: our judge, accusers and our foe. if false to god and man they play. not thou, but they, shall suffer woe. all stay is short; the longest span counts less than raindrops in the sea. arouse thee, then, despairing man. and hail with hope--eternity! glows in thy cell a fragrant bloom, plucked from thy guardian angel's wreath. do thou but nurture it with prayer and water it with tears of faith. to humble hearts its petals ope, revealing bliss to streaming eye-- immortal blooms this rose of hope, god's flower of life--eternity. [illustration] _the prisoner's mother._ by mrs. s. e. wirick. to be a prisoner's mother is to feel a piercing dart that sets the mind a-whirling and almost cleaves the heart. to be a prisoner's mother is, upon a holiday, to visit him in prison, then part and go away. to be a prisoner's mother 'tis, inside the lonely wall, to say, "farewell, my darling"-- oh, i almost faint and fall. no resting place but heaven, no happy morn that dawns; our home so drear and lonely because our boy is gone. an empty bed, a missing plate, a grief that inward burns; no balm on earth to heal our hearts until our boy returns. "honor and shame from no condition rise; act well your part, there all the honor lies." [illustration] _how to be happy in prison._ by no. do what is right, and day by day teach yourself that work is play of brain and muscle, rightly used-- and hurtful only when abused; deep interest take in all you do; 'twill others please, as well as you. relieve a fellow prisoner's need; righteous counsel always heed; be not suspicious or unjust-- few men betray a perfect trust; he trusts the most whose heart is pure, and generous thought will malice cure. brood not o'er the ills of life; give no cause for needless strife; tomb the past with all its sin; purify yourself within; rear your standard, be a man, and do whatever good you can. some, perhaps, will misconstrue all you say and all you do, but when conscience is at rest happiness will fill the breast-- 'twill be a sweet red-letter day when we all shall act that way. [illustration] _in prison._ by harrison. that which the world miscals a jail a private closet is to me; whilst a good conscience is my bail, and innocence my liberty: locks, bars and solitude together met make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. i, whilst i wisht to be retired, into this private room was turned, as if their wisdoms had conspired the salamander should be burned; or, like those sophists that would drown a fish, i am constrained to suffer what i wish. these manacles upon my arm i as my mistress' favors wear; and for to keep my ankles warm i have some iron shackles there; these walls are but my garrison; this cell, which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. i'm in the cabinet lockt up, like some high-prized margarite, or, like the great mogul or pope, am cloistered up from public sight: retiredness is a piece of majesty, and thus, proud sultan, i'm as great as thee. [illustration] _erratic musings of unfettered thought._ [by geo. w. h. harrison.] is living thought, proud condor of the mind, by walls of rock and iron bars confined, innate divinity by human courts enslaved, and right eternal by a dust-worm braved? think you the spirit's rapid flight to mar with dungeon torture and by iron bar? can rock-ribbed walls and bars of steel deprive man of the power to feel? can you the stream of lethe roll in maddening torrents o'er the soul, pluck from my brow love's garland fair and brand me "victim of despair?" no! weakling son of vengeful fate, god grants to none a power so great. my body is your lawful prey, poor lump of spirit-crumbling clay; seize, chain and manacle each part, aye, even starve my bleeding heart, but know that for creative thought all fetters by one's self is wrought. mind, glorious mind--jehovah's sleepless breath, can know no bondage and can feel no death. in yon fair regions of unreached repose eternal beauty's flower-chalice glows, filled to the brim with satisfying wine, ambrosial nectar of the tuneful nine. my muse can reach it on external wings and drink till all the heart within me sings! i scale the lofty heights, by virtue shown, and from eternal wisdom seek my own. there, far above the struggling world of fate, i greet true freedom and am wisely great. 'tis mine in bright elysian fields to roam, pluck jeweled treasure from the sleeping gnome; bid ocean deeps their mysteries reveal, or, soaring far above the world of space, gain raptured visions of the holy place; admire and measure every glittering throne, count heavenly treasure as my own, make august angels bow beneath my rod, and even dare to mould the mind of god; o radiant fields of pure, untrammeled thought, with what sweet incense are thy zephyrs fraught; how clear the view, from thy exalted height, of human errors and unerring right; 'tis thou alone my laboring muse can teach the perfect measure of her powers to reach; she cons these fragments of a truth sublime, and art stands ready with appropriate rhyme to trim each sentence and each word to place in melting numbers of seductive grace; since first jehovah, bending low to earth, breathed in man's nostrils an eternal birth, the rain drop falling, from the heavy cloud, in waiting dust, finds ready shroud, and there commingling fills each separate cell, yet still remains as pure as when it fell: to man appearing but a dampened clod, 'tis chambered favor of a gracious god; and serves his purpose till he calls above this liquid semblance of immortal love, there _not_ to perish, but return again to deck the forest and adorn the plain; all nature feels its fructifying power in laughing streamlets and in nodding flower; the rain drop typifies the pure indwelling god, that permeates our being, to animate a clod; give birth to all emotion, consistent with his plan, and with unmeasured tenderness weep the fall of man. from every nodding flower, from every whispering breeze from mountain's lofty height, from towering trees, from softly twinkling star, from lightning's giddy flash, from the softest twitter of a bird and thunder's awful crash, from hills the ants may call their own, from crested elders 'round their throne, from babbling brook, from storm-lashed wave, from nature smiling, nature grave, from earth and air, from sky and sea, there comes the self same voice to me, like softest note of cooing dove, and sweetly whispers, "god is love." all nature is obedient to heaven's august plan, and none will dare rebellion, save ever-erring man. he, of a dual nature--purity and lust-- defies his great creator and thus betrays his trust. thrones within his being the hydra-headed sin, all his joy to murder and create _hell within_; self-conscienceness completes the triple blow while memories of happier years augments his hapless woe. whatever then of pleasure his wounded spirit knows from the fountain of bitter repentance it onward, onward flows, his own environment, be it either fair or fell, must _now_ embower his heaven, or will create his hell. contentment, peace, or pleasure he must create anew by sowing seeds of virtue where vice so lately grew. he learns he must not do whatever man can do, but recognize the limits of the just and true. law is his _alma mater_, the measure of his right, the barrier jehovah set to curb irreverent flight; he has the truest liberty who recognizes law; 'tis made to shield his virtues and on his vices war; he who denies humanity lives for himself alone all history to hush, all culture to disown; and quickly he relapses into a barbarous state, where only force and prowess can make the unit great. none so lost to _virtue_, none so devoid of art, as he who fails to capture the _empire of a heart_; he who knows not sympathy feels no fellow's woe, will never feel the rapture of happiness below; god planted seeds of pity in every human breast, and he who loses most of woe secures most of rest: love is man's _all_, his conqueror, his cordial and wine, the measure of his inner life that stamps him as divine. how circumscribed the circle god allots to man, his home is but an acre, his life is but a span; and yet within that circle his influence is so great he wakes the cooing notes of _love_ or feeds the fires of hate; his influence is potential within a circle small, but beyond the limit of the same he does no good at all; all thought, all power with which our being teems, is action predicated on events or on dreams. all we have seen or heard, all we now can feel, leaves an imprint on the heart that the future must reveal: the vain are truly lonely, they long to be admired, one wishes to be understood, another well attired, this hushed by useless longings or fashion's changing art, that sweetest of all poems, _the music of the heart_. but he who solves life's mystery is never quite alone, all ages is his playground and solitude his throne; he walks in subtle converse with all the mighty dead, gathering priceless jewels their wit or wisdom bred. the watchtowers of his thought o'erlooks the struggling mass, while events both past and present before his vision pass. he sees the weary captive tugging at his chain; the weather-beaten sailor plough the raging main; the swarthy burden bearer in forest, mine and field; the merchant's soiled ledgers, the soldier's brazen shield; the child with glittering toy, the maiden at her glass; the ruler of an empire, the leader of the mass; the student in his study, the priest on bended knee; the teacher with his ferrule, the aged human tree, all fondly dream of freedom, yet all beneath the ban, each in a separate prison presided o'er by _man_; sees _nature_ and _morality_ are ever waging war, the first as god of freedom, the latter lord of law. sees culture raise her barriers between polite and rude, and hears _religion_ thunder, "cover up the nude!" knows man in every station to be a willing slave, the football of his passion, the dupe of every knave. yet hears him boast his freedom, laud his reasoning power; rule all he can with iron hand, and _finite_ judgment shower; sees all the devious, hidden paths by sinful mortals trod where _human_ law and custom dare ostracise a god; yet knows a germ of goodness, deep in the human breast, is living in the worst of men however much depressed. knows life is but the unit of god's eternal plan, and learns to _pity_, not to blame, poor ever-erring man! in each created atom sees faultless beauty glow and god's eternal purpose in onward sequence flow. views all souls as living harps, whose seeming dissonance is but apparent and not real; and believes, perchance, god will mend each shattered chord, tune the quivering lyre, and from out each soul shall bring a music sweeter, higher than earthly ears have ever heard or earthly lips essayed; such music as the ransomed sing in innocence arrayed; while all the universe entranced shall wondering inquire: "is this the fruitage of _his_ woe? is this his soul's desire? is this the harp so late unstrung? is this poor fallen man? ah! can it be that all was wrought obedient to god's plan"? nature will o'er matter bear imperial sway, and all not immortal must in time decay; man's tenement is mortal, but himself divine; which should he most cherish, the jewel or its shrine? yet when vice allures him with seductive ray, gives he not to passion undisputed sway? dreams he not of beauty who, with open arms, calls for lust to enter and revel 'mid her charms? is his eye not captive? do not his senses thrill? what is left the tempted one save his feeble will? if that will prove recreant to jehovah's trust, pays he not the penalty in self-consuming lust? must his spirit suffer through unending years for the shame he purchased with agonizing tears? life is but a shoe-broom, nature is god's book and he's the aptest scholar who all her laws can brook! if love of right was constant man could well defy all of sin's allurements and unspotted die! _one_ such man has lived who, with a faith sublime, crucified the temple where he dwelt in time, and entered heaven victorious without the aid of grace, the marvel of all centuries, the savior of the race; but had his will but weakened, jesus, too, had fell, and man without redemption sank tottering into hell; all would be good did not true goodness claim such earnest noble effort from a will so tame; _crime_ is but a sequence of misguided will inherent moral defect and _surrounding_ ill. man's innate love of beauty and his dread of pain, his ever raging thirst for power and his greed for gain alternately do sway him with resistless power, the spotless blossoms of the soul, until he only yearns for the ever hideous lust that blackens as it burns. guilt comes not, thundering on the wings of time, with vice-distorted feature and the leer of crime, but like enchanting vision from a pagan dream, or softly echoed cadence of a whispering stream, she steals upon us gently, with ever-changing art, and usurps an empire--the waiting human heart! her outward form is beauty, her voice with passion tense, she only craves the privilege to gratify each sense; all apparent pleasures 'round her path are spread, but, alas! you seize the flower to find its fragrance fled; but still pursuing, row with bated breath, you clasp her to your bosom and--embrace a death! then, conscience stricken, you the wreck survey, and with shuddering sorrow--humbly kneel to pray; while the pitying angels on their pinions bear the ever sacred burden of repentant prayer, and almighty love descending reasserts control, and mercy in the guise of grace has won a human _soul_; but contrast a moment, with this heavenly plan, the awful brutal conduct of exacting man. see yon martial champion riding on the flood of a frightful carnage and a sea of blood; his path is strewn with many a ghastly sight, dead and dismembered bodies and defenseless fright! yet all the people with a loud acclaim pronounce _him_ "_hero_," and accord him fame! true, he butchers thousands in a cruel war, yet you deem him _guiltless_, he obeyed _your_ law. but if your angered brother slay a single man, _him_ you brand a "murderer," worthy of your ban; and with zeal unbounded you wage relentless war until he falls, a victim to rage-created law. as if a useless _murderer_, sanctioned by the state, was less the fruitage of revenge than one new-born of hate; perchance in some fair aiden, some far distant sphere your poor hapless victim these just words may hear: "thou art now forgiven, poor misguided son! "tho' tranced with dire passion thou hast slain but one. "thou hast made atonement, breathed a fiery breath "of a deep repentance and an awful death! "place on him the raiment--whiter far than snow, "and teach his untried lips to sing the song the angels know. "but as to yonder soldier who for the bauble fame "led unbattled thousands without fear or shame; "and with banners flying to the bugle's chime "hurled obedient legions into conscious crime-- "all the tears he showed, _all_ the blood he shed, "now in molten fire shall circle 'round his head, "and all shall learn the lesson, that horror-breeding war "will _never_ meet the sanction of jehovah's law!" this is no fancy picture, nor idle dream of youth, but, if i know the laws of god, it is the solemn truth". behold a homeless wanderer, poor and thinly clad, to biting cold a victim, with hunger almost mad, entering yonder mansion, dares to boldly steal what none should e'er deny a dog--the pittance of a meal! see the greedy sleuth-hounds of the outraged law wage against this robber an unrelenting war; while _christian_ judge and jury, with ready wit, declare his crime an awful outrage, that merits prison fare! but he who rears his costly domes o'er wreck and ruin of human homes, plants in the breast a raging thirst and leaves his victims doubly cursed, can roll in luxury, loll in pride and, with _the law_, his gain divide! tho' every dime he pays the state a thousand cost in wakened hate! a simple youth by passion lured, and of but little wisdom steward, meets with a maid of witching grace and dalliance ends in dire disgrace! in prison stripes you teach the fool that he must _love_ by _human_ rule! yet you rear great, costly piles where soiled doves may ply their wiles and lead to an unhallowed bed the lustful brute you lately wed. if passion will assert her power none shall dare a maid deflower unless so _licensed_ by the state in wedlock's bonds his lust to sate! and, if marriage prove a bane, _divorce_, for cash, will ease his pain! then to your haunts of sin he hies and laws of god and man defies by casting, in a barren sea, the germ of _life_ that is to be! 'tis true this evil you decry-- and raise your taxes mountain high! as if the more the state shall gain the less will virtue feel the strain!-- you legalize _divorce_ and _fraud_, and each _successful_ scoundrel laud, unmindful tho' he gain his wealth by open plunder or by stealth. in vain his hapless victims cry, his _gold_ can legal silence buy! but if through stress of penury's strife one makes a shipwreck of his life, you prisons build and place within this fruitage of a law-made sin, to linger till the cowering slave shall fill--unwept--a pauper's grave. and scarce a line of obscure print at this dark tragedy will hint; but if your millioned puppy dies what wailings rend the astonished skies! what sabled hue and lengthened train attest your deep regret and pain! how yon cathedral's vaulted arch will echo with his funeral march; what flowers will deck his costly tomb; what tapers rob the grave of gloom; while columns, nay, whole papers tell how _great_ a man today has fell. deluded mortals! raise your eyes to yon fair regions of the skies, where _justice_ sits, each cause to try beneath omniscience's searching eye; your "_convict_," on low bended knee, pleads "guilty"--and they set him free; and angels crown, with loud acclaim, the man you deemed a living shame! your _croesus_, with uplifted eye, (still conscious of his station high) deigns to repeat, with growing stress, how from defeat he wrung success; tells, with a proudly swelling heart, of millions spent on sculptured art; and millions more on lordly hall, the eye and heart of man to thrall; tells how a church and college new from _his_ donation quickly grew; tells how--in cushioned pew--he knelt and begged god other hearts to melt, until each child of man should be, like his dear self, from error free; all this they hear your idol tell-- and cast him headlong into hell! while heaven bows her head with awe in sanction of jehovah's law. what mighty solons fill your halls of state! (poor gibbering parrots with an empty pate), who deem all prisons of but little use not founded on starvation and abuse. they lock poor pris'ners in a loathsome cell, while lash and pistol drives them on to hell; they crush his manhood and his soul debase, blot out ambition and his name disgrace, yet wonder greatly that such humane plan makes not an angel of each convict man. these truthful samples of your legal page condemn your judgment and disgrace your age-- too oft repeated, who will dare to say to what dark horrors they may pave the way? pause! ere the records that now strew your path invite the vengeance of jehovah's wrath; relearn the lesson early taught mankind, "to god give reverence and to man be kind." be this your motto, and each setting sun will kiss the feature of a work begun; time cannot tarnish and no heart can blame your noble effort to deserve a name; heaven will applaud you, and the smile of happiness the hours beguile, why pay such homage to mere human laws? dread you man's censure or admire applause? are you forgetful that the crown of fame is purchased torture and expiring shame? think you man's plaudits or his causeless hate can either ope or close the pearly gate? who ever placed in man implicit trust, nor saw his idol, soon or late, in dust? why thus pursue an ever fading wraith? 'tis god, and god alone, deserves your faith. survey all things with comprehensive view, admire all beauty and enthrone the true; know every mortal, tho' a separate soul, is but a fragment of the mighty whole that fills a niche in god's eternal plan, all for the welfare of ungrateful man; learn that in many a loathsome cell a prisoned genius or a saint may dwell, whose power, developed by an act of love, may lead a million to the courts above. shall it be yours to touch that vibrant chord and share the honor of the great reward? what heaven endorses that alone can stand; all else is stubble, built on shifting sand, that shall vanish 'mid the fire and flood like tiny snowflakes in a sea of blood. oh, could my muse, by some exalted flight, portray her knowledge of eternal right-- breathe in soft accents to the listening ear the melting music which my soul can hear, some would declare my reason half dethroned before my fancy to such heights had flown; yet could such see as i have seen the scroll where god has written "destiny of soul," they much would wonder how my muse could dare suppress such glorious news. what pen can picture or what brush can paint the endless rapture of a raptured saint? words are too feeble; they but tell in part the truthful language of a human heart; but, oh, when spirit from its cumbering clay shall rise triumphant to the realms of day, what strains seraphic from our lips shall break till all creation shall to bliss awake! o bliss supernal! when our lips shall meet-- the lips long buried--and our souls shall greet the loved and cherished of those earlier years. ere pain had turned each quivering chord to tears, and life was smiling in her morning hours and love was conscious of her magic powers. oh, sweet reunion on the crystal strand! when we shall fondly clasp the waiting hand of buried jewels distance hides from view, and all the plighted vows of life renew, then shall we learn the truthfulness of love, when hearts like ours, renewed in youth, above all passion and the cloying cares of earth shall wake to rapture with a second birth! o hearts estranged, forgive and be forgiven! your cruel coldness has already driven the angel sweetness from your speaking eye, and suffered everything, save pride, to die. o cradle, in the lap of everlasting sleep the dark, fierce passions that now rudely sweep the sounding chambers of the suffering soul, where hate's tumultuous torrents hourly roll, and blacken what was once so white and fair, when spotless innocence was centered there! oh, keep no kisses for my cold, dead brow-- i am so lonely--let me feel them now. when dreamless sleep is mine i never more can need the tenderness for which tonight i plead; my wayworn spirit and my thorn-pierced feet the piteous pleadings of my lips repeat. oh, shall i plead and plead with you in vain to bring love's sunlight to my soul again? shall acts repented, bred of undue haste, lay all my stock of future pleasures waste? bid me to draw a servile, galling chain, nor wish to murmur, nor murmur to complain? will you deprive my hungry soul of love, nor leave one spark of happiness above? oh, what base deed has these my fingers wrought to wake a malice with each vengeance fraught? if i have sinned and disobeyed your laws, discarded fashion and despised applause, have i not suffered all a man can know, and drank the bitterest dregs of human woe? think you my proud and haughty soul to cower with scorpion lashes of tempestuous power? go scourge the ocean with puny lash, or raze a mountain with a feather's crash! why thus torment my swift declining age with useless torture of unreasoning rage? 'twere best to sound the caverns of my soul and learn the being whom you dare control! 'twill teach you wisdom in a single hour and rob your malice of its wasting power! for heaven has writ upon each poet soul "deal gently with him and his all control." _influence._ by sam law. when e'er a noble deed is wrought, when e'er is spoke a noble thought, our hearts, in glad surprise, to higher levels rise. the sleeping purpose wakes in us, arousing power or genius, and from their exercise is born good enterprise. honor to those whose words or deeds thus help us in our prison needs, and by their overflow raise us from what is low. [illustration] _perfect peace._ ["thou wilt keep him in perfect peace."--isaiah xxvi, .] peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin, the blood of jesus whispers peace within; peace, perfect peace, for loved ones far away; in jesus' keeping we are safe and they. peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging 'round, on jesus' bosom naught but calm is found; peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown; jesus we know, and he is on the throne. peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours; jesus has vanquished death and all its powers. it is enough, earth's struggles soon shall cease, and jesus calls to heaven's own perfect peace. _be lenient to the errant one._ by geo. w. h. harrison. like phantoms weird of troubled dream, in they come--a ceaseless stream-- the callow youth, the aged sire, to reap the fruit of satan's hire. with pallid brow and rueful face they view their garments of disgrace, and oft in eyes unused to weep unbidden tears will slowly creep. be lenient with the blighted crowd; some come, perhaps, to greet a shroud; some, perhaps, will go outside and yet become a nation's pride. if by kindness you reclaim a single soul from crime and shame, god will reward the noble deed and aid you in the hour of need. _last night in the dungeon._ the darkness of hades and a vile, deathly smell is all that i feel stealing over my senses, as lingering alone in this cold dungeon cell, shut away from the world, where hearts' blood condenses. i feel 'tis too much for slight, trivial offenses. shut away from the dear ones, the loved ones on earth, i suffer the tortures that no man can tell till he's taken away from fireside and hearth and sees the sad visions of a dungeon cell-- then he feels that vile man can create a real hell. as i sit here alone, my head throbbing and aching, and listen to hear if the keeper is near, my thoughts they roam back to little ones taking caresses so sweet from a mother so dear-- then i'm prompted to ask, "do they think of me here?" but when in my heart i feel a slight flutter, i know there is sympathy somewhere about; i then to myself do silently mutter, "they have love for me still, and there is no doubt:" aye, love for me still, and this i've found out. then, down on the damp and cold stony floor, without either pillow, or blanket, or gown, i stretch my weak body right close to the door, and there, in sweet sleep, my vision to drown-- then, when i awake, i'm not so cast down. there is nothing so sweet and perfectly soothing to one who is placed in a cold dungeon cell, as the thought that yet there are dear ones a-wooing the one who's imprisoned in a dark, dreary dell-- i muttered, while sleeping, "'tis well, ah, 'tis well." then, when i awoke and proceeded to think, cold, stiffened and hungry, with tongue parched from thirst, i seek but in vain for food and for drink, but bread and poor water, the same as at first-- aye, dry bread and bad water, the same as at first. then my heart sank within me, so weak and so pale, as i gazed on the keeper of dungeon and jail and begged for a drink of pure adams' ale, as he held in his hand a full water pail-- but the answer came back, "your plea it must fail." then, giving it up in pure desperation, i try to surpass the curse of damnation that springs to my lips ere i can but control the blood that is boiled by such torturing droll-- then i whisper, "be still! some one loves this poor soul." then, staid by the love of those dear ones at home, i steady myself and go swimming along; i brave the hard life of a dark dungeon cell and i come out victorious, all perfect and well-- then i meet them again and go home there to dwell. 't is well! ah, 't is well! _hope._ by sam law. the world may change from old to new,-- from new to old again,-- yet hope and heaven, forever true, within man's heart remain. the dreams that bless the weary soul, the struggle of the strong, are steps toward some happy goal, the story of hope's song. [illustration] _would they know?_ by . if, amid these prison shadows, these pale lips should breathe their last, would my friends regret the summons, and forgive my guilty past? would they know the dire temptations i had met and nobly braved ere the tears in guilty passion my pale cheeks in torrents laved? would they know how oft and earnest i had plead before the throne for the place my crime made vacant in the bosom of my own? would these hours of retribution prove sufficient for my sin? would the gates of glory open to let this weary wanderer in? hear, oh, hear! from yonder heaven speaks the lamb once crucified; "look up, sad one; never falter; for such sinners once i died." [illustration] _guilt's queries and truth's replies._ by harrison. guilt. will the fountain of life, now bathed in tears, ebb and flow ten weary years? will the soul escape the horrible blight that stalks in prison's gruesome night? truth. trust, weary one, alone in me; living or dead, thou shalt be free from prison blight and sin's alarms, while closely nestling in my arms. guilt. will the absent ones i love the best 'neath heaven's smile serenely rest? will every branch of the family tree still bud and bloom till i am free? truth. if they lean upon my breast i will give thy loved ones rest; if death a single jewel steal heaven its presence it shall reveal. guilt. while prayers ascend from sacred fane shall penitent tears be shed in vain? will christ ascend to a prison cell and deign in a convict heart to dwell? truth. none will i spurn who pardon crave-- i came on earth the lost to save: he loves the most whose debt is large-- that soul is heaven's peculiar charge. guilt. if ever again i shall be free will the wreck of my life still haunted be? will the much loved friends in the days of yore spurn me from their open door? truth. those who bathe in calvary's stream sin regard as a hideous dream; my children clothed in white by me a welcome meet where'er they be. _a letter from home._ by no. . i am far from the land where my loved ones are dwelling; between rolls the sea, with its billows and foam; yet my heart with fondest emotions is swelling as i read the dear letter they've sent me from home. for i fancy i see the brown cottage again, and the garden where sweetly the red roses blow; i kneel by a grave in the shade of the glen, where slumbers the dear one i lost long ago. and oft to my heart, when in solitude straying, fond memory recalls the bright days of yore, and i sigh for the fields, where the children are playing, the hills and the valley i may never see more. long years have i wandered, alone and a stranger, and dark is the pathway o'er which i must roam, but i know there is one who can shield me from danger, and his blessing i ask on the dear ones at home. _the reformer._ by sam law. all grim and soiled and brown with tan, i saw a strong one in his wrath smiting the godless shrines of man along his path. i looked: aside the dust cloud rolled-- the master seemed the builder too; upspringing from the ruined old i saw the new. through prison walls, like heaven-sent hope, fresh breezes blew and sunbeams strayed, and with the idle gallows rope the young child played. where the doomed victim in his cell had counted o'er the weary hours glad school girls, answering to the bell, came crowned with flowers. _reflections._ how pleasant it is to be at home, surrounded by those we love; how sweet to list to words of cheer that softly fall on the listening ear like the notes of a cooing dove. how the soft caress of a loving hand can dry the eyes that weep! how the mind is eased and the pulses thrill as we feel the strength of a loving will that rocks our grief to sleep. how soft that hand has ever been when sickness laid us low, how its soft caress could summon rest and bring relief to the laboring breast, and cool the fever's glow. how soft the light in love-lit eye, that welcomes our safe return; how the tender kiss and warm embrace can soothe the pain of late disgrace when fate has been too stern. god bless the home where love abides-- 'tis the dearest spot on earth! be it hovel or palace, or great or small, it holds man's hope, his joy, his all, and heaven gave it birth! _the prisoner released._ by col. h. c. parsons. i could stand and look at the stars all night-- where tides run in wreaths to the rivers and rills, where the sea breezes play with the wind from the hills-- where by land and by sea man can go where he wills-- i'm a free man again, and a free man of right. i could stand and look at the stars all night, for months that were years they have prisoned my stars; my silver-veiled venus and red-hooded mars were fettered and framed by the merciless bars, that shaded their glory or shivered their light. i will stand and look at the stars all night; i will wait in the shadow and lee of the tower till morning shall come, with his magical power-- perhaps in the flame of that wonderful hour the prison shall tremble and pass from my sight. _prison pains._ by harrison. oh! to be heart hungry, to feel that never again shall the heart pulsate with rapture to the music of love's strain! to feel o'er the senses stealing a grief for words too deep, and know the heart's best instincts are locked in fathomless sleep. to hear the piteous wailings that rise from an empty heart, while every breath is torture and every thought a dart. oh, list to the wondrous music as it floats from the world above: "there is balm for the broken-hearted: the gift of my son is--love." aye, prayer to heaven ascending, tho' winged from a convict cell, shall find in heaven a welcome no tongue can ever tell. _the under dog._ by barker. i know that the world--the great, big world, from the peasant up to the king, has a different tale from the tale i tell and a different song to sing. but for me--and i care not a single fig if they say i was wrong or am right-- i shall always go in for the weaker dog, for the under dog in the fight. i know that the world--the great, big world-- will never a moment stop to see which dog may be in the fault, but will shout for the dog on top. but for me--i never shall pause to ask which dog may be in the right-- for my own heart will beat, while it beats at all, for the under dog in the fight. _kindness._ by roth. a kind word for the prisoner, a smile to cheer his heart, for he bears a grievous burden, tho' he bravely plays his part. from the world he hides his sorrows, stifles the groan of distress that struggles oft for utterance beneath his convict dress. the alert night watch could tell of the burning sighs they hear while making midnight rounds through corridors so drear. then cheer his lot with kindness, e'en though he be depraved: if, wakened from his blindness, the worst one may be saved. _there is no death._ there is no death! the feeble body, slumbering, seems but to waste and fade away; in future years that god is numbering 'twill spring from slumber and decay. and clothed with beauty everlasting, with not a stain of earth to mar, 'twill voice a music more entrancing than anthem of the morning star. a thing of beauty is immortal; each line once lost to mortal sight, soars upward to heaven's august portal, glad to escape earth's cankering night. earth's best and brightest can not perish-- death is decreed alone to strife. the good we love and fondly cherish god has endowed with endless life. grieve not for those now calmly sleeping, rocked by the slow, revolving earth: angelic hosts around them sweeping shall wake them to an endless birth. in heaven above there is no seeming: god feeds immortal souls on bliss; on earth we linger, sadly dreaming, till death awakes us with a kiss. then fear thee not death's friendly slumbers: guardian angels watch thy rest; jehovah all thy days shall number and do for thee whate'er is best. _dreams._ dreams are but glimpses of the power deep hidden in the human soul that, like some enchanted flower, withers 'neath reason's stern control. they come not as invited guests to while away the tedious hours-- are they not lights from heaven sent to teach the soul its wondrous powers? and best they love to lead us back o'er scenes to memory doubly dear, for those we, waking, love the most in dreams will seem most near. while reason sleeps the soul, awake, lives o'er each precious hour, and woos us with a gentle strain of pathos and of power. dreams index to our waking thought plans on which the heart is set, and he who heeds their warning voice has in life least to regret. in waking hours we sow the seed, in dreams we reap the grain: sometimes the harvest all is joy, sometimes, alas! 'tis pain. what marvel then that sleep is sweet, if dreams bring bliss to view-- perhaps the afterglow of death will prove most dreams are not untrue. _the great "o. p."_ "forward, march!" the left foot first, the heel down mighty hard, your head erect and turned to the left, as you slyly watch the guard. tramp, tramp, three times each day, back and forth to our meals, while the fellow behind, with his "state brogans," scrapes the skin all off our heels. the visitors in amaze at us gaze as we march gayly by, the ladies fair, with many a stare, will slyly say, "o my!" some "hayseed" old, with a chronic cold, will suddenly say, "i swow! there goes the man--do you see him ann?-- what took our brindle cow!" they say we are "cut-throats" and "robbers," and would be worse if we could; but it's false--we're noble-hearted patriots, here for our country's good, and the honor came to us, you know: we didn't go to it-- in other words, we were forced here to "do" our little "bit." uncle sam's domain has been ransacked for men with blue-blooded veins, for we don't want any persons here with any mortal stains. we are all old sons of irish lords-- or at least we'd like to be-- but instead we are only "cons," you know, doing time in the great "o. p." _coming in and going out._ by carr. coming in to penal slavery, coming in from liberty; going out to joy and freedom, going out the world to see; coming in, oh, how unhappy! going out with many a doubt-- endless stream of wretched mortals coming in and going out. from the many charms of home life, from beneath the humble cot, to this penal institution where the felon mortal's brought from some distant homes perhaps torn because grim justice took a fit-- coming in with sighs and sadness, a bondsman for his life or "bit." far his loving wife and children, while their eyes with tears are wet; though his family needs him daily. and there are bills that must be met, to this convict world about us, with its heartless woe and din, endless stream of restless mortals adding to its load of sin. time goes on so very slowly, though we try hard not to grieve for the dear old family homestead and for those we're forced to leave; weary are we very often, weary when we try to win news of those who loved us dearly ere we took this step in sin. coming in, alas! to never see the outside world again! some there are that have my pity: naught for them but toil and pain; doomed life's golden hours to fritter far from home and friends most dear-- god's pity on the poor full-termer coming in to die, we fear. coming in to serve our sentence, going out, we hope, to cheer; coming in to do hard labor, going out to family dear-- careless stream of wretched mortals from all stations 'long life's route-- hovel, mansion and the hamlet-- coming in and going out. _soul sculpture._ by bishop doane. sculptures of life are we as we stand, with our souls uncarved before us, waiting the hour when, at god's command, our life dream shall pass o'er us. if we carve it, then, on the yielding stone with many a sharp incision, its heavenly beauty shall be our own, our lives the angel vision. [illustration] _weight and immortality of words._ who knows how heavy his words may be, or watches, when he has set them free, their poising, their flight, their rise and fall in the world of thought? we are careless all. we fathom our own, not another's mind. and are all near-sighted among our kind, while words of ours and words of theirs are meeting and wrestling unawares. words are types of our moral trend, the blooms of our daily lives, that lend to others the fragrance of what we are-- the outward semblance that goes afar. the part of ourselves that is not our own, when set afloat in the vast unknown, the something we give to the moving wheels of the mighty force that grows and feels. no words are lost as they float away: on some life ever they rest and weigh, unbound in public or depths obscure their immortality is secure. deep in our hearts we often find words lips long closed have left behind: they live in the chambers of the brain, the source of endless joy or pain. words may be soft as evening air or fierce as sultry noonday's glare, but soft or fierce, be sure they rest a curse or blessing in some one's breast. how deep soever their meaning may lie, not every soul will pass them by! no anger, nor passion, nor malice so great but a match 'twill meet in a world of hate. no love so deep, no word so kind but lodges at last in a kindred mind, no thought so vast, nor high nor low but a parallel meets in a world of woe. a heedless word a heart may break, a thoughtful one a fortune make; one, hurl a soul in endless night; another, lead to heaven's delight. one word may nerve a murderer's arm, another still a raging storm-- one, sow the seeds of endless strife; another, sanctify a life. our words outline the feeble tongue from which their outward being sprung, or, written on the stainless page, they live to bless or curse an age. how careful, then, ought we to be before we let such engines free! once free, no power can call them back, nor human genius trace their track. we loose them 'mid the wide expanse 'neath joyous spell or sorrow's trance, but if their fruitage all could know we would not deem them half so low. [illustration] _which loved her best?_ two votaries of love's maddening dream at twilight sat beside a stream, each painting scenes of future bliss, dependent on their darling's kiss. both were young and both were fair, with noble hearts and manly air, and both were members of a band who bled to free his native land. each was bound both heart and soul beneath fair nellie's sweet control, yet they were friends both true and tried, if such ere lived, if such ere died. each loved her much, yet neither knew how well each loved her, nor how true, for each was dreaming of the hour that _he_ would cull this priceless flower. at last ned turned and gayly said, "next wednesday i and nellie wed-- god knows i am the happiest man in all this joyous western land. "i could not keep this back from you-- that would be unjust--untrue. i feel whatever shall betide that _you_ will e'er defend my bride." harvey turned aside his face, lest his friend should see some trace of the anguish and despair the hopeless suffering mirrored there. each word had sunk within his heart like adder's tooth or poisoned dart; joyful love and hope had fled, and left his withered heart--stone dead. he raised his haggard face above until an angel mother's love sent comfort to her suffering child, that made him calm and meek and mild. by memories of the tented field where patriots died, but dared not yield, he knew that ned his arm had lent to stop steel for his bosom meant, and oft had watched beside his bed when others in dismay had fled; when he spoke, his voice was low and soft as rippling streamlets flow: "i wish you peace and joy, ned; you best deserve this queen to wed. i only crave in future life to serve you and your peerless wife." the loyal look in harvey's eyes was to ned a new surprise; and in a moment all was plain-- his friend's devotion and his pain. they stood and wrung each others hand to reinforce their friendship's band-- their hearts were full, their eyes were wet, yet who can such a scene regret? their friendship stood the cruel test, and sank triumphant into rest; they parted, but to meet again where life was torture, memory pain. one year passed, and war had swept o'er the spot where these two wept, while they, with meig's galland band, were held by santa anna's hand. behind satillo's gloomy walls, whose history stoutest heart appalls, here base deeds were hourly wrought with hell's intensest malice fraught. two hundred patriots true and tried to santa anna's shame here died simply because they leapt the wall and strove to go beyond recall! ned and his comrades planned their flight while careless sentries slept at night, and in safety reached the distant plain where hope and life revived again. across the arid plain they sped, half clothed, half starved and almost dead; without a guide to lead them right they toiled by day and prayed by night. the blistering soil bold cactus bred till every toil-worn foot was bled, and one by one the hapless band fell prostrate on the glittering sand. pursuing soldiers found them thus, and drug and drove them to the "truss," there to await the "tortures grand" that santa anna would command. "nine of ten shall now be shot; choose the guilty dogs by lot: this law for ages now untold has defied both fraud and gold!" _nine black_ beans and _one_ snow _white_ were placed within a box at night-- every captive must draw one, blindfolded, ere the work begun. if _white_, he lived, if black, he died-- thus were the texas patriots tried! by sons of gantimozin's race-- man's caricature and heaven's disgrace! harvey drew one of faultless white, ned drew one as black as night. "i'm lost--oh, god, my wife!" ned gasped, as harvey sprang his hand to clasp. "not so," he cried, "your bean is white-- see, mine is _black_, thank god! 'tis right!" e'er ned could draw a conscious breath-- harvey had met a hero's death! which loved her best, the man who _died_ or he who _lived_ to cheer his bride? please answer me; o heart, awake-- such liberty i dare not take. _the storms of life._ by sam law. the oak strikes deeper as his boughs by furious blasts are driven; so life's vicissitudes the more have fixed my heart in heaven. all gracious lord, whate'er my lot in other times may be, i'll welcome still the heaviest grief that brings me near to thee. [illustration] _love's victim._ she was no dainty city belle, half art and half deceit, and yet no fairer vision the human eye could greet. naught knew she of city life or fashion's changing art-- nature created her a belle and blessed her with a heart. her eyes were large and soulful, her face divinely fair; her form was lithe and graceful and a golden dream her hair. her voice was full of melody: each tone to listening ear seemed to awake such music as angels delight to hear. beautiful, pure and guileless, with the faith of a trusting child, she worshiped the god of nature with a spirit undefiled. she lived with honest parents in a home on the mountain side, where peace and plenty lingered and love was true and tried. parental duress was unknown, for love's restraints are mild: a mother's love and father's hope were centered in this child. the acknowledged belle of the mountain, she spurned the coquette's art, determining never to promise her hand without her heart. she could not love her suitors with the love a wife should give, and deemed it sin without such love in wedlock's bonds to live. the idol of many a noble heart, none dared their suit to press: thus they wound the gentle spirit that pitied, but could not bless. grateful for each friendly smile that o'er her face would beam, she reigned an empress absolute in each fond lover's dream. a petted child of fashion, the heir to boundless wealth, came one day among them to recruit his waning health. these hospitable mountain people welcomed the haggard boy, and strove to make his visit one radiant scene of joy. they bade their darling daughter to be the stranger's guide, and show him all the beauties of her loved mountain side. together they scaled the mountains, with many a merry shout; together they garnered the flowers or angled the nimble trout. he spake of his home in the city, of the wealth he soon would own; promised to make lenora his wife ere the summer days had flown. lenora loved this stranger with a soul-absorbing love, and trembled 'neath his caresses as helpless as a dove. he was a master of the art that robs the halls of truth to gain what passion courts, tho' it blasts the hopes of youth. his honied words of flattery, uttered with seductive art, were music to the listening ear and soon deceived the heart. lenora confided in his worth, receiving each promise as truth-- how could she doubt her only love in the trustful hours of youth? assured of an early marriage, she yielded to him one day that priceless germ of innocence and fell--to trust a prey. she hoped this sacrifice would gain her lover's every thought; this were a boon, if death could buy. she deemed not dearly bought. little she dreamed that fatal hour that love had sped the dart that stamped her as an outcast, with a withered, broken heart. eugene went to his city home, swearing to soon return and claim as wife the girl he knew his parents proud would spurn. summer and autumn days passed by and the winter's cold set in, yet the recreant lover came not to the child he taught to sin. a mother's ever watchful eye discovered her daughter's shame, heard her story with breaking heart, but uttered no word of blame. she knew her daughter's downfall was the fruit of love beguiled, but hated the heartless stranger who ruined her trusting child. god alone can measure the pain that child and mother felt, as, locked in lingering embrace, in agony they knelt and poured in heaven's listening ear their heart-destroying grief; and who so bold as to deny that heaven sent relief? the father learned his daughter's sin and drove her from his door. "go!" he said, "you guilty wretch, you are my child no more." stung by these cruel, terrible words, she fled in wild affright in search of the heartless lover, her fearful wrongs to right. she tracked the guilty miscreant down, and he, to save his name, hid her till her child was born in a house of doubtful fame. the world looked on the helpless child with cold, unpitying eye. the villian bade his dupe go home, "repent of her sin and die." she heard, and from her glittering eye no tear of anguish sped-- with dagger drawn she reached his side, and struck the villain _dead_! with her babe she sought her father's door and pled with a piteous cry a shelter for her hapless babe while the storm was raging high. "begone, you wretch!" the father cried, "i curse the hour that gave birth to a wretch whose sin has laid my wife within the grave." "my mother dead! and i still live? ah! whither shall i fly? o god! protect my hapless babe, and suffer me to die." the storm increased; she wandered on almost till break of day, till weary, wet and almost dead, she knelt in the path to pray. the sky was lit from end to end by the lightning's awful glare, and a falling tree pinned both to earth as they knelt in the act of prayer! they found them thus in the morning light, and the father's grief was wild. he tenderly looked on the touching scene and at last forgave his child! they buried lenora and her nameless babe close beside her mother's clay, and each one spake in kindly tones of the hapless ones that day. the arm that sent the dagger home was nerved by a brain dethroned: 'tis lenora's was an awful deed, but her terrible death atoned. aye, let us hope the much-wronged child has reached a home above where babes can live who have no name and 'tis not sin to love. _a prisoner's lamentation._ a poor convict in his cell lay dying: he thought of home and loved ones dear, he asked his cell-mate, in a whisper, "do you think the end is drawing near?" "if i should die before i see them tell them how i longed tonight to have my mother's blessed care to leave this world of sin and strife." oh! how he longed to see his mother and the cottage on the hill-- "_god bless them all_," i heard him whisper, as with tears his eyes did fill. "will they think of me--a prisoner-- i, who was once their pride and joy? while i sleep in the churchyard yonder will they think of their wayward boy? "i know i've caused them lots of trouble in wild and reckless boyish day, but i hope that god will now forgive me when from this earth i'm called away. "i know it broke my mother's heart when she heard of me, her wayward son, who five long years did serve in prison for a highway robbery he had done. "has sister "minn," whom i used to play with in days of youth, forgotten me? if she has, i vow i can not blame her, for i've caused her pain and shame, not glee. "there's but one wish i now shall mention-- that mother's days may be days of joy, and when she asks for me in prison speak mildly of her convict boy. "here, take this to my dear old mother! i know 'tis but a lock of hair, but it's all i've got to give her now-- i know she'll treasure it with care." and when he handed me the keepsake his spark of life had nearly fled. he clenched my hand and uttered "_mother_!" and a poor convict there lay dead. may all young men now take fair warning from one who's had experience long: guard strong against temptation's dawning-- cast off evil and do no wrong. in your younger days _court_ good, _shun_ evil; be careful who you companions choose; when you make life's start then do not cavil-- march manfully on to win, not lose. [illustration] _our board of managers._ long have we lived in misery and woe; long have we suffered from "kindness" cold as snow; long has pernicious influence been kept hovering 'round our misery, while in dungeons we have slept. long have we suffered from want of human care: long have we been bearded as the tiger in his lair: long have we went hungry for want of proper food, and felt the sting of th' master's lash, as o'er our task we stood. as the dark and gloomy cloud, that hovered o'er our past, has been wafted off by humane hands--'tis swept away at last. we now emerge from darkness into a welcome light, and live in brighter future hopes--a day made out of night. we hail you, noble, honest men, whose hearts beat five as one, thus far in your prison work your duty you have done; eternal god will always right the brutal wrongs of man, and therefore he did send you here to do the best you can. a cherrington, for the chairman, is a master stroke, you know. and a rose is always welcome, 'cause virtue he will sow; a mcconica, of democrat fame, is a power behind the throne, while a hoffman, sent from cleveland, is a father to the home; a muscroft from old "cincy" is a rattler for the place; they all do join their hands and thoughts and duty bravely face, while a mcadow records their acts with a gentlemanly grace. they issue mandates right and left and order what is just; they raise poor fallen, helpless man to a place of welcome trust; they seek to lead him on the way to a nobler, better life, and restore him to his children and his broken hearted wife. their coffin always sits close by to lend a helping hand, and faithfully their trust does keep--a leader of their band. well they know the awful fruitage of each harsh and brutal plan is to rouse the lurking tiger in the breast of erring man. now they rule, whose every impulse ripened by enlightened thought, and it leads to many actions that with highest good is fraught. and they use with great discretion measures that are just and kind, hoping to reform the erring through the agency of mind. they have learned the useful lesson taught men from the power above, that the greatest force in nature is the power of inspired love. they have learned that rank dissension from all evil nature flows, and they deem that man the greatest who can ease most mortal woes. let us ever sing enchanting of our now official corps as they lift us from dark ruin as it has been heretofore. see! the clouds so lately darkening o'er the prisoner's gloomy past, mercy's hand is fast dispelling--reason _takes the reins at last_! _a tribute to assistant deputy warden l. h. wells_. by g. w. van weighs. comrade, may the god of heaven ease the maddening pain that has swept across your bosom since your son was slain; think not of him as a mortal mouldering into dust;-- god, too, loved him and, my comrade, he betrays no trust. you shall see him when the morning breaks above the night of death, and your parting, o, my comrade, will but seem a passing breath. well i know the awful pressure grief exerts upon the soul, but i know it will but whiten what it can't control. you have met on field of battle many a gallant foe, and, with patriotism burning, gave them blow for blow, you have fought till every rebel bent the suppliant knee, and the land you loved and cherished once again was free. you despise no gallant fellow who once wore the blue when it cost both blood and treasure if a man was true. you forgive the trivial errors of that noble band, and you meet a loyal comrade with extended hand. you have friends in every station where your worth is known; you have showered acts of kindness that but few have known. since your advent in this prison you have daily won hearts that ever will remember _acts of kindness nobly done_. comrade, time is passing swiftly, and jehovah his reveille soon will sound upon the hilltops of a vast eternity. may we gather with our comrades on that ever beautiful shore and, like conquering heroes, listen to heaven's plaudits ever more. _one and a few._ by . of all the pet pleasures so pleasing to man in his present degenerate state, i doubt if there's any can make him so glad as the one i'm about to relate. while here he's confined he's troubled in mind with his "fifteen" or "twenty" to do, and he longs for the day when he boldly can say: "i've only got one and a few." then keep a strong heart. with courage don't part, but manfully fight your way through; be it "five" or it "ten" or twice that again, 'twill come down to "one and a few." how often at night when i sit in my cell, after working quite hard all the day, my memory goes back to the time that i fell, for the "bit" which i now have to stay. and sometimes, i own, while sitting alone i feel sad and disconsolate, too; but it makes me feel gay when i think i can say, "i've only got one and a few." oh, many's a home that's cheerless tonight, and many's the mother feels drear; when she thinks of the one far away from her sight it causes her many a tear. though others may cleave to her, you are the same; misfortune but makes her more true; she may now be quite sad, but won't she feel glad when you've only got "one and a few?" then, don't be discouraged. no matter how long in this prison you may have to stay, you know that to worry and fret is quite wrong, far better drive dull care away. old time is the boy your "bit" to destroy as he jogs along, contented and true; and so, in the end, you'll find he's the friend that brought you to "one and a few." _midnight musings._ 'tis midnight! the sentry's muffled tread is heard within these walls: as silent as the living dead he makes his regular calls. i try to sleep, but all in vain; i try to close--i weep, i hear that muffled tread again-- the sentries on me peep. i hear a voice so clear and plain-- it calls to me aloud-- it calls to me again, again; that voice comes from a shroud. hist! hist! vile heart, be still! no fear, my angel sister's voice i hear! it speaks to me in accents clear and bids me shun a vile career. she bids me meet her once again and live in heaven's fairest clime. nor shall her pleading be in vain-- _resolved_, i'll do no crime. oh, could i feel her warm embrace as when, in days of old, i gazed into her angeled face-- it gave happiness untold. oh, let me live my boyhood days as in the time gone by! and let me consecrate her ways when for this boy she'd cry. but, hist! again the muffled tread comes gliding, silent as the dead, along the beat within these walls-- hark! hark! again dear sister calls. _a query._ by morse. when the long weary days are over and the front gates open to you, are you again to be a wild rover? what are you going to do? have you plans or dreams for the future? have the days any brightness for you? will you be a poor homeless creature? what are you going to do? should your old-time friends forsake you-- those who were strong and true-- and leave you helpless, homeless-- what are you going to do? but you have one friend who is faithful, who is always kind and true. read his word and study his gospel-- he'll tell you what to do. _stray thoughts._ in the fathomless depths of the mighty deep what wonders live, what mysteries sleep! what mind can name the sightless things that live in the ocean's hidden springs, where treasures heaped on treasures lie, forever secure from the human eye; where creatures sport, that god alone can know their joy or hear their moan? who knows but the bride of the dublin bay may walk in the ocean's depths today, arm in arm with her own dear roy in the conscious flush of honeymoon joy? who knows but the hearts that sadly yearned for the gallant ship that never returned, have met, in the ocean's unknown bed, the loved, tho' lost, we all thought dead? science has proved the human frame is water and salt by another name! hydrography yet may teach mankind the open door of heaven to find. "davie jones' locker" may prove to be instinct with life, by death set free! knew we the tongue of the deep sea shell what wondrous news its notes might tell! the myriad stars in yonder skies may be the beams of death-freed eyes that watch us from an unknown shore, still faithful to the vows of yore! the vaulted blue of heaven may be the looking glass of the mighty sea, where deathless souls their vigils keep o'er fast decaying world, asleep. atlantis, the fabled city of old, whose gates inspired poets behold, may now be resting beneath the wave, triumphant o'er a watery grave! its pearly gates and glittering spires arouse the poet's mad desires. he sees--and sings in tongue unknown-- the mysteries by the muses shown. conducted by a sybil fair, he penetrates each demon lair and pictures hell, in golden speech, beyond imagination's reach. to highest heaven his thought has flown and measured and admired the throne; made angels bow beneath his rod and dared to mould the mind of god! who knows but legends the muses tell are truths encased in a mighty dream? who knows but the angels of earth and air are the beautiful nymphs beside each stream? each singing bird and nodding flower may be imbued with potent power; and stars an influence, too, may wield and bless or curse our natal hour! who knows but what we call a brute is with immortal reason blest? who knows man is alone divine and destined to immortal rest? theorize and reason as we may, how little we can really know; we only learn to live, then die, and who may say to what we go? _judge not, lest ye be judged._ by sam law. art thou so good, so free from sin that thou should'st judge thy fellow men? look well to self before the stone, aimed at thy brother's faults, be thrown, behold in thee a pharisee. if thou art not so low, perchance thou'rt only so from circumstance; perhaps, if tempted, thou would'st fall. thy nature's sinful, after all. thou knowest not, most righteous scribe, the struggles, trials, patience tried; the battles fought, the vict'ries gained, the bleeding heart, the soul tear-stained, more human be, have charity. [illustration] _the convict's prayer._ by . at midnight, in a prison cell, on bended knee the convict fell, and poured in heaven's listing ear a prayer for those he held most dear. oh, god; defend my absent wife, whose breaking heart and blighted life spring not from conscious guilt within, but from a reckless husband's sin. spare her, indulgent heaven, the blow, that oft has laid an angel low; still may her ever angel face reflect the presence of thy grace. be it well pleasing in thy sight that she may rear my babes aright, and teach them, in the bloom of youth, the laws of kindness and of truth. help me discharge, on every hand, the duties right and law demand; and may i live to dwell once more honored among the friends of yore. [illustration] _wine vs. water._ there stood two glasses, filled to the brim, on a rich man's table, rim to rim, one was ruddy and red as blood, and one as clear as the crystal flood. said the glass of wine to the paler brother: "let us tell the tales of the past to each other. i can tell of banquet, revel and mirth, and the proudest and grandest souls on earth fell under my touch as though struck by blight, where i was a king, for i ruled in night. from the heads of kings i have torn the crown; from the heights of fame i have hurled men down. i have blasted many an honored name; i have taken virtue and given shame. i have tempted youth with a sip, a taste that has made his future a barren waste. far greater than a king am i, or than any army beneath the sky. i have made the arm of the driver fail, and sent the train from the iron rail. i have made good ships go down at sea, and the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me, for they said, "behold! how great you be!" fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall, for my might and power are over all. ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine, "can you boast of deeds so great as mine?" the water said proudly, "i cannot boast of a king dethroned or a murdered host; but i can tell of a heart once sad, by my crystal drops made light and glad-- of thirsts i've quenched, of brows i've laved; of hands i've cooled and souls i've saved; i've leaped thro' the valley, dashed down the mountain, formed beautiful rivers and played in fountain, slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky and everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye. i've eased the hot forehead of fever and pain, i've made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain; i can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill that ground out flower and turned at my will; i can tell of manhood, debased by you. that i lifted up and crowned anew. i cheer, i help, i strengthen and aid; i gladden the heart of man and maid; i set your close-chained captive free and all are better for knowing me." these are the tales they told each other-- the glass of wine and its paler brother-- as they sat together, filled to the brim. on the rich man's table, rim to rim. _the fall of sodom._ thou sin-cursed city of the stricken plain, whose heinous lust all after time shall shame, 'twas thine to rouse jehovah's awful ire, and test the strength of heaven's revengeful fire. thy senseless lust and crime had spread till virtue, hope and shame had fled; degraded youth and tottering age could not appease thy senseless rage; thy leacherous sons, that roamed at night, were human only to the sight; their motto was hell's direst fruit: "debase the _man_, exhalt the _brute_!" one man alone of all thy teeming millions sate, and pondered on thy sin with deathless hate; his righteous soul was vexed from day to day, and strove in vain to turn you from your way. _he_ dwelt among you as a child of god, and in the path of honored wedlock trod. _you_, dead to nature and to nature's voice, spurned woman and made man your choice! and desecrated, with your impious lust, the masterpiece god had formed from dust! till woman, shorn of all her natural power, was cast aside, like some discarded flower, and stormed insulted heaven with hourly cry, till god beheld you with his searching eye, and sent his angels in avenging haste your sin to punish and your land to waste. the son of horan met these at the gate, and begged them at his frugal board to wait; at first refused, they after turn aside, and 'neath a righteous roof content abide. they share his food and list with eager ear as lot recounts each nightly scene of fear; when lust runs riot in the open streets, and man with man in strange communion meets. the men of sodom learn, with kindling eye, the stranger's presence, and in haste draw nigh. men, young and old, with equal ardor burn, and, with unholy lust, towards these strangers yearn. they call the patriarch with an angry shout, and bid him bring the hallowed strangers out, that they may satisfy their lawless lust and trample decency in sinful dust. he, taught from infancy in mosaic law, regarded heaven's high ruler still with awe; and shuddered with indignant fear as these vile shouts assailed his ear. he left his house and closed the door behind, and to the rabble thus he eased his mind: "ye men of sodom! _once_ in life do right, nor do this wickedness in heaven's sight! two virgin daughters 'neath my roof reside, till now a father's care and mother's pride; take them and do whatever you deem right, but lay no impious hand upon my guests tonight. the laws of hospitality, by moses taught, harms not a stranger whom our roof has sought. they know the law, who now reside within, and with horror view your awful sin!" "ye men of sodom! who this stranger gave the right to judge us and our will to brave? we kindly took a homeless wanderer in, and dare he brand our greatest pleasure sin? shall empty words defy our proud behest, or useless offering prevent our guest? ten thousand 'no's' will pierce his dastard breast, and treat him tenfold worse than all the rest!" thus spake their leader, and with angry roar the o'er wrought friends assail the door; lot, backward hurled, could hardly stand, till snatched within by angel hand, the maddened crowd no longer wait, but headlong rush to meet their fate! the ready angels rise, with godlike mind, and strike the guilty wretches blind: in vain they strive to reach and force the door, their useless orbs are blasted evermore! "go seek thy children, lot, in eager haste, and bid them not a precious moment waste. god will destroy this sin-accursed place, and wipe from earth its faintest trace!" lot, thus commanded, found each one that night, and faithfully portrayed their awful plight; but he, to them, seemed as a man that mocked, and left them sorely grieved and doubly shocked. the morn arose! the angels cautioned lot to wife and daughters take and tarry not; and as they lingered took them by the hand and led them from the endangered land. "flee to the mountains and no hind'rance brook, nor backward turn a long, admiring look. the wretch who dares this mandate to defy shall, 'neath jehovah's hand, in torture die!" this stern command was heard by trembling lot with deep repugnance, for it pleased him not. "nay, nay, my lord; but if before thy face thy trembling servant dares to plead for grace, command me that i now may turn aside and in your little city safe reside. thus may i keep my soul alive this day nor after fall to mountain beasts a prey." the heavenly strangers, with an august nod, agree to lift from zoar jehovah's rod. the rescued quartette zoarward bend, while hope and fear alternate tend. with mien majestic, yes, with hasty tread, their trembling flight their aged father led. next came the virgins, able scarce to stand, and followed by their mother, last of all the band. she yet to sodom and its idols clave, and dared jehovah's awful wrath to brave; one look she sought, her weary journey to beguile, and in a moment stood transfixed--_a salty pile_! the more obedient trio onward fly, until the opening gates of zoar greet the eye. now, with full hearts, they reach the calm retreat, and cordial welcome from king bela meet. end of first canto. _the fall of sodom--canto second._ from bera's palace, and from sodom's shrine, a thousand scintillating rays of beauty shine; the gorgeous parapets of beaten burnished gold enlightened fancy can with awe behold. those marble walls of rainbow-tinted hue, please and instruct and yet astound the view. each curve of beauty and each line of grace relates some annal of the ancient place. upon these sculptured walls each sodomite may trace the birthplace and the lineage of his entire race. he here may read, in many a flowing line, the maiden efforts of the tuneful nine, who first appeared and strung the quivering lyre, when new created stars their maker's praise aspire; theirs is the music of the quick revolving spheres, and theirs the power to bathe a world in tears. they paint in colors, dipped in liquid truth, the brow of beauty and the lip of youth. thought, tame in prose in their enchanting line, is dressed in beauty and is half divine. they wing love's arrows with consumate art, and make the melting music of the heart. youth they instruct and tottering age sustain, virtue exalt and hideous voice restrain. inside this palace life is but a dream of beauty, flowing in a constant stream. here silken curtains hang on wires of gold, and zephyr-satin, whose capacious fold ten thousand giddy turns and windings take the secret chambers of the place to make. each article of comfort man can know with priceless gems and flashing colors glow; each drinking vessel is a solid gem; each odorous flower grows on a parent stem; birds of bright plumage raise their tuneful note and scatter scents ambrosial as they float. the crystal fountains generous wine dispense, and food delicious satisfies the sense; the air is balmy as the breath of spring, and every atom is a beauteous thing. one thing alone this mighty place appalls: no woman dwells within these sculptured walls. here man with man in lustful caprice plays, and heaven's righteous mandate disobeys; sinks, through his lust, below the groveling beast, who to the female makes his amorous suit. within those walls are stores of untold wealth, secured by carnage and by midnight stealth; beneath each divan and each downy couch the smouldering fires of retribution crouch. each glittering tankard and each costly plate reflects the fierceness of each pending fate. the quenchless tortures of jehovah's wrath is earthward tending in a destined path! the brilliant sun of light, the mighty sire, seems bathed in blood and heaven's all afire. from pole to pole the livid lightnings flash till all creation trembles 'neath the crash; and earthward, still, the melting heavens bend, while blinding floods of hissing flames descend, and seas of lava, with three mighty bounds, the now doomed city and the plain surrounds. now, inward flowing, rolls the mighty tide, on whose dread billows death alone can ride; and upward rising, with tremendous sweep, its molten billows awful union keep with floods descending from the flaming sky, and sodom knows her hour has come to die! her frightened millions in a circle band, and view approaching death on every hand. around them rolls a sea of fire; above them flames the torch of heaven's ire; while hissing lava, in descending rain, creates new horror and gives birth to pain. each gorgeous palace and each mart of trade is buried for their wickedness and in ashes laid. in vain they call their idols, name by name. their garments all are wrapt in living flame, their quivering bodies tortured to the bone, their parched lips in vain assay a moan, their eyes still pleading with each bated breath _not_ for forgiveness, but for instant death! the circling oceans, with resounding roar, meet and commingle--and the scene is o'er! [illustration] _a tribute to the wolfe sisters._ music, the sweetest all-inspiring gift of god. is ever welcome to the prisoner's ear; there's nothing makes me feel half so well as music of the heart when sung with cheer. here in this prison as i sit and pore over the past and present of my life, my heart sings ever, o'er and o'er, the darkest bitterness of a prisoner's strife. but hark! in yonder chapel shrine i hear sweet music as of yore; i ask, "what music is that sounds so fine?" the answer comes, "the wolfes are at the door!" i hasten, then, to brush my prison garb, and toilet try to fix as best i can, and then unto the chapel wend my way; when there upon the rostrum stand _five of the sweetest singers of our day_! there's amy wolfe, who changed her name to brooks; she leads her choir without the aid of books. she sings with voice so sweet and delicate that to her, first soprano i dedicate. next, minnie s., at the age of twenty-three, sings like a lark and busy as a bee, carefully guarding that no mistakes are made, and handles her bewitching voice with harmony well staid. then sang the sweet zoraydo f., with baritone most clear, who, at the age of twenty, delights to bring us cheer. it seems as if her heart and soul were bent on doing right, and when she sang she sang so sweet--oh! it was out of sight. the next i saw was lyda m., with scarlet cheeks aglow; she sings with voice most charming, a clear and sweet alto, she's next the younger of them all, because she's just eighteen, she captivates the heart of man--what a fairy little queen! then last, not least, the little one, that is, miss kittie c., she just so busy when she sings she's like a honey bee. her eyes are clear as crystal, her locks are flowing gold, she sings soprano quite as fine as any i have told. i sat down in an empty seat close by the outside door, and listened to such warbling as i never heard before. their voices drowned all sorrow and gushed forth many a tear, _not_ for horror that i felt--it brought me real good cheer. they drove away the pain of woe, that none but prisoners smart; they sang the ever blessed song--true music of the heart. we doff our striped caps to you, o girls of sweetest song, and may we bid you be our friends and return again ere long. adieu, adieu, our lady friends, do not now say "farewell," because we wish you all return with song too sweet to tell. come back! come back again and sing some lovely sabbath day, for your presence here to sing good cheer we all will ever pray. and now unto the aged wolfes please let me say one word: your home must be a palace filled with sirenic good; proud may you feel--and justly, too--of these five daughters fair, and great the good they've done for us while in this prison lair. there's but one wish that emanates from a prisoner's wicked heart. that is to say, without delay, "may heaven take their part, and to them bring eternal joy that'll pierce them like a dart!" each song they sing is welcome here--a masterpiece of art! and now to part we sadly must (while i'm immersed in prison dust). but hoping, too, 'twill not be long ere you return with sweetest song. adieu! adieu! _prisoners._ god pity the wretched prisoners in their lonely cells today; whatever the sins that tripped them, god pity them still, i say. only a strip of sunshine cleft by rusty bars: only a patch of azure, only a cluster of stars. once they were little children, and perhaps their wayward feet were led by a gentle mother toward the golden street. therefore, if in life's forest they since have lost their way. whatever the sins that tripped them, god pity them still, i say. [illustration] _two letters._ by geo. w. h. harrison. i wrote a letter while jealous rage in my bosom reigned supreme; the words were fraught with anger, and a loathsome disesteem. they fell on the pure white paper and marred its stainless page, yet eased my maddened spirit, and appeased my senseless rage. i gloatingly tho't of the dumb despair that letter would surely give, to one who had broken her faithful vows in a way i could never forgive. i doubted not the perfect truth of all i heard them say; she, like other girls, was false while her lover was away. i knew she vowed she would be true while life itself would last, yet thought that she, like others, too soon forgot the past. i hastily sealed the cruel note, and placed it next my heart, determined upon the morrow to give it an early start. i threw myself upon the couch and sought for sweet repose, and in my restless slumbers a vision then arose: i saw in that terrible vision a woman whose eager face beamed with yearning, restless love as her trembling fingers traced a message of love and tenderness to her loved one far away. as her pure lips quietly murmured, "god grant we must some day!" she sealed her letter with dainty hands, and laid it by with tender care: then humbly kneeled beside her bed, and poured her soul in prayer. she prayed for her impassioned lover in a warm, impassioned strain, that proved her heart both warm and true and free from guilt or stain. she arose from her kneeling posture to answer a call at her door: she smiled as she saw the letter the hand of the servant bore. one glance she gave--then burst the seal with trembling, eager haste, and rapidly heard the cruel words my reckless hand had traced. her lovely face turned deathly pale as she wildly clutched the air. she tottered and fell--a senseless heap-- a prey to dumb despair. so still she lay i deemed her dead, and sprang to raise her in my arms. i loved her with the old, wild love, and bowed to her peerless charms. "speak! darling, speak!" i wildly cried. "pray, come back from the voiceless shore. i cannot, dare not live an hour, unless i hear your voice once more!" she opened wide her lovely eyes, and cast on me one lingering glance so full of injured innocence it smote me like a lance. i seized the heartless letter, curst cause of all my shame, and, with one imprecation, consigned it to the flame. she watched me with a languid smile, and pointed to her heart: "you have destroyed the proof," she said, "but can you ease the smart?" "i have been true to all my vows, heaven judge me if i lie! but since you deem me to be false, go--leave me here--to die!" at last i woke and quickly drew the accursed sheet from my breast-- burning it with a ready hand-- and gently sank to rest. i wrote another, whose tender words were soft as the ripple of a stream; and thought what a contrast it would be to the letter she read in my dream! and my darling greatly wonders why my letters with tenderness teem, since i have never told her of the letter she read in my dream. [illustration] _a prayer for justice._ oh, god in heaven up on high, how long this cruel strife? most i but perish in this den to end this wretched life? is there no justice here on earth? must truth remain crushed down and vile and wicked, cruel man forever look and frown? is there no power to bring to light the _truth_ of my offense? must perjury and bribery prevail forever hence? can enemies, vile, cruel things, twist truth all out of shape, and cause one who's not guilty to morally wear death's crepe? oh, god! is there no remedy for earthly subjects thus to be relieved from wretched pain without this earthly fuss? oh, god! to thee we call for help. wil't thou but listen--hear? look down upon me as i be, my innocence thou'lt surely see, these shackles, bolts, and prison bars, the heavy locks and massive key-- hear, oh, god! oh, hear my prayer and set this captive free. [illustration] _birthday musings._ by g. w. van weighs. just sixty years ago today mine eyes first saw the light; now age, with ever onward tread, presages coming night. ah! is it night? or shall it be that morning's light shall break, and from my soul such music bring as earth could never wake? where are the friends of earlier years-- sleep they to wake no more? or do they walk with joyful tread heaven's ever radiant shore? if death is but oblivion's gate, why younger grows the soul with years? whose are the faces that we see when melts the hearts in tears? oh, whence the strains the soul can hear when all is hushed in sleep, and none, save god and angels, near when souls their vigils keep? is all religion but a myth? are all our hopes in vain? is heaven affectation's child, born of disordered brain? tell me not such bolts and bars can keep me from the skies; i'd sooner deem yon blushing rose a satyr in disguise. _a tribute to the wolfe sisters._ by geo w. h. harrison. come. o come, ye radiant sisters, heaven honored "tuneful nine." smooth my ever rugged numbers and inspire my drooping line. aid my muse to tell the story never breathed to mortal ear. how this sweet angelic chorus happens to be lingering near. in yon fair and blissful aiden, far beyond the faintest star. once the guardian angels slumbered, leaving heaven's gates ajar! and five wandering seraphs wandered, in their rapid, noiseless flight, thro' the gates, whose vaulted arches echoed pæans of delight! quick as thought their tireless pinions clave the unresisting air. till they reached the _five wolfe sisters_, maids of form and features fair, and within these hearts they lingered, tuning every chord to song. till the pathos of their music stilled the ever restless throng! earth and heaven stood astonished and jehovah's love decreed: "let them stay! such strains seraphic mortal beings can but heed!" have you heard their wondrous music? have you felt their sweet control? if not, friend, you've scarcely sounded half the mysteries of your soul! amy, soul-enrapturing artist, sweetly sounds the soft prelude. and beneath her skilfull fingers every note, with life imbued. stills the throng, whose very silence is an encore loud and deep. and each thought, save that of music, is forgotten or asleep. katherine's rich and full suprano, like the autumn's mellow morn. wakes the slumbering soul to action like the practiced huntsman's horn! mamie's soft, melodious voice nobly takes the second part. and the pathos of her music captivates the raptured heart! lida's faultless second alto deepens all the noble strain till the mind forgets its madness and the heart rejects in pain. then zoraydo's matchless voice sweeps the soul along till we know that _perfect music can be breathed in earthly song_! hear, o hear the melting music pouring from each heaving breast; how it wakes the heart to rapture! how it soothes the soul to rest! when they sing, such lovely visions seem to rise and grandly float like the poet's airy mansions, on the wave of each full note! silvery daybreaks brighten slow; sunsets blush on mountain snow! moonlight shivers on the open sea; autumn burns in bush and tree; blowing willows bend and sigh; whispering rivers wander by; thro' the pines sweep sea-tones soft; sailing birds shout loud aloft; strange notes beat the lambent air; visions float divinely fair; vanished faces come and go; silenced voices murmur low; gentlest memories come and cling, _as we listen and they sing_. oh, repeat the music's tale, "_love shall perish not nor fail_!" we forget the fear of death--breathe, in tho't, immortal breath! we believe in broadening truth; trust the generous creeds of youth; feel consoling hopes that climb up to some triumphant clime, and sweet dreams of splendor bring _as we listen and they sing_! walls of rock and bars of steel we can neither see nor feel; we forget our dire disgrace; disregard both time and place; bid all angry passion sleep and profoundest silence keep! hoard the trembling notes that fall like an angel mother's call; rise above our low estate and forget the wrongs of fate! we forgive our mortal foes, source of all our many woes, and penance itself loses half its sting, _as we listen and they sing_! may the god of love and truth give them all the joys of youth; may the raptures they impart ever thrill each noble heart; may their ministry of love lead all erring ones above; may wealth, happiness and joy all their waiting hours employ; be their cares both light and few and their pleasures ever new; and their lives one dream of ease till their "ship comes o'er the seas!" let fate oft their presence bring, _and we'll listen while they sing_ gentle sisters, take this tribute poured from imprisoned hearts; you have eased their maddening torture, you have stayed the cruel darts that remorse and shame have driven deep within each captive soul. suffer them your names to graven on fond memory's deathless scroll: be assured your seeds of kindness shall not fall on stony ground, many of your willing converts have both peace and pardon found! and, when all your work is ended, you in heaven shall fondly greet some whose hearts were first enlightened by your anthems clear and sweet. _to a departed idol._ by g. w. vax weighs. thou art not dead, thou art not gone to dust, no line of all thy loveliness shall fall to formless ruin, smote by time and thrust into the solemn gulf that covers all. thou canst not perish. tho' the sod sink with its violets closer to thy breast, tho' by the feet of generations trod the loadstone crumbles from thy place of rest. the marvel of thy beauty cannot die; the sweetness of thy presence shall not fade; earth gave not all the glory of thine eye; death cannot smite what earth ne'er made. it was not _thine_, that marble forehead pale and cold. nor those dumb lips they laid beneath the snow; thy heart would throb beneath that passive fold; _thy_ hands, for me, that stony clasp forego. but _thou_ hast gone. gone from this dreary land; gone from the storms let loose on every hill; lured by the sweet persuasion of a band that leads thee, somewhere, in the distance still. where e'er thou art, i know thou wearest yet the same bewitching beauty, sanctified by calmer joy, and touched with soft regret for him who seeks but cannot reach thy side. i keep for thee the living love of old, and seek thy place in nature, as a child whose hand is parted from its playmate's hold wanders and cries along a lonesome wild. when, in the watches of my heart, i hear the messages of purer life and know the footsteps of thy spirit lingering near, life's darkness hides the way i fain would go. canst thou not bid the empty realms restore that form, the symbol of thy heavenly part? or in the barren fields of silence pour that voice, the perfect music of thy heart? oh, once--once bending to my warm and eager lips, take back the tender warmth of life from me, or let thy kisses cloud with swift eclipse the light of mine, and give me death with thee. [illustration] _acrostic to warden and mrs. e. g. coffin._ elijah of old ancient times was a man of many, many minds! long did he live in noble deeds, in dealing comfort to men's needs, in these, our modern, modest days, all men have greatly changed their ways-- jehovah's laws do not control the wickedness of every soul. all those who know as well as i while on this earth will not decry he who will bad men reform--hail, coffin! who for us was born! godfrey is his second name, and now he reaps most enviable fame: our watchword is both day and nights--while o'er him floats the stars and stripes-- "do unto us as you would choose, that others do to you and yours!" faithful to her life-long trust, a wife, a mother, true and just, resolves to help both maid and man and lend an ever helping hand-- each day and night they toil and pray for boys and girls to mend their way, yet they do not toil all in vain for the great good done the human train. "coffin" is a word some shun, for it takes man when on earth he's done out to the churchyard laid in clay, for ages sanctioned such a way. for us poor sinners here in "hell" a coffin sent makes us feel well, for often he does ease the pains we feel in both our hearts and brains. in endless joy may they have peace for kindness they have done to us-- not one of us, though cursed with sin, will e'er forget our friends coffin. _canto second--last, but not least!_ mistress she is of the coffin shrine, and so it's been for years of time! in holy wedlock girls and boys have been the idols of their joys! she bids her lord elijah bide a faithful servant by her side, to aid her with a helping hand to raise poor, wretched, fallen man. real sympathy for the prisoner's woe, she seeds of comfort tries to sow ere long before it is too late to save poor sinner from his fate; she "cookies" make, with pearls all set, and puts them in elijah's hat, she then does send him on his way, while for the prisoner she does pray. mary silently did keep the watch o'er christ while he did sleep; all her _protege_ she will save if her lord will help her brave roaring storms of vice and ire, kindled by a vengeful fire! you may guess for all the rest, let me say she'll do her best! coffins, to you let us turn! and all crime forever spurn! only aid us in this strife to fight manfully for life. father elijah! mother mary! for our welfare do not tarry! fear you not! for the good you've done has saved many a fallen one! in our hearts we oft despair as we linger in this lair-- not for long tho' when we've seen--father elijah and mary, his _queen_! _a prison vision._ by geo. w. h. harrison. 'tis midnight in these prison walls, and even the sentry's muffled tread sepulchral sounds, as if he trod the silent confines of the dead. in vain i close my weary eyes, i cannot sleep tonight; i hear an angel's rustling wings fresh from the realms of light. a sacred presence haunts the air, a messenger from heaven's own land; and memory awakes again, touched by an angel's wand. i seem to hear, deep in my soul, the music of a heavenly choir, while each pulsation of my heart awakes in me the old desire to see once more that lovely form death vanished in my arms; to hear again her melting voice and revel in her charms. to feel the tender, soft caress of a loved tho' vanished hand, and hear from her departed lips the mysteries of that land that lies beyond time's rugged shore, to all unknown, save those whom angels capture for the skies at life's uncertain close. i muse again, with loving thought, of a sinless wife long dead, and live again our buried past, by an angel presence led. i view again the pleasing scene of a school house on the hill, where happy scholars daily met, whose law was the teacher's will. i see again the old armchair where the master daily sat with watchful eye and helpful hand, yet sleepless as a cat. i hear again the sleepless hum of voices low and sweet, of students pouring o'er the books with wisdom's germs replete. amid that happy, guileless throng, there was one peerless face that held in the master's tender heart an undisputed place. it was a face, o god! how fair! no words can ever paint; more fit for heaven than for earth. it bore the contour of a saint. the brow was high and broad and white, with a radiance all its own; the cheeks, like lilies dipped in blood, were oft as a rose full blown. eyebrows dark and delicately arched, were penciled in nature's play; the ruby ripeness of her lips seemed never to melt away. her lustrous eyes, whose depths were brown, yet seemed a darker hue, were windows of a spotless soul that scorned to be untrue. abundant tresses of dark brown hair that almost swept the ground, enveloped as chaste and lovely form as e'er on earth was found. a voice so soft, so sweet, so low that every accent woke sweet notes of blissful melody, as if an angel spoke. none could look upon that face and deem that aught of earth could chill the rapture of a soul where sin could know no birth. her mind had wondrous power and scope; it grasped the sea, the earth, the sky, and rightly understood and loved the god who ruled on high. contentment, truth and virtue was part of nature's dower; self-sacrifice to her was joy, and prayer was conscious power. while yet a child her spirit soared above the things of earth, and mused with soulful tenderness on the heaven that gave it birth. the teacher's stern, imperious heart yearningly worshipped this child, and 'neath her hallowed influence grew tender, warm and mild. the haughty heart, that never sought the plaudits of the world, poured its richest tribute at the feet of this faultless girl. the face, that never even blanched 'mid war's terrific strife, grew pale as death the hour he asked this child to be his wife. no word she spake, but simply laid her head upon his breast. he folded her in warm embrace and knew that he was blest. each lived a life of conscious joy; earth seemed a garden fair; the lover sought earth's fairest flowers to braid in her shining hair. deeply they drank at the font of love; draughts few natures can hold; the hours were seasons of perfect bliss; each moment more precious than gold. days and months flew swiftly by on the wings of happiness sped, and two sweet babes were garnered as the fruit of their marriage bed! they neither thought nor dreamed of aught save their babes and coming bliss; they greeted the morn with soft caress and welcomed night with a kiss. till, thundering on the wings of time, fate dealt the cruel blow that dashed a home in pieces and laid a child-wife low. the husband pressed her to his breast and fondly kissed his bride; but with the parting of that kiss the sinless child-wife died. the kindred angels joyful flew from the realms of endless day, and gently wafted her soul above, but left to us her clay. "she is dead! kiss her and come away. your cries and prayers are all in vain, your may-bell is cold, senseless clay; in heaven above you'll meet again." they smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair back from her marble forehead fair; over her eyes, that oped too much, they closed the lids with a tender touch. they closed with tender touch, that day, the thin, pale lips where beauty lay; about her brow and her sweet pale face they tied her veil and bridal lace; placed on her feet the white silk shoes that may-bell for her marriage chose; over her bosom crossed her hands; "come away," they said, "god understands." with bowed heads they left the room, still shuddering at its silent gloom; and naught, save silence, lingered there around the corpse of may-bell clare. but i loved her far too well to dread the silent, stately, beautiful dead. i cautiously opened the chamber door and was alone with my dead once more. i kissed her lips, i kissed her cheek, but 'twas in vain, she could not speak. i called her names, she loved, awhile, but she was dead and could not smile. and not one passionate whisper of love could call her back from her home above. "cold lips," i murmured, "breast without breath, is there no voice, no language in death?" dull to ear and still to the sense, yet to the soul of love intense! see, i listen with soul, not ear; what is the secret of dying, my dear? was it the infinite wonder of all that you could let life's flower fall? or was it a greater marvel to feel the perfect calm o'er agony steal? was the miracle greatest to find how deep beyond all dreams sank down that sleep? did life roll back its record, my dear, showing all past deeds dark and clear? oh, did love, sweet mistress of bliss, affrighted, vanish to shun death's kiss? for radiant ones in the world above forget those whom on earth they love? oh, perfect death! oh, dead most dear, i hold the breath of my soul to hear! i listen as deep as fathomless hell, as high as heaven, nor will you tell! there must be pleasure in dying, my sweet, to make you so placid from head to feet! i'd tell you, darling, if i were dead and _your_ hot tears on _my_ cheeks shed, i'd speak, though the angel of death had laid his sword on my lips, their accents to shade. not in vain should you, with streaming eyes, beg to know death's chief surprise. oh, foolish world! oh, precious dead! tho' you tell me, who will believe 'twas said? who will believe i heard you say in your own dear, kind familiar way: "i can speak now--you listen with soul alone: to the eyes of your soul _all_ shall be shown. in this land of infinite bliss the utmost wonder, dear one, is this: "i see and love and kiss you again; i smile at your triumph over pain; i know your heart is honest and true; i'm a guardian angel to you! "what a strange, delicious amusement is death! to live without being, to breathe without breath! i should laugh did you not cry; listen, dear one, love never can die! "i am now your heaven-decked bride; my body and not my love has died! dear one, _it_ lies there, i know, pale and silent, cold as snow. "and you say, 'may-bell is dead.' weeping o'er my silent head! _i_ can see your falling tears, hear your sighs and know your fears! "yet i smile and whisper this: i am not the clay you kiss; cease your tears and let _it_ lie, it was mine, but 'tis not _i_! "dear one, what the women love for its silent home, the grave, is a garment i have quit, as a tent no longer fit. "'tis a cage from which, at last, my enraptured soul has passed. love the _inmate_, not the _room_, love the _wearer_, not the _plume_! "_love_ my _spirit_, not the _bars_, that kept your may-bell from the stars; be wise, dear one, and quickly dry from every tear your laden eye. "what you place upon the bier is not worth a lover's tear; 'tis an empty shell at last, out of which the soul has passed. "the shell is broken, _it_ lies _there_, but the _pearl_, the _soul_, is _here_! 'tis an earthen jar, whose lid god sealed when it faintly hid "the soul he made to live on high; the mind that did not, cannot die. let the dross be earth's once more, since the gold is in his store. "god is glorious! god is good! now his word is understood! life's ceaseless wonder is at an end, yet you weep, my erring friend! "see, the lover _you_ call dead to immortal bliss is wed! loves and homes you lost, 'tis true, to such light as shines for you. "yet deep in your inmost soul you shall feel my sweet control. i'll be with you every hour, commissioned by almighty power, "to guard each moment of your life as best befits your angel wife! at night i'll linger 'round your bed, with an angel's noiseless tread; "and while you, slumbering, dream of me, i'll be present, love, with thee. where e'er you go, where e'er you stray, i'll be near thee night and day, "guarding you with zealous care, pointing out life's every snare, chasing every tear away, aiding every joy to stay. "chide you when you go astray; bless you when you kneel to pray; lead you, with an unseen hand, to view the wonders of a land "where peace and love and perfect joy tongue cannot name, nor peace destroy! shall ever bless the happy band, as radiant 'round the throne they stand! "once there, we'll never part again, but _time_, and _love_ while god shall reign. i cannot, _dare not_, say farewell; where i am _now_ you, too, shall dwell. "i am gone before your face, a moment's time, a little space. when you come where i have stepped you'll greatly wonder why you wept! "you'll know by love eternal taught that heaven is _all_, that earth is naught. i beg you not to dread sweet death; 'tis but the first and faintest breath "of the life that god hath given to fit immortal souls for heaven! be _certain_, darling, _all_ seems love, viewed from the higher courts above! "the cares and troubles that arise will prove sweet blessings in disguise; they'll waft you to a home above, where i'll await your coming, love!" _i_ heard these words and fell on the breast of the peerless bride that heaven had dressed. i yearned for those blissful regions above with heart overflowed with passionate love. my peerless flower, tho' nipped in youth, perennial shall bloom in the garden of truth! i see in the distance a roseleaf hand beckoning me on to that glorious land. tho' parted on earth we'll meet in the sky, where bliss cannot perish, and love cannot die. oh, bliss supernal! oh, rapture complete, when earth-sundered ones in glory shall meet. for years and years i've watched in vain to see that buried face again; in vain i've tried, with mortal eyes, to pierce the mysteries of the skies! oh, sweetheart of the days of yore, shall we meet on earth no more? shall i languish all alone without one sympathetic tone-- one glance of love, one word of cheer from eyes and lips i hold so dear? oh, hearken to my piteous cries, beloved one, and forsake the skies! oh, listen! earth-born mortals, see! my angel bride has come to me! the self-same face--divinely fair-- and heaven-set jewels decked her hair. her laughing eye and glowing cheek eternal youth and bliss bespeak; my head is pillowed on her breast, my brow by her dear hands caressed! the dulcet tones of her dear voice bids my aching heart rejoice; she folds me 'neath her dazzling wings, while all the heart within me sings! oh, list those melting tones of love, more soft than note of cooing dove! oh, hear the words her dear lips speak: "death, dear one, is the boon to seek! "false are the glittering gems of earth, eternity's gold is the gold of worth; one moment in heaven is worth a life spent on earth 'mid care and strife! "death is but the dawn of day, destroying naught save worthless clay! the soul lives on in rapturous bliss more perfect than a virgin kiss! "oh, dear one, still your haunting fears; the love, tho' lost, of earlier years awaits your coming to the skies, and o'er you watch with jealous eyes, "lest earth detain you till too late to enter heaven's wide open gate. oh, tarry not on earth too long, but with me join immortal's song!" she spake, and through the vaulted sky, beyond the reach of mortal eye, she wings her rapid noiseless flight and i am left alone tonight. nay, not alone; for in my soul i feel a new-born sweet control that lures me to a higher life, which will please an angel wife! farewell, prison blight and bars, mine is a home beyond the stars. welcome, death, at any hour, since sin has lost her maddening power! [illustration] _acrostic tribute to capt. j. s. acheson._ by geo. w. h. harrison. just consider, for one moment, all the good this man has done. on full many a field of battle he the victory hath won; swept he with victorious sherman from atlanta to the sea, ever acting as a soldier, from all fear and malice free; proving true in every station, like a soldier tried and true, he has earned and won the friendship of the boys who wore the blue! since his advent in this prison he has, with impartial mind, made it plain that every duty can be done and still be kind. in his bosom rests no malice towards a single human soul; 'tis his study, night and morning, all his passions to control. he is willing every prisoner should become his honest _friend_, and the prisoner's reformation he regards as _law's best trend_: crime, he deems is but the fruitage of conditions time can change. he would lift his fallen brother and no rule of right derange! ever ready with the welcome of a smile and word of cheer, some may only be respected, but such men are ever dear. o'er the path of life may heaven scatter roses at his feet; none will doubt that every christian shall _his_ face in heaven meet. _my mother._ carr. one bright sunday morn, as i sat in my cell, my thoughts to the outside did roam; the sweet songs of birds, as their notes rose and fell, turned my mind to my childhood's dear home. long years they have passed since i saw that dear spot, but its sweet memories time can ne'er smother; i can never forget that dear little cot and the sweet loving smile of my mother. in sickness or pain 'twas dear mother that brought her sweet self and her charms to allay it; she learned me a prayer and she lovingly taught me to kneel at her knees and to say it. god's word she would read, and impress on my mind the love that's conveyed by that story of the savior, who died that millions might find eternal rest in his realms of glory. for years she's been dead, and her low, grassy mound reminds me that 'neath it lies sleeping the dear friend of my youth, whose magic, i found, could bring smiles to my face e'en when weeping. 'tis thus the dear birds, as they joyfully sing and chirp happy calls to each other, remind me that perhaps they were sent for to bring a message to me from my mother. but, alas! as i think, upon my mind there quickly falls the thoughts of my sad degredation; the strong iron bars, and the grey, sombre walls, recall me to my sad situation. but no more will i sin; i'll live upright for sure; my passions and temptations i'll smother; and when god calls me home to that bright shining shore we'll be happy together, dear mother. _a memorial ode._ by g. w. van weighs. again the sacred day has come when tears and flowers shall fall on the graves of our sleeping heroes who died at liberty's call. and the tears we shed above them, as our hearts with tenderness bled, is the crown of their matchless glory and earth's divinest mead. their deeds on the field of battle were such as a god might do, and the listening angels applauded the work of the boys in blue. the flag they died defending still floats above their grave, and is loved by millions of freemen, but never looked on by a slave. the country they loved and bled for, still true to her sacred trust, will cover their names with glory and revere their hallowed dust. the comrades who still survive them, like gold in the furnace tried, speak, with tear-dimmed lashes, of the gallant boys that died. these flowers will fade and perish, tho' hallowed by each grave; but they will live forever in the hearts of the true and the brave. then let this custom continue till tears and flowers shall cease, and we shall greet the gallant boys on the shores of endless peace. _lines to my cell._ oh, silent and mysterious cell, could i command thy walls to tell the secrets they have kept so long, 't would be, indeed, a cheerless song. a tale of crime, and tears, and pain, the fruit, perhaps, of frenzied brain, as none to crime yet ever sank that had not first become a crank. "the law of god and man defy, a wretch you'll live, a felon die!" these words seem to haunt my brain, perhaps it is the sad refrain of a song well known to thee; yet where its author now can be, save thee, perhaps no one can tell, thou grim, mysterious, silent cell. thy rocky floor has felt the tread of many a hapless one now dead; thy walls have echoed many a sigh, wrung from guilt's expiring eye. while musing 'mid thy walls tonight i seem to hear, with some affright, the wail of many a blighted life, the prayer of a despairing wife; a mother, weeping for her child; a father, grief has driven wild. and then--i pray thee silence keep; 'twere best to let thy secrets sleep. [illustration] _a tribute to dr. g. a. tharp._ by g. w. van weighs. arise, my muse, and tune your harp to ring the praises of a tharp; his cultured mind and noble soul truth and virtue both control. tell the world his perfect skill can conquer every human ill that lends to science or to art, from shattered limb to dormant heart. each pill and potion that he makes relieves your pain and health awakes: and should he use the surgeon's knife, he never will sacrifice a life. his skilfull fingers place a band as gently as a woman's hand; and not one patient needs to feel that he the truth will not reveal. the poor regard him as their friend, and on his bounty oft depend; well knowing that his generous heart dares to act a christian part! long may this noble doctor live, ease to suffering men to give; and meet the summons to depart with the skill he wooes his art. _an appreciated friend._ she is a pretty little lass, half human, half divine; and for an angel she would pass in heaven's lovely clime. her hair is locks of flowing gold, her ways are cute and wise; and her form is lithe and graceful, with pretty bright blue eyes. her manners are just perfect. her nature kind and true; she is a real philanthropist when charity is due. she strives to cheer those sad at heart, and well she does succeed; and stays the ever painful dart that often fate does speed. how different from so many folk who frown upon the one who, by some simple words he spoke, caused "crime" to have been done. although the cruel knife of fate has made an awful wound, in her kind words, that come but late, sweet balm for sorrow's found. oh, that this wicked, wicked world could boast more such friendly souls! less lives would be so sadly hurled into a pit of earthly ghouls, where nothing's saved, but all is lost; and where man's cast, at any cost, into a dismal, prison dell-- a gloomy, dreary, earthly hell! come, of such friends arise and sing, with thanks returned to heaven's king! * * * * * _salome's revenge._ arise, my muse, spread out thy wings, prepare to soar away! tune up thy harp for endless joy, and turn night into day. go dream of paradise sublime in the old empire state! and when you're done return to me your story to relate. in time gone by--in days of yore-- there lived, in forests wild, two families of ancient stock, and each one had a child. the children of both parentage were born in this country; they amassed immensely fortunes in this america. the waddington's were pure scotch blood, and raised one daughter fair; they gave her name of sadie, she'd blue eyes and golden hair. her cheeks were rich with crimson glow, her lips were thin and cute, and many an anxious lover she sternly did refute. her dainty hands and flowing hair, and graceful curves of form would make one's heart quite palpitate-- she carried all by storm. trueman waddington was a man who loved his daughter--heir, and as he rolled in endless wealth he watched his child's welfare. their nearest neighbor was st. lawrence, who lived a little way off on the rugged mountain side, where children like to play. two children he had buried when they were yet quite young, and now he was a happy man 'cause he reared an only son. this son he named him trueman, because he liked the name, and tho't 'twould be in honor of his neighbor of the same. "as an act of kindness and of love," old waddington did say, "because you named him after me i pledge my sade, today." the two old friends called in their wives and asked them to consent to seal the bargain for each child on which they were both bent. the mothers thought it rather soon to tie so firm a knot, and begged them not to seal their doom by such a foolish plot. but trueman waddington was not a man to easy quit, and he argued long and labored strong in a half way frenzied fit. he said: "i know we are both rich in lands and kine and gold, and why not join these vast fortunes before they are all sold? "you've named your only son from me; trueman it is, _true-man_ he'll be, and now must i sit by in shame and cannot seal my daughter's fame?" then spake the elder man st. lawrence: "dear sir, my neighbor and my friend, you have my heart and soul and mind, and these vast fortunes i will bind "together with true chords of love. god help our children find a part their mothers will not take in this, to seal their children's fate. "now let me, please, suggest a way to reach this matter of today; and we will friendly make the deal so lawyers cannot break the seal." then waddington sprang to his feet, and warmly did his neighbors greet; then shook him warmly by the hand, and said, "come, let us seal the band." and then with fixed and mellow eye he gazed on high as he stood by his rugged friend and neighbor, too, then st. lawrence bade him what to do. "my dear old friend, sit down, sit down; 'tis easy for us now to drown all obstacles that's in our way to carry out our plan today." then he proceeded to relate how easy men in empire state could call in witness to their deed and satisfy all fortune's creed. "now, look-a-here, my friend st. lawrence, you cannot be too quick to tell me how we'll do all this and make this bargain stick." and then the sage st. lawrence did say: "look here, my friend, here is our way! i'll make my will of my estate (and that, you know, is very great,) "unto your fair and lovely child, if she refrains from being wild, and when she weds she weds my son, my noble, brave and kind trueman. "then you, my friend, reciprocate; you make your will of this same date, and seal as i do mine; make true, my son, your legatee, "and to him give, in simple fee, your lands, your goods, your kine, your cash, all in one grand and mighty crash, if he your daughter weds." the witnesses were duly called; the wills were then prepared; the testators did sign their names, the children they well fared. the documents were laid away in vaults of solid rock; there safely for the children kept, their heritage of stock. years, years rolled on and trueman grew to be a handsome man. he said: "i'm bound to be "m. d." and do the best i can." sadie, on the other hand, grew to be a queen; and when to college she did go trueman there was seen. they played at home, when they were young, upon the mountain side, and never once did they mistrust they'd be both groom and bride. when trueman closed his college course he off to gotham went, to become an adept in his class while on his mission bent. sadie, on the other hand, when she had closed her term, returned unto her mountain home, for which she hourly yearned. two years had changed this happy home to one most sadly grieved; the mother of this lovely girl had sadly been deceived. she, down upon her death bed lay, when in came sadie one bright day and gazed upon the shrunken form which now had battled life's hard storm. poor sadie, with a broken heart, she did the best to take her part; but long the sickness did not last, because her mother now soon passed from time into eternity, where the human soul is ever free. trueman now, in city fashion, had let die out his old-time passion for rocks and rills and mountain side, where dwelt the queen who'd be his bride. so much for selfish, erring man; he'll do the best where e'er he can. time, time rolled on, when sadie's sire, with renewed youth and boyhood ire, took to himself another wife, and tried anew to live his life. the new-made mistress of the home (who had no place she called her own) was mother of a daughter fair, with dimpled cheeks and flowing hair. the madame's name was maria; _her_ daughter's was sarah. she soon was boss of all the house, and sadie driven like a mouse into the cold and cheerless world. sadie, with a broken heart, prayed her father take her part; but he, with proud and dire disdain, forever did refrain. then sadie, on her mother's grave, prayed loud and long for god to save her soul from earthly wreck. then, with a palpitating heart, with one fond look she did depart to battle hard with broken heart; while daughter and a second wife should all but ruin her young life. but father did as fathers do, when their list of wives have numbered _two_; he lent his daughter a deaf ear, for his second wife he then did fear. his life was short; he soon became a victim to a raging pain, which soon relieved him from this life and bore him off from life's hard strife. they laid him low beside his wife, the pride and joy of sadie's life; but sadie knew not of the fate her father had so sadly met. the new-made widow, without tear, prepared to move, within a year, to far and distant foreign land, where neither had a single friend. the goods were sold, the stock and kine; the lands were leased for a long time; the two, with pockets filled with gold, sailed for paris with joys untold. young sarah, who was quite a belle, when in old paris she did swell her wardrobe with both silk and lace, and numerous paints to ply her face. she was the very counterpart-- although 'tis strange to say-- of pretty _sadie_ waddington in all her dainty ways. she spread herself around, about, in all society's halls, and never failed, when chance availed, to attend the stylish balls. she was a favorite with them all, in fact, the queenly belle, and many a suitor's prayer she heard while on bended knee he fell. one evening while on promenade within society's halls, she met a handsome, tall young man she'd seen at some of the balls. when introduced, both their eyes met, she blushing timidly; he heard the name, "miss waddington," then asked most courteously: "from what part of america's soil do you and your friends hail? or have you lived in paris long? on what liner did you sail"? she said: "i'm sadie waddington, from the city that bears my name; it borders on the old st. lawrence, a river of world-wide fame." then spake the handsome gentleman: "i, too, am from that place; and if you are sadie waddington, i ought to know your face." her cheeks grew flushed and flushed again, as on her he searchingly gazed; she looked up in his solemn face and saw he was greatly amazed. it was trueman st. lawrence she saw, as she gazed on his beautiful form; she was more than bewitching in her ways to capture him all by storm. the doctor went to his hotel to ponder the matter o'er: "that's not the sadie waddington i've seen in days of yore." his brain was puzzled, his face was flushed. he was in a frenzied mood; he could not fathom the mystery to do the best he could. if that's the girl in days of youth i played with on the mountain side, before i leave this old city i'll make her my darling bride. so saying, he sank upon his couch, and slept in dreams so rich and gay that loud his servant called and called, because 'twas late--far in the day. that day he had a trip to make unto a neighboring town, and visited a hospital kept by a doctor brown. in passing from one of the wards, while in the open door, he chanced to turn, and looking back saw, kneeling on the floor, with outstretched arms and pleading eyes, the girl for years he had not seen; she'd grown into full womanhood, she was a perfect fairy queen. "what! what!" he cried, "am i deceived? if i'm my father's son that girl i see back yonder is _sadie waddington_!" he hastened back to where she knelt, and bade her to arise, and clasped her to his manly breast, while tears rose in his eyes. then 'tween her sobs and moans and groans she slowly did relate how she was driven from her home back in the empire state. she told of awful suffering, of wandering far and near; of the death of father and mother, to her _all_ that was dear. she told him how she had returned unto her mountain dome, and as she was told that all had been sold, she was left without a home. the doctor stood transfixed with awe; listened to her relate the story of the sale of all, back in the empire state. the doctor said: "my dear sadie, it matters not a bit to me whether you have lands, or goods, or gold, i have vast fortunes yet untold. "what's mine is yours; 'tis always so, my father told me long ago, before i left the empire state and came over here to study late. "i offer you my heart and hand, and pledge to seal it with the band of holy wedlock, faithfully. now set your heart forever free "from labor and the toils of life,-- come, say you'll be my darling wife! i feel a pang about my heart that pierces like a flashing dart." "oh, true. st. lawrence! oh, can it be that you do really care for me? i, who have lived by a false name to hide a step-mother's wicked shame? "for five long years my name has been (as you directly would have seen), not sadie w., as you have known, but the sadie changed to plain salome. "the waddington i changed, also, for the common name of van harlow; then among strangers i did seek for work to do, although 'twas meek. "i came across the ocean wide, as servant to a new-made bride; she was taken sick and died out here before she'd been a bride a year. "since then i've cared for poor and sick, and cannot leave them now, so quick. i patients have who _must_ have care before _i_ leave for better fare. "now true, my dear, i'll be your own; i'll make you an ever happy home; i feel pa's oft' spoke words are true, trueman's your name, _true man_ are you." he pressed her closely to his breast: to dry her tears he did his best; then gently kissed her burning cheeks and bade her wait but a few weeks. the happiest man in all the land was true. st. lawrence, with trembling hand, who then returned to his rooms rich, a restless night to roll and pitch upon a bed of faultless down, but pains of heart it could not drown. he lay and mused throughout the night, 'cause his future now looked bright. _sarah_ waddington and her mother prepared a party for another. a gent they wished to entertain, 'cause sarah wished to bear his name. "it is to be a swell affair, so she could safely set her snare to catch the unsuspecting true, because he loves and loves but you." so spake the mother to her child, who seemed delighted--almost wild-- to think that she could play her part without remorse or pain at heart. the time rolled on, and days were spent in fixing up for the event; the rich were called from every side to see sarah--the would-be bride. she sent a most bewitching note for dr. 'lawrence to cast the vote, who'd be the belle of honor, bright, to bear the graces of the night. the doctor smiled, as he sat down to answer it, without a frown; and faithfully he did outline, in characters most cute and fine: "my choice is one, and only one; and now i've written and 'tis done! as sure as i'm my father's son, 'tis one--fair _sadie_ waddington! "and now, before it is too late, there's one request i have to make: that i be granted then, or sooner, to be escort to the maid of honor." "your request is at once granted, and hope we'll become enchanted; and with your presence'll be elated, because, it seems, we are related". fair sarah, then, did make it known (real quietly about her home) that she and 'lawrence, raised side by side, would soon become both groom and bride. silks and diamonds bought with gold, gotten from the kine she'd sold 'way back in the empire state, where poor sadie met her fate. just one week before the eve' when he sarah would deceive, trueman went to see his love, who was pretty as a dove. "sadie," said he, "sweet is revenge! let us now your labor change. the ones who drove you to your fate, away back in the empire state, "are here in paris this long time, and live in luxury sublime. the gold they got from off your kine, it goes for suppers and for wine. "in holy wedlock let us wed, i'll lead you to a bridal bed; and then in luxury and state we'll 'tend the ball ere 'tis too late". i'll humble them in dust and shame! ah, sadie, you were not to blame! _we'll_ make them wish they'd never sold your goods and kine for glittering gold! "come, darling, now we'll off today, the bridal knot to firmly tie. then i your graceful swanlike neck with pearls and rubys will bedeck. "i'll trim your lovely graceful form with richest satin to be worn: i'll place upon your tapered hand a solitaire, set in gold band. "your dainty feet encased in kid of dainty styles, they're only made for those who're called the name of queens, and bought by those who have vast means. "then to the ball we'll proudly go, (and who we'll meet i do not know,) i'll there present to every one my bride, _true_ sadie waddington. "the shock, so sudden, will be great; they'll quail beneath their hearts own hate of being there exposed to all; oh, won't it be an awful fall? "come, sadie dear, revenge is sweet! now is our chance to get your mete which they have held from you so long, and did you such a cruel wrong." then sadie spoke: "trueman, my dear, there's naught i know for me to fear. revenge _is_ sweet, although 'tis queer, revenge i get in paris here." they carried out their little plot, and never skipped a single jot. the eve was fine, the folk were gay, and not a thing stood in their way. it was quite late when they arrived at the mansion of the would-be bride. as soon as doctor stepped in sight, escorting sadie--his delight-- sarah saw the graceful form and, with one scream, she left the room, and fell fainting to the floor. they gently laid her on the couch before the open door. her mother came in haste to see what all the trouble there could be, and did not see the doctor's bride until she was close by her side. and when she saw it was too late, she gasped: "oh, sarah's met her fate," then fell into a deathly state. the mother swooned and swooned away the entire night and most the day; and then the doctor came to say, "her life is run, she cannot stay!" sadie, with trained and skillful hand, nursed sarah back to conscious-land; did faithfully the watchword keep while often o'er them she did weep. and, just before the mother died, she sadie called to her bedside and begged her to full pardon give for cruel wrong she did receive. sadie, always so good and true, said she always thought she knew that the grand day would surely come when that great wrong would be undone. she granted full, complete pardon for all the wrongs the dame had done, and then she spoke kind words of cheer into the madam's dying ear. with firm-set eyes and drooping chin the madame grasped and tried to cling unto the hand she once did scorn, and drove from home at break of morn. she then was wrapt in eternal death, and from her soul came not a breath. in casket pure as driven snow unto the churchyard she did go, and there was laid beneath the clay to await jehovah's judgment day. all lands and goods and gold and kine she left behind for endless time! poor sarah! doomed to awful fate, her mind was left in ruined state; in raving madness and in strife she tried to take our sadie's life. the best physicians in the land were summoned forth on every hand to try and bring her from the strife back to the land of happy life. off to an asylum she must go, 'cause 'twas not safe to leave her so; and with good care she might regain and be relieved from mental pain. salome, our faithful lass and bride, resolved to stay by sarah's side and help her regain her lost mind, and comfort for her she would find. nine weeks were spent in mad-house fare, salome bestowing tender care upon the one who once did face salome in all her dire disgrace. when doctor st. lawrence saw his wife was bent on battling for the life of one who was once her mad foe, he said: "all right, it shall be so." salome, she clung unto her charge, as if she were her dearest friend; she incurred expenses somewhat large to treat her patient to the end. the doctor soon began to learn his bride and wife would never spurn the one who once her home did take, and drove her off for mere pride's sake. he asked salome what she would do in case that sarah did pull through, and once again her mind regain before they crossed the raging main. salome did quickly make reply, while glistening tears stood in her eye: "i'll take her to old empire state, right to the door where i met fate! "i'll make her happy, if i can, and now i'll form my little plan: we must, dear true, just do our best, and fix her up in a cosy nest. "we will give her a little home on the beautiful mountain side; we will find her a handsome lover who'll be proud to call her his bride. "we will give them all attention that the best of friends could do; we will _return good for evil_, 'cause my mother taught me so. "let us show that true religion is the life we ought to live, and the ways that christ rejoiced in are the ways to which we cleave. "oh, my husband, dearest trueman, i believe in sarah reigns the true principle of goodness-- let us fan that spark to flames. "can i now secure her safely, teach her shun her evil ways and discard that haughty spirit that she learned in younger days, "i will be the happiest mortal ever lived on mother earth, and will reach that heavenly portal only reached by second birth." after coaxing, begging, teasing, sarah consented for to go back across the ocean, raging, where her childhood seeds did sow. when they reached the harbor safely, bag and baggage on the truck, they cast lots to see what steamer they would choose for their good luck. doctor got the choice of vessels, and he quickly did decide that the city of st. paris should take their _protege_ and his bride. safely in the vessel's cabin, housed in cosy stateroom there, all were ready for the voyage, and did look for cheerful fare. out upon the briny billows, just three days and nights, 'twas said, when the night was dark and dreary, trueman rose from sleepless bed. there was something weighed upon him, something whispered to beware; he dressed and went upon the deck to breathe the crisp sea air. he paced and paced the vessel's deck with long and manly stride; he went from starboard o'er to port and back to starboard side. he'd been upon the deck some time, and peered into the gloom as if them something overawed and threatened them with doom. at last, to port, he spied a fleck, a dancing on the waves, and there he plainly saw a deck bedecked with pirate knaves. the vessel, with a dark-hued hull, bore straightway on its course, when, "_hard to port! to port! to port!_" rang out a voice real coarse. the strange boat glided swiftly on, like a ghost on phantom wings, while the crisp sea breeze went dancing past and through her rigging sings. the strange boat slipped along, across the briny billows white, and their steamer ploughed and labored hard along its renewed flight. it was a close and dangerous call, because the night was dark; had they collided there, on the ocean bare, they'd went down with their bark. the voyage, then, to gotham was stormy and quite rough, and all agreed, when landed, that they had quite enough. they then all took the railroad train north, through the empire state, and soon were on the mountain side where sadie met her fate. the first place sadie wished to see was graves of father and mother, and tripping lightly from the yard, she passed out with another. that bitter morn, with memories fresh, when from her home she'd fled, she was scorned by one _now_ too glad to lead her on ahead. when she approached her mother's grave the tears rolled thick and fast, and by her side poor sarah stood, with memories of the past a fitting through her guilty mind: and then she spoke at last: "oh, sadie, sadie, what a blot upon my mother's past; it stings within my guilty heart, and would to god i now could part with half the pain i feel-- the balm of christ could scarcely heal." she stooped, and silently did press her fresh and rosy lips upon the little mound of grass "beneath--dear mother sleeps." then sarah, with most tender words, pressed sadie to her breast and with a fervent, heartfelt plea, prayed both them to be blest. when they returned unto their home, their friendship sealed with silent love, they could not bear to be alone; they felt a power from up above. old friends and neighbors, with delight, called on the doctor and his bride, and there convened, on the first night, a host of friends who're on their side. there's one among them old and gray, who'd lived right there for all his life; 'tis the elder man and sage, st. lawrence, and he smiles upon the doctor's wife. heir to the waddington estate, sadie reigns the queen of all; her friendship for sarah was great, and sister her did often call. the doctor chose to spend his life upon the handsome mountain side with sadie, his true loving wife, and father st. lawrence until he died. time rolled around and months flew by; sadie and sarah, hand in hand, sealed by the firmest friendship tie, two of the truest in the land. there chanced to stroll from distant clime a bright young man of sadie's kin; came to visit in summer time, and sarah was introduced to him. sadie tried her best to make a match, and championed well her cause; sarah viewed it as a catch that one very seldom draws. though 'twas but a short acquaintance, still the wedding time was fixed; the intended groom had patience, 'cause he felt he was not rich. sadie, sweet as dewy honey, wishing that her friends should wed, proffered home and lands and money if the word would just be said. "i am heir to all this fortune, known as waddington's estate; come, now, sarah; come, now, hawthorne, join your hearts ere 'tis too late. "i will give to you a large farm yonder on the mountain side; i will give you kine and money, if you'll be my cousin's bride." sarah spake, with dewy eyelids, to the one she loved so dear: "sadie, i am anything but worthy of this princely gift, to cheer "my poor broken, wicked heart, after i have been so bad; you should never take _my_ part, since _i_ took that which _you_ had." yet sadie, true to her own passion, promised deed in fee for all, if sarah would wed her own cousin, ere the summer ran to fall. so the wedding day was fixed when the two should be made one, and their home, as she predicted, would be deeded as their own. when at last the nuptial greeting was received on every hand, the sage, st. lawrence, came to their meeting, the last one left of their quartet band. the wedding knot was duly tied, and the folk were feeling gay; they were now made happy groom and bride, starting out in life's pathway. when the ceremony was over, and the gifts they were bestowing-- bridal gifts as sweet as clover-- sadie, with her rich hair flowing, called the old 'squire of the city that to witness of her signing the transfer of title fair, to the land that lay up there; when, to her surprise and chagrin, father st. lawrence, with gentle voice, told her that she could not bargain, for she had not even choice. "now, my daughter, not one farthing of this vast and rich estate has been left unto true's darling, now, i tell you, 'tis not too late. "all this land you tho't was yours by inheritance of your blood, was bequeathed by your dear father to one you never thought he would". now, i've brought the judge of probate as an honored guest of _mine_, that he might reveal the truth, that it might be writ in rhyme. then, to soothe the disappointment, the old judge with silvery hair drew from 'neath his outer garment, two old papers kept with care. one was read by him to sadie, where her father had endowed all his lands, and kine and money on the one who made her proud. when this document was ended, and was handed to trueman, the old sage, st. lawrence, pretended that he enjoyed youth again. "read, judge! read your other paper! tell my daughter here the truth; tell her what their anxious fathers did for them while in their youth." when the document was ended, with tears showering down her face, sadie, kisses, sweetly blended, while she held him in embrace. long their fortunes had been blended by the signatures alone of their fathers in their child days, as they played around their home. "true, my dear; o will you come here? sign this deed! come quick, o do; carry out my simple wishes; sarah is my friend, so true." "yes, my darling, this with pleasure i will do, to please you all; it is my most pleasant leisure to do bidding at your call." so, the deed of gift was given, and in happiness they'd start; from that home they'd ne'er be driven, life anew to never part. there in happiness and comfort did they live upon the place where the evil of proud passion smothered one in dire disgrace. happy was salome and trueman when they saw their _protege_ safe in the hands of cousin hawthorne, on the waddington old place. safe within the coils of homelife, safe within the cottage walls, safely with a trusting husband, safe within their friendly calls. thus the vengeance of our hero was full spent to meet her theme; yet so different from a nero, because she knew she could redeem. salome's revenge was to her sweet, 'cause she'd conquered, not cut down; now she feared no one to meet, nor would any wear a frown. though some years had been so bitter, and had fraught such cruel pain; now the coldest of the winter seemed like flowery beds of green. now, away up on the mountains, in the well known empire state, sadie waddington is living in sweet revenge, where she met fate. [illustration] _a tribute to capt. george w. hess._ by g. w. van weighs. almost a decade thou hast battled with a patriot's band, whose first duty is devotion to their native land; and no comrade but is willing, with a ready mind, to declare thee brave and loyal to all mankind. in thy country's hour of peril, on the battle field, thou wert ever more than willing all her rights to shield, and, with true and loyal purpose, battled for the right, till secession's traitorous banner sunk in endless night! duty's path to thee is glory, glory easy won; for a task so oft repeated is quite easy done; yet no one can ever chide, for thy generous heart ne'er will crush the poor and helpless with oppression's dart. every prisoner knows and likes thee, for thy friendly ways must attract their close attention and excite their praise; and the few who know thee better, as a man of heart, would desire no nobler mission than to take thy part. may you live in peace and plenty, happy with your own, till jehovah's love shall gather 'round his august throne all who, like you, honest comrade, follows heaven's plan and respects the rules of virtue and the rights of man. [illustration] _my lawyer._ when grappled in the law's embrace, who first betrayed an anxious face and fain would shield me from disgrace? my lawyer. who told me i should not confess, that he would all my wrongs redress and set me free from all distress? my lawyer. when, sick in jail, i senseless lay, who took my watch and case away, lest prowling thieves on me should prey? my lawyer. who to my wealth tenacious clung, and for me wagged his oily tongue, and at my foes hot embers flung? my lawyer. who told me he was dreadful smart and knew the law-books all by heart, and always took his client's part? my lawyer. who, in the court, with peerless pride, my rights affirmed, my guilt denied, and swore the state's attorney lied? my lawyer. and when twelve men, in one compound, for me a guilty verdict found, who came to stanch the bleeding wound? my lawyer. who said my time within the wall would be exceeding brief and small, the minimum, or none at all? my lawyer. and when the judge my doom proclaimed, and three long years of exile named, who looked indignant and ashamed? my lawyer. when, at the sheriff's stern command, i for the train was told to stand, who longest shook and squeezed my hand? my lawyer. who, when he had me safe confined, no more concerned his crafty mind, nor was, for me, to grief inclined? my lawyer. who closed the mortgage on my lot, and drove my family from my cot, and left them homeless on the spot? my lawyer. who, when of prison clothes i'm stripped, and from these walls am homeward shipped, will get himself immensely whipped? my lawyer. [written by mr. george gilbert, who died on the th of june, a. d. .] [illustration] _a sad warning._ by geo. w. h. harrison. in prison cell, at early twilight, smoking foesters "best cigar," sat a convict, little dreaming aught his perfect bliss could mar. round the cell-block, slowly ambling, came a "screw," on mischief bent, and his wide, expanded nostrils quickly inhaled the welcome scent. wave on wave, thro' latticed iron, smoky clouds rose thick and high, and the happy convict murmured: "go, ye cloudlets, greet the sky!" but the cloudlets, incense laden, lingered near the oaken floor, till the "screw," with cat-like motion, stood before the smoker's door. in the spittoon, charred and sputtering, lay the smoker's joy and pride; and the "screw," exultant, murmured: "stackhouse will _this case_ decide." morning dawned. the "cellar agent" bore the trembling wretch away to a cellar, cold and gloomy, where the tools of torture lay. blows and shrieks alternate sounded, and a voice from near the floor murmured: "stackhouse! mercy! mercy!! p-l-e-a-s-e, sir; _i will smoke no more_!" from the cellar, shorn and shaven, skulked the cowering "con." away; and he smokes--but, oh! how watchful is that victim, who can say? all ye inmates, take the warning, gushing from a brother's heart: he who smokes within these portals for the dire offense _may_ smart! [illustration] _acrostic to j. c. langenberger, captain of the o. p. night watch._ by g. w. van weighs. just to all men, to all men kind and true; conspicuous as a giant yet comely to the view; loved by all who know him, trusted everywhere; always more than willing to ease his fellow's care; never harsh or cruel, never false or base; going in and coming out among those in disgrace, earning from each prisoner's heart the meed of honest praise; none condemn his actions, none despise his ways; by his children reverenced, by his wife adored; every friend is welcome at his ample board; rich in all that makes a _man_, poor alone in hate; god of mercy bless the man who nightly guards our fate; ever may he fill the post that wisdom has assigned, ruling all, as now he does, by strength of heart and mind. _she loves me yet._ by geo. w. h. harrison. amid the cares and griefs of life, one precious thought i'll ne'er forget, i have a fond and faithful wife, for darling lulu loves me yet. the bitterest pang that earth can give can never make my soul regret the fact that i on earth can live, while lulu says she loves me yet. the sweetest joy my heart could know would prove a diamond yet unset, whose radiant light could never glow, like this sweet thought, "she loves me yet." should grief deluge my troubled soul till every hour some care beset, i could defy its stern control while murmuring, "lulu loves me yet." should every friend i have on earth each vow of loyalty forget, i could survive the cruel blow, since darling lulu loves me yet. should earth with one accord combine, sweet lulu's influence to beset, it would not change my constant mind, if i but felt "she loves me yet." i care no sweeter boon in life, nor will my heart its choice regret; i only long to meet that wife who truly says she loves me yet. _acrostic tribute to harry smith._ by g. w. van weighs. he is like the god, appollo, when in days of old all the hearts of greece could conquer, yet despised their gold. rich in manhood, health and youth, he is ever free ready to assist his brother whatsoever his need may be. you can trust him freely, fully, with your love or gold, since his love of truth and honor never can grow cold. may he ever do his duty and to all be kind, it is but the noble hearted who can rule the mind, trusting, still, his love of country and his love for man, he may rest assured heaven will endorse his plan. _the phantom boat._ by geo. w. h. harrison. two lovers once sat dreaming of scenes o'ergrown by years; sweet daisy's eyes were eloquent with girlhood's pleading tears; her little hand was lying confidingly in mine, while her silvery voice pleaded: "dear one, awake the nine!" "yes, darling, i will rhyme for you; what legend shall i drew! shall i now fold you in my arms and, drifting down life's stream, 'mid singing birds and nodding flowers, pour forth my soul in love-- in accents soft and tender-- as the cooing of a dove"? or shall i tell you, dearest one, why yonder's rippling stream first gained the name "tululah" in an age that's now a dream? well, now, pillow your head upon my breast, the legend is weird and wild; i fear me much its harrowing scenes will shock, thee, gentle child. will you listen, while we're watching for the far-famed phantom boat? perhaps the tale will lead us to catch the first faint note of tululah's wondrous music as she floats down this stream, for, i assure you, darling, this legend is no dream. where now we sit, in days gone by, the stealthy panther crept, and bears and wolves in horrid hordes their tireless vigils kept; turkey, deer and beaver were scattered far and wide, and here the lordly savage stalked _in all his pristine pride_; the creeks then ruled this forest, from suwanee to the sea;-- a haughty, bold and cruel race, cunning, treacherous, wild and free! to hunt and fish, and boast and fight were the duties of a brave, while woman--alas! sweet woman was but a cowering slave! no grant had she to breathe her wrongs before the "council fire," nor dared she utter a single word to gain her heart's desire, until her savage master first gave her leave to speak; nor dared she then to brave his will lest he his vengeance wreak! yet ever and anon there rose a woman, whose proud soul ignored those self-created gods and spurned their base control. such was the brave tululah, whose spirit haunts this stream; in a phantom barge it glides along, like a wraith in a troubled dream. 'tis said she haunts this river, alone on a misty night, and that each one who sees her is 'palled with strange affright! and why she haunts this river is the burden of my tale, and none who have a tender heart but will her fate bewail. tululah was ocala's child, to whom the creeks ascribe the name of the boldest leader that ever led their tribe! a savage of herculean build, with fierce and restless eye, his haughty lip deigned not to smile, and scorned to breathe a sigh! tululah was his pride and joy, the only thing he loved on earth, since she became an orphan at the fatal hour of birth! the superstitious savage deemed her mother's spirit nigh, and thought, who harmed an orphan, by a spirit hand should die! she was born, too, "in a castle," gifted with a "second sight;" friends of earth, and sea, and air, at _her_ command would fight. her raven locks and soulful eyes, her faultless form and peerless face, and voice of wondrous melody awed and charmed her race. she reigned an undisputed queen, _all_ her mandate must obey; and even the fierce ocala was obedient to her sway. yet even she was powerless to stay the raging flood of tireless, deathless savage hate that sought the white man's blood. ocala's hatred of the whites was known both far and near; brave hunters spake his name with awe, and women in trembling fear! at last he grew so treacherous no white man dared come nigh, till a trio of gallant hunters determined _he should die_! they knew 'twas a dangerous mission on which their steps was bent, yet the prayers of honest settlers their true hearts courage lent. as they neared the sleeping village, where ocala awaited his doom, they flitted like weird spectres in the silent midnight gloom! there, spread before their vision, five hundred wigwams lay; a savage guerdon of defense for him they sought to slay. to the silent village center our gallant hunters crept, to the door of the largest wigwam, where proud ocala slept. stepping across the prostrate form of the sentinel at the door, they breathed a prayer for absent ones, whom they might see no more. three knives flashed in midnight air, then fell with a sickening thud, ocala, napoleon of his tribe, lay withering in his blood! but hark! what means that fierce warhoop, resounding loud and clear? 'tis the bugle blast that calls each brave when the paleface foe is near! gathering fast in the midnight gloom, they form "the circle of death" around the dauntless hunters, who stand with bated breath awaiting the savage onslaught, determined to sell their lives to the service of their country and the freedom of men's wives; while pitying heaven aids them by the darkness of the night, since not a star will lend its aid to guide their foes aright! now facing north, and east, and west, they meet the savage foes, recruiting charon's army by every lusty blow; but still they come in hideous swarms, like hounds let loose from hell, till, overborne by numbers, our bleeding heroes fell! all honor to the gallant three, twelve braves in silence lay, with gaping wounds and stony eyes, to greet returning day! while yet a score were nursing wounds which these heroes gave, that signed their right to enter into an unwept grave! ocala ne'er again would scourge their country, far and near, nor wring from helpless innocence an unavailing tear! his death alone destroyed the boast and stilled the raging flood of senseless pride and passion that bathed his hands in blood! but, alas, for human prowess, these deeds but roused the ire of savage wretches, who now tried to vent their spleen _with fire_! three stakes were now erected and fagots heaped around, while painted fiends in human shape exultant, sat aground. they led the helpless captives forth, with many a shout and hoot, and drug them to their awful doom, less feeling than a brute! and first they bound hugh cannon, whose descendants, love, you know, i pointed out to you, last fall, when we were at the show. they bound him to the cruel stake before his comrades' eyes, then scornfully they bade them mark "how a paleface coward dies!" thank god his captors were deceived, he smiled amid the flame! and, with his fast expiring breath, these words bequeathed to fame: "to suffer in a noble cause is sweet beyond compare! these greedy flames that lick my blood but light a vision fair, where heroism and heroes sweep the still resounding lyre, heaven's harmonies have quenched the tortures of this fire! "tumultuous raptures 'round me roll heaven's pearly gates ajar! my spirit soars on fleshless wing beyond the faintest star! oh, blissful death; oh, vision fair, what sweet celestial glories shine, the loved and lost of earlier years are _now_ forever mine!" the savage horde in silence stood and listened as he sang, while even their untaught eyes could see he suffered not a pang! no yell triumphant smote his ear, awe silenced every tongue, and many a heart beat faster as he his requiem sung. then lionhearted conway, beneath whose eagle eye even savage foes once trembled was offered up to die! defiant still 'mid writhing flames, he heaped on them his scorn, and, with true prophetic voice he doomed their race unborn. "rejoice! rejoice! ye howling fiends, distort your hideous face, soon the white man's wrath shall sweep from earth your blood-stained race, while shining fields and cities fair attest the white man's power, you accursed creeks shall be tradition's useless dower!" now comes your own ancestor, the gallant, brave mccray, who planned this glorious campaign and led the awful fight. he was a perfect hercules, cast in apollo's mould, with a heart of witching tenderness, yet proud and dauntless soul. oft had he visited this tribe, on peaceful mission bent, and to many a savage his kind assistance lent. yet little dreamed he, at this hour, one heart amid that throng still beat responsive to his own, attuned to love's mad song! yet, as they bound him to the stake and raised the flaming brand, the chief that held it fell a corpse, killed by a woman's hand! and indian maiden loosed his bands and raised her voice on high: "who harms my paleface lover by tululah's hand shall die!" behold, the savage concourse stand, transfixed by silent awe, and gaze upon ocala's child, held sacred by their law! they feared ocala's spirit might _then_ be hovering nigh; nor dared to harm his darling child, lest he who harmed her die! the queen, with head and form erect, bore mccray undismayed, and in her _father's_ wigwam her wounded lover laid! then bending gently o'er him, each wound she rightly dress, and with sweet plaintive melodies lured the weary one to rest. at dawning light mccray awoke, his queen still lingering there; his eyes bespoke his gratitude, his lips were moved in prayer for the lithe and graceful maiden whose love he knew to be pure as early morning's blush, yet deathless as--eternity! although once failed, his savage foes still thirsted for his blood; the hate within their bosoms was as tireless as a flood. not daring open violence, they sought oneida's craft, and 'neath the guise of friendship gave the lovers a sleeping draught. when the mighty god of slumber had locked them fast in sleep, the wily savage entered, his fearful oath to keep. they took mccray to the river in sight of these roaring falls, whose sheer descent--two hundred feet-- the stoutest heart appalls! they bound him fast in a frail canoe, set adrift 'mid the current's flow, believing his life would be dashed out on the jagged rocks below. then, gladly turning homeward, a ready lie they make to appease her burning anger when tululah shall awake! slowly the doomed man drifted, yet faster, at each breath, the quickening current bore him to the open gates of death! yet still he slept; aye, slept and dreamed of the proud creek's peerless flower who, for deathless love of him, had braved her nation's power. spurned her murdered siris corpse and to his murderer clung! aye, on the spot that drank his blood, love's soothing ditties sung! dreamed of the eyes that flashed with fire when his foeman dared draw nigh, yet softened into tenderness at her lover's faintest sigh. dreams of the hand that sped the dart that pierced the chieftain's breast, yet with such witching tenderness could tremble in caress! dreams of the heart that proudly braved a nation's deadly hate, yet, at a lover's first command, would brook a martyr's fate! dreams of the hour when tululah, who so bravely saved his life, shall desert her baffled kinsman to become a white man's wife! dreams how he would love and prize her, shielding her with tenderest care, spending time, and life, and fortune but to grant her lightest prayer. but his dream is rudely broken, and his blanched lip loudly calls, for he hears the well known rumbling of this river's awful falls. life was sweet, death was so near, and he so young to die! no wonder that his trembling lips sought mercy from on high. he bore ten thousand tortures with every passing breath, as he lay bound and helpless, gliding swiftly on to death. he raised his clarion voice above the deafening roar; great heavens! can a human cry reach that resounding shore? "yes! yes!" a once familiar voice calls loudly from that shore, and a well known trapper woos time to life and hope once more! by an effort, born of hope renewed, mccray sprang to his feet; the trapper saw, his lariat flew, his outstretched hands to greet. "_steady!_" the practical huntsman cried: "your peril is almost o'er; steady, for in a moment your foot shall press the shore!" then, as he drew the skiff ashore, he recognized mccray, but gazed in silent wonder _for late raven locks were grey_! and never, to his dying day, would mccray view the place where, in suspended agony, he met death face to face! he shuddered at an indian's name, and soon forgot the queen, who once so bravely saved him from a nation's senseless spleen. he wooed and won a maiden whose blue eyes, like your own, held within their liquid depths, love's nectarine full blown, and as i press your luscious lips i praise thee, brave mccray, whose dauntless courage gave to me the girl i hold today! oh, yes; forgive me, darling, i did almost forget; but how can mortal silence keep by such sweet eyes beset? grant me the boon of one more kiss and gaze into my face; light fancy by your radiant eyes, tululah's fate to trace! still let the pressure of your hand chain me in rapture to the earth, for i must offer thoughts tonight that ne'er before had birth! no idle dreamer dares to pierce the mystery of this stream, nor would i dare the bold emprise save that your wish i deem the highest law my loving heart can now or ever know, and 'neath the witchery of your smile my raptured numbers glow! my fancy soars on eager wing, and will, perhaps, at last, gladly at your high behest unfold the misty past! tululah slept till evening shades had deepened into night, and woke, alas! to find herself bereft of her brave knight. her indian wit soon taught her oguchu was to blame, and hastily she found him, her eyes and cheeks aflame! "oguchu knows your mission; your paleface lover fled while tululah's starlit eyes were wandering 'mid the dead. he is not worthy of your love; let my sister choose a mate; oguchu's lodge is open, will my sister spurn her fate?" "my paleface lover is a brave!" tululah proudly cried; "_he_ never fled from friend or foe, oguchu, thou hast lied! thy double tongue is poison-tipped, thy words a coward's dart, before i clasp thy loathsome form let panthers rend my heart! "speak, coward, speak! where is my brave? tululah asks you where; speak, lest i summon by a word the friends of earth and air to tear your quivering limbs apart, you lying, treacherous chief. speak the truth! you indian dog, the night is growing brief!" the awestruck chief is conquered, and tells, with bated breath, where last he saw him drifting, into the jaws of death! tululah heard, and wild despair hurled reason from her throne. low at her feet the wretches crouched, their treachery to atone! "up! up, you cowards! up, you knaves! and lead me to the place. tululah's hand shall save him yet or curse your coward race! 'tis mine to speak; yours, to obey;-- i am your virgin queen:-- i _swear_ to save my lover or _nevermore_ be seen!" they led her to the river, and, pointing to the place, they stood like criminals abashed before the judge's face. she spurned their pleading counsel, and, springing in a boat, she cast the oars from her and set the skiff afloat! then, as she gazed adown the stream, her eyes were all aglow with that deep yearning passion such hearts alone can know. while sitting in the boat erect, with an indian's willowy grace, she sang in tuneful numbers a song time can't efface: "i am coming, coming, coming, slowly drifting down the stream, while my heart is yearning, yearning for the idol of love's dream. "i have left them--left them--left them! farewell, treacherous indian race; i can hear him calling, calling, and i go to seek his face. "now i'm gliding, gliding, gliding! and i hear the awful roar of the waters tumbling, tumbling, where no boat will need an oar! "now i'm rushing, rushing, rushing! and the spray obscures my sight; the angry waters leaping, leaping, chill me with a strange affright. "oh, i see him! see him--see him, and i welcome death's alarms! oh! i'm swiftly falling, falling, and i spring into his arms!" not a trace of boat or maiden could the savage searchers find, and they fled the spot in terror, daring not to look behind! nor would they tarry near the river, but moved their wigwam's far away; no savage creek would linger near the spot by night and day. and tradition says her spirit may be seen on nights like this, when the heavy moon, mist-laden, greets the river with a kiss! not in vain will be our vigil if tululah knows tonight in your precious veins is flowing genuine blood of her brave knight! look! look! 'mid the river's silvery sheen tululah's phantom boat is seen, while the air vibrates like a quivering lyre, touched by the hands of an angel choir! oh, wondrous music soft and low, like rippling streamlets' gentle flow! oh, pathos laden, heart refrain, no mortal lips can breathe that strain! immortal love! not even death can damp thy flame or chill thy breath! nay, while eternal ages roll, 'tis thine to feed the hungry soul with manna dipped in passion's fire, true birthright of the heart's desire; blest food no mortal lips can take and fail enrapturing bliss to wake! heaven's corner-stone, earth's chief delight. tululah's captive soul tonight is but living o'er the dream thou didst create beside this stream. her hapless fate all must deplore, self-sacrificed in days of yore; and, could tululah live again, at least one heart would soothe her pain! the legend may be overdrawn, yet 'tis not all a dream! nor will you ever say again: "this is no haunted stream!" other eyes beside our own have seen the phantom boat, and other ears than ours have heard that wild, weird? music float! but, precious little darling, as i strain thee to my breast, i am conscious you are weary, thus deprived of needful rest. let us hasten to thy cottage, parting with a lingering kiss; little daisy, then, can slumber and awake in perfect bliss! [illustration] [illustration] _an initial acrostic._ hear, o hear the melting music pouring from inspired hearts! in the race of life they stumbled, victims of temptation's darts. ruin's billows them engulfing, all their hopes and joys to blight; and the scorpion lash of conscience scourges them by day and night! man has doomed them to a prison where shame's torrents hourly roll pouring every known affliction on the crushed and bleeding soul! every legal right has perished, every social tie is snapped! crushing force is ever present, body mind and soul entrapped! kindness is a total stranger, human treatment rarely shown, man _is_ faultless when his fellow for a fault must needs atone! can such beings know the rapture heaven decrees to poet souls? know they where to place the cymbals of the sounding lyre never yet has human malice stilled the music of the spheres! in _the loathesome prison dungeon heaven the sweetest music hears!_ guilt or shame, or human anger, ne'er can fold the poet's wings. howsoever deep his anguish, still his heart exultant sings-- tunes his lyre, still triumphant, and to you these pages brings! [illustration] _acrostic tribute to dr. h. r. parker._ by geo. w. h. harrison. he towers above his fellow men, like some grand knight of old. endeavoring to right all wrong with spirit bold and free! no craven fear usurps his soul, no task his spirit quails. religion to his soul is _love_, and love no wrong entails! ye who love eternal right and wish your fellows well refuse him not the meed of praise--'tis his our aches to quell! each heart within these prison walls that tests his wondrous skill unites to sing his praises and bless his generous will. by kindly words he cheers the soul of those whom dread disease envelops in her mystic folds and gives each patient ease. naught caring for their praise or blame, he steers his course aright, proving duty, well performed, is matchless in its might. and, tho' but a youth in years, his well instructed mind reveals all pathologic truth and practice well combined. kindly may the fates decree that he may rise to fame, ever free, as he is now, from error and from shame. refuse him naught of happiness and bless his honored name! [illustration] _lines to my wife._ by geo. w. h. harrison. years and years have passed away since last we met, my darling wife; oft have i felt the tooth of pain gnaw at the vitals of my life. the brow thy hand has oft caressed with such sweet, hypnotic power, the lines of care and grief has traced and wrinkled, like a withered flower. the dark brown locks you loved so well, now interspersed with silver thread, shows plainly that the march of time has left its footprints on my head. the deep gray eyes that once could flash with passion's fire, or melt in love, have lost the wanted fires of youth, like some poor offcast, limpsy glove. yet in my breast there beats a heart that never will nor can grow old; thy image keeps its pulses warm with love that never shall grow cold. thy grace and beauty won that heart long years ago, when thou wert young: thy gentle, generous, faithful care has bred a love i cannot tongue. heaven can grant no sweeter bliss, to crown the evening of my life, than iulu's sweet, enraptured kiss, when time restores me to my wife. _out of the depths._ by geo. w. h. harrison. in a cell of rock and iron, where remorse and shame environ, sat a convict sadly dreaming-- dreaming of the days of yore. dreamed he of a land of flowers where, amid love's smiling bowers, he had spent such happy hours, to memory ne'er so sweet before. and he softly, fondly questioned: "shall i know such bliss once more?" hope made answer, "_yes, once more!_" in a home which love had founded, now by grief and care surrounded, sat a wife and mother, weeping, weeping for her prisoned swain. wept she o'er fate's mad endeavor, that such loving hearts could sever, with a blow, that seemed to never lose its agonizing pain; and her cry arose to heaven: "father, shall we meet again?" mercy answered, "once again." ope those doors of latticed iron, lift the clouds that now environ; faithfulness shall be rewarded-- love the victory hath won. learn that i, your god, am heeding prayers that rise from hearts now bleeding, and my hand is ever leading, tho' the clouds obscure the sun. bows my heart in adoration-- shall my lips repeat amen? hope and faith repeat! "amen." [illustration] _ella ree's revenge._ beside saluda's silver stream, where flowers nod and poets dream, a cabin stood, in days gone by, whose history should never die. here lived and led a blameless life, brave hayward and his peerless wife, with three sweet pledges of that love, cradled on earth, but born above. surrounding them, on every hand, was the red man's native land. no paleface, save themselves, ever dared to live in wild these indians shared. treacherous alike in peace and war, the seminole obeyed no law save one he spake with bated breath: "traitors shall die a coward's death!" the haughty chief who led this tribe, fear could not daunt nor favor bribe; and this lone settler, living here, knew white man never dared come near. he caucanoe's heart had won by a kindness nobly done, in rescuing from a watery grave the favorite child of this fierce brave. a frail canoe--swamped in mid stream: a father's cry--a maiden's scream; a hunter bearing a maid ashore, a volume writ would tell no more. "the land beside this murmuring stream thy future home, brave paleface, deem, and on caucanoe's word depend, no indian dares molest my friend!" "yours 'twas to save caucanoe's pride, mine be it to protect your bride; if here a future you would seek, i listen: let my brother speak." "great chief! your words, so kind and true, fall on my ears like evening dew; ere the buds begin to swell your brother 'mid your tribe shall dwell." so hayward built, with eager haste, as best befits a woman's taste, a cabin palace, reared by art, each room as secret as your heart. here they lived and tilled the ground, the happiest pair for miles around; the indians swarmed around their door with useful gifts to swell their store. caucanoe often sought their door and played with the children, o'er and o'er. he brought them many a curious toy, their happy childhood to employ. the winsome sprite, who sat on his knee, pleased him most of the guileless three; her limped eyes and golden hair caucanoe thought divinely fair. as the happy years flew swiftly by, beneath caucanoe's watchful eye, paralee grew, with rapid pace, into a maid of faultless grace. caucanoe loved this lovely child with a passion fierce, and deep, and wild, yet hopeless, he feared, that love would be, since naught could bridge the raging sea of racial and tribal pride, that lay between them, deep and wide; and well he knew another's soul brooked naught on earth save his control. king ulca's daughter, the proud ella ree, graceful and lithe as a willow tree, with eyes and hair like the raven's wing, and voice as soft as the babbling spring, had sought him for her wigwam brave, weeping o'er his late wife's grave; and well he knew the tears she shed, by tribal law their bodies wed. true love for her he could not feel, yet such a fact dared not reveal; his squaw she was alone in name and never to his wigwam came. another love, oh, fateful thought! with direful misery doubly fraught, surged and tossed within his soul until it spurned his late control. at last he sought her much loved side and begged her to become his bride. the maiden heard and laughed outright, and thus let loose the fiends of night that of late had lain at rest within caucanoe's savage breast. now, naught could stay this rising ire save to light the council fire. at last among his braves he stood, like some monarch of the wood; while burning words flowed from his tongue, that showed how deep his heart was wrung. the council heard and thus decreed: "our land from paleface dogs be freed. tomorrow night the proud paleface shall rue caucanoe's late disgrace!" "'tis well," the haughty chief replied; "who scorns to be caucanoe's bride shall feel a living flame of fire quench the last spark of life's desire!" but, ere the morrow's sun had set, awakening love brought deep regret. love fought the savage till he fell, and pity's tears began to well. he crept the cabin light within, and there confessed his double sin. "'tis done," he cried, "you shall not die; the boat is ready; up, and fly! "saluda's stream shall guide you right, caucanoe lays to die tonight! once you are free, i die content. nor deem the blow untimely sent." the boat has left the silent shore, and hayward tugs at the muffled oar; the craft sweeps on, like a thing of life, impelled by the prayers of a weeping wife. caucanoe stood on the bank hard by, with heaving breast and tear-dimmed eye, that proved a hero's soul could rest in the natural dome of a savage breast. the flashing oars in the moonlight pale give forth no sound and leave no trail; naught is heard save the breath of the fleeing ones in their race with death. hark! what means that frightful yell? 'tis a cry of triumph, born of hell; their savage foe, long under way, at last have seen their wanted prey. they see the foe and wildly fly the flashing oars, till they almost fly; "we'll yet be saved," brave hayward spoke, but his oars shivered beneath his stroke. he sprang to his feet, with ashen face, and his trusty rifle flew to its place; a maddening yell from the savage crew proved the ball to the mark had straightway flew. six times his trusty rifle spoke; each time an indian skull it broke. his gallant sons stood near their sire and reinforced his deadly fire! their doom was sealed. the savage horde soon reached their bark and sprang aboard; yet scorned they even then to yield, while strength was left a knife to wield. each one dared a hero's part; each knife it sought a savage heart, nor did they cease to bathe in gore till they sank beneath to rise no more. paralee and her mother lay to savage hands an early prey; for neither knew, nor felt they ought, of what they did or what they sought, since terror and alarm, too deep, had locked their senses all in sleep. alas! that they should ever wake: returning senses meant the stake. soon homeward with the living dead the savage horde in triumph sped; and bore to haunts of ella ree the paleface foe she longed to see. better for paralee had she died amid the battle's raging tide. "not wounded tigress in her lair more dangerous than a jealous fair!" assembled around the council fire, with haughty mien and rising ire, each chief was ready to relate his own exploit or vent his hate. safely bound by cruel thong, in the center of the throng, the captives sat in silent dread, envying none except the dead. "brothers! the paleface ella ree, whose words from guile are always free, will tell you all you need to know. who scorns _her_ words must brave my blow!" thus ulca spake, then glared around with a mighty monarch's haughty frown, "that held his hearers more in awe of his dread prowess than his law." "chief! warriors! braves in battle tried, your blood saluda's stream has dyed; your brothers sleep no more to wake! will _you_ sit by nor vengeance take?" "a traitor warned the doomed paleface; shall _he_ yet live to brave our race? how the white lily wrought the spell, caucanoe, and not i, must tell!" "caucanoe does not fear to die! 'twas he that bade the paleface fly; let these women now be set free; vent your hate alone on me." "paralee i loved, and her alone; mine was the fault--let me atone. ella ree, herself, shall light the fire and chant around my funeral pyre." "loose the captive! raise the stake! it shall be thus," brave ulca spake. "if love shall brave the cruel flame, yon captives go from whence they came." in haste they reared the ready stake, and bade the chief his place to take. he lightly stepped in proper place, a conquering smile upon his face. the signal given--a lighted brand-- ella ree raised with trembling hand, yet begged caucanoe not to die, but to her willing arms to fly. pardon was his, both full and free, as the proud brave of ella ree; the hated captives should atone for all blood spilt, and they alone! caucanoe frowned and thus replied: "if ella ree would be my bride, let her light the fire and stand here beside me, hand in hand." forward she sprang--the torch applied, even in death a happy bride! saluda's stream is never free from the dying chant of ella ree! [illustration] _the murderer's dream._ ye glittering stars! how fair ye shine tonight. and, oh, thou modest moon! thy silvery light comes streaming through these iron bars before me. how clear and silent is this lovely night! how quiet and how bright! i nothing hear, nor aught can hear me when i speak, but stone and iron that i fear; i, shunned by all, as if alone i'd go to hell; i, alone in chains! ah, me, the cruel spell that brought me here. heaven could not cheer me within these cursed walls--within this dark and dreary cell, this gloomy, cold, and solitary hell. and thou, o time! the only thing that's not my foe-- o time! o time! thou passeth on so slow, keeping my soul in terror, in bondage, and in woe; was i to blame? i was, they say; they say 'tis so. oh, god! will this deep crimson, aye, black stain my nervous system always strain! will my foul crime forever haunt my brain? must i live here in earthly fear, and never, never hear the sweetest voice to me of all, i've heard not for a year? must i this torture feel, year after year? live, die in hell, and yet a paradise so near? wilt thou, oh, god! wilt thou not hear? 'tis i, 'tis i they all do fear. am i to thee, o christ, as dead? thou who sought the lonely prisoner in his dismal cell, and to him taught the true and only law to govern man--thy love, which can be only reached by prayer to thee above? in this cold and darkened cell, dost thou reprove my soul? dost thou doom it to endless misery? am i so wicked, sinful, that i cannot move thy loving kindness, to a slight reprove? ah, me, ah, me, 'tis love thou sayest--love. canst i at this late day by full repentance see the divine, the holy, ever cleansing love in thee? canst thou be christ and have no love for me? what, can it be that i am lost and'll never know thy bliss? and for my cruel, wicked crime no joy above all this? what, world of sin! what, never? is my destiny hell? is that my cruel sentence because in sin i fell? aye, i did fall! into that dark and fathomless pit, and now in hell my soul has fell, and for hell it is not fit: into that misery eternal, where nothing lives but all's infernal-- is there my future--is it there? my thoughts they burn my head, my heart 'twas, ah, 'twas dead-- but now it lives, and in my breast does burn: those pains, and, severe as they were, they flew, yes, flew away, and being absent for awhile, remorse came in by day. oh, god, oh, god, i am not fit for this infernal hell! oh, mercy, mercy! my destiny, 'tis here that i must dwell. away! away! ye fiery fiends, i am among you now, o christ, o savior of the sinner! to satan must i bow? pray, take me back to earth again, and test me one and all, and let me live anew my life and see if i will fall. test me, test me once again, let me hear the old church bell, 'cause now i'm so much steeped in sin that i'm not fit for hell. oh, horrors! horrors! hear the groans of tortured victims there, some young, and many are quite old, i know it by their hair! poor, poor, poor wretches, see them there, all bleeding and in chains; i know they realize their fate, because they all have brains. is this the horrid, horrid place my mother taught was hell? oh, see those brutal fiery fiends, they call them "imps" you know, and many an one has feared them here, because of sin he'd sown. just see the demons of the deep! just hear their hellish tones! then floating back on brimstone air comes mocking, mocking groans. see, see the devils how they dance, with brimstone torches how they prance; what! can it be they look like men and 'stead of hearts they have but sin and grinning hang around me? oh, fearful, fearful fire of hell, what can it be within? they sneer and stare at me! go 'way, ye devils cooked in sin and crime! i'm now in purgatory waiting for the time when by the law of a just god i'll be removed from here, and by the law of christ divine, of thee i'll have no fear. hark! list! from yonder corner comes loud cries, oh, let me hold my aching, bursting head! they come from some poor wretch that dies, and many an one may mourn him now as dead. i see him! i see him! there he is! my murdered victim now appears before me. that is him! and to him i must bow. oh, his cries, his groans, they haunt me to the bottom of my wicked heart. can it be that i must dwell forever in this wretched misery? horrors! see him now reach out his bony hand to grasp me firmly by the throat and hold me like a band. take me, demons, if you please, take me into hell! anything you choose may do--remove me from this cell! my soul, my soul, awake! awake! they come! they come! the devil's come to take--old satan, i am thine! away my soul will ever roll through torturing, scorching hell, and down into the blackest depths my soul is cast pell-mell. oh, what a fate for man to meet--speak, satan! speak, i say! and with your torturing, devilish deeds--my ruin! no delay! what dumb! old satan, canst thou speak? look here and speak thy want! i'm now right crisp and hard in sin and haven't any fear. take me, demons! take me, quick! i hear the awful knell of the roaring, moaning billows, and the bitterness of hell. take me, satan, take me! as my fate is firmly sealed, while ye in hades do wake me, and o'er me the batoon wield. what! what! am i mistaken? was it only but a dream? i, still living here on earth--oh, how real it all did seem. could i now just one chance have and in mercy be forgiven, i would have respect for all and send prayers right up to heaven. when on earth christ did come to save sinners from their fate, any time they'd turn to him they'd find 'twas not too late. holy savior, heavenly dove, thou who reigns supreme above! though in sin i have been dead, i am saved just by thy love. could i only have good sight, that i could see my sad plight, i would always to thee cling, and to thee cling with my might. now, to thee let me give thanks, 'cause 'twas only a bad dream. but its horrors to me cling, 'cause so real it all did seem. [illustration] _acrostic tribute to god's messengers, chaplain and mrs. c. l. winget._ cyprian, the father of the orators' plan, a preacher, a priest and godly man; you have been, by the good lord sent, on the mission your heart is ever bent. passed through trials of life severe, god was good when he sent you here, right in the midst of a sweltering gang of sinners, corrupt on every hand. i, for one, have watched you keen, and from you haven't an evil deed seen; all has been so easy to see that your whole soul's bent on setting us free-- not from earthly, bodily pains, but from our evil, and sin, and shame! lee was the second choice of name, she christened her son for heavenly fame. each and every day she taught him ever sin to brave, till dear mother she went down into an early grave. every day and every hour he tries to keep that august dower, and meet her where there's endless time, in heaven's pure and holy clime. winget came unto this place to save poor sinners by god's own grace; in eloquence and heartfelt plea he's prayed for us on bended knee; nor has his pleading been in vain, because from us he's driven pain. "god help the prisoner!" is his prayer, while lingering in this prison lair; "eternal justice may they have while life's hard struggle they do brave!" "to god be praise! we see his face. god save the prisoner by thy grace!" susan, his wife and better half, and one of god's own kind, upon each bright and sabbath morn she helps the text to find. she's ever there, in the arm chair, through service and through song, and with kindly smile she does beguile the prisoners from all wrong. nay--let us bow unto you now, thou noble, holy one, and may god speed for all your need for the good that you have done. gregory is an ancient name, to you it has been given: right down deep in your friendly heart is found the truth of heaven each of us prisoners here confined for truth will e'er contend; go, search each heart! and then report if truth we'll not defend. onward, onward, upward, upward may your labors ever roll; reach out for poor fallen sinner, and your work we'll all extol: yet 'tis not too late to labor--god will answer, "aye, extol!" "fair-child" of heaven's august plan, how comest thou to wed yourself to man? a name is nothing but to designate, but, oh--how often it does consecrate in language pure and clear as diamond scale, while thou, fair-child, we, every one, do hail! real sympathy is not so strong a band as binds fair woman unto haughty man! come, hasten! now thy work be done, 'cause life's short race is almost run! he whom thou wed so many years ago has been god's servant faithfully to do in words so full of just and holy writ, that in our chapel we do love to sit. love for your duty, kind to all you meet, faithful to your master's cause and a smile for all you greet. do by us as you have done and never do complain, because the work that you have done has not been done in vain! "winget" is the name you chose to support the once fair-child. in christian mission go forth god's castles for to build; never forget the prisoner close locked in dungeon cell, go forth and teach to him the life of the soul you love so well. each hour you spend in christian work is never thrown away. the truth is known! you'll harvests reap in heaven's golden day! _the mind is the standard of the man._ in chains and shackles closely bound; they say i am a prisoner; although in this small cell i'm found, a prisoner i am not. the door is made of iron bars, the lock is large and strong, but my mind soars free, up to the stars, as if i'd done no wrong. the mind of man is ever free, by nature's law itself, while this wicked, wretched corpus may be laid upon the shelf. what of this wretched body? what care we for this hand? but there's one thing safe to wager on, "that mind's the standard of the man." they may chain me fast unto the rock, and bind both hands and feet; they may keep me far off in the dark, where friends i cannot meet; they may call me vile and wicked wretch, and murderer and thief; they may say i am an infidel and steeped in unbelief; they may say i'm false and awful bad, and lend not a helping hand; they may sow the seed north, east, south, west, far, far throughout the land; they may go right on with falsity and it publish like a ban, but there's one thing safe to wager on, "that mind's the standard of the man." if the mind was easy to be read, and another for to see, there would prisoner after prisoner immediately be set free. if conscience was as easy known as another's words to hear, there would not be half so many men that society would fear. but what do people think or care what's in another's brain, so long as _they_ can all conceal the evil in _their_ frame. there are a few who secretly do not conceal their sham, but there's one thing safe to wager on, "that mind's the standard of the man." if every one was now compelled to show life in _true_ attire, they'd cause the picture to be marred and cast into the fire. they'd blush with shame to bring to light black spots upon their life; they kick, and squirm, and twist about, and fight it with a strife. where is the man on this vile earth but what has done some wrong, and in his mind's concealed it, tho' it stings him like a thong? there ne'er was one except the christ who'd be perfect in the land! but there's one thing safe to wager on, "that mind's the standard of the man." what if all conscience could be searched clear through with cathode rays, how many would cheerfully submit, who'd reached their manhood days? it might not be the blackest crime known to the criminal code, but can it be sufficiently white to call it very good? it may not be so good nor bad, nor bad nor good indeed, but is it plenty good enough as a standard for a creed? you may keep it hid in an air-tight box. with psychological band, then, you see, 'tis safe to wager "that mind's the standard of the man." so long as minds cannot be seen and pictured to the folk, so long there'll be deceitfulness played by the earthly crook. the modern shylock now, who craves the sentence of the court, is just the man who, many times, society he has hurt. he stands aloof from other folk, and cries with a loud voice: "down, down, with evil and all crime! arise, my friends, rejoice!" but turn on him the cathode rays and search him, if you can, you'll be convinced, beyond a doubt, "that mind's the standard of the man." there's many a man who's been misjudged. and met his doom and fate; and the truth thereof could ne'er be learned until it was too late. if cathode rays could have been used, and falsehood put to flight, there's many a false and trumped up charge would be knocked clear out of sight. if the mind of man could only be, with this mysterious light, just brought out plain on canvas, in colors clear and bright, it would spread the truth both far and near, just like a marriage ban, that the rule ordained by nature is "that mind's the standard of the man." now, when with cathode rays supplied, you start out for a search, just drop around some sabbath morn and peep into a church. if one bald deacon, on his breast, wears a diamond bright and clear, just shoot cathode across his pate and see what's buried there. then up into the pulpit, where the priest all devils dare, and dart the rays around, about, and see what's buried there. then to the courtroom wend your way, to where the judges ran, then bet your bottom dollar "that mind's the standard of the man." then down into our congress halls make a dash both bold and free, and shoot cathode right through them all and see what you can see. then back into the halls of state, and catch them, one and all, and learn yourself, beyond a doubt, how many are there to fall. don't be surprised if now you find most foul and blackened crimes, because they're plotting for the gold, no matter what the times. try and discover, then and there, the gold bonds, if you can, and remember, what is true as truth, "that mind's the standard of the man." then, when you're done with the outside world, and all of congress halls, return to me and take a walk within these dismal walls. i'll show you men who represent each county in this state; they're all accused of crime, you know, and sentenced to their fate. but don't be hasty now to judge these men you see about; fire cathode rays right through their skulls and you may find a doubt. courts, lawyers and prejudiced jurors will convict if they can, but there's one thing safe to wager on, "that mind's the standard of the man." in here you'll find there's many a mind as free from sin and crime as congressmen and senators who've been there a long time. some of these men in here, you see, they got a little tight, and broke into a chicken coop, because 'twas in the night. some men you see as you walk with me down through these halls so dreary, have, on bended knee, prayed to be free until life's become weary. they have no money, neither friends, because they're far behind the van, but still 'tis safe to wager "that mind's the standard of the man." and now because my enemies have chained me tight and fast, and cruel, heartless, brutal curs would hold me to the last-- look here! i'll freely now submit, turn on your cathode rays and learn, if now 'tis not too late, the evil of my ways. then go up to that old bribed judge, and prosecutor, too, and bring their conscience here by mine and search all through and through. look sharp! and now compare their minds with this one, if you can, and then apply the golden rule, "that mind's the standard of the man." oh, men of science! if you can employ the cathode rays to take the place of jurymen in those our latter days; let not a man upon the bench to judge another's fate, until to cathode he's been sent to search beneath his pate! if then you see his mind is free from prejudice and crime, and he'll give us all fair justice, let him sit there all the time! but if, upon the other hand, he won't, although he can, then cut him out with the golden rule: "that mind's the standard of the man." how can you, then, a prisoner make, when his mind's as free as space? you may chain his feet, and hands, and neck, and tightly bind his face, do what you please, and as you please, you cannot help but see-- that man is man, where e'er he be, because his mind is free! his mind may roam back to his home, you cannot tie it down, and folk may look, and scoff, and scowl, and always wear a frown. but when of him they a prisoner make, the mind they never can, 'cause god ordained the golden rule, "that mind's the standard of the man." _cell thoughts._ by geo. w. h. harrison. in the headlong rush for the land of fame how many are wrecked on the isle of shame. how few heads wear a glittering crown in the far-away realm of great renown. 'mid the crowded ranks of the legion of greed how many are crushed 'neath the wheels of need! how few ever feel the dainty caress of the lingering hand of great success! in the mad pursuit of the god of gold what brains are wrecked, what hearts grow cold! how many will spend their latest day 'mid the hurtling waters of poverty bay! how many are lured by a siren chime to a double death in the land of crime! how few escape, unscarred, within the winding walks of the maze of sin! how many that towered above the stars now pine and languish behind the bars! what a trail of woe a single mistake across the page of a life can make! o, shipwrecked sailor, fix your eye on the star of hope in yonder sky; mercy's hand will bring release and safely lead to the land of peace. _the author's farewell._ gentle reader, this small volume clearly proves that modern man can control his erring brothers with a clear enlightened plan. ne'er till now have prison printers voiced, unchanged, a convict's tho't! is the change with retrogression or with onward progress fraught? will this volume change your custom or relieve our horrid pain? or shall truth be crushed and bleeding, ever bound in prison chain? will you cast your glances backward, gathering age along by age, proof that man is wholly brutal when controlled by maddening rage? view the pen of downy feathers, where men choked and choked to death, without power to ask for pardon with their last expiring breath! see your brother in that river, safely chained to yonder rock, while his thirst is wildly raging and the waves his tortures mock! see yon dungeon, dark and dreary, built by human art and skill, whose dread mission is to madden any one the _law_ says kill! visit to the hapless culprit, as in pagan jail he lies; see the jailer pass the hemlock, which he quaffs, and then he dies! think of club, of sword and pistol, of the bloody guillotine; of the whipcord, knout and gallows of the noted wolverine; of starvation, rack and torture, of the lash and fiery stake, and then tell me frankly, reader, did these wrongs one virtue wake? tell me frankly, honest reader, can two wrongs create a right? and is man's inhuman conduct pleasing in jehovah's sight? or do pitying angels shudder, as the cruel lash you ply, wondering man can be so brutal and the laws of god defy? does not conscience loudly thunder: "sin is but the fruit of hate, and who stones a helpless brother most deserves that victim's fate? can abuse and brutal treatment purge the sinner of his guilt? if so, _come_, within my bosom sheath your dagger to the hilt! strike, till every erring mortal at your hands has met his fate, then sit down and calmly ponder on your awful lonely state! _you_, perhaps, have been quite _faultless_; _you_, perhaps, no _wrong_ have done, if 'tis _true_, my peerless brother, _you're alone beneath the sun_"! do but think! we once were spotless as the babe on mother's knee! trace the causes of our downfall with a mind from malice free. see, on every licensed corner, fiends incarnate hourly sell fiery waters of _damnation_, that create _a living hell_! women, once as pure as angels, leading heartless lives of shame; for the trumpery of fashion dealing off both home and name! hear men laud the wealthy scoundrel and attempt to clear his ways, while the poor and honest toiler _none_ with pride or pleasure pays! see religion don the garments of all worldly pride and lust, while the savior's honest followers are but trampled in the dust! see the press, with startling headlines, every vice and sin portray that can sink your moral standard or lead innocence astray! view the legions of temptation strewn along the path of youth, see how few do practice virtue, and how few _adore_ the truth! there! the cause of crime is patent, and our downfall you behold, to condemn it in a sentence: "_it was women, wine and gold!_" if you read this book with caution, you have read _between the lines_, learning much the careless reader and the critic ne'er divines! you have seen the author's purpose was to tell the simple truth, as a tribute to the prisoner and a warning to our youth. you have seen mistakes and errors that less haste would quickly mend, yet, with all its imperfections, it may prove a useful friend. and in future i may publish one with less of hasty thought that may be--god knows the future--with undying issues fraught. all tried means have proved abortive yet, my friend, there is a plan that _will_ lift each erring brother _to the standard of a man_! if i can but live to publish what i _know_ and long to tell, you _will_ read it and believe it; so, dear reader, _fare-thee-well_! _conclusion._ go, little book, thy destined course pursue! collect memorials of the just and true; and beg of every one who comes thou near some token of their friendship and good cheer. and if by chance some true friends thou should find, attach them to thee with both soul and mind; and if they prove good, faithful friends and true, to them thou sticketh, as if they loved you-- adieu! adieu! transcriber's notes -fixed plain print and interpunctuation errors. -italic text is denoted by _underscores_. what the schools teach and might teach by franklin bobbitt assistant professor of educational administration the university of chicago cleveland education survey leonard p. ayres, director the survey committee of the cleveland foundation cleveland, ohio charles e. adams, chairman thomas g. fitzsimons myrta l. jones bascom little victor w. sincere arthur d. baldwin, secretary james r. garfield, counsel newton d. baker, counsel alien t. burns, director foreword this report on "what the schools teach and might teach" is one of the sections of the report of the education survey of cleveland conducted by the survey committee of the cleveland foundation in . twenty-three of these sections will be published as separate monographs. in addition there will be a larger volume giving a summary of the findings and recommendations relating to the regular work of the public schools, and a second similar volume giving the summary of those sections relating to industrial education. copies of all these publications may be obtained from the cleveland foundation. they may also be obtained from the division of education of the russell sage foundation, new york city. a complete list will be found in the back of this volume, together with prices. table of contents foreword list of tables prefatory statement the point of view reading and literature spelling handwriting language, composition, grammar mathematics algebra geometry history civics geography drawing and applied art manual training and household arts elementary science high school science physiology and hygiene physical training music foreign languages differentiation of courses summary list of tables table . time given to reading and literature . sets of supplementary reading books per building . weeks given to reading of different books in high school of commerce . time given to spelling . time given to handwriting . time given to language, composition, and grammar . time given to arithmetic . time given to history . time given to geography . time given to drawing . time given to manual training . time given to science, physiology, hygiene . time given to physical training . time given to music prefatory statement for an understanding of some of the characteristics of this report it is necessary to mention certain of the conditions under which it was prepared. the printed course of study for the elementary schools to be found in june, , the time the facts were gathered for this report, was prepared under a former administration. while its main outlines were still held to, it was being departed from in individual schools in many respects. except occasionally it was not possible to find record of such departures. it was believed that to accept the printed manual as representing current procedure would do frequent injustice to thoughtful, constructive workers within the system. but it must be remembered that courses of study for the city cover the work of twelve school years in a score and more of subjects, distributed through a hundred buildings. only a small fraction of this comprehensive program is going on during any week of the school year; and of this fraction only a relatively small amount could actually be visited by one man in the time possible to devote to the task. in the absence of records of work done or of work projected, unduly large weight had to be given to the recommendations set down in the latest published course of study manual. new courses of study were being planned for the elementary schools. this in itself indicated that the manual could not longer be regarded as an authoritative expression of the ideas of the administration. yet with the exception of a good arithmetic course and certain excellent beginnings of a geography course, little indication could be found as to what the details of the new courses were to be. the present report has had to be written at a time when the administration by its acts was rejecting the courses of study laid out in the old manual, and yet before the new courses were formulated. under the circumstances it was not a safe time for setting forth the _facts_, since not even the administration knew yet what the new courses were to be in their details. it was not a safe time to be either praising or blaming course of study requirements. the situation was too unformed for either. in the matter of the curriculum, the city was confessedly on the eve of a large constructive program. its face was toward the future, and not toward the past; not even toward the present. it was felt that if the brief space at the disposal of this report could also look chiefly toward the future, and present constructive recommendations concerning things that observation indicated should be kept in mind, it would accomplish its largest service. the time that the author spent in cleveland was mostly used in observations in the schools, in consultation with teachers and supervisors, and in otherwise ascertaining what appeared to be the main outlines of practice in the various subjects. this was thought to be the point at which further constructive labors would necessarily begin. the recommendation of a thing in this report does not indicate that it has hitherto been non-existent or unrecognized in the system. the intention rather is an economical use of the brief space at our disposal in calling attention to what appear to be certain fundamental principles of curriculum-making that seem nowadays more and more to be employed by judicious constructive workers. the occasional pointing out of incomplete development of the work of the system is not to be regarded as criticism. both school people and community should remember that since schools are to fit people for social conditions, and since these conditions are continually changing, the work of the schools must correspondingly change. social growth is never complete; it is especially rapid in our generation. the work of education in preparing for these ever-new conditions can likewise never be complete, crystallized, perfected. it must grow and change as fast as social conditions make such changes necessary. to point out such further growth-needs is not criticism. the intention is to present the disinterested, detached view of the outsider who, although he knows indefinitely less than those within the system about the details of the work, can often get the perspective rather better just because his mind is not filled with the details. the point of view there is an endless, and perhaps worldwide, controversy as to what constitutes the "essentials" of education; and as to the steps to be taken in the teaching of these essentials. the safe plan for constructive workers appears to be to avoid personal educational philosophies and to read all the essentials of education within the needs and processes of the community itself. since we are using this social point of view in making curriculum suggestions for cleveland, it seems desirable first to explain just what we mean. some of the matters set down may appear so obvious as not to require expression. they need, however, to be presented again because of the frequency with which they are lost sight of in actual school practice. children and youth are expected as they grow up to take on by easy stages the characteristics of adulthood. at the end of the process it is expected that they will be able to do the things that adults do; to think as they think; to bear adult responsibilities; to be efficient in work; to be thoughtful public-spirited citizens; and the like. the individual who reaches this level of attainment is educated, even though he may never have attended school. the one who falls below this level is not truly educated, even though he may have had a surplus of schooling. to bring one's nature to full maturity, as represented by the best of the adult community in which one grows up, is true education for life in that community. anything less than this falls short of its purpose. anything other than this is education misdirected. in very early days, when community life was simple, practically all of one's education was obtained through participating in community activities, and without systematic teaching. from that day to this, however, the social world has been growing more complex. adults have developed kinds of activities so complicated that youth cannot adequately enter into them and learn them without systematic teaching. at first these things were few; with the years they have grown very numerous. one of the earliest of these too-complicated activities was written language--reading, writing, spelling. these matters became necessities to the adult world; but youth under ordinary circumstances could not participate in them as performed by adults sufficiently to master them. they had to be taught; and the school thereby came into existence. a second thing developed about the same time was the complicated number system used by adults. it was too difficult for youth to master through participation only. it too had to be taught, and it offered a second task for the schools. in the early schools this teaching of the so-called three r's was all that was needed, because these were the only adult activities that had become so complicated as to require systematized teaching. other things were still simple enough, so that young people could enter into them sufficiently for all necessary education. as community vision widened and men's affairs came to extend far beyond the horizon, a need arose for knowledge of the outlying world. this knowledge could rarely be obtained sufficiently through travel and observation. there arose the new need for the systematic teaching of geography. what had hitherto not been a human necessity and therefore not an educational essential became both because of changed social conditions. looking at education from this social point of view it is easy to see that there was a time when no particular need existed for history, drawing, science, vocational studies, civics, etc., beyond what one could acquire by mingling with one's associates in the community. these were therefore not then essentials for education. it is just as easy to see that changed social conditions of the present make necessary for every one a fuller and more systematic range of ideas in each of these fields than one can pick up incidentally. these things have thereby become educational essentials. whether a thing today is an educational "essential" or not seems to depend upon two things: whether it is a human necessity today; and whether it is so complex or inaccessible as to require systematic teaching. the number of "essentials" changes from generation to generation. those today who proclaim the three r's as the sole "essentials" appear to be calling from out the rather distant past. many things have since become essential; and other things are being added year by year. the normal method of education in things not yet put into the schools, is participation in those things. one gets his ideas from watching others and then learns to do by doing. there is no reason to believe that as the school lends its help to some of the more difficult things, this normal plan of learning can be set aside and another substituted. of course the schools must take in hand the difficult portions of the process. where complicated knowledge is needed, the schools must teach that knowledge. where drill is required, they must give the drill. but the knowledge and the drill should be given in their relation to the human activities in which they are used. as the school helps young people to take on the nature of adulthood, it will still do so by helping them to enter adequately into the activities of adulthood. youth will learn to think, to judge, and to do, by thinking, judging, and doing. they will acquire a sense of responsibility by bearing responsibility. they will take on serious forms of thought by doing the serious things which require serious thought. it cannot be urged that young people have a life of their own which is to be lived only for youth's sake and without reference to the adult world about them. as a matter of fact children and youth are a part of the total community of which the mature adults are the natural and responsible leaders. at an early age they begin to perform adult activities, to take on adult points of view, to bear adult responsibilities. naturally it is done in ways appropriate to their natures. at first it is imitative play, constructive play, etc.--nature's method of bringing children to observe the serious world about them, and to gird themselves for entering into it. the next stage, if normal opportunities are provided, is playful participation in the activities of their elders. this changes gradually into serious participation as they grow older, becoming at the end of the process responsible adult action. it is not possible to determine the educational materials and processes at any stage of growth without looking at the same time to that entire world of which youth forms a part, and in which the nature and abilities of their elders point the goal of their training. the social point of view herein expressed is sometimes characterized as being utilitarian. it may be so; but not in any narrow or undesirable sense. it demands that training be as wide as life itself. it looks to human activities of every type: religious activities; civic activities; the duties of one's calling; one's family duties; one's recreations; one's reading and meditation; and the rest of the things that are done by the complete man or woman. reading and literature the amount of time given to reading in the elementary schools of cleveland, and the average time in other cities[a] are shown in the following table: table .--time given to reading and literature ======================================================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time |-----------------------|------------------------ grade | cleveland | cities | cleveland | cities -------------------------------------------------------- | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ======================================================== total | | | | -------------------------------------------------------- during the course of his school life, each pupil who finishes the elementary grades in cleveland receives hours of recitation and directed study in reading as against an average of hours in progressive cities in general. this is an excess of hours, or per cent. the annual cost of teaching reading being about $ , , this represents an excess annual investment in this subject of some $ , . whether or not this excess investment in reading is justified depends, of course, upon the way the time is used. if the city is aiming only at the usual mastery of the mechanics of reading and the usual introductory acquaintance with simple works of literary art, it appears that cleveland is using more time and labor than other cities consider needful. if, on the other hand, this city is using the excess time for widely diversified reading chosen for its content value in revealing the great fields of history, industry, applied science, manners and customs in other lands, travel, exploration, inventions, biography, etc., and in fixing life-long habits of intelligent reading, then it is possible that it is just this excess time that produces the largest educational returns upon the investment. [footnote a: henry w. holmes, "time distribution by subjects and grades in representative cities." in the fourteenth year book of the national society for the study of education, part i, . university of chicago press.] it would seem, however, from a careful study of the actual work and an examination of the printed documents, that the chief purpose of teaching reading in this city is, to use the terminology of its latest manual, "easy expressive oral reading in rich, well-modulated tone." it is true that other aims are mentioned, such as enlargement of vocabulary, word-study, understanding of expressions and allusions, acquaintance with the leading authors, appreciation of "beautiful expressions," etc. properly emphasized, each of these purposes is valid; but there are other equally valid ends to be achieved through proper choice of the reading-content that are not mentioned. there is here no criticism of the purposes long accepted, but of the apparent failure to recognize other equally important ones. the character of the reading-content is referred to only in the recommendation that in certain grades it should relate to the seasons and to special occasions. even in reference to the supplementary reading, where content should be the first concern, the only statement of purpose is that "children should read for the joy of it." unfortunately, this mistaken emphasis is not at all uncommon among the schools of the nation. how one reads has received an undue amount of attention; what one reads in the school courses must and will receive an increasingly large share of time and thought, in the new evaluation. the use of interesting and valuable books for other educational purposes at the same time that they are used for drill in the mechanics of reading is coming more and more to be recognized as an improved mode of procedure. the mechanical side of reading is not thereby neglected. it is given its proper function and relation, and can therefore be better taught. so far as one can see, cleveland is attempting in the reading work little more than the traditional thing. the thirty-four per cent excess time may be justified by the city on the theory that the schools are commissioned to get the work done one-third better than in the average city. the reading tests made by the survey fail to reveal any such superiority. the city appears to be getting no better than average results. certainly people should read well and effectively in all ways in which they will be called upon to read in their adult affairs. for the most part this means reading for ideas, suggestions, and information in connection with the things involved in their several callings; in connection with their civic problems; for recreation; and for such general social enlightenment as comes from newspapers, magazines, and books. most reading will be for the content. it is desirable that the reading be easy and rapid, and that one gather in all the ideas as one reads. because of the fact that oral reading is slower, more laborious for both reader and listener, and because of the present easy accessibility of printed matter, oral reading is becoming of steadily diminishing importance to adults. no longer should the central educational purpose be the development of expressive oral reading. it should be rapid and effective silent reading for the sake of the thought read. to train an adult generation to read for the thought, schools must give children full practice in reading for the thought in the ways in which later as adults they should read. after the primary teachers have taught the elements, the work should be mainly voluminous reading for the sake of entering into as much of the world's thought and experience as possible. the work ought to be rather more extensive than intensive. the chief end should be the development of that wide social vision and understanding which is so much needed in this complicated cosmopolitan age. while works of literary art should constitute a considerable portion of the reading program, they should not monopolize the program, nor indeed should they be regarded as the most important part of it. it is history, travel, current news, biography, advance in the world of industry and applied science, discussions of social relations, political adjustments, etc., which adults need mostly to read; and it is by the reading of these things that children form desirable and valuable reading habits. the reading curriculum needs to be looked after in two important ways. first, social standards of judgment should determine the nature of the reading. the texts beyond the primary grades are now for the most part selections of literary art. very little of it has any conscious relation, immediate or remote, to present-day problems and conditions or with their historical background. probably children should read many more selections of literary art than are found in the textbooks and the supplementary sets now owned by the schools. but certainly such cultural literary experience ought not to crowd out kinds of reading that are of much greater practical value. illumination of the things of serious importance in the everyday world of human affairs should have a large place in reading work of every school. it is true that the supplementary sets of books have been chosen chiefly for their content value. many are historical, biographical, geographical, scientific, civic, etc., in character. on the side of content, they have advanced much farther than the textbooks toward what should constitute a proper reading course. unfortunately, the schools are very incompletely supplied with these sets. if we consider all the sets of supplementary readers found in or more schools, we find that few of those assigned for fourth-grade reading are found in one-quarter of the buildings and none are in half of them. the same is true of the books for use in the fifth and seventh grades. some of the books for the sixth and eighth grades are found in more than half of the buildings, but there is none that is found in as many as three-quarters of them. the second thing greatly needed to improve the reading course is more reading practice. one learns to do a thing easily, rapidly, and effectively by practice. the course of study in reading should therefore provide the opportunity for much practice. at present the reading texts used aggregate for the eight grades some pages. a third-grade child ought to read matter suitable for its intelligence at pages per hour, and a grammar-grade child at to pages per hour. since rapidity of reading is one of the desired ends, the practice reading should be rapid. at the moderate rates mentioned, the entire series of reading texts ought to be read in some hours. this is hours' practice for each of the eight school years, an altogether insufficient amount of rapid reading practice. of course the texts can be read twice, or let us say three times, aggregating hours of practice per year. but even this is not more than could easily be accomplished in two or three weeks of each of the years--always presuming that the reading materials are rightly adapted to the mental maturity of the pupils. this leaves weeks of the year unprovided for. to make good this deficit, the buildings are furnished with supplementary books in sets sufficiently large to supply entire classes. the average number of such sets per building is shown in the following table: table .--sets of supplementary reading books per building grade average number of sets . . . . . . . . a fifth, sixth, seventh, or eighth-grade student ought to be able to read all the materials supplied his grade, both reading texts and all kinds of supplementary reading, in or hours. he ought to do it easily in six weeks' work, without encroaching on recitation time. he can read all of it twice in weeks; and three times in weeks. after reading everything three times over, there still remain weeks of each year unprovided for. the reply of teachers is that the work is so difficult that it has to be slowed down enough to consume these weeks. but is not this to admit that the hill is too steep, that there is too much dead pull, and that the materials are ill-chosen for practice in habits of rapid intelligent reading? it is not by going slow that one learns to go fast. quite the reverse. too often the school runs on low speed gear when it ought to be running on high. the low may be necessary for the starting, but not for the running. it may be necessary in the primary grades, but not thereafter for those who have had a normal start. reading practice should certainly make for increased speed in effective reading. the actual work in the grades is very different from the plan suggested. in taking up any selection for reading, the plan in most schools is about as follows: . a list of the unusual words met with is written on the blackboard. . teacher and pupils discuss the meaning of these words; but unfortunately words out of the context often carry no meaning. . the words are marked diacritically, and pronounced. . pupils "use the words in sentences." the pupil frequently has nothing to say that involves the word. it is only given an imitation of a real use by being put into an artificial sentence. . the oral reading is begun. one pupil reads a paragraph. . with the book removed, the meaning of the paragraph is then reproduced either by the reader or some other pupil. this work is necessarily perfunctory because the pupil knows he is not giving information to anybody. everybody within hearing already has the meaning fresh in mind from the previous reading. the normal child cannot work up enthusiasm for oral reproduction under such conditions. . the paragraph is analyzed into its various elements, and these in turn are discussed in detail. such work is not reading. it is analysis. a selection is not read, it is analyzed. the purpose of real reading is to enter into the thought and emotional experience of the writer; not to study the methods by which the author expressed himself. the net result when the work is done as described is to develop a critical consciousness of methods, without helping the children to enter normally and rightly into the experience of the writer. the children of cleveland need this genuine training in reading. reading in the high schools needs very much the same sort of modernization. there are more kinds of literature than classical belles-lettres, and perhaps more important kinds. we would not advocate a reduction of the amount of aesthetic literature. indeed, the young people of cleveland need to enter into a far wider range of such literature than is the case at present. but the reading courses in high schools should be built out in ways already recommended for elementary schools. the training, however, should be mainly in reading and not in analysis. the former is of surpassing importance to all people; the latter is important only to certain specialists. and, what is more, fullness of reading and right ways of reading will accomplish incidentally most of the things aimed at in the analysis. the following table of the reading outline of the high school of commerce is a fair sample of what the city is doing. note how much time is given to the reading and analysis of the few selections covered in four years. table .--weeks given to reading of different books in high school of commerce weeks to read first year ashmun's prose selections cricket on the hearth sohrab and rustum midsummer night's dream ivanhoe second year autobiography of franklin idylls of the king treasure island sketch book vision of sir launfal third year silas marner iliad (bryant's-- books) washington's farewell address first bunker hill oration emerson's compensation roosevelt book fourth year markham's the man with the hoe tale of two cities public duty of the educated man macbeth self-reliance when a short play of a hundred pages like macbeth requires nearly three months for reading, when almost two months are given to treasure island and nearly three months to ivanhoe, clearly it is something other than reading that is being attempted. it is perfectly obvious that the high schools are attending principally to the mechanics of expression and not to the content of the expression. the relative emphasis should be reversed. the amount of reading in the high schools should be greatly increased. those who object that rapid work is superficial believe that work must be slow to be thorough. it should be remembered, however, that slow work is often superficial and that rapid work is often excellent. in fact the world's best workers are generally rapid, accurate, and thorough. ask any business man of wide experience. now leaving aside pupils who are slow by nature, it can be affirmed that pupils will acquire slow, thorough habits or rapid, thorough habits according to the way they are taught. if they are brought up by the slow plan, naturally when speeded up suddenly, the quality of their work declines. they can be rapid, accurate, and thorough only if such strenuous work begins early and is continued consistently. slow habits are undesirable if better ones can just as well be implanted. to avoid possible misunderstanding, it ought to be stated that the plan recommended does not mean less drill upon the mechanical side of reading. we are recommending a somewhat more modernized kind of mechanics, and a much more strenuous kind of drill. the plan looks both toward more reading and improved habits of reading. one final suggestion finds here its logical place. before the reading work of elementary or high schools can be modernized, the city must purchase the books used in the work. leaving the supplying of books to private purchase is the largest single obstacle in the way of progress. men in the business world will have no difficulty in seeing the logic of this. when shoes, for example, were made by hand, each workman could easily supply his own tools; but now that elaborate machinery has been devised for their manufacture, it has become so expensive that a machine factory must supply the tools. it is so in almost every field of labor where efficiency has been introduced. now the books to be read are the tools in the teaching of reading. in a former day when a mastery of the mechanics of reading was all that seemed to be needed, the privately purchased textbook could suffice. in our day when other ends are set up beyond and above those of former days, a far more elaborate and expensive equipment is required. the city must now supply the educational tools. it is well to face this issue candidly and to state the facts plainly. relative failure can be the only possible lot of reluctant communities. they can count on it with the same assurance as that of a manufacturer of shoes who attempts to employ the methods of former days in competition with modern methods. in this city the expenditures for supplementary textbooks have amounted to something more than $ , in the past years. approximately one-third of this sum was spent in the first seven years of the decade and more than $ , in the past three years. this indicates the rapid advance in this direction made under the present school administration but the supply of books still falls far short of the needs of the schools. a fair start has been made but nothing should be permitted to obstruct rapid progress in this direction. spelling cleveland has set apart an average amount of program time for spelling. possibly the study might more accurately be called word-study, since it aims also at training for pronunciation, syllabification, vocabulary extension, and etymology. since much of the reading time is given to similar word-study, the figures presented in table are really too small to represent actual practice in cleveland. table .--time given to spelling ======================================================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time |-----------------------|------------------------ grade | cleveland | cities | cleveland | cities -------------------------------------------------------- | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . ======================================================== total | | | . | . -------------------------------------------------------- the general plan of the course is indicated in the syllabus: "two words are made prominent in each lesson. their pronunciation, division into syllables, derivation, phonetic properties, oral and written spelling and meaning, are all to be made clear to pupils. "the teaching of a new word may be done by using it in a sentence; by definition or description; by giving a synonym or the antonym; by illustration with object, action or drawing; and by etymology. "each lesson should have also from eight to subordinate words taken from textbook or composition exercises.... frequent supplementary dictation, word-building and phonic exercises should be given. spell much orally.... teach a little daily, test thoroughly, drill intensively, and follow up words misspelled persistently." in most respects the work agrees with the usual practice in progressive cities: the teaching of a few words in each lesson; the frequent and continuous review of words already taught; taking the words to be taught from the language experience of the pupils; following up words actually misspelled; studying the words from many angles, etc. in some respects the work needs further modernization. the words chosen for the work are not always the ones most needed. whether children or adults, people need to spell only when they write. they need to spell correctly the words of their writing vocabulary, and they need to spell no others. more important still, they need to acquire the habit of watching their spelling as they write; the habit of spelling every word with certainty that it is correct, and the habit of going to word-lists or dictionary when there is any doubt. this development of the habit of watchfulness over their spelling as they write is the principal thing. one who has it will always spell well. in case he has much writing to do, it automatically leads to a constant renewing of his memory for words used and prevents forgetting. the one who has only memorized word-lists, even though they have been rigorously drilled, inevitably forgets, whether rapidly or slowly; and in proportion as he lacks this general habit of watchfulness, degenerates in his spelling. the reason why schools fail to overcome the frequent criticism that young people do not spell well, is because of the fact that they have been trying to teach specific words rather than to develop a general and constant watchfulness. the fundamental training in spelling is accomplished in connection with composition, letter-writing, etc. direct word-list study should have only a secondary and supplemental place. it is needed, first, for making people conscious of the letter elements of words which are seen as wholes in their reading, and for bringing them to look closely into the relations of these letter elements; second, for developing a preliminary understanding of the spelling of words used; and third, for drill upon words commonly misspelled. while a necessary portion of the entire process, it probably should not require so much time as is now given to it and the time saved should be devoted to the major task of teaching spelling watchfulness in connection with writing letters and compositions. the great majority of the population of cleveland will spell only as they write letters, receipts, and simple memoranda. they do not need to spell a wide vocabulary with complete accuracy. on the other hand, there are classes of people to whom a high degree of spelling accuracy covering a fairly wide vocabulary is an indispensable vocational necessity: clerks, copyists, stenographers, correspondents, compositors, proof-readers, etc. these people need an intensive specialized training in spelling that is not needed by the mass of the population. such specialized vocational training should be taken care of by the cleveland schools, but it should not be forced upon all simply because the few need it. the attempt to bring all to the high level needed by the few, and the failure to reach this level, is responsible for the justifiable criticism of the schools that those few who need to spell unusually well are imperfectly trained. the spelling practice should continue through the high school. it is only necessary for teachers to refuse to accept written work that contains any misspelled word to force upon students the habit of watchfulness over every word written. the high school of commerce is to be commended for making spelling a required portion of the training. the course needs to be more closely knit with composition and business letter-writing. handwriting cleveland gives a considerably larger proportion of time to handwriting than the average of the cities. table .--time given to handwriting ======================================================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time |-----------------------|------------------------ grade | cleveland | cities | cleveland | cities -------------------------------------------------------- | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . ======================================================== total | | | . | . -------------------------------------------------------- the curriculum of handwriting resolves itself mainly into questions of method, and of standards to be achieved in each of the grades. these matters are treated intensively in the section of the survey report entitled "measuring the work of the public schools." language, composition, grammar the schools devote about the usual amount of time to training for the correct use of the mother tongue. most of the time in intermediate and grammar grades is devoted to english grammar. composition receives only minor attention. table .--time given to language, composition, and grammar ======================================================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time |-----------------------|------------------------ grade | cleveland | cities | cleveland | cities -------------------------------------------------------- | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . ======================================================== total | | | . | . -------------------------------------------------------- in the teaching of grammar too much stress is placed on forms and relations. of course it is expected that this knowledge will be of service to the pupils in their everyday expression. but such practical application of the knowledge is not the thing toward which the work actually looks. the end really achieved is rather the ability to recite well on textbook grammar, and to pass good examinations in the subject. in classes visited the thing attempted was being done in a relatively effective way. and when judged in the light of the kind of education considered best years ago, the work is of a superior character. as a matter of fact, facility in oral and written expression is, like everything else, mainly developed through much practice. the form and style of expression are perfected mainly through the conscious and unconscious imitation of good models. technical grammar plays, or should play, the relatively minor role of assisting students to eliminate and to avoid certain types of error. since grammar has this perfectly practical function to perform, probably only those things needed should be taught; but more important still, everything taught should be constantly put to use by the pupils in their oversight of their own speech and writing. only as knowledge is put to work, is it really learned or assimilated. the schools should require much oral and written expression of the pupils, and should enforce constant watchfulness of their own speech on the part of the pupils. it is possible to require pupils to go over all of their written work and to examine it, before handing it in, in the light of all the grammatical rules they have learned. it is also possible for pupils to guard consciously against known types of error which they are accustomed to make in their oral recitations. every recitation in whatever subject provides opportunity for such training in habits of watchfulness. only as the pupil is brought to do it himself, without prompting on the part of the teacher, is his education accomplished. a limited amount of systematic grammatical teaching is a necessary preliminary step. the purpose is an introductory acquaintance with certain basic forms, terminology, relationships, and grammatical perspective. this should be accomplished rapidly. like the preliminary survey in any field, this stage of the work will be relatively superficial. fullness and depth of understanding will come with application. this preliminary understanding can not be learned "incidentally." such a plan fails on the side of perspective and relationship, which are precisely the things in which the preparatory teaching of the subject should be strong. this preliminary training in technical grammar need not be either so extensive or so intensive as it is at present. an altogether disproportionate amount of time is now given to it. the time saved ought to go to oral and written expression,--composition, we might call it, except that the word has been spoiled because of the artificiality of the exercises. the composition or expression most to be recommended consists of reports on the supplementary reading in connection with history, geography, industrial studies, civics, sanitation, etc.; and reports of observations on related matters in the community. topics of interest and of value are practically numberless. such reports will usually be oral; but often they will be written. expression occurs naturally and normally only where there is something to be discussed. the present manual suggests compositions based upon "changes in trees, dissemination of seeds, migration of birds, snow, ice, clouds, trees, leaves, and flowers." this type of composition program under present conditions cannot be a vital one. elementary science is not taught in the schools of cleveland; and so the subject matter of these topics is not developed. further, it is the world of human action, revealed in history, geography, travels, accounts of industry, commerce, manufacture, transportation, etc., that possesses the greater value for the purposes of education, as well as far greater interest for the student. probably little time should be set apart on the program for composition. the expression side of all the school work, both in the elementary school and in the high school, should be used to give the necessary practice. the technical matters needed can be taught in occasional periods set aside for that specific purpose. the isolation of the composition work continues through the academic high schools and in considerable degree through the technical high schools also. in the high schools the expression work probably needs to be developed chiefly in the classes in science, history, industrial studies, commercial and industrial geography, physics, etc., where the students have an abundance of things to discuss. probably four-fifths of all of the training in english expression in the high schools should be accomplished in connection with the oral and written work of the other subjects. mathematics to arithmetic, the cleveland schools are devoting a somewhat larger proportion of time than the average of cities. table .--time given to arithmetic =========================================================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time| grade |----------------------------------------------- | cleveland | cities| cleveland | cities | ----------------------------------------------------------- | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | =========================================================== total | | | . | . | ----------------------------------------------------------- that everybody should be well grounded in the fundamental operations of arithmetic is so obvious as to require no discussion. beyond this point, however, difficult problems arise. the probabilities are that the social and vocational conditions of the coming generation will require that everybody be more mathematical-minded than at present. the content of mathematics courses is to be determined by human needs. one of the fundamental needs of the age upon which we are now entering is accurate quantitative thinking in the fields of one's vocation, in the supervision of our many co-operative governmental labors, in our economic thinking with reference to taxation, expenditures, insurance, public utilities, civic improvements, pensions, corporations, and the multitude of other civic and vocational matters. just as the thought involved in physics, astronomy, or engineering needs to be put in mathematical terms in order that it may be used effectively, so must it be with effective vocational, civic, and economic thinking in general. our chief need is not so much the ability to do calculations as it is the ability to think in figures and the habit of thinking in figures. calculations, while indispensable, are incidental to more important matters. naturally before one is prepared to use mathematical forms of thought in considering the many social and vocational problems, he must have mastered the fundamentals. the elementary school, at as early an age as practicable, should certainly give the necessary preliminary knowledge of and practice in the fundamental operations of arithmetic. this should be done with a high degree of thoroughness, but it should always be kept in mind that this is only a preliminary mastery of the alphabet of mathematical thinking. the other part of our problem is a development of the quantitative aspects of the vocational, economic, and civic subjects. one finds clear recognition of this in cleveland in the new arithmetic manual. the following quotations are typical: "the important problem of the seventh and eighth grades is to enable the pupils to understand and deal intelligently with the most important social institutions with which arithmetical processes are associated." in discussing the teaching of the mathematical aspect of insurance, we find this statement: "owing to the important place this subject holds in life, we should emphasize its informational value rather than its mathematical content." under taxation and revenue: "if the general features of this subject are presented from the standpoint of civics, the pupils should have no difficulty in solving the problems as no new principle is introduced." under stocks and bonds: "pupils should be taught to know what a corporation is, its chief officers, how it is organized, what stocks and bonds are, and how dividends are declared and paid, in so far as such knowledge is needed by the general public." these statements indicate a recognition of the most important principle that should control in the development of all of the mathematics, elementary and secondary, beyond the preliminary training needed for accuracy and rapidity in the fundamental operations. when this principle is carried through to its logical conclusion, it will be observed that most of these developments will not take place within the arithmetic class, but in the various other subjects. arithmetic teaching, like the teaching of penmanship, etc., is for the purpose of giving tools that are to be used in matters that lie beyond. the full development will take place within these various other fields. for the present, it probably will be well for the schools to develop the matters both within the arithmetic classes and in the other classes. neither being complete at present, each will tend to complete the other. on the side of the preliminary training in the fundamental operations, the present arithmetic course of study is on the whole of a superior character. it provides for much drill, and for a great variety of drill. it emphasizes rapidity, accuracy, and the confidence that comes to pupils from checking up their results. it holds fast to fundamentals, dispensing with most of the things of little practical use. it provides easy advances from the simple to the complicated. the field of number is explored in a great variety of directions so that pupils are made to feel at home in the subject. one large defect is the lack of printed exercise materials, the use of which would result in greatly increased effectiveness. such printed materials ought to be furnished in great abundance. algebra in the report of the educational commission of cleveland, , we find the following very significant sentences relative to the course of study for the proposed high school of commerce: "an entirely new course of study should be made out for this school. subjects which have been considered necessary in a high school, because they tend to develop the mind, should not for this reason only be placed in a commercial course. subjects should not be given because they strengthen the mind, but the subjects which are necessary in this course should be given in such a way as to strengthen the mind. the mathematics in this school should consist of business arithmetic and mensuration. we can see no reason for giving these students either algebra or geometry. but they should be taught short and practical methods of working business problems." we find here a recommendation since carried out that indicates a clear recognition of the principle of adaptation of the course of study to actual needs. carried out to its logical conclusion, and applied to the entire city system, it raises questions as to the advisability of requiring algebra of girls in any of the high school courses; or of requiring it of that large number of boys looking forward to vocations that do not involve the generalized mathematics of algebra. now either the commercial students do need algebra or a large proportion of these others do not need it. it seems advisable here to do nothing more than to present the question as one which the city needs to investigate. the present practice, in cleveland as elsewhere, reveals inconsistency. in one or the other of the schools a wrong course is probably being followed. the current tendency in public education is toward agreement with the principle enunciated by the cleveland educational commission, and toward a growing and consistent application of it. differentiation in the mathematics of different classes of pupils is necessary. the public schools ought to give the same mathematics to all up to that level where the need is common to all. beyond that point, mathematics needs to be adapted to the probable future activities of the individual. there are those who will need to reach the higher levels of mathematical ability. others will have no such need. there is a growing belief that even for those who are in need of algebra the subject is not at present organized in desirable ways. it is thought that, on the one hand, it should be knit up in far larger measure with practical matters, and on the other, it should be developed in connection with geometry and trigonometry. the technical high schools of cleveland have adopted this form of organization. their mathematics is probably greatly in advance of that of the academic schools. geometry form study should begin in the kindergarten, and it should develop through the grades and high school in ways similar to the arithmetic, and in conjunction with the arithmetic, drawing, and construction work. since geometrical forms involve numerical relations, they supply good materials to use in making number relations concrete and clear. this is now done in developing ideas of fractions, multiplication, division, ratio, per cent, etc. it should be done much more fully and variously than at present and for the double purpose of practising the form-ideas as well as the number-ideas. arithmetic study and form-study can well grow up together, gradually merging into the combined algebra and geometry so far as students need to reach the higher levels of mathematical generalization. at the same time that this is being developed in the mathematics classes, development should also be going on in the classes of drawing, design, and construction. the alphabet of form-study will thus be taught in several of the studies. the application will be made in practical design, in mechanical and free-hand drawing, in constructive labor, in the graphical representation of social, economic, and other facts of life. the application comes not so much in the development of practical problems in the mathematics classes as in the development of the form aspect of those other activities that involve form. we have here pointed to what appears to be in progressive schools a growing program of work. everywhere it is yet somewhat vague and inchoate. in connection with the arithmetic, the drawing, the construction and art work, and the mathematics of the technical high schools, it appears to be developing in cleveland in a vigorous and healthy manner. history the curriculum makers for elementary education do not seem to have placed a high valuation upon history. apparently it has not been considered an essential study of high worth, like reading, writing, spelling, grammar, and arithmetic. to history are allotted but hours in cleveland, as against hours in the average of progressive american cities. this discrepancy should give the city pause and concern. if a mistake is being made, it is more likely to be on the part of an individual city than upon that of cities. the probability is that cleveland is giving too little time to this subject. table .--time given to history =========================================================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time| grade |----------------------------------------------- | cleveland | cities| cleveland | cities | ----------------------------------------------------------- | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | =========================================================== total | | | . | . | ----------------------------------------------------------- the treatment in the course of study manual indicates that it is a neglected subject. of the pages, it receives an aggregate of less than two. the perfunctory assignment of work for the seventh grade is typical: "united states history "b assignment. mace's history, pp. - inclusive. questions and suggested collateral reading found in appendix may be used as teacher directs. "a assignment. mace's history, pp. - . make use of questions and suggested collateral reading at your own option." for fifth and sixth grades there is assigned a small history text of pages for one or two lessons per week. the two years of the seventh and eighth grades are devoted to the mastery of about pages of text. while there is incidental reference to collateral reading, as a matter of fact the schools are not supplied with the necessary materials for this collateral reading in the grammar grades. the true character of the work is really indicated by the last sentence of the eighth-grade history assignment: "the text of our book should be thoroughly mastered." in discussing the situation, the first thing to which we must call attention is the great value of history for an understanding of the multitude of complicated social problems met with by all people in a democracy. in a country where all people are the rulers, all need a good understanding of the social, political, economic, industrial, and other problems with which we are continually confronted. it is true the thing needed is an understanding of present conditions, but there is no better key to a right understanding of our present conditions than history furnishes. one comes to understand a present situation by observing how it has come to be. history is one of the most important methods of social analysis. the history should be so taught that it will have a demonstrably practical purpose. in drawing up courses of study in the subject for the grammar grades and the high school, the first task should be an analysis of present-day social conditions, the proper understanding of which requires historical background. once having discovered the list of social topics, it is possible to find historical readings which will show how present conditions have grown up out of earlier ones. looked at from a practical point of view, the history should be developed on the basis of topics, a great abundance of reading being provided for each of the topics. we have in mind such topics as the following: sociological aspects of war territorial expansion race problems tariff and free trade transportation money systems our insular possessions growth of population trusts banks and banking immigration capital and labor education inventions suffrage centralization of government strikes and lockouts panics and business depressions commerce taxation manufacturing labor unions foreign commerce agriculture postal service army government control of corporations municipal government navy factory labor wages courts of law charities crime fire protection roads and road transportation newspapers and magazines national defense conservation of natural resources liquor problems parks and playgrounds housing conditions mining health, sanitation, etc. pensions unemployment child labor women in industry cost of living pure food control savings banks water supply of cities prisons recreations and amusements co-operative buying and selling insurance hospitals after drawing up such lists of topics for study, they should be assigned to grammar grades and high school according to the degree of maturity necessary for their comprehension. naturally as much as possible should be covered in the grammar grades. such as cannot be covered there should be covered as early as practicable in the high school, since so large a number of students drop out, and all need the work. of course, this would involve a radical revision of the high school courses in history. it is not here recommended that any such changes be attempted abruptly. there are too many other conditions that require readjustment at the same time. it must all be a gradual growth. naturally, students must have some familiarity with the general time relations of history and the general chronological movements of affairs before they can understand the more or less specialized treatment of individual topics. preliminary studies are therefore both necessary and desirable in the intermediate and grammar grades for the purpose of giving the general background. during these grades a great wealth of historical materials should be stored up. pupils should acquire much familiarity with the history of the ancient oriental nations, judea, greece, rome, the states of modern europe and america. the purpose should be to give a general, and in the beginning a relatively superficial, overview of the world's history for the sake of perspective. the reading should be biographical, anecdotal, thrilling dramas of human achievement, rich with human interest. it should be at every stage of the work on the level with the understanding and degree of maturity of the pupils, so that much reading can be covered rapidly. given the proper conditions--chiefly an abundance of the proper books supplied in sets large enough for classes--pupils can cover a large amount of ground, obtain a wealth of historical experience, and acquire a great quantity of useful information, the main outlines of which are remembered without much difficulty. they can in this manner lay a broad historical foundation for the study of the social topics that should begin by the seventh grade and continue throughout the high school. the textbooks of the present type can be employed as a part of this preliminary training. read in their entirety and read rapidly, they give one that perspective which comes from a comprehensive view of the entire field. but they are too brief, abstract, and barren to afford valuable concrete historical experience. they are excellent reference books for gaining and keeping historical perspective. reading of the character that we have here called preliminary should not cease as the other historical studies are taken up. the general studies should certainly continue for some portion of the time through the grammar grades and high school, but it probably should be mainly supervised reading of interesting materials rather than recitation and examination work. we would recommend that the high schools give careful attention to the recommendation of the national education association committee on the reorganization of the secondary course of study in history. civics civic training scarcely finds a place upon the elementary school program. the manual suggests that one-quarter of the history time-- to minutes per week--in the fifth and sixth grades should be given to a discussion of such civic topics as the department of public service, street cleaning, garbage disposal, health and sanitation, the city water supply, the mayor and the council, the treasurer, and the auditor. the topics are important, but the time allowed is inadequate and the pupils of these grades are so immature that no final treatment of such complicated matters is possible. for seventh and eighth grades, the manual makes no reference to civics. this is the more surprising because cleveland is a city in which there has been no end of civic discussion and progressive human-welfare effort. the extraordinary value of civic education in the elementary school, as a means of furthering civic welfare, should have received more decided recognition. the elementary teachers and principals of cleveland might profitably make such a civic survey as that made in cincinnati as the method of discovering the topics that should enter into a grammar grade course. the heavy emphasis upon this subject should be reserved for the later grades of the elementary school. in the high schools, a little is being accomplished. in the academic high schools, those who take the classical course receive no civics whatever. it is not even elective for them. those who take the scientific or english courses may take civics as a half-year elective. in the technical high schools it is required of all for a half-year. the course is offered only in the senior year, except in the high school of commerce, where it is offered in the third. as a result of these various circumstances, the majority of students who enter and complete the course in the high schools of cleveland receive no civic training whatever--not even the inadequate half-year of work that is available for a few. whether the deficiencies here pointed out are serious or not depends in large measure upon the character of the other social subjects, such as history and geography. if these are developed in full and concrete ways, they illumine large numbers of our difficult social problems. it is probable that the larger part of the informational portions of civic training should be imparted through these other social subjects. whether very much of this is actually done at present is doubtful; for the history teaching, as has already been noted, is much underdeveloped, and while somewhat further advanced, geography work is still far from adequate at the time this report is written. geography geography in cleveland is given the customary amount of time, though it is distributed over the grades in a somewhat unusual way. it is exceptionally heavy in the intermediate grades and correspondingly light in the grammar grades. as geography, like all other subjects, is more and more humanized and socialized in its reference, much more time will be called for in the last two grammar grades. table .---time given to geography =========================================================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time| grade |----------------------------------------------- | cleveland | cities| cleveland | cities | ----------------------------------------------------------- | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | =========================================================== total | | | . | . | ----------------------------------------------------------- as laid out in the manual now superseded, and as observed in the regular classrooms, the work has been forbiddingly formal. in the main it has consisted of the teacher assigning to the pupils a certain number of paragraphs or pages in the textbook as the next lesson, and then questioning them next day to ascertain how much of this printed material they have remembered and how well. it has not consisted of stimulating and guiding the children toward intelligent inquisitiveness and inquiring interest as to the world, and the skies above, and waters round about, and the conditions of nature that limit and shape the development of mankind. that the latter is the proper end of geographical teaching is being recognized in developing the new course of study in this subject. industries, commerce, agriculture, and modes of living are becoming the centers about which geographic thought and experience are gathered. the best work now being done here is thoroughly modern. unfortunately it is not yet great in amount in even the best of the schools, still less in the majority. but the direction of progress is unmistakable and unquestionably correct. as in the reading, so in geography, right development of the course of study must depend in large measure upon the material equipment that is at the same time provided. it sounds like a legitimate evasion to say that education is a spiritual process, and that good teachers and willing, obedient, and industrious pupils are about all that is required. as a matter of fact, just as modern business has found it necessary to install one-hundred-dollar typewriters to take the place of the penny quill pens, so must education, to be efficient, develop and employ the elaborate tools needed by new and complex modern conditions, and set aside the tools that were adequate in a simpler age. the proper teaching of geography requires an abundance of reading materials of the type that will permit pupils to enter vividly into the varied experience of all classes of people in all parts of the world. in the supplementary books now furnished the schools, only a beginning has been made. the schools need times as much geographical reading as that now found in the best equipped school. it would be well to drop the term "supplementary." this reading should be the basic geographic experience, the fundamental instrument of the teaching. all else is supplementary. the textbook then becomes a reference book of maps, charts, summaries, and a treatment for the sake of perspective. maps, globes, pictures, stereoscopes, stereopticon, moving-picture machine, models, diagrams, and museum materials, are all for the purpose of developing ideas and imagery of details. the reading should become and remain fundamental and central. the quantity required is so great as to make it necessary for the city to furnish the books. while the various other things enumerated are necessary for complete effectiveness, many of them could well wait until the reading materials are sufficiently supplied. in the high schools the clear tendency is to introduce more of the industrial and commercial geography and to diminish the time given to the less valuable physiography. the development is not yet vigorous. the high school geography departments, so far as observed, have not yet altogether attained the social point of view. but they are moving in that direction. on the one hand, they now need stimulation; and on the other, to be supplied with the more advanced kinds of such material equipment as already suggested for the elementary schools. drawing and applied art the elementary schools are giving the usual proportion of time to drawing and applied art. the time is distributed, however, in a somewhat unusual, but probably justifiable, manner. whereas the subject usually receives more time in the primary grades than in the grammar grades, in cleveland, in quite the reverse way, the subject receives its greatest emphasis in the higher grades. table .--time given to drawing =========================================================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time| grade |----------------------------------------------- | cleveland | cities| cleveland | cities | ----------------------------------------------------------- | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | | | | . | . | =========================================================== total | | | . | . | ----------------------------------------------------------- drawing has been taught in cleveland as a regular portion of the curriculum since . it has therefore had time for substantial growth; and it appears to have been successful. recent developments in the main have been wholesome and in line with best modern progress. the course throughout attempts to develop an understanding and appreciation of the principles of graphic art plus ability to use these principles through practical application in constructive activities of an endlessly varied sort. occasionally the work appears falsetto and even sentimental. it is often applied in artificial schoolroom ways to things without significance. general grade teachers cannot be specialists in the multiplicity of things demanded of them; it is not therefore surprising that they sometimes lack skill, insight, ingenuity, and resourcefulness. too often the teachers do not realize that the study of drawing and design is for the serious purpose of giving to pupils a language and form of thought of the greatest practical significance in our present age. the result is a not infrequent use of schoolroom exercises that do not greatly aid the pupils as they enter the busy world of practical affairs. these shortcomings indicate incompleteness in the development. where the teaching is at its best in both the elementary and high schools of cleveland, the work exhibits balanced understanding and complete modernness. the thing needed is further expansion of the best, and the extension of this type of work through specially trained departmental teachers to all parts of the city. there should be a larger amount of active co-operation between the teachers of art and design and the teachers of manual training; also between both sets of teachers and the general community. manual training and household arts in the grammar grades manual and household training receives an average proportion of the time. in the grades before the seventh, the subject receives considerably less than the usual amount of time. table .--time given to manual training ======+=======================+======================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time grade +-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ | cleveland | cities | cleveland | cities ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ total | | | . | . ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ it is easy to see the social and educational justification of courses in sewing, cooking, household sanitation, household decoration, etc., for the girls. they assist in the training for complicated vocational activities performed in some degree at least by most women. where women are so situated that they do not actually perform them, they need, for properly supervising others and for making intelligible and appreciative use of the labors of others, a considerable understanding of these various matters. where this work for girls is at its best in cleveland, it appears to be of a superior character. those who are in charge of the best are in a position to advise as to further extensions and developments. it is not difficult to discern certain of these. it would appear, for example, that sewing should find some place at least in the work of seventh and eighth grades. the girl who does not go on to high school is greatly in need of more advanced training in sewing than can be given in the sixth grade. each building having a household arts room should possess a sewing machine or two, at the very least. the academic high schools are now planning to offer courses in domestic science. as in the technical high schools, all of this work should involve as large a degree of normal responsibility as possible. we omit discussion here of the specialized vocational training of women, since this is handled in other reports of the survey. when we turn to the manual training of the boys, we are confronted with problems of much greater difficulty. women's household occupations, so far as retained in the home, are unspecialized. each well-trained household worker does or supervises much the same range of things as every other. to give the entire range of household occupations to all girls is a simple and logical arrangement. but man's labor is greatly specialized throughout. there is no large remnant of unspecialized labor common to all, as in the case of women. to all girls we give simply this unspecialized remnant, since it is large and important. but in the case of men the unspecialized field has disappeared. there is nothing of labor to give to boys except that which has become specialized. a fundamental problem arises. shall we give boys access to a variety of specialized occupations so that they may become acquainted, through responsible performance, with the wide and diversified field of man's labor? or shall we give them some less specialized sample out of that diversified field so that they may obtain, through contact and experience, some knowledge of the things that make up the world of productive labor? cleveland's reply, to judge from actual practices, is that a single sample will be sufficient for all except those who attend technical and special schools. the city has therefore chosen joinery and cabinet-making as this sample. in the fifth and sixth grades work begins in simple knife-work for an hour a week under the direction of women teachers. in the seventh and eighth grades it becomes benchwork for an hour and a half per week, and is taught by a special manual training teacher, always a man. in the academic high schools the courses in joinery and cabinet-making bring the pupils to greater proficiency, but do not greatly extend the course in width. much of this work is of a rather formal character, apparently looking toward that manual discipline formerly called "training of eye and hand," instead of consciously answering to the demands of social purposes. the regular teachers look upon the fifth and sixth grade sloyd[*sic] which they teach with no great enthusiasm. seventh and eighth grade teachers do not greatly value the work. the household arts courses for the girls have social purposes in view. as a result they are kept vitalized, and are growing increasingly vital in the work of the city. is it not possible also to vitalize the manual training of the boys--unspecialized pre-vocational training, we ought to call it--by giving it social purpose? the principal of one of the academic high schools emphasized in conversation the value of manual training for vocational guidance--a social purpose. it permitted boys, he said, to try themselves out and to find their vocational tastes and aptitudes. the purpose is undoubtedly a valid one. the limitation of the method is that joinery and cabinet-making cannot help a boy to try himself out for metal work, printing, gardening, tailoring, or commercial work. if vocational guidance is to be a controlling social purpose, the manual training work will have to be made more diversified so that one can try out his tastes and abilities in a number of lines. and, moreover, each kind of work must be kept as much like responsible work out in the world as possible. in keeping work normal, the main thing is that the pupils bear actual responsibility for the doing of actual work. this is rather difficult to arrange; but it is necessary before the activities can be lifted above the level of the usual manual training shop. the earliest stages of the training will naturally be upon what is little more than a play level. it is well for schools to give free rein to the constructive instinct and to provide the fullest and widest possible opportunities for its exercise. but if boys are to try out their aptitudes for work and their ability to bear responsibility in work, then they must try themselves out on the work level. let the manual training actually look toward vocational guidance; the social purpose involved will vitalize the work. there is a still more comprehensive social purpose which the city should consider. owing to the interdependence of human affairs, men need to be broadly informed as to the great world of productive labor. most of our civic and social problems are at bottom industrial problems. just as we use industrial history and industrial geography as means of giving youth a wide vision of the fields of man's work, so must we also use actual practical activities as means of making him familiar in a concrete way with materials and processes in their details, with the nature of work, and with the nature of responsibility. on the play level, therefore, constructive activities should be richly diversified. this diversity of opportunity should continue to the work level. one cannot really know the nature of work or of work responsibility except as it is learned through experience. let the manual training adopt the social purpose here mentioned, provide the opportunities, means, and processes that it demands, and the work will be wondrously vitalized. it is well to mention that the program suggested is a complicated one on the side of its theory and a difficult one on the side of its practice. in the planning it is well to look to the whole program. in the work itself it is well to remember that one step at a time, and that secure, is a good way to avoid stumbling. printing and gardening are two things that might well be added to the manual training program. both are already in the schools in some degree. they might well be considered as desirable portions of the manual training of all. they lend themselves rather easily to responsible performance on the work level. there are innumerable things that a school can print for use in its work. in so doing, pupils can be given something other than play. also in the home gardening, supervised for educational purposes, it is possible to introduce normal work-motives. by the time the city has developed these two things it will have at the same time developed the insight necessary for attacking more difficult problems. elementary science this subject finds no place upon the program. no elaborate argument should be required to convince the authorities in charge of the school system of a modern city like cleveland that in this ultra-scientific age the children who do not go beyond the elementary school--and they constitute a majority--need to possess a working knowledge of the rudiments of science if they are to make their lives effective. the future citizens of cleveland need to know something about electricity, heat, expansion and contraction of gases and solids, the mechanics of machines, distillation, common chemical reactions and a host of other things about science that are bound to come up in the day's work in their various activities. considered from the practical standpoint of actual human needs, the present almost complete neglect of elementary science is indefensible. the minute amount of such teaching now introduced in the language lessons for composition purposes is so small as to be almost negligible. the topics are not chosen for their bearing upon human needs. there is no laboratory work. naturally much of the elementary science to be taught should be introduced in connection with practical situations in kitchen, school garden, shop, sanitation, etc. certainly the applied science should be as full as possible. but preliminary to this there ought to be systematic presentation of the elements of various sciences in rapid ways for overview and perspective. to try to teach the elements only "incidentally" as they are applied is to fail to see them in their relations, and therefore to fail in understanding them. intensive studies by way of filling in the details may well be in part incidental. but systematic superficial introductory work is needed by way of giving pupils their bearings in the various fields of science. the term "superficial" is used advisedly. there is an introductory stage in the teaching of every such subject when the work should be superficial and extensive. this stage paves the way for depth and intensity, which must be reached before education is accomplished. high school science having no elementary science in the grades, one naturally expects to find in the high school a good introductory course in general science, similar in organization to that suggested for the elementary stage. but nowhere is there anything that even remotely suggests such a course. students who take the classical course get their first glimpse of modern science in the third or fourth high school year, when they have an opportunity to elect a course in physics or chemistry of the usual traditional stamp. no opportunity is given them for so much as a glimpse of the world's biological background. those who take the scientific or english course have access to physical geography and to an anemic biological course entitled, "physiology and botany," which few take. students of the high school of commerce have their first contacts with modern science in a required course in chemistry in the third year, and elective physics in the fourth year. in the technical high schools the first science for the boys is systematic chemistry in the second year and physics in the third. they have no opportunity of contact with any biological science. the girls have "botany and physiology" in their first year. the city needs to organize preliminary work in general science for the purpose of paving the way to the more intensive science work of the later years. a portion of this should be found in the elementary school and taught by departmental science teachers; and a portion in the first year of the high school. as junior high schools are developed, most of this work should be included in their courses. as to the later organization of the work, the two technical high schools clearly indicate the modern trend of relating the science teaching to practical labors. what is needed is a wider expansion of this phase of the work without losing sight of the need at the same time for a systematic and general teaching of the sciences. it is a difficult task to make the science teaching vital and modern for the academic high schools, since they have so few contacts with the practical labors of the world. cleveland needs to see its schools more as a part of the world of affairs, and not so much as a hothouse nursery isolated from the world and its vital interests. physiology and hygiene teaching in matters pertaining to health is given but a meagre amount of time in the elementary schools. while the school program shows one -minute period each week in the first four grades, and one -minute period each week in the four upper grades, it appears that in actual practice the subject receives even less time than this. in the attempt to observe the class work in physiology and hygiene, a member of the survey staff went on one day to four different classrooms at the hour scheduled on the program. in two cases the time was given over to grammar, in one to arithmetic, and in one to music. this represents practice that is not unusual. the subject gets pushed off the program by one of the so-called "essentials." it is difficult to see why health-training is not an essential. in a letter to the school board, february , , superintendent frederick wrote: "the teaching of physiology and hygiene should become a matter of serious moment in our course of study. at present it is not systematically presented in the elementary schools: and in the high schools it is an elective study only in the senior year. my judgment is that it should become a definite part of the program, as a required study in the seventh and eighth grades." the small nominal amount of time as compared with the time usually expended is partially shown in table . professor holmes' figures for the cities include elementary science along with the physiology and hygiene. table .--time given to science, physiology, hygiene ======+=======================+======================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time grade +-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ | cleveland | cities | cleveland | cities ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ total | | | . | . ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ in addition to the work of the regular teachers in this subject, a certain amount of instruction is given by the school physicians and nurses. in his report to the board, , dr. peterson writes: "health instruction is given by doctors and nurses in personal talks to pupils, talks to whole schools, tooth-brush drills conducted in many schools, and in visits into the homes by the nurses. conscious effort is continually made by all doctors and nurses to inspire to right living all of the children with whom they come in contact." looking somewhat to the future, it can be affirmed that the school physicians and nurses are the ones who ought to give the teaching in this subject. after giving the preliminary ideas in the classrooms, they alone are in position to follow up the various matters and see that the ideas are assimilated through being put into practice both at school and at home. at present, however, physicians and nurses have , children to inspect, of whom more than half have defects that require following up. it is a physical impossibility for them to do much teaching until the force of school nurses is greatly increased. for the present certain things may well be done: . a course in hygiene and sanitation, based upon an abundance of reading, should be drawn up and taught by the regular teachers in the grammar school grades. this course should be looked upon as merely preliminary to the more substantial portions of education in this field. the physicians and nurses should select the readings and supervise the course to see that the materials are covered conscientiously and not slighted. . the schools should arrange for practical applications of the preparatory knowledge in as many ways as possible. children in relays can look after the ventilation, temperature, humidity, dust, light, and other sanitary conditions of school-rooms and grounds. they can make sanitary surveys of their home district; engage in anti-fly, anti-mosquito, anti-dirt, and other campaigns; and report--for credit possibly--practical sanitary and hygienic activities carried on outside of school. only as knowledge is put to work is it assimilated and the prime purpose of education accomplished. . the corps of school nurses should be gradually enlarged, and after a time they can be given any needed training for teaching that will enable them, as the work is departmentalized in the grammar grades, to become departmental teachers in this subject for a portion of their time. their "follow-up" work will always give them their chief educational opportunity; but to prepare for this the classwork must give some systematized preparatory ideas. in the high schools, training of boys in hygiene and sanitation is little developed. the only thing offered them is an elective half-year course in physiology in the senior year of the scientific and english courses in the academic high schools. in the classical course, and in the technical and commercial schools, they have not even this. physiology is required of girls in the technical schools, and is elective in all but the classical course in the others. while in one or two of the high schools there is training in actual hygiene and sanitation, in most cases it is physiology and anatomy of a superficial preliminary type which is not put to use and which therefore mostly fails of normal assimilation. the things recommended for the elementary schools need to be carried out in the high schools also. physical training the city gives slightly more than the usual amount of time to physical training in the elementary schools. except for first and second grades, where a slightly larger amount is set aside for the purpose, pupils are expected to receive one hour per week. table .--time given to physical training ======+=======================+======================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time grade +-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ | cleveland | cities | cleveland | cities ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ total | | | . | . ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ even though it is a little above the average amount of time, it is nevertheless too little. a week consists of hours. after deducting hours a day for sleep, meals, etc., there remain hours per week to be used. in a state of nature this was largely used for physical play. under the artificial conditions of modern city life, the nature of children is not changed. they still need huge amounts of active physical play for wholesome development. most of this they will get away from the school, but as urban conditions take away proper play opportunities, the loss in large degree has to be made good by systematic community effort in establishing and maintaining playgrounds and playrooms for months in the year. the school and its immediate environment is the logical place for this development. the course of study lays out a series of obsolescent swedish gymnastics for each of the years. the work observed was mechanical, perfunctory, and lacking in vitality. sandwiched in between exhausting intellectual drill, it has the value of giving a little relief and rest. this is good, but it is not sufficiently positive to be called physical training. very desirable improvements in the course are being advocated by the directors and supervisors of the work. they are recommending, and introducing where conditions will permit, the use of games, athletics, folk dances, etc. the movements should be promoted by the city in every possible way. at present the regular teachers as a rule have not the necessary point of view and do not sufficiently value the work. special teachers and play leaders need to be employed. material facilities should be extended and improved. some of the school grounds are too small; the surfacing is not always well adapted to play; often apparatus is not supplied; indoor playrooms are insufficient in number, etc. these various things need to be supplied before the physical training curriculum can be modernized. in the high schools two periods of physical training per week in academic and commercial schools, and three or four periods per week in the technical schools, are prescribed for the first two years of the course. in the last two years it is omitted from the program in all but the high school of commerce, where it is optional. with one or two exceptions, the little given is mainly indoor gymnastics of a formal sort owing to the general lack of sufficiently large athletic fields, tennis courts, baseball diamonds, and other necessary facilities. special commendation must be accorded the home-room basis of organizing the athletics of the technical high schools. probably no plan anywhere employed comes nearer to reaching the entire student body in a vital way. with the exceptions referred to, it seems that the city has not sufficiently considered the indispensable need of huge amounts of physical play on the part of adolescents as the basis of full and life-long physical vitality. high school students represent the best youth of the community. their efficiency is certainly the greatest single asset of the new generation. there are scores of other expensive things that the city can better afford to neglect. the one thing it can least afford to sacrifice on the altar of economy is the vitality of its citizens of tomorrow. music in the elementary schools cleveland is giving considerably more than the average amount of time to music. in the high schools, except for a one-hour optional course in the high school of commerce, the subject is developed only incidentally and given no credit. it is entirely pertinent to inquire why music should be so important for the grammar school age and then lose all of this importance as soon as the high school is reached. table .--time given to music ======+=======================+======================== | hours per year | per cent of grade time grade +-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ | cleveland | cities | cleveland | cities ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . | | | . | . ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ total | | | . | . ------+-----------+-----------+-----------+------------ the probability is either that it is over-valued for the elementary school and should receive diminished time; or it is under-valued for the high school and should be given the dignity and the consideration of a credit course, as it is in many progressive high schools. it cannot be urged that the subject is finished in the elementary schools. pupils in fact receive only an introductory training in vocal music. the whole field of instrumental music remains untouched. it seems the city ought to consider the question of whether the course ought not to be much expanded and continued throughout the high school period as an elective subject. however, in considering the question it should be kept in mind that there are very many things of more importance and of far more pressing immediate necessity. foreign languages german has long been taught in the elementary schools. until less than years ago it was taught in all grades beginning with the first. more recently it has been confined to the four upper grades. beginning with the present year, it is taught only in the seventh and eighth grades. the situation is so well presented in the report of the educational commission of that further discussion here is unnecessary. they summarize their discussion of the teaching of german in the elementary schools as follows: "such teaching originated in a nationalistic feeling and demand on the part of german immigrants, and not in any educational or pedagogical necessity. "it aimed to induce the children of germans to attend the public schools, where they would learn english and be sooner americanized. "for years [now years] past, german immigration has almost ceased, and other european nationalities, as the bohemians, poles, and italians, have taken their place numerically. "the children of the earlier german immigrants are already americanized and use the english language freely, and those later born, of the second and third generations, no longer need to be taught german in the schools beginning at six years of age. "it is demonstrated by experience and by abundant testimony that children neither from german nor from english-speaking families really learn much german in the primary and grammar grades, that is, from six to years of age. "hence the commission recommends that the teaching of german in these grades be discontinued and that the german language be taught only in the high schools. "it is admitted that those who begin german in the high school, after the second year, can keep up with and do as good work in the same classes as those who have had eight years of german in the primary and grammar grades and two years in the high schools." the form of argument that once was valid for including german in the elementary course of study may now be valid for polish, hungarian, bohemian and italian, for the children of the first generation of these nationalities. properly done, it is a means of preventing the children's drifting from the parental moorings. after the first generation, it would not be needed. it is impossible, in the limited space at our disposal, to discuss comprehensively so complicated a topic as foreign languages in the high school. one group of educators sturdily defends the traditional classical course, with its great emphasis on greek and latin, while another group as urgently insists that if any foreign languages are taught, they must be the modern ones. these opposing schools of thought are profoundly sincere in their conflicting beliefs. each side is absolutely certain that it is right and is unalterably of the opinion that there is no other side of the question to be even so much as considered. anything that agrees with its own side is based on reason; anything opposed is but ignorant prejudice. under the circumstances the disinterested outsider may well suspect that where there is so much sincerity and conviction, there must be much truth on both sides. and undoubtedly this is the case. latin is a living language in our country in that it provides half of our vocabulary. pupils who would know english well should have a good knowledge of this living latin. if the latinists would shift their ground to this living latin and provide means of teaching it fully and effectively for modern purposes, it is possible that the opposing schools of thought might here find common ground upon which all could stand with some degree of comfort and toleration. when latin study of the character here suggested is devised, it ought to be opened up to the students of all courses as an elective, so that it could be taken by all who wish a full appreciation and understanding of their semi-latin mother tongue. such a study ought to be required of the clerical students of the high school of commerce. in the meantime, however, all will have to wait until the latinists have provided the plans and the materials. in the new so-called english course in the academic high schools required foreign languages are omitted entirely. in the third and fourth years german or spanish is made elective. this gives rise to several questions. if the foreign language is studied simply as preparation for the leisure occupation of reading its literature--the only value of the course in the case of most who take it--why should not french be elective also? by far the largest of the world's literatures, outside of the english, is the french. the spanish has but a small literature; and while germany has excelled in many things, belles-lettres is not one of them. another question relates to the placing of these electives. if one is to study a foreign language at all, it is usually thought best to begin earlier than the third year of the high school, so as to finish these simple matters that can be done by children and gain time in the later years for the more complicated matters that require mature judgment. differentiation of courses courses of training based upon human needs should be diversified where conditions are diversified. uniform courses of study for all schools within a city were justifiable in a former simpler age, when the schools were caring only for needs that were common to all classes. but as needs have differentiated in our large industrial cities, courses of training must also become differentiated. in cleveland this principle has been recognized in organizing the work of the special schools and classes. for all the regular elementary schools, however, a uniform course of study has been used. under the present administration, principals and teachers are nominally permitted wide latitude in its administration. a large part of this freedom is taken away by two things. one is the use by the city of the plan of leaving textbooks to private purchase. for perfectly obvious reasons, so long as textbooks are privately purchased, a uniform series of textbooks must be definitely prescribed for the entire city. uniform textbooks do not necessarily enforce a uniform curriculum. in usual practice, however, they do enforce it as completely as a prescribed uniform course of study manual. as the schools of different sections of the city are allowed to experiment and to develop variations from the course of study, they should be allowed greater freedom in choosing the textbooks that will best serve in teaching their courses. the second condition enforcing a uniform course of study in certain subjects is the use of uniform examinations in those subjects. we would merely suggest here that it is possible to use supervisory examinations without making them uniform for all schools. different types of school may well have different types of examination. different social classes often exist within the same school. administrative limitations probably must prevent the use of more than one course of study in a single elementary school. but as the work of the grammar grades is departmentalized, and as junior high schools are developed, it will become possible to offer alternative courses in these grades. those practically certain of going on to higher educational work requiring foreign languages and higher mathematics should probably be permitted to begin these studies by the sixth or seventh grade. on the other hand, those who are practically certain to drop out of school at the end of the grammar grades or junior high school should have full opportunities for applied science, applied design, practical mathematics, civics, hygiene, vocational studies, etc. when the necessary studies are once organized and departmental work introduced, it is not difficult to arrange for the necessary differentiation of courses in the same school. finally, courses of study should provide for children of differing natural ability. extra materials and opportunities should be provided for children of large capacity; and abbreviated courses for those of less than normal ability. in departmentalized grammar grades and junior high schools this can be taken care of rather easily by permitting the brighter pupils to carry more studies than normal, and the backward ones a smaller number than normal. under the present elementary school organization with classes so large and with so many things for the teachers to do, it is practically impossible to effect such desirable differentiations. summary . the fundamental social point of view of this discussion of the courses of study of the cleveland schools is that effective teaching is preparation for adult life through participation in the activities of life. . the schools of cleveland devote far more time to reading than do those of the average city. in too large measure this time is employed in mastering the mechanics of reading and in the analytical study of the manner in which the words are combined in sentences and the sentences in paragraphs. the main object of the reading should be the mastery of the thought rather than the study of the construction. through it the children should gain life-long habits of exploring, through reading, the great fields of history, industry, applied science, life in other lands, travel, invention, biography, and wholesome fiction. to this end the work should be made more extensive and less intensive. as an indispensable means toward this end the books should be supplied by the schools instead of being purchased by the parents. . the teaching of spelling should aim to give the pupils complete mastery over those words which they need to use in writing and it should instil in them the permanent habit of watching their spelling as they write. drill on lists of isolated words should give way to practice in spelling correctly every word in everything written. the dictionary habit should be cultivated, and every written lesson should be a spelling lesson. . the time devoted to language, composition, and grammar is about the same as in the average city. the chief result of the work as done in cleveland is to enable the pupil to recite well on textbook grammar and to pass examinations in the subject. the work in technical grammar should be continued for the purpose of giving the pupils a foundation acquaintance with forms, terms, relations, and grammatical perspective, but this training need not be so extensive and intensive as at present. the time saved should be given to oral and written expression in connection with the reading of history, geography, industrial studies, civics, sanitation, and the like. facility and accuracy in oral and written expression are developed through practice rather than through precept. they are perfected through the conscious and unconscious imitation of good models rather than through the advanced study of technical grammar. only as knowledge is put to work is it really learned or assimilated. . cleveland gives more time to mathematics than does the average city. the content of courses in mathematics is to be determined by human needs. a fundamental need of our scientific age is more accurate quantitative thinking about our vocations, civic problems, taxation, income, insurance, expenditures, public improvements, and the multitude of other public and private problems involving quantities. we need to think accurately and easily in quantities, proportions, forms, and relationships. arithmetic teaching, like the teaching of penmanship, is for the purpose of providing tools to be used in matters that lie beyond. the present course of study is of superior character, providing for efficient elementary training and dispensing with most of the things of little practical use. the greatest improvement in the work is to be found in its further carrying over into the other fields of school work and in applying it in other classes as well as in the arithmetic class. in the advanced classes mathematics should be differentiated according to the needs of different pupils. algebra should be more closely related to practical matters and developed in connection with geometry and trigonometry. . history receives much less attention in this city than in the average city. the character of the work is really indicated by the last sentence of the eighth-grade history assignment: "the text of our book should be thoroughly mastered." the work is too brief, abstract, and barren to help the pupils toward an understanding of the social, political, economic, and industrial problems with which we are confronted. it should be amply supplemented by a wide range of reading on social welfare topics. this reading should be biographical, anecdotal, thrilling dramas of human achievement, rich with human interest. it should be at every stage on the level with the understanding and degree of maturity of the pupils so that much reading can be covered rapidly. . in cleveland, where there has been an almost unequalled amount of civic discussion and progressive human-welfare effort, the teaching of civics in the public schools receives too little attention. it is recommended that the principals and teachers make such a civic survey as that made in cincinnati as the method of discovering the topics that should enter into a grammar-grade course. not much civics teaching should be attempted in the intermediate grades, but it should be given in the higher grades. . a new course of study in geography is now being put into use. the work as laid out in the old manual and as seen in the classrooms has been forbiddingly formal. it has mainly consisted of the teacher assigning to the pupils a certain number of paragraphs or pages in the textbook as the next lesson, and then questioning them next day to ascertain how much of this printed material they have remembered and how well. the new course of study recognizes, on the contrary, that the proper end of geographical teaching is rather to stimulate and guide the children toward an inquiring interest as to how the world is made, and the skies above, and the waters round about, and the conditions of nature that limit and determine in a measure the development of mankind. to attain this ideal will require in every school times as adequate provision of geographical reading and geographical material as is now found in the best equipped school. . drawing and applied art have been taught in cleveland since . the object of the teaching is to develop an understanding and appreciation of the principles of graphic art and ability to use these principles in practical applications. where this work is done best, it shows, in both the elementary and high schools, balanced understanding and complete modernness. what is needed is extension of this best type of work to all parts of the city through specially trained departmental teachers. . where teaching of household arts is at its best in cleveland, it is of a superior character and should be extended along lines now being followed. manual training for boys should be extended and broadened with a view to giving the pupils real contact with more types of industry than those represented by the present woodwork. . elementary science finds no place in the course of study of cleveland. the future citizens of cleveland will need an understanding of electricity, heat, expansion and contraction of gases and solids, the mechanics of machines, distillations, common chemical reactions, and the multitude of other matters of science met with daily in their activities. the schools should help supply this need. . teaching in matters pertaining to health is assigned little time in the elementary schools, and the time that is assigned to it is frequently given to something else. the subject gets pushed off the program by one of the so-called "essentials." a course in hygiene should be drawn up, and practical applications of the work should be arranged through having pupils look after the sanitary conditions of rooms and grounds. the school doctors and nurses should help in this teaching and practice. . physical training is given about as much time as in the average city, but without adequate facilities for outdoor and indoor plays and games. at present the work is too largely of the formal gymnastic type. desirable improvements in the course are being advocated by the directors and supervisors of the work. they are recommending and introducing, where conditions will permit, the use of games, athletics, folk dances, and the like. the movement should be promoted in every possible way. . in the elementary schools cleveland gives more than the average amount of time to music, but in the high schools the subject is developed only incidentally and is given no credit. it is a question whether this arrangement is the right one, and in considering possible extensions it should be remembered that there are other subjects of far more pressing immediate necessity. . it is impossible in this brief report to discuss adequately so complicated a matter as that of the teaching of foreign languages in the high schools, but some of the most important of the questions at issue have been indicated as matters which the school authorities should continue to study until satisfactory solutions are reached. . where school work in cleveland is backward, it is because it has not yet taken on the social point of view. where it is progressive, it is being developed on the basis of human needs. there is much of both kinds of work in cleveland. . in a city with a population so diversified as is that of cleveland, progress should be made steadily and consciously away from city-wide uniformity in courses of study and methods of teaching. there should be progressive differentiation of courses to meet the widely varying needs of the different sorts of children in different sections of the city. cleveland education survey reports these reports can be secured from the survey committee of the cleveland foundation, cleveland, ohio. they will be sent postpaid for cents per volume with the exception of "measuring the work of the public schools" by judd, "the cleveland school survey" by ayres, and "wage earning and education" by lutz. these three volumes will be sent for cents each. all of these reports may be secured at the same rates from the division of education of the russell sage foundation, new york city. child accounting in the public schools--ayres. educational extension--perry. education through recreation--johnson. financing the public schools--clark. health work in the public schools--ayres. household arts and school lunches--boughton. measuring the work of the public schools--judd. overcrowded schools and the platoon plan--hartwell. school buildings and equipment--ayres. schools and classes for exceptional children--mitchell. school organization and administration--ayres. the public library and the public schools--ayres and mckinnie. the school and the immigrant--miller. the teaching staff--jessup. what the schools teach and might teach--bobbitt. the cleveland school survey (summary)--ayres. * * * * * boys and girls in commercial work--stevens. department store occupations--o'leary. dressmaking and millinery--bryner. railroad and street transportation--fleming. the building trades--shaw. the garment trades--bryner. the metal trades--lutz. the printing trades--shaw. wage earning and education (summary)--lutz. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) transcriber's note: the footnote to the first entry says that in the train schedules, times from noon to midnight are shown in "dark-face type." in this plain-text edition that cannot be done, so the letters "p" and "a" have been appended to each time to indicate am and pm hours. minor typographical errors have been corrected: employes to employees on p. , , and ; nagivation to navigation on p. ; conferation to confederation on p. . inconsistent hyphenation in the original has been retained. owing to the method used to scan this work, in a few cases the first or last letters of a line were lost and had to be found from other sources or inferred from context. where an inference is not certain, the presumed missing letters are in parentheses with a question mark, for example "p(art?)". in each of the numbers in the table on page ("passengers carried annually," etc.) the final digit cannot be determined and has been replaced with . the greatest highway in the world historical, industrial and descriptive information of the towns, cities and country passed through between new york and chicago via the new york central lines illustrated based on the encyclopaedia britannica foreword in furtherance of giving the utmost service to the public, the new york central lines asked the editors of the encyclopædia britannica to prepare this booklet descriptive of and vivifying the historical development of what has been termed "the greatest highway in the world." it is presented to you in the hope that it may prove a pleasant companion on a journey over our lines. the information will afford a new appreciation of the historical significance and industrial importance of the cities, towns and country which the new york central lines serve. the new york central lines enter twelve states and serve territory containing , , inhabitants or . per cent of the nation's population. this rich and busy territory produces per cent of the country's manufactured products and mines a similar proportion of its coal. this system does approximately per cent of the railroad transportation business of the united states, although its main-track mileage is only per cent. in other words the business it handles exceeds that of the average railroad, mile for mile, by nearly per cent. the new york central carries per cent of all through passengers between new york and chicago, the remaining per cent being divided among five other lines. the freight traffic of the new york central lines in was greater than that carried by all the railroads of france and england combined. the scenes that stretch before the eyes of passengers on these lines are rich with historic interest. few persons know that the second settlement in the united states was at albany and that it antedated plymouth by several years. probably fewer persons know that the first united states flag was carried in battle at fort stanwix, now the city of rome, n.y. we hope that the reader will discover in the following pages more than one historic shrine which he will wish to visit. it has been said that the history of a country's civilization is the history of its highways. certainly the development of a great system such as the new york central is an important element in the progress and prosperity of the country which it serves. this railroad is, in fact, a public institution, and it will prosper to the extent that it gives _service_ to the public. the new york central lines have the initial advantage that they follow the great natural routes along which the first trails were blazed by the red men, and are almost free from grades, sharp curves and other hindrances to comfortable and efficient transportation. thus the road owes its superiority primarily to the fact that it lends itself to a maximum degree of efficiency. but _service_ as it is conceived by the new york central, involves many aspects. one is the careful provision for the comfort and convenience of passengers; another is adequate and efficient facilities for serving the interests of shippers. in other words, new york central _service_ means not only fast and luxurious passenger trains, but also the rapid handling of freight. to give such service requires the highest class of equipment--the best rails, the finest cars, the most powerful locomotives, etc.--but it also requires an operating force of loyal, highly trained employees. in both respects the new york central lines excel. the inspiring record of the system's growth through public approval and patronage is fundamentally a tribute to the _service_ rendered, constantly advanced and developed in pace with public requirements. the accompanying booklet is in one sense an expression of past achievement, but it is also an earnest of greater accomplishment to come. new york to albany new york, pop. , , . grand central terminal. (train leaves : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: train arrives : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.)[ ] [ . throughout this handbook the time is given at which trains are scheduled to leave or pass through the cities or towns mentioned. from new york to chicago, train no. is the empire state express; no. , the chicago express; no. , the number forty-one; no. , the twentieth century, and no. , the lake shore limited. in the reverse route, from chicago to new york, no. is the fifth avenue special; no. is the twentieth century; no. , the new york and new england special, and no. , the lake shore limited. the time given is eastern standard time at all points east of toledo, and central standard time, which is one hour slower, at toledo and all points west. (when daylight saving time is adopted during the summer it is one hour faster than _standard_ time, but all time given in this booklet is standard time.) the time between . o'clock midnight and . o'clock noon is indicated by light face type; between . o'clock noon and . o'clock midnight by dark face type. the use of an asterisk (*) indicates places recommended as especially worth visiting. population figures are those of the u.s. census.] fifty years ago when commodore vanderbilt began the first grand central station--depot, they called it, in the language of the day--he made one error of judgment. his choice of a site proved to be magnificently right, though he selected a spot that was practically open country, then technically known as nd st. the story goes--it is a typically american story--that his friends laughed at him, remarking that a person might as well walk to boston or albany as go away up to nd st. to take a train for those cities. but the people did come, and they admired the commodore's new station, which is perhaps not surprising, since the commodore had set himself to build the greatest terminal in the world. many americans considered the new "depot" as only second to the capitol at washington, and it served as an excellent show place when visitors came to town. europe might have its cathedrals, but it had no grand central station! the commodore's one mistake lay in thinking that his fine new station would last a century. within ten years an addition had to be built; in it had to be entirely remodeled and enlarged, and fifteen years later it was entirely demolished to make way for the present building which would be adequate for handling the city's ever-increasing millions. there seems to be little doubt that the city of n.y. and its environs has become within the last decade larger even than london. the population of greater london (including all the separate administrative entities within the metropolitan police district) is estimated at , , . jersey city, hoboken, and the other n.j. cities on the west, as well as yonkers, mt. vernon, new rochelle, etc., on the north, although politically detached, are included in the "city" of n.y. in the larger sense, their political detachment being in a certain sense accidental. including these, the population of n.y. area corresponding to the metropolitan london area is , , . the population of n.y. city proper is , , . the london area comparable with this, viz., the part of london governed by the london county council has a population of , , . comparing the areas of the two--n.y.c. with sq. miles and london with sq. miles, it is hard to understand how the respective populations should approximate each other so nearly until it is remembered that new york grows perpendicularly instead of horizontally, that it usurps more air rather than more land. in some of the downtown business streets, such as wall or rector, the buildings tower so high above the narrow thoroughfare that they form a kind of deep canyon along which the wind is drawn as through a tunnel. in the colonial period philadelphia was the most important city, commercially, politically and socially, while just before the war of independence, boston, with a population of , was the most flourishing town in all the colonies. during the revolutionary war, n.y.c. had fallen to a population of , and in it had barely gained a position of leadership with , , but by n.y.c. had grown to be a city of , while philadelphia had , and boston , . [illustration: commodore vanderbilt cornelius vanderbilt ( - ) at the age of bought a sailboat in which he carried farm produce and passengers between staten island, where he lived, and n.y. he was soon doing so profitable a business that in , realizing the superiority of steam over sailing vessels, he was able to sell his sloops and schooners, and became the captain of a steam ferry between n.y. and new brunswick. his projects grew enormously. he inaugurated steamship lines between n.y. and san francisco, n.y. and havre, and other places. in - he sold his steamships and turned his attention more and more to the development of railways, with the result that before his death he had built up and was a majority share owner in the n.y. central & hudson river, the lake shore and michigan southern, the harlem, and the michigan central & canada southern railways, and had holdings in many others. he died at n.y. in .] today one of the most remarkable features of new york is the grand central terminal. the exterior finish is granite and indiana lime-stone; the style somewhat doric, modified by the french renaissance. over the entrance to the main building is a great arch surmounted by a statuary group wherein mercury, symbolizing the glory of commerce, is supported by minerva and hercules who represent mental and moral force. within, the main concourse of the station proper is an immense room with a floor space of , sq. ft. where the new york city hall might be set and yet leave room to spare. it is covered with a vaulted ceiling ft. high, painted a soft cloudy blue and starred over with the constellations of heaven. great dome-shaped windows, three each at the east and west ends, furnish light. [illustration: the main concourse, grand central terminal] the entire site of the grand central terminal comprises blocks and acres which above the surface are covered with a great variety of buildings, making almost a city in itself. moreover, there is direct subway entrance to three large hotels, capable of housing as many as , persons, and to all these conveniences is added that of comfortable temperature throughout the terminal, no matter how cold the weather. [illustration: map of new york city, this survey, made in the winter of , shows the city proper as it existed during the revolutionary war. places indicated by the lettering are described under the original as follows: a, fort george. b, batteries [at the two points of the island]. c, military hospital [south of pearl st.]. d, secretary's office [near fort george]. e, [not shown]. f, soldiers' barracks [at extreme right]. g, ship yards [lower right hand corner]. h, city hall [broad and wall streets, site of present sub-treasury building]. i, exchange. j, k, jail and workhouse [both situated on the "intended square or common," now city hall square]. l, college [church and murray streets; this was king's college, now columbia university]. m, trinity church [the present trinity was built on - , though it stands on the site of the old church built in ]. n, st. george's chapel. o, st. paul's chapel [built in , the oldest edifice still standing in n.y.c.]. p to z, various churches.] as distinctively "new york" as the sky-scrapers, are the hotels and apartment houses. of the latter, there are more than in any other city in the world, and the number of persons who are giving up their houses and adopting this manner of life is steadily increasing. the first thing, in fact, that impresses a visitor on his arrival is the seemingly endless amount of buildings adopted for transients. a few of the largest hotels have space for several thousand persons at one time. [illustration: new amsterdam (now new york city) in the point of land in the foreground is now known as the battery. the large building inside the stockade is a church. in the middle foreground is a gallows. the hills in the background form the approach to the present morningside heights.] the old station in -' was torn down, brick by brick, while at the same time the new building was being erected--and all without disturbing the traffic or hindering the , to , people that passed through the station each day. this was an extraordinary engineering feat, for not only were , , yards of earth and rock taken out to provide for the underground development, but hundreds of tons of dynamite were used for blasting. among the improvements introduced in the new station are ramps instead of stairways, the division of out-going from in-going traffic and the elimination of the cold trainshed. the substitution of electricity for steam as a motive power in the metropolitan area made possible the reclamation of park avenue and the cross streets from th st. to th st.--about blocks in all--by depressing and covering the tracks. at th st. the tracks begin to rise from the long tunnel and pass through the tenement district of the upper east side. the side streets seem filled with nothing but children and vegetable carts, while along the pavements shrill women with shawls over their heads are bargaining for food with street-vendors. as the railroad tracks rise higher still, we run on the level with the upper-story windows out of which the tenants lean and gossip with one another. [illustration: the jumel mansion, new york city] m. harlem station ( th st.). (train passes : a; no , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) old harlem was "nieuw haerlem," a settlement established in by gov. peter stuyvesant in the northeastern part of manhattan island. it existed for years but is now lost under modern harlem, which centers about th st. in this neighborhood to the west occurred the battle of harlem heights--a lively skirmish fought sept. , , opposite the west front of the present columbia university, and resulting in a victory for the forces of gen. washington, who up to that time had suffered a number of reverses on long island and elsewhere. the battle was directed by washington from the jumel mansion*, th st. and amsterdam ave., the most famous house, historically, on the island of manhattan. it is still standing. [illustration: peter stuyvesant and the cobbler peter stuyvesant, dutch governor of n.y. from to and a valiant member of the reformed church, had an intense prejudice against all other sects. at flushing a baptist cobbler, william wickendam, ventured to preach "and even went with the people into the river and dipped them." he was fined , guilders ($ , ) and ordered to be banished. as he was a poor man the debt was remitted, but he was obliged to leave the province.] the house was built in by roger morris for his bride, mary philipse of yonkers, for whose hand, it is said, washington had been an unsuccessful suitor. the house was subsequently owned by john jacob astor and then passed into the hands of stephen jumel, a french merchant, who, with his wife eliza, added new fame to the old house. they entertained here lafayette, louis napoleon, joseph bonaparte and jerome bonaparte. aaron burr ( - ) in his old age, appeared at the mansion with a clergyman, and married mme. jumel, then a widow. she divorced him shortly afterward, and he died in poverty on staten island, . alexander hamilton whom burr killed in the famous duel at weehawken, n.j. (july , ) owned a country place in the neighborhood, "hamilton grange," which now stands at th st. and convent ave. leaving manhattan, that extraordinary island which peter minuit, director-general of new netherlands, bought in from the indians for sixty guilders' worth of goods (about $ ), we cross the harlem river to the borough of the bronx, named for jonas bronck, the first white settler, who made his home in near the bronx kills (where the harlem river flows into long island sound). the original price paid for the bronx--or a large share of it--was " gunns, kettles, coats, shirts, adzes, barrel of cider, and bitts of money." the assessed value of manhattan today is $ , , , and that of the bronx $ , , (realty). the hudson river division of the new york central turns to the left and follows the course of the harlem river, m. long, which separates manhattan island from the mainland and connects the hudson with the east river. on the south bank of the harlem are washington heights, with the speedway on the immediate bank, and fort george (near d street) named from a revolutionary redoubt. the speedway was built at a cost of $ , , for the special use of drivers of fast horses. on the right, after passing the high bridge, which carries the old croton aqueduct, one of the feeders of the city water supply, and the washington bridge, are university heights and (farther to the west) the township of fordham, where the cottage in which edgar allen poe lived from to and wrote _ulalume_ and _annabel lee_, is still preserved. new york university, on university heights, was founded in ; the principal buildings include gould hall, a dormitory; the library, designed by stanford white, and the hall of fame, extending around the library in the form of an open colonnade, ft long, in which are preserved the names of great americans. m. spuyten duyvil. (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) spuyten duyvil is situated on spuyten duyvil creek, celebrated by washington irving, which connects the harlem and hudson rivers. in recent years the creek has been enlarged into a ship canal. the town and stream receive their curious name from the following story, according to irving. in , when the dutch were being threatened by the british, anthony van corlear, dutch trumpeter to gov. stuyvesant, was despatched to sound the alarm. it was a stormy night and the creek was impassable. anthony "swore most valourously that he would swim across it 'in spite of the devil' (en spuyt den duyvil) but unfortunately sank forever to the bottom." the "duyvil" had got him. "his ghost still haunts the neighborhood, and his trumpet has often been heard of a stormy night." across the hudson, along which our route now lies for nearly m., can be seen the palisades, an extraordinary ridge of basaltic rock rising picturesquely to a height of between and ft. and extending along the west bank of the hudson about m. from a point north of ft. lee, n.j., to palisades, n.y. the peculiar hexagonal jointing of the rock, which has given rise to the name palisades, is an unusual geological formation; the only other important places where it is found are at fingal's cave in scotland and the giant's causeway in ireland. the beauty of the palisades was threatened by quarrying and blasting operations until n.y. and n.j. agreed to the establishment of the palisades interstate park which comprises , acres ( , acres in new jersey and , in new york state). "the spacious and stately characteristics of the hudson from the palisades to the catskills are as epical as the loveliness of the rhine is lyrical. the hudson implies a continent beyond. no european river is so lordly in its bearing, none flows in such state to the sea. of all the rivers that i know, the hudson, with this grandeur, has the most exquisite episodes."--george william curtis. [illustration: the half moon at yonkers in september, , henry hudson started up the hudson in the "half moon," which attracted frequent visits from the natives along the route.] to the right, just north of spuyten duyvil, is a high promontory, upon which stands a lofty monument to henry hudson, who had his first skirmish here with the indians after entering n.y. bay in sept. . with an excellent harbour at its mouth, and navigable waters leading m. into a fertile interior, the hudson river began to attract explorers and settlers soon after the discovery of america. verrazano, the florentine navigator, sent out by the french king, francis i, ventured a short distance up the hudson in , almost years before the pilgrim fathers, and in henry hudson sailing in the "half moon" nearly up to the site of albany demonstrated the extent and importance of the river that bears his name. [illustration: new york slave-market--about slaves were introduced into n.y. as early as when the west india co. (a dutch company), which had large establishments on the coast of guinea, brought negroes to manhattan, and practiced the slave trade here "without remorse." it is said that in proportion to population n.y. imported as many africans as virginia. that new york did not become a slave-state like carolina was, according to bancroft, "due to climate and not to the superior humanity of its founders. [gov.] stuyvesant was instructed to use every exertion to promote the sale of negroes. they were imported sometimes by way of the west indies, often directly from guinea, and were sold at auction to the highest bidder. the average price was less than $ ." with the extension of english rule to n.y. in the slave trade in this colony passed into the hands of the british. it is estimated that the total import of slaves into all the british colonies of america and the west indies from to was , , . the traffic was then carried on principally from liverpool, london and other english ports; the entire number of ships sailing from these ports then engaged in the slave traffic was , and in them space was provided for the transport of , negroes. the native chiefs on the african coasts took up the hunt for human beings and engaged in forays, sometimes even on their own subjects, for the purpose of procuring slaves to be exchanged for western commodities. they often set fire to a village by night and captured the inhabitants when trying to escape. out of every lot of shipped from africa, about died either during the passage or before the sale at jamaica, while not more than lived through the "seasoning" process and became effective plantation laborers. slavery in n.y. was continued till . it was then abolished by terms of an act passed by the n.y. assembly ten years earlier.] henry hudson, english navigator, made four important voyages to find a passage to china by the northeast or northwest route; it was on the third venture undertaken at the instance of the dutch east india co., that he found the hudson, probably a greater discovery than the one he undertook to make. with a mixed crew of or men he started on his voyage in the "half moon," april , , and soon was among the ice towards the northern part of barents sea. his men mutinied and he was forced to seek the passage farther south. thus eventually he entered the fine bay of what is now n.y. harbour, sept. , . john fiske says: "in all that he attempted he failed, and yet he achieved great results that were not contemplated in his schemes. he started two immense industries, the spitzbergen whale fisheries and the hudson bay fur trade; and he brought the dutch to manhattan island. no realization of his dreams could have approached the astonishing reality which would have greeted him could he have looked through the coming centuries and caught a glimpse of what the voyager now beholds in sailing up the bay of new york." the dutch called the hudson the north river (a name which is still used) in contra-distinction to the delaware which they called the south river. the lower hudson is really a fiord--a river valley into which ocean water has been admitted by the sinking of the land, transforming a large part of the valley into an inlet, and thus opening it to commerce as far as troy (about m.), up to which point the river is tidal and, therefore, partly salt. the hudson extends above troy for m. farther, but navigation is interrupted by shallows and swift currents. below troy the fall is only five feet in a distance of m. this lower, navigable portion of the hudson was the only feasible route through the atlantic highlands, and in consequence it has been one of the most significant factors in the development of the united states. new york city likewise owes its phenomenal development largely to this great highway of commerce. the invention and successful operation of the steamboat, the first line of which was established on the hudson by fulton in , gave early impetus to the importance of n.y.c., and the building of the hudson river r.r., one of the first successful railways, now a part of the new york central lines, and the opening of the erie canal ( ) connecting the hudson with the great lakes and the far interior, were among other contributory factors in the city's growth. m. yonkers, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p, no. , : p.) when the dutch founded new netherlands, the present site of yonkers was occupied by an indian village, known as nappeckamack, or "town of the rapid water," and a great rock near the mouth of the nepperhan creek (to the north of the station) was long a place of indian worship. in the early days, the hudson river valley from manhattan to albany was occupied by algonquin tribes, while the central part of the state along the mohawk valley had been conquered by the famous iroquois confederation, of which the mohawks were the most warlike. the mohawks soon drove out the mohicans, who claimed as their territory the east bank of the hudson. on the whole, the dutch lived peaceably with their indian neighbors, but an attempt of gov. kieft to collect tribute from them led to an indian war ( ), which resulted in the destruction of most of the outlying settlements. later a treaty of alliance was made with the iroquois confederation, which protected the early settlements in n.y. from those attacks which occurred so frequently elsewhere in this period. the treaty was renewed when the british took possession of new netherlands, and lasted until the revolutionary war. the land where yonkers now stands was part of an estate granted in by the dutch government to adrian van der donck, the first lawyer and historian of new netherlands. the settlement was called the "de jonkheer's land" or "de yonkeer's"--meaning the estate of the young lord--- and afterwards yonkers. subsequently the tract passed into the hands of frederick philipse, the "dutch millionaire," as the english called him, some of whom alleged that he owed a large part of his fortune to piratical and contraband ventures. the suspicion was strong enough to force philipse out of the governing council of the colony, and he returned to his manor where he died ( ) at the age of . it was even charged that he was one of the backers of capt. william kidd ( - ), for whose buried treasure search has been made along the hudson, as well as in countless places along the atlantic coast. capt. kidd began the career which made him notorious under a commission from the british government to apprehend pirates. he sailed from plymouth, england, in may , filled up his crew in n.y. in the following year, and then set out for madagascar, the principal rendezvous of the buccaneers. deserting his ship, he threw in his lot with theirs and captured several rich booties. returning to n.y., he was arrested, sent to london, found guilty and hanged. of his "treasure" about £ , was recovered from his ship and from gardner's island, off the east end of long island. the stories of large hoards still undiscovered are probably mythical. the philipse manor house*, one of the best examples of dutch colonial architecture in america, erected in and enlarged in , was the second residence built by the philipses (the other is at tarrytown) and is now maintained as a museum for colonial and revolutionary relics. it was confiscated by the legislature in in reprisal for the suspected "toryism" of the third frederick philipse, the great grandson of the first lord of the manor and his second successor. before being converted into a museum it served for many years as the city hall of yonkers. [illustration: philipse manor house, yonkers, this famous old house, said to be one of the best examples of dutch colonial architecture in america, was built by frederick philipse, first lord of the manor of philipsburg. it was confiscated by the state of new york after the revolutionary war and for many years served as the city hall of yonkers. it is now a museum.] yonkers has some important manufactures with an annual production of $ , , and , wage earners; its output includes passenger and freight elevators, foundry and machine shop products, refined sugar, carpets, rugs and hats. it has one of the largest carpet factories in the world. the country round yonkers is dotted with fine estates. conspicuous to the right, m. north of the station, is the battlemented tower of "greystone," once the home of samuel j. tilden and now owned by samuel untermyer, the n.y. lawyer. samuel j. tilden ( - ), a lawyer and reformer, served one term as governor of n.y., and was later candidate for the presidency against rutherford b. hayes. he had become famous for his attacks on the notorious tweed ring of n.y.c., and later for his exposure of the "canal ring," a set of plunderers who had been engaged in exploiting the n.y. canal system. he was given the democratic nomination for president in recognition of his services as a reformer. the republicans nominated hayes, and the result was the disputed election of , when two sets of returns were sent to washington from the states of florida, louisiana, south carolina and oregon. as the federal constitution contains no provision for settling a dispute of this kind, the two houses of congress agreed to the appointment of an extra-constitutional body, the electoral commission, which decided all the contests in favor of the republican candidates. tilden's friends charged that they had been made a victim of a political "steam roller," but he advised them to make no protests. tilden left more than $ , , for a library in n.y. (now consolidated with the n.y. public library). across the hudson river from hastings ( m.) can be seen indian head, the highest point on the palisades, near which (about ½ m. farther north) is the boundary between n.j. and n.y.; from this point northward both shores belong to n.y. m. dobbs ferry, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) about the time of the revolutionary war, a swede named jeremiah dobbs, established a ferry here connecting with the northern end of the palisades (visible on the left across the river). originally only a dugout or skiff, it was the first ferry north of manhattan, and was kept up by the dobbs family for a century. in times past the residents have often tried to change the name of the town to something more "distinguished," but the old name could not be displaced. the story goes that years ago a mass meeting was held in the village at which it was proposed to name the town after one of the captors of maj. andré--either paulding or van wart. the meeting came to nothing when an old resident suggested wart-on-hudson. the strategic position of dobbs ferry gave it importance during the war of independence. it was the rendezvous of the british after the battle of white plains in nov. and a continental division under gen. lincoln was stationed here in jan. . the american army under washington encamped near dobbs ferry on the th of july, , and started in the following month for yorktown, va., where the final story of the war took place. two years later (may , ) washington and sir guy carleton met at dobbs ferry to negotiate for the evacuation of all british troops, and to make terms for the final settlement recognizing american independence. their meeting place was the old van brugh livingston house. peter van brugh livingston ( - ), prominent merchant and whig political leader in n.y., was one of the founders of the college of n.j. (now princeton), and was president of the first provincial congress of n.y. ( ). his brother, william, was the first governor of n.j. [illustration: reception of president washington at new york, april rd, after the ratifying of the federal constitution, washington, in , was unanimously elected president. on april , , he arrived from virginia at new york, where he was received with a frenzy of gratitude and praise, and was inaugurated at the senate hall which stood on the site of the present u.s. sub-treasury building. the stone whereon washington stood when he came out of the house is preserved in the south wall of this building. he is described as wearing suit of homespun so finely woven that "it was universally mistaken for a foreign manufactured superfine cloth." this, of course, was a high tribute to domestic industry.] m. irvington, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) "sunnyside," a stone building "as full of angles and corners as a cocked hat"* and situated behind a screen of trees a little north of the station, was the home of washington irving, for whom the town was named. first erected by wolfert acker in , it was considerably enlarged by irving in . [illustration: war and merchant ships of revolutionary days these are authentic pictures, showing actual details, of the ships used by the americans and british at the time of the revolutionary war. they were originally engraved for the first edition of the encyclopædia britannica ( ). in the centre is a first rate ship of war, "the noblest machine that ever was invented," to quote the first edition; and the illustration below shows the interior construction of the hull. it will be noticed that there are three gun decks, below which is the poop, or storage deck. "a common first rate man of war," says the first edition, "has its gun deck from to ft. in length, and from to broad. it contains from to tons; has from to men, and carries from to guns. the expense of building a common first rate, with guns, tackling and rigging is computed at , £ sterling."] the east end is covered with ivy said to be grown from a slip given to irving when he visited scott at abbotsford. at irvington we come to tappan zee (to be seen on the left), where the hudson widens into a lake-like expanse, m. long and to m. wide. it is a favorite cruising place for ghosts and goblins, according to popular legend. [illustration: "sunnyside," irving's home after after a long sojourn abroad, washington irving returned in to "sunnyside" said to have been built originally in . it was considerably enlarged by irving, who spent the remainder of his life here. "sunnyside" is now owned by irving's descendants.] there is, for example, rambout van dam, the roystering youth from spuyten duyvil, who was doomed to journey on the river till judgment day--all because he started to row home after midnight from a saturday night quilting frolic at kakiat. "often in the still twilight the low sound of his oars is heard, though neither he nor his boat is ever seen." another phantom that haunts the tappan zee is the "storm ship," a marvellous boat that fled past the astonished burghers at new amsterdam without stopping--a flagrant violation of the customs regulation, which caused those worthy officials to fire several ineffectual shots at her. across the river from irvington is piermont, and m. to the southwest of piermont is the village of tappan, where maj. andré was executed oct. , . lyndehurst, with its lofty tower, the home of helen gould sheppard, the philanthropist, a daughter of jay gould, is passed on the right just before reaching tarrytown. ½ m. tarrytown, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) situated on a sloping hill that rises to a considerable height above the tappan zee, historic tarrytown stands on the site of an indian village, alipoonk (place of elms), burned by the dutch in . irving explains that the housewives of the countryside gave the town its name because their husbands were inclined to linger at the village tavern, but literal minded historians think it was more likely that the name came from tarwen dorp or tarwetown, "wheat town." there were perhaps a dozen dutch families here in when frederick philipse acquired title to philipse manor, several thousand acres, in what is now westchester county. just above tarrytown is the valley of the pocantico creek, the mouth of which is marked by the projection of kingsland point. [illustration: washington irving washington irving ( - ) was intended for a legal profession, but although called to the bar preferred to amuse himself with literary ventures. the first of these, with the exception of the satirical miscellany, "salmagundi," was the delightful "knickerbocker history of new york," wherein the pedantry of local antiquaries is laughed at, and the solid dutch burgher established as a definite comedy type. when the commercial house established by his father and run by his brother began to go under in , irving went to england to look into the affairs of the liverpool house, and as it was soon necessary to declare bankruptcy, his misfortune forced him to write for his living. returning to america in after years' absence, he found his name a household word. the only interruption to his literary career was the four years ( - ) he spent as ambassador to spain. for the rest, he passed some little time travelling, but in the main kept retreat at "sunnyside," where he died, nov. , .] this is the "sleepy hollow" of irving's legend, where ichabod crane, the long, thin school-master, whose conspicuous bones clattered at any mention of ghosts, encountered the headless horseman pounding by night through the little dutch village. it was after a quilting bee at farmer van tassel's, where his daughter katrina and what would come with her in the shape of fat farm-lands and well-stocked barns, aroused ichabod's affections to the boiling point. he had a rival, however, "brom bones," a young black-headed sprig, who watched ichabod's advances uneasily. after the party ichabod mounted his old horse, gunpowder, as bony as he, but no sooner was he well under way than he heard hoof beats on the road behind him and saw, glimmering in the dark, a white headless figure on horseback, carrying in its arms a round object like a head.... never before or since was there such a chase in sleepy hollow. perhaps the hapless school-teacher might have escaped, had not the huntsman, just as they reached the sleepy hollow bridge, hurled his head square at his victim. the next morning no ichabod, only a pumpkin lying on the road by the bridge, where the hoofmarks ceased. he had completely disappeared. some weeks later brom bones led katrina to the altar. through this valley, we get a glimpse of the site where philipse erected, partly of brick brought from holland, a manor house,* a mill,* and a church,* all of which are still standing. "there is probably no other locality in america, taking into account history, tradition, the old church, the manor house, and the mill, which so entirely conserves the form and spirit of dutch civilization in the new world.... this group of buildings ranks in historic interest if not in historic importance with faneuil hall, independence hall, the ruined church tower at jamestown, the old gateway at st. augustine, and the spanish cabildo on jackson square in new orleans. and the time will come when pilgrimages will be made to this ancient beautiful home of some of those ideals and habits of life which have given form and structure to american civilization."--hamilton wright mabie. [illustration: old dutch church (built about ) at tarrytown, n.y. irving says: "the sequestered situation of the church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. it stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from among which its white-washed walls shine modestly forth, like christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement." the church is still standing.] during the war of independence, tarrytown was the scene of numerous conflicts between the "cowboys" and "skinners," bands of unorganized partisans who carried on a kind of guerilla warfare, the former acting in the interest of the colonists, and the latter in that of the king. on the old post road on sept. , , maj. andré was captured by three continentals, john paulding, david williams, and isaac van wart. the spot where andré was captured is now marked with a monument--a marble shaft surmounted by a statue of a continental soldier. tarrytown lies principally along either side of a broad and winding highway, laid out in , from n.y.c. to albany. it was called the king's highway till the war of independence, then called albany post road, and the section of it in tarrytown is known now as broadway. the delights of traveling in the days when the road was first laid out are suggested in the following description: "the coach was without springs, and the seats were hard, and often backless. the horses were jaded and worn, the roads were rough with boulders and stumps of trees, or furrowed with ruts and quagmires. the journey was usually begun at o'clock in the morning, and after hours of jogging over the rough roads the weary traveler was put down at a country inn whose bed and board were such as to win little praise. long before daybreak the next morning a blast from the driver's horn summoned him to the renewal of his journey. if the coach stuck fast in a mire, as it often did, the passengers must alight and help lift it out." [illustration: old mill at tarrytown built in the manor house, the old church and the mill were erected by frederick philipse, the lord of several thousand acres, in what is now westchester county. the mill, much dilapidated, still exists.] many of the stirring incidents of fenimore cooper's novel, _the spy_, occurred in this neighborhood, and the town is particularly described in _the sketch book_ of washington irving who was for many years the warden of the old church and is buried in the old sleepy hollow burying ground. with cooper and washington irving ( - ) american literature first began to exist for the world outside our own boundaries. the _knickerbocker history of new york_, in which the dutch founders were satirized, was practically the first american book to win appreciation abroad. this and later books "created the legend of the hudson, and irving alone has linked his memory locally with his country so that it hangs over the landscape and blends with it forever." harvey birch, the hero of _the spy_, is a portrait from the life of a revolutionary patriot who appears in the book as a peddler with a keen eye to trade as well as to the movements of the enemy. one of the best known incidents in the book is that in which harvey, by a clever stratagem, assists capt. wharton to escape. james fenimore cooper ( - ) was born at burlington, n.j., but was reared in the wild country around otsego lake, in central n.y., on the yet unsettled estates of his father. it was here he learned the backwoods lore, which in combination with his romantic genius, made him one of the most popular of authors. among the literary residents of tarrytown have been mrs. e. d. e. n. southworth, well known to a previous generation for her romantic novels, john kendrick bangs, the humorist, and hamilton wright mabie, editor and essayist. carl schurz ( - ) is buried here in the sleepy hollow churchyard. tarrytown is the trading center of a prosperous agricultural region; it also has about manufacturing establishments with a large output. just north of kingsland point (seen at the left, on the east bank of the river), the seat of william rockefeller comes into view on the right, and behind it, among the hills, is the estate of his brother, john d. rockefeller. john d. rockefeller was born in at richford, tioga co., n.y., but his family moved to cleveland while he was still a boy, and his career was begun there. in he went into the produce commission business, and years later his company invested in an oil refinery. mr. rockefeller kept constantly adding to his influence and possessions in this field until by the standard oil co. was organized with him as president, and a practical control of oil production in america was secured. this was the first great american "trust." mr. rockefeller himself retired from active business in . while his wealth is enormous, his benefactions have been on an equal scale, comprising gifts to the baptist church, the founding of educational institutions and the supporting of those already existent. scientific research in medical fields has been a particular object of his generosity. mr. rockefeller's country estate is called "kijkuit," meaning look-out--a name given by the early dutch settlers to the beautiful hill on which it stands, and which, rising to a height of ft., gives a lovely view up and down the hudson, across to the distant mountain ridges of n.j., and inland over westchester county. the house and gardens are famous not only for their splendour, but for the priceless works of art they contain. among the treasures which have been worked in as details of the landscape gardening is a fountain which for years has been considered unrivalled by experts. the huge basin, ft. in. in diameter, was cut from a single block of granite weighing tons and brought on the deck of a schooner from an island on the maine coast to the dock at tarrytown. the heroic figure at the top represents neptune, and the figures below symbolize the atlantic, pacific and indian oceans. in the "morning garden" at the rear of the house is a bronze victory (a facsimile of the pompeiian victory at naples), which stands on a marble column with a byzantine capital brought from greece. the th century relief set in the wall of the pergola at the left came from a church in venice. descending a flight of steps to the westward, one comes upon the aphrodite temple. the style of this is graeco-roman, with columns of marble supporting a dome decorated after the fashion of the portico niches in the massimi palace in rome, which was designed in the th century by baldassare peruzzi. under a roof of copper and bronze, on a high pedestal, stands "aphrodite," resembling the venus de medici, but so superior to her in line and proportion that many critics believe it to be a praxitilean original from which the venus de medici was clumsily copied. this is the greatest art-treasure in the garden. m. ossining, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. , passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) ossining was first settled in , when it was part of philipse manor. it was originally called sing sing, taking its name from the sin sinck indians, but in the name was changed to ossining, on account of its association with the sing sing prison, which can be seen to the left near the water's edge. the prison is a low white-marble building, built in . ossining has a public library, several private schools, the roman catholic foreign missionary seminary of america, and a soldiers' monument. passing the croton aqueduct (on the right), which is carried over a stone arch with an -foot span, the train crosses the mouth of the croton river and intersects croton point. it was at the extremity of this peninsula that the british sloop-of-war "vulture" anchored when she brought andré to visit benedict arnold at west point. six miles up the croton river is the croton reservoir, which supplies a large share of n.y. city's water. across the river is haverstraw bay. at the north end of haverstraw bay, on the west bank, is stony point lighthouse, the site of a fort which was the scene of one of the most daring exploits of the revolutionary war. gen. anthony wayne ( - ) had been forced, through political necessity, to relinquish his regular command, and on the recommendation of washington, he organized a new light infantry corps, with which on the night of july , , he stormed the fort and recaptured it from the british at the point of the bayonet. this well-planned enterprise aroused the greatest enthusiasm through the country, and won for him the popular name of "mad anthony." later, in war with the indians on the frontier, gen. wayne further distinguished himself. at this point is the greatest width ( m.) in the river's course. shortly before reaching peekskill we pass verplanck's point (on the left), near which the "half moon" dropped anchor, sept. , . ½ m. peekskill, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) peekskill means peek's creek, and was named from the dutch mariner, jans peek, who established a trading post here in . it will be noticed that the hudson turns abruptly to the left at this point, while the creek branches off to the right. according to tradition, the adventurous jans, who had been voyaging up the hudson, became confused and turned to the right, following the creek with the idea that it was the main river, until his boat ran aground. as a result of this accident he chose the spot to set up a trading post. during the latter part of the revolutionary war peekskill was an important post of the continental army; and in sept. , the village was sacked and burned by the british. to the north of peekskill are manito mts., where the n.y. national guard has its summer encampment on a high cliff overlooking the river. the summer home of henry ward beecher was in peekskill, and ex-senator chauncey m. depew was born here. peekskill on the east side of the hudson, and dunderberg mt. ( ft.) on the west, stand at the lower gate of the highlands, so named from the steeply rising hills which border both sides of the river for the next m. at the foot of dunderberg mt. is kidd's point, one of the numerous places where the notorious pirate is supposed to have concealed treasure. our train passes too close to the hills on the east bank to give a perspective, but on the west, where the highlands are visible across the hudson, the outlook is very beautiful. this part of the hudson, often compared to the rhine, has always been a source of artistic and poetic inspiration. [illustration: peekskill landing--about ] close to dunderberg mt. the river takes a sharp turn to the left, and just beyond the mountain can be seen iona island (near the west bank), now occupied by the u.s. government as a naval arsenal and supply depot. between the island and the eastern shore the river is so narrow that this stretch is spoken of by boatmen as "the race." a short distance farther on the west bank is bear mt. park, originally the gift of mrs. e. h. harriman, which has been set aside by the interstate palisade park commissioners as a vacation resort for the poor. our train presently passes by tunnel under the mountain known as "anthony's nose" ( ft.), so named, according to diedrich knickerbocker, from the "refulgent nose" of anthony van corlear, peter stuyvesant's trumpeter. across the river is visible the mouth of poplopen creek, on the north side, ft. clinton. these two forts were involved in the important maneuvers of , when the british, under sir henry clinton, executed a brilliant enterprise northward up the hudson; they broke through the chains which the americans had stretched across the river in the hope of checking the advance of british warships, captured ft. clinton and ft. montgomery and destroyed the fleets which the americans had been forming on the river. three m. farther (on the right) is sugar loaf mt. ( ft.), noteworthy as the place from which benedict arnold, whose headquarters were in the beverley robinson house, near the south base of the mountain, made his escape to the british man-of-war "vulture" ( ) after receiving news of andré's capture. on the west shore near highland falls stands the residence of the late j. pierpont morgan, standing somewhat back from the river and partly hidden by trees. john pierpont morgan ( - ) was born in hartford, conn., a son of junius s. morgan, who was a partner of george peabody and the founder of the house of j. s. morgan & co. in london. after his university training at göttingen, he began his career in the financial world, and by , as the head of j. p. morgan & co., was the greatest american financier. his banking house became one of the most powerful in the world, carrying through the formation of the u.s. steel corporation, harmonizing the coal and railway interests of pennsylvania, purchasing the leyland line of atlantic steamships and other british lines in , effecting an atlantic shipping combine, reorganizing many large railways, and in supplying the u.s. government with $ , , in gold to float a bond issue and restore the treasury surplus of $ , , . mr. pierpont morgan was a prominent member of the episcopal church, a keen yachtsman, a generous patron of charitable and educational institutions, and a notable art and book collector. as president of the metropolitan museum he gave or loaned to it many rare and beautiful pictures, statues, and art objects of all kinds. a memorial tablet was recently unveiled in his honour at the museum. buttermilk falls ( ft.) are visible on the west bank after a heavy rain; the buildings on the bluff above belong to lady cliff, a school for girls. m. west point (garrison). (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) across the river from garrison, the imposing buildings of west point, the "gibraltar of the hudson," come into view. the name "west point" properly belongs to the village located here, but in ordinary usage it refers to the u.s. military academy,* america's training school for officers, which at the present time has about , cadets. [illustration: west point from an aeroplane _photo brown bros._ the academy furnishes for those who wish to become army officers a splendid education of a standard equal to the best colleges and without cost to the student. each cadet is paid $ , . a year, an amount which, with proper economy, is sufficient for his support. west point, therefore, offers an excellent opportunity for those who can meet the requirements and are capable of successfully undergoing the mental and physical discipline of the school. each senator and congressman is entitled to nominate two candidates, who are appointed as cadets by the secretary of war after passing the prescribed examination. there are also appointments at large, and the law of authorized the president to appoint cadets to the academy from among the enlisted of the regular army and national guard, though not more than at any one time. this law was passed with the idea of introducing a greater degree of democracy into army life. candidates for admission must be between and years, unmarried, free from physical infirmity and capable of passing a somewhat rigorous examination in high school or preparatory school subjects. the course of instruction, which requires three years, is largely mathematical and professional. from about the middle of june to the end of august the cadets live in camp, engaged only in military duties and receiving military instruction. in general the education and discipline are so excellent that the business world is always ready with its high pecuniary rewards to tempt men away from their military vocation. the result is that graduates frequently resign their commissions, and the army loses what is gained by the world of affairs.] the academy occupies a commanding position on a plateau ft. above the river. as we approach, the power house is in the foreground, with the riding school, a massive building just beyond, while the square tower of the administration building dominates the scene on the level of the parade ground above. west point was first occupied as a military post during the revolutionary war. in jan. , a huge chain, part of which is still preserved on the parade ground, was stretched across the river in the hope of blocking the progress of the british men-of-war, and a series of fortifications, planned by the great polish soldier, kosciusko, were erected on the site of the present academy. thaddeus kosciusko ( - ) had a romantic and picturesque career. an intended elopement with ludwika, daughter of the grand hetman, sosnowski of sosnowica, was discovered by the hetman's retainers. in the fight that followed, kosciusko was badly wounded and flung from the house. shortly afterwards he left for america, where, as he had been well grounded in military science, washington soon promoted him to the rank of colonel of artillery and made him his adjutant. kosciusko especially distinguished himself in the operations about n.y.c. and at yorktown, and congress conferred upon him a number of substantial rewards. he returned to his native land to participate in the gallant but unsuccessful effort to free poland ( ), and is now celebrated among the poles as one of their greatest heroes. at west point were the fortifications that benedict arnold, their commander in , agreed to betray into british hands. benedict arnold ( - ) was, before his disgrace, perhaps the most brilliant officer and one of the most honored in the american army. it is true that shortly before he took command at west point a court martial had directed washington to reprimand him for two trivial offenses, but washington couched the reprimand in words that were almost praise. the court martial had been ordered by congress, against which arnold had expressed his indignation for what he regarded as its mistaken policies in respect to the war. this conflict with congress, together with certain vexatious circumstances, rising out of his command in philadelphia--he had gone heavily into debt--led him into a secret correspondence with the british general, sir henry clinton, and he asked for the assignment to west point for the very purpose of betraying this strategic post into the hands of the british. in order to perfect the details of the plot, clinton's adjutant-general, maj. john andré, met him near stony point on the night of the st of sept. in the meantime, the man-of-war, "vulture," upon which andré had arrived, was forced to move farther downstream to avoid an impromptu bombardment by american patriots. as a result andré had to start back to n.y. by land. he bore a pass issued by arnold, but he made the fatal mistake of changing to civilian clothes. technically, therefore, he was a spy. at tarrytown he was challenged by three continentals; he offered them a purse of gold, a valuable watch, or anything they might name if they would permit him to proceed to n.y.c. his offers were rejected and the incriminating papers were found in his boots. he was carried before the commanding officer of the lines, who, not suspecting his superior could be involved, notified arnold. the latter was at breakfast with washington's aides; pretending he had an immediate call from across the river, he jumped from the table, told his wife enough to cause her the greatest consternation, mounted a horse and rode to a barge which took him to the "vulture." in spite of the protest and entreaties of sir henry clinton and the threats of arnold the unfortunate andré, against whose character no suspicion was ever uttered, was hanged at tappan, oct. , . maj. andré was years old at the time, and his fate aroused universal sympathy. it is said that washington himself, whom some historians censure because he did not save andré, wept upon hearing the circumstances of his death, but under military law his execution was inevitable. arnold, however, escaped the punishment he so richly merited. he was commissioned brigadier-general in the british army and received £ , for his property losses. he was employed in several operations during the remaining period of the war but later when he went to england he met with neglect and scorn that probably hastened his death. in andré's remains were taken to england and interred there; at the same time a memorial was erected in westminster abbey. [illustration: maj. andré the picture was drawn by andré without the aid of a looking-glass on the morning of the day fixed for his execution. a respite of twenty-four hours was, however, given. to maj. tomlinson, then acting as officer of the guard, andré presented the sketch.] some time later washington recommended west point to congress as a site for a military school, but it was not until that the academy was established. there are many notable memorials of early days and distinguished soldiers here. by far the greater number of america's distinguished generals and soldiers since the war of independence have been graduates of west point. these include u. s. grant, philip henry sheridan, william sherman, george p. mcclellan, thomas j. (stonewall) jackson (confederate), robert e. lee (confederate) and richard henry anderson (confederate). grant was appointed to west point in ; he was a good horseman and good in mathematics, but graduated in st place in a class of . sherman, on the other hand, stood near the head of his class when he graduated in . lee was commissioned in the engineering corps upon his graduation in . the most notable commanding officers in the american army during the world war, including, of course, gen. pershing, were west point graduates; the most conspicuous exception, perhaps, was maj.-gen. leonard wood, who began his career as a surgeon. [illustration: west point and the highlands, this picture, published shortly after the civil war, gives a good idea of the dress and uniform of the period, as well as a typical battery. note the lady's hoop skirt and the bearded officer to whom she is speaking. the gun is one of the old muzzle-loaders, and there is a mortar in the foreground.] above the cliff and towards the north and east of the plain is fort clinton; on its east front stands a monument erected in by the corps of cadets to kosciusko, while "flirtation walk," on the river side of the academy, leads to kosciusko garden, so named because it was much frequented by the polish hero. on the parade ground is victory monument ( ft. high), erected in as a civil war memorial. the library--one of the finest military libraries in existence--contains interesting memorials by saint gaudens to j. mcneil whistler and edgar allan poe, both of whom were cadets at the academy and both of whom were virtually expelled. poe's neurotic temperament had led him into a number of escapades, but he gave evidence of improvement after he enlisted in the american army at boston in . he served two years, and was promoted sergeant-major. he was then years old, and on the basis of his army record, his uncle, john allan, obtained for him an appointment to west point. as a student he showed considerable facility for mathematics, but he incurred the displeasure of his superiors by neglect of duty, and was expelled in , one year after he had been admitted. his temperament was of course unsuited to west point discipline. the military discipline of the academy was equally odious to whistler, the painter ( - ), who was dismissed and transferred to the united states coast survey. in his third year whistler failed in chemistry. col. larned, one of his instructors, gives the incident thus--"whistler was called up for examination in the subject of chemistry, which also covered the studies of mineralogy and geology, and given silicon to discuss. he began: 'i am required to discuss the subject of silicon. silicon is a gas,' 'that will do, mr. whistler,' and he retired quickly to private life. whistler later said: 'had silicon been a gas, i would have been a major-general.'" high above the academy on mount independence ( ft.) still stands the ruins of old ft. putnam, one of the original fortifications, from which a magnificent view can be obtained of the academy, the river, and the surrounding country. our route now lies across a peninsula called constitution island, which is the site of a preparatory school for west point. for many years the island was the home of the misses anna and susan warner, authors of "the wide, wide world," and other stories popular with children. through the generosity of miss susan warner, who survived her sister, and mrs. russell sage, the island was presented to the government a few years ago, and is now part of west point. we pass on the west bank crow's nest mt. ( , ft.) associated with joseph rodman drake's fanciful poem, _the culprit fay_. two m. farther we leave the highlands through the "golden gate," where storm king mt. rises to a height of , ft. on the west side of the hudson, and breakneck mt. to a height of , ft. on the other. near storm king a tunnel of the great new catskill aqueduct, carrying water to n.y.c., passes under the hudson at a depth of , ft.--a depth made necessary to reach solid rock at the bottom. n.y. city's catskill mt. water supply system is the greatest of waterworks, modern or ancient. three-quarters of the project has been completed. the waters of the esopus creek in the catskills are stored in the ashokan reservoir, an artificial lake twelve miles long, situated about miles west of the hudson river at kings mt. from this reservoir the aqueduct extends m. to the city's northern boundary, and supplies about , , gallons daily. from the croton watershed new york receives a supply almost as large-- , , gallons daily. construction on the catskill supply system was begun in , and the total cost will be about $ , , . the river now widens and turns to the west; on the further bank is cornwall, near which is the estate of e. p. roe, the writer, and "idlewild," the former home of n. p. willis, likewise a writer of importance in his day. the home of lyman abbott, editor of the _outlook_ is also here. the proprietor of bannerman's island, which we now pass, is a dealer in obsolete war material; he has built on the island a number of castle-like store-houses of old paving stones taken from the streets of new york. m. beacon, pop. , & newburgh, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) beacon was incorporated in may, , by merging the villages of matteawan and fishkill landing, the latter of which lay closer to the west. the first settlement in the township was made in . during the revolutionary war it was an important military base for the northern continental army. at fishkill landing on may , , gen. knox organized the society of the cincinnati. the society of the cincinnati was an organization of u.s. officers who had served in the revolutionary war. besides the general society of which washington was president, another was organized for each state. (the name is in reference to cincinnati, the roman patriot who left the plough to serve his country.) membership was limited to officers, native or foreign, of the continental army who had either served with honour for three years or had been honorably discharged for disability, and to their descendants. because it included several european nobles, such as lafayette and steuben, and because it was founded on the principle of heredity the new society was denounced as the beginning of an aristocracy and therefore a menace, by such revolutionary leaders as franklin, adams, and jefferson, who were ineligible for membership because they had not been in the army. there was perhaps a real fear that it might become a military hierarchy which would appropriate the important offices of the new republic. at any rate, several states adopted resolutions against it and so great was the antagonism at the first general meeting in washington persuaded the members to abolish the hereditary feature. in spite of this condition, the excitement did not die, and in the tammany society was founded in n.y.c. in opposition to the cincinnati, and as a wherein "true equality" should govern. this was the origin of tammany hall, which became conspicuous in n.y. politics. alexander hamilton succeeded washington as president, but by most of the state branches of the cincinnati and the general society itself were dead or dying. for a long time little was left but a traditional dinner held each year in n.y.c. in the general society made an effort to revive the state organizations, with some little success. the hereditary feature has been restored and the living members number about . the motto is "omnia relinquit servare rem publicam." (he abandons everything to serve the republic.) [illustration: washington's headquarters at newburgh an early picture showing american soldiers on guard at the headquarters of gen. washington at newburgh. the house itself was built about and was occupied by washington from the spring of to august, . it is now open to the public as a museum.] back of matteawan are seen beacon mts., their name recalling revolutionary days when beacon fires were lighted as signals on their summits. the summit of the highest of the group, beacon hill* ( , ft.) can now be reached by means of a cable railway, making possible a very pleasant excursion. the matteawan state hospital for the insane is at beacon on the north side of fishkill creek. beacon's products include hats, silks, woolens, rubber goods, engines, brick and tile; the total annual value of manufactures is about $ , , . four miles to the northwest on fishkill creek is the village of fishkill, notable for two quaint old churches, both still standing, and interesting enough to repay a visit: the first dutch reformed ( ), in which the new york provincial congress met in aug. and sept., , and trinity ( ). after congress moved elsewhere, trinity was used as a hospital, and the dutch church, being constructed of stone, was converted into a prison. its most famous prisoner was enoch crosby (who served as the original for cooper's hero in _the spy_), a patriot who twice escaped with the help of the committee of safety, the only persons who knew his true character. across the river newburgh is visible rising above the hudson. from the spring of to aug. washington made his headquarters in the jonathan hasbrouck house* (to the south of the city), built between and . the house, a one story stone building with a timber roof, has been purchased by the state of n.y. and is open to visitors. it contains many interesting revolutionary weapons, documents and other relics. here in may, , washington wrote his famous letter of rebuke to lewis nicola, who had written in behalf of a coterie of officers suggesting that he assume the title of king. washington's reply was peremptory and indignant. they could not have found, he said, "a person to whom their schemes were more disagreeable," and charged them, "if you have any regard for yourself or posterity, or respect for me, to banish these thoughts from your mind, and never communicate, as from yourself or any one else, a sentiment of like nature." here also he made his reply to the so-called newburgh addresses written by john armstrong and calling for action on the part of the army to redress its grievances. newburgh was still his headquarters when washington by the force of his influence secured the quiet disbandment of the continental army at the close of the war. upon the occasion of the centennial celebration ( ) of this event, a monument called the tower of victory, ft. high with a statue of washington, was erected. newburgh is the center of a rich agricultural region, but it is a manufacturing center as well; its output comprises machine shop products, plaster, cotton, woolen and silk goods, felt hats, furniture, flour, lumber and cigars. above newburgh can be seen the lighthouse (on the west bank) called the devil's danskammer, or devil's dance hall, recalling the time when henry hudson and his crew landed here to witness an indian pow-wow. the dutch, who were considerably startled by the affair, thought that it could be nothing less than a diabolical dance; hence the name. [illustration: robert fulton's first steamboat (_from fulton's own sketch_) on sept. , , the albany "gazette" announced that the "north river steamboat [i.e., the "clermont"] will leave paulus's hook [jersey city] on friday, the th of september, at in the morning and arrive at albany on saturday at in the afternoon." the new york central train now takes only a few minutes more than three hours to make the trip. the same paper on oct. , , announced that "mr. fulton's new steamboat left new york against a strong tide, very rough water, and a violent gale from the north. she made headway against the most sanguine expectations, and without being rocked by the waves."] m. poughkeepsie, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) poughkeepsie was the apokeepsing of the indians--"the pleasant and safe harbour" made by the rocky bluffs projecting into the river, where canoes were sheltered from wind and wave. the city is built partly on terraces rising ft. above the river, and partly on the level plateau above. poughkeepsie was settled by the dutch in . the most momentous event in poughkeepsie's history and one of the most important in that of the whole union, was the convention held here in at which the state of n.y. decided to ratify the federal constitution. the decision was carried by three votes. the credit for bringing n.y. into the union must go largely to alexander hamilton and his supporters, john jay and chancellor robert r. livingston. of the three n.y. delegates to the federal convention, hamilton was the only one to sign its report, and when the state convention was called at poughkeepsie, june , , two-thirds of its members voted against the proposed u.s. constitution. the opposition was led by gov. george clinton and his party, known as the "clintonians." clinton, though he here fought bitterly the proposed new constitution and government, lived to be a vice president of the u.s. (he should not be confused with the dewitt clinton who later built the erie canal.) the eloquence of hamilton, jay and livingston, however, coupled with the news that new hampshire and virginia had ratified, finally carried the day, and the n.y. convention gave its approval of the new constitution by a vote of to . vassar college, the oldest women's college in america, and one of the most famous, occupies extensive grounds to the east of the city. vassar was founded in by matthew vassar ( - ), an englishman who had established in poughkeepsie in a brewery from which he became rich. he got the idea of founding a woman's college from his niece, lydia booth, a school teacher. his total gifts to the institution amounted to about $ , . his nephew, matthew vassar, jr., became manager of the brewery after his uncle's death, and gave in all about $ , to the college. vassar now has a campus and farm of about acres, and possesses an endowment of $ , , . its students number about , . the hudson near poughkeepsie furnishes the course for the intercollegiate races in which american college crews, with the exception of harvard and yale (which row on the thames at new london) have rowed practically every year since . the river is spanned at this point by one of the largest cantilever bridges in the world. it is , ft. long and ft. above the water, and is the only bridge over the hudson south of albany. it required years to build the bridge, which was finished in at a cost of $ , , . it connects new england directly with the coal fields of pennsylvania. poughkeepsie has more than lines of manufacture, with products of a total annual value of $ , , , including mill supplies, clothing, cigars, candied fruit and preserves, cream separators, foundry products, knit goods, ivory buttons, and piano and organ players. two miles beyond poughkeepsie the red brick buildings of the hudson river state hospital are passed on the right, and presently our route skirts hyde park ( m.) near which, to the north, can be seen the estate of frederick w. vanderbilt. there are many beautiful country-places in the district. a little beyond hyde park on the west bank of the river is "slabsides," the cabin home of john burroughs, the poet, philosopher, and widely known writer on natural history. john burroughs was born in at roxbury, n.y., the fifth son of a farmer. his first books were bought with money he earned from tapping maple trees, boiling the sap and selling the sugar. one season, he tells us, he made twelve silver quarters, and has never been so proud since. although he has lived much in the world and has travelled widely, the greater part of his time has been divided between riverby, in the little town of west park, n.y., the famous "slabsides," his cabin in the wooded hills back of the hudson, and, since , an old farm house which he has christened woodchuck lodge, ½ m. from the burroughs homestead in roxbury. in his retreat at "slabsides" he wrote some of his most intimate and appealing studies of nature. esopus island is now passed, on the high left bank of which, near the water, stands the home of alton b. parker, democratic candidate for the presidency against roosevelt in . we now pass the estates of d. ogden mills and w.b. dinsmore, former president of the adams express company (on the right). esopus lighthouse is on the west bank where the river curves sharply to the left. on the high ground on the east bank is the country home of the late levi p. morton. levi p. morton ( - ), american banker and politician, was born at shoreham, vt. after some years in business at hanover, n.h., boston and n.y.c., he established in the banking house of l. p. morton & co. (dissolved in ), with a london branch. the american firm assisted in funding the national debt at the time of the resumption of specie payments, and the london house were fiscal agents of the u.s. government in - , and as such received the $ , , awarded by the geneva arbitration court in settlement of the "alabama claims" against great britain. in morton became president of the morton trust co. of n.y.c. he was a republican representative in congress from to , u.s. minister to france ( - ), vice-president of the u.s. during the administration of benjamin harrison ( - ) and governor of n.y. state ( - ) signing in that capacity the "greater new york" bill and the liquor-tax measure known as the "raines law." in he was a candidate for the presidential nomination in the republican national convention. m. rhinecliff, pop. , . (train passes at : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) across the river from rhinecliff is kingston (pop. , ), most of which lies on a plateau ft. above the river. rondout, once a separate town, is now a part of the city of kingston, the center of which lies m. inland. to the northwest is the noble scenery of the catskills, to the southwest are the shawangunk mts. and lake mohonk, and in the distance on our right (that is, on the rhinecliff side) are the berkshire hills. kingston is one of the oldest towns in the state. in a stockade was built here by order of gov. peter stuyvesant, and although the dutch had built a fort here as early as , it is from this event that the founding of the city is generally dated. the town suffered a number of murderous indian attacks before it was taken over by the british in . [illustration: the "senate house" ( ), kingston, n.y. erected in as a private residence, the "senate house" was one of the few buildings left standing when the british sacked the town of kingston in october, . it had been the meeting place of the first state senate in the earlier part of that year. the house is now maintained as a colonial museum.] the early history of kingston reached a climax during the revolution, when the british under sir john vaughan sacked the town and burned the buildings oct. , . the "senate house"* erected in , was the meeting-place of the first state senate during the early months of . at the time of the british occupation the interior was burnt but the walls were left standing. the building is now the property of the state and is used as a colonial museum. the present court house, built in , stands on the site of the old court house, where new york's first governor, george clinton, was inaugurated, and in which chief justice john jay held the first term of the n.y. supreme court in sept. . john jay ( - ), son of peter jay, a successful n.y. merchant, had a notable career. he was chairman of the commission which drafted the n.y. state constitution in . in the same year he was made chief justice of the state. in negotiating peace with great britain ( ) he acted with benjamin franklin, john adams, jefferson and henry laurens, and he is credited with having been influential in obtaining favorable terms for the former colonies. in washington appointed him chief justice of the u.s. supreme court, in which capacity he served for six years. in the meantime, , he negotiated the famous jay treaty with great britain, which averted a dangerous crisis in the relations between the two countries, and settled such questions as the withdrawal of british troops from the northwestern frontier, compensation for the seizure of american vessels during the franco-british war of , and the refusal of the british up to that time to enter into a commercial treaty with the u.s. from to he served as governor of n.y. daniel webster said: "when the spotless ermine of the judicial robe fell on john jay, it touched nothing less spotless than itself." less than a mile beyond rhinecliff we pass "ferncliff," the beautiful country-place of vincent astor, son of the late john jacob astor iii, who lost his life in the "titanic" disaster. the large white building on a hill nearby is the astor squash court. john jacob astor iii ( - ) was the son of william b. astor ii. the latter was the son of william b. astor ( - ), known as "the landlord of new york," because of his extensive real estate holdings in new york city. he was the son of the founder of the astor fortune, john jacob astor ( - ). the latter was born near heidelberg, germany, worked for a time in london, came to n.y.c. and took up fur trading, in which he amassed an enormous fortune, the largest up to that time made by any american. [illustration: steps in the development of the steam-boat the top figure represents a boat of the th century propelled by paddle wheels. below is a steam tug, the design of jonathan hulls, who received a patent on his invention from the british government in . it appears that some time later, in , robert fulton, who was then in england, actually rode in a tug of similar design built by william symington. fulton, however, was the first to construct a steam-boat in the modern sense of the term. the illustrations used above were taken from the supplement to the sixth edition of the encyclopædia britannica.] six miles above rhinecliff we pass anandale on the right, the former home of gen. richard montgomery (b. ), who was killed dec. , , while conducting the american attack on quebec. it is not always remembered that the americans undertook an expedition against quebec during the first year of the revolutionary war. gen. montgomery was joined near quebec by benedict arnold, then a colonel, and they pushed on towards their objective with barely men. the assault met a complete defeat; almost at the first discharge, montgomery was killed, and many of his men were taken prisoners. in mrs. montgomery, then a gray-haired widow, sat alone on the porch of the house while the remains of gen. montgomery were brought down the hudson on the steamer "richmond" with great funeral pomp. a monument has been erected in st. paul's chapel, n.y.c., where his remains were finally interred. general and mrs. montgomery, who was a daughter of robert r. livingston, had been married only two years when he went away on his expedition. just north of tivoli ( m.) is the site of the manor house of the livingston family, "clermont," after which robert fulton named his first steamboat. the livingston manor comprised the greater part of what are now dutchess and columbia counties. the founder of the family was robert livingston ( - ) who was born at ancrum, scotland, emigrated to america about and received these manorial grants in . he was a member of the n.y. assembly for several terms. the livingston manor was involved in anti-rent troubles which began in the rensselaer manor. m. greendale, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) from greendale a very fine view is obtained of the noble scenery of the catskill mountains. the village of catskill (pop. , ) across the river, was at one time the only point of entrance for visitors to the mountains--now reached chiefly by railway from kingston. catskill station, however, is still a point of departure for this favorite summer resort. in clear weather it is possible to get a glimpse of the deep gorge of the kaaterskill cove (about one mile west of catskill village) where rip winkle strayed into the mountains, discovered hendrick hudson playing at skittles, and, bewitched by the wine supplied by the ghostly sportsmen, slept for years. on the high crest back of the station (about m. from the river) the mountain house (alt. , ft.) and kaaterskill house, famous old hotels, can be seen in clear weather. the catskill mts.,* a group possessing much charm and beauty, run parallel with the hudson for about miles, at a distance of from to miles from the shore line, on the west bank; they cover an area of about sq. m. on the side visible from the train they rise steeply to a height of , to , feet though on the other sides the slopes are gradual. the highest summits are those of slide mt. ( , ft.) and hunter mt. ( , ft.). the summits of several of these mountains are reached by inclined railways that afford splendid views. a number of deep ravines known as "cloves," a word derived from the dutch, have been cut into the mountains by streams. the name catskill, formerly kaatskill, is a word of dutch origin, referring, it is said, to the catamounts, or wild cats, formerly found here. the indians called the mountains "onti ora" or mts. of the sky. washington irving in his introduction to the story of _rip van winkle_ says, "whoever has made a voyage up the hudson must remember the kaatskill mts. they are a dismembered branch of the great appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good housewives far and near as perfect barometers. when the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory." m. hudson, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) [illustration: hudson, n.y. ( ) showing one of the early passenger trains on what is now the new york central route.] hudson, picturesquely situated on the slope of a hill and commanding a fine view of the river and the catskill mts., was originally known as claverack landing, and for many years it was nothing more than a landing with two rude wharfs and two small storehouses, to which the farmers in the neighborhood brought their produce for shipment on the river. late in , the place was settled by an association of merchants and fishermen, mostly quakers, from rhode island, nantucket, and martha's vineyard. these enterprising people had been engaged in whaling and other marine ventures, but when these industries were crippled by british cruisers during the war of independence, they came to hudson to find a more secluded haven. they were methodical and industrious; they even brought their houses, framed and ready for immediate erection, on their brig, the "comet." the settlers opened clay pits, burned bricks and built a first class wharf. in the port was the second in the state in the extent of its shipping. two shipyards were established and a large ship, the "hudson" was launched. toward the end of the th century it was the third city in the state, and had one of the three banks then existing in n.y. state. the war of caused a decline, but modern industry has revived the town, and its manufactures include portland cement (one of the largest manufactories of that product in the united states is here), knit goods, foundry and machine shop products, ice machinery, brick and furniture. huge ice houses are seen along this part of the hudson river, and the question sometimes arises why the river, being partly salt, can yield ice fit for domestic or commercial use. the explanation is that the water, in freezing, rejects four-fifths or more of its content of salt. four miles above hudson we pass the estuary of stockport, on the north bank of which, at kinderhook, once lived martin van buren, eighth president of the u.s. the son of a farmer and tavern keeper, van buren ( - ) was born at kinderhook, n.y., of dutch descent. he obtained a scanty education, and it is said that as late as , when he became secretary of state, he wrote crudely and incorrectly. he was admitted to the bar in in n.y., allied himself with the "clintonians" in politics and later became a leading member of the powerful coterie of democratic politicians known as the "albany regency," which ruled n.y. politics for more than a generation, and was largely responsible for the introduction of the "spoils system" into state and national affairs. van buren's proficiency in this variety of politics earned him the nickname of "little magician." in he was elected to the u.s. senate, and in governor of n.y., and in the following year was made secretary of state by president jackson, who used his influence to obtain the nomination of van buren for president in . william henry harrison, the whig candidate, was his principal opponent, and the popular vote showed a plurality of less than , for van buren. van buren's administration was compelled to bear the weight of errors committed by jackson, his predecessor, and though he showed unexpected ability and firmness in his administration, he was defeated for re-election by harrison. m. schodack landing, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p.) schodack was the dutch rendering of the indian word "esquatack," meaning "the fireplace of the nation." the island opposite the station was the site of the first council fire of the mohican indians, who were grouped about their "fire place" in villages. they inhabited the hudson valley and their domain extended into mass. in consequence of attacks by the mohawks the mohicans moved from their council fire to what is now stockbridge, mass., in . later many migrated to the susquehanna valley and became absorbed into the delawares. the descendants of those who were left at stockbridge are now assembled with some of the munsees on a reservation at green bay, wis. they are truly the "last of the mohicans." cooper's story of that name dealt with the earlier period of their dispersal. in the early days douw's point on the right bank, a few miles below albany, was the head of steamboat navigation. passengers for albany used to transfer at this point to the stage. it was here that the "half moon" reached its farthest point on its northward trip up the hudson. theodore roosevelt in his _history of new york_ says: "during the "half moon's" inland voyage her course had lain through scenery singularly wild, grand and lonely. she had passed the long line of frowning battlemented rock walls that we know by the name of the palisades; she had threaded her way round the bends where the curving river sweeps in and out among cold peaks--storm king, crow's nest, and their brethren; she had sailed in front of the catskill mts., perhaps thus early in the season crowned with shining snow. from her decks the lookouts scanned with their watchful eyes dim shadowy wastes, stretching for countless leagues on every hand; for all the land was shrouded in one vast forest, where red hunters who had never seen a white face followed wild beasts, upon whose kind no white man had ever gazed." in modern days the channel has been enlarged, deepened and protected by concrete dykes, which are seen at intervals along the upper river, so that the hudson is now utilized for navigation as far as troy. on the left bank just above parr's island is the estuary of the normans kill, which flows through the valley of tawasentha, where, according to indian tradition, once lived the "mighty hiawatha." hiawatha (the word means "he makes rivers") was a legendary chief, about , of the onondaga tribe of indians. the formation of the league of five nations, known as the iroquois, is attributed to him by indian tradition. he was regarded as a sort of divinity--the incarnation of human progress and civilization. longfellow's poem "hiawatha" embodies the more poetical ideas of indian nature-worship. in this version of the story, hiawatha was the son of mudjekeewis (the west wind) and wenonah, the daughter of nakomis, who fell from the moon. m. rensselaer, pop, , . (train passes : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) rensselaer, originally called greenbush, lies directly across from albany. it was first settled in and the site formed part of a large tract of land bought from the indians by agents of killiaen van rensselaer. on the lower edge of the town ft. cralo,* built in for protection against the indians, still stands; the fort has a special interest in being connected with the origin of yankee doodle. some writers claim that cralo is the oldest fort still preserved in the u.s. its white oak beams are said to be inches square; its walls are to ft. thick, and some of the old portholes still remain. according to tradition there were once secret passages connecting the fort with the river. about , during the french and indian wars, maj. james abercrombie had his headquarters here. yankee doodle is said to have been composed at the fort by dr. schuckburgh, a british surgeon, as a satire on the provincial troops, who did not show to advantage among the smartly dressed british soldiers. the yankees, however, adopted the words and the tune, and less than years later the captured soldiers of burgoyne marched behind the lines of the victorious continentals to the same melody. [illustration: albany from van rensselaer island in ] albany to syracuse m. albany, pop. , . (train passes : a; no, , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : p; no. , : p.) across the river from rensselaer on sharply mounting hills is the city of albany. we cross the river by a suspension bridge, passing over rensselaer island and seeing ahead of us the handsome new freight houses of the d. & h.r.r., and to right and left the boats of the hudson river steamship lines lying against the wharves. once over the bridge the tracks swerve to the right, and soon lead into the union station. almost under the shadow of the present capitol, on a meadow to the north, ft. orange was built in , when families of dutch walloons selected this site for a permanent settlement in the new world. the history of albany, however is usually dated from ten years earlier when dutch traders built ft. nassau on castle island, the present rensselaer island. according to some writers a temporary trading post was established here by the french as early as -- years before the pilgrims landed at plymouth. but it is on the date that albany lays claim to being the second oldest settlement in the colonies, jamestown, founded in by capt. john smith and christopher newport, being the first. it is interesting to note that the pilgrim fathers narrowly missed making a settlement somewhere along the hudson river. william bradford, second governor of the plymouth colony, tells in his history, how, at one point in the _mayflower's_ voyage, they determined "to find some place about hudson's river for their habitation." but, after sailing half a day, "they fell amongst dangerous shoulds and roving breakers," and so decided to bear up again for cape cod. during the early days albany held high rank among american settlements. as a center of trade and civilization it rivalled jamestown, manhattan and quebec. in the dutch negotiated here the first treaty with the iroquois, which tended to preserve friendly relations with the indians for more than a century to come. the territory of the iroquois, or six nations, the most celebrated of indian confederations, extended from albany to buffalo, that is, over just the country through which the new york central runs. the name is that given to them by the french and is said to be formed of two ceremonial words constantly used by the tribesmen meaning "real adders." the league was originally composed of five tribes or nations--the mohawks, oneidas, onondagas, senecas and cayugas. the confederation probably took place about . in the tuscaroras were admitted, the league then being called that of the six nations. without realizing the far-reaching effect of his action, samuel d. champlain ( - ), the french explorer, probably changed the entire course of history by joining the algonquins and hurons in an attack in on the iroquois near the present town of ticonderoga. the iroquois never forgave the french for the part they played in this battle and naturally turned first to the dutch and then to the english for allies. "thus did new france," says parkman, "rush into collision with the redoubted warriors of the five nations. here was the beginning, and in some measure doubtless the cause, of a long series of murderous conflicts, bearing havoc and flame to generations yet unborn." parkman estimates that in the period after the tuscaroras joined the iroquois, the six nations had a population of about , with not more than , fighting men. it is a matter of some surprise that so small a fighting force could wield so great a power in the early days. but theodore roosevelt, in speaking of the indians as warriors, says: "on their own ground they were far more formidable than the best european troops. it is to this day doubtful whether the superb british regulars at braddock's battle or the highlanders at grant's defeat a few years later, were able to so much as kill one indian for every hundred of their own men who fell." although up to that time they had been loyal friends of the colonists, in the war of independence the iroquois fought on the english side, and by repeated battles their power was nearly destroyed. from very early times a silver "covenant chain" was used as a symbol of their treaties with the whites, and each time a new treaty was signed the covenant chain was renewed or reburnished. there are perhaps , descendants of the iroquois now living in reservations in new york state, oklahoma, wisconsin and canada. [illustration: stephen van rensselaer stephen van rensselaer was the eighth patroon and fifth in descent from killiaen, the first lord of the manor. he was lieutenant governor of n.y., an ardent promoter of the erie canal, a major general in the war of (during which he was defeated in the battle of queenstown heights), and represented n.y. in congress from to . in he founded a school in troy, which was incorporated two years later as the rensselaer polytechnic institute.] in the dutch government granted to killiaen van rensselaer, an amsterdam diamond merchant, a tract of land, sq. m., centering at ft. orange, over which he was given the feudal powers of a patroon. the patroons, under the dutch régime, were members of the dutch west india co., who received large grants of land, called manors, in new netherlands. these grants carried with them semifeudal rights, and the patroon could exercise practically autocratic powers in his domain. the first of the patroons, killiaen van rensselaer ( - ), never came to this country, but he sent over numerous settlers as tenants. the manor was called rensselaerswyck, and comprised all of the present counties of albany and rensselaer, and part of columbia. this was the first manorial grant in new netherlands and was destined to endure the longest. the colonists sent to this country by van rensselaer were industrious and the town prospered, although in , it was described by father jogues, a jesuit priest, as "a miserable little fort called fort orange, built of logs, with four or five pieces of breteuil cannon and as many swivels; and some or houses built of boards, and having thatched roofs." on account of its favorable commercial and strategic position at the head of navigation on the hudson and at the gateway of the iroquois country and the far west, it maintained its importance among colonial settlements for a century and a half. its early name, beverwyck, was changed to albany--one of the titles of the duke of york, afterwards james ii.--when new netherlands was transferred to the english ( ). albany was granted a charter in , and the first mayor (appointed by gov. dongan) was peter schuyler, who was likewise chairman of the board of indian commissioners. peter schuyler ( - ) was a son of philip pieterse schuyler (d. ), who migrated from amsterdam in . the family was one of the wealthiest and most influential in the colony, and it was closely related by marriage to the van rensselaers, the van cortlandts and other representatives of the old dutch aristocracy. representatives of mass., r.i., n.h., conn., n.y., pa., and md., met in albany in june, , for the purpose of confirming and establishing a close league of friendship with the iroquois and of arranging for a permanent union of the colonies. this was the first important effort to bring about a colonial confederation. the indian affairs having been satisfactorily adjusted, the convention, after considerable debate, in which benjamin franklin, stephen hopkins and thomas hutchinson took a leading part, adopted a plan for a union of the colonies on the basis of a scheme submitted by franklin. this plan provided for a representative governing body to be known as the grand council, to which each colony should elect delegates for a term of three years. neither the british government nor the growing party in the colonies which was clamoring for colonial rights received the plan with favor--the former holding that it gave the colonies too much independence and the latter that it gave them too little. at about this time a swedish naturalist, peter kalm, visiting albany, reported that "there is not a place in all the british colonies, the hudson bay settlement excepted, where such quantities of furs and skins are bought of the indians as at albany." most of the houses at this time were built of brick and stood with gable ends to the street; each house had a garden and a _stoep_, where the family were accustomed to sit summer evenings, the burgher with his pipe and his "vrouw" with her knitting. well-to-do families owned slaves, but according to mrs. anne grant, an english writer of the day who spent part of her childhood in albany, "it was slavery softened into a smile." [illustration: north pearl st., albany (about ) looking north from state st. to maiden lane (_from an old french print in the n.y. public library_) in the left foreground is the south end of the livingston house. just beyond, with two high gables facing the street, is the vanderheyden palace, erected . the square building at the rear, corner of maiden lane, is the residence of dr. hunloke woodruff. in the right foreground (on the corner) is the lydius house, erected in .] it was here that the english from all the colonies, before and during the french and indian wars met to consult with the indians and make treaties with them. it was the gathering place of armies where troops from all the colonies assembled and the objective of hostile french forces and their indian allies on several occasions, yet was never taken by an enemy and never saw an armed foe. even during the revolutionary war, when its strategic importance was fully recognized by both armies, it remained immune, though at one time the objective against which burgoyne's unsuccessful expedition was directed. in the english general, john burgoyne ( - ), was placed at the head of british and hessian forces gathered for the invasion of the colonies from canada and the cutting off of new england from the rest of the colonies. he gained possession of ticonderoga and ft. edward; but pushing on, was cut off from his communications with canada and hemmed in by a superior force at saratoga springs, m. north of albany. on the th of oct. his troops, about , in number, laid down their arms, surrendering to gen. horatio gates. this success was the greatest the colonists had yet achieved and proved the turning-point in the war. in albany became the permanent state capital. the election of martin van buren as governor in marked the beginning of the long ascendancy in the state of the "albany regency," a political coterie of democrats in which van buren, w.l. marcy, benjamin franklin butler and silas wright were among the leaders. thurlow weed ( - ), the bitterest enemy of this coterie, and the man who gave them their name, declared of them that he "had never known a body of men who possessed so much power and used it so well." until the election of william h. seward (the whig candidate) as governor in , new york had usually been democratic, largely through the predominating influence of van buren and the "regency." weed had an important share in bringing about their defeat. he owed his early political advancement to the introduction into state politics of the anti-masonic issue; for a time he edited the _anti-masonic enquirer_. in he established and became editor of the albany _evening journal_, which he controlled for thirty-five years. the anti-rent war, precipitated by the death of stephen van rensselaer ( - ), the "last of the patroons," centered about albany. the final settlement of this outbreak, which began with rioting and murder, and ended with the election of a governor favorable to the tenants ( ), disposed of feudal privilege in new york state which had flourished here until well into the th century, though it had disappeared elsewhere. the anti-rent agitation began in the hudson river counties during the first administration of gov. seward ( ). the greater part of the land in this section was comprised in vast estates such as the rensselaerswyck, livingston, scarsdale, philipse, pelham and van cortlandt manors, and on these the leasehold system, with perpetual leases, and leases for years (or the equivalent), had become general. besides rents, many of the tenants were required to render certain services to the proprietor, and in case a tenant sold his interest in a farm to some one else he was required to pay the proprietor one-tenth to one-third of the amount received, as an alienation fee. stephen van rensselaer had permitted his rents, especially those from poorer tenants, to fall much in arrears, and the effort of his heirs to collect them--they amounted to about $ , --was met with armed opposition. in rensselaer county a man was murdered, and gov. seward was forced to call out the militia. the tenants, however, formed anti-rent associations in all the affected counties, and in began a reign of terror, in which, disguised as indians, they resorted to flogging, tarring and feathering, and boycotting, as weapons against all who dealt with the landlords. this culminated in the murder of a deputy sheriff in delaware county. in the anti-rent associations secured the election of gov. john young as well as several legislators favorable to their cause, and promoted the adoption of a new constitution abolishing feudal tenures and limiting future agricultural leases to twelve years. under the pressure of public opinion the great landlords rapidly sold their farms. stephen van rensselaer was the th patroon and th in descent from killiaen, the first lord of the manor. he was lieutenant-governor of new york, an ardent promoter of the erie canal, a major-general in the war of (during which he was defeated at the battle of queenstown heights) and represented new york in congress from to . in he founded a school in troy which was incorporated two years later as the rensselaer polytechnic institute. [illustration: ancient dutch church, albany ( ) (_from an old print in the n.y. public library_) this church, built of bricks brought from holland, stood for about years in the open area formed by the angle of state, market and court streets. it was erected in less than four weeks. the early dutch felt that without the church they could not hope to prosper. the old church was of gothic style, one story high, and the glass of its antique windows was richly ornamented with coats of arms. in the church was taken down and its brick employed in the erection of the south dutch church, between hudson and beaver streets, which in turn was later replaced by a newer structure.] comparatively few ancient landmarks remain in albany, though there are some fine specimens of the dutch and later colonial architecture still standing. of these the best known is the schuyler mansion,* built by gen. philip schuyler, in , which, after serving for many years as an orphan asylum, was recently purchased by the state and converted into a museum. having served in the french and indian wars, philip schuyler ( - ) was chosen one of the four major-generals in the continental service at the outbreak of the revolutionary war and was placed in command of the northern department of new york with headquarters at albany. the necessary withdrawal of the army from crown point in and the evacuation of ticonderoga in were magnified by his enemies into a disgraceful retreat, and he was tried by court martial but acquitted on every charge. he was a delegate from n.y. to the continental congress in , and later joined his son-in-law, alexander hamilton, john jay and others in the movement for the ratification by new york of the federal constitution. in he was elected to the u.s. senate. "for bravery and generosity" says john fiske, "he was like the paladin of some mediæval romance." the van rensselaer manor-house, built in , was pulled down in and reconstructed on the campus of williams college, williamstown, mass., where it forms the sigma phi fraternity house. in the albany academy, built in by philip hooker, architect of the old state capitol, prof. joseph henry demonstrated ( ) the theory of the magnetic telegraph by ringing an electric bell at the end of a mile of wire strung around the room. bret harte, the writer, was born in in albany, where his father was teacher of greek in the albany college, a small seminary. bret harte lived in albany until his th year. in , lured by the gold rush, he left for california with his mother, then a widow. once there, the rough but fascinating chaos engulfed him, and from it, at first hand, he drew the stage properties--spaniards, greasers, gambling houses--the humor, sin and chivalry of the ' --which color all his stories. after some little journalism and clerking, he was made secretary to the supt. of the mint, a position which was not too exacting to allow a great deal of leisure for writing. later he returned to the east with his family, made his home in n.y.c. and gave all his time to authorship. apparently his success somewhat turned his head. he lived beyond his means, passing his summers at newport, lenox and other expensive places, until his unbusinesslike habits and chronic indebtedness became notorious. in he accepted a consulate at crefeld, prussia. he spent the rest of his life abroad and died in england in . modern buildings of interest include the city hall,* a beautiful french gothic building; the state educational building, with its valuable library; the albany institute, with its art galleries; the cathedral of the immaculate conception, built of brownstone, with spires ft. high; the cathedral of all saints, a fine specimen of gothic architecture, said to be the first regularly organized protestant episcopal cathedral erected in the united states ( ), st. peter's church, and, most important, the state capitol.* [illustration: the first passenger train in n.y. state leaving schenectady for albany, july , on its first trip this train, now preserved on the right balcony of the grand central terminal, attained a speed of nine miles an hour. the route between albany and schenectady was practically identical with that of the present new york central lines.] the capitol occupies a commanding position in capitol square. it is built of white maine granite, and cost about $ , , . millions were spent in alteration and reconstruction, due to the use of inferior materials and to mistakes in engineering design. the cornerstone was laid , and the building was completed, with the exception of the central tower, in . the legislature first met here in . the original designs were by thomas fuller, who also designed the parliamentary building at ottawa, but they were considerably altered. the beautiful western staircase of red sandstone (from plans by isaac gale perry) and the senate chamber (designed by h. h. richardson) are the most striking features of the building. the present capitol suffered a heavy loss in the burning of its library in , by which many unreplaceable books and original documents were destroyed. the city has parks, comprising acres; the most notable is washington park, which contains two well known statues--one of robert burns, by charles caverley, and the bronze and rock fountain, "moses at the rock of horeb," by j. massey rhind. the city's filtration system is of special interest to engineers; it occupies acres, has eight filter beds, and filters , , gallons of water daily. albany's key position with respect to new york, boston and buffalo ensured its commercial development. the first passenger railroad in america was operated between albany and schenectady. the first train in the state, consisting of the locomotive "de witt clinton," named for the seventh governor, and three coaches (resembling early stage coaches), was built for the mohawk and hudson railroad co., the original unit of the present new york central lines, and was chartered in to run from albany to schenectady--a distance of m. the locomotive was constructed at the west point foundry and taken to albany by boat. it had its first trial on rails, july , , burning anthracite coal and attaining a speed of m. an hour. after remodeling, it made the trip from albany to schenectady in one hour and minutes, using pine wood for fuel. on aug. , , two trips were made, during which a speed of m. an hour was reached. the train ran on iron "straps" nailed to wooden "stringers." as originally built the locomotive weighed , pounds, which, in remodeling, was increased to , pounds--less than the weight of one pair of wheels of a modern locomotive. at a banquet on the occasion of the formal opening of the line (aug. , ), president camberling of the railroad gave the following toast: "the buffalo railroad! may we soon breakfast at utica, dine at rochester, and sup with our friends on lake erie." the original train is still preserved and may be seen in the right balcony of the grand central station, n.y.c. the first steamboat in the united states made its initial trips between n.y. and albany, and the first canal connected albany with buffalo. the original erie canal was one of the greatest of early engineering projects in america, and its importance in the development of n.y. state, and of the country to the west, can hardly be overestimated. construction was begun in , under a commission including gouverneur morris, de witt clinton, robert fulton, and robert r. livingston, and in the main channel, miles in length, was opened between albany and buffalo, the total cost being $ , , . three branches were added later. at the close of , when tolls were abolished, the total revenues derived from the canal had been $ , , , while expenditures had amounted to $ , , . various factors, including the competition of the railroads, caused a considerable decline in canal traffic in the last quarter of a century. the old canal was a ditch following the line of the mohawk and other rivers and creeks. the new barge canal system has four branches, the erie, from albany to buffalo; the champlain, from albany to lake champlain the oswego, which starts north midway on the line of the erie canal and reaches lake ontario, and the cayuga and seneca, which leaves the erie canal a little to the west of the oswego junction and extends south, first to cayuga lake and then to seneca lake. the new canal system was first intended for , ton barges, but its capacity has been made much larger. various sections of the improved canal were completed between and , and the total cost has been about $ , , . within years albany has increased fivefold in size, and is today the intersecting point of the principal water routes of the eastern states, for besides being near the head of navigation for large steamers on the hudson, it is virtually the terminus of the n.y. state barge canal. it is also the key point in the transportation system of the state, for here the b. & a. and the d. & h. railroads meet the new york central, so that one can take train for buffalo and chicago, the thousand islands, the adirondacks, saratoga, lakes george and champlain, montreal, vermont and the green mts., the berkshires, and boston. it is the second largest express and third largest mail transfer point in the united states. the forests of the adirondacks and of canada have made it a great lumber post. its manufactures have an annual value of $ , , or more; they include iron goods, stoves, wood and brass products, carriages and wagons, brick and tile, shirts, collars and cuffs, clothing and knit goods, shoes, flour, tobacco, cigars, billiard balls, dominoes and checkers. leaving albany, we follow closely the path of the old iroquois trail, which was in early days, as now, the chief highway to the great lakes. the indian trail began at albany and led directly across the country to schenectady; from this point to rome there were two trails, one on either side of the mohawk. that on the south side had the most travel as it led through three mohawk "castles" or villages, one at the mouth of the schoharie creek, one at canajoharie, and the third at the town of danube, opposite the mouth of east canada creek. farther on, the trail passed through the present towns of fort plain, utica and whitesboro. the trail on the north bank led through tribes hill, johnstown, fonda and little falls, where it united with the main traveled route. at west albany are extensive shops of the new york central lines. when working full capacity about , men are employed here. the machines are all of modern design and electrically driven. there are large freight yards having a trackage of nearly m. the passenger car shops include two great buildings which are used for making general repairs and one for construction of steel equipment. one of the repair buildings is ft. by ft. and has a track capacity of cars, and the other, ft. by ft., a capacity of cars. there are two enormous paint shops, a blacksmith shop, where numerous forgings are made for other departments, a woodmill, a machine-shop with a floor space of , sq. ft., and cabinet, upholstering, brass and plating shops. the truck shop covers , sq. ft., and is used for building and general repairs of trucks of wood, built-up steel, and cast-iron. from the tin and pipe shop is supplied all the light metal ware needed by the railroad. [illustration: - showing the dimensions of the first equipment of the present new york central lines--the dewitt clinton and three coaches--in comparison with the modern locomotive used to draw the twentieth century and other fast trains.] m. schenectady, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p.) at this point we first enter the historic mohawk valley, and on this site, according to tradition, once stood the chief village of the mohawk indians. the mohawk river rises in lewis county (northwestern n.y.), flows south to rome, then east to the hudson river which it enters at cohoes. it is miles long. there are rapids and falls at little falls and oriskany which have been utilized to develop electric power. the mohawk valley is noted for its beauty and the fertility of its soil. the name mohawk is probably derived from an indian word meaning "man-eaters"; but the mohawks' own name for their tribe was kaniengehaga, "people of the flint." they lived in the region bounded on the north by the lake of corlear, on the east by the falls of cohoes, on the south by the sources of the susquehanna, and on the west by the country of the oneidas. the dividing line between the mohawk and oneida tribes passed through the present town of utica. the mohawks had the reputation of being the bravest of the iroquois; they furnished the war chief for the six nations and exercised the right to collect tribute in the form of wampum from the long island tribes and to extend their conquests along the sea coast. the tribes, along both banks of the hudson river, it is said, shrank before their war cry. in the war of independence they fought with the english, and finally took refuge in canada, where most of them have remained. the first settlement at schenectady was made in by arendt van corlear and a band of immigrants who had become dissatisfied with conditions on the manor of rennselaerwyck where corlear was manager of the estates of his cousin, killiaen van rennselaer. van corlear had emigrated to america about and while manager of rennselaerwyck he earned the confidence of the indians, among whom "corlear" became a generic term for the english governors and especially the governors of n.y. the name kora, derived from the same source, is said to be used even today by surviving iroquois in canada to designate the english king. to each of the original proprietors, except van corlear who was to receive a double portion, was assigned a village lot of sq. ft., a tract of bottom land for farming purposes, a strip of woodland, and common pasture rights. many of the early settlers were well-to-do and brought their slaves with them, and for many years the settlement, originally known as dorp, was reputed the richest in the colony. schenectady was spelled in a great variety of ways in the early records. its indian equivalent signified "back door" of the long house--the territory occupied by the six nations. in an early map ( ) the name appears as scanacthade. as late as the spelling was still uncertain, as the following minutes from the record of the common council of september , of that year show: "the church wardens of shinnechtady doe make application that two persons be appointed to go around among the inhabitants of the city to see if they can obtain any contributions to make up ye sellary due their minister." other ways of spelling the name were schanechtade and schoneghterdie. in the young village received a setback which very nearly brought its early history to an end; on feb. of that year, the french and indians surprised and burned the village, massacred of the inhabitants and carried into captivity. an old tradition says that an indian squaw had been sent to warn the inhabitants, under cover of selling brooms. in the afternoon of feb. , , dominic tassomacher was being entertained with chocolate at the home of a charming widow of his parish when the squaw entered to deliver her message. the widow became indignant at the sight of snow on her newly scrubbed floor, and rebuked her unexpected guest. the indian woman replied angrily, "it shall be soiled enough before to-morrow," and left the house. the massacre occurred that night. schenectady was rebuilt in the following years, but an outlying settlement was again the scene of a murderous french and indian attack in . in the land along the river, the old part of the town, indian skulls and arrow heads are still found. english settlers arrived in considerable numbers about . about a number of shaker settlements were made in the lower mohawk valley. the shakers, a celibate and communistic sect--officially the united society of believers in christ's second appearance--received their common name from the fact that originally they writhed and trembled in seeking to free "the soul from the power of sin and a worldly life." they had trances and visions, and there was much jumping and dancing. the founder of the sect was mother ann lee ( - ) of manchester, england, who came to n.y. with a number of relatives in and bought land in the lower mohawk valley. the first shaker settlement was at watervliet, not far from troy. the settlers established a communistic organization with branches in mass., and conn. as a matter of practice they do not forbid marriage, but refuse to recognize it; they consider there are four virtues: virgin purity, christian communism, confession of sin, and separation from the world. the women wear uniform costumes and the men have long hair. the sect is diminishing. there are now less than , members in societies in mass., n.h., maine, conn., and ohio, though at its most flourishing period it had nearly , . schenectady was chartered as a borough in and as a city in , and from that period date many quaint examples of colonial architecture. in scotia, a suburb to the northwest of the city, still stands the glen-sanders mansion (built ) described as "a veritable museum of antiquity, furnished from cellar to garret with strongly built, elegant furniture, two centuries old." descendants of the original owners are still living there. a fine specimen of dutch architecture is the so-called abraham yates house ( ) at no. union street. the christopher yates house at no. front street was the birth place of joseph c. yates, first mayor of utica ( ) and governor of the state in . governor yates afterwards lived, until his death, in the large colonial house at no. front street. the old "depot" of the mohawk & hudson railroad, the first steam passenger railway in america now incorporated with the new york central, is still standing in crane street. schenectady is the seat of union college, which grew out of the schenectady academy (established in ) and many of the buildings dating back to the early th century are still in excellent preservation. they were designed by a french architect, jacques ramé, and the original plans are still in the louvre, in paris. at one of the entrances to the college on union street is the payne gate, built as a memorial to john howard payne ( - ), author of "home, sweet home," who was at one time a student at union college the college comprises the academic and engineering departments of union university. the other departments of the university--medicine, law, and pharmacy, as well as the dudley observatory--are at albany. up to the time of the building of the erie canal, schenectady had been an important depot of the mohawk river boat trade to the westward, but after the completion of the canal it suffered a decline. the modern manufacturing era, beginning about , brought schenectady growth and prosperity. to-day the city can boast that its products "light and haul the world." as we enter the town we pass on the left the main establishment of the general electric co., the largest electrical manufacturing plant in the world, with buildings and , employees. in the years before schenectady had been suffering from a long period of stagnation. in that year an official of the edison machine works of n.y.c. happened to pass through schenectady and noticed two empty factories, the former jones car works. the edison company had been established in n.y.c. about by thomas a. edison, and it was now looking for an opportunity to remove elsewhere. accordingly schenectady was chosen, and in the edison co.--which had been renamed the edison general electric co.--and the thompson houston electric co. of lynn, mass., were consolidated and formed the general electric co. the main plant was at schenectady, but other plants were retained at lynn, mass., and harrison, n.j. the early electrical apparatus was crude and the output of the factory was small, but this consolidation marked the beginning of a world-wide business. in , the book value of the general electric co. factory was less than $ , , . since then the company has spent more than $ , , improving and enlarging its plant. branch factories are now maintained at lynn, pittsville, and east boston, mass.; harrison and newark, n.j.; erie, pa.; fort wayne, ind.; toledo and cleveland, ohio. at schenectady one may see the latest development in practically every variety of electrical apparatus. there are in the general electric plant individual factories devoted to generators, motors, turbines, transformers, switchboards, rheostats, wire and cable, and searchlights, as well as pattern shops, machine shops, brass and iron foundries, and testing, shipping and power stations. the company pays considerable attention to welfare work among its employees and free instruction in electrical engineering is given on a large scale. the american locomotive co., which likewise has a factory here, with , employees, turns out some of the largest and fastest locomotives produced in america or abroad. during the last years schenectady has become one of the greatest industrial centers in the united states; its total annual output has a value of nearly $ , , , the output of the general electric co, alone being about $ , , . [illustration: "dr. watson's electrical machine" in , when this picture, reproduced here from the first edition of the encyclopædia britannica, was published, only the most elementary principles of electricity had been discovered. benjamin franklin's discovery, made with the aid of a kite, that lightning is an electrical phenomenon, was the greatest advance in electrical science up to that time. "electrical machines," such as that shown, were, designed to produce frictional or "static" electricity, of which the quantity is usually small, and is therefore now produced chiefly for laboratory experiments. when the wheel at the left was turned sufficient electricity was generated to cause a spark to jump between the two hands at the right. this machine paved the way for the invention of the dynamo electric machines for which schenectady is world famous.] we now cross the mohawk river, and erie canal, and our route ascends the valley of the mohawk as far as rome. to the south the catskill mts. are visible in the distance, and the outline of the adirondack mts. can be faintly seen to the north. this beautiful group of mountains was once covered, all but the highest peaks, by the laurentian glacier, whose erosion, while perhaps having little effect on the large features of the region, has greatly modified it in detail, producing lakes and ponds to the number of more than , and causing many falls and rapids in the streams. in the adirondacks are some of the best hunting and fishing grounds in the united states, which are so carefully preserved that there are quantities of deer and small game in the woods, and black bass and trout in the lakes. some , , acres are preserved. the scenery is wonderfully fine and the air so clear that many sanatoriums have been established for tuberculosis patients. m. amsterdam, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p.) [illustration: sir william johnson ( - ) sir william was a remarkable figure in early n.y. history. he is said to have been the father of children, chiefly by native mothers, either young squaws or wives of indians who thought it an honor to surrender them to the king's agent. according to an early historian, the indians of the six nations "carried their hospitality so far as to allow distinguished strangers the choice of a young squaw from among the prettiest of the neighborhood, as a companion during his sojourn with them."] amsterdam was settled about and was called veedersburg until when its present name was adopted. it was for some time the home of elisha arnold, father of benedict arnold, but the latter was born in norwich, conn. (jan. , .) the so-called guy park mansion built in , by guy johnson, nephew of sir william johnson is still used as a private residence. today amsterdam ranks as the first city in the united states in the manufacture of carpets and second in the manufacturing of hosiery and knit goods. it has one of the largest pearl button factories in the country; other products are brushes, brooms, silk gloves, paper boxes, electrical supplies, dyeing machines, cigars, wagon and automobile springs; the total value of the output being about $ , , annually. m. fort johnson, pop. . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p.) this village is named for the house* and fort erected here in , by sir william johnson, one of the most remarkable of the early pioneers. sir william johnson ( - ) distinguished himself not only for the prosperous settlements which he built up along the valley of the mohawk, but also for his military ability and his remarkable influence with the iroquois indians. born in ireland, he came to america in for the purpose of managing a tract of land in this valley belonging to his uncle, admiral sir peter warren. the fort which he built on the site of the present village bearing his name soon became the center of trade with the indians, and likewise a strategic point for johnson's military ventures. the mohawks adopted him and elected him a sachem. he was at various times superintendent of the affairs of the six nations, commissary of the province for indian affairs, and major-general in the british army. as a commanding officer he directed the expedition against crown point ( ) and in september of that year defeated the french and indians, at the battle of lake george. for his success he received the thanks of parliament and was created a baronet. he took part in a number of other expeditions against the french and indians, and as a reward for his services the king granted him a tract of , acres of land north of the mohawk river. it was in a great measure due to his influence that the iroquois remained faithful to the cause of the colonies up to the time of the revolutionary war. in johnson married catherine wisenberg, by whom he had three children. after her death he had various mistresses, including a niece of the indian chief hendrick, and molly brant, a sister of the famous chief, joseph brant. it is said that he was the father of children in all. after the french and indian war he retired to the present johnstown. [illustration: joseph brant, "thayendanegea" ( - ) (_from original painting by romney in collection of earl of warwick_) chief thayendanegea (joseph brant) of the mohawk tribe was an unusual character, combining the savage traits of an indian warrior and the more civilized qualities of a politician and diplomat. born on the banks of the ohio river, he was sent to an indian charity school (now dartmouth college) at lebanon, conn., by sir william johnson. he fought with the english in the french and indian war and with the iroquois against pontiac in . subsequently he became a devout churchman and settled at canajoharie or upper mohawk castle, where he devoted himself to missionary work and translated the prayer book and st. mark's gospel into the mohawk tongue. in the revolutionary war he led the mohawks and other indians friendly to the british against the settlements on the n.y. frontier, even taking part, despite his religion, in the cherry valley massacre. after the war he aided the u.s. in securing treaties of peace with the miamis and other western tribes. subsequently he went to canada as a missionary, and in visited england, where he raised funds with which was erected the first episcopal church in upper canada. brant sat for his picture several times in england, once in , at the request of boswell (the author of the "life of johnson"), and during the same visit for the romney portrait, at warwick's request. in he was painted for the duke of northumberland and for a miniature to present to his daughter.] after the fort was occupied by his son sir john, who, during the war of independence organized a loyalist regiment known as the "queen's royal greens," which he led at the battle of oriskany, and in raids on cherry valley ( - ) and on the mohawk valley. the house, once used as a fort, is described by an early writer thus: "col. johnson's mansion is situated on the border of the north bank of the river moack. it is three stories high (two with an attic) built of stone, with port-holes and a parapet, and flanked with four bastions on which are some small guns. in the yard, on both sides of the mansion, are two small houses; that on the right of the entrance is a store, and that on the left is designed for workmen, negroes and other domestics. the yard gate is a heavy swing-gate, well ironed; it is on the moack river side; from this gate to the river is about two hundred paces of level ground. the high road passes there." the place, now somewhat remodeled, is owned by the montgomery county historical society and many curious historic relics are on exhibition here. it is open to the public daily. m. tribes hill, pop. . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p.) tribes hill received its name from the fact that it was an old meeting place of the indians. across the river, in the estuary at the junction of schoharie creek with the mohawk, once stood ft. hunter, which was the lower mohawk castle, the upper castle being at canajoharie. a contemporary description says: "ft. hunter, known by the indians as ticonderoga, is one of the same form as that of canajoharie except that it is twice as large. it likewise has a house at each corner. the cannon at each bastion are seven and nine pounders. the pickets of this fort are higher than those at canajoharie there is a church or temple in the middle of the fort, while in its inclosure are also some thirty cabins of mohawk indians, which is their most considerable village. this fort, like that of canajoharie, has no ditch and has a large swing-gate at the entrance. there are some houses outside, though under the protection of the fort, in which the country people seek shelter when an indian or french war party is looked for." about two miles farther at the little village of auriesville on the left side of the mohawk, where the river is joined by auries creek, there is a shrine (visible on the left from the train) marking the spot where father jogues, a jesuit priest, was killed in . [illustration: father isaac jogues isaac jogues ( - ), a french missionary, came to this country to preach among the hurons and algonquins. in he was captured by the mohawks, who tortured him and kept him as a slave until the following summer, when he escaped. father jogues returned in to establish a mission among his former tormentors. about this time a contagious disease broke out amongst the indians, and to make matters worse their crops failed. for these misfortunes they blamed the french priest, tortured him as a sorcerer and finally put him to death.] m. fonda, pop. . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , . ; no. , : a; no. , : p.) the town of fonda was named for jelles fonda, said to have been the first merchant west of schenectady. fonda established a prosperous store here about , and his old accounts (still preserved) disclose that he had among his customers "young baron of the hill," "wide mouth jacob," "young moses," "snuffers david," and the "squinty cayuga." following is a bill from jelles fonda's accounts: young moses, dr. sept. , £ s. d. to one french blanket " one small blanket " ells white linnen " pair indian stockings " hat " pt. of rum and one dram " qt. rum i leave in pledge two silver wrist-bands. (in other words, the wrist-bands were put up as security for the debt.) six miles north of fonda is johnstown (pop. , ) where sir william johnson built his second residence ( ) now in the custody of the johnstown historical society. it is a fine old baronial mansion. sir william called this residence johnson hall and lived here with all the state of an english country gentleman. he devoted himself to colonizing his extensive lands and is said to have been the first to introduce sheep and pedigreed horses into the province. sir william also built the fulton county court house with its jail ( ), used during the revolutionary war as a civil and military prison. a free school, probably the first in n.y. state, was established at johnstown by sir william johnson in in his residence. in he organized a masonic lodge, one of the oldest in the u.s. in , during the war of independence, col. marinus willett defeated here a force of british and indians. the city is one of the principal glove making centers in the u.s. the total products are valued at about $ , , annually. the manufacture of gloves in commercial quantities was introduced into the u.s. at johnstown in by talmadge edwards, who was buried here in the colonial cemetery. [illustration: old ft. van rensselaer at canajoharie (built ) this building had originally been the home of martin janse van alstyn, and was so well built that it had withstood the attacks of the indians under brant in . it was therefore appropriated in by the american government, adopted as a fort, and placed under the control of col. marinus willet, a competent officer chosen by washington to handle the district in which ft. van rensselaer and ft. plain were the military headquarters. (still standing.)] m. canajoharie (palatine bridge), pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. : p.) passing the villages of yosts and sprakers we arrive in the town of canajoharie, which in early days was the site of the upper mohawk castle. the upper mohawk castle, sometimes called ft. canajoharie, was described by an early writer as consisting of "a square of bastions of upright pickets joined with lintels ft. high and about ft. square, with port-holes, and a stage all around to fire from. the fort was paces on each side, had small cannon in its bastions, and houses to serve as a store and barracks. five or families of mohawks reside outside the pickets. from ft. canajoharie to ft. hunter (the lower mohawk castle) is about twelve league, with a good carriage road along the bank of the river." in a fortified dwelling was built here known as ft. rensselaer, which was utilized as a place of defence during the revolutionary war. canajoharie was the home of the famous indian leader, joseph brant. on the left, a little beyond palatine bridge, can be seen the red brick herkimer mansion, near which a monument has been erected to nicholas herkimer, who died in from wounds received at oriskany. we pass the village of ft. plain, st. johnsville and east creek. m. little falls, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p.) our route here lies through a ravine cut by the mohawk river through a spur of the adirondack mts. the town is picturesquely situated on the sides of the gorge overlooking the rapids and falls. the mohawk here descends ft. in ½ m. in the gorge, there are crystalline rocks which are of interest as belonging to the laurentian formation, the oldest rock formation on the face of the globe. according to geological classification, these rocks belong to the archæan system. they represent formations of the very earliest period of the earth's history--probably before there was any animal or vegetable life whatsoever. the archæan rocks have sometimes been spoken of as the original crust of the earth, but this is disputed by many geologists. little falls dates from about . in there was an influx of german settlers into the village, and almost immediately thereafter the town was destroyed by indians and "tories.". it was resettled in . two and a half miles east of the town was the boyhood home of gen. nicholas herkimer. gen. herkimer ( - ) was the son of john jost herkimer (d. ), one of the original group of german settlers in this section of the mohawk valley. gen. herkimer was colonel of the tyrone county militia in , and was made brigadier general of the state militia in . he was mortally wounded at the battle of oriskany. it is planned to establish an historical museum at the old herkimer homestead. near the city is the grave of gen. herkimer, to whom a monument was erected in . the water power derived from the falls has stimulated manufacturing in the city; its output includes cotton yarns, hosiery, knit goods, leather, etc., valued at $ , , annually. the city is one of the largest cheese markets in the u.s. [illustration: fort plain ( ) (_from an old print in the n.y. public library_) this was built in place of another unsatisfactory fort by the american government early in the revolution, and was designed by an experienced french engineer. "as a piece of architecture, it was well wrought and neatly finished and surpassed all the forts in that region."] m. herkimer, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p.) herkimer was settled about by palatine germans, who bought from the mohawk indians a large tract of land, including the present site of the village. they established several settlements which became known collectively as "german flats." these settlers came from the palatinate, a province of the kingdom of bavaria, lying west of the rhine. the district had been torn by a succession of wars, culminating in the carnage wrought by the french in . in the following year, more than , palatines emigrated to america, settling first on the livingston manor, and later along the mohawk and elsewhere. in a stone house (built in by john jost herkimer), a stone church, and other buildings, standing within what is now herkimer village, were enclosed in a stockade by sir william johnson. this post, at first known as ft. kouari (the indian name), was subsequently called ft. herkimer. another fort (ft. dayton) was built within the limits of the present village in by col. elias dayton ( - ), who later became a brigadier-general and served in congress in - . during the french and indian war the settlement was attacked (nov. , ) and practically destroyed, many of the settlers being killed or taken prisoners; and it was again attacked on april , . in the war of independence, gen. herkimer assembled here the force which on aug. th, , was ambushed near oriskany on its march from ft. dayton to the relief of ft. schuyler. the settlement was again attacked by indians and "tories" in sept. , and still again in june, . the township of herkimer was organized in , and in the village was incorporated. herkimer is situated in a rich dairying region and has manufactures with an output of $ , , annually. m. ilion, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p.) this village, the main part of which is situated on the south bank of the mohawk, owed its origin to a settlement made here in by palatine germans, but the village as such really dates from the completion of the erie canal in . in eliphalet remington ( - ) established here a small factory for the manufacture of rifles. he invented, and with the assistance of his sons, philo, samuel and eliphalet, improved the famous remington rifle. in the company added to its business the manufacture of farming tools, in of sewing machines and in of typewriters. the last-named industry was sold to another company in , and soon afterwards, on the failure of the original remington company, the fire arms factory was bought by a n.y.c. firm, though the remington name was retained. the spot where eliphalet had his primitive forge on the ilion gorge road, just south of the town, is marked by a tablet placed there by the daughters of the american revolution. the principal manufactures today are typewriters, fire-arms, cartridges, and filing cabinets and office furniture. the annual output is valued at about $ , , . m. utica, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : ; no. , : a.) [illustration: washington and genesee streets, utica, in washington street, with the presbyterian church, is seen on the left; the bridge across the erie canal is seen on the right, down genesee street, and at its extremity the depot of the utica and schenectady (now the new york central) railroad then recently built.] the territory on which utica is built was originally part of the , acre tract granted in by george ii. to william cosby ( - ), colonial governor of new york in - , and his associates. it was then known as cosby's manor. sir william cosby served originally as colonel in the british army, then, after being governor of minorca and later of the leeward islands, he was sent to new york. before leaving england, he obtained a good deal of money for colonizing expenses, and his refusal to share this with van dam, his predecessor and colleague, gave rise to a law suit between the two which came to nothing but was the cause of much bitterness between cosby and his friends on the one hand, and van dam and the people's party on the other. his administration was turbulent and unpopular. the grant made to cosby was one of a number of colonizing ventures made by the british government during this period. during the seven years' war a palisaded fort was erected on the south bank of the mohawk at the ford where utica later sprang up. it was named ft. schuyler in honor of col. peter schuyler, an uncle of gen. philip schuyler of the continental army. this should not be confused with the fort of the same name at rome which was built later. in order to distinguish the two, the fort at utica is often referred to as old ft. schuyler. the main trail of the iroquois which became later the most used route to the western country, crossed the mohawk here and continued to ft. stanwix, now rome. a branch trail turned slightly to the southwest, then more directly west to oneida castle. cosby's manor was sold at a sheriff's sale for arrears of rent in and was bid in by gen. philip schuyler, gen. john bradstreet, john morin scott and others for £ (about cents an acre). the first bridge across the mohawk at utica was built in . soon after the close of the war of independence, a large number of new settlers arrived, most of them germans from the lower mohawk valley. about there was an influx of new englanders, among whom was peter smith ( - ), later a partner of john jacob astor, and father of gerrit smith, a political and religious radical, who was born here in . after graduating from hamilton college in , gerrit smith ( - ) assumed the management of the vast estate of his father, and greatly increased the family fortune, but he soon turned his attention to reform and philanthropy. he first became an active temperance worker, and then, after seeing an anti-slavery meeting at utica broken up by a mob, took up the cause of abolition. he was one of the leading organizers of the liberty party ( ), and later was nominated for president by various reform parties, notably the free soil party ( & ). he was likewise the candidate of the anti-slavery party for governor of new york in and . in he was elected to congress as an independent, whereupon he issued an address declaring that all men have an equal right to the soil; that wars are brutal and unnecessary; that slavery could not be sanctioned by any constitution, state or federal; that free trade is essential to human brotherhood; that women should have full political rights, and that alcoholic liquors should be prohibited by state and federal enactments. he resigned at the end of his first session and gave away numerous farms of acres each to indigent families; attempted to colonize tracts in northern n.y. with free negroes; assisted fugitive slaves to escape--peterboro, his home village, miles southwest of utica, became a station on the "underground railroad"--and established a nonsectarian church, open to all christians of whatever shade of belief, in peterboro. he was an intimate friend of john brown of osawatomie, to whom he gave a farm in essex county. his total benefactions probably exceeded $ , , . utica is situated on ground rising gradually from the river. there are many fine business and public buildings, especially on genesee st., the principal thoroughfare, and the city is known for the number of its institutions, public and private. it has some fine parks. in the forest hill cemetery are the graves of horatio seymour and roscoe conkling. horatio seymour ( - ) was a member of the n.y. assembly ( - ), mayor of utica ( ) and governor of the state ( - ). in he vetoed a bill prohibiting intoxicating liquors in the state. in - he was again governor and opposed lincoln's policy in respect to emancipation, military arrests and conscription. he was nominated as the democratic presidential candidate against grant in , but carried only eight states. he died at utica at the home of his sister, who was the wife of roscoe conkling. roscoe conkling ( - ) was a lawyer and political leader who attracted attention in public life because of his keenness and eloquence in debate, his aggressive leadership, and his striking personality. he was born in albany and was admitted to the bar at utica in . having joined the republican party at the time of its formation, he served for several years as representative in congress, and in was elected senator from n.y. he labored for the impeachment of president johnson and was one of the senatorial coterie that influenced grant. he was disappointed in his ambition to be nominated for president in , and in he was one of the leaders of the unsuccessful movement to nominate grant for a third presidential term. here also is the famous oneida stone of the oneida indians on which the warriors used to have their ears slit to prepare them for battle, and on which, too, they used to place the scalps of their enemies. the stone was brought here from oneida castle. utica has varied and extensive manufactures ( , employees), with a total annual output of about $ , , . among its products are hosiery and knit goods, cotton goods, men's clothing, foundry products, plumbing and heating apparatus lumber products, food preparation, boots and shoes, and brick, tile and pottery, as well as a number of others. utica is the shipping point for a rich agricultural region, from which are shipped dairy products (especially cheese), nursery products, flowers (especially roses), small fruits and vegetables, honey and hops. we pass on the right, a short distance north of the river, the picturesque deerfield hills, a beginning of the scenic highlands which stretch away towards the adirondack mts. fifteen miles north of utica on west canada creek, are trenton falls,* which descend feet in two miles through a sandstone chasm, in a series of cataracts, some of them having an -foot fall. the falls are reached on the branch line of the new york central leading from utica to the adirondacks. [illustration: north america as it was known in this map was first printed in the first edition of the encyclopædia britannica in . note that all of canada west of hudson's bay (including alaska) and a section of the united states west of lake superior and as far south as the present states of south dakota, wyoming, idaho and oregon were then "parts undiscovered." the central part of the continent was new france, and the extreme southwest was new spain. considering the meagre geographical knowledge of the day, the map was remarkably accurate.] m. oriskany, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a.) the battle of oriskany, an important minor engagement of the revolutionary war, was fought in a little ravine about m. west of oriskany, aug. , . two days before, gen. nicholas herkimer had gathered about militiamen at ft. dayton (on the site of the present city of herkimer) for the relief of ft. schuyler which was being besieged by british and indians under col. barry st. leger and joseph brant. on the th, herkimer's force, on its march to ft. schuyler, was ambushed by a force of british under sir john johnson and indians under joseph brant, in the ravine west of the village. the rear portion of herkimer's troops escaped from the trap, but were pursued by the indians, and many of them were overtaken and killed. between the remainder and the british and indians there was a desperate hand-to-hand conflict, interrupted by a violent thunderstorm, with no quarter shown by either side. about this time a sortie was made from ft. schuyler and the british withdrew, after about americans had been killed and as many taken prisoner. the loss of the british was about the same. gen. herkimer, though his leg had been broken by a shot at the beginning of the action, continued to direct the fighting on the american side, but died on aug. as a result of the clumsy amputation of his leg. before the engagement, gen. herkimer, realizing that the british had a superior force, pleaded for delay, hoping for a signal that the american forces at ft. schuyler were ready to co-operate in the battle. his subordinate officers, however, retorted that they "came to fight, not to see others fight" and finally accused herkimer of being a "tory and a coward." gen. herkimer, thoroughly enraged, gave the order to march. the battle, though indecisive, had an important influence in preventing st. leger from effecting a junction with gen. burgoyne, which would have materially assisted the latter's intention to cut off new england from the rest of the colonies. an obelisk on the hill to the left marks the spot where the battle took place. m. rome. pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a.) the portage at this place, between the mohawk river and wood creek (to the northwest), which are about a mile apart, gave the site its indian name, de-i-wain-sta, "place where canoes are carried from one stream to another," and its earliest english name, "the great (or oneida) carrying place." its location made it of strategic value as a key between the mohawk valley and lake ontario. wood creek flows into oneida lake, and thus formed part of a nearly continuous waterway from the hudson to the great lakes. two primitive forts were built in to protect the carrying place, but these were superseded by ft. stanwix, erected about by gen. john stanwix, at an expense of £ , . the first permanent settlement dates from this time. in oct. and nov. of , sir william johnson and representatives of virginia and pennsylvania met , indians of the six nations here and made a treaty with them, under which, for £ , in money and provisions, they surrendered to the crown their claims to what is now kentucky, west virginia and the western part of pennsylvania. this treaty, the last great act of sir william johnson, probably averted another indian war. great preparations were made for feasting the indians who attended the council. it is said that barrels of flour, barrels of port, barrels of rice and barrels of other provisions were sent to the meeting place. there was a prolonged period of speech making, but the treaty was finally signed on nov. , . one of the features of this treaty was the sale to thomas penn ( - ) and richard penn ( - ), second and third sons of william penn (founder of pa.), of the remaining land in the province of pa., to which they claimed title. this transaction involved £ , of the total payment made to the indians. the fort was immediately dismantled, but was repaired by the continentals after and renamed ft. schuyler, in honor of gen. philip schuyler and so is sometimes confused with old ft. schuyler at utica. the rd regiment of new york line troops under col. peter gansevoort, occupied the fort in . the first u.s. flag made according to the law of june , , was raised over ft. schuyler on aug. rd of that same year, one month before the official announcement by congress of the design of the flag, and was almost immediately used in action. the first fight under the colors was the battle of oriskany in which the soldiers of the fort became involved. the basic idea of the present flag was evolved by a committee composed of george washington, robert morris, and col. george ross with the assistance of betsy ross. the flag made by mrs. ross, though it is sometimes referred to as the first u.s. flag, was actually prepared as a tentative design or pattern for submission to congress. on the th of june, , congress resolved "that the flag of the u.s. be thirteen stripes, alternates red and white, that the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation." this was the original of the national flag. the flag at ft. stanwix was a hasty makeshift put together under direction of col. marinus willet, who found it difficult to obtain materials because the fort was hemmed in by the british. in his diary col. willet relates that "white stripes were cut out of an ammunition shirt; the blue out of a camlet cloak taken from the enemy at peekskill, while the red stripes were made of different pieces of stuff procured from one and another of the garrison." after the war of independence, three commissioners for the u.s. made a new treaty with the chiefs of the six nations at ft. schuyler ( ). in a canal was built across the old portage between wood creek and the mohawk. in the same year the township of rome was formed, receiving its name, says schoolcraft, "from the heroic defence of the republic made here." the country surrounding rome is devoted largely to farming, especially vegetables, gardening and to dairying. among the manufactures are brass and copper products, wire for electrical uses, foundry and machine-shop products, locomotives, knit goods, tin cans and canned goods (especially vegetables). m. oneida, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a.) the city of oneida is comparatively modern, but the village of oneida castle across the river to the south dates back to the time when this was the chief settlement of the oneida indians, who moved here about from the site of what is now stockbridge in the same county. the name oneida is a corruption of the name oneyotka-ono or "people of stone," in allusion to the oneida stone, a granite boulder near oneida castle which was held sacred by this tribe of the iroquois. an early traveler who visited the castle in wrote that the "onyades have but one town, doubly stockaded, of about one hundred houses." the rest of the tribe lived around oneida lake, in the region southward to the susquehanna. they were not loyal to the iroquois league's policy of friendliness to the english, but inclined towards the french, and were practically the only iroquois who fought for the americans in the war of independence. as a consequence they were attacked by others of the iroquois under joseph brant and took refuge within the american settlements till the war ended, when the majority returned to their former home, while some migrated to the thames river district, ontario. early in the th century they sold their lands, and most of them settled on a reservation at green bay, wis., some few remaining in n.y. state. the tribe now numbers more than , , of whom about two-thirds are in wisconsin, a few hundred in n.y. state and about in ontario. they are civilized and prosperous. [illustration: samuel de champlain samuel de champlain ( - ), born at the little port brouage in the bay of biscay, made his first trip to canada in , and five years later established the first white settlement at quebec. in the spring he joined a war party of algonquins and hurons, discovered the great lake that bears his name, and with his arquebus took an important part in the victory which his savage friends obtained over the iroquois. in , with another expedition of indians, he crossed the eastern ends of lakes huron and ontario and made a fierce but unsuccessful attack on an onondaga town near lake oneida. parkman says: "in champlain alone was the life of new france. by instinct and temperament he was more impelled to the adventurous toils of exploration than to the duller task of building colonies. the profits of trade had value in his eyes only as a means to these ends, and settlements were important chiefly as a base of discovery. two great objects eclipsed all others--to find a route to the indies and to bring the heathen tribes into the embrace of the church, since, while he cared little for their bodies, his solicitude for their souls knew no bounds."] the history of the modern city of oneida goes back to , when the present site was purchased by sands higinbotham, who is regarded as the founder of the town and in honor of whom one of the municipal parks is named. in the southeastern part of the city is the headquarters of the oneida community, originally a communistic society but now a business corporation, which controls important industries here, at niagara falls and elsewhere. the oneida community was founded in by john humphrey noyes ( - ), and attracted wide interest because of its pecuniary success and its peculiar religious and social principles. noyes was originally a clergyman, but broke away from orthodox religion to found a sect of his own in putney, vt., where he lived. this sect was known as the "association of perfectionists" and formed the nucleus of the community which noyes later established at oneida. the principles of the new community were based on the idea that true christianity was incompatible with individual property, either in things or in persons. consequently the new community held all its property in common. marriage in the conventional sense of the word was abolished. the community was much interested in the question of race improvement by scientific means, and maintained that at least as much scientific attention should be given to the physical improvement of human beings as is given to the improvement of domestic animals. the members claimed to have solved among themselves the labor question by regarding all kinds of service as equally honorable, and respecting every person in accordance with the development of his character. the members had some peculiarities of dress, mostly confined, however, to the women, whose costumes included a short dress and pantalets, which were appreciated for their convenience if not for their beauty. the women also adopted the practice of wearing short hair, which it was claimed saved time and vanity. tobacco, intoxicants, profanity, obscenity, found no place in the community. the diet consisted largely of vegetables and fruits, while meat, tea and coffee were served only occasionally. for good order and the improvement of the members, the community placed much reliance upon a very peculiar system of plain speaking they termed mutual criticism. under mr. noyes' supervision it became in the oneida community a principal means of discipline and government. the community had its first financial success when it undertook the manufacture of a steel trap invented by one of its members. later the community engaged in a number of other enterprises, both agricultural and manufacturing. in the meantime they were subjected to bitter attacks on account of the radical beliefs of its members, especially regarding marriage. noyes, the founder, recognized that in deference to public opinion it would be necessary to recede from their social principles, and accordingly the community was transformed into a commercial corporation in . among the manufactures of oneida are furniture, silver-plated ware, engines and machinery, pulley, steel vaults and hosiery. about m. to the northwest is oneida lake, a small lake of considerable beauty, m. long and m. wide. syracuse to buffalo m. syracuse, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a.) the syracuse region first became known to europeans through its salt deposits along the shore of onondaga lake which had been discovered and used by the indians. syracuse lies within the ancient tribal headquarters of the onondaga indians, one of the six tribes forming the league of the iroquois. their territory extended northward to lake ontario and southward to the susquehanna river. they were the official guardians of the council fire of the iroquois, and their chief town, near the site of the present onondaga (a few miles south of syracuse) consisted of some houses. this was in the middle of the th century, when the tribe was estimated as numbering between , and , . later the tribe divided, some of them migrating to the catholic iroquois settlements in canada. about onondagas still live on a reservation south of syracuse. although situated in a favorable trading location at the foot of the valley of onondaga creek where the latter joins onondaga lake, no settlement was made here until several years after the close of the war of independence. the first white settler was ephraim webster, who built a trading post near the mouth of the creek in . the village grew slowly. between and a dozen families settled here, and the place received the name of bogardus's corners from the name of the proprietor of a local inn. in order to obtain money for the construction of a public road, the state government, which had assumed control of the salt fields, sold in some acres embracing the district now occupied by syracuse's business centre to abraham walton of albany for $ , --about $ . an acre. the town went under various names--milan, south saline, cossitt's corner, etc.--until when the present name was adopted. in joshua forman bought an interest in the walton tract, had a village plotted and became the "founder" of the city. [illustration: champlain's attack on an iroquois fort (_from champlain's "nouvelle france," _) of this indian fort which stood near lake oneida, champlain says: "their village was enclosed with strong quadruple palisades of large timber, ft. high, interlocked the one with the other, with an interval of not more than half a foot between them; with galleries in the form of parapets, defended with double pieces of timber, proof against our arquebuses, and on one side they had a pond with a never-failing supply of water, from which proceeded a number of gutters which they had laid along the intermediate space, throwing the water without and rendering it effectual inside for extinguishing fire."] several political events of national importance have occurred in syracuse. the free soil movement in n.y. began at the democratic state convention held here in , when the split occurred between the "barnburner" and "hunker", factions of the democratic party. these factions grew out of a dispute over questions involving the erie canal. the "barnburners" were the radical element, determined to oust the "reactionaries" in office no matter at what cost to the party, and were given their name from the old instance of the pennsylvania farmer who burned his barns to get rid of the rats. the "barnburners" opposed the extension of the erie canal and, after , the extension of slavery in the territories. the "hunkers," conservative and influential, were so called from the dutch "honk," which signifies "station" or "home." thus, "honker" or "hunker" meant one who "stayed put," and was opposed to progress. the famous "jerry rescue," manifesting the strong anti-slavery sentiment in syracuse, took place in , following the enactment of the fugitive slave law in . in the winter of - an intelligent slave arrived in syracuse traveling from mississippi to canada. he decided to remain, and after having for a while worked under charles f. williston, a cabinet maker, he opened a little shop of his own. on oct. , , the slave-hunters pounced on him and shut him up in a building then standing on the site of what is now known as the jerry rescue block. when, later in the day he was taken before william h. sabine, the united states commissioner, the room was so crowded that jerry, taking advantage of the fact, succeeded in making a break for freedom. running eastward, he was pursued, captured in a hole near the railway tunnel, and taken back to the police office. by the time evening came, the fever of the mob was high, and democrats and whigs joined in planning the slave's rescue. a crowd gathered and soon upon walls and doors fell the blows of stones, axes, and timbers until the unhappy captors in the police office were concerned not for jerry's retention, but for their own safety. one of them jumped from a window on the north side of the building, and broke his arm in the fall. finally the official who had immediate charge of jerry, pushed him out into the arms of the rescuers, saying: "get out of here, you damned nigger, if you are making all this muss." the slave was safely hidden in the city for ten days, and then driven on the first stage of his journey to canada, where he found at length a haven. the act was in bold defiance of the law, and of the jerry rescue party were indicted, though never convicted. for some years, jerry's rescue was celebrated annually in syracuse. present day syracuse is built on high ground in an amphitheatre of hills surrounding onondaga lake--a beautiful body of clear water m. long and ½ m, wide at its broadest point. james st. in the northeastern part of the city is a fine residence street, and the principal business thoroughfare is saline st. the most noteworthy parks in syracuse are barnet park ( acres) on high land in the western part of the city, and lincoln park, occupying a heavily wooded ridge to the east. syracuse university, with a campus of acres, is situated on the highlands in the southeastern part of the city where it commands a fine view of onondaga lake. the university was opened in , when the faculty and students of genesee college ( ) removed from lima, n.y., to syracuse; one year later the geneva medical college likewise removed to syracuse and became part of the university. the university has a number of excellent buildings and a fine athletic field. it is a co-educational institution under control of the methodist episcopal church. there are about , students. the n.y. state fair, a civic event of considerable importance, takes place yearly (in sept.) in grounds situated on the western border of the city. the "plant" covers acres and there is an excellent race track where famous horses are run. salt works were established in syracuse as early as and the production of salt and sodium derivatives still constitutes an important industry. for many years syracuse was the principal seat of the salt industry in the united states, but the development of salt deposits in other parts of n.y. state and in michigan caused a decline in the onondaga product, though syracuse still produced , , bushels of salt a year. the onondaga deposits were mentioned in the journal of the french jesuit lemoyne in , and before the revolutionary war the indians marketed salt at albany and quebec. in the state undertook, by treaty with the onondaga indians, to care for the salt springs and manage them for the benefit of both the whites and the indians. by another treaty ( ) the state bought the salt lands, covering about sq. m., paying the indians $ , outright, supplemented by an annual payment of $ and bushels of salt. subsequently the state leased the lands, charging at various times a royalty of to ½ cents a bushel. it was stipulated in that the lessees should not sell the product for more than cents a bushel. in , after the royalty had been reduced to cent a bushel, the state ordered the sale of the salt lands because the revenue was less than the expense of keeping up the works. the actual sale, however, did not take place till . annual production reached its highest point in , with , , bushels. the salt deposits supplied the basis for the manufacture of soda-ash, and at the village of solvay, adjoining syracuse on the west, is one of the largest factories for this purpose in the world. besides soda-ash it produces bicarbonate of soda, caustic soda and crystals, the total output being about , tons daily. syracuse ranks among the leading cities of the state in the number and variety of its manufactures. there are establishments employing , workers, with an annual output of the value of about $ , , . the manufacture of typewriters is an important industry (annual production $ , , ). other products include automobiles and accessories, tool steel, candles, farm implements, clothing, chinaware, cement, chemicals and mining machinery. m. palmyra, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : a. eastbound no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a.) the town of palmyra is intimately connected with the early history of the mormons or "church of jesus christ of latter-day saints." joseph smith ( - ), the founder, lived a few miles south of palmyra at the village of manchester near which, in the "hill of cumorah," he said he found the plates of gold upon which was inscribed the book of mormon. smith had the book printed in in palmyra. [illustration: joseph smith preaching (_from an old mormon print_) joseph smith ( - ) early began to gather his proselytes about him, and even succeeded in interesting a few bewildered indians, but the new sect had great difficulties, aggravated, it is said, by the licentiousness of the founder. persecuted in n.y. state, smith sought to found his new jerusalem in ohio, where, however, the natives objected with such definiteness to his way of salvation that he and one of his followers were tarred and feathered in hiram, o. missouri was chosen as the next place of refuge, but here, too, smith's profligacy aroused the hostility of the missourians, which was increased by propaganda among the mormons for a "war of extermination against the gentiles." in illinois, whither many of the "saints" now removed, smith had a revelation approving polygamy, which pleased him very much, but which roused opposition among his followers as well as his persecutors. in he and his brother hyrum were arrested on a charge of treason in the town of nauvoo which they had founded and imprisoned at carthage. on the night of june , a mob, with the collusion of the militia guard, broke into the jail and shot the two men dead. in the meantime there had arisen a leader of considerable genius, brigham young ( - ), who probably saved the sect from dissolution, and led them to salt lake city in .] joseph smith was born at sharon, vt., dec. , , from which place in his parents removed to n.y. state, settling first near palmyra and later at manchester. both his parents and grandparents were superstitious, neurotic, seers of visions, and believers in miraculous cures, heavenly voices and direct revelation. the boy's father was a digger for hidden treasure, and used a divining rod to find the proper place to dig wells. he taught his son crystal gazing and the use of the "peepstone" to discover hidden treasure. young joseph was good-natured and lazy. early in life he began to have visions which were accompanied by epileptic "seizures." one night in , according to his story, the angel moroni appeared to him three times, and told him that the bible of the western continent, the supplement to the new testament, was buried on a hill called cumorah, now commonly known as mormon hill. it was not until , however, that he discovered this new bible. smith's story was that on the nd of september of that year, he dug up on the hill near manchester a stone box in which was a volume inches thick made of thin gold plates, inches by inches, fastened together by three gold rings. the plates were covered with small writing in characters of the "reformed egyptian tongue." with the golden book smith claimed he found a breastplate of gold and a pair of supernatural spectacles, consisting of two crystals set in a silver bow, by the aid of which he could read the mystic characters. being himself unable to read or write fluently, smith dictated a translation of the book from behind a screen. soon afterwards, according to smith, the plates were taken away by the angel moroni. m. rochester, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a.) rochester is built around the falls of the genesee river, about m. above the place where the river empties into lake ontario. [illustration: rochester in settlers from new england made a clearing at the site of rochester about , but growth was slow until the railroad--now the new york central--was built connecting it with albany and buffalo.] the genesee river rises in pennsylvania and flows nearly miles in a northerly direction through western new york. within a distance of m. between rochester and lake ontario the river has a fall of ft. the principal falls consist of three cataracts, , and ft., respectively. the banks of the first fall, which is in the heart of the city, rise to a height of ft. above the river. the river, in fact, cuts through the center of the city in a deep gorge, the banks of which vary in height from to ft. the genesee valley south of rochester is a very fertile and beautiful stretch of country where the river flows between meadows that rise gradually to high hills. the appearance of the country here, with its immense pasture-land dotted with oak and elm, is distinctly english. besides being exceedingly productive both for crops and pasturage, the genesee valley is famous as riding country, although the hunting interest has of late somewhat waned. but foxes are still found, and the flats along the river give wonderful opportunities for the chase. the modern city, however, has spread north until it now embraces the large village of charlotte on the western side of the mouth of the river. the region about rochester was visited about by jesuit missionaries who worked among the seneca indians in the neighborhood, and in the marquis de denonville fought a battle with the iroquois near the falls. the senecas were members of the league of the iroquois and eventually became one of the most important tribes of that league. their territory lay between the seneca lake and the genesee river and they were the official guardians of the league's western frontier. at the height of their power they extended their range to the country west of lake erie and south along the alleghany river to pennsylvania they fought on the english side in the war of independence. about , are now on reservations in new york state. jacques rené de bresay, marquis of denonville, succeeded la barre, who succeeded frontenac, as governor of canada in . la barre, an inefficient leader against the insurgent iroquois, held the administration for only one year. denonville was of great courage and ability, but in his campaign against the indians treated them so cruelly that they were angered, not intimidated. the terrible massacre of the french by the iroquois at lachine, quebec, in , must be regarded as one of the results of his expedition. in he built fort denonville, which was abandoned during the following year when an epidemic wiped out its garrison. although by the french had established a post on irondequoit bay not far from the mouth of the genesee, it was not until ebenezer allan (called "indian allan") built a small saw and grist mill near the falls that a settlement began to grow up. in three maryland proprietors, charles carroll, william fitzhugh and nathaniel rochester acquired a large tract of land which included the site of the present city. rochester, from whom the city took its name, established a settlement, largely of new englanders, at the falls in - , but growth was slow, as it was not at that time on the direct road between albany and buffalo, and the region was malarial. nathaniel rochester ( - ) was a native of virginia. he had been a manufacturer of hagerstown, md., and after settling in rochester in was elected to the n.y. assembly ( ). the completion of the rochester and lockport section of the erie canal gave rochester the impetus which made it a city, and the building of the railroad a few years later placed it on the direct route between the hudson and lake erie. the course of the old erie canal lay through the heart of the city. it crossed the genesee river by means of an aqueduct of seven arches, ft. long, with a channel ft. wide. the aqueduct cost $ , . the new barge canal passes through the city about three miles south of the old canal, and has a harbor in connection with the genesee river, which is dammed for that purpose. rochester, between and , was the centre of the anti-masonic movement and here thurlow weed published his _anti-masonic enquirer_. the anti-masonic party arose after the disappearance in of william morgan ( - ), a freemason of batavia, n.y., who had become dissatisfied with the order and had planned to publish its secrets. when his purpose became known, morgan was subjected to frequent annoyances, and finally in september, , he was seized and conveyed by stealth to ft. niagara, where he disappeared. his ultimate fate was never known, though it was believed at the time that he had been murdered. the event created great excitement, and furnished the occasion for the formation of a new party in n.y. this new party was in fact a rehabilitation of the adams wing of the democratic-republican party, a feeble organization, into which shrewd political leaders breathed new life by utilizing the anti-masonic feeling. the party spread into other middle states and into new england; in the n.y. leaders tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade henry clay, though a mason, to renounce the order and become the party's candidate for president. in the anti-masons nominated william wirt of maryland, and in the election they secured the seven electoral votes of vermont. in the following year the organization grew moribund, most of its members joining the whigs. its last act in national politics was to nominate william henry harrison for president in nov. . subsequently, rochester became the centre of the abolitionist movement in new york state and for many years before the civil war it was a busy station on the "underground railroad," by which fugitive slaves were assisted in escaping to canada. the fervor of the movement gave prominence to frederick douglass ( - ), the mulatto orator and editor, who established a newspaper in rochester in , and to whom a monument has been erected near the approach of the new york central station. the city was a gathering place for suffragists from the time when susan b. anthony settled here in . susan brownell anthony ( - ), born at adams, mass., was the daughter of quaker parents. her family moved to n.y. state where, from the time she was until she was , she taught school. she took a prominent part in the anti-slavery and temperance movements in new york, and after devoted herself almost exclusively to the agitation for women's rights. she was vice-president-at-large of the national women's suffragist association from - , when she became president. she was arrested and fined $ (which she never paid) for casting a vote at the presidential election in . she contended that the th amendment entitled her to vote, and when she told the court she would not pay her fine, the judge simply let her go. the case created much comment. in rochester also lived the famous fox sisters, margaret ( - ) and katharine, whose spiritualistic "demonstrations" became known in as the "rochester rappings." the city has been a centre for american spiritualists ever since. [illustration: kate fox (_from a daguerreotype_) the demonstrations of the famous fox sisters began in the following way: in the fox family moved to a house near rochester believed to be haunted, from which tenant after tenant had moved out, alarmed by mysterious rappings. the foxes did not hear these sounds until , and then kate, hardly more than a child, began questioning the rappings, and having opened what seemed to be intelligent communication, suggested the use of the alphabet. that was the beginning of what spiritualists call the "science of materialization." the exhibitions consisted of the usual phenomena, table turning, spirit rapping and the moving of large bodies by invisible means. the two young women gave public séances throughout the country, arousing an interest that spread to england. in margaret made a confession of imposture which she later retracted. claiming to be the wife of dr. elisha kent kane, the arctic explorer, she published a book of his letters under the "love life of dr. kane." he had met her between voyages of exploration, fallen in love with her, and in one of the published letters addressed her as "my wife," but even she admits that there never was a formal wedding. he died at havana in .] modern spiritualism is generally dated from the "demonstrations" produced by the fox sisters. these exhibitions consisted of the usual spiritualistic phenomena: table turning, spirit rapping and the moving of large bodies by invisible means. the sisters gave public séances through the country, and interest in spiritualism spread to england. in margaret made a confession of imposture, which she later retracted. she claimed to be the wife of dr. elisha kent kane, the arctic explorer, and published a book of his letters under the title of the "love life of dr. kane." kane had begun his career as an explorer when he was appointed surgeon and naturalist for the grinnell expedition in , which set out to search for sir john franklin, who was lost somewhere in the north. after spending fruitless months of search, they returned, but kane fitted out a new expedition of which he was given command, and spent two winters in polar exploration and collection of scientific data. the voyage lasted years and brought him fame. it was between these voyages that he met margaret fox, and in one of the published letters he addressed her as "my wife," though there seems never to have been a formal wedding. he died in at havana. rochester is an attractive city, with a park system comprising , acres. the largest parks are the durand-eastman, the genesee valley, seneca, maplewood and highland. the durand-eastman park occupies a beautiful tract of wooded ground on lake ontario. the university of rochester, founded as a baptist institution, but now non-sectarian, occupies a tract of acres on university ave. in the eastern part of the city. notable men who have been connected with the university include henry augustus ward, professor of natural history from to ; martin brewer anderson, president from to , and david jayne hill, president from to . david jayne hill was born at plainfield, n.j., june , . after obtaining his first degree at the university of bucknell, pa., he studied for his a.m. in berlin and paris. he was president of the university of rochester from to , then spent years in the study of the public law of europe. as one peculiarly fitted by education and training for a diplomatic career, he was minister first to switzerland ( - ), then to the netherlands ( ) and from to ambassador to germany. his numerous writings cover a wide field in biography, rhetoric, diplomacy, history and philosophy. [illustration: falls of the genesee river at rochester about (_from a print in the n.y. public library_) for many years rochester was the most important flour milling centre in the country, owing to the valuable water power furnished by the falls and the fertility of the wheat fields of the genesee valley.] rochester theological seminary prepares students for the ministry of the baptist church, and has no organic connection with the university. the mechanics' institute, founded in by henry lomb of the bausch-lomb optical co., is an unusually successful school of trades and handicrafts. it occupies a large building, the gift of george eastman of the eastman kodak co. for many years rochester was the most important flour milling centre in the country, owing to the valuable water furnished by the falls and the fertility of the wheat fields of the genesee valley. flour milling is no longer so important an industry here--minneapolis having taken first rank in this respect--but rochester ranks high among the great manufacturing cities of the country. its total output is valued at more than $ , , annually. it leads the world in the manufacture of cameras, lenses, and photographic materials, and it is one of the principal cities of the country in the distribution of seeds, bulbs and plants, and in the manufacture of clothing and shoes. other important products are machinery of various kinds, lubricating oil, candied fruits, syrups and confectionery clothing, tobacco and cigars, enameled tanks and filing devices. m. batavia, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a.) batavia, situated on tonawanda creek, was laid out in by joseph ellicott ( - ), the engineer who had been engaged in surveying the land known as the "holland purchase" of which batavia was a part. the so-called "holland purchase" comprised nearly all the land in western n.y. west of the genesee river. its history is associated with robert morris ( - ), the revolutionary merchant and banker whose financial assistance had been invaluable to the colonies during the war of independence. morris acquired the holland purchase from the indians in , after having obtained permission from the state of mass. which then claimed sovereignty over this territory. the following year, however, he began to be involved in financial misfortunes and was compelled to sell this property to a group of dutch capitalists, who undertook to dispose of the land to settlers. it thus became known as the holland purchase, and the holland land office in batavia was one of the centers from which the operations of the dutch land company were directed. the slow development of morris's other property and the failure of a london bank in which he had funds invested, finally drove him into bankruptcy, and he was confined in a debtor's prison for more than three years ( - ). the old holland land office was dedicated as a memorial to robert morris in . here lived william morgan whose supposed murder in by freemasons led to the organization of the anti-masonic party. batavia was the home of dean richmond ( - ), a capitalist, successful shipper and wholesale dealer in farm produce, who became vice-president ( - ) and later president ( - ) of the new york central lines. he was likewise a prominent leader of the democratic party in n.y. state. in his widow, mary e. richmond, erected here in memory of a son a library which contains about , volumes. among the education institutions here are the n.y. state school for the blind and st. joseph's academy (roman catholic). the historical museum in the old holland land office* contains a good collection of early state relics. the two old guns in front were cast in the n.y. state arsenal, which manufactured arms for use in the war of . among the manufactures are harvesters, ploughs, threshers and other agricultural implements, firearms, rubber tires, shoes, shell goods, paper-boxes, and inside woodwork. we now approach buffalo, beyond which our route closely parallels lake erie. we thus get our first view of one of america's great inland seas in this part of the route, although at certain points between syracuse and buffalo (notably at rochester) our train has passed only a few miles south of lake ontario. the five great lakes--superior, michigan, huron, erie and ontario--lie between the u.s. and canada and form the headwaters of the st. lawrence river system. they cover an area of , sq. m. the great lakes date back to glacial period or before, but it is probable that a "warping" of the earth's crust and a consequent reversal of drainage areas have been among the most potent causes of the formation of these great inland seas. some of the most salient facts about the great lakes are given in the following table: the great lakes superior michigan huron erie ontario greatest length (m.) greatest breadth (m.) deepest soundings (ft.) , area (sq. m.) , , , , , above sea level (ft.) u.s. shore line (m.) , the population of the states and provinces bordering on the great lakes is estimated to be , , or more. in pennsylvania and ohio, south of lake erie, there are large coal fields. surrounding lake michigan and west of lake superior are vast grain growing plains, and the prairies of the canadian northwest are constantly increasing the area and quantity of wheat grown; while both north and south of lake superior are the most extensive iron mines in the world, from which approximately , , tons of ore are shipped annually. the great lakes provide a natural highway for the shipment of all these products. buffalo to cleveland m. buffalo, pop. , . (train arrives : p; no. , passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a.) french trappers and jesuit missionaries were the first white men to visit the site of buffalo, and near here, on the east bank of the niagara river at the mouth of cayuga creek, la salle in built the "griffin," with which he sailed up the great lakes to green bay, wis. he also built ft. conti at the mouth of the river, but this was burned in the following year. seven years later the marquis of denonville in behalf of the french built here another fort, the predecessor of the various fortifications in this locality which were subsequently called ft. niagara. [illustration: port of buffalo on lake erie, ] although the neighborhood was the scene of various operations during the war of independence, not a single white settler was living on the site of the present city when the federal constitution was adopted in , and the town was not laid out till after the second presidency of washington. in joseph ellicott, sometimes called the "father of buffalo," plotted the site for a town, calling it new amsterdam but the name of buffalo creek or buffalo proved more popular. ellicott was the agent of a group of dutch capitalists called the holland land co., who purchased a large tract of land for speculative purposes in the neighborhood of buffalo ( ). at an early period ( ) the present site of the city of buffalo had come to be known as the "buffalo creek region," either from the herds of buffalo or bison, which, according to indian tradition, had frequented the salt licks of the creek, or more probably for some indian chief. during the war of buffalo was a frontier town, and, owing to its position on lake erie, very close to an important theater of operations. the first gun of the war is said to have been fired on aug. , by a battery at black rock, then a rival, now a suburb of buffalo, and shortly afterwards british soldiers from the canadian garrison at ft. erie (directly across the niagara river from buffalo) made a raid into buffalo harbour and captured the schooner "connecticut." the americans replied with a brilliant exploit in which lieut. jesse d. elliott ( - ) crossed the river and captured the "detroit" and the "caledonia" under the guns of ft. erie. the ruins of ft. erie are among the most picturesque features of the region about buffalo. the fort was captured in by an american force under gen. winfield scott, and was held by the americans till the end of the war, despite the efforts of a british besieging force to dislodge them. at the close of hostilities the americans blew up the fort. in the following spring ( ) five of the gunboats used by capt. perry at the battle of lake erie were fitted out in the harbour at buffalo. perry's victory, however, did not save the little settlement from an attack in dec. of that year in which gen. sir phineas riall and a force of , british and indians captured the town and almost completely destroyed it. after the war the town was rebuilt, and grew rapidly. in , near where la salle in built his little sailing vessel, the "griffin," a group of n.y. capitalists completed the "walk-in-the-water," the first steamboat on the great lakes. the completion of the erie canal, seven years later, with buffalo as its western terminus, greatly increased the city's importance. at buffalo in met the free soil convention that nominated martin van buren for the presidency and charles francis adams for the vice-presidency. grover cleveland lived in buffalo from until , when he was elected president. stephen grover cleveland ( - ) was born, fifth in a family of nine children, in the town of caldwell, essex county, n.j. he came of good colonial stock, but the death of his father prevented his receiving a college education. about he drifted westward with $ in his pocket, and not long afterward began to read law in a law office in buffalo, where he was admitted to the bar in . he was assistant district attorney of erie county, of which buffalo is the chief city, in , was elected sheriff on the democratic ticket in , and mayor of buffalo in , although the city was normally republican. as mayor he attracted wide attention by his independence and business-like methods--qualities which distinguished his entire career. after his election as governor in the following year, the democratic party chose him as their candidate against james g. blaine. he was the first democrat to be elected president for years. his administration was marked by firmness and justice; he stood staunchly by the new civil service law, and during his first term vetoed bills, more than two-thirds of which were private pension bills. he vigorously attacked the high tariff laws then in effect, but the administration tariff bill was blocked by his republican opponents. in cleveland was defeated for re-election by benjamin harrison, but in he was again nominated and defeated president harrison by a large majority. the most important event of his second administration was the repeal of the silver legislation which had been a growing menace for years. the panic of was accompanied by an outbreak of labor troubles, the most serious of which was the pullman strike at chicago ( ). when gov. altgeld of illinois failed to act, president cleveland sent troops to chicago to clear the way for mail trains, and the strike was settled within a week. he also acted decisively in the venezuela affair, with the result that great britain agreed to arbitrate on terms which safeguarded the national dignity on both sides. at the end of his term, cleveland retired to princeton, n.j. the pan-american exposition in celebration of the progress of the western hemisphere in the th century, was held here may -nov. , . it was during a reception in the temple of music on the exposition grounds that president mckinley was assassinated on sept. . he died at the home of john a. milburn, the president of the exposition. president mckinley's assassin was leon czolgosz, a young man of polish parentage, who shot the president with a revolver at close range. for a while it was thought that the president would recover, but he collapsed and died on sept. , . czolgosz professed to belong to the school of anarchists who believe in violence. he was executed in october, . buffalo today has broad and spacious streets and a park system ( , acres) of unusual beauty. the largest park is delaware park ( acres), on the north side of the city. this park is adjoined on the south by the forest lawn cemetery which contains monuments to millard fillmore and the indian chief "red jacket." millard fillmore ( - ), th president of the u.s., was born in east aurora, a little village m. from buffalo, and practiced law in buffalo. he served several terms as member of congress and in was elected vice-president on the whig ticket, with zachery taylor as president. president taylor died july , , and on the next day fillmore took the oath of office as his successor. he favored the "compromise measures," designed to pacify the south, and signed the fugitive slave law. in he was an unsuccessful candidate for nomination for the presidency at the whig national convention. red jacket ( - ) was a famous seneca chief and friend of the whites. he was faithful to the whites when approached by tecumseh and the "prophet" in their scheme to combine all of the indians from canada to florida in a great confederacy. in the war of , he assisted the americans. by many he was considered the greatest orator of his race. to the west of the park are the grounds of the buffalo state hospital for the insane. overlooking the lake on a cliff ft. high, is the park known as "the front," the site of ft. porter, which has a garrison of u.s. soldiers. the university of buffalo, organized in , has about , students and comprises schools of medicine, law, dentistry and pharmacy. other educational institutions of buffalo are the canisius college, a roman catholic (jesuit) institution for men, and the martin luther seminary, a theological seminary of the evangelical lutheran church. buffalo has several fine public buildings, including the albright art gallery (white marble), the buffalo historical society building (in delaware park), the public library (valued at $ , , ), and the city hall and county building ($ , , ). since buffalo has been under the commission form of government. almost equidistant from chicago and n.y.c., the city of buffalo, by reason of its favorable location in respect to lake transportation and its position on the principal northern trade route between the east and the west, has become one of the important commercial and industrial centres in the union. originally, the harbour was only the shallow mouth of the buffalo river, but it has been greatly enlarged and improved by extensive federal work. the welland canal, about m. west of buffalo, connects lake erie with the st. lawrence river. the annual tonnage of the port of buffalo is upwards of , , tons. the total export trade is close to $ , , . besides being the first port in the country in handling horses, sheep, cattle and hogs, it receives immense quantities of lumber, pig iron and ore and has more than a score of huge grain elevators with a capacity of about , , bushels. in the manufacturing field it has two great advantages: a supply of natural gas and almost unlimited electric power from niagara falls. its total annual output is valued at approximately $ , , , and its manufactures include meat packing, foundry and machine shop products, flour, steel, linseed oil, railroad cars, clothing, chemicals, furniture, automobiles, jewelry, confectionery and tobacco. buffalo is connected with the canadian shore by ferry and by the international bridge, completed in at a cost of $ , , . niagara falls, while it is not on the main route to chicago is best reached from buffalo, from which it is only miles distant, and travellers so easily can stop over to make the little side trip that it is virtually a part of the journey westward. [illustration: the fall of niagara in the province of new york. a colonial print ( ) in the n.y. public library] niagara falls. of the seven natural wonders of the american world, which are given as yellowstone park, garden of the gods, mammoth cave, niagara falls, the natural bridge, yosemite valley, and the giant trees of california, by far the greatest spectacle is niagara. the name means "thunder of the waters," and was given by the early indians who regarded the falls with a quite comprehensible religious awe. today there are more than a million and a half visitors annually. probably the first white man to discover the falls was etienne brulé, an associate and trusted comrade of champlain; but the first chronicler and the man to whom honour of discovery is usually given, is father hennepin, founder of the monastery at ft. frontenac in quebec, who in joined la salle's mississippi expedition, and pushing on a few days journey ahead of his commander, came upon the wonderful waters described in his _louisiane nouvelle_ ( ). the french built some trading posts here and their influence prevailed until , when the british, driving the french northward overthrew their fortifications and took possession of the land. when the revolution broke out some years later, the indians, terrible and unscrupulous wagers of guerilla warfare, fought on the british side. the niagara river, upon which the falls are situated, m. from its head in lake erie, and m. from its mouth in lake ontario, forms the outlet of four of the five great lakes (erie, huron, michigan and superior). it descends about ft. in its course of m. about m. from lake erie the river narrows and the rapids begin. in the last three quarters of a mile above the falls, the water descends ft. and the velocity is enormous. the basin of the falls has a depth of from to ft. during cold winters the spray covers the grass and trees in the park along the cliff with a delicate veneer of ice, while below the falls it is tossed up and frozen into a solid arch. adjoining the left (canadian) bank is the greater division, horseshoe fall, ft. high and curving to a breadth of , ft. the american fall, adjoining the right bank, is ft. high and about , ft. broad. in recognition of their æsthetic value the province of ontario and the state of new york have reserved the adjacent land as public parks. in the midst of the rapids lies a little group of islands, among them the famous goat island. besides the wonderful view it affords, its western end gives a unique example of absolutely virgin forest. the indians used to fish and hunt, crossing the rapids on foot and supporting their steps with tall wooden poles spiked with iron. the necessity, on one occasion, of saving two marooned comrades on the island, taught them this means of crossing, which they had never before attempted. the niagara river runs half its length on an upper plain, then drops at the falls into a narrow gorge through which it courses seven miles to the escarpment, the crest of which is a bed of limestone-- ft. thick at the falls. the water plunges into a deep basin hollowed out of soft shale, which, as well as the escarpment, is being constantly worn away. the site of the cataract retreats upstream and the gorge is lengthened at a rate of about five ft. a year. it is evident that the whole gorge has been dug out by the river, and many attempts have been made to determine the time consumed in the work. the solution of the problem would aid in establishing a relation between the periods and ages of geologic time and the centuries of human chronology. the horseshoe fall wore its cliff back ft. in about years. geologists have computed , years as a lower limit for plausible estimates of the river, but have been able to set no upper limit. the canadian and american shores are connected by three bridges, one of which a suspension carrying all classes of traffic, is , ft. long. the flow of water in the river averages , cubic ft. per second, though it sometimes falls as low as , cubic ft. on march , , niagara ran dry, and persons walked in the rocky channel bed of the american rapids between goat island and the mainland. this phenomenon, never known before or since, was due to these facts. lake erie was full of floating ice flowing to its outlet, the source of niagara river. during the previous afternoon a heavy northeast wind had driven the ice back into the lake, and during the night the wind, suddenly veering, blew a gale from the west which forced the ice floe sharply into a mass in the narrow channel of the river, where it froze. thus, when the water on the lower side of the barrier drained off, the niagara river and the american fall were dry, and the canadian fall a mere trickle. this extraordinary condition lasted for a whole day. thus the descent of this stream at the falls and in the rapids just above them gives in theory a water-power of nearly , , lip., three-fourths of which is estimated as available. this maximum could be obtained only by sacrificing the beauty of the falls--in fact diverting the river from its channel so that the cataract as a scenic feature would be destroyed. to combat this commercial vandalism an association for the protection of the falls has been formed. there were before several companies with power-producing plants, the largest of which was the niagara falls hydraulic power and manufacturing company. this company had made an extensive beginning in utilization of the water fall by a tunnel ft. deep and ft. wide, passing about ft.. below the surface of the city from a point ¼ m. above the falls to the upper steel arch bridge. in , when added power was needed for the more rapid production of war materials, the various companies consolidated with the niagara falls power company. in may of that year the intake from the niagara river and the hydraulic canal were deepened, and three hydro-electric units--the largest in the world today--were installed, with the result that an extension of , hp. was developed, making the total of the station , hp. m. dunkirk, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : a; no. , : a.) dunkirk, settled about , has a fine harbour and extensive lake trade, and lies, moreover, in fertile agricultural and grape-growing country. the property of the town, assessed at $ , , is chiefly in factories producing locomotives, radiators and other steel and iron products, wagons, silk gloves, and concrete blocks. there are several pleasant parks, of which gratiot and washington are the largest. brocton ( m.) and westfield ( m.) are junctions for travellers bound for chautauqua (about m. south of brocton on chautauqua lake), the principal seat of the chautauqua educational movement. the chautauqua movement, instituted more than years ago in the west, has here its largest station. each summer , or , people from all over the country assemble here to take courses in a great variety of subjects, from italian primitivism to camp cookery. chautauqua makes its chief appeal, perhaps, to the middle-aged and elderly who in their youth were working too hard to have had any opportunities for study. just beyond ripley ( m.) we cross the state line into pennsylvania. m. erie, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a. eastbound no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : a; no. , : a.) erie stands on the site of the old french fort presque isle, built in and surrounded by a village of a few hundred inhabitants. although washington protested on behalf of the governor of va. against the french occupation of this territory, it remained in french hands until when an epidemic of small-pox broke out, making the fort untenable. two years later the british seized it, and three years after the indians, rising against their white rulers in the conspiracy of pontiac, took possession. in the british recaptured the fort and kept it until , when it passed into the possession of the u.s. gen. anthony wayne, who was given the task of occupying the lake posts delivered up by the english, came here soon after to negotiate the famous treaty of greenville with the indians in . he died in at erie. [illustration: old block house at erie (from a painting by dr. thomas b. stuart) certain hostile tribes in northwest of ohio who had defeated gen. st. clair in , sent away in scorn a mission asking permission for white men to settle beyond the ohio ( ). wayne, angry at this insolence, gathered together some troops of the recently organized american army and after having given the indians one more chance of a peaceable settlement, defeated them thoroughly in the battle of fallen timbers, miles north of cincinnati. by the resulting treaty of greenville, he opened up the northwest to civilization.] in spite of the necessary severity of the punishment meted out to the indians by the new government through the agency of wayne, no part of washington's administration, domestic or foreign, was more original or more benign than the policy he constantly urged toward them. to save them from the frauds of traders a national system of trade was adopted, and a number of laws were passed to protect them from the aggressions of borderers, as well as to secure them in the rights allowed them in their treaties. the battle of lake erie ( ) was closely associated with the city. here were perry's headquarters during the war of , and here he built in less than six months many of the vessels with which he won his naval victory over the british. erie is now an important manufacturing centre, the products of which are valued at between $ , , and $ , , . a large branch of the general electric co. is here, besides important factories for flour and grist mill products, paper and wood pulp, organs, petroleum, etc. the leading articles of shipment are lumber, coal, grain and iron ore. over , ships a year enter and clear the broad, landlocked harbour. on a bluff overlooking lake and city, is the state soldiers' and sailors' home, and nearby, a monument to gen. wayne. between springfield ( m.) and conneaut we cross the state line into ohio. m. conneaut, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : a; no. , : a.) the first permanent settlement was made here in though a preliminary surveying party composed of moses cleaveland, the founder of the city of cleveland, and associates, two of whom were women, had arrived in and found or cabins of the massauga tribe. in his journal cleaveland gives a description of the arrival here, "on the creek conneaugh, in new connecticut land," july , . "we gave three cheers," he continues, "and christened the place ft. independence, and, after many difficulties, perplexities and hardships were surmounted and we were on the good and promised land, felt that a just tribute of respect to the day ought to be paid. there were in all, including women and children, in number. the men under capt. tinker, ranged themselves on the beach and fired a federal salute of rounds, and then the th in honor of new conn. drank several toasts. closed with three cheers. drank several pints of grog. supped and returned in good order." after the whites had established themselves, the indians were driven out for having murdered a settler. the country of ashtabula in which conneaut stands was not only the first settled on the western reserve, but the first in northern ohio, and the town is sometimes called the "plymouth" of the western reserve. conneaut, which means in the seneca language "many fish," is built at the mouth of conneaut creek in what is now a thriving agricultural and dairying region on lake erie. besides being an excellent harbour to which coal and ore are shipped, the city has flour and planing mills, tanneries, canneries, and other factories. m. ashtabula, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : a; no. , : a.) settlers were attracted to the site of the present town of ashtabula (an indian word said to mean "fish river") in by the excellent harbour here, formed by the mouth of the ashtabula river. the city is built on the high bank of the river about ft. above the lake and commands some fine views. there are large green-houses under glass from which forced fruit and vegetables are shipped to pittsburgh and other large cities. it is the centre of a prosperous agricultural and dairying region which has been largely settled by finns. ashtabula is one of the most important ports in america for the shipment of iron ore and coal. iron ore especially, is brought here in enormous quantities by boat and trans-shipped to pittsburgh. the shipyards and drydocks in the harbour, and the huge machines for loading coal and unloading ore are of great interest. the city has large manufactories of leather, worsted goods, agricultural implements, foundry and machine shop products; and the total value of its output is close to $ , , annually. m. geneva, pop. , . (train passes, : p; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : a; no. , : a.) geneva is built close to the site of the early indian village kanadasaga, burnt in . in that year gen. sullivan was despatched at the head of an expedition against the indians of western n.y., who had taken up arms for the british and had been guilty of the terrible wyoming and cherry valley massacres. kanadasaga was one of the indian "council hearths" destroyed, and tribes in this region were driven westward, never to recover their old power. in addition to the lake, there are good mineral springs. according to duncan ingraham, a massachusetts traveller who wrote an account of a journey in , the town then consisted "of about log houses, three or four frame buildings, and as many idle persons as can live in them." some of these old houses along the main street are of pure colonial type, and really beautiful. hobart college, founded , is situated here. malt, tinware, flour, stoves, wall-paper, etc., are manufactured, and there are also extensive nurseries. m. painesville, pop. , . (train passes, : p; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : a; no. , : a.) painesville was founded in by settlers from conn. and n.y., the chief among whom was gen. edward paine ( - ), an ex-officer of the continental army. it contains one of the early women's colleges of the country--lake erie college, founded in as the successor to willoughby seminary at willoughby, ohio, the buildings of which were burned in . the history of this part of the state includes early episodes of mormonism. in painesville was published a book by e.d. howe purporting to show that "the historical p(art?) of the book of mormon" was plagiarized from a romance called _the manuscript found_ written by solomon spalding of conneaut (about ). this claim has not been fully verified by later research. nine miles southwest of painesville at kirtland was (one?) of the early settlements made by joseph smith and his mormon followers. they built here a $ , temple (still standing), a teacher's seminary and a bank. the bank failed and smith had to leave the state to avoid the sheriff. most of his disciples followed him to missouri. at mentor (which we now pass m. west of painesville) lived sidney rigdon, who later became one of the mormon leaders. rigdon ( - ) began his preaching career as a baptist, then helped in establishing a society called the "reformers," and before being converted to mormonism was pastor of a church in mentor. he became a mormon leader, and published a new translation of the bible, with inserted prophecies of the coming of joseph smith. with hyrum and joseph smith and brigham young, he moved westward in preaching, being "persecuted" and establishing an occasional temple. at far west, a town in missouri where the mormons established themselves in , rigdon preached his "salt sermon," from the matt. v. , urging his hearer to wage a "war of extermination" against all who disturbed them. following his advice, the mormons involved themselves in such broils with the "gentiles" that the state militia was called out against them. smith and rigdon were arrested, but the former escaped custody and with , followers, fled to illinois. when the latter was freed, he joined the "saints" in the city of nauvoo which they had founded and was made a professor at their university. after smith's arrest and murder by a mob in and the breaking up of nauvoo, rigdon disputed with young for smith's place. not only failing to secure it, but being in addition tried for treason in wanting it, the disciple of mormon returned to the east and spent his last days at friendship, n.y. howe, in the book mentioned above, asserted that sidney rigdon was the original "author and proprietor of the mormon conspiracy." near mentor, also is lawnfield, the former home of james a. garfield. james abram garfield ( - ), th president of the u.s., was born in a log cabin at orange, ohio, and began life as a farm hand. he attended for a time the western reserve eclectic institute, afterwards hiram college, finally entering williams college from which he graduated, becoming a teacher of ancient languages and literature. entering politics as a republican, he was elected to the ohio senate in . his civil war record was striking, and he was made major-general for gallantry at the battle of chickamauga. he was elected to congress in , where he attracted attention as a hard worker and ready speaker, and where later he became leader of the republican party in the house. he was an advocate of drastic measures against the south and considered lincoln's policies too lenient. at the presidential convention of the republican party in , he was nominated on the th ballot as a compromise candidate, and in the same year was elected president. on the d of july, , while on his way to attend commencement exercises at williams college, he was shot by charles g. giteau, a disappointed office seeker who waylaid him in the washington railroad station. he died sept. , , at elberon, n.j. cleveland to chicago m. cleveland, pop. , . (train passes : p; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : a.) [illustration: city of cleveland from reservoir walk ( )] a trading post was established on the present site of cleveland as early as and ten years later capt. moses cleaveland, leader of a small band of pioneers and agent of the connecticut land co., surveyed the ground and planted the nucleus of the present thriving city--now fifth in size in the country. capt. cleaveland, in travelling from connecticut into the northwest, followed closely the present route of the new york central lines, crossing n.y. state to buffalo and then from buffalo along the shore of lake erie. at that time the southern shore of lake erie was part of the famous western reserve territory, consisting of , , acres of land, certain parts of which connecticut ceded to her citizens as compensation for their losses from "fire and damage" at the hands of the british during the revolutionary war. these lands were sometimes known as "fire lands." the western reserve was a part of the territory immediately west of the pennsylvania line, and extending westward therefrom m. connecticut held and "reserved" this territory to herself in , when she ceded to the general government all her rights and claims to the other lands in the west. later conn. ceded the reserve itself, but not before she had sold much of it to the conn. land co., and the latter had begun the sale and disposition of all the lands so acquired, east of the cuyahoga river. until after no lands west of that river were open to entrance or survey, and settlers ventured there at their own risk. this was the indian boundary line, established in , and beyond it the aborigines had exclusive right of occupancy. it was for the purpose of surveying and developing these lands that capt. cleaveland undertook his expeditions into the western reserve. the first of these expeditions ( ) was composed of men, women and children who arrived at ft. independence (now conneaut) on lake erie, july , . pushing on further, they arrived at the present site of cleveland, and in a few days the first log cabin was erected at the mouth of the cuyahoga river. to keep the commissary supplied was no easy problem in the new settlement. sometimes they ate boiled rattlesnake in default of anything better. on one occasion, while the little band of settlers was assembled in prayer in one of the log cabins, someone espied a bear swimming across the cuyahoga river. the coming of the bear was looked upon as providential, and the congregation suspended the prayer-meeting, killed the bear, and then returned to their devotions. capt. cleaveland's plans for his new settlement were ambitious, and he built a number of substantial roads through the forests, usually following the old indian trails, now the right of way of the new york central and other lines. with the opening of the ohio canal to the ohio river ( ), cleveland became the natural outlet on lake erie for ohio's extensive agricultural and mineral products. the discovery and commercial exploitation (beginning about ) of large deposits of iron ore in the lake superior region placed cleveland in a strategic position between these vast ore fields and the coal and oil resources of ohio, pa., and w. va., and it is from this time that the city's great commercial importance really dates. [illustration: moses cleaveland moses cleaveland ( - ) was born at canterbury, conn., and graduated from yale. after serving in the u.s. army, where he attained the rank of captain, he practiced law and entered the connecticut legislature. later, he organized the connecticut land co., which in purchased a large portion of the western reserve.] in cleveland had been chartered as a city. the name, though chosen in honour of capt. cleaveland, had been abbreviated to its present form some years before. tradition credits the changed form to a newspaper which left out the letter "a" in order to make the word fit a headline. the building of the railways during the decade - , and the stimulus to industry during the civil war, when cleveland supplied large quantities of iron products and clothing to the government, gave impetus to the city's growth. with a population of only , in and , in , cleveland had become in a city of , (more than double its population in ). thirty years later ( ) the population had grown to , and in it was , , an increase of per cent over . the later history of cleveland has been distinguished for some notable experiments in city planning, popular education and municipal ownership (particularly with respect to street railways). the street railway situation had been a source of trouble ever since , when a strike of serious proportions occurred. mobs attacked the cars, some of which were blown up with dynamite. in tom johnson was first elected mayor, and, largely as a result of his advocacy, municipal ownership became a greater issue in cleveland than in any other great city in the country. tom johnson ( - ) was a successful business man who entered politics on a reform platform. he was an ardent single-taxer, and in spite of the fact that he was financially interested in street railways, steel plants and other industries, a staunch advocate of municipal ownership. he served as mayor of cleveland for successive terms (from to ) and was later elected to congress. single taxers were much pleased by his strategy in getting an entire book--henry george's _progress and poverty_--printed in the congressional record. johnson and his followers demanded a -cent fare on the street railways and in it was actually put into effect. the private owners were compelled in to lease their property to a municipal holding company, but in (after johnson's defeat for re-election in the preceding year), the street railway system was leased to a new corporation, the rate of fare under the new arrangement to be based on an adequate return to the investors. cleveland was the home of mark hanna who became famous in national republican politics. marcus a. hanna was born in lisbon, ohio, in , removed with his father in to cleveland, where he graduated from western reserve university, and in entered into partnership with his father-in-law (daniel p. rhodes) in the coal and iron business. under hanna's guidance the business prospered enormously, but it was not till somewhat late in life that he became prominent in republican affairs in cleveland. as chairman of the national republican committee in he managed with great skill the campaign against bryan and free silver, and came to be acknowledged as a leader of great adroitness, tact, and resource. he entered the u.s. senate from ohio in , and was one of the principal advisers of the mckinley administration. he took a vital interest in problems affecting labor and capital and was one of the organizers in and first president of the national civic federation. he died in at washington. the cleveland chamber of commerce has done much in the betterment of local politics. it was also instrumental in in securing the adoption of the "group plan" by which some of the principal public buildings are arranged in a quadrangle on the bluff overlooking lake erie. cleveland appropriated $ , , to promote the plan. on one side of the quadrangle (nearest the lake) are the courthouse and city hall; on the opposite side and , ft. south are the post office and library ($ , , ). there is to be a mall ft. wide, with public buildings on either side, connecting the court-house and city hall with the post office and library. the granite buildings forming this quadrangle were designed under the supervision of arnold brunner, john m. carrere and d.h. burnham. in education the city has made an innovation known as the "cleveland plan" which seeks to minimize school routine, red tape and frequent examinations. great stress is put on domestic and manual training courses, and promotion in the grammar schools is made dependent on the general knowledge and development of the pupil as estimated by a teacher who is supposed to make a careful study of the individual. there are in cleveland public schools and public libraries. the principal institutions of higher education are the western reserve university with , students, st. ignatius college (roman catholic), and the case school of applied science. with its m. of shore line on lake erie, a fine park system ( , acres), and wide residential streets, well shaded by maples and elms, cleveland possesses many aspects of unusual beauty. the city is situated on bluffs rising from to ft. above the water and commands pleasant views of lake erie, while the surface of the plateau upon which the town is built is deeply cut by the cuyahoga river, which here pursues a meandering course through a valley half a mile wide. other streams, notably dean brook on the east border, add to the picturesque character of the municipal setting. a chain of parks* connected by driveways follows the valley of the dean brook, at the mouth of which, on the lake front, is the beautiful gordon park, formerly the private estate of william j. gordon, but given by him to the city in ; from this extends up the dean valley the large rockefeller park, given to the city in by john d. rockefeller and others. it adjoins wade park, where are a zoological garden and a lake. [illustration: the first automobile ( ) "by means of wheels," says the third edition of the encyclopædia britannica ( ), from which this illustration was taken, "some people have contrived carriages to go without horses. one of these [the vehicle to the left] is moved by the footman behind it; and the forewheels, which act as a rudder, are guided by the person who sits in the carriage. between the hind-wheels is placed a box, in which is concealed the machinery that moves the carriage. a machine of this kind will afford a salutary recreation in a garden or park, or on any plain ground; but in a rough or deep road must be attended with more pain than pleasure.... another contrivance for being carried without draught, is by means of a sailing chariot or boat fixed on four wheels, as a/b [the figure to the right], which is driven before the wind by the sails c/d and guided by the rudder e. its velocity with a strong wind is said to be so great that it would carry eight or ten persons from scheveling to putten, which is english miles distant, in two hours." the figure in the centre represents a modified sailing vehicle designed to sail against the wind as well as with it.] of the several cemeteries in cleveland, lake view ( acres), on an elevated site on the east border of the city is the most noteworthy; here are buried president garfield (the garfield memorial is a sandstone tower ft. high with a chapel and crypt at its base), mark hanna and john hay. john hay ( - ) was a native of salem, ind., and a graduate of brown university. he studied law in the office of abraham lincoln, and, after being admitted to the bar at springfield, ill., became one of lincoln's private secretaries, serving until the president's death. he then acted as secretary to various u.s. legations abroad--paris, vienna, madrid--and on returning to america became assistant secretary of state under w. m. evarts. president mckinley appointed him ambassador to great britain in , and the following year secretary of state. hay was prominent in many important international negotiations, such as the treaty with spain ( ), the "open door" in china, and the russo-japanese peace settlement. he negotiated the hay-pauncefote treaty concerning the panama canal; also settled difficulties with germany over the samoan question and with great britain over the alaskan boundary. as an author, hay is best known for his _pike county ballads_, in which _little breeches_ first appeared, and for the monumental life of lincoln written by nicolay and himself. other notable monuments in cleveland are a statue of senator hanna by saint gaudens (in university circle), a marble statue of commodore perry in commemoration of the battle of lake erie (in wade park), a soldiers' and sailors' monument--a granite shaft rising from a memorial room to a height of ft. (in the public square), and a bronze statue of moses cleaveland, the founder of the city (likewise in the public square). this latter monument is said to stand on the very spot selected by cleaveland for the centre of his new settlement. the public square, or monumental park, is in the business centre of the city, about ½ m. from the lake and the same distance east of the cuyahoga river. from this park the principal thoroughfares radiate. euclid ave., once famous for its private residences, but now the chief retail street of the city, begins at the southeast corner of the square. cleveland's newest residence district is on the heights in the eastern part of the city. cleveland sometimes has been called the "sheffield of america." its prosperity is founded chiefly on its accessibility to oil, coal and iron. it is the largest ore market in the world. forty million tons of iron ore valued at $ , , are received annually in the cleveland district, and the ore docks where much of this ore is handled, are of great interest. cleveland also has extensive docking facilities,* said to be the finest in the country, for handling its immense trade in coal and grain. cleveland's oil refineries, among the largest in the world, receive enormous quantities of crude oil by pipe line, rail and water. the city has , manufacturing plants with , workers, producing annually goods worth about $ , , , of which $ , , represents the products of its foundries and machine shops. cleveland is the first city in america in the making of wire products and automobile parts, second in the manufacture of clothing and sewing machines and one of the leading cities in the production of complete automobiles. shipbuilding (there are five large shipyards* here) is likewise an important industry, and cleveland controls the larger share of the tonnage on the great lakes. [illustration: "slab hall," oberlin college ( ) oberlin college was founded in "to give equal advantages to whites and blacks, and to give education to women as well as to men." other objects were "to establish universal liberty by the abolition of every form of sin" and "to avoid the debasing association of the heathen classics and make the bible a text book in all departments of education." the traditions of oberlin are strongly religious, and from charles grandison finney, revivalist and president of the college from to , sprang what is called the "oberlin theology," a compound of free-will and calvinism. before the civil war the village was a station on the "underground railway," and the influence of the college made it a centre of extreme abolitionist sentiment.] m. elyria, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : a.) elyria was founded about by herman ely in whose honour it was named. ely came from west springfield, mass., built a cabin on the site of the present town, and later erected the first frame house in the township. the city lies at the junction of the two forks of the black river, each of which falls about feet here, furnishing considerable water-power. there are sandstone quarries about the town. the chief manufactures of the city are automobile supplies, telephones, electric apparatus, flour, feed, canned goods, machine parts and iron pipe; the annual output is valued at about $ , , . eight miles to the southwest is oberlin (pop. , ), the seat of oberlin college. m. sandusky, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : a.) english traders visited sandusky bay, upon which the city of sandusky is situated, as early as , and by a fort had been erected for protection against the french and indians. on may th of that year, during the pontiac rising, the wyandot indians burned the fort. a permanent settlement was established in . at the entrance to sandusky bay is cedar point, with a beach for bathing. this is an attractive summer resort. outside sandusky bay are a number of islands, most of which belong to ohio, but the largest, point pelee, is british. at the mouth of the harbour is johnson's island, where many confederate prisoners were confined during the civil war. there is a soldiers' and sailors' home here with accommodations for , persons. a few miles farther north are several fishing resorts, among them lakeside and put-in-bay (south bass island), where the government maintains a fish hatchery. out of this bay oliver hazard perry and his fleet sailed on the morning of sept. , , for the battle of lake erie. having worked up in the u.s. navy from midshipman to captain during which time he saw service against the barbary pirates, capt. oliver hazard perry ( - ) was at the beginning of the war of placed in command of a flotilla at newport, but soon transferred to the lakes. there, with the help of a strong detachment of officers and men from the atlantic coast, he equipped a squadron of a brig, six schooners, and a sloop. in july he concentrated the lake erie fleet at presque isle (now erie). in aug. he took his squadron to put-in-bay, in south bass island. on sept. , perry met the british squadron, under capt. barclay off amherstburg, ont., in the battle of lake erie. capt. barclay, after a hot engagement in which perry's flagship, the "lawrence," was so severely shattered that he had to leave her, was completely defeated. "the important fact," says theodore roosevelt "was that though we had nine guns less [than the enemy] yet at a broadside, they threw half as much metal again as our antagonist. with such odds in our favor, it would have been a disgrace to have been beaten. the chief merit of the american commander and his followers were indomitable courage and determination not to be beaten. this is no slight merit; but it may well be doubted if it would have insured victory had barclay's force been as strong as perry's.... it must always be remembered that when perry fought this battle he was but years old; and the commanders of his other vessels were younger still." another distinction which perry won on this occasion is that he enriched our diction when in writing to gen. harrison to announce his victory, he said, "we have met the enemy, and they are ours." perry commanded the "java" in the mediterranean expedition of - and died of yellow fever at trinidad in . sandusky had a spacious landlocked harbour, much improved by government works and its trade in coal, lumber, stone, cement, fish, ice, fruit and grape juice is extensive. its manufactures include tools, iron and steel products, chemicals, paper, agricultural implements, lumber products, gasoline engines, dynamos, glass and cement, with a total value annually of some $ , , . [illustration: an american cartoon ( ) queen charlotte is represented as saying, "johnny, won't you take some more perry?" while "johnny bull" replies: "oh! perry!!! curse that perry! one disaster after another. i have not half recovered of the bloody nose i got at the boxing match." in a ballad of the day the verse occurs: "on erie's wave, while barclay brave, with charlotte making merry, he chanced to take the belly-ache, we drenched him so with perry." "perry" was a kind of indigestible drink made from pear-juice. the "boxing-match" refers to the capture of the "boxer" by the american schooner "enterprise."] m. toledo, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : a. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p.)[ ] [ . note that westbound trains here change to central time; while eastbound trains change to eastern time at next station (sandusky).] toledo was built on the site of ft. industry, erected in . it lies within an immense tract of land, constituting several reservations bought by the u.s. government from several indian tribes in . upon that part of the tract farthest upstream the town of port lawrence was laid out in . in a rival company laid out the town of vistula immediately below and a year later the two united and were named toledo. this district was the storm-centre for the more or less ridiculous episodes of the "toledo war" in , a dispute over the boundary line between ohio and michigan. this boundary, named the "harris line" ( ) after its surveyor, left in dispute a strip of land from to m. wide, a rich agricultural region within which lay toledo. gov. lucas of ohio, by authority of the state legislature ( ), sent three commissioners out to re-mark the harris line so as to include the bone of contention. when gov. mason, appointed by president jackson as administrator of the territory of michigan heard about this, he dispatched a division of militia to occupy toledo. gov. mason over-ran all the watermelon patches, stole the chickens, burst in the front door of a certain maj. stickney's house, and proudly carried him off as a prisoner of war, after demolishing his ice house. lucas responded by sending out the ohio militia who occupied a post at perrysburg, m. to the south. no fighting took place in this most genteel of wars, although there were several arrests and much confusion. a dr. russ, who was with mason's forces on their march to toledo gives a description of the soldiers' jumpy nerves. various jokers had circulated dark stories of the number of sharp-shooting buckeyes waiting for them at toledo, which so alarmed this amateur legion that nearly one half of those who had marched boldly from monroe availed themselves of the road-side bushes to withdraw from such a dangerous enterprise. president jackson put an end to the dispute by requesting michigan to stop interfering with the re-marking of the boundary line, but slight outbreaks continued until he presently removed gov. mason from office, and until congress in decided in favor of ohio. the city administration became famous for its efficient honesty after , when samuel milton jones ( - ) a manufacturer of oil machinery, was elected mayor by the republican party. the independent movement which he began was carried on by brand whitlock. mayor jones was re-elected on the non-partisan ticket in ( ?), and , and introduced business methods into the city government. his integrity in business and politics gained him the nickname "golden rule jones." brand whitlock was born in urbana, ohio, in . he began his career as a journalist, but decided to practice law instead. after four years of study in springfield, ohio, he was admitted (to?) the bar in , when he removed to toledo. in he was elected mayor of that city as an independent, running against four other candidates, and was re-elected in - and under similar conditions. president wilson in sent him as minister to belgium where he made a distinguished record during the war. in he was appointed ambassador to that country. his _memoires of belgium under the german occupation_, published in , gives an excellent description of "frightfulness" in actual operation. the park system includes about , acres, connected by a boulevard m. long. toledo university ( , students), which include toledo medical college, was founded in . the advantages of toledo as a lake port have always been recognized, and its growth has been rapid. it is situated about m. from lake erie, and is connected with it by a channel ft. wide and ft. deep--sufficient to admit the largest vessels from the lake to the m. of docks. toledo is a shipping point for the iron and copper ores and lumber of the lake superior and michigan regions, and for petroleum, coal, fruit, grain and clover seed. there are factories for motor-cars, plate and cut-glass, tobacco, spices, and beverages, also lumber and planing-mills, flour and grist mills, etc., with products of an annual value of $ , , or more. at butler ( m.) we enter indiana. m. goshen, pop. , . (train passes : ( ?); no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p. eastbound; no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p.) situated on the elkhart river, goshen was first settled about by pioneers from new england. it is the seat of goshen college, the only mennonite institution of higher education in the u.s. the college was founded as elkhart institute in elkhart in , and was removed to goshen in . the mennonites are a religious body who nominally follow the teaching of menno simons (born in friesland, a province of holland, ; died ), a religious leader, who insisted that true christianity can recognize no authority outside of the bible and an enlightened conscience. there are mennonite colonies in holland, france, russia and germany, as well as in the u.s. the american mennonites have been largely emigrants from holland and prussia. the principal american colony is at germantown, pa. (first settled ). there is a carnegie library, a city hospital and a fine high school building in the town. goshen is an important agricultural and lumber market. its manufactures include flour, lumber goods, ladders, iron, wagons, steel tanks, underwear, machinery, furniture and farm implements. m. elkhart, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes at : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p.) elkhart, originally "elkheart" (the translation of an indian word), is so named by the indians from the shape of an island, near the centre of the city, formed by the junction of the two rivers, the st. joe and the elkhart, which make many turns and windings here. there are several parks, in one of which, mcnaughton park, a chautauqua assembly is held annually. [illustration: la salle ( - ) rené robert cavelier, sieur de la salle, was born at rouen, france, and began his explorations from montreal in . discovering the ohio river, he travelled down possibly as far as (its?) junction with the mississippi and then returned. the winter of la salle passed at a post above niagra falls, where he built his famous (ship?), the "griffin," in which he sailed the great lakes to lake michigan, (and?) which he sent back laden with (furs?) in the hope of satisfying the loans of his creditors, while he himself proceeded westward. in , (after?) many adventures, he floated down (to?) the mouth of the mississippi, where he erected a monument and cross, took possession of the region in the name of louis xiv and named it louisiana. when he returned there two years (later?) with four vessels he mistook the waters of matagorda bay, in the present state of texas, for the mouth of a branch of the mississippi and landed there. fruitlessly wandering through the wilderness in search of the mississippi river, the illinois country and canada, he was killed by his followers in march, .] elkhart is a city of factories. band instruments, furniture, telephone supplies, drugs, carriages, and many other products are included among its manufactures, which have an annual value of more than $ , , . two mennonite papers are published here. m. south bend, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : p; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p.) south bend is situated on the st. joseph river. just north of the city is the portage between the st. joseph and the kankakee rivers, by means of which père marquette in and la salle in made their way into what is now the state of illinois. this portage was part of the long land and water highway by which the mound-builders in pre-historic times conveyed copper from the lake superior to points as distant as mexico and south america. as there is no place in the u.s. but the south shore of lake superior where native copper can be mined, its presence in the mounds, at remote points is an infallible guide in tracing the commercial intercourse of the mound-builders. copper boulders are also found on the shore, and even as far south as indiana and illinois. that the whole extent of the copper-bearing region was mined in remote times by a race of whom the indians preserve no tradition there is abundant evidence, such as numerous excavations in the solid rock, heaps of rubble and dirt along the courses of the veins, copper utensils such as knives, chisels, spears, arrowheads, stone hammers creased for the attachment of withes, wooden bowls for boiling water from the mines, wooden shovels, ladders, and levers for raising and supporting masses of copper. the high antiquity of this mining is inferred from these facts: that the trenches and pits were filled level with the surrounding surface so that their existence was not suspected; that on the piles of rubbish were found growing trees of great age, such as hemlock trees having annual rings showing that they began before the coming of columbus. copper wrought into utensils is found in the mounds all the way from wisconsin to the gulf coast, and the supply is too abundant to authorize the supposition that it was derived from boulder drift. so expert were these miners that on the site of the minnesota mine they lifted a copper mass weighing tons, supporting on a frame of wood ft. high. [illustration: jacques marquette jacques marquette was born at laon, france, and as a jesuit priest went to canada in , where he was chosen to explore the mississippi river with joliet, a young canadian explorer, in , the french having begun to gain knowledge of the prairies from the indians. following a route through green bay and up the fox river to a point where they made a portage to the wisconsin, marquette and joliet finally reached the mississippi. on their return to michigan, marquette fell ill, and his attempt in the following year to found a mission among the indians of the illinois river proved too much for his broken strength. on the way home he died beside a little stream which enters marquette bay on lake michigan.] the earliest white settler was pierre navarre, one of the fraternity of the _coureurs de bois_--a wild, rascally, fearless crew of half-breeds and renegade whites, who were the first to invade this famous hunting country. the succession of sheltered prairies, rounded sand-hills, and reedy marches cut by sluggish streams widening into lakes, made a good haunt for all game, especially beaver. now the water is mostly drained away and the land reclaimed, but at one time much of the region could be passed over in canoes. pierre navarre ( - ) was the son of a french army officer. besides canadian french, he could speak the pottowattomie indian dialect, and had some knowledge of woodcraft and nature signs. in his calling of fur trader he made friends with the miamis and their chief, little turtle, and when the war of broke out, offered the services of the tribe to gen. hull, as well as his own. the offers were declined, so the flouted miamis transferred their allegiance to the british under gen. proctor. so good a scout was navarre that a reward of $ , for his head or scalp was promised by proctor. "he used to say," writes an old chronicler who knew him, "that the worst night he ever spent was as bearer of a despatch from gen. harrison, then at ft. meigs, to ft. stephenson (now fremont). amid a thunderstorm of great fury and fall of water, he made the trip of thirty miles through the unbroken wilderness and the morning following delivered to gen. harrison a reply." he died in his th year at east toledo. the university of notre dame, in south bend, with , students, is the largest catholic school for boys and young men in the country, and the american headquarters of the worldwide order of the holy cross. notre dame was founded in by father sorin, a frenchman, who accomplished his object under great difficulties. when father sorin arrived in indiana in , leaving behind a comfortable life in france for missionary work among the indians, he found on the present site of notre dame only waste land covered with snow, and only one building, a tumble down log hut. with $ to begin work of erecting a school, he started in courageously, and spent five days repairing the hut and fitting it up so that one half served as a chapel and the other as a dwelling for himself and lay-brothers. in his little college was chartered as a university by the legislature of indiana. father sorin was elected superior-general of the order of the holy cross for life. besides notre dame, he founded many other schools and colleges in the united states and canada. he died at south bend in . his co-worker, father badin, was the first priest consecrated in the united states. the mural frescoes of the main university building are by luigi gregori, who was sent from the vatican for this purpose, and who spent twenty years on this work and on the adjacent church of the sacred heart. the latter is famous for its decoration, especially the beautiful altar. st. mary's, a large girls' school conducted by the sisters of the holy cross, has also fine buildings of more modern type than notre dame. schuyler colfax at one time vice-president of the u.s. and for years an intimate and trusted friend of lincoln's, lived here in his youth, as did the late james whitcomb riley. the soldier who, during the great war, fired the first gun of the american army in france against the germans was alex arch, a native of this city. though born in n.y., schuyler colfax ( - ) passed his early years first in new carlisle, ind., then in south bend, where his step-father was county auditor. after doing some journalistic work, he began his public career by making campaign speeches for henry clay in . in he joined the newly formed republican party, and served in congress from to . his name was widely mentioned for the office of postmaster-general in lincoln's cabinet, but the president selected another man on the ground that colfax "was a young man, running a brilliant career, and sure of a bright future in any event." in colfax was elected speaker of the house, and in vice-president. four years later colfax was implicated in a corruption charge, which though found groundless by the senate judiciary committee, cast a shadow over the latter part of his life. james whitcomb riley was born in in greenfield, ind. he spent several years as a strolling sign-painter, actor, and musician, during which time he revised plays and composed songs, and grew closely in touch with the life of the indiana farmer. about he first contributed verses, especially in the hoosier dialect, to the papers, and before long had attained a recognized position as poet-laureate of the western country folk. his materials are the incidents and aspects of village life, especially of the indiana villages. these he interprets in a manner as acceptable to the naïve as to the sophisticated, which is saying a good deal for this type of verse. some of his best known books are _the rubaiyat of doc sifers_, _home folks_, _a defective santa claus_, _the old swimmin' hole_, _an old sweetheart of mine_, and _out to old aunt mary's_. among the important manufactories of south bend are plows, sewing-machines, underwear, and motor-cars. the annual value of the combined output is around $ , , . m. la porte, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : a; no. , : a; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p.) the name la porte, which in french means "door" or "gate," took its origin from a natural opening through the timber that here interrupted the wide stretch of prairie. the main street of the town is built on an old indian trail between detroit and points in illinois. la porte was first settled in . it is situated in the heart of a region of beautiful lakes--clear, pine, stone and others--which have given it a wide reputation as a summer resort. the lakes furnish a large supply of natural ice which is shipped to chicago. the soil about la porte consists of sandy "timber" loam and vegetable mold, especially adapted to growing potatoes, wheat and corn. farm and orchard products were early sources of the town's prosperity. there are now numerous manufactures--woolen goods, agricultural engines and implements, lumber and furniture, foundry products, musical instruments, radiators, pianos, blankets, bicycles and flour. m. gary, pop. , . (train passes : a; no. , : p; no. , : a; no. , : p. eastbound: no. passes : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p.) the city of gary was built to order. fifteen years ago the site of the present town was nothing but a waste of sand-dunes and swamps intersected from east to west by the grand calumet and little calumet rivers. in the united states steel corporation broke ground here for a series of enormous foundries and factories, first laying sewers, water mains, gas pipes and conduits for electric wires, as well as providing other improvements necessary for life of the city. the steel corporation had chosen this site partly because of its direct connection by water with the lake superior ore region, partly because of its proximity to chicago, and partly because it was accessible to virginia coal and michigan limestone. the town was named gary in honour of elbert h. gary (b. ), chairman of the board of directors of the steel corporation, and in succeeding years there came an influx of inhabitants which has made gary the largest city in northern indiana. in the city was non-existent; in it had a population of , ; in , , ; and the federal census of showed that gary now has more than , inhabitants. gary lies ft. above lake michigan on a deep layer of sand, once the bed of the lake, which in prehistoric time extended several miles farther inland. the city has a splendid harbour which has been extended by the use of the two rivers--the grand and the little calumet--both of which have been dredged and enlarged. the heart of the town is at the intersection of broadway and fifth ave., which are lined with handsome buildings, and it is said that within radius of m. of this point, there is a population of , people, most of whom are engaged in the industries of the calumet region surrounding gary. the early growth of the town was so rapid that facilities for taking care of the new population were inadequate. the congestion was extreme, and real estate speculators did thriving business. today it is said that gary has constructed public utilities and other improvements adequate for a city of a quarter of a million people, and there is little doubt that the population will reach that figure before many years have passed. the city has fine public schools (the gary system has become famous throughout the united states), a y.m.c.a. (costing $ , ), and an excellent library. the city hall and the union station are likewise notable for the scale on which they are built. although gary was built to order by the steel corporation, its officials did not undertake to control or direct the civic affairs of the town. thus, the development of the gary system of education was a natural, rather than an artificial one. there was every opportunity for an altogether new departure, in view of the inadequacy of school facilities for the fast growing population. the new system was introduced into the gary schools by william wirt, who had already made some experiments in this direction before (when he was called to gary) at bluffton, ind., where he had been in charge of the public schools. some of the fundamental principles of mr. wirt's plan are that "students learn best by doing" and that "all knowledge can be applied." latin, for example, is not studied for mental discipline, but for actual use. the system also involves keeping the school buildings in use for entertainment or instruction throughout the entire day and evening, and numerous courses are provided for adults. it has been said that in gary "every third person goes to school." the overcrowded condition in the n.y.c. schools led to an invitation to mr. wirt to introduce the gary plan into several school districts in the boroughs of bronx and brooklyn in - . the experiment aroused bitter opposition on the part of those who suspected it was a sort of "conspiracy" to educate the poorer children for mechanical rather than clerical occupations in the interest of "capitalistic industry," and a year or two later n.y. returned to the old methods of education. the plant of the united states steel corporation, located between the grand calumet river and the lake, have the most complete system of steel mills west of pittsburgh. within the first ten years after the founding of gary the steel corporation had spent $ , , in building furnaces, ovens, various foundries and shops, pumping stations, electric power plants, benzol plants, portland cement works, and ore docks. since that time the steel corporation's investment here has practically been doubled, and a number of subsidiary companies have built up great industries in gary. the universal portland cement here, for example, is said to be the largest plant of its kind in the world (daily capacity , barrels). the united states steel corporation, organized in with a capitalization of about $ , , , was an amalgamation of ten independent companies, of which the carnegie steel co. and the federal steel co. (of which elbert h. gary was president) were perhaps the most important. the consolidation was effected under the auspices of the late j. pierpont morgan, who negotiated the purchase of andrew carnegie's properties for $ , , in per cent steel corporation bonds and $ , , in common and preferred stock. "the value of the carnegie steel co.," says a. cotter in _the authentic history of the u.s. steel corporation_, "was $ , , , though as a going concern it was worth $ , , . its earnings in a single year had been as much as $ , , ." mr. carnegie thereupon retired from business. on jan. , , the corporation had a surplus of $ , , , and the book value of the tangible assets was $ , , , . there were then outstanding $ , , in bonds and $ , , in common and preferred stock. in strikes and other causes reduced the production of finished steel to about per cent of capacity, and at the beginning of the corporation had unfilled orders amounting to more than , , tons. the gross business of the corporation amounted to $ , , , in as against $ , , , the year before. the corporation's income for , less operating expenses and taxes, was in the neighborhood of $ , , . statistics of production for and are given below: production in tons iron ore mined , , , , coal , , , , pig iron , , , , steel ingots , , , , finished steel , , , , cement , , , , no. of employees , , total wages $ , , $ , , the average wage per day (excluding general administration and selling force) was $ . in and $ . the year before. in the corporation spent $ , , for safety work and the like, and ( ?) hospitals, with a staff of physicians and surgeons, were maintained. the various works controlled by the steel corporation include the carnegie steel co, the illinois steel co., the universal portland cement co., the indiana steel co., the minnesota steel co., the lorain steel co., the national tube co., the american steel and wire co., the american sheet and tin plate co., the sharon tin plate co., the american bridge co., the union steel co., the clairton steel co., the clairton by-product co., the canadian steel corporation, the tennessee coal, iron & railroad co., the fairfield steel co. and the chickasaw shipbuilding & car co. m. chicago, pop. , , . (train arrives : a; no. , : p; no. , : a; no. , : p. eastbound: no. leaves : a; no. , : p; no. , : p; no. , : p.) [illustration: chicago in ] the old chicago portage was used by the indians in travelling by canoe from the great lakes to the mississippi and then to the gulf of mexico, long before any white man had visited the site of the present city on the shore of lake michigan. the portage connected the chicago river, then flowing into lake michigan, with the des plaines river, flowing into the illinois river, which in turn discharges into the mississippi opposite a point not far from st. louis. it is probable that the first white men to visit the city of chicago were father marquette ( - ) and louis joliet, though la salle may have used the portage at an earlier date in the course of one of his journeys of exploration. it is certain, however, that la salle established a fort at starved rock, some miles south of the present city of chicago, in ; and it is in the journal of one of la salle's followers, joutel, that we find the first explanation of the name "chicago." joutel says that chicago took its name from the profusion of garlic growing in the surrounding woods. joutel and his party were in chicago in march, , when lack of provision forced them to rely on whatever they could find in the woods. it appears that providence furnished them with a "kind of manna" to eat with their meal. this seems to have been maple sap. they also procured in the woods garlic and other plants. the name chicago may have come from the indian word _ske-kog-ong_, wild onion place. after the departure of father marquette several other mission settlements were attempted at chicago, but these were all abandoned in and for almost a century chicago ceased to be a place of residence for white men. the strategic value of chicago as a centre of control for the regions of the great lakes and the mississippi river had long been recognized, but it was not until after the battle of fallen timbers ( ), that the government took active steps to establish a fort here. the treaty made by gen. wayne with the indians after that battle provided for the cession to the american government of a tract of land at the southern end of lake michigan including the site of the present city. in ft. dearborn, a block-house and stockade, was constructed by the government on the southern bank of the chicago river near the present site of the michigan bridge. in , during the indian war of tecumseh, the ft. dearborn massacre occurred. the garrison, persons in all, including several women and children, were attempting to escape to ft. wayne, when they were set upon by some indians about a mile and a half south of the fort (southern part of the present grant park). the americans killed included soldiers, women and children. the survivors were captured by the indians and though some were tortured and put to death, the majority finally escaped to civilization a tablet now marks the site of the old fort and a monument has been erected near grant park commemorating the massacre. in the fort was rebuilt and a settlement rapidly grew up around it. by the federal government had begun the improvement of the harbor and had started the illinois and michigan canal. the lake trade grew to enormous proportions, and the building of the railways, especially the new york central lines connecting chicago with the east, as well as other lines connecting it with the northwest, and the south, gave the city an extraordinary impetus. at the republican convention held at chicago in , abraham lincoln was nominated for the presidency and during the civil war, camp douglas, a large prison camp for confederate prisoners, was maintained here. the republican national convention, which made "extension of slavery" the essential plank of the party platform, met at chicago on the th of may, . at this time william h. seward was the most conspicuous republican in national politics; salmon p. chase also had long been in the forefront of the political contest against slavery. both had won greater fame than lincoln, and each hoped to be nominated for president. chase, however, had little chance, and the contest was virtually between seward and lincoln, who by many was considered more "available" because he could, and seward could not, carry the votes of certain doubtful states. lincoln's name was presented by illinois and seconded by indiana. at first seward had the stronger support, but on the fourth ballot lincoln was given ( being necessary) and the nomination was then made unanimous. the convention was singularly tumultuous and noisy: large claques were hired by both lincoln's and seward's managers. [illustration: block house at chicago in ] the great fire in was the most serious check to the city's constantly increasing prosperity, but recovery from this disaster was rapid. the solidity of this prosperity was demonstrated during the financial panic of , when chicago banks alone among those of the large cities of the country continued steadily to pay out current funds. the precise cause of the great fire is not known, but it is popularly attributed to mrs. o'leary's cow, which according to tradition "kicked over the lamp" and started the flames. the fire spread over an area of - / sq. m., and destroyed , buildings and property valued at $ , , . almost , people were made homeless, and lost their lives. the relief contributions from the united states and abroad amounted to nearly $ , , , of which about $ , was contributed in england. the fire at least gave an opportunity to rebuild the old wooden city with brick and stone. the later history has been marked on the one hand by serious labor troubles and on the other by the remarkable achievement of the world's columbian exposition ( ). the labor outbreaks included several strikes in the packing industry, the haymarket riot in , and the pullman strike in . the haymarket riot grew out of a strike in the mccormick harvester works. hostility against the employers had been fomented by a group of so-called international anarchists and the struggle culminated at the anarchist meeting at the haymarket square. when the authorities said that the speeches were too revolutionary to be allowed to continue and the police undertook to disperse the meeting, a bomb was thrown and seven policemen were killed. seven anarchists were ultimately convicted as being conspirators and accomplices and were condemned to death. four were hanged, one committed suicide, two had their death sentences commuted to life imprisonment, and eight anarchists were sentenced to imprisonment for years. in gov. altgeld pardoned those still in prison. the leader of the pullman strike, which began in the pullman car works, was eugene debs ( ), who was the socialist candidate for president in the election of , although he was then in the penitentiary at atlanta for violating the espionage act during the world war. the strike spread to the railways, and caused great disorder until president cleveland dispatched federal troops to chicago. the exposition was an artistic and educational triumph, and its influence on the progress of the city cannot be overestimated the exposition gave chicago an artistic conscience one of the direct results of which was the organization of the city plan commission, a body which is at work reshaping the city in the interests of greater beauty and utility. the exposition commemorated the th anniversary of the discovery of america by columbus. it was held in jackson park, on the south side of the city, and covered an area of acres. the buildings (planned by a commission of architects of which d.h. burnham was the chief) formed a collection of remarkable beauty, to which the grounds (planned by f.l. olmsted), intersected by lagoons and bordered by a lake, lent an appropriate setting. the fair was opened to the public may , , and the total number of admissions was , , . the total cost was more than $ , , . owing largely to its central position and to its excellent railroad facilities, chicago has been a favorite city for national political conventions ever since the nomination of lincoln others nominated here have been grant ( and ), garfield ( ), cleveland ( and ). harrison ( ), roosevelt ( ), taft ( ) and harding ( ); and in addition a number of candidates who were unsuccessful including blaine ( ), harrison ( ), bryan ( ), taft ( ), roosevelt ( ), and hughes ( ). to most foreign visitors and even to many americans the growth of chicago is its most impressive feature. within a little more than years chicago has grown from a settlement of houses, a frontier military post among the indians to a great metropolis, the second city in america and fourth in size among the cities of the world. in what is now the business centre was fenced in as a pasture; in the chicago mail was deposited in a dry goods box; the tax levy of was $ . , and a well that constituted the city's water-system was sunk at a cost of $ . . in hogs were by ordinance barred from the streets. there are residents of chicago still living who can remember the early days when the first village school stood on the ground now occupied by the boston store at dearborn and madison sts. some even insist they remember when wolves were trapped on the site of the present tribune building. in the early period the streets of the little town were thick with mire in the rainy season, and it is said that signs were placed at appropriate points with inscriptions such as "no bottom here," "stage dropped here," etc. the first improvement of note in chicago was an inclined plank road in lake st., arranged with a gutter in the center for drainage. it was the only safe route over which stage coaches from the west could enter the town. in with a population of less than , in with , , the increase by percentages in succeeding decades was as follows: , , , , , , , and ( to ) . approximately per cent of chicago's population is of foreign birth or parentage. this foreign population is made up principally of germans, about per cent, irish , austrian , russian , swedish , italian , canadian, including french canadians, , and english . it has been said that chicago is "the second largest bohemian city in the world, the third swedish, the fourth norwegian, the fifth polish and the fifth german (new york being the fourth)." this ought not to be construed, however, as a reflection on the fundamental americanism of chicago's citizens. the growth in area has kept pace with the growth in population. as originally plotted in , the town had an area of a little less than half a square mile; today it covers an area of practically sq.m. its greatest length (north and south) is m., and the greatest width (east and west) is m. the chicago river with its three, branches divides the city into three sections--the north, south and west sides. technically the downtown or "loop" district (so-called because of the elevated railway which encircles the central business section) belongs to the south side, though usually it is classified separately. the chicago river formerly flowed into lake michigan. it was then an exceedingly dirty stream and a menace to health. in order to improve the character of the river and also to give the chicago adequate sanitary drainage, dredging operations to reverse the direction of flow of the river were undertaken, and canals were constructed connecting it with the illinois river. this great engineering feat was begun in and completed in . the total expenditure on the drainage canals since has been more than $ , , . in no other great city is the business district so concentrated as is the case in chicago. within an area of a little more than sq. m. are located the principal office buildings, department stores, shops, hotels and theatres. not far from the centre of this district is the new city hall and county building, an -story structure costing $ , , . chicago is generally credited with being the original home of the steel frame sky-scraper, though there are now many higher buildings in new york and elsewhere. the height of buildings in chicago is limited by city ordinance to about stories. at la salle st., where it is crossed by the southern arm of the elevated "loop" is the new york central station, an impressive building which stands closer to heart of chicago's financial and business section than any other railway station in the city. michigan ave., just to the east of the business centre, possesses a truly noble aspect, and the visitor could not select a better place to begin his tour of the city. due to the monotonous regularity of the streets and the all-pervading soft coal smoke, chicago presents on the whole a somewhat drab appearance, but the view from grant park or from the lake front (with michigan ave. in the foreground) is nearly, if not quite, as fine as anything n.y. has to offer. in michigan ave. are the public library (with a beautiful interior), the art institute (with fine collections of pictures and one of the largest art schools in the country), orchestra hall (the home of the chicago symphony orchestra), the "blackstone" hotel and a number of fine shops. michigan ave., by way of lake shore drive on the north, and by way of midway plaisance on the south, connects with chicago's fine park system. the principal parks are joined by beautiful boulevards encircling the entire city, and a delightful two hours' motor trip ( m.) will enable the tourist to visit lincoln park on the north, humboldt, garfield and douglas parks on the west, and washington and jackson parks on the south. [illustration: chicago fire ( ): randolph street bridge] for reference a general summary of chicago's "points of interest" exclusive of those already mentioned is here given. north side lincoln park: academy of sciences museum; botanical conservatories and a zoological garden with a splendid lion house. also the fine saint gaudens statue of lincoln at the entrance and other monuments in the park. chicago historical society library and collection, dearborn ave. and ontario st.; an interesting collection of historic relics and documents. the municipal pier, at the foot of grand ave., built by the city at a cost of $ , , ; devoted to recreational activities as well as to commercial purposes. excursion steamers may be taken here to various points on the lake. the newberry library, a free reference library, clark st. and walton place. northwestern university, in evanston (at the extreme north of the city--actually outside the city limits). northwestern university is a methodist-episcopal institution of about , students. ft. sheridan. a u.s. military post north of evanston. lake forest, a fashionable suburb north of ft. sheridan. south side life saving station at the mouth of the chicago river. tablet marking site of ft. dearborn, river st., opposite the old rush st. bridge. crerar library, east randolph st., a reference library devoted chiefly to scientific subjects; open to the public. board of trade, la salle and jackson sts.; visitors may obtain admission to gallery overlooking the famous wheat pit. auditorium hotel and theatre building, michigan ave. at congress st.; view of city from tower. the coliseum building, th st. and wabash ave.; all the national republican conventions of recent years have been held here. field museum of natural history (founded by marshall field), in grant park; a fine anthropological and historical collection. the museum, originally housed in a temporary building in jackson park, was made possible by the gift of $ , , by marshall field, who on his death ( ) bequeathed a further $ , , of which $ , , has been used for the new building. ft. dearborn massacre monument, th st., near the lake. armour institute of technology, founded by the armour family, federal st. douglas monument, th st. near lake michigan; stephen a. douglas is buried here. stephen a. douglas ( - ) was born in vermont, but in he went west and settled in jacksonville, ill., where he was admitted to the bar in . he identified himself with the jackson democrats and his political rise was rapid even for the west. among other offices, he held those of judge of the supreme court of illinois, representative in congress and senator from illinois. although he did more perhaps than other men, except henry clay, to secure the adoption of the compromise measures of , he seems never to have had any moral antipathy against slavery. his wife and children were by inheritance owners of slaves. in he engaged in a close and exciting contest for the senatorship with abraham lincoln, the republican candidate, whom he met in a series of debates over slavery that soon became famous and brought lincoln prominently into public favor, though he was defeated in this particular contest. the stockyards, halsted and root st. in area the yards exceed acres; they have facilities for taking care of , cattle, , hogs, , sheep and , horses. the great packing plants are clustered around the stockyards. the university of chicago, ellis ave., south of st st. this university was established under baptist auspices and opened in . the words "founded by john d. rockefeller" (whose donations to the institution form the largest part of its endowment) follow the title of the university on all its letter heads and official documents. mr. rockefeller's benefactions to the university have been very large. the grounds, however, were given in part by marshall field. the buildings are mostly of grey limestone, in gothic style and grouped in quadrangles. with the exception of the divinity school, the institution is non-sectarian and has about , students of both sexes. west side the "ghetto" district on south canal, jefferson, and maxwell sts.; fish market on jefferson st. from th st. to maxwell. hull house, south halsted st. this famous settlement house was established in by miss jane addams; who became head resident, and miss ellen gates starr. it includes a gymnasium, a crêche and a diet kitchen, and supports classes, lectures and concerts. haymarket square, randolph and des plaines sts.; scene of the anarchist riots. sears, roebuck & co., a great mail order house which does a business of over $ , , a year retail. guides are provided to show visitors around the establishment, which is easily reached on the elevated railway. western electric co., nd st. and forty-eighth ave. this company supplies the chief part of the equipment of the bell telephone companies of the u.s. and has about , employees. mccormick harvester works of the international harvester co. this is one of the plants of the greatest manufacturers of agricultural machinery in the world. chicago's position at the head of the most southwestern of the great lakes was the primary factor in determining its remarkable growth and prosperity. but with the decline of water transportation the city has not suffered, for it stands at one of the natural cross roads of trade and travel. today it is the chief railroad centre not only in the u.s. but in the world. not counting subsidiary divisions there are railroads entering chicago, which is the western terminus of the great new york central system. chicago is thus the focus of the activities of half a continent. it is the financial centre of the west and the metropolis of the richest agricultural section in the country. these circumstances have contributed to make it the greatest grain and live stock market in the world. but its accessibility to the raw materials of industrial development has also made it a great manufacturing city. chicago has more than , factories and the output of its manufacturing zone is probably more than $ , , , annually. the principal industries and manufactures are meat packing, foundry and machine shop products, clothing, cars and railway construction, agricultural implements, furniture, and (formerly) malt liquors. facts about the new york central railroad company the new york central lines comprise , miles of track. as part of the track equipment, there are , , wooden ties, worth about $ each. on these ties are , , tons of steel rail, worth $ , , . there are tunnels, costing $ , , , and , bridges and culverts, costing $ , , . in the principal cities the new york central's terminals cover about , acres, assessed at more than $ , , . the deeds for right-of-way for the section east of buffalo alone number more than , . passengers carried annually , , freight carried annually (tons) , , no. of employees ( ) , no. of locomotives , no. of passenger cars , no. of dining cars no. of freight cars , operating revenues, $ , , amount paid employees ( ) , , taxes paid , , funded debt (bonds) , , stock issued , , actual investment , , , excess of investment over outstanding securities , , operating revenues, , , operating revenues, , , operating revenues, , , operating revenues, , , operating revenues, , , this booklet is based on the encyclopædia britannica. if you have found it interesting and entertaining, you will find the britannica a source of inexhaustible interest and enjoyment. this booklet contains sixty-five thousand words; the britannica over forty-four million. this booklet is a guide to a single trip; the britannica will be your guide to any trip you want to take to any part of the world. and the best part of it is that you don't have to leave your own fireside to go to the four corners of the globe. with the britannica you may make your tours as extensive as you like, without effort and without expense. you may visit the great capitals of europe--london, paris, rome,--or the venerable cities of the east--bokhara, calcutta, pekin, to name a few,--or even such out-of-the-way places as kamchatka and tahiti. but you will also wish to use the encyclopædia britannica as a guide in your business, your profession or your hobby. in every activity of life, whether it pertains to industry, commerce, science, art, sport or recreation, the encyclopædia britannica will furnish you on demand, at the very moment when you want it, the most readable, entertaining and authoritative information available in english or any other language. "the encyclopædia britannica is as necessary in your home as electric light, and more useful, day in and day out, than an automobile. it is as necessary for your children as for yourself. it will teach them to find their own way in the great realm of knowledge. it will answer their questions, stimulate their interest in everything that goes to make up what we call education, and, not least important, assist them to choose intelligently their life work. from childhood to old age, a man's life is a kind of journey, and for this greatest of all journeys there could be no more interesting companion and no more trustworthy guide than the encyclopædia britannica." images produced by core historical literature in agriculture (chla), cornell university and the internet archives.) six thousand country churches the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago · dallas atlanta · san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan co. of canada, ltd. toronto [illustration: the country churches of ohio] six thousand country churches by charles otis gill and gifford pinchot authors of "the country church" published under the authority of the federal council of the churches of christ in america new york the macmillan company _all rights reserved_ copyright, by the macmillan company set up and electrotyped. published november, table of contents page _part i_ conditions and remedies introduction xiii chapter i. how the facts were gathered ii. the rural church maps of ohio iii. summary of results oversupply of churches--the churches small and weak-- attendance--an absentee ministry--divided effort of the ministry--short term of minister's service--defective overhead organization--ministers' salaries--educational equipment of the minister. iv. where church efficiency is lowest v. the church in the eighteen counties vi. a policy and program . a better program-- . a better ministry-- . better support-- . better acquaintance-- . re-arrangement of circuits-- . more resident ministers-- . interchurch coöperation-- . community churches-- . non-sectarian support. vii. federated churches . greene township-- . aurora-- . garrettsville-- . northfield-- . federated churches in other states. viii. other progressive churches . a church federation-- . coöperation with other social forces-- . community service and christian unity-- . christian unity by necessity-- . the church as a force for righteousness--(a) old fort--(b) lakeville. ix. agricultural coÖperation _part ii_ tabular summaries and maps i. geographical distribution of the denominations ii. tabular summaries for the state table i.--population, average number of persons and churches, and average number of persons to a church, by townships table ii.--churches classified according to the number of their members table iii.--amount of ministerial service by townships, villages, and churches table iv.--number of churches in villages and in the open country table v.--resident ministers in strictly rural townships in the open country and in villages table vi.--terms of service of methodist episcopal country ministers, table vii.--average number of persons to a church in rural townships table viii.--average number of persons to a church in rural townships, suburban townships, and cities table ix.--salaries of methodist episcopal country ministers, table x.--salaries of country ministers, united brethren in christ, iii. tabular summaries by counties _part iii_ the county maps explanatory note country church maps of the eighty-eight counties of ohio appendix action of the committee on interchurch coÖperation of the ohio rural life association list of maps the country churches of ohio _frontispiece_ page map a. where conditions demand missionary aid map . high death rates from tuberculosis map . high rates of illegitimacy map . where illiteracy abounds map . distribution of foreign born whites map . excessive over-churching map . churches many but ministers few map . number of persons to a resident minister map . value of farm property in the year map . increase in value of farm property map . rich land and poor land map . showing that in or per cent of the strictly rural townships no church has a resident minister map . farms operated by tenants map . farms operated by tenants map . methodist episcopal map . united brethren in christ map . presbyterian map . baptist map . disciples of christ map . lutheran map . catholic map . christian map . methodist protestant map . reformed map . congregational map . evangelical association map . villages and cities county maps: adams allen ashland ashtabula athens auglaize belmont brown butler carroll champaign clark clermont clinton columbiana coshocton crawford cuyahoga darke defiance delaware erie fairfield fayette franklin fulton gallia geauga greene guernsey hamilton hancock hardin harrison henry highland hocking holmes huron jackson jefferson knox lake lawrence licking logan lorain lucas madison mahoning marion medina meigs mercer miami monroe montgomery morgan morrow muskingum noble ottawa paulding perry pickaway pike portage preble putnam richland ross sandusky scioto seneca shelby stark summit trumbull tuscarawas union van wert vinton warren washington wayne williams wood wyandot introduction in mr. gill and i published, under the authority of the federal council of the churches of christ in america, the results of an inquiry into the condition of the country church in two typical counties--windsor county, vermont, and tompkins county, new york. the disclosure of the conditions in these two counties and the conclusions to which they pointed led to the creation of the commission on church and country life of the federal council. under the direction of the commission, it was resolved to extend the investigation of the country church to an entire state. for the reasons given hereafter, the choice fell upon ohio. for the plan whose execution and results are here set forth, mr. gill and i are jointly responsible. it was submitted to, and revised and approved by, the commission on church and country life, in whose name and under whose direct supervision it was carried out. the field work was done entirely by mr. gill or under his immediate direction as secretary of the commission, and he also worked up in the office the result of his work in the field. as in the case of "the country church," i am responsible for the final revision of the manuscript for the press. it is now published with the approval of the commission on church and country life, and as a report of its work. in the introduction to "the country church," i said and i desire to repeat,--"mr. gill's peculiar fitness for the work of this investigation arises in part from his long and intimate personal acquaintance with the problem of country life. for fifteen years he has been a country minister. one of his tasks was to establish a church in a country community in vermont which had been without one for more than twenty years. when mr. gill came to it, the moral and social laxity of the whole community was flagrant. disbelief in the existence of goodness appeared to be common, public disapproval of indecency was timid or lacking, and religion was in general disrepute. not only was there no day of worship, but also no day of rest. life was mean, hard, small, selfish, and covetous. land belonging to the town was openly pillaged by the public officers who held it in trust; real estate values were low; and among the respectable families there was a general desire to sell their property and move away. then a church was organized. the change which followed was swift, striking, thorough, and enduring. the public property of the town, once a source of graft and demoralization, became a public asset. the value of real estate increased beyond all proportion to the general rise of land values elsewhere. in the decade and a half which has elapsed since the church began its work, boys and girls of a new type have been brought up. the reputation of the village has been changed from bad to good, public order has greatly improved, and the growth of the place as a summer resort has begun. it is fair to say that the establishment of the church under mr. gill began a new era in the history of the town." it was with this record of practical success in the country church, supplemented by the very unusual experience as an investigator which he acquired in collecting and analyzing the material for "the country church," that mr. gill approached the task whose results are here set down. the task of ascertaining with accuracy the conditions of the country church in other portions of the united states still remains. the remedies are yet to be applied. gifford pinchot. milford, penna. aug. , . six thousand country churches part i conditions and remedies six thousand country churches chapter i how the facts were gathered the commission on church and country life of the federal council of the churches of christ in america conducted the work whose results are summarized in this book. several thousand persons assisted in collecting the data here given. lists of churches were obtained from correspondents in every township in ohio, and township maps were sent to them for marking the location of the churches. ministers, clerks, and other officers of churches, district superintendents, and other denominational leaders gave indispensable information. the very important material gathered by the ohio rural life survey, including country church maps of twelve counties and many data for seventeen other counties, was placed at the disposal of the commission. invaluable assistance has been rendered by state, county, and township sunday school associations. in about half of the townships, officers of the township associations supplied needed information. miss clara e. clemmer, secretary of the county association, gathered nearly all the data for preble county. the rev. c. a. spriggs, a missionary of the american sunday school union, furnished most of the facts used in making the map of pike county. in a few counties, superintendents of public schools either gave desired information themselves, or supplied the names of others who did, and in some cases the agricultural agents lent a hand. county atlases were consulted, and verifications and corrections were obtained from many sources. the topographical maps issued by the united states geological survey gave the locations of certain churches. the year books of the various denominational bodies were in constant use for verification and reference, as were the united states census, the ohio statistical reports, and other government documents. in the different sections of ohio mr. gill made extensive investigations on the ground, while large numbers of country ministers and church members were consulted personally. specific information has thus been collected in nearly every township, while at country church institutes and conferences in various parts of the state, many facts were secured from the discussions on rural church conditions. not only has information, therefore, been received from very many people intimately associated with the churches of rural ohio, but also, and very widely, from personal observation on the field itself. in spite of all the care that could be taken, after the work on the township maps was thought to be finished, a few other churches were discovered. if, in the future, still other churches should be found which are not on the maps, the number of them will be insignificant. their discovery will doubtless in no wise affect the conclusions which have been drawn as to the country church situation in ohio, nor their omission impair the general usefulness of the maps. in the constructive work of the commission and of the ohio rural life association for rural church betterment, as well as in the survey, the ohio state university, under dr. thompson, has always given free and valuable coöperation. for all this kind assistance the commission and the association are deeply grateful, and here express their hearty thanks. chapter ii the rural church maps of ohio in part iii of this volume are country church maps, one for each county in the state of ohio. the making of these maps was part of a program adopted in by the commission on church and country life of the federal council of the churches of christ in america. it seemed to the commission that an attempt ought to be made to test the possibilities of rural church improvement through interdenominational coöperation in some one state. ohio was chosen because of its geographical location, because of the variety of its church conditions, and because in a number of its counties a country church survey had already been made. this survey had indicated a widespread need for the readjustment of church life to community welfare in rural ohio. it was therefore determined, if possible, to complete a series of maps for the entire state which would summarize the facts. in dealing with so many churches in so large an area, it was of course feasible to collect only a very small number of facts concerning each church. accordingly the facts to be gathered were limited to the location of every rural church, its denomination, its present membership, whether it is gaining or losing in membership, whether it ordinarily has a resident pastor, and if not, what part of a minister's service it receives. the collection of such facts was necessary, first, to impress upon the church officials and others the actual urgency of the situation, and second, to provide a basis for a workable policy of interchurch coöperation and reciprocity in influencing or directing the redistribution of ministers and churches. while the making of the church maps appeared to be the least amount of preliminary work that would open the way for effective action, it was evident that nothing adequate could be done for rural church betterment without interdenominational, or undenominational, organization. therefore, when the branch office of the commission on church and country life was opened in columbus, ohio, in august, , at the same time the ohio rural life association was formed to coöperate with the commission in its work in the state. soon afterward a committee on interchurch coöperation, consisting of executives in charge of the country churches of eleven denominations, was organized. the principles which it adopted to govern its action mark a forward step of real importance. (see page .) the chief burden of making the church maps has rested upon the commission on church and country life. its paid executive and office force have done the main part of the work, but valuable assistance has been rendered by the ohio rural life association. much of the work was done in its name. incidentally, the coöperative work of these bodies has by no means been confined to the making of surveys. country life institutes have been held, and an educational propaganda in the interest of the rural church has been continuously carried on, with the result that in ohio more than in any other state has the country church gained ground in its command of public interest. as a subject for addresses and discussion the country church has a place in a large number of farmers' institutes, and in nearly all sunday school conventions, while during farmers' week at the state agricultural college, conferences on no other subject have attracted more people or provoked more animated discussion. inasmuch as the collecting of the data extended over a period of more than three years, the maps do not all represent the exact situation at the same moment. while they were being made some of the churches were being redistributed in different circuits, and membership rolls were increasing or decreasing. since the map for their county was completed some churches have federated, or their members have all united in a denominational union church. but while the maps do not constitute a snap shot of the entire state, the changes which have taken place are too few in any way to invalidate the conclusions drawn. the total situation is indicated with sufficient correctness. these maps should supply the indispensable basis for the readjustment that is obviously required. we hope that the publishing of them will not only register a stage of progress in the state of ohio, but that in other states also similar work will be undertaken, and that the forward movement in rural church life will be strengthened and accelerated throughout the nation. chapter iii summary of results ohio contains in its area of , square miles, some , townships. if we exclude the townships in which the population is urban, those in which there are villages of more than , inhabitants (the number set by the united states census as separating the country from the town), those which contain parts of, or border on, large town or city parishes, there remain , townships which may be classed as strictly rural. these rural townships have in all , churches and nearly , , persons. each of them has on an average a population of , persons, with five churches, or one church to every persons. if we include with the strictly rural townships the rural sections of townships not exclusively rural, there are in ohio no less than , country churches. as these facts would indicate, the country churches of ohio for the most part are small and weak. according to data gathered by the earlier survey made under the direction of the presbyterian board of home missions, the churches whose membership is less than as a rule do not prosper, and the smaller the membership the greater the proportion of the churches which are on the decline. in ohio more than , , or per cent, of the rural churches have a membership of or less; more than , , or per cent, have a membership of or less; more than , , or per cent, a membership of or less. the membership in these country churches is distressingly small, but the attendance is smaller still. the data available indicate that ordinarily it is less than half the membership. in six churches taken at random, it was found that the figures ran as follows: _membership_ _average attendance_ to less than - ----- ----- , in one township it is reported that the average attendance in each of its eight churches is less than . one of the most striking facts is the shortage of resident ministers. while a reasonable degree of interchurch coöperation should result in the maintenance of a resident pastor in nearly every township, yet in , or per cent, of the strictly rural townships, no church has a resident pastor. (see map , page .) more than , , or about two-thirds, of the churches in rural ohio, and per cent of the villages are without resident ministers, while in the open country only , or per cent, of the , churches have resident pastors. the efforts of the ministers are so scattered over fields more or less widely separated that much of their effectiveness is lost. (consult the county maps, pages - .) more than , of the , country churches are without the full time service of a minister; , have only one-third or less of a minister's services; , have one-fourth or less; while more than have no regular service of a minister at all. a large number of ministers have other occupations than the ministry. moreover it is a rule of nearly universal application that ministers of country churches in ohio do not remain long enough in their parishes to make effective service possible. according to the official records of the conferences of the largest and doubtless one of the most efficient of the denominations, in the fall of , per cent of its rural ministers were about to begin their first year, and per cent either their first or second year of service in the fields to which they were appointed. only per cent had had a two years' acquaintance with their parishes, while only ministers, or scarcely more than per cent, had served as long as five years. this condition is no better in nearly all the other denominations. because of this, and also because the effort of the ministry is divided among various and widely separated churches, the people who live in the rural districts in ohio receive too little pastoral service. the short term also discourages the ministers from attempting to discover and meet the needs of their communities and from formulating and carrying out any adequate plans of community service. the churches, as a rule, are not trained to expect such service, nor the ministers to render it. in certain extensive areas in ohio the country church seems to have broken down. (see chapters iv and v.) in regions where it has been active for a century it has failed and is now failing to dispel ignorance and superstition, to prevent the spread of vice and disease, and to check the increasing production of undeveloped and abnormal individuals. because of the lack of an organization to coördinate the work of the denominations, and to study the field as a whole, no one has been conscious of responsibility for such failure. the conditions have not even been known by many of the church officials who were responsible, and a situation has been permitted to develop which threatens the welfare of the whole state and demands the immediate redirection of the church's missionary activities. the pay of the country ministers in ohio is small, the support of the church meager. according to the records of the conferences held in the fall of the majority of the ministers ( per cent) of the largest denomination received less than $ , each, three-fourths ( . per cent) less than $ , , while the average amount was $ and free use of parsonage. in the denomination with the second largest number of country churches the average salary was only $ , or $ and free use of parsonage. over considerable areas a large proportion of the ministers are uneducated. often they are illiterate and entirely unfitted to render service acceptable to the more intelligent part of their people. in most of the state, the standard of education for ministers is low. it is in part due to the failure of an insufficiently educated ministry to stimulate the intellectual life of the people, that from , , to , , people in the state have no public libraries. unless a larger and stronger social and religious institution is created in the country districts than is now found in the country church, the more vigorous young people will for the most part leave the country, and an inferior class will take their places on the farm. a process of reverse selection will therefore set in which must result in the general debasement of our rural population and ultimately of our nation as a whole. as is well known, this process of decadence is already taking place over very large areas in rural america. chapter iv where church efficiency is lowest the facts summarized in the previous chapter show that in rural ohio the church as a whole is not adequately performing its great and difficult task. it is equally evident that no institution could hope for a high degree of success unless more progressive in method and administration. furthermore, unless the urban officials or directors in charge of rural churches come to appreciate the fundamental importance of the country church problem, address themselves more seriously to the task in hand, and make really effective use of improved organization and available human and material resources, the country church will continue to decline. while there are very many successful churches, and many rural communities socially, morally, and economically prosperous, failures occur in equally large numbers. a most striking illustration of the churches' inefficiency may be found in southern and southeastern ohio. here, in a region covering at least eighteen counties, the failure of the churches may fairly be called pathetic. these counties are adams, athens, brown, clermont, gallia, highland, hocking, jackson, lawrence, meigs, monroe, morgan, noble, pike, ross, scioto, vinton, and washington. in this area, after more than a hundred years of the work of the churches, the religious, social, and economic welfare of the people are going down. although the churches have been here for more than a century, no normal type of organized religion is really flourishing, while the only kind which, during the past fifteen years, has been gaining ground, the cult of the holy rollers, is scarcely better than that of a dervish. the churches have failed and are failing to dispel ignorance and superstition, to prevent the increase of vice, the spread of disease, and the general moral and spiritual decadence of the people. most of the information concerning the eighteen counties, as for convenience, this region is hereafter called, was derived from personal investigation on the ground by mr. gill, from the testimony of two trained investigators, and from interviews and correspondence with local merchants, physicians, clergymen, school teachers, superintendents of schools and churches, farmers, and sunday school workers. information confirming what had already been received was found in the statistical reports of the national and state governments. some of the results of a study of the reports of the ohio bureau of vital statistics and the united states census are given in table a and in maps a, and maps to , on pages to . in map a the heavily shaded area indicates the eighteen counties included in this region. ten other counties bordering upon them are shaded more lightly. many communities in these ten bordering counties are influenced by the migration of population from the eighteen counties. in no less than twelve out of the eighteen counties, the death rate from tuberculosis is excessive. (see map and table a, column .) reports of the ohio bureau of vital statistics for the years , , and (the latest we could secure on this subject), give the average annual deaths from this disease for , persons, as for the whole state. on map , all counties are shaded whose rate exceeds not only, but . of the seventeen counties in the state whose death rate from tuberculosis is or over, all but five are in this region, and of the five one is a bordering county. outside this area and the bordering counties, the highest rate is in franklin, of which the city of columbus is the county seat; but of the eighteen counties, seven have a higher rate than franklin. in clermont county it is , in scioto , in lawrence , in ross , in gallia , while in pike it is no less than ,--far larger than for any other rural county in the state. in hamilton county, in which is the city of cincinnati, and which is adjacent to clermont county, the rate of is probably due to the large colored population. it will be observed, therefore, that in no less than two-thirds of the eighteen counties the rate of death from this preventable disease is excessively and indefensibly high. the number of illegitimate births in the eighteen counties is likewise excessive. (see map and table a, column , pages and .) the rate per , population for the state is . . of the counties whose rate is above the average, , or per cent, are either in the eighteen counties or the counties bordering upon them. no less than thirteen, or more than two-thirds, of the eighteen counties have an excessive number of illegitimate births. outside this area and the bordering counties the highest rate for any county is , but in ten of the eighteen counties it is greater than this. whereas the rate for the state is less than , in athens county it is , in noble , in scioto , in gallia , in hocking and monroe , in ross , in pike , in lawrence no less than , while in jackson it is , or the highest rate in the state. it will be noted that these figures cover the counties in which are the large cities as well as the rural counties. but in hamilton, containing the city of cincinnati, the rate is only , in franklin, containing the city of columbus, it is , and in cuyahoga, containing the city of cleveland, it is only . illiteracy also, in the eighteen counties, is excessive. (see map and column of table a.) the per cent of illiterate males of voting age for the state in was . . there are counties in which that number was exceeded. of these, fourteen are among the eighteen counties, and five border upon them. in brown county, the percentage is . , in washington and noble . , in monroe . , in adams . , in athens and ross . , in scioto . , in gallia . , in vinton . , in hocking . , while in pike it is . , and in lawrence . . among the remaining ten counties whose percentage of illiteracy is above the average it appears (see map , page ) that in all but three, the percentage of foreign-born persons is large, and that among counties where the foreign born are few, there are, outside the eighteen counties, only six for which the percentage of illiteracy is greater than . , and three of these are included in the counties which border upon them. it will be noted that in this region the number of foreign-born persons is very small. the percentage for the state is . , whereas in the eighteen counties it is only . . no less than counties out of the outside of the eighteen counties, have a foreign population of more than . per cent. in this region, therefore, where there is so high a percentage of illiteracy, of illegitimacy, and of deaths from preventable disease, the people are more nearly pure americans than in the rest of the state. they compare unfavorably with the people of counties where a large proportion are foreigners. it is true that the cause does not lie in the origin of the population. but the fact that these things are true in the most american parts of ohio, where we should naturally expect to find the best situation, greatly emphasizes the significance of the conditions disclosed. it is an additional indictment against those who are responsible that in mahoning county more than per cent and in cuyahoga county more than per cent of the population in were foreign born, yet in these counties, containing the large cities of youngstown and cleveland, the moral and social conditions are better than in the eighteen counties--a rural section inhabited by our purest american stock. such statistical data as are here presented are but as smoke indicating fire. they do not overstate the urgency of the appeal from the unfortunate over-churched and under-ministered communities of this section. here gross superstition exercises strong control over the thought and action of a large proportion of the people. syphilitic and other venereal diseases are common and increasing over whole counties, while in some communities nearly every family is afflicted with inherited or infectious disease. many cases of incest are known, inbreeding is rife. imbeciles, feeble-minded, and delinquents are numerous, politics is corrupt, the selling of votes is common, petty crimes abound, the schools have been badly managed and poorly attended. cases of rape, assault, and robbery are of almost weekly occurrence within five minutes' walk of the corporation limits of one of the county seats, while in another county political control is held by a self-confessed criminal. alcoholic intemperence is excessive. gross immorality and its evil results are by no means confined to the hill districts, but are extreme also in the towns. adams county was made notorious because in the election nearly , persons were disenfranchised for selling their votes, and there is convincing evidence that it does not stand alone. of course there are many communities in this region where conditions are better, such as the area immediately affected by the admirable and effective work of rio grande college. but there is just as little question that the general deplorable condition of the eighteen counties, ascertained through the personal investigations of mr. gill, and confirmed by wide correspondence and the statistical data here summarized, is true. the bad economic, as distinguished from the moral, conditions in the eighteen counties are largely due to sterility of soil, and to the fact that many of its hillsides are too steep for profitable cultivation. it is often contended that economic conditions affect religion and morals, and there is much truth in that contention. but it cannot be held that steep hillsides and sterile soil of themselves produce conditions such as are here described. merely to state such a proposition is to refute it. moral and religious poverty must bear at least as much of the blame as poverty of the soil. (see maps , , and , and table a, columns and .) the total value of farm property falls below million dollars in but of the counties of ohio. of the , all but are among the eighteen counties. (see map , and table a, column .) in adams, athens, and monroe counties, the value of farm property is only million dollars each; in morgan , in meigs and scioto , in gallia , in hocking and pike , in jackson and lawrence , and in vinton only . according to the united states census the value of farm property in ohio increased nearly per cent from to . there were only ten counties in the state in which farm property had not increased more than per cent during that period. eight of these are among the eighteen counties. (see map , and table a, column .) according to the census of , there were only counties in ohio whose land was valued at not more than $ . per acre. all of them are in the eighteen counties. (see map .) in the remaining five the land is valued at not more than $ . per acre. it becomes impossible, therefore, to avoid the question whether the character of the soil determines the character and destiny of the people who are born upon it. attention should be directed in passing to the fact that the low value of the land is due in part to the failure of the people who live upon it to develop and use the natural resources which are available. in some of the poorest regions in the eighteen counties an occasional farmer is making a good living from the soil, although his land by nature is no better than that of his poor neighbors. as a rule the agricultural opportunities of the region are neglected. for example, little fruit is grown, although both climate and soil in much of the region are very favorable to fruit production. but it remains true that the natural conditions as a whole are not as favorable for agriculture, as they are to the north and northwest; and it is an unquestionable fact that the character and condition of the earth's surface has a relation to the physical, intellectual, social, and moral conditions of the people who live upon it. undoubtedly this is as true in southeastern ohio as it is elsewhere. poor soil, as a rule, does not hold upon itself the most enterprising families so tenaciously as good soil, and for that reason we might fairly expect the people of these districts to have less vigor and less initiative. on such soil it is therefore more difficult to sustain thriving churches, and so the moral and religious life may be more prone to decline. but soil conditions by themselves cannot demoralize a people. they can do so only where the church is failing to do its work. the natural conditions of soil and climate are by no means worse in the eighteen counties than in many other areas where fairly good moral conditions are found. they are no worse than they were in the parish of john frederick oberlin, nor in many fairly prosperous new england communities of to-day. even where moral, economic, and other conditions are bad, communities usually respond quickly to the work of a well-equipped resident pastor, as the experience of home missionaries abundantly proves. in the first parish served as pastor by mr. gill, the soil and the people were very poor. the moral conditions, because of a church situation very similar to that of the neglected communities of southeastern ohio, were bad. but the response to the work of a church which gave good service was all that could have been anticipated. even the economic conditions were notably improved as a result of the church's work, while the moral change in the community was striking, rapid, and enduring. men familiar with home missionary work regard such results as normal. where the conditions are as unfavorable as they are in the eighteen counties, it is unquestionably the duty of the church as a whole, and especially of the churches of the prosperous districts, to assist the weaker churches not only with supervision and advice, but also by helping to provide well-trained and well-equipped ministers, thus guarding against the ravages of an ignorant and untrained or unworthy and insincere ministry. the people of southeastern ohio will undoubtedly be as responsive to good church work and as ready to follow good religious leadership as the people of similar regions elsewhere. such work and leadership for many years, at least, they have not had. (see the next chapter.) their ecclesiastical and religious conditions are such as afford no ground for expecting better social, moral, and physical conditions than those actually found to exist. surely we cannot accept these conditions as inevitable until the church shall at least have made a serious effort to test the possibilities and learn the results of carrying out a live and modern program. chapter v the churches in the eighteen counties in the eighteen counties of southeastern ohio some of the older and stronger denominations are well represented, as table c shows. (see page .) no less than , or more than one-third, of the total number of churches are methodist episcopal. nearly one-tenth are united brethren in christ, another tenth baptist, one-fifteenth christian, and one-fifteenth presbyterian; while other powerful denominations are also present. it is evident that the failure of the churches in this area cannot be laid to the weakness or poverty of the denominations represented, for they are for the most part neither weak nor poor. ohio, moreover, is a wealthy state, and its churches make large contributions for church work and church extension both in america and abroad. it has been too commonly held in the past that missionary effort should consist largely in organizing and building churches. we do not believe that proposition is sound. in rural ohio the worst moral and religious conditions are found where there are the largest number of churches in proportion to the number of inhabitants. in counties out of a total of in the state, there is one country church for each people or less. (see map and table a, column .) of these counties, are among the eighteen counties under our special consideration. outside these eighteen counties and the counties contiguous to them, no county has an average of less than persons to a church, but it appears that washington has one church for persons, monroe one for , pike one for , gallia one for , morgan one for , jackson one for , while vinton has one for , and meigs one church for . in the rural sections of these eighteen counties there are , churches and townships, or more than churches to a township. while the fact that this region is more difficult to travel, because more hilly, than many other parts of the state might constitute a reason for having many churches, it certainly cannot be held that the bad moral and religious conditions which exist are due to lack of a sufficient number of them. nor is support here to be found for the contention sometimes made that religious work thrives best under competition. the larger the number of churches in proportion to the population, the more difficult it obviously becomes to secure, support, and retain resident pastors. in proportion to the number of churches, the eighteen counties have a comparatively small number of ministers. (see map and table a, column .) in the state as a whole, about one-third, or per cent, of the churches have resident ministers. in only three counties outside the eighteen is it true that less than one-fourth of the churches have them. these are delaware, coshocton, and pickaway, and the latter is one of the bordering counties. but in of the eighteen counties less than one-fourth of the churches have resident ministers. it will be noted that less than one-fifth of the churches in scioto, pike, lawrence, and meigs counties have resident ministers, one-sixth in morgan county, and less than one-sixth in jackson, hocking, and gallia. in the eighteen counties the number of resident ministers in proportion to the population, as well as in proportion to the number of churches, is small. (see map and table a, column .) there are counties in ohio in which there are more than , persons for each resident minister, of which are among the eighteen counties under consideration, and three among the bordering counties. noble county has a resident minister to every , persons, gallia to every , , lawrence to every , , pickaway to every , , while hocking has only one to , , or nearly , persons. here, as in most rural sections, an absentee ministry is necessarily ineffective. (see pages - .) the foregoing facts afford convincing evidence that the church in this region is rendering poor service--how poor the reader may judge from the following description of the religious and ecclesiastical conditions found by mr. gill in his personal investigation on the ground. for the most part the farm people of these eighteen counties are very religious. this is attested not merely by the large number of churches, but also by the frequency of well-attended revival services, held in spring, summer, autumn, and winter. (in pike county, for example, no less than , revival services were held in thirty years, or an average of each year.) yet a normal, wholesome religion, bearing as its fruit better living and all-round human development, and cherished and propagated by sane and sober-minded people, is rarely known. the main function of a church, according to the popular conception, is to hold these protracted meetings, to stir up religious emotion, and, under its influence, to bring to pass certain psychological experiences. the idea seems to be dominant in nearly all the denominations and churches that the presence of the deity is made known mainly, if not solely, through states of intense emotion which may be stimulated in religious assemblies. such emotion is held to be not only a manifestation of the deity's presence, but also a proof of his existence. no man is held to be religious or saved from evil destiny unless he has had such experience. it becomes, therefore, the business of the preacher of the church to create conditions favorable to the experiencing of these emotions. officials of denominations to which more than two-thirds of the churches belong encourage or permit the promotion of a religion of the excessively emotional type, which encourages rolling upon the floor by men, women, and children, and going into trances, while some things which have happened in the regular services of a church in one of the largest denominations cannot properly be described in print. the leaders of a religious cult commonly called holy rollers seem to be most efficient in this direction. the character of their services and activities produce the results desired, according to the traditions accepted and proclaimed for generations by ignorant preachers to a nonprogressive people. a holy roller movement was started in pike county in the year . it has steadily been gaining ground ever since, and has never been more flourishing than now. it is the livest sect in this and neighboring counties. its meetings are large and full of enthusiasm. except the churches of this cult, very few are now left in the western half of pike county which show any activity whatever. in one district of square miles (in which there are , children enrolled in the schools and in all , young people from the ages of six to twenty) no churches were holding services in except those of the holy rollers. the seasons of protracted holy roller meetings often last for several weeks. frequently they begin each day at . a. m. and continue until . a. m. the next day, with intermissions for meals. these meetings are characterized by much singing, with music well adapted to rythmic motions of the body, by dancing and clapping the hands, sometimes by shouting and joyous screaming, rolling upon the floor, tumbling together of men and women in heaps, trances, while at least one of their preachers has exercised hypnotic power over some of his followers and has put them through stunts in no way differing from those of the professional hypnotist showman who, in times past, for the price of admission, has amused and astonished his audience with exhibitions of his skill. in one village where mr. gill attended a church belonging to this movement, it was the only religious organization holding services or showing any signs of life. although at this service the building was full to its capacity, as is usual with meetings of this kind, the church not only had no sunday school, but its leaders kept the children away from one which a missionary of the american sunday school union was trying to start in the neighborhood. three-fourths of the parents of the fifty pupils in the local school were adherents of this cult, yet its leaders opposed having better day schools. the school principal, under the direction of the county school superintendent, tried to hold literary meetings for intellectual and social improvement, but under the influence of the holy roller leaders, the parents refused to let their children attend, and the enterprise was defeated. apparently no meeting for any purpose is to be tolerated except the holy roller meetings themselves. these theoretically and in fact take the place of all other gatherings. the holy roller church in this community, as elsewhere, in its total influence promotes immorality. it has a tendency to break up families and destroy the peace and harmony of the neighborhood. in the judgment of the more sober-minded people, the holy roller movement spoils the life of the community wherever it goes. although the holy roller cult apparently was not started in this region until a few years ago, it would seem that the religious activities of the older denominational churches were but a good preparation for it. in fact, good soil is found for sprouting the seed of holy rollerism in many sections of the state. the difference in religious beliefs and ideals between the holy rollers and the preachers of other denominations in the eighteen counties too often is not easily detected. denominations to which at least two-thirds of the churches belong employ many men and women as preachers who are extremely ignorant. in one of its districts, nearly half of the twenty or thirty ministers of the largest denomination in the state did not have a common school education. it is usual to find ministers intellectually inferior to a number of families whom they are supposed to lead and teach. in some districts a considerable proportion of the preachers have had no more than three or four grades of common school instruction. some cannot write their own names correctly. accordingly religious education is neglected. the people apparently have been untouched by the general advance in religious knowledge during the past century. many intelligent people in the eighteen counties deplore these conditions and would be glad to have churches of a different type. but it is also very common to find among the more prosperous, especially in the fertile river valleys, a spirit of utter indifference towards religion, and often of gross materialism. under such circumstances it is not surprising to find that in several sections much hostility to institutional religion exists. it is given expression by rural hoodlums who cut to pieces harnesses and slash tires belonging to ministers or laymen who attend religious gatherings, while in some communities stones are thrown through the windows of buildings where public worship is being held. while it is true that out of the poorest and most unfortunate districts bright boys and girls frequently emerge, escape their surroundings, and become good citizens, it is none the less true that a large proportion of those who remain have no reasonable chance for wholesome development. the bad influence of the eighteen counties extends far beyond their borders. out of them many farm laborers have gone to communities to the north and northwest, often with deplorable results to the social, religious, and moral conditions of the communities where they are employed. (see table b.) it is calculated that no less than , persons emigrated in the ten-year period from to from the strictly rural districts of _sixteen_ of the eighteen counties. in madison, a fertile county near the center of the state, in an area sixteen miles long and from seven to eleven miles wide, there are three closed and no active churches. one of the causes of this condition is the fact that the farm laborers imported by the owners of large tracts of lands were never made familiar, before they came, with a normal type of religion. these men come from the eighteen counties or from sections across the ohio river where the conditions are very much the same. in parts of several other counties the situation brought about by similar immigration is extremely bad. the eighteen counties demand missionary activity on the part of the church as a whole, not only for the sake of the unfortunate people who live in them, but also for the sake of the other regions whose welfare is threatened by the transfer of low standards of all kinds, which, like a forest fire, are creeping away from the region where they originated. among the large number of intelligent persons who know and deplore the situation in typical communities of southeastern ohio, very few seem to cherish hope of improvement. such pessimism appears to be unjustified. good work is now being done by missionaries of the american sunday school union. what is more important, there is much promise that the trouble can be reached and cured by the modern country church movement, which is already making real progress in ohio. as a result of this movement, for example, the board of home missions of the methodist episcopal church has, for the first time, appropriated missionary funds to be used in this section, while one of the district superintendents of the same denomination is carrying out a radically changed program for the churches under his supervision. [illustration: map a where conditions demand missionary aid] [illustration: map high death rates from tuberculosis] [illustration: map high rates of illegitimacy] [illustration: map where illiteracy abounds] [illustration: map distribution of foreign born whites] [illustration: map excessive over-churching] [illustration: map churches many but ministers few] [illustration: map number of persons to a resident minister] [illustration: map value of farm property in the year ] [illustration: map increase in value of farm property] [illustration: map rich land and poor land] table a showing that in a group of counties in southeastern ohio there is an excessive amount of preventable disease and illiteracy, an excessive number of illegitimate births, excessive overchurching, a very small number of resident ministers in proportion to the number of churches and number of people, that as compared with other sections the total value of farm property is small and the increase in value slight key: _average annual rate of deaths from tuberculosis of the lungs per , persons, , , _ _average annual rate per , population of illegitimate births for , _ _per cent of illiterate males of voting age, _ _per cent of total population who were foreign born white, _ _number of persons to a church_ _per cent of churches which have resident ministers_ _number of persons to each resident minister_ _number of millions of dollars at which farm property is valued_ _per cent increase in value of farm property - _ for state, counties . . . adams . . athens . . brown . . clermont gallia . . highland hocking . . jackson . lawrence . . meigs monroe . . morgan noble . . pike . . ross . . scioto . vinton . . washington . . -------------------------------------------------------------------- average for counties . -------------------------------------------------------------------- belmont . . clinton fairfield fayette . . guernsey . . hamilton . muskingum perry . . pickaway . . warren table b showing calculated number of persons who migrated from the rural districts of sixteen counties in southeastern ohio - key: _population of strictly rural townships, _ _excess of birth rate over death rate_ _population of strictly rural townships, _ _calculated total population in had there been no migration_ _calculated no. persons who migrated - _ total , adams , . , , , brown , . , , , clermont , . , , , gallia , . , , , highland , . , , , hocking , . , , , jackson , . , , , lawrence , . , , , meigs , . , , , monroe , . , , , morgan , . , , , noble , . , , , pike , . , , , ross , . , , , vinton , . , , , washington , . , , , table c denominations of the churches in eighteen counties of southeastern ohio key: _churches in strictly rural townships_ _other rural churches_ _all rural churches_ total , , methodist episcopal united brethren baptist christian presbyterian disciples methodist protestant christian union catholic non-progressive disciples radical united brethren lutheran congregational reformed german evangelical united presbyterian friends all others chapter vi a policy and program the roots of the religious and moral life of the nation are chiefly in the country church. as in southeastern ohio, so in any area where the church fails, degeneracy begins. the low and sordid moral atmosphere found in so many rural villages and communities, not only among the eighteen counties, but throughout the state (and far beyond the boundaries of ohio) is altogether unnecessary. it constitutes a challenge to the church which can no longer go unheeded. obviously, whatever reforms in methods and policies may be required to enable it efficiently to perform its task must be made. ( ) _a better program_ one of the chief underlying causes of the present condition of the churches is an imperfect conception of their function. we recognize the fact that the effective proclaiming of the gospel is the essential if not the greatest and most important task of the churches, but the impression is still very widespread in the ohio churches that to preach it from pulpit and platform is almost their only task. that this is not enough to bring the churches to their full effectiveness has been conclusively proved by the experience of foreign missionaries during the past hundred years. in proportion to the number of their missionaries, the missionary societies which have believed that proclaiming the christian message is the only function of the church, have not made as many converts nor built up as strong churches as those which engage also in the work of healing the sick and teaching. the most successful missionary organizations teach not only christian life and theology, but all that makes for what is best in our christian civilization. the welfare of a man's soul may be increased by promoting the welfare of the rest of him, and the aim of the church should be to bring every man to the highest possible development of all his powers. in seeking to do so it will not only be more effective in creating a higher manhood and womanhood, but will also make its message better understood and secure a greater number of church members and adherents. for our city churches also this is as true as for the foreign missionary field, although perhaps less obviously so. the equipment of so large a number of modern city churches for various forms of social service is a strong indication that those who control their policies recognize the necessity of a more diversified field of work. the success and growth of the y. m. c. a. is another indication of the truth for which we are contending. this institution which is a branch or arm of the christian church has declared its aim to be the development of "soul, mind, and body." as a result of this policy it is now engaged in many kinds of work which should also be done more widely and generally and so on a greater scale throughout the church. it receives large contributions of money from members of the churches, and it rightly undertakes and successfully carries out large enterprises where other church organizations fail to see their duties and opportunities and lag behind or remain idle. still another reason for believing in a larger function and mission of the church is found in the fact that every strikingly successful country church is found to be deeply concerned with the needs of the community, and is carrying out a broad and comprehensive program of service. this is true not only in the state of ohio, but throughout the nation. finally and conclusively, it may be added that the broader program was instituted and carried out by the founder of the christian religion, and was by him enjoined upon his followers. what the new program for the local country church should be is no longer a matter of conjecture. country ministers in very many widely separated parishes of the united states have worked it out independently in trying to meet the needs of their communities, and have everywhere reached substantially the same conclusion. the program is essentially the same in all places where the most successful country church work is done. it has found an embodiment in the mass of country church literature which has been published during the past eight years, and it has been studied, tried, and proved to meet the need of large numbers of country pastors in ohio and in many of the other states. how it has been carried out in some ohio parishes is described in chapter viii, pages - . ( ) _a better ministry_ to carry out the better program for the local country church requires an educated ministry. ohio has suffered greatly from ministerial quackery. very imperfectly equipped ministers, such as are found in nearly every county of the state, and unsound ignorant men, such as are so common in the eighteen counties, cannot meet the requirements of the new program. doubtless the educational requirements of the discipline of many of the denominations are set too low, but even so, if the rules of the discipline were strictly obeyed, a large proportion of the present ministers would be eliminated. the new program requires trained men. to get better men, better opportunity and better pay must be supplied. fields of service must be created large enough, yet sufficiently compact and free from competing rivals, to make good work possible. the farmers must be convinced that better support of the ministry is essential, in their own interest. at the same time the best young men of the churches must be assured that the new program offers a field so promising as to make it worth their while to enter the ministry. the churches are wise enough and strong enough to do all this if they will address themselves to the situation and take it seriously. ( ) _better support_ in a large part of ohio the farmers are able and ready to multiply the amount of money they now contribute for the support of the churches. when it is made clear to them that better pay will bring a better minister, increased support will cheerfully be given. but the farmers will not give more money either for the support of an inferior minister, or to carry out the old program. they will demand their money's worth, and this the present methods do not, in general, supply. the increased prosperity and consequent ability of the farmers to support the church more liberally is indicated by the fact that the total value of farm property in ohio increased nearly per cent during the ten-year period from to . but it must be remembered that increased support will not be given by the farmers unless the need for it, and what it will bring, is brought forcefully to their attention. this the individual minister cannot do, for to attempt it lays him open to the charge of feathering his own nest. it should be done by a state federation of churches or by such organizations as the ohio rural life association, acting through its own institutes and the farmers' institutes, through the circulation of its literature, and through the formation of organizations for this purpose in the churches of the different counties. no matter how good work a minister may do, ordinarily he will not be adequately supported unless some special agency does this work. ( ) _better acquaintance_ the present system of circuits entails upon the country minister an enormous waste of time. if a man tries to do the pastoral work which is strictly necessary, he must spend a very large proportion of his working hours in driving to the widely separated points of his various parishes, crossing and recrossing as he goes the lines of travel of other ministers engaged in the same territory upon the same work. that the country minister should be called upon to waste so large a part of his life in this way is shameful because it is bad and inefficient organization, and carries with it an utterly needless loss. to understand the significance of pastoral calling in a rural community it must be remembered that isolation is as characteristic of the country as congestion is of the cities. a large proportion of rural families look upon a minister who calls frequently as a personal asset of great value. he supplies opportunities not otherwise available for the discussion of matters of general interest or of deep personal concern. he calls attention to the things otherwise forgotten, and brings, or should bring with him, the inestimable advantage of intimate contact with a wise and well-trained mind. moreover, a man full of good will to all going from house to house, sympathetically trying to help and understand, will inevitably modify the uncharitable and unjust public opinion which either exists or is believed to exist in most rural communities. equally effective are the incidental contacts of a minister engaged in community service, such as work with boys, or the promotion of welfare enterprises. thus engaged he will inevitably get in touch with his parishioners, and supply the needs of individuals and of the community, at least as fully as the minister who devotes most of his working hours to pastoral calls. in such work less time is spent in the long drives or walks between houses which are necessary in systematic calling, while the minister gets to know the men better and bothers them less. without pastoral calling and community welfare work, the country minister's service is sure to be ineffective. but as a matter of fact the country ministers of ohio for the most part do very little of either. the country people as a rule, receive very few pastoral calls, according to the almost universal testimony of the country ministers themselves as well as that of other persons who live in the country. in delaware county, for example, a prosperous county in the center of the state, there is an area of square miles, with more than , people, in which only one minister makes any pastoral calls, and he makes very few. half the townships of this county have no resident ministers. mr. gill found one township in the north-central section of the state in which the farmers' families probably had not been called on once in five years. one woman had not received a call from a minister in twelve years. when finally called upon she became a regular and happy church attendant, though she had not been to church since her childhood. another family was found in the same region whose house no minister had entered for nineteen years. in an ohio river township, the members of a family testified that a minister had not called on them for twenty-five years, and still others asserted that no minister had ever entered their homes. from the reports of eighteen pastors in one denominational district it appeared that on an average each one made only six calls a year upon non-church members, although these were more than per cent of the people. "our minister does not know the people of this community" is common testimony everywhere in the country parishes. the country minister's influence is still further reduced because his term of service is short--usually but a year or two, rarely three years. moreover, his efforts are commonly divided among several communities and thus are spread too thin to produce results. add to that the fact that in each community the people whom he serves are intermingled with the parishioners of ministers of other denominations. under these circumstances how can he become efficient in community service, and how can he get to know the people of his charge? ordinarily he does not even attempt it. under present conditions the country minister who does, generally accomplishes little and wears himself into discouragement. ( ) _rearrangement of circuits_ the old circuit system under which many of the denominations developed their work and which is now the system employed in nearly all the larger denominations in the state, was of undoubted value in the beginning of their work in pioneer days. but like many other efficient methods of early times it has ceased to be the best method for present needs, in the form in which we now find it at work. this is true except in a few instances where it appears in such a modified form as to be adaptable to present conditions. under the circuit system it has often been accepted as a policy by church officials that every church must have a minister and every minister a church. the advantages accruing both to the churches and ministers from a reasonably cautious and not too consistent application of such a rule are obvious. but failure to use such caution and too great insistence on its universal application too often have resulted in the employment of unequipped and uneducated ministers and sometimes even of men whose character was questionable, which in turn, has helped to bring about a low standard of pay for the minister. the pay of the skilled has fallen to that of the unskilled, and the total result has been to cheapen the ministry. the standard among farmers for the support of both church and minister, therefore, has fallen low. we must have a greatly modified system or a better system before the ministry can be better paid. under the circuit system as now applied in ohio the churches too often provide for but little else than preaching. even the sunday school, one of the most hopeful and valuable kinds of church work, is hampered by it, for this work needs the leadership of a trained ministry, which the present circuit system tends to prevent. the minister with a circuit can rarely attend the services of his sunday schools, and the task of promoting the sunday school work during the week in the several communities of his charge is usually too arduous for him. in times past it has been held commendable for a denomination to establish one of its churches in every community, regardless of the number of churches already there. by making use of the present circuit system, it has been possible to establish and after a fashion to maintain a church almost anywhere. hence the present unfortunate multiplication of churches. when rural communities are overchurched, as under the working of this plan in ohio most of them are, competition between them necessarily results not in the survival of the fit, but in the continued existence of an excessive number of bloodless, moribund churches, whose energies are almost entirely exhausted in the mere effort to keep alive. when the circuit system is adopted by more than one competing denomination in a field as it is in ohio it helps to perpetuate interchurch competition. when one adopts it all others must, or retire from the field. it cannot be held that the resulting competition helps to make more christians, or that it tends to develop character or community life. on the contrary, it reduces both the power of the church as a whole and the influence of the individual churches for personal righteousness and community welfare. then, as the churches under the competitive system grow weaker, they must be yoked in larger circuits. so far has the practice gone that in one circuit in ohio there are actually ten churches. a variation of this system is found in certain holy roller churches where an undefined number of churches together depend for their leadership on a group of itinerant revivalists. frequent or occasional seasons of revival services often constitute the sole activity of these churches, yet because of the weakness of the latter they are succeeding or have succeeded in crowding out many churches of the older denominations. there is a clear instance of this in the western half of pike county, where nearly all the churches are abandoned excepting those of the holy rollers--a striking example of reverse selection or the survival of the unfit. the movement for the conservation and improvement of rural life has no greater enemy than the misused circuit system. not only does it weaken the churches, but it necessarily discourages the development of the community and of community life. with his efforts divided among three or more different communities, his parishioners mingled with members of competing churches, the country minister cannot hope for the coöperation necessary to effective leadership. his success in any work for the community, because it would add prestige to his church, as a rule is not desired by the members of other denominations. the entire circuit situation as it works to-day in the region here under investigation whatever may be its value elsewhere tends to make the modern program of successful churches entirely impracticable. escape from the deadening environment of the country church circuit is the ardent desire of most country ministers who have had any reasonable degree of equipment for their vocation, and self-improvement as a preacher seems to be the only way out. the circuit minister of such equipment naturally regards his present work as temporary. he looks forward to leaving the country through promotion to a town church. the city, where he hopes to be, and not the country, where he is, becomes for him the only field for success in the ministry. it is evident, therefore, that country parishes to be successful must be more compact. as a substitute for the circuit, churches in a small community where there are too many should be united in the support of one resident minister. if they cannot support him, then other adjacent churches should join with them in a federated circuit under a single pastor. such is the right use of the circuit in the country. the territory thus placed under one minister may be so large as to make it desirable to employ a paid assistant to the pastor. freed from the necessity of long drives to other communities, the pastor can make many calls nearer home. community enterprises, under this system made possible, will bring the pastor into personal touch with the people. he will become their friend and they will wish him a long term of service among them. and only when a minister has been two or three years in a community can he begin to render his most effective service. the enlarged and unified parish, such as that of benzonia, michigan, or hanover, new jersey, should be carefully distinguished from the misused circuit, which now plays so significant a part in the church life of ohio. parishes like these afford all the benefits of the circuit with none of its defects. [illustration: map showing that in or per cent of the strictly rural townships no church has a resident minister] ( ) _more resident ministers_ while the preaching of a good pastor is an indispensable factor in the individual development of his parishioners and in the progress of community life, that of the non-resident is by comparison of little value. it is shooting in the air without seeing the target, like the fire of artillery without the aid of air scouts. there is no greater force for righteousness in a country community than a church with a resident minister, well educated, well equipped, wisely selected, whose term of service is not too short. the church is the only institution which can hope to employ a man of this type to give his whole time, as a minister can, to the service of his community. the right kind of resident minister will have a strong and intelligent desire to secure opportunities for the best development of his children and to create a favorable environment for them. he will therefore take a keen interest in the schools, in the establishing of libraries, in play and social life, in keeping out evil influences and promoting general decency. he may fairly expect to see the fruits of his labor, and will be all the more likely on that account to become interested in the economic betterment of the community. such a man will stimulate it and help it to make use of all available means to further the general welfare. a church with such a pastor is community insurance against degeneracy and decay. one of the most striking examples of the service of a resident minister during a long pastorate is found in the life of the well-known john frederick oberlin, a free biography of whom has recently been made available to all country ministers. large numbers of modern examples may also readily be found. one is given on pages - of this report. there are few more deplorable wastes than that of the church in the use of its rural ministry. this waste alone is enough to account for much of the decline in country life, because under the present system only a small fraction of the normal influence of the ministry can be exerted. and it is a needless waste, for it is fully within the power of the churches through their officials to correct it. the minister must be given a field of such a character that it is possible for him to do his work, and he must be given that adequate support which proper church administration can most assuredly secure for him. only when these readjustments have been made will it be fair and right to appeal to the young men of education and ability to enter the rural ministry, and stay in it. the thing can be done. we have in mind a rural township with less than , inhabitants, lying in a hill country, which has six resident ministers in its five villages, while the term of service of the minister of each of the parishes is nearly always long. to establish at least one resident minister in every township is not too high an aim. the people can and should be brought to understand that the value of a successful minister rises in increasing proportion with his knowledge of the community and the length of his service. ( ) _interchurch coöperation_ to substitute coöperation for competition is an essential condition of rural church progress, at least in ohio. whenever the new program is adopted by a community it will discover that interchurch competition is hostile to community prosperity. many rural communities already know that interchurch coöperation is desirable. but the great question is how to secure it. nearly every community is aware that it has too many churches, but the task of reducing the number or securing interchurch comity is a problem beset with difficulties. these difficulties, however, are by no means insuperable. many communities have already found ways to overcome them. in every community which really requires more than one church or pastor, there should be a federation of churches; that is, a joint committee of pastors and delegates officially appointed by the several churches to learn and meet the needs, religious, or social, which require concerted action. while such federations, which are carefully to be distinguished from federated churches, are common in our cities, comparatively few are found in the country. one of these is in shiloh, ohio, a description of which may be found on page . there appear to be no very great difficulties in the way of bringing such federations about. in communities whose compactness permits, and whose population and resources require, that there should be only one congregation and pastor, but where two or more churches already exist, the churches clearly should either be united organically in a single denominational church, or a federated church should be formed. descriptions of federated churches may be found on pages - . in a township or community where population and resources are inadequate to support more than one pastor, but where the population is so distributed that more than one place of worship and organized church are required, a federated circuit may well be formed and a common pastor be employed. in such case the several churches should be officially represented by a joint committee which would act for the circuit not only in employing the common pastor, but also in learning and meeting all the religious and social needs which require concerted church action. in securing pastors and in other matters where assistance is needed, the local federated churches and federated circuits should be aided by the state federation of churches if there is one, and if not by such bodies as the committee of interchurch coöperation of the ohio rural life association. both federation and association are necessary for other purposes, and therefore no ground whatever exists for the objection sometimes made that federated churches will require the formation of new organizations to supervise them. while it is true that an uneducated minister ordinarily cannot satisfy the people of various denominations, and that usually he is sectarian in his thinking and point of view, it is equally true that where a well-educated man is pastor, the needs of the people of various denominations can easily be met and church unity be made possible. ( ) _community churches_ the most successful rural church is the community church. its members work chiefly not for the church itself, but for the community. its ambition is to serve every person in its neighborhood, to create an environment favorable to the highest possible development of every person in the neighborhood, and to stimulate other organizations and persons to serve the community in every possible way. it is conceivable that there might be more than one such church in a neighborhood, but in this discussion it is assumed that a community church is the only church in the community, for by far the larger number of rural communities in ohio should have but one church. since, on an average, there are five churches in a township and only , persons, the formation of community churches is evidently both advisable and important. the community church may be a denominational church or a federated church. it is the judgment of most of the denominational officials who are members of the committee of interchurch coöperation of the ohio rural life association that wherever possible churches should be united in one denominational church through the reciprocal exchange and elimination of small churches by the denominational organizations. in such an exchange church members of denomination a would unite with the church of denomination b in community m, while members of denomination b would unite with the church of denomination a in community n, and so on. a number of such exchanges have been made, and so far as can be learned, they have worked well. but the members of the small churches frequently refuse to carry out this plan. they often care more for their local church than for their denomination, and are not willing that their own church organization should be destroyed. while such exchanges will doubtless continue to be made from time to time, it is unlikely that rapid progress will be achieved by this method alone. on the other hand, the members of a local community are usually ready to form a federated church when they understand it. this has been done in northfield, aurora, wayland, olmstead falls, milford centre and huntington, in greene township, trumbull county, and in many other communities. a description of some of them may be found on pages - . if the officials and superintendents of the church should become as favorable to the formation of federated churches as they are to exchange between denominations, and should actively further the movement, they could without question bring about the unification of the churches in very large numbers of communities which stand greatly in need of it. here then we have two possible methods of uniting the christian people in the rural communities. one of them--denominational exchange--is favored by the officials but often opposed by the people in the churches. the other--the federated church--is favored by the people in the churches and opposed by many of the officials. it is our contention that in the majority of cases the method preferred by the people is more desirable than that preferred by the officials. for a man to leave his own denomination and unite with another often involves action against the conscience. in some of the denominations, for example, the members have been trained to think it undesirable to subscribe to a creed. but creed subscription is required by the churches of many of the denominations as a condition of membership. in such cases the church officials may properly hesitate to urge a part of the people to do what they believe is not right. another reason which often makes it impossible for the church member of one denomination to unite with the church of another is a temperamental distaste for the idea of submission to some special system of discipline. to all protestants this is clear so far as the catholic church is concerned. to many it is just as clear in relation to some of the protestant bodies. the official objections to the formation of federated churches involve no questions of moral principle, but merely those of expediency and the smooth running of existing ecclesiastical machinery. it is held by certain officials that the federated church tends to promote autonomy in the local congregations, and that it will impair the authority of the denomination. but this increase of autonomy has already taken place in the city churches, which, as a matter of practice, whatever the denominational theory may be, manage their own affairs. there is here no loss to the denomination, nor is there likely to be when the country churches are strengthened by federation. in the long run the officials who now entertain objections to the federated church will doubtless not permit them to stand in the way of rural church progress. particularly will this be true when a minister of their own denomination is to be made pastor of the federated church. it would seem wise, therefore, for the denominational authorities to agree that when federated churches are formed the choice of pastors should be made, so far as possible, on the basis of interdenominational reciprocity. in view of the urgent needs of the rural communities, as a rule, those methods should be adopted which are most acceptable to the local people whose interests are involved. when the people of a community come to desire united christian action in promoting community welfare, their zeal will usually be strong enough to overcome the difficulties in the way. but this desirable consummation is greatly retarded where opposition is made by the denomination or its officials. until the church officials and denominations are able to propose some other practicable plan for the readjustment of church life to community welfare, a plan which can be carried out, the demands of the situation certainly require them to help rather than hinder the movement for the formation of federated churches. in any event they will not be able to stop it. in the investigation striking cases were found of denominational officials opposing christian unity in the mistaken belief that they were acting in accord with the sentiment of their denominations. it has been reported to us that a certain denominational official has tried in ten different communities to prevent interchurch coöperation, although the local churches and the local people were for it. it might in charity be contended that in nine of these it was not christian coöperation itself that was opposed, but rather the form of coöperation embodied in a federated church. but in the tenth community it was clearly christian coöperation and not the form of it to which this official was hostile, for the people of the two local churches were merely meeting together, in union services on sunday evenings, and for an occasional communion service. no federation or organic union was contemplated. but the old minister was removed, and a new minister was sent to the field with definite instructions to break up what unity there was. these instructions he carried out so thoroughly that the christian forces in the community were greatly reduced in effectiveness. in another community an official persistently tried to prevent the formation of a federated church, although himself acknowledging that he sincerely believed it was the very best thing that could be done for the local people. from two other communities it was reported that this same official was the only obstacle in the way of christian unity. it is entirely probable that in many other communities these denominational officials have opposed christian coöperation, for only incidentally did the authors hear of the cases reported. ( ) _nonsectarian support_ to give strength to the movement for interchurch coöperation, a strong interdenominational or undenominational backing is needed. on the part of the higher leaders and officials there is no lack of genuine desire to further interchurch coöperation. the same desire is shared by very large numbers of the younger ministers who are properly trained for their calling, and by many older ministers also. the movement, however, is often halted because of a feeling that somewhere in the denomination there is a strong sentiment against it. faintheartedness is the greatest obstacle to coöperation between churches at the present time. numbers of actual instances could be given if it were proper to do so. what is needed, therefore, is an active movement between or outside of the denominations, to strengthen those officials who hesitate to promote interchurch coöperation. such a movement would finally reveal the fact that the prevailing sentiment in the denominations is really in favor of coöperation and not against it, and many who now oppose it or refuse to help would become most valuable agents in promoting it. it must not be assumed that the day of denominations is past. although, as between most of the denominations, theological differences no longer exist, and other differences between many of them are small, denominational feeling is still dominant. the slight differences loom large. denominational officials for the most part feel that their chief duty is to their denomination, from which they hold their official power; and this duty is very absorbing. hence it is often most difficult to gain support from denominational authorities and churches for interdenominational projects. moreover, the direction of interdenominational organization, at the present time, is largely in the hands of men who are responsible for denominational interests, or the interests of other organizations which require their wholehearted and undivided support. while the coöperation and combined judgment of such men is invaluable in the wise direction of interdenominational projects, in ohio they fail as a driving force. this is now the chief cause of weakness in the interdenominational movement for church and country life in the state. both the work for the country church and for the promoting of rural business are rendered ineffective by lack of pecuniary support. in spite of this, however, plans for progressive work both for rural business and rural church are well developed, and have been tested; and moreover, the feasibility of progress in both these lines of endeavor has been thoroughly proved. two things, then, are now required. these are funds and federated or independent direction of their use. we may well expect that adequate funds will be given for carrying on this work in the years immediately following the war. after the sacrifices of war those of peace by comparison will not seem large--while the sacrifices of both peace and war are equally necessary for the realization of the high ideals which as americans we cherish. this war as nothing else has done, has caused men in general to realize that there are tasks for all other than the commercial enterprises of the day, and that each of us must accept his share of the responsibility for their performance. what is worth fighting for during the war is worth working for after the war. chapter vii federated churches there are many rural communities in ohio where the churches exert a vital influence in community life, and where farm life succeeds in holding families of moral, intellectual, and physical vigor. in some instances the communities and their churches have not been seriously affected by the modern conditions and tendencies which elsewhere are acting unfavorably upon the country church and country life. in other instances, intelligent leadership on the part of the ministers has overcome these conditions. many of these ministers highly appreciate the help they have received from the modern country church movement, while not a few have testified that without it they would have failed. in a very large part of rural ohio the need of interchurch coöperation is keenly realized. in the divided communities the people, for the most part, want to get together, but they do not know how. but in many communities practical methods have been found and tested, and by these methods christian coöperation has been brought to pass and the rural church conditions have been greatly improved. for that reason descriptions of actual successful cases of interchurch coöperation are here supplied. these examples are intended to include federated churches, church federations, and denominational union churches, as well as certain striking cases of the work of the church in community service. the uniting of christian forces will not by itself alone insure rural church progress. the new country church program must be added. in its absence, a real advance appears to be impossible. _greene township_ greene township, trumbull county, is situated in northeastern ohio, in the western reserve. in it had a population of about persons, in about less. some of its residents are descended from the early settlers from new england, others have recently moved in from western sections of ohio, while possibly per cent are of foreign birth. that its people have been somewhat progressive is indicated by the fact that it was among the first three townships in the state to establish a centralized school. greene is not a rich township. it has no railroad. about of its houses are now vacant. fields which formerly were producing good crops of wheat, corn, and oats are now growing up to brush. the young men between and years of age who were going into farming before the war can be counted on the fingers of one hand. it is probable, however, that a new era in agriculture has begun. quite recently drainage, and in some cases the application of lime, have reclaimed much waste land. still other land will be treated in the same way and with equally good results. doubtless, as elsewhere, progressive country church work will greatly assist a general movement in the township to secure abundant prosperity. in the geographical center of the township are two churches, methodist episcopal and disciples of christ. these two are about equal in strength, while in the northwestern part is a baptist church with but three or four families in its membership. the latter, however, supports a sunday school of or attendants. formerly, three resident ministers lived in the community, but for twelve years there had been none. the baptist church holds only occasional preaching services, the disciples have depended for their preaching upon student supplies from a neighboring theological school, while the ministers of the methodist episcopal church have lived outside the township at north bloomfield, five miles away, where there are methodist episcopal, disciples, and congregational churches. the methodist episcopal church at greene, therefore, was part of a circuit of two churches. as is usually the case among farming people of ohio where there are no resident ministers the people of greene township received very few pastoral calls. several families in the southeastern section of the township have had little or no association with any ministers or churches. mr. gill recently visited the township on a pleasant sunday, and learned that less than of its people that day went to church. as an indication that the churches of greene township have been losing their hold on the people, it may be noted that an increasing number of families do not ask clergymen to officiate at funerals. the undertaker sometimes conducts a short service at the grave, or his wife reads a prayer and passage of scripture. in view of immemorial custom, the absence of a clergyman on such occasions is significant. the total amount of money contributed annually to the support of the ministry in greene township has been not more than $ . of this the methodist episcopal church paid its minister $ . the north bloomfield church in an adjacent township paid him $ , so that the total salary of the methodist minister who gave part of his time to greene township was $ . obviously this is not enough to support a family and enable the minister to keep a motor car or a horse. a large part of his time and energy, therefore, was spent in walking from parish to parish and from house to house through an area of square miles. in january of a joint committee was appointed by the churches of greene township to consider the questions of securing a resident pastor, increasing the size of the sunday school and congregation, and rendering all other forms of service needed in the community. it was decided by this committee that a federated church should be formed in which each constituent ecclesiastical body would preserve its own identity. each church would independently meet its obligations to its own denomination in all matters outside of the community, while all the members of the churches would unite in local activities, including the support of a resident minister. a country life institute was held to stimulate the desire for community improvement, and the plan of church betterment was set forth and adopted. to secure support for a minister, a thorough canvass was made by a committee of six representing the three churches. as a result of its work no less than $ , was subscribed. "our results," wrote the chairman of this committee, "have surpassed our brightest hopes. it is a genuine pleasure to work for something that is going to help the whole community and not just a part. i believe the interests of the kingdom will be advanced most where effort is united in rural communities. in our canvass for funds we were surprised to find that the non-church people were not willing that the churches should close their doors. in addition we found they had a deeper interest in the church than we could possibly expect. one old man, probably sixty-five, said that this was the first time he had ever been asked to give to the support of a church. he added that he often felt he would like to give. many a man said he would double the amount of his gift if it was necessary." a well-educated minister who has rendered nine successive years of effective service in one community has been secured as pastor, and there is now a most encouraging prospect of improvement in religious, moral, social, and economic life. the increased giving in greene township has also influenced the members of the methodist episcopal church in north bloomfield. they have pledged $ , instead of the former $ , for the support of their minister, and expect to raise $ , . bloomfield township also hereafter will have the undivided service of a minister. as a result of this movement in greene township, therefore, four of the churches of these two townships will hereafter pay from $ , to $ , for the support of the ministry instead of $ , as hitherto, while two communities will each have the full time service of a resident pastor. the significance of this increase in the money support of the church will be apparent to those who have studied modern rural church problems. the failure of the rural churches to give a living wage, much less a working salary, to their ministers has been one of the most discouraging facts in the rural church situation. if the three churches of north bloomfield should federate as those of greene township have done, doubtless their people could raise $ , for the support of the ministry. again, if all the churches of both north bloomfield and greene should federate it would be possible to employ a single pastor of even higher grade with an assistant. an automobile could be used effectively to cover both townships. in some cases, as in benzonia, michigan, one minister with one or more assistants has been able to get better results at less expense. the plan is worth trying. _aurora_ in the year in the village of aurora, portage county, there were two churches, the congregational and disciples of christ. they were small in attendance and membership, and it was hard to get adequate support for the ministers. the usual results of underpaying the ministry were not wanting. as a preliminary step in the improvement of this situation an organization of the men of the churches was formed to promote the general community welfare. as in so many other cases, to bring the churches together in coöperative service to the community was seen to be the only way to secure a vigorous church life for aurora. that led to the decision to form a federated church under the leadership of one pastor. under the plan adopted, each church was to keep its denominational relations, contribute to its denominational benevolences, and fulfill all denominational obligations. but in aurora, as in greene township, the people were to work together as in one church. owing to circumstances which were purely accidental, for the first year or two the church was not very prosperous and the federation was only partially successful. but after awhile the church began to take on life. while at the beginning it was mutually understood that the arrangement was to be tried for but two years, at the end of that time the desirability of going back to the old way was not even discussed. so far as mr. gill could learn in a visit to the community, the one and only one person who still preferred the old way was a woman who had opposed the movement from the start and had always held aloof from it. the opinion of the people is now practically unanimous that both the community and the churches were greatly benefited by the change. the first pastor of this church was of the disciples, the second a presbyterian. _garrettsville_ garrettsville is a prosperous community on the erie railroad between youngstown and cleveland. its thousand inhabitants are engaged partly in farming, partly in manufacturing, and partly in supplying the various daily needs of the people. its good houses, electric lights, paved streets, and trim sidewalks indicate progressiveness and community spirit. being progressive, the people not merely recognized the undesirability of interchurch competition, but they were able to work out a plan whereby they have largely avoided it. in april, , there were four churches in the community, or on an average one to persons. the highest salary paid to its minister by any of the churches was $ . two of the other churches paid much smaller sums and shared the service of their ministers with the churches of other towns, while one of the pastors was the educational secretary of a y. m. c. a. in a town thirty miles away. the spirit of denominational rivalry was in no respect different from that commonly found where there are too many churches. when the pastor of the congregational church attempted to organize a branch of the boy scouts of america for all the boys in the community, he found that the members of the other churches feared he was attempting to win the boys over to his church. for this reason he thought it best to give up the enterprise. in , an unsuccessful attempt was made to unite the congregational church and the disciples, and another to unite the baptist and congregational churches. in , however, under the influence of the country church movement in ohio, a successful effort was made to unite all three of them. in the spring of that year these three churches were all without pastors. they decided to hold union services and a union sunday school during the summer. upon trial the advantages of this arrangement became manifest. not only was the church attendance larger than the aggregate attendance in the separate churches had ever been, but the sunday school, formerly with separate attendances of , , and , now had an attendance of . besides the added enthusiasm of greater numbers, it had better teachers, better music, and a better christian spirit. in september, , it was decided by separate vote of each church to form a permanent organization, which was incorporated with the name of "the united church," and included all who were members of any of the three churches. no member was asked to alter any of his beliefs, and any candidate for admission might choose his own mode of being received, provided it was one used in some evangelical church. contributions for missionary work were sent to denominational bodies indicated by the givers or determined by a joint committee. for all local work the members were to act as one body. a committee of the united church chose as pastor a young man of rural experience, a graduate of an eastern university and seminary, whose denominational affiliation was regarded as of so little importance that it was not even announced. the united church of garrettsville, after two years of experience, affords religious opportunities and renders service to the people far beyond anything the town could supply before the federation was made. while the three original churches remain intact, the main part of the business of the church is done by the committee of the united church. the officials of the denominations of the three churches interested heartily encourage the project. the united force of church workers from three denominations has made a very efficient church. the united church is the result of a desire of the people to be as closely joined in their new church as they were in their different denominational churches. its motto is "in essentials, unity, in non-essentials, liberty, in diversities, charity, in all things, christ first." it accepts the scriptures as its sufficient rule of faith and practice, interpreted in the light of fundamental agreements in evangelical teaching, and in the spirit of its motto. forms of ritual for the sacrament, for the public services, and for admission into the church are left to the decision of the minister, and are not provided for in the regulations. it was desired to keep the forms of sectarianism too feeble to be able to keep the people apart. persons may join the united church without joining any of the three denominations represented by the original constituent bodies. the sunday school is well organized, and is testing its work by the highest standard of christian education. its relation to the church is very close. the young people have a christian endeavor society. the women's work is carried on by a most flourishing society under the name of "the community circle," whose form of organization provides for taking care of both local and missionary needs. at the first meeting of each month, half of the time is given to local opportunities for service. the general social life of the church is largely cared for by this society. the united church has leased all the property of the old churches for a term of years and cares for the church buildings. it has decided to build a new community house for promoting the social life of the community and general community interests, but has postponed it until after the war. in the articles of incorporation one of the objects is regarded as the support of such enterprises as tend to the more perfect development of the children and young people spiritually, physically, morally, and socially. representatives of the old churches usually go to the meetings of their respective denominations, and are accompanied by such members of the united church as may wish to attend as visitors. reports of the meetings are made at meetings of the united church. the pastor of the united church is also pastor of each of the three denominational churches and so far as possible attends the district meetings of the denominational bodies in a representative capacity and cares for the local denominational interests. public services and meetings are held in the congregational church building because it is the largest and best equipped. a baptistry is now being installed, and various uses are being found for the other buildings. it will be noted that the united church of garrettsville differs in some respects from the ordinary federated church. _northfield_ in northfield, summit county, the presbyterian and methodist episcopal churches united by verbal agreement in a federated church on december , . written articles were adopted several months later. the pastor of the federated church, rev. j. m. keck, has kindly given us the following brief account: "the consent of the higher officials of each denomination was first secured. then the members of the local churches agreed to the following plan: "the presbyterians remain in the cleveland presbytery and the methodists in the northeast ohio conference as before. the legal organization of each local church continues intact. each set of trustees has charge of its property. the presbyterian church being the better located, is used for worship, and the methodist for dinners, etc. when a building needs repairs, funds are raised from the entire congregation by voluntary contributions. "the only additional organization is an executive committee, half presbyterians and half methodists, which has charge of current expenses and all matters relating to the congregation as a whole. an every-member canvass for the local budget is made in which no account is taken of church relations, no one but the treasurer knowing how much is contributed by each denomination. benevolent contributions are equally divided between the denominational boards or applied to the presbyterian or methodist funds as indicated on envelopes. "persons desiring to unite with the church elect whether they are to be presbyterians or methodists and are received accordingly. no one seems to care in which they are enrolled, since they work in the same congregation and contribute to the same funds. the order of public worship is a modification of each of those formerly in use but retains the essential features of both. "so far there has not been the slightest friction between the denominations. no one seems to think of ever going back to the old way. what the presbyterians gained " . a church was saved for the denomination which in time would probably have been forced to disband. " . several hundred dollars of home missionary money was saved annually which had been expended in northfield to keep the church open and alive. under the federation it is not needed. " . offerings are made to the various boards and interests of presbyterianism. what the methodist conference gained " . a church was saved that doubtless would have been closed in a few years for want of support. " . the salary of the pastor has been increased and also the stipends of the district superintendent, the bishops, conferences, and claimants. " . the contributions to all boards and benevolences have been increased. what the community gained " . federation saves paying two pastors and keeping two church buildings when one is sufficient. it makes the public more willing to aid. " . the congregation being more than doubled, there is more enthusiasm and willingness to work. " . it has silenced the criticism that the churches are competing instead of coöperating. " . the economic and fraternal features of federation appeal to the public and bring into line people who did not patronize either church before." _federated churches in other states_ more churches have been federated in new england than in any other section of the united states. familiarity with the success or failure of these churches is therefore necessary to a reasonably full discussion of interchurch coöperation. accordingly information blanks were sent to a number of these federated churches. the inquiries were expressed as follows: . date of federation? . denominations of constituent bodies? . membership of each church at the time of federation? . denomination of the first minister and of succeeding ministers? . do the people like the present arrangement better than the old? . do many people want to go back to the old way? . have church benevolences declined or increased? . how has the pecuniary support of the ministry been affected? . how have other expenditures of the church been affected? . has attendance declined or increased? . has church membership declined or increased? . what effect, if any, has the formation of the federated church had upon the social life of the community? . kindly express frankly your opinion of the federated church as a means of securing christian unity and church efficiency. fifteen churches replied. in these fifteen federated churches were thirteen congregational churches, nine methodist episcopal, seven baptist, and one universalist. the universalist was federated with a congregational church, two federated churches were made up of baptist and methodist, five of baptist and congregational, seven of methodist episcopal and congregational. the first ministers of four of the federated churches were baptists, of five, methodist episcopal, and of five, congregational. one of the churches had had an experience of sixteen years, one of eleven, two of eight, two of six, two of five, two of four, two of three, three of two, making the average experience of the fifteen federated churches more than five years. of the fifteen answers to question , thirteen said that the people liked the present arrangement better than the old, while the other two said there were not many people who wanted to go back to the old way. in reply to question , eight declared that the benevolences had increased, three that they had remained the same, one said benevolences varied in different years, while in three the benevolences had declined. in one of these the decline was very slight and there was a prospect of an increase in the future. in thirteen the support of the ministry has been favorably affected by the federation. from one the answer is ambiguous. in the case of truro, massachusetts, where one church had a membership of three and the other of eight, at the time of federation, the answer indicates a decrease in the amount given to the salary. the answers to question indicate that the running expenditures of the churches are often less and that the money is more easily raised to meet them. to question , nine of the answers denoted an increased attendance, five no noticeable change. no church reported a decrease. in one case the answer was obscure. the answers to question report that eight have increased in membership, five have remained stationary, one reports normal additions, and one a slight decrease. in answer to question , twelve churches reported a favorable effect upon the social life of the community, two recently formed reported that there was no marked effect yet, while one gave no answer. all but one of the correspondents cherish a strong opinion that the federated church is the best arrangement when a community is overchurched and the churches are small. one pastor of a federation had nothing to say. the following are the replies to the request made at the end of the questionnaire, "kindly express frankly your opinion of the federated church as a means of securing christian unity and church efficiency": . "nothing to say." . "i do not see any reasons why two or more churches of congregational form of government should not federate, but it would be difficult to federate with episcopal form of church government." . "the efficiency here has been greater since these churches federated than it was before. no church could support a pastor. the baptist church had been pastorless for three and a half years. the congregational church was supplied by students from hartford theological seminary. now they pay a fair salary and give free use of parsonage. federation is the best solution of overchurched communities." . "the federated church should be adopted in rural communities and in many small cities. i see no other way to bring the church into its place as a social and religious power." . "it is my opinion that for a community that is like this one a federated church is a great means to secure christian unity and efficiency. at our last meeting there were but two who were not enthusiastic for its continuance. our field here would be much better if there were not another church in the community outside the federation. there is still the unitarian church outside the federation which necessarily makes a divided leadership in the small community. our federated church has grown from two small churches to the position of dominance in the community. our decrease in benevolences is largely explainable and excusable perhaps in that it occurred during the time when there were so many other things to take care of, relative to the federation. it will not happen again, but for a part of the time we were without a pastor and during the rest of the time exceedingly busy getting things adjusted." . "we are thoroughly satisfied. each church in denominational relationship (the methodist episcopal and congregational) is as independent and well organized as before federation. each church is stronger than before federation. we look forward to the day when federation will be the rule in overchurched communities for the sake of the good of church and community rather than from pecuniary necessity." this opinion was expressed after an experience of sixteen years of the federated church. . "having been pastor of the federated church in somerset for three years i am glad to be able to say that i unqualifiedly recommend federation as a solution of the overchurched problem in country and village. wherever there are genuine christian members, federation will work perfectly." . "it is a great help in small places." . "our federation has been a great success. perfect harmony seems to reign." . "a strong church can do better work alone, but two or more weak churches should unite in the support of one minister. a federated church gives opportunity for denominational loyalty and connections. this is important." . "this is a small town, only about population, but it is a summer resort and during the months of july and august a great many city people attend church. i am pastor of this church and north thetford, another federated church about five miles south. it is about the only way these churches could be run, for both are small places." . "this federated church is in a flourishing condition. during the present pastorate since may, , have been received into the church. the building has been remodeled at a cost of about $ , , all paid but $ . ." . "it is the most efficient means of securing christian unity and church efficiency ever discovered. it is the ideal way." . "i am convinced of the sincerity of christian unity and of the possibility of church efficiency, but it has not really approached that reality any more than some denominational churches have in rural centers. but it is a wholesome and generally satisfactory plan of religious service in a community of changing personnel. in the community is quite a large catholic element and also a very progressive and influential universalist element. this remains in our midst practically unassimilated as yet, after a dozen years with no services in their church. the children are coming into the sunday school pretty well and time will overcome some of these obstacles." . "it is the reasonable and only possible means in this and many other communities in cape cod, but it needs energy and aggressive effort to succeed." in the face of the fact that a very large proportion of denominational rural churches are on the decline, the experience of these fifteen churches constitutes very strong evidence that the federated church is a practical means of securing christian unity and increased church efficiency in small overchurched communities. in order to learn whether or not it is true that only the more successful churches replied to the questionnaire, we have by other means secured information in regard to certain churches which did not reply. some of them were found to be as successful as those which did. for example, the federated church of north wilbraham, massachusetts, the constituent bodies of which are methodist episcopal and congregational churches, has greatly increased in membership, attendance, and in the influence it exerts for various kinds of progress in its community. it would be very difficult to find any country church, either denominational or federated, whose record for service is better. in two cases in new england where the federated church has failed, it was reported that the pastors regarded the federated church as a temporary expedient and tried hard to change it into a denominational church. such action would necessarily be regarded as a breach of faith on the part of one of the churches, and disaster might well be expected to follow. the authors know of no experience which indicates any inherent weakness in the federated church, nor so far as they are aware is there any evidence that a federated church has injured the denomination of any component church. on the contrary, a very large majority of the small churches which have united with others in such federation have gained rather than lost, with a resulting benefit to each denomination concerned. chapter viii other progressive churches . _a church federation_ in the village of shiloh in richland county are two churches, lutheran and methodist episcopal, each supporting a resident pastor. each seems to be strong enough to sustain alone its ordinary activities. for this and other reasons there has been no desire to unite the churches into one congregation. but they had both neglected to provide means of meeting many of the community's needs, such as opportunities for social life, recreation, and athletics, or to stimulate others to make provision for them. as usual under such conditions, gambling and other amusements of a questionable sort became more or less common. in order the better to look after the needs of the young people and to strengthen the moral life of the community, a committee representing both of the churches was appointed to provide and carry out a program for the community welfare. one of the features of this program is a successful movement for the promotion of the social, athletic, and play life of this and neighboring communities. the life of the neighborhood has been made more attractive, especially for the young people, while some of the forms of petty vice have disappeared. union services are frequently held by the two churches. in every way their work is becoming more effective. this form of coöperative organization may be called a church federation, but it should be distinguished from the federated church, which is the union of two or more churches into a single congregation. in every rural community where it is neither feasible nor desirable to unite all the churches under the leadership of one pastor, a church federation should be formed to create conditions favorable to the development of christian character, to hold community religious services and social gatherings, and to render all forms of social service which are needed in the community, but are not rendered by other institutions. . _coöperation with other social forces_ where there are social organizations other than school and church it often happens that the churches can get better results by working with them. an example of this kind of coöperation may be found in white cottage, newton township, muskingum county. here the pastor of the methodist episcopal church made a thorough survey of the community in an area which included four churches. he then prepared a sermon on the much needed country life movement, and sent a personal letter to every family in the area covered by the survey, inviting its members to come and hear his sermon. large numbers responded. then a mass meeting was called to discuss the situation, and the results of the survey were set forth. a committee was appointed to draw up a constitution for a community betterment organization. at a second mass meeting it was adopted. under it every member of the community became a member of the association. every social organization in the community was given equal representation on the executive committee, which has standing committees on programs and publicity, on religion and social service, on education, on recreation and physical culture, and on finance. a general cleaning up of the community followed. an unsightly square was transferred into an attractive playground, where every saturday afternoon there was basket ball, volley ball, croquet, tennis, track athletics, or baseball. a library and public reading room was opened, a temperance program was adopted, farmers' institutes were established, and lectures on agriculture and home economics were given, together with a chautauqua course of lectures for winter and summer, and a series of home talent plays. there were three holiday picnics each summer, and field day exercises with a parade, platform meetings, and a community dinner. other results of this movement are a fine new school building with a large auditorium, and greatly improved roads. moreover, a favorable reaction has been felt in the churches. whereas, formerly but - / per cent of the population were church attendants, now there are per cent; where formerly per cent of the people went to sunday school, now there are per cent. the whole community shows a higher moral tone. while the churches at white cottage were not united in any organic way, yet a spirit of christian unity was brought about. the very best of feeling exists among the different churches, and their members work together gladly in community improvement. as the result of such an atmosphere the evils of overchurching are reduced to a minimum, and it becomes easier to bring about such reorganization as may be for the best religious and social welfare of the community. organizations of coöperating rural social forces, like that at white cottage, for many years have been doing good work in other states, both east and west. in large numbers of communities, particularly where the churches cannot be federated, or where bitter feeling has resulted from interchurch competition, the best method of progress is often to bring about such a coördination of forces in the service of the community itself. . _community service and christian unity_ ashley, in delaware county, is a town of about inhabitants. here a resident pastor's desire to serve his community resulted in christian unity. twelve years ago there were four competing churches, poorly attended and struggling for existence. camp meetings of a fanatical sect were often held in the neighborhood. in the churches of the town seasons of protracted meetings were characterized by excessive emotion at the time, but by few permanent good results. while respect for religion is necessary to a high degree of moral and social life in any country community, a large proportion of the people in ashley no longer respected the church because of the character of its religious activities. many of the most influential citizens even doubted whether the church was good for the community or not. high ideals were conspicuously lacking among the young people, and disorderly conduct was beginning to appear. in the year the methodist episcopal church acquired a pastor who by nature and training was well equipped for his work. fortunately he was the only resident minister in the town, where he remained for nearly ten years. as the result of his leadership the whole community now has a high regard for religion and the church, while a practical christian unity has been brought about and interchurch competition has disappeared. the moral and religious atmosphere of the place has become wholesome. community life has been made attractive through special instruction and entertainment, social gatherings, athletics, and all kinds of healthy amusement. there still are two churches, but one of them meets not oftener than once a month, is attended by only two or three families, and has ceased to be a factor in the life of the community. the other church is well attended and is generally recognized as the community church. the members of the two churches which have dropped out have, for the most part, united with it, while the building of one of them has become the gymnasium of the community church. though the work of this successful pastor was begun before the modern country life and country church movement had been developed, his program and methods of work in no way differ from those which are common to the nation-wide movement. in fact large numbers of country pastors, widely scattered over the united states, entirely independent of one another or of the literature of any special movement, have made and carried out programs for church and community betterment which in their essentials are substantially alike. the pastors have all studied the needs of their communities and have tried to meet them. similarity of needs in the different communities has naturally resulted in the adoption of similar programs. the pastor who did at ashley the work just described began by making a thorough study of his parish. he then led the young people into active work for their community, and later on stimulated the older men to do their part also, until finally it became recognized in ashley that the duty of the christian and the church is not to work mainly for the church, but mainly for the common welfare and the development of all the people. this minister never emphasized any form of sectarianism. he thought of himself as pastor of the whole town and countryside rather than of his church alone, so that whatever he did was entirely free from the spirit of competition. the people did not fail to recognize his aims, and, in consequence, were satisfied with his leadership. thus it became possible for him and his church to work to satisfy the needs of all the people. the presbyterians and friends, therefore, willingly joined his church and gave up their own. but if in speech or deed he had attempted to build up his own church at the expense of the others, there would undoubtedly be four churches in ashley to-day. the ashley community church secured the creation of a community library, itself provided a community reading room, gave special attention to the day school and its teachers, held each year free university extension lectures on agriculture and home economics, lectures on sanitation and prevention of diseases, gave socials and festivals, promoted athletics, maintained a church gymnasium, and formed farmers' clubs and helped them in their work. though there were lodges in ashley which held occasional gatherings, still the church was generally recognized as the institution which supplied the opportunities for social life for the whole community. the church became preëminently the most democratic and most popular institution in the town. simplicity of organization was the aim of the pastor. sunday school classes, including a men's bible class, were organized, and were stimulated to do their best to meet the social and other needs of the community. so well did they do their work that other organizations were found to be unnecessary. one unusual feature of the pastor's work was the combining of the bible school session on sunday morning with the service of the church, making one service of worship, at which communion is administered and members are received. no collections are taken up in the church, but a budget is made at the beginning of the year and the money is raised through a church committee. contributions for benevolences have been greatly increased during this pastorate, and large sums have been spent for building and improvements. yet nevertheless the community did not furnish adequate support for its pastor, undoubtedly because as in the case of nearly all pastors, he refused to work for an increase in his own salary, while, as in nearly all small communities, no one else took the matter up. in this respect, therefore, the people acted unjustly towards their minister. it should be noted that the minister was well trained and of high character; that he lived in the community he served; that he was given a long term of service; and that he cherished a right conception of the work of minister and church. such work as this is badly needed in multitudes of communities in ohio. it is the only thing that can preserve or restore their wholesomeness and make them suitable places for the rearing of children. the church, as a whole, should spare no effort in providing large numbers of such men to do this kind of work, for the total result of so doing would be an increase of untold value in the strength of the very foundations of christian civilization in america. . _christian unity by necessity_ in ontario, springfield township, richland county, there were three churches,--presbyterian, united presbyterian, and methodist episcopal. because many of the best families had left, the presbyterian churches have held no regular services since the year . for a time the methodist episcopal church shared a resident minister with three or four other churches, but from springfield township was left without a resident minister for three years. under these circumstances it was inevitable that social and moral decline should begin, for the modern community's needs cannot be met by the old-fashioned circuit system. more and more the better families moved away or relapsed into the background, and the less moral elements became conspicuous. a dance hall became the haunt of disorderly people from neighboring towns. drunkenness grew apace, while bad language on the streets was altogether too common. pilfering the property of the railroad was more or less open. it was high time to act. accordingly, the people of all the denominations and the non-church people who lived in the township, realizing that it was going from bad to worse, joined in deciding that a resident minister was necessary. money was raised, and the future support of a minister was promised if the methodist episcopal conference would send them a good man. the new minister began his work in the autumn of . the total budget of the church had been about $ , of which less than $ went to the minister's salary. during his first year, $ , was raised, $ of which went for the support of the minister. in the second year no less than $ , was raised, $ , for the minister's salary, $ for ordinary expenses, while the rest went to the permanent repairs on the church buildings. as in ashley, so in springfield township; the pastor regarded his church as a community church and thought of himself as a christian rather than as a sectarian. the attendance more than doubled both at the church services and at the sunday school, while the real membership increased from less than to . when the presbyterians saw the manifest good that could be brought by united christian action, they became members of the methodist episcopal church, while later on they made a christmas present of their building to the methodist community church. it is now used as the house of worship, while the methodist church has become a gymnasium and parish house. under the leadership of the new resident minister a genuine cleaning up of the gross indecency was made, some of the most harmful characters left, and the place became comparatively orderly. the village has been transformed from a rural slum to a very decent community,--a safe place to bring up children. this better state of things will undoubtedly continue as long as the present system of church work prevails. the plan of this church's work did not differ from that of many other modern country churches. it included sunday school classes organized for social service, athletics, including basket ball, a full program of social activities, lectures to promote an intelligent interest in agriculture, and active interest on the part of the minister in coöperating with the day schools and providing opportunities for intellectual advancement. the pastor declares that the work in springfield township was made possible only because he could live in the community, because he could give his whole time to this field, and because of the program of country church service with which, through the conference of the commission on church and country life which was held in columbus in and through modern country church literature, he had become familiar. he asserts that without the modern program and conception of the function of the country church, success would have been impossible. . _the church as a force for righteousness_ in the work at ashley and ontario we have seen the adoption of a good program accompanied by improvement in the moral tone and religious atmosphere of the communities. there are many other communities where a similar program has been carried out, with the same results. these cases constitute a fairly conclusive demonstration that the varied community life which is stimulated and made possible by the modern country church program is the normal one, and that without these various activities general moral and religious health is impossible. the leadership of a modern country church minister brought about just such an improvement in the community life of old fort. this pastor came to realize the needs of his community by taking part in the ohio rural life survey. one direct result of his work is a centralized agricultural high school, which will become the means of keeping the best families on the land instead of letting them move to the larger towns in search of better schools for the children. once gone they rarely return. the young men of old fort, who formerly had little to do with the church, are now active in its work. special attention has been given, in a neighboring parish served by the same minister, to the farm laborers and tenants. whereas formerly these people rarely went to church, now as large a proportion of them take part in the activities of the church as of any other class. this is an achievement of real importance. it appears from map , which is based on data from the united states census, that, in no less than of the counties of ohio, more than per cent of the farms in the year were operated by tenants. on map it appears that in no less than counties the number of farms operated by tenants is increasing. here is one of the great obstacles in the way of church progress in the state, for it is well known that farm tenants usually take little interest in the community where they live, while only a small proportion of them are members of the church. until reform in the system of land tenure can be brought to pass through legislation, it is most important that the church shall give special attention to the tenant families. [illustration: map showing by counties percentage of all farms operated by tenants] [illustration: map showing increase (+) or decrease (-) per cent in number of farms operated by tenants years - ] success in this parish, according to the testimony of the minister, is due to the program brought to light by the modern country church movement. indeed, we have observed no notably progressive country churches in small communities where the new country church program has not been an essential factor of success. lakeville is a case in point. in the village of lakeville, as in a large proportion of ohio rural communities, opportunities for wholesome recreation were few. the church not only felt no responsibility for providing a better environment for the young people, but looked upon matters which have to do with recreation, entertainment, and physical development as foreign to it. to give them attention was regarded as beneath its dignity. this attitude, both here and in a large proportion of the rural churches, has been responsible in no small degree for a general moral laxness in communities, and often for the separation of the young people from the church. the moral and social conditions in lakeville have been revolutionized by a resident minister in three years. his conception of his work and the methods he used did not differ materially from those of the pastors of ashley, ontario, and old fort. every wholesome feature of community life was regarded by him as a matter of interest to the church. thus, to promote a deeper interest in agriculture, lecturers and demonstrators upon various phases of it were invited into the community. under the leadership of this minister a wholesome, normal, interesting life, leading to the high development of the young people, and a marked increase in the general happiness of the community, has been brought to pass. the excellent auditorium of the consolidated school was made the social center of the community. the pastor and the members of his church were the initiators and chief supporters of the program of recreation, instruction, and entertainment which was carried out largely in this building. although in lakeville the church wisely kept itself in the background in much of its work, its activities were none the less effective, while this policy also reacted favorably upon the church itself. although there were two churches yoked together in this field, they were but a mile and a half apart, and the parish was therefore compact. consequently the pastor could and did make much of his pastoral work. the close touch of the minister with the members of his church and community greatly added to the effectiveness of the evangelistic services which he held, for he befriended those who had need of friends. hence there was not only a large increase in membership, but the results of it promised to be of a durable character. it will be noted that the minister was pastor of all the churches in the community and so encountered none of the difficulties which come from interchurch competition. the kind of community service which is illustrated at ashley, ontario, old fort, white cottage, and lakeville offers abundant opportunity to a young man of good equipment for using his knowledge and native ability, and should therefore attract a better type of man to the rural ministry. the church as a whole should be active in presenting it to young men, for the purpose of getting the best of them to enlist in it. the conservation of the high character of our rural population depends on just such work. chapter ix agricultural coÖperation a much needed secular organization no program for the conservation and improvement of rural life will succeed unless it provides for the successful promotion of coöperative agricultural business organization. even if all the reforms we have suggested are made, the need to stimulate, assist, and guide the business organization of farmers will still remain. strong modern country churches will not flourish in unprogressive communities whose business is not successful. rural business must be effectively organized to enable the farmers to get a just money return for the service they give. a sound economic basis for a more attractive rural life can be provided in no other way. through training and experience in successful coöperative enterprises, farmers may achieve a greater degree of solidarity, and acquire a larger share in the direction and control of industrial, political, and economic life of the nation. with it will come larger respect for rural occupations, an added prestige and attractiveness to agricultural life, and the chance of real success for the modern country church. the field of agricultural coöperation cannot be filled by any government agency. however excellent the provisions of the smith-lever bill, under which an agricultural adviser will be placed in every county in the united states, however valuable the instruction and advice of the state agricultural colleges, when the government and the churches have done all that can reasonably be expected of them, the task of organizing rural business will remain undone until it is accomplished by the farmers themselves, acting through associations of their own which are formally allied with neither church nor government. conclusive evidence on this point is supplied by more than fifty years of experience in europe, and by somewhat less in the united states. within the past five years an attempt to promote coöperative agricultural business organization has been made by the national government. it failed, in general, because the government cannot successfully undertake such work, and in particular because special interests which were making large profits by the exploitation of farmers had laws passed which effectually defeated the attempt. within the past three years agricultural agents of the government in ohio who attempted to promote a coöperative movement among farmers were forced by similar interests to abandon the work or leave the county where they were employed. it is well known that the faculties of certain state agricultural colleges, though fully aware of the need for sound coöperative agricultural business, do not attempt to give instructions in its principles because of the effective opposition they anticipate from persons and corporations whose business makes their interests hostile to those of the farmer. if the government cannot meet the whole need, no more can the churches. business coöperation, which they should encourage but cannot supply, is indispensable. for more than fifty years churches and clergymen in europe have been rendering most effective service in the promotion of coöperative agricultural organization in business. in america likewise they can and should be of essential help in the same good work, for the principles of successful agricultural business are in close harmony with christian ethics. moreover, the social and moral effects of coöperative business on communities and individuals are of a most favorable character. in the year mr. gill was present at a meeting of representatives of government agricultural departments of fifteen nations, where it was asserted that agricultural coöperation was the application of christianity to the business of the farm. rural business, however, should not be organically allied with the church any more than it should be with the state. while the ministers and churches may do much to educate the farmers in regard to coöperation, to interpret it, to increase the good results of it, and in many ways give valuable assistance to it, the movement for coöperation can only be made successful when promoted by voluntary secular organizations entirely independent both of church and state. coöperation is most needed where the people are poorest. in such districts it is easiest to inaugurate it, and then by demonstration to show the high and important character of its benefits. from the poorer regions it tends to spread into the richer ones and in this way to diffuse itself widely. not long ago it was found that farmers in pike county were selling their eggs to merchants for cents a dozen when in the towns nearby the market price was cents. almost the entire potato crop of this county in was handled by middlemen at a profit of more than per cent. fruit raising could be made most profitable in large parts of ohio which at present are not prosperous, but without coöperative organization the difficulty of marketing fruit is very great. in the purchase of farm implements, fertilizers, and other supplies, great savings to the farmers are undoubtedly possible. there are few regions where coöperative organization is more needed, and would be more likely to succeed, if properly directed, than in southeastern ohio. it would not only increase the economic prosperity of this region, but it would exert also a most wholesome moral and social effect, whereby the work of the church would be accelerated. the constant application of the principles of brotherhood in everyday business is an influence of the highest value, and it cannot safely be neglected as a means for the christianizing of rural society. part ii tabular summaries and maps chapter i geographical distribution of the denominations it appears that of the , churches in the , strictly rural townships of ohio no less than , , or nearly per cent, are of the methodist episcopal denomination (see table d and maps - ); are of the united brethren in christ; are presbyterian; are baptist, including free will, free, and missionary; disciples; lutheran; roman catholic; christian; methodist protestant; reformed; congregational; evangelical association; brethren or german baptists; radical united brethren; christian union; societies of friends; and united presbyterian. none of the other denominations has more than per cent of the total number. the denominations are represented in about the same proportion in the suburban rural districts. table d number of churches in each denomination key: _strictly rural townships_ _per cent_ _other rural sections_ _per cent_ _all rural churches_ _per cent_ denomination total methodist episcopal . . . united brethren in christ . . . presbyterian . . . baptist (including free, free will and missionary) . . . disciples of christ . . . lutheran . . . catholic (roman) . . . christian . . . methodist protestant . . . reformed (including german reformed) . . . congregational . . . evangelical association . . . brethren (german baptist) . . . radical united brethren . . . christian union . less . than friends . . . united presbyterian . . . mennonite less . less than than church of god " . " german evangelical " less " than african and all colored methodist episcopal " " " union " . " protestant episcopal " less " than universalist " " " colored baptist " " " disciples non-progressive " " " free methodist " " " german methodist episcopal " " " united evangelical " " " holiness " " { old order brethren { progressive " " " { river primitive baptist " " " wesleyan methodist " " " seventh day advent " " " advent-christian " " " calvinist methodist " " " reformed presbyterian " " " latter day saints " " " nazarene " " " saints " " " united baptist " " " christian missionary alliance " " " greek catholic " " " moravian " " " christian science " " " international bible students, association " " " federated " " " missionary church association " " " pietist " " " primitive methodist " " " russian catholic " " " seven sleepers " " " seventh day baptist " " " slavic lutheran " " " wengerite " " " brothers society of america " " " denomination not reported " " " [illustration: map methodist episcopal country churches] [illustration: map united brethren in christ] [illustration: map presbyterian] [illustration: map baptist] [illustration: map disciples of christ] [illustration: map lutheran] [illustration: map catholic] [illustration: map christian] [illustration: map methodist protestant] [illustration: map reformed] [illustration: map congregational] [illustration: map evangelical association] in table e the protestant churches are grouped according to their polity. it will be seen that about , have a congregational form of government, in which authority rests in the local church; that in nearly , churches the polity is presbyterian, in which authority is largely in the local church, but partly in a representative body of several churches grouped in districts. under the title of "episcopal bodies" are grouped denominations comprising , churches, or more than the total number of the presbyterian and congregational combined. the methodist protestant churches are not placed in either of these groups because their polity resembles, in some respects, that of the congregational and in others that of the episcopal churches. authority with them rests largely in the local church, which owns its property and has authority to receive and dismiss its own members, but in other respects resembles closely the churches of the episcopal order. in the fourth group are other churches or religious organizations which we have failed to classify. the catholic bodies, including greek and russian, number . differences as to church polity are not sufficiently great to constitute a dangerous obstacle to the progress of church unity among the protestant rural churches of ohio. our system of universities and public schools, together with the custom of reading religious articles, books, and other literature without regard to the denomination of the author, is tending to remove theological differences as between denominations. it may be said it has already removed them in the eleven denominations represented in the committee of interchurch coöperation. this is true whatever differences may still exist between individuals. table e churches grouped according to their polity congregational bodies total , baptist, including free, free will and missionary disciples christian congregational christian union friends mennonite church of god union universalist colored baptist disciples, non-progressive primitive baptist seventh day advent advent christian united baptist nazarene seventh day baptist presbyterian bodies total , presbyterian lutheran reformed, including german reformed brethren (german baptist) united presbyterian german evangelical calvinist methodist reformed presbyterian slavic lutheran episcopal bodies total , methodist episcopal , united brethren evangelical association radical united brethren african methodist episcopal protestant episcopal united evangelical german methodist episcopal free methodist wesleyan methodist moravian primitive methodist catholic bodies total catholic (roman) greek catholic russian catholic other bodies total methodist protestant holiness brethren (o. o., prog. and river) latter day saints saints christian missionary alliance christian science international bible students association federated missionary church association pietist wengerite seven sleepers denomination not reported chapter ii tabular summaries for the state there are in ohio , townships (see table i) which are wholly or partly made up of open country or villages of less than , inhabitants. (this number of inhabitants having been selected by the united states census as marking the line between urban and rural, we have necessarily followed.) in the strictly rural townships and the rural sections of townships which are partly urban or suburban, there is altogether a population of more than two million persons, and , churches. these figures give us, on an average, , persons and five rural churches to a township, and persons to a church. of townships which border on cities and towns of more than , persons, there are . in townships of this class there are , persons and churches, while for each township there are , persons and three churches, or persons to a church. it is presumable that many persons in these suburban townships attend the churches in the neighboring cities or large towns. if we subtract the suburban townships from the , mentioned above, there remain , townships which are strictly rural. unless otherwise stated all deductions have been drawn exclusively from these rural townships. the , strictly rural townships contain nearly , , persons and , churches. they have, on an average, , persons and five churches to a township and persons to a church. although there are , churches in the , strictly rural townships, their membership records are so often incomplete that satisfactory figures were found for only , churches. the membership of , of these churches, or per cent, is not more than ; in , , or per cent, the membership is not more than ; while in , , or per cent, the membership is not more than . (see table ii.) table i population, average number of persons and churches, and average number of persons to a church, by townships _strictly rural townships_ _other rural sections_ _all rural sections_ number of townships , , population of rural townships , , , , , number persons per township , , , number churches per township number of churches , , number persons per church in the suburban rural townships and rural sections of townships containing cities and large towns, per cent of the churches have a membership of not more than , per cent of not more than , and per cent of not more than . altogether, in rural townships and rural sections of other townships, there are , churches out of , for which membership data are available. of these , , or per cent, have a membership of not more than ; , , or per cent, a membership of not more than ; and , , or per cent, have a membership of not more than . the number of churches in rural townships whose membership records are not available is , less , , or , . if we apply to these also the percentages just given for the churches with available membership records, we find that of the total of , churches in the strictly rural townships, , have a membership of not more than ; , have a membership of not more than ; while , have a membership of not more than . since the larger churches as a rule are more careful in keeping their records than the smaller ones, the conclusions drawn from these calculations are well within the limits of truth. by the same method we find that in the suburban rural townships and rural sections of townships containing cities and towns of more than , inhabitants, of the churches have a membership of or less; of or less; while churches have a membership of or less. we therefore calculate that of , , or all the rural churches, , or per cent have a membership of not more than ; , , or per cent, a membership of not more than ; and , or per cent a membership of not more than . table ii churches classified according to number of their members key: _rural townships_ _per cent_ _other rural sections_ _per cent_ _all sections_ _per cent_ no. churches whose membership is reported , , no. of these whose membership is less than , . , no. of these whose membership is less than , . , no. of these whose membership is less than , . , no. churches whose membership data are not available , , calculated minimum number of churches whose membership is less than , * * , calculated minimum number of churches whose membership is less than , * * , calculated minimum number of churches whose membership is less than , * * , no. churches reporting whose membership is from to no. churches reporting whose membership is from - , , no. churches reporting whose membership is from - *note: reckoned as follows: + . × = + . × = + . × = + . × = + . × = + . × = no. churches reporting whose membership is from - no. churches reporting whose membership is - no. churches reporting whose membership is from - no. churches reporting whose membership is more than calculated number of churches whose membership is more than in , or per cent, of the strictly rural townships, no church has a resident minister (see table iii); in , or per cent of the villages, no church has a resident minister; and in , , or per cent, of the churches, there is no resident minister. only churches, or per cent, have the full time service of a minister; , churches, or per cent, have one-half the service of a minister; , , or per cent, have one-half time service or less; , , or per cent, have one-third time service or less; , , or per cent, have one-fourth time service or less; while , or per cent of the , churches in the strictly rural townships have no regular service of a minister at all. the percentages do not materially differ in the suburban townships. in the combined total of , rural townships and suburban townships which contain sections of open country and villages of less than , inhabitants, we find that , or per cent, of the townships have no churches served by a resident minister; that in , or per cent, of the villages there is no resident minister; that , , or per cent, of the churches have no resident minister; that only , churches, or per cent, have the full time service of a minister; that , , or per cent, have one-half the service of a minister; that , , or per cent, have one-half time service or less; that , , or per cent, have one-third time service or less; that , , or per cent, have one-fourth time service or less; while , or per cent, of the , country churches of ohio, have no regular service of a minister at all. table iii amount of ministerial service by townships, villages and churches key: _rural townships_ _per cent_ _other rural sections_ _per cent_ _all rural sections_ _per cent_ no. townships whose churches are without resident ministers no. villages which have a resident minister no. villages without a resident minister . no. churches with resident minister , , no. churches without resident minister , , no. churches with full time service of a minister , no. churches with / time service of a minister , , no. churches with / time service of a minister or less , , no. churches with / time service of a minister or less , , . no. churches with / time service of a minister or less , , no. churches with no regular service of a minister no. churches with / time service of a minister , , no. churches with / time service of a minister , no. churches for which data are not available of the , churches in the wholly rural townships, , , or per cent, are in villages whose inhabitants number from to , persons, while , , or per cent, are in the open country. (see table iv.) in the suburban rural townships , or per cent, of the churches are in villages containing from to , persons, while , or per cent, are in the open country. of the , country churches in ohio, therefore, , , or per cent, are in villages containing from to , inhabitants, and , , or per cent, in the open country. in the strictly rural districts, , , or per cent, of the churches are in villages or towns of moderate size, having from to , inhabitants, while , , or per cent, are in small villages of from to . no less than , , or per cent, of the churches in the strictly rural districts are either in the open country or in the small villages of inhabitants or less. in addressing ourselves to the rural church problem, therefore, we are almost exclusively concerned with the smaller villages and the open country. table iv number of churches in villages and in the open country key: _rural townships_ _per cent_ _other rural sections_ _per cent_ _all rural sections_ _per cent_ no. churches in villages containing from to , persons , , no. churches in open country , , no. churches in villages or towns having from to , inhabitants , , no. churches in villages having from to inhabitants , , no. churches in open country and in villages having less than inhabitants , , we have assumed persons as the line which separates a small village from the open country, just as the united states census has assumed , persons as the lower limit of the town. in rural ohio there are , villages whose inhabitants number to , persons. (see table v.) of these, , or per cent, have from to inhabitants; , or per cent, have from to inhabitants; while , or per cent, have more than persons. of the smallest villages, or those of to persons, , or per cent, have one or more ministers living near the church he serves and ministers in all; while , or per cent, have no resident ministers whatever. in the country villages whose inhabitants number from to persons, , or per cent, have one or more ministers and ministers in all, while there are , or per cent, without resident ministers. of the villages whose inhabitants number more than persons, , or per cent, have one or more resident pastors and altogether ministers--(which is per cent of the whole number of ministers living in villages), while only , or per cent, are without any ministers at all. of the , country villages of all sizes, , or per cent, have one or more resident ministers and in all , ministers, while , or per cent, of the villages have no minister living in them. these , villages have only , , or per cent, of the churches, but they have , , or per cent, of the ministers; while the open country, with , , or per cent, of the churches, has only , or per cent, of the resident ministers. more than per cent of the open country churches, or , of them, are without a resident minister. in addition to the ministers here included, there are about who do not live near any one of their churches, but for the most part in the cities and towns. this number includes many student preachers. on map , page , the distribution of the villages is represented graphically. [illustration: map villages and cities] table v resident ministers in strictly rural townships, in the open country, and in villages key: _villages of - persons_ _per cent_ _villages of - persons_ _per cent_ _villages of - persons_ _per cent_ _villages of - persons_ _per cent_ _villages of - persons_ _per cent_ _open country_ _per cent_ no. of villages , . no. of villages with ministers . no. of ministers , ( ) no. of villages without ministers . . no. of churches , , no. of villages . . no. of villages with ministers . . no. of ministers , ( ) no. of villages without ministers no. of churches , , , it has not been possible to collect full data as to the length of the rural minister's service. but the conference records give these data for the ministers of the methodist episcopal churches. the terms of service of these ministers are not more brief than those in most of the other denominations. in the methodist episcopal church in ohio there were, at the time of the annual conference in the autumn of , pastors of country churches (see table vi); , or per cent of them, were about to begin their first or second year's service in their charges; only , or per cent, had had two years' acquaintance with their parishes; , or per cent, were beginning their first year of service in their charges; , or per cent, were beginning their second year; , or per cent, were beginning their third year; while there were only , or less than per cent, who had been as long as three years in the parishes they were serving. only , or a little more than per cent, had served as long as five years in their parishes, while only one man had served more than seven years. table vi terms of service of methodist episcopal country ministers, key: _state of ohio_ _per cent_ _ohio conference_ _west ohio conference_ _northeast ohio conference_ total number of ministers no. beginning st or nd year of service in their charges no. beginning their st year of service in their charges no. beginning their nd year of service in their charges no. beginning their rd year of service in their charges no. who have been two years or more in their charges no. who had served three years or more in their present charges no. who had served four years or more in their present charges no. who had served five years or more in their present charges no. who had served six years or more in their present less charges than one no. who had served seven years or more in their present charges " no. who had served eight years or more in their present charges " in table vii it appears that in of the , strictly rural townships there is a church for each persons or less; that in townships there are from to persons to a church; that in there are from to persons; that in townships there are from to ; that in townships there are from to ; that in townships there are from to ; and that in townships there are persons or more to a church. in other words, in , or per cent, of the townships, there are less than persons, men, women, and children, to a church; in , or per cent, of the townships, there are less than ; in , , or per cent, there are less than ; while in , or only per cent, there are more than persons to a church. table vii average number of persons to a church in , rural townships average no. of persons no. of per cent to a church townships - less than - - - - - more than townships without any church less than less than to a church less than to a church less than to a church , more than to a church in table viii a comparison is made between city and country. according to the united states census of the population of ohio numbered , , , the churches , , or persons to a church. according to the data gathered in this survey in the , strictly rural townships the churches number , . in the population in these townships numbered , , . assuming that there has been no change in the population since , there is now one church for each persons. but from to there was a decline of more than per cent in the population of these townships. if we assume that this decline has continued since there are to-day on the average less than men, women, and children, church people and non-church people, to give and do all that must be given and done for each country church in ohio. in such a state of facts, poverty and weakness are inevitable. upon the same assumption of no change in population or number of churches since , there are in the suburban townships , persons and churches, or persons to a church, while in the large towns and cities there are , , persons and only , churches, or persons to a church. as compared with the city church the country church obviously has a very much smaller opportunity to enlarge its attendance and increase its support and membership until some method of combining country churches shall have been put into successful operation. table viii average number of persons to a church key: _state of ohio_ _ , strictly rural townships_ _ suburban townships_ _large towns and cities_ population , , , , , , , no. of churches , , , no. of persons to a church complete data for ministers' salaries are not available, but the amount of the minister's pay is indicated by the figures in the official records of the two denominations which have the largest number of rural churches. there were in , pastors of rural churches of the methodist episcopal church. (see table ix.) these received, on an average, $ per year, or $ and free use of parsonage. six hundred and sixty-two ministers, or per cent, received less than $ , per year; , or per cent, received less than $ , per year; while , or per cent, received less than $ , . in the united brethren church, according to the records of its conferences, in there were pastors of rural churches. (see table x.) their average salary was $ , or $ and free use of parsonage; not one received as much as $ , salary; , or all but , received less than $ , ; while , or per cent, received less than $ , . not only are ministers given inadequate pay, but the rate of its increase in relation to the increase in the cost of living gives no promise of its becoming adequate. in the ohio conference of the methodist episcopal church the average salary of the country minister in was $ , including the estimated rental value of parsonage, while in it was $ , making an increase of $ , or per cent, in ten years. during the same period, however, according to data supplied by the united states bureau of labor statistics, the retail prices of food consumed by the ordinary workingman's family in the nation increased no less than per cent. it is probable, on the other hand, that the farmers have a constantly increasing ability to pay, for in the ten-year period from to there was, according to the united states census reports, an increase in the total value of farm property in the state of nearly per cent. table ix salaries of methodist episcopal country ministers, key: _no. of ministers_ _average salary (including estimated rental value of parsonage)_ _no. of charges giving salaries less than $ , _ _per cent_ _no. of charges giving salaries less than $ , _ _per cent_ _no. of charges giving salaries less than $ , _ _per cent_ state $ ohio conference $ west ohio conference $ , northeast ohio conference $ table x salaries of country ministers, united brethren in christ, key: _no. of ministers_ _average salaries (including estimated rental value of parsonage)_ _salaries less than $ , _ _per cent_ _salaries less than $ , _ _per cent_ _salaries less than $ , _ _per cent_ state $ sandusky conference $ southeast ohio conference $ miami conference $ east ohio conference $ chapter iii tabular summary by counties table f is a summary of the principal facts disclosed by this investigation. these facts are given for the strictly rural townships in each of the different counties. they do not include the urban or suburban townships. being intended to present the facts only as to the rural part of each county, they should not be used as representing entire counties or the state as a whole. in the ten-year period from to there was a decline in the population of the strictly rural townships of . per cent. in only counties out of the total of did the rural townships increase in population, and most of these are in mining and manufacturing regions. in the strictly agricultural parts of franklin, fairfield, miami and licking counties there was an increase of from to per cent, in medina and wayne of less than per cent. in the other counties there was a decline, ranging all the way from per cent in erie, geauga, and hamilton to per cent in paulding. the average population of the strictly rural townships varies from in knox county to , in miami, and averages , for the state. the number of rural churches for a county varies from in sandusky and lake counties to in washington. the number of churches to a township is five for the state, but varies from in portage, huron, delaware, geauga, cuyahoga, and ashtabula counties to in allen and stark. the average number of persons to each country church is for the state, but varies from in vinton county to in cuyahoga. the number of open country churches varies from in butler county to in washington. the number of churches with a resident minister varies from in jackson county to in wood. the number of churches without a resident minister varies from in lake county to in washington. those with full time service of a minister vary in number from in pickaway, noble, and jackson counties to in columbiana and wayne. in one county, wyandot, there are no churches without some part of a minister's time. in clermont county there are no less than of them. table f summary by counties of data for the , strictly rural townships (excluding townships in which the population is urban, in which are villages of more than , inhabitants or in which are parts of large town or city parishes, and those which border on cities and large towns.) . population for . . population for . . per cent increase (+) or decrease (-). . no. of strictly rural townships. . average no. of persons to a township. . no. of churches. . average no. of churches to a township. . average no. of persons to a church. . no. of churches with a resident minister. . no. of churches without a resident minister. . no. of churches with full time service of a minister. . no. of churches with / of a minister's service. . no. of churches with / of a minister's service. . no. of churches with / of a minister's service. . no. of churches with less than / of a minister's service. . no. of churches with no regular service of a minister. . no. of churches for which ministerial service data are not available. . no. of churches with from to members. . no. of churches with from to members. . no. of churches with from to members. . no. of churches with from to members. . no. of churches with from to members. . no. of churches with from to members. . no. of churches with more than members. . no. of churches whose membership is not reported. . no. of churches in villages containing from to , inhabitants. . no. of churches in the open country (including villages of less than inhabitants). . no. of townships from to persons to a church. . no. of townships with from to persons to a church. . no. of townships with from to persons to a church. . no. of townships with from to persons to a church. . no. of townships with from to persons to a church. . no. of townships with from to persons to a church. . no. of townships with more than persons to a church. . no. of villages containing from to inhabitants. . no. of villages containing from to inhabitants having a resident minister. . no. of ministers resident in villages containing from to inhabitants. . no. of villages containing from to inhabitants. . no. of villages containing from to inhabitants having a resident minister. . no. of ministers resident in villages containing from to inhabitants. . no. of villages of more than inhabitants. . no. of villages of more than inhabitants having a resident minister. . no. of ministers resident in villages of more than inhabitants. . no. of villages of to , inhabitants without a church. . no. of villages of to inhabitants without a church. key: a _state_ b _adams_ c _allen_ d _ashland_ e _ashtabula_ f _athens_ g _auglaize_ h _belmont_ a b c d e f g h ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) - . - - - + . + - + . ( ) , ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) , ( ) ( ) ( ) , ( ) , ( ) ( ) , ( ) , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) , ( ) , ( ) , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) . . ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) key: a _brown_ b _butler_ c _carroll_ d _champaign_ e _clark_ f _clermont_ g _clinton_ h _columbiana_ a b c d e f g h ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) - - + - . - . - . - . - ( ) ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . . ( ) . ( ) ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) key: a _coshocton_ b _crawford_ c _cuyahoga_ d _darke_ e _defiance_ f _delaware_ g _erie_ h _fairfield_ a b c d e f g h ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) - - . + - . - . - - + ( ) ( ) , , , , , , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) . . ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) key: a _fayette_ b _franklin_ c _fulton_ d _gallia_ e _geauga_ f _greene_ g _guernsey_ h _hamilton_ a b c d e f g h ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) - + + - - - + - ( ) ( ) , , , , , , , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) key: a _hancock_ b _hardin_ c _harrison_ d _henry_ e _highland_ f _hocking_ g _holmes_ h _huron_ a b c d e f g h ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) - - - - - - - + ( ) ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) . ( ) ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) key: a _jackson_ b _jefferson_ c _knox_ d _lake_ e _lawrence_ f _licking_ g _logan_ h _lorain_ i _lucas_ a b c d e f g h i ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) - + - + - + - + + ( ) ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . . ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) key: a _madison_ b _mahoning_ c _marion_ d _medina_ e _meigs_ f _mercer_ g _miami_ h _monroe_ i _montgomery_ a b c d e f g h i ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) - + - +. - - + - + ( ) ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) . ( ) ( ) . . ( ) . . ( ) ( ) ( ) key: a _morgan_ b _morrow_ c _muskingum_ d _noble_ e _ottawa_ f _paulding_ g _perry_ h _pickaway_ i _pike_ a b c d e f g h i ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) - - - - - - - - - ( ) ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) . ( ) ( ) . ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) key: a _portage_ b _preble_ c _putnam_ d _richland_ e _ross_ f _sandusky_ g _scioto_ h _seneca_ i _shelby_ a b c d e f g h i ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) - +. - - - - - - - ( ) ( ) , , , , , , , , , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . . ( ) . . ( ) ( ) ( ) key: a _stark_ b _summit_ c _trumbull_ d _tuscarawas_ e _union_ f _van wert_ g _vinton_ h _warren_ a b c d e f g h ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) - + + - - - - - ( ) ( ) , , , , , , , , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) . ( ) ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) key: a _washington_ b _wayne_ c _williams_ d _wood_ e _wyandot_ a b c d e ( ) , , , , , ( ) , , , , , ( ) - +. - - - ( ) ( ) , , , , , ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) . ( ) . ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) part iii the county maps explanatory note on the maps the location of each rural church is indicated by a square and the residence of each minister by a cross. lines connect each church with the residence of its pastor. therefore the maps show for each church whether it receives the whole or a part of a minister's service, and for each minister how many churches he serves and the distances he must go to reach them and the various parts of his parish. the capital letters adjacent to each square indicate the denomination of the church. the figures in parentheses and next to the square indicate the enrolled membership. the figures not so enclosed indicate the resident membership. the abbreviations, inc., sta., and dec. indicate whether the membership is increasing, stationary, or declining. increase or decline in membership, however, is only indicated where it was possible to find the membership of ten or five years ago. when the figures for ten years ago are available, these are taken as a basis for comparison with the membership at the present time. often the records of the churches are so kept as to make it impossible or very difficult to find the membership of either five or ten years ago. shaded squares indicate closed churches. these have no minister and hold no regular services. abandoned churches are indicated by black squares. it is believed that large numbers of them were not reported. churches marked "not organized" do not appear in the tabulations. in the northwest corner of each township is given its name, while underneath are figures indicating its population. the large circles in the township indicate cities or towns of more than , inhabitants. figures in parentheses indicate the number of their population, which number is included in the figures for the township. but in each case where they are not in parentheses the town or city is itself a township. figures in an oval indicate the number of persons living in the adjacent village or small town. a key to the maps is here given. key x minister's residence [open box] church without resident minister [solid box] church abandoned [x'd box] church with resident minister [lined box] church closed [circle] sunday school or mission resident membership is indicated by numerals, enrolled membership by numerals in parentheses. inc. denotes increasing membership; dec., decreasing, and sta., stationary membership. [oval] numerals in an oval indicate the population of a village. ac advent christian ame african methodist episcopal br brethren (german baptist) br (oo) old order brethren br (prog.) progressive brethren b baptist b (miss.) missionary baptist b (col.) colored baptist b (united) united baptist bsa brothers' society of america c christian ca catholic cm calvin methodist cma christian missionary alliance cnj church of new jerusalem cs christian science cu christian union d disciples dnp disciples, non-progressive e protestant episcopal eva evangelical association f friends fm free methodist fwb free will baptist g church of god gev german evangelical gme german methodist episcopal h holiness iba international bible students association l lutheran lds latter-day saints m mennonite mor moravian me methodist episcopal mp methodist protestant naz nazarene p presbyterian pb primitive baptist r reformed rub radical united brethren s saints sda seventh day advent sdb seventh day baptist u union ub united brethren up united presbyterian uev united evangelical uv universalist uss union sunday school wm wesleyan methodist [illustration: adams county, ohio] [illustration: allen county, ohio] [illustration: ashland county, ohio] [illustration: ashtabula county, ohio] [illustration: athens county, ohio] [illustration: auglaize county, ohio] [illustration: belmont county, ohio] [illustration: brown county, ohio] [illustration: butler county, ohio] [illustration: carroll county, ohio] [illustration: champaign county, ohio] [illustration: clark county, ohio] [illustration: clermont county, ohio] [illustration: clinton county, ohio] [illustration: columbiana county, ohio] [illustration: coshocton county, ohio] [illustration: crawford county, ohio] [illustration: cuyahoga county, ohio] [illustration: darke county, ohio] [illustration: defiance county, ohio] [illustration: delaware county, ohio] [illustration: erie county, ohio] [illustration: fairfield county, ohio] [illustration: fayette county, ohio] [illustration: franklin county, ohio] [illustration: fulton county, ohio] [illustration: gallia county, ohio] [illustration: geauga county, ohio] [illustration: greene county, ohio] [illustration: guernsey county, ohio] [illustration: hamilton county, ohio] [illustration: hancock county, ohio] [illustration: hardin county, ohio] [illustration: harrison county, ohio] [illustration: henry county, ohio] [illustration: highland county, ohio] [illustration: hocking county, ohio] [illustration: holmes county, ohio] [illustration: huron county, ohio] [illustration: jackson county, ohio] [illustration: jefferson county, ohio] [illustration: knox county, ohio] [illustration: lake county, ohio] [illustration: lawrence county, ohio] [illustration: licking county, ohio] [illustration: logan county, ohio] [illustration: lorain county, ohio] [illustration: lucas county, ohio] [illustration: madison county, ohio] [illustration: mahoning county, ohio] [illustration: marion county, ohio] [illustration: medina county, ohio] [illustration: meigs county, ohio] [illustration: mercer county, ohio] [illustration: miami county, ohio] [illustration: monroe county, ohio] [illustration: montgomery county, ohio] [illustration: morgan county, ohio] [illustration: morrow county, ohio] [illustration: muskingum county, ohio] [illustration: noble county, ohio] [illustration: ottawa county, ohio] [illustration: paulding county, ohio] [illustration: perry county, ohio] [illustration: pickaway county, ohio] [illustration: pike county, ohio] [illustration: portage county, ohio] [illustration: preble county, ohio] [illustration: putnam county, ohio] [illustration: richland county, ohio] [illustration: ross county, ohio] [illustration: sandusky county, ohio] [illustration: scioto county, ohio] [illustration: seneca county, ohio] [illustration: shelby county, ohio] [illustration: stark county, ohio] [illustration: summit county, ohio] [illustration: trumbull county, ohio] [illustration: tuscarawas county, ohio] [illustration: union county, ohio] [illustration: van wert county, ohio] [illustration: vinton county, ohio] [illustration: warren county, ohio] [illustration: washington county, ohio] [illustration: wayne county, ohio] [illustration: williams county, ohio] [illustration: wood county, ohio] [illustration: wyandot county, ohio] appendix action of the committee on interchurch coÖperation of the ohio rural life association on june and , , a meeting was held of the committee on interchurch coöperation of the ohio rural life association at columbus. this committee is composed largely of superintendents and representatives of several of the leading denominations of the state. they met for the purpose of making a thorough study of country church conditions and were determined, if possible, to devise a remedy. the following were among those present: bishop wm. f. anderson of the methodist episcopal church; the rt. rev. theodore irving reese of the protestant episcopal church; superintendents, i. j. cahill, w. j. grimes, a. w. jamieson, robert e. pugh, e. s. rothrock and omer s. thomas of the disciples of christ, the united presbyterian, the presbyterian, the congregational and christian churches; dr. washington gladden, officially representing the congregational churches; rev. c. w. brugh, representing the reformed church, and rev. e. l. averitt, representing rev. tileston f. chambers, superintendent of the baptist churches. superintendent rev. c. w. kurtz of the united brethren, and superintendent c. s. beck of the methodist protestant church have also endorsed the action of the meeting. after a thorough discussion of rural church conditions, the following measures were agreed upon as remedies: interchurch coöperation in every locality to create conditions favorable to the development of christian character, to build a strong, wholesome, attractive community, to hold community religious services and social gatherings and to render all forms of social service needed in the community but not rendered by other institutions. where there is now no resident pastor in a township the combining of all churches so far as possible either in one church or in one circuit or federated church under one pastor who should be held responsible for rendering social and religious service in the township. to bring this to pass all ministers now visiting and preaching in a community should by their preaching exalt christian unity and the kingdom of god, and in preaching and personal work try to prepare the people for acceptance of a policy of community service. to secure coöperation of ministers: preparation and sending of bulletins to every pastor, containing program and making clear reasons for adopting it. preparation and sending of letters from this committee to every rural pastor, urging acceptance of higher ideals of service as here set forth. preparation and sending to country pastors of frequent bulletins containing information and description of notable examples of good country church work. appointment of sub-committees to secure action by denominational bodies approving program of committee. the following statements of policy and methods were also adopted: in a township or community requiring more than one church or pastor there should be a "federation of churches," that is, a joint committee of pastors and delegates officially appointed by the several churches to learn and meet all needs, religious or social, which require coöperation or concerted action. in communities whose compactness permits and whose population and resources require there should be only one congregation and pastor, but where two or more churches exist, churches should be united organically in a single denominational church, the denomination to be determined on the give and take plan. if organic union in a denominational church is not feasible, a federated church should be formed. in a township or community where population and resources are inadequate to support more than one pastor, but where the population is so distributed that more than one place of worship and organized church are necessary, a federated circuit should be formed and a common pastor employed. the several churches should be officially represented on a joint committee who shall act for the circuit not only in employing the common pastor, but also in learning and meeting all needs, religious and social, which require coöperation and concerted action. in the forming or re-forming of circuits it should be brought to pass that the various fields served by one pastor should be as close together as possible. to make the minister's field as compact as possible, interdenominational circuits should be formed. the rural ministry should, it possible, be so distributed that in each township there shall be a resident pastor. measures to prevent the recurrence of over-churched conditions should be taken by every branch of the church. each should determine not to organize churches where they are not needed or certain to be needed. in a new community needing but one church, an expression of the people should be obtained as to the choice of the church to be established. the desires of the largest number should be followed. where several little churches exist in a sparsely settled community and a union or federation is not possible or advisable, consideration should be given to the plan of having all these withdraw, and inviting a branch of the church not represented locally to come in and organize a single church. in the exchange or withdrawal of churches reciprocity should be at least state-wide in its extent. where a denomination is given control or dominance in a community by withdrawal of other denominations, the continuance of that control or dominance should be conditional on the church and minister maintaining in their service a high degree of efficiency--the standard of efficiency to be determined by the denominational leaders who should formulate a few simple principles by which the usefulness of a church can be measured. the denomination holding a field should, for a reasonable length of time, report to those withdrawing as to progress. printed in the united states of america the following pages contain advertisements of a few of the macmillan books on kindred subjects. religious hand books (_new and not reprints_) each sixty cents the new opportunity of the church by robert e. speer this volume very suitably follows dr. speer's _the christian man, the church, and the war_, dealing as it does with the present responsibility of the church. the church facing the future by william adams brown dr. brown discusses four big questions: first, where the war found the church; second, what the church did for the war; third, what the war did for the church; and fourth, where the war leaves the church. democratic christianity; some problems of the church in the days just ahead by francis j. mcconnell "we have in mind the tasks of to-day as they confront the christian church," writes bishop mcconnell. god's responsibility for the war by edward s. drown dr. drown discusses this very interesting question in terse and vigorous prose. the twentieth century crusade by lyman abbott written by one who has an exultant faith that never in the history of the past has there been so splendid a demonstration of the extent and power of the christ spirit as to-day. the way to life by henry churchill king a discussion of the sermon on the mount, similar to that in dr. king's former book _the ethics of jesus_. besides rewriting them, he has added material on the war and the teachings of jesus. the christian man, the church and the war by robert e. speer dr. speer here discusses the essentials of a problem which has exercised christian men since the beginning of the war. he deals with it sanely and in a manner that will be considered distinctly helpful. new horizon of state and church by w. h. p. faunce "broad, profound scholarship, close relationship with progressive sentiment all over the land, and unusual powers of keen analysis and graphic statement are forceful elements in _the new horizon of state and church_."--_philadelphia north american._ _by the same authors_ the country church: the decline of its influence and the remedy by charles otis gill and gifford pinchot _cloth, o, $ . _ is the country church growing in size and power, or declining? is it doing effectually the work which belongs to it? these are in the main the questions which charles otis gill and gifford pinchot consider in their book "the country church." the book is not a collection of opinions, as it was found that there were almost as many who believed thoroughly in the country church and the work which it is doing as there were those who were doubtful of its efficacy. the volume is rather made up of facts brought forward by the personal investigations of the authors, and conclusions based on these facts. "mr. gill and mr. pinchot, collaboring in this problem of rural life, have given us a book which will at once become an authority in its field."--_christian work._ "the facts and figures are definite and illumined by a myriad of side-lights."--_boston transcript._ "differs from almost all the others because of the thoroughness of the investigation and the soundness of the conclusions."--_san francisco chronicle._ "deserves most thoughtful consideration.... should arouse attention and stimulate effort to restore to the country church the influence that it is losing."--_christian endeavor world._ _forthcoming religious books_ prophecy and authority: a study in the history of the doctrine and interpretation of scripture. by kemper fullerton professor of old testament language and literature, oberlin graduate school of theology _cloth, mo._ the purpose of this volume is two-fold--to discuss the principles and the interpretation of messianic prophecy in view of the recent revival of millenialist claims, and to re-open the question of the nature of the bible as a principle of authority in protestant theology. the author seeks to trace the way in which the methods of interpretation and the doctrines of scripture affect each other in the church's interpretation of prophecy and to show how the scientific principles of interpretation adopted by the reformers inevitably lead to the abandonment of the millenialist theory and dogmatic view of scripture, and that these results are at the same time religiously desirable. studies in mark's gospel by a. t. robertson, m.a., d.d., ll.d. professor of new testament interpretation at the southern baptist theological seminary _cloth, mo._ this book aims to help the modern man to see jesus as mark saw him in the first glow of enthusiasm under peter's preaching. it is readable and yet thoroughly scholarly and makes use of the results of synoptic criticism to show the historical foundation of our knowledge of the life of christ. it is not commentary, nor yet exposition, but a critical discussion of the chief aspects of this earliest of our gospels. the work is a real introduction to mark's gospel and will unlock its treasures for all who read it. _a new volume in the bible for home and school series_ commentary on the epistle of paul to the romans by edward increase bosworth _cloth, mo._ the author of this commentary has endeavored to help those who use it read paul's letter to the romans with due regard to the pre-suppositions which possessed paul's mind and the minds of those to whom it was addressed, no matter to what extent these pre-suppositions have passed out of modern thought. he has tried to do this in such a way as to bring out the essential, vital facts of christian experience which may persist under many forms of changing pre-suppositions. _other volumes in_ the bible for home and school series shailer mathews, general editor genesis, by professor h. g. mitchell $. deuteronomy, by professor w. g. jordan . judges, by professor edward l. curtis . job, by professor george a. barton . isaiah, by professor john e. mcfadyen . amos, hosea, and micah, by professor j. m. powis smith . matthew, by professor a. t. robertson . mark, by professor m. w. jacobus . acts, by professor george h. gilbert . galatians, by professor b. w. bacon . ephesians and colossians, by reverend gross alexander . hebrews, by professor e. j. goodspeed . _volumes in preparation_ i samuel by professor l. w. batten psalms by reverend j. p. peters john by professor shailer mathews i and ii corinthians by professor j. s. riggs the macmillan company publishers - fifth avenue new york transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. many tables have been split and keys have been added to enhance readability in this text version. in the key to the maps on page , each symbol has been replaced with a [description] in brackets. punctuation has been corrected without note. the following misprints have been corrected: "surburban" corrected to "suburban" (table of contents) "opportunites" corrected to "opportunities" (page ) "surburban" corrected to "suburban" (page ) "representin" corrected to "representing" (page ) other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) the riflemen of the miami. by edward s. ellis beadle and company, new york: william street. london: paternoster row. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by beadle and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the united states for the southern district of new york. the riflemen of the miami. chapter i. the rescue. if it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.--macbeth. "quick, boys, and be careful that they don't see your heads." four men were moving along under the bank of the miami, with their bodies bent, at a gait that was almost rapid enough to be called a run. they were constantly raising their heads and peering over the bank, as though watching something in the wood, which in this section was quite open. all four were attired in the garb of hunters, and were evidently men whose homes were in the great wilderness. they had embrowned faces, and sinewy limbs, and the _personnel_ of the woodman--of the men who hovered only upon the confines of civilization, rarely, if ever, venturing within the crowded city or village. it is hardly necessary to say that each carried his rifle and his hunting-knife. between the three foremost was a striking resemblance; it appeared impossible that more than five years divided them in age. two were brothers, george and lewis dernor, while the third answered to the _sobriquet_ of dick--his real name being richard allmat. the fourth--he who brought up the rear--possessed an individuality which must have marked him in any situation. barely more than five feet in height, and with bowed legs, instead of owning a jovial temper, as one would have a right to expect from his jolly-looking face, he was, in reality, a most irascible fellow. never known to express satisfaction at any occurrence, gift or suggestion, he was constantly finding fault, and threatening dire vengeance upon those who surrounded him. these threats never being carried out, attracted little attention. "tom" (as he was called) was considered a privileged individual, and, in spite of his disposition, was a favorite with those who knew him. this may seem strange when we add that, in addition to his sour temper, the natural defect of his legs prevented him from placing any dependence upon them. at his best speed he was but an ordinary runner. a stranger well might wonder that he should adopt a life where fleetness of foot was so necessary--in fact, so almost indispensable. tom o'hara turned ranger from pure love for the wild, adventurous life; and, despite the natural defects to which we have referred, possessed accomplishments that rendered him a most valuable ally and companion. he never had met his superior with the rifle, and his knowledge of woodcraft was such that, although he had spent ten years on the border, his slowness of foot had never operated against him; nor once had he been outwitted by the red-men of the woods. besides this, he had the enviable reputation of being a _lucky individual_--one whose rifle never missed fire, or sped wide of its mark--one to whom no unfortunate accident over occurred; so that, take him all in all, few hunters were safer in the wood than this same tom o'hara. these four were known as the _riflemen of the miami_, of whom lewis dernor was the leader. another member, then a long way off, will be referred to hereafter. "quick, boys, and be careful that they don't see your heads," admonished lewis, ducking his own and gesticulating to those behind him. "_sh!_ look quick! there they go!" the four stretched their necks, glancing over the bank, out into a small clearing in the wood. "they'll cross that in a minute," whispered the first speaker. "don't raise your heads too high or you'll be seen." "you don't appear to think nobody knows nothing but you," growled tom, with a savage look. "_quiet!_ there they go!" one indian strode into the clearing, followed by another, then by two abreast, between whom a woman was walking, her head bent as if in despair, with steps painful and labored. behind these came three other savages. they passed across the clearing--the whole seven, with their captive like the moving figures in a panorama, and entered the wood upon the opposite side. "every mother's son of them is in his war-paint," said lewis--who, by the way, divided his words with tom, the other two rarely speaking except when directly appealed to. "who said they wasn't?" demanded tom. "and what difference does it make? they've got somebody's gal there, hain't they? eh? say. and what's the odds whether they've daubed themselves up with their stuff or not?" "well, what's the next move? to set up a yell and pitch after them?" "none but a fool would want to do that." "but don't you notice the bank gets so low down yonder that it won't hide us, and we'll have to show ourselves?" "it'll hide us as long as we want to be hid. come, don't squat here, or we'll let the rascals slip, after all." again the three moved down the bank, as rapidly, silently and cautiously as spirits, ever and anon raising their heads as they gained a glimpse of the indians passing through the wood. the latter were following a course parallel with the miami, so that the relative distance between the two parties remained nearly the same. it was manifest to the hunters that the indians intended crossing the river with their captive at some point lower down, and were making toward that point. it was further evident from the deliberation in their movements, and from the fact that they were not proceeding in "indian file," that as yet they had no suspicion of being pursued, although every one of their number knew of the existence of the riflemen of the miami--that formidable confederation whose very name was a word of terror even to their savage hearts. entirely unsuspicious of the danger which menaced them, every thing was in favor of the hunters. for several hundred yards further, the two parties maintained their relative distance, the indians proceeding at a usual walk, and the whites at a very irregular one--now running rapidly a few steps, and then halting and gazing over the bank to ascertain the precise whereabouts of their enemies; then skulking a few yards further, and halting as before, remaining all the time nearly opposite the "braves." suddenly the latter came to a stand. "now for a confab," said lewis, as his companions gathered about him. "i wonder what they are going to jabber about?" "what do you want to know for, eh?" asked tom. "it's pretty plain they're going to cross the river, but, confound it, how can we tell where it's going to be done? i've told you that the bank gets so low, just yonder, that it won't hide us any longer." "who wants it to hide us? they intend to cross the river _here_, and in about ten minutes, too. just watch their actions, if you can do it without showing your head." the indians stood together, conversing upon some point about which there seemed a variance of opinion. their deep, guttural, ejaculatory words were plainly audible to the hunters, and their gleaming, bedaubed visages were seen in all their hideous repulsiveness. they gesticulated continually, pointing behind them in the direction of their trail, and across the river, over the heads of the crouching riflemen, who were watching every motion. nothing would have been easier for the latter than to have sent four of these savages into eternity without a moment's warning; yet, nothing was further from their intentions, for, of all things, this would have been the surest to defeat their chief object. the captive would have been brained the instant the savages saw they could not hold her. the great point was to surprise them so suddenly and completely as to prevent this. from the present appearance of matters, this seemed not very difficult of accomplishment, as it was a foregone conclusion upon the part of the hunters that the savages would endeavor to ford the river at the point where they lay in ambush for them. it only remained for the riflemen to bide their time, and, at the proper moment, rush upon and scatter them, and rescue the captive from their hands. "i wonder whether they're going to talk all day," remarked tom, impatiently, after they had conversed some twenty or thirty minutes. "they're in a dispute about something. it won't take them long to get through with it." "how do you know that, i should like to know? like enough they'll talk till dark, and keep us waiting. confound 'em, what's the use?" no one ventured to reply to tom's sulky observation, and, after several impatient exclamations, he added: "the longer they talk the louder they get, which is a sure sign the dispute is getting hotter, which is another sign it'll be considerable time before they get through." "i am sure we can wait as long as they can," said dick, mildly. "my heavens! who said we couldn't? just hear 'em jabber!" the conversation of the indians had now become so earnest, that every word spoken was distinctly heard by the riflemen. the latter, from the dress and actions of the savages, understood they had no chief with them, but were merely seven warriors, who had been out on this barbarous expedition, and were returning to their town with the booty and the captive they had secured. "they're talking in the shawnee tongue," said lewis. "can't you understand what they're driving at?" "if you only keep your jaws shut a minute or two, i could; but if you three fellers mean to talk all the time, i should like to know how i am going to understand any thing they say. see whether you can keep quiet a minute, just." tom's companions did as requested, while he bent his head forward, and seemed to concentrate all his faculties into the one of listening. upon the part of the riflemen all was still as death. after several minutes of the acutest attention, tom raised his head, and said, with a glowing expression: "they're talking about _us_." "the deuce! what are they saying?" "don't you see they're pointing up the river and across it? well, the meaning of all that is, that they're wondering which way we'll come from." "what seems to be the general expectation?" "the trouble is just there--the expectation is altogether too general. some think we're on their trail, others that we're following the other side the river down, and waiting for the chance to let drive at 'em, while one, at least, feels certain we're _coming up_ the stream to meet 'em." "is that their dispute?" "a part of it, of course, but the trouble is--what to do. some want to strike off in the woods and take a roundabout way to reach home; but the greatest number want to cross the stream at this point." "they'll probably do it then." "of course they will--no; i'll be shot if they ain't going further into the woods!" suddenly exclaimed tom. "they're going to start in a minute, too. get ready, boys, for a rush--it's all we can do." "hold still a minute," commanded tom, excitedly. then dropping his rifle, he ran down to the river's edge, and picked up several large pebbles, one of which he placed in his right hand as if about to throw it. "what are you going to do with that?" asked dick. "that's none of your business; you've only to wait and see. just keep your heads down now, if you don't want them knocked off." tom, drawing his hand back, struck it quickly against his thigh, accomplishing what is generally termed "jerking" the stone. the latter went circling high over the heads of the disputing indians, and came down upon the other side of them, cutting its way through the dry leaves of the trees with a peculiar _zip-zip_, which was distinctly heard by the riflemen themselves. the unusual sound could not fail instantly to attract the attention of the indians. they paused in their conversation, and turned their alarmed gaze toward it, as if in expectation of some danger. with their instinctive caution, they separated, and partially protecting themselves behind the trees, prepared to receive what they supposed to be their enemies. a noticeable fact did not escape the eyes of the riflemen. the captive, a weak, defenseless girl, was not allowed to screen herself, as did her captors, but was compelled by them to stand out in full view, as an additional safeguard against their bullets. it was at this moment that tom hurled the second stone over the heads of the indians, it descending with the same sharp, cutting sound, and resolving their suspicions into a certainty that their white enemies were indeed at hand. lewis dernor, now that the moment of action had arrived, was as shrewd and far-sighted as either tom or any of the others. it was these very qualities, coolness and self-reliance in the crisis of danger, that made him nominally the leader of the riflemen of the miami. he saw the great advantage gained by o'hara's artifice in attracting the attention of the indians to the point opposite to that from which the peril threatened; but, at the same time, he well knew that those same shawnees were too well skilled in woodcraft to suffer their gaze to be diverted for any length of time from the river-bank. as matters now stood, the captive herself was the only one who was looking in the direction of the latter, while her gaze was a mere mechanical one, wandering hither and thither without resting for a moment upon any particular object. lewis felt that the all-important point was to make her aware of the vicinity of friends. she being a total stranger to them, and evidently with no hope of any immediate rescue, made this a matter of considerable difficulty; but, without hesitating a moment, lewis suddenly arose to the upright position, thereby exposing his head and shoulders, and beckoned to the girl to approach him. the instant he had done this, he dropped on his face and disappeared. the attempt was only a partial success. at the moment of rising, the gaze of the captive was toward a point further down-stream; but the figure of the hunter, as it rose and sunk from view, was in her field of vision and did not entirely escape her notice. the unusual occurrence drew her look thither, making it certain that a second attempt, could it be made, would succeed far better than the first. all this lewis comprehended, and as quick as possible repeated his movement precisely as before. this time the girl saw him and perfectly understood his meaning; but, with a precipitancy that filled the hunters with the greatest alarm, she started directly toward them, with outstretched arms, as if imploring assistance. it was at this instant that lewis discovered a quickness of perception, coolness and promptness of action that was absolutely wonderful. looking out upon the exciting drama being enacted before him, he saw with unerring certainty how far the girl could run before being fired at by the savages. waiting until she had gone the distance, he raised his head and shoulders to view, and called out in a voice of thunder: "i say, gal, drop flat on your face and stay there." the quickness with which this command was obeyed, and the almost simultaneous crack of two rifles, might well have caused the belief that she had fallen because shot through the heart; but such was not the case. the command of lewis broke upon her like a thunder-peal, and as quick as a flash of lightning did she comprehend the fearfully imminent peril in which she was placed. so marvelously close had been the calculation of the hunter, that at the very instant she obeyed him, the rifle of the nearest indian was pointed full at her. this did not escape the eagle eye of o'hara, who, with the same coolness that characterized the action of his leader, discharged his piece at the bronzed head of the shawnee, his aim scarcely occupying a second. the bullet sped sure, striking the savage at the very moment his own weapon was fired, and his death-yell mingled with the whistle of his own harmless rifle-ball. even in this moment of terrible danger, the manner in which the indians shifted to the opposite side of the trees could but attract the notice of the hunters. it was simultaneous on the part of all, and resembled that of automata, moved by machinery. first, every copper-colored body was exposed to full view; and the next minute six gleaming rifle-barrels only showed where they had sheltered themselves from the fire of the whites. they no longer doubted the point from which their danger threatened, and a genuine strategic indian fight now commenced. had the captive, who was now literally between two fires, done nothing but merely fall upon her face, her situation could not have been improved in the least thereby. but the nature of the ground near her was such that, by lying perfectly motionless, the bullets of the shawnees could not strike her, unless they could gain a position nearer to the hunters. as matters stood, she was safe only so long as her captors could be kept from changing their places. this was manifest to both the whites and the indians; and while the latter were now actuated by the desire to slay the girl, the efforts of the former were turned toward her salvation. it was further evident that the shawnees were aware that they were now opposed to the riflemen of the miami, and were nothing loth for a trial of skill. the loss of one of their number was such a matter of course, that it operated only as an incentive for exertion and skill upon their part. a portion of the dress of the girl, as she lay upon the ground, could be seen by several of the indians, and they fired numerous shots at it. finding this accomplished nothing, they resorted to a far more dangerous expedient--that of shooting away enough earth in front of her to allow the free passage of one of their bullets to her body. it will be seen that great skill was required to do this, but the expertness of the shawnee marksmen was equal to the task. they commenced their work by sending a ball so as to strike the earth immediately before her, and a few inches below the surface. the instant this was done, another fired his bullet directly after, with such skill that it varied but the fraction of an inch from following directly in its path. the force with which these balls were discharged was such that the twelfth one would most assuredly take the life of the girl. none knew this better than lewis dernor, who, in the same trumpet-like tone that had characterized his former command, called out: "young gal, clean away the dirt in front of you and hide yourself better, or the imps will riddle you." it required no more incentive to do this, and she used her hands with such vigor that a few moments accomplished all she could wish. the ground, being soft and moist, favored her, and when she dragged herself a few feet forward, all of her dress disappeared from the view of the indians, and she was as safe from their bullets as if behind the river-bank itself. a few more shots convinced the shawnees of this, and they now sent several bullets whistling over the heads of the riflemen as if to remind them that they were to receive attention. so long as the members of the two parties maintained their respective positions, this affray could amount to nothing; accordingly, several of the savages made an effort to change their posts in such a manner as to outflank the whites. despite the admirable skill with which this attempt was made, the deadly rifle of george dernor brought down a warrior as he flitted from tree to tree. this, for the present, put a stop to the movement and turned the efforts of the savages in another direction. two brawny shawnees, convinced that nothing could be done against the riflemen, renewed their attempts to secure a shot at the girl, who all this time lay as motionless as if dead. they commenced working their way slowly but surely toward the river, while she, unconscious of the murderous stratagem, patiently awaited the turn of affairs which would free her from her terrible thralldom. finally, an indian, who was squatted behind a tree, gained a view of a tuft of her hair and brought his rifle to his shoulder. the sunlight that scintillated along the barrel of his weapon made it resemble a burnished spear, poised in his hand, while following it up to the stock, not only his crooked arm which supported the gun, but his entire profile was visible. forgetting his own peril in his anxiety to slay the helpless girl, the shawnee leaned several inches further forward, thereby discovering one-half of his shaven head. ere he could draw it back, the whip-like crack of another rifle broke the stillness, and he fell forward on his face, pierced through and through the brain. "i've a great notion to break your head for you!" exclaimed tom, in an excited whisper to dick, for it was the latter who had fired the fatal shot. "why, what's up now?" "i'd just got that shawnee sure when you picked him off. don't you serve me that trick again." with this ebullition, tom subsided, and turned his attention once more toward their common enemy. the shot of dick really decided the affray. it convinced the indians that not only were they unable to shoot the girl or avenge themselves upon the riflemen, but the latter had so much the advantage of them, that to prolong the contest would only be to insure their own annihilation. three of their number were already slain, and the remaining four, from their respective positions, had not the shadow of a chance to pick off any of the whites. what might naturally be expected under the circumstances occurred. the savages commenced a retreat, conducting it with such caution that the whites could not gain another shot. the last seen of them was a shadowy glimpse in a distant part of the wood, as the four fled, thereby doing only what the riflemen of the miami had before compelled many a body of indians to do. a few minutes later, lewis rose up and said: "this way, gal; there's none of the imps left." the girl, timidly raising her head, glanced about her, and then, lewis' invitation being repeated, she arose and walked toward him, looking furtively backward as though still fearful of her late captors. "bless your dear soul," said lewis, warmly welcoming her, "you've had a skeery time with them shawnees, but you're safe for the present. you may set that down as a question that needn't be argued." "oh! how can i thank you for rescuing me! i can never, never repay you," said she, with streaming eyes. "who the deuce wants you to pay us?" asked tom, gruffly. "come, come, tom, see whether you can't be civil once, even if you've got to be sick for it. don't mind him, little gal; he loves you all the more for what he said." "i know he does, or he would never have risked his life to save a stranger as he has just done." tom, from some cause or other, was obliged to gouge his eye several times with his crooked finger. one might have suspected that they were more moist than usual, had he not looked particularly savage at that moment. dick, who, by the merest accident, glanced in his face was nearly startled off his feet by the irascible fellow shouting: "what you looking at? say! can't a chap rub his eyes without your gaping at him that way?" dick meekly removed his gaze, while tom looked ferocious enough to annihilate the whole party. the girl, just rescued from the shawnees, was a comely maiden. though attired in the homespun garb of the backwoods, she would have attracted attention in any society. if not beautiful, she certainly was handsome, being possessed of a countenance rich with expression, and a form of perfect grace. blue eyes, golden hair, a well-turned head, small nose and a health-tinted complexion, were characteristics to arrest the eye of the most ordinary observer. even under disadvantageous circumstances like the present, these were so striking that they could but make an impression, and a skillful reader of human nature would have seen that lewis had been _touched_--that, in short, the leader of the riflemen of the miami had reached the incipient stages of the passion of passions, in the short interview to which we have referred. that he would rather have been scalped than have been suspected of it by his companions, was very true. taking the small hands which were confidingly placed in his own, he said; "let us hear all about this scrape, my little one." "my home is, or was until night before last, many miles from here. on that evening, i was left alone by my dearest friend, who little dreamed of the danger which hovered over our house. the indians must have been aware of his absence, for, before it was fairly dark, three of them stalked in the door without saying a word, and led me away. they have traveled constantly ever since, and i was almost wearied to death, when you came up, and by the assistance of kind heaven, saved me. how came you to be so interested in a stranger?" "as for that matter," replied lewis, "it ain't the first time, my little one, that _we've_ been interested in strangers. i might say we've a particular interest in all the whites and reds of this region. the riflemen of the miami----" "are you the men who are known by that name?" asked the girl, with a glowing countenance. "at your service," replied lewis, with a modest blush. "indeed, i have heard of you, and have heard your name blessed again and again by the settlers further east." "which certainly is pleasant to us. as i was going to say, we were coming down the miami, this morning, when we chanced to strike the trail of these identical indians. it was easy enough to see that it was but a short time since they had gone along, and, as it was in our line, of course we jogged on after them. the red imps were taking it coolly, and in a couple of hours or so we got sight of them going down the river. well, we followed on after them till they made their halt out here, when--well, you know the rest." "of course she does," said tom, "so what's the use of talking? what's the gal want to do? go back to her friends, i s'pose?" "if you could take me there, i could not express my thankfulness." "where is it you belong?" the girl gave the name of a settlement nearly a hundred miles distant. lewis bent his head a moment, as if deliberating something, and then said: "we've got a job on our hands that _must be done_ this very night, and it is going to be such a lively one that it won't do to have you in the vicinity. consequently, although there isn't one of us but what would risk his life to take you back to your friends, it can't be done _just now_." "you will not leave me?" plead the girl. "leave you? that's something the _riflemen_, i make bold to say, never did yet. no; of course we'll not _leave_ you. i'll tell you the plan. about five miles off from the river, lives old caleb smith and his two big sons, all as clever and kind as so many babies. we've got to be back at our rendezvous to-night, where the other member of our company is to meet us; and on our way there, we'll leave you at old smith's and return for you in a few days. won't that be the best we can do, tom?" "s'pose so." the girl herself expressed great satisfaction at this conclusion; and, as it was getting well along in the day, the riflemen set out with their charge. in due time they reached "old smith's house," who was well known to them, and who received them with the most hearty cordiality. he gladly took charge of the rescued girl, promising that she should be guarded as much as if his own child. just as the shadows of evening were closing over the wood, the riflemen took their departure. three days later they returned to fulfill their promise to the girl, when old smith told them that, fearing some unexpected occurrence had detained them, he had sent his two sons to conduct her to her home. chapter ii. the settlers. we will rear new trees under homes that glow as if gems were the frontage of every bough; o'er our white walls we will train the vine, and sit in its shadow at day's decline, and watch our herds as they range at will through the green savannas, all bright and still. mrs. hemans. the incident narrated in the preceding chapter occurred one autumn, many years ago. in the spring succeeding this autumn, a company of settlers, with their loaded teams, and unwieldy baggage, were making their slow way through the labyrinths of an ohio forest to a sparse settlement buried many miles further in the wilderness. at that day, so comparatively recent, such a sight was rarely witnessed in this section, as a deep-rooted hostility existed between the settlers and indians, and an undertaking like the present was attended with too great danger for it to be often repeated. the rut of a single wagon, half obliterated by accumulated leaves and rankly-growing grass, showed that this route had been traveled over but once before, and that on the preceding season. at regular intervals, trees were passed with chips hacked from their sides, the track having first been "blazed" before being passed over. like the emigrant-party which had preceded it, the present one possessed but a single wagon, drawn by two pair of slow but powerful oxen. it had a substantial cover, beneath which were stowed an immense quantity of baggage and some six or eight children, including also four women, two of whom were married and two unmarried. at the side of the front oxen walked the driver, whose whole attention was devoted to their direction. several yards in advance rode two horsemen, and beside them three men plodded forward on foot. in the rear, scarcely a yard behind the lumbering wagon, walked "old caleb smith," and his two overgrown sons, as proud of them as was any monarch of his favorite generals. in addition to the men enumerated, there were three more--who may properly be called the scouts of the party. one of these was a couple of hundred yards in advance, stealing his way along, as carefully as if pursued by an unrelenting foe, his whole soul occupied in watching for signs of the dusky red-men of the woods. at a somewhat less distance on either side of the road, and in such a position as to be opposite the wagon, was one of the remaining scouts, as watchful, vigilant and skillful as the one referred to. thus the party progressed, neglecting no precaution that could make their safety more secure, and although numerically small, still far more powerful than were many emigrant-parties who had preceded them in penetrating other portions of the great west. one of the young women, that we have mentioned as being in the wagon, was edith sudbury, the heroine of the preceding chapter. she had not a single relation among all those around her, and it was certainly singular that she should have united her destinies with those who, several months before, were entirely unknown to her. but, though not related, every one was her friend. her amiable disposition, her grace and beauty of manners, her own prepossessing appearance, and above all, her unremitting kindness to every one with whom she came in contact, had won upon the hearts of all. old smith's two sons, jim and harry, one eighteen the other twenty, both over six feet in height, looked upon "little edith" as nothing more than a baby, and woe betide the one who dared to offer her harm or insult in their presence! "i say, father, how much further ahead is that creek we've got to cross?" asked jim, in a free and easy manner, as he would have spoken to an equal. "well, sonny, it must be nigh on to ten mile." "won't get over afore morning then?" "don't expect to, as you see it's well along in the after noon." "let's see--we've come over forty mile, hain't we?" "yes, jim, nearer fifty." "well, we're that much nearer the settlement, _that's_ certain. if we get over the creek without much trouble with the oxen, we may fetch up there by sundown, eh?" "that's the expectation, i believe." "provided, of course, _the injins don't make trouble_." "sh! not so loud, jim," continued harry. "they might hear us in the wagon, and i don't s'pose you'd want to scare edith, when there's no need of it." "i should like to see any one try that same thing on 'em. they'd be somebody else scared, i reckon. but, father," asked jim, in an earnest whisper, "how is it about the injins? we haven't seen a sign of one yet, and that's what gets me." the parent and his children fell a few yards further behind, and commenced conversing together in suppressed voices. "i tell you what, boys," said the father, "it won't do to expect to get through without hot work. i've been talking with the scouts, and they think the same. i believe a number are following us, and waiting only for the proper place to come in upon us." "where do you suppose that will be?" "_the creek!_" "shouldn't wonder if 'twas," said harry, in a matter-of-fact tone; "if we only had the women-folks out the way, we might count on some tall fun. i wish edith was taken care of." "that's the deuce of it. i should think she got enough of the imps last autumn, when the riflemen left her at our house; but that's the _injin_, especially the shawnee part of it. if there's any chance to get scalps with long hair, they're bound to do it. however, boys, it won't do to lose heart." "that's the fact, father, and i reckon none of this crowd intend to do that thing just now. sam, in front, isn't likely to get asleep, is he?" "no danger of him. they say he never shuts both eyes at the same time." "i'll answer for them on the sides of the road," added harry. "if there's a greasy shawnee in a mile, jake laughlin will scent him. you mind the time, jim, when he went with us over into kentucky, and he saved us from running into that ambush?" "'tain't likely i'll ever forget it, being i got my arm bored with some of their lead." "well, that affair satisfied me that jake laughlin understands as much as it is worth while to understand about injin deviltries, and that he ain't likely to be blind when there's so much to practice eyesight on." "i'd give our yoke of oxen this minute, if i could only set eyes on lew dernor and his boys, the riflemen of the miami," said the parent. "they've been long together, as i s'pose, and have been in more injin fights and scrimmages than any men living, and yet not one of them has been grazed by a bullet. there's tom o'hara, whose legs are so short that he's about as tall when he sits down as he is when he stands up, and yet, i'll be hanged if he isn't the luckiest one of the lot. they're a wonderful set of boys, are those riflemen." "father," said son jim, with a meaning smile, "you remember the night that lew brought edith to our house?" "of course i do." "didn't it strike you that he acted queerly then?" "what do you mean? i don't understand you. i noticed nothing." "i did. i saw how he watched edith, and i made up my mind that he was in _love with her_! since then i've found out it _was_ so!" "why, jim, i never dreamed of such a thing. he hasn't been to our house since to see her." "just because he _is_ in love! i've met him in the woods a dozen times since, and by the way in which he questioned me, i'd been a downright fool if i hadn't understood him." this avowal seemed to trouble the father, as he bent his head; and, for a while, nothing further was said. but jim, who had little reverence for sentiment or romance, added, in a meaning voice: "that isn't all, father." "what else have you to tell?" "that edith loves him!" "thunder! i don't believe it." "well, i can't say _positively_ that she does; but i know she _likes_ him, and if lew dernor has a mind he can get her. you don't appear to like it, father." "i don't care much, but the gal seems so like my own da'ter, being i never had any, that i should hate despritly to lose her." "fudge! it's got to come to that sooner or later, and who could she get better than lew dernor, the leader of the miami riflemen?" "none, that's the fact, but----" a footstep attracted their attention, and looking up, they saw jake laughlin step into view. he raised his hand, as if to command silence, jerking his thumb at the same time significantly toward the wagon and the rest of the settlers. he stepped carefully into the wagon-track, and the father and sons halted. "it's so," said he, nodding his head several times. "are you sure?" "i've seen sign a half-dozen times since noon." "shawnees, i s'pose?" "yes. there are plenty of them in the woods." "what are they waiting for?" "the chance. there ain't enough, and we're too wide awake to allow them to attack us at present. they're waiting to take us off our guard or to get us at disadvantage. i've an idee where that'll be." "the creek?" "most certainly. there's where the tug of war will come, and i think if we should encamp to-night without a guard there would be no danger of attack from the shawnees." "are you going to warn others?" "not until night, i think, as there is no necessity for it." "well, we don't need to tell you to be on the look-out. you know we've got a lot of women-folks to take care of." "never fear." with this, laughlin stole back into the wood, as cautiously as he had emerged from it, and the father and his sons quickened their pace in order to gain the ground they had lost. as they resumed their places in the rear of the wagon, no one would have suspected from their actions and appearance, that they had been conversing upon a subject so important to all. it was about the middle of the afternoon, and the emigrant-party plodded patiently forward, chatting and conversing upon ordinary topics with such pleasantry and zest that no one would have suspected the least thought of danger had entered their heads. so long as the silence of the scouts continued, the emigrants knew there was no cause for alarm. should danger threaten, they would be warned in time. an hour later, as they were proceeding quietly along, the near report of a rifle broke upon their ears. every face blanched, and every heart beat faster at the startling signal of danger. this it meant, and nothing else; and the members of the company instinctively halted, and made a partial preparation for an attack. they had scarcely done so, when laughlin, with his cat-like tread, stepped in among them. "what made you fire, jake?" asked dravoond, one of the leaders of the party. "me fire? i haven't pulled trigger since i shot the wild turkey yesterday. it must have been sam or myrick." as he spoke, the latter two, who were the other scouts, also made their appearance, when, to the surprise of all, it was discovered that neither of them had fired the alarming shot. consequently, it must have been done by a stranger. the moment this fact became known, the scouts separated and resumed their duties, while the emigrants, after a short consultation, moved on again, more slowly and carefully than before. on the whole, although the report of the rifle could not be explained by any of the emigrants, the majority were disposed to take it rather as a favorable sign than otherwise. if made by an indian, it could not have been done accidentally, for such a thing rarely if ever was known among them; and, as it could not have been fired by an enemy, with the full knowledge of the vicinity of the emigrants, the savages, if savages they were, must either be unaware of the latter fact, or else the strange shot came from a white man. if there were lurking indians in the wood, ignorant of the presence of the whites, they were soon apprised, for both of the leading oxen, who had not done such a thing for days, now paused and bellowed terrifically for several moments. the driver endeavored to check their dreadful noise by whacking them over the heads, but it availed nothing. they were determined, and continued the clamor, pausing now and then, as though pleased with the echo, which could be heard rolling through the woods for over a mile distant. having finished, they resumed their progress, as if satisfied with what they had done. "father, them's our oxen," said jim, "and, by thunder, if they bawl out that way agin i'll shoot 'em both. how far did you say the settlement is off?" "forty or fifty miles. why do you ask again?" "nothin', only if they've put any of their babies asleep to-day, them oxen have set them all to squalling agin." the sun was getting well down toward the horizon, and the dim twilight was wrapping the woods in its mantle, when the teamster halted the oxen, and the emigrants commenced their preparations for the encampment. the wagon was left standing in its tracks, the oxen simply unfastened, and with their yokes on, led to where some bundles of hay were spread upon the ground. a large fire was soon blazing and crackling a short distance away, around which the women were engaged in preparing the evening meal, while the men, who wandered hither and thither apparently without any definite object, neglected no precaution which could insure them against attack through the night. the three scouts had extended their beats several hundred yards, and completely reconnoitered the ground intervening between them and the camp-fire, so that they felt some assurance of safety as they joined their friends in the evening meal. just as they all had finished partaking of this, a second rifle report, as near to them as was the first, broke the stillness. the men started to their feet and grasped their weapons. they gazed all around them, as if expecting the appearance of some one, but failing to see any thing, commenced speculating upon the cause of this singular repetition of what had puzzled them so at first. "it beats my larning to explain it," said old smith. "i tell you what it is," said son harry, "that ain't an injin's piece, nohow you can fix it." "how do you know that?" queried brother jim. "it's the same gun we heard this afternoon, and when you see a shawnee do that i'll believe our oxen don't know how to beller." "we must be ready, my friends, for the worst," said one of the emigrants, who, up to this time, had not referred to the danger at all. another reconnoissance was made by the scouts, but with no better success than before. the darkness of the wood was such that they labored at great disadvantage, and it would have been no difficult matter for a single person to have remained concealed within a short distance of the whites. as the night progressed, the females and children retired to the wagon, and the men chose their stations around it. the oxen, one by one, sunk heavily to the earth, contentedly chewing their cuds, and a stillness as profound as that of the tomb settled upon the forest. the fire had smouldered to a few embers, which glowed with a dim redness through the ashes, and occasionally disclosed a shadowy form as it hurried by. several of the men were sleeping soundly, for enough were on duty as sentinels to make them feel as much ease as it was possible to feel where they could never be assured of perfect safety. two of the most faithful sentinels were jim and harry smith, who were stationed within a few feet of each other. now and then they exchanged a word or two, but the risk was too great to attempt any thing like a continued conversation. three separate times jim was sure he heard a footstep near him, and as often did he turn his head and fail to discover the meaning of it. finally, he caught a glimpse of some one as he brushed hurriedly by and disappeared in the darkness. he raised his gun, and was on the point of firing, when he lowered it again. the thought that probably it was a white man, and a dislike to give the camp a groundless alarm, was the cause of this failure to fire. several times again through the night did he detect a foot-fall, but he was not able to catch sight of the stranger. shortly after midnight the evidences of his visit ceased, and jim concluded that he had withdrawn so as to be beyond sight when daylight broke. what was his surprise, therefore, when he saw, as the gray light of morning stole through the wood, the form of a man seated on the ground, with his head reclining against a tree and sound asleep. if this surprise was great, it became absolute amazement when he examined his features, and saw that the man was no other than lewis dernor, the leader of the riflemen of the miami! jim could scarce believe his senses as he walked forward and shook the sleeper by the shoulder. "i should as soon have expected to see mad anthony himself as to see you, lew dernor, sitting here sound asleep," said he, as the rifleman opened his eyes and looked about him. a smile crossed his handsome countenance as he replied: "i believe i have been sleeping." "i believe you have, too. have you been hanging around here all night?" "yes, and all day, too." "and was it you who fired those shots?" "i fired my rifle once or twice, i believe." "good! well, lew, we're glad to see you, and we would be a deuced sight gladder if we could see the rest of the riflemen. where are they?" "up the miami, i suppose. at any rate, that's where i left them." "well, i'm afraid we're getting into hot water here, lew, to tell the truth, and there's no one whose face would be more welcome just now than yours. i see they are beginning to wake up and show themselves. gavoon has started the fire, so s'pose we go in and you make yourself known." the hunter followed young smith to the camp, where, in a short time, he met and shook hands with most of the settlers, who were indeed glad enough to see him; and this gladness was increased to delight when he expressed his willingness to accompany them across the dreaded creek. in the course of a half-hour the females began to make their appearance. near by was a small stream where they performed their ablutions, which finished, they gathered around the camp-fire, and busied themselves with preparing the breakfast of the party. dernor, the rifleman, was conversing with one of the settlers, when some one touched him on the shoulder. looking around, he encountered his friend, jim smith. "here's a person i s'pose you've no objection to see," said he, with a light laugh. the bronzed face of the hunter deepened its hue as he saw edith sudbury approaching, and although gifted with a natural grace of manner, he displayed some embarrassment as he advanced to greet her. her conduct, too, was not without its suspicious air. rosy and fresh as the flowers of the green woods around, perhaps the carnation of her cheeks was caused only by the morning exercise. jim noticed these manifestations, and quietly smiled, but said nothing. in regard to the rifleman, at least, he was right. as that brave and gallant-hearted ranger wandered through the grand old forests of ohio, and the cane-brakes of the "dark and bloody ground," a fair face had haunted his waking and dreaming hours. as he knelt beside the sparkling brook to slake his thirst, he beheld the same features reflected beside his own in its mirror-like surface. as alone he threaded his way through the labyrinths of those dim solitudes, he had a fairy companion as faithful to him as his own shadow. and when with his tried and faithful followers, it was the same. only in the excitement of the fight, or the moments when his strategic skill was in rivalry with that of his dusky enemies, did this shadowy being cease to haunt him. night and day, it was the same--and now he had met the _reality_, and was conversing with her. the conversation lasted but a few minutes. the services of edith were needed, and she tripped away to assist the others at their duties. as she disappeared, jim came up and laughingly remarked to the rifleman: "a fine girl that, lewis." "indeed she is. i never have heard her name--that is, nothing more than edith. what is the rest?" "sudbury--edith sudbury." the hunter started, as if bitten by a rattlesnake, and turned as pale as death. young smith noticed his emotion, and asked, with some alarm: "what's the matter, lew? what is there about that name that so troubles you?" "never mind, jim. i did not think it was _her_!" smith had too much natural kindness of heart to refer to a subject so painful to the hunter, although his curiosity was great to know what could possibly have affected him so strangely. as nothing further was said by dernor, this curiosity remained unsatisfied for a long time. the emigrant-party shortly after was under way. when within a mile or so of the creek to which we have referred, one of the scouts reconnoitered it, and came in with the report that quite a body of shawnees were on its banks, and beyond a doubt were waiting for the company to come up. dernor coincided in this opinion, and held a consultation with the male members of the party. the result of this consultation was a determination on his part to make all haste to the rendezvous of the riflemen of the miami, and bring them hither, the settlers agreeing to halt and await their arrival. the danger that menaced them was certainly great to make this step necessary. chapter iii. the riflemen of the miami. there they sat and chatted gayly, while the flickering of the blaze led the shadows on their faces in a wild and devious maze; and among them, one i noted, unto whom the rest gave place, which was token he was foremost in the fight or in the chase. dr. english. one cold, drizzly, sleety day, in a winter toward the latter part of the last century, a party of shawnee indians crossed from the kentucky cane-brakes into ohio. penetrating its deep, labyrinthine forests, they came upon a double cabin, where dwelt two widows, with several children. these they inhumanly massacred, and burnt their dwellings to the ground. then, laden with their plunder, they set out on their return to kentucky. it so happened that two brothers, george and lewis dernor, who were upon a hunting expedition in this section, came upon the burning cabin within an hour after the savages had left it. they saw by the numerous tracks that the party was too large for them to think of attacking; nevertheless, they took the trail with the resolution of ascertaining to what tribe the savages belonged; and, if possible, to pick off one or two, as a slight payment for the outrage they had committed. following on for several miles, they gained a glimpse of them, as they crossed a ridge, and discovered, as they had suspected all along, that they were a party of shawnees returning to kentucky, although the majority of this tribe of indians at this time had their towns in ohio. a half-hour later, by signs known only to experienced woodmen, they became convinced that some one else was also upon the trail of the indians. after a great amount of maneuvering and stratagetic reconnoitering, they learned that it was a hunter like themselves, and no other but their old friend dick allmat. accompanied by him, they continued the pursuit, and a mile further on, discovered that still another person was dogging the shawnees. pretty certain that this must also be a friend, they managed to make themselves known to him without the tedious ceremony which had characterized their introduction to allmat. he proved to be tom o'hara, whose utmost exertions were necessary to keep pace with the retreating savages. he was in a perfect fury that they should proceed so fast, when he could see no necessity for it, and was half tempted to expend some of his wrath upon those of his friends who laughed at his discomfiture. the party, now numbering four experienced hunters, felt considerable confidence in their strength, and the proposition was made to attack the shawnees. the latter numbered seven or eight, and from their deliberate and incautious movements, it was manifest, had not learned that they were pursued. perhaps they believed no white man could brave the blinding, seething storm then raging, for they neglected those precautions which seem to be second nature with the north american indian. the proposition made by lewis dernor was agreed to, and the plan matured. the conflict took place in a sort of open hollow, and probably was one of the most sanguinary personal conflicts that ever occurred on the frontier. the hunters came out of it with no wounds worth mentioning, while only two of the savages escaped. these plunged into the woods, and disappeared with the speed of the wind, and the whites were left undisputed masters of the field. this was by no means the first outrage which had been committed by similar bands of indians, and just at this particular time the arm of the general government was so weakened from the repeated disastrous campaigns against them, that they insulted the whites with impunity, and entertained, in reality, no fear at all of punishment or retribution. this was the subject of conversation with the hunters, and so impressed them, that lewis dernor proposed that they should bind themselves together for an indefinite period, (which was not intended to be over a couple of years or so at the most,) to do their utmost to check the monstrous outrages which were becoming so common along the border. the four hunters mentioned were well known to each other, and had the reputation of being the best riflemen and woodmen of any then known. in addition to this, they were all unmarried, and without any prospects of changing their condition; consequently they were at perfect liberty to wander whither they pleased. the proposition was considered, and received a unanimous and enthusiastic response from all. the brothers dernor, in their hunting expeditions, had spent several nights in a cave along the miami, which they had discovered by accident, and which afforded them not only a comfortable, but also a perfect concealment. it was agreed that this should be their rendezvous, and in order that all might learn its locality, and the manner of approach to it, the following night was spent within it. now commences the history of the riflemen of the miami, as they were christened by the settlers, to whom their exploits soon became known, and as they were proud to acknowledge themselves. instead of disbanding at the end of two years, as was originally contemplated, this confederation had an existence for over a dozen years. they participated in anthony wayne's great battle with the indians, in , where two of the members fell, and which concluded their history, as the surviving members retired to private life, and were too old to participate in the tecumseh's war of . it would require a volume to detail the exploits of these riflemen. unlike many other confederations that were formed about this period, their only object was that of self-defense, and of offering protection to the settlers who were constantly penetrating the great west. no innocent indians ever suffered at their hands, and many was the one they befriended and assisted in his extremity. but woe betide the offender that fell into their hands. to the cruel they were unsparing; to the merciless they showed no mercy. while their name was loved and revered by the whites, it was feared and execrated by the savages. the shawnees were unusually active and vindictive at this time, and it was with them that the most frequent encounters took place. the incident detailed in the first chapter was but one among many that were constantly occurring, and it scarcely equaled in importance numerous exploits that they had before performed. there was a fifth member, who joined the riflemen only a year or two previous to the period in which we design to notice their actions more particularly. he was known as ferdinand sego, and became a member from a part which he performed one night on the ohio, when the riflemen were attacked by three times their number. he displayed such activity, skill and courage, that he was importuned to unite with them, although, up to this time, they had refused to receive any accessions to their number. he consented, and from that time forward the riflemen of the miami numbered five hunters. sego joined them, however, with the understanding that he should be obliged to absent himself from time to time. at regular intervals he left them, and was gone sometimes for over a week. as he had no rifle, the cause of these excursions remained a mystery to his friends until he chose to reveal it himself. it then turned out that it was nothing less than a female that exercised such a potent influence upon him. sego, as he became intimately acquainted with his friends, often spoke of this girl, and of the great affection he bore her. one day he gave her name--edith sudbury. this excited no unusual interest, until lewis dernor learned, on the day that he encountered the emigrants, that he and sego loved the same girl! this was the cause of his unusual agitation, and the pain he felt at hearing her name pronounced. he entertained the strongest friendship for sego, but, until he had met edith, he had never known any thing, by experience, of the divine power of our nature. when he did love, therefore, it was with his whole soul and being. his companions, less sagacious in sentimental affairs than worldly, failed to divine the cause of the singular actions of their leader, who did his utmost to conceal it from them. little did he dream, as he listened to the enthusiastic praises of edith by sego, that it was the being who constantly occupied his thoughts. but the truth had broken upon him like a peal of thunder at midday. on the day succeeding lewis' departure from the settlers, three of his men, o'hara, dernor and allmat, stood on the banks of the miami, several hundred yards above their rendezvous. the sky was clear and sunshiny, and they were making ready for a trial of skill with their rifles. from where they stood, the most practiced eye would have failed to discover any spot which could possibly afford shelter for one of their number, much less for them all. but beneath a cluster of bushes, projecting from the upper edge of the bank, was an orifice, barely sufficient to admit the passage of a man's body. entering this, on his hands and knees, he was ushered into a subterranean cave, dark, but of ample dimensions to accommodate a dozen men. it was furnished with blankets and the skins of different animals, and each of the riflemen took especial pride in decorating and fixing it up for their convenience. dick paced off two hundred yards, and then chipped a small piece from the trunk of a beech tree along the river-bank, as a target for their weapons. as he stepped one side, o'hara raised his piece, and scarcely pausing to take aim, fired. instead of striking the mark, he missed it by fully two inches. when this was announced, he turned round, and with an impatient exclamation, demanded: "who fired that gun last?" "i believe i did," replied dernor. "you just touch it again, and you'll never touch another rifle. do you know what you have done?" "know what i've done? of course i do. i've fired it." "_you've put a spell on it._" "the deuce! try it again!" o'hara shook his head. "it would never miss such a mark as that unless it was bewitched. i've got to melt up that money of mine, or the thing will never be worth a half-penny again." when a kentuckian's gun is bewitched, or has a "spell upon it," the only way in which he can free it of its enchantment, is by firing a silver bullet from it. unless this is done, they steadfastly believe it can never be relied upon afterward. o'hara, accordingly, produced his bullet-mould, kindled a fire, which required much more blowing and care to fuse the metal than it did to melt lead or pewter. but he succeeded at last, melting down all his spare change to make the small, shining bullet. this was rammed down his gun, a deliberate aim taken, and dick announced that it had struck the mark plumb in the center. the charm was gone! it would be uninteresting to narrate the different methods by which each of the three men demonstrated his remarkable skill with his favorite weapon. they fired at different distances, at objects in the air, and in each others' hands, and then discharged their pieces on a run, wheeling as quick as thought. although the weapon used was the old flint-lock rifle, the dexterity exhibited by each could scarcely be excelled by that of the most famous sharp-shooters of the present day, with their improved guns. the exercise was continued for over two hours, when, as o'hara was reloading his piece, the report of a rifle was heard upon the opposite side of the miami, and the bullet whizzed within an inch of o'hara's face. as all three looked across the river, they saw a faint, bluish wreath rising from the shrubbery, but no signs of the one who had fired the shot. "i guess his gun has had a spell put on it," said o'hara, sneeringly. "and i guess you'll get a spell put on you, if he tries that again," remarked dick, carefully scrutinizing the opposite bank. "why doesn't he show himself, the coward? like enough there is a whole party of shawnees----" "sh! something moved over there." "he's going to cross, i'll be shot if he isn't." a splash was now heard, as though something had been cast upon the surface of the water, and a moment later, a small indian canoe, in which was seated a single person, shot from beneath the shrubbery, skimming over the river like a swallow, and headed directly toward the spot where the riflemen were standing. dick raised his rifle, but instantly lowered it with a laugh. "it's nobody but lew himself. he just fired to scare us." propelled by a single paddle, the frail boat sped onward with great celerity, and its prow, in a few moments, grated lightly against the shingle at the feet of the hunters, and their leader stepped forth. "been practicing, i see," he remarked. "a little; _you_ tried your hand, also." lewis smiled, as he replied: "a little fun, of course; but we've got better business on hand." "let's hear it, for we are ready for any thing." "a lot of settlers are going through the woods, down below, and they need company, for the shawnees have scented them as sure as the world. i've promised them that we will see them through--where's sego?" suddenly asked the leader, looking around, as if searching for the one mentioned. "he went off yesterday." "that's unlucky, for we shall need him, too. will he be back to-day?" "he said he expected to return this afternoon." "we will wait for him, then, though they need us, most certainly." "it's the first time sego has been off in a good while," said dick, "and i don't know what started him this time." lewis thought that he would give a good deal if he knew, although he chose to say nothing about it. an hour or more was spent in conversation, when the four sauntered carelessly toward the cave, the canoe first having been pulled high enough upon the bank to make it secure against being washed away by the current. they did not enter the cave, but passed it, and returned after it was fairly dark, when they were certain that no prying eyes had seen them. when morning dawned, sego had not returned, and lewis was undetermined whether to wait longer for him, or to go on at once. the case was urgent, but the need of sego's arm was also urgent, and he concluded to wait still further. the forenoon, the afternoon, and finally the night came and went, without bringing any signs of the absentee, and at daylight on this day, lewis and his men made ready to start, resolved not to lose another moment. as they passed down to the river's edge, the delinquent made his appearance and joined them. they crossed the miami in the canoe--its lightness rendering it necessary to make the passage twice--and plunging in the forest, made all haste toward the settlers. meanwhile, the prolonged absence of the riflemen, was the occasion of much speculation and anxiety upon the part of the emigrants. when lewis had named the period at which he expected to join them with his men, they all knew he had allowed himself the widest limit, and fully intended to return within the time specified. when, therefore, this hour passed, they certainly had sufficient grounds for their anxiety and uneasiness, and some of the men did not hesitate to express their conviction that the riflemen would not come at all. not that they would willingly fail to keep their appointment, but it was more than probable that circumstances had arisen which prevented it. the settlers remained encamped until thirty hours beyond the time of the expected arrival of the riflemen, when every one had given up all hope of seeing them, and it was agreed to move on to the banks of the creek. the scouts, who had been constantly busy, reported that no signs of indians were visible in the vicinity, and strong hopes were entertained that they would be able to cross without disturbance. "before venturing into that same piece of water," said smith, "i propose that another examination of the woods be made, and that some of us wade over first to see how deep the stream is." the latter suggestion had already been acted upon by the scouts several times, but, as all shared the feeling of smith, the scouts, joined this time by the old man's two sons, set out to act upon his proposal. after examining the bank upon which they stood, with the greatest care, for several hundred yards both above and below, they returned with the report that no signs of danger had been discovered. two of them now entered the creek in front of the oxen, and commenced wading across. it would be impossible to depict the anxiety, intense apprehension, and almost terror with which they were regarded by their friends upon the shore. one was laughlin and the other harry smith, and mixed with the parents' natural uneasiness, was a pride which glowed upon his face at seeing his son so unhesitatingly facing danger. had he known that the most imminent peril threatened him, the wealth of the indias would not have tempted him to call him back. step by step the two men advanced across the creek, the water in no place being above their knees, until they stepped upon dry land once more. this was the culminating point of anxiety with their friends. this apprehension now became so intense as to be painful and almost unbearable. some ten or fifteen minutes (which seemed hours to the waiting friends) was spent in reconnoitering the shore, after which the two stepped into the station and set out on their return. they had taken but a step or two, when they suddenly drew back, and laughlin made a signal of danger to the settlers, the cause of which was instantly seen by all. chapter iv. the passage of the creek. be set forever in disgrace the glory of the red-man's race, if from the foe we turn our face, or safety seek in flight!--g. p. morris. laughlin's signal of danger was accompanied by a meaning motion up the creek, intended to direct the attention of the settlers to that point. looking in the direction indicated, they saw what at first appeared nothing but a mere log or stump floating on the water, but what, upon a closer inspection, it was evident, had a deeper significance than that. it was near the center of the current, drifting slowly downward, impelled certainly by nothing more than the force of the stream itself. as it came nearer, it proved to be three trees, partly trimmed of their branches, and secured together, a contrivance in the formation of which the hand of man most surely must have been concerned. "some injin deviltry!" muttered the older smith, as he lay on his face with the other settlers. "it'll be dangerous to be too curious. jest keep an eye on the concern, from where you lie, and if you see a top-knot, blaze away." at this moment, a low whistle from the scouts on the opposite bank warned all that this was no time for carelessness; and ceasing their whispered remarks, the men turned their whole attention toward the object in question. the children were all lying down in the wagon, and the women crouched so low that no stray shot could reach them. the greatest worriment was over the oxen. as they stood, lazily chewing their cuds, their horns and eyes could be plainly seen from the creek, so that any foes concealed in the raft could shoot one or all of them, and thus inflict an irreparable injury upon the whites. although it was possible that such an occurrence might take place, yet it was hardly probable the shots would be expended upon such "small" game. when directly opposite the settlers, the logs in question underwent a most searching scrutiny from both shores, the result of which was the conviction that no human being was nearer the suspicious object than those engaged in scrutinizing it. whatever had been the intention of the indians--for indians undoubtedly they were who had formed the raft--they had declined to risk their own persons upon it, as it drifted down the current. this was so plain, that laughlin called out: "you needn't be skeart, boys, there's no injin _thar_; so jest drive in and cross." "take another look first," cried out one of the settlers. "there are indians _somewhere_ in these parts, for those trees never grew together like that." the advice of the settler was so sensible and timely, that laughlin and smith acted upon it at once, withdrawing some yards from the stream and proceeding some distance up it, with the same caution that had characterized all their movements. the result of this reconnoissance was the same as the other. if there were any savages at all in the vicinity, they were so carefully concealed that the skill of the two whites could avail nothing in discovering them. this being reported, preparations were resumed for crossing. it should be remarked, that the creek, a short distance above the fording-place, made a bend, thus limiting the view of the whites considerably. this being the case, the other son of smith stationed himself at this curve, to give notice of the approach of any danger. every thing being in readiness, the oxen were driven into the water, which was accomplished very easily, as all four were thirsty. the progress was necessarily slow, the wheels of the wagon sinking so deep in the muddy bottom that the united efforts of the four powerful oxen were barely able to move it. the deepest portion was passed ere one-third of the stream was crossed, the men being compelled to place their hands to the wheels to keep them moving. it was at this moment, and just as the wagon-body raised several inches from the water, that an exclamation from young smith startled all. looking toward him, they saw him raise his rifle and fire at something in the creek, and then fall flat on his face. the next moment a raft, precisely similar to the first, came in view, floating somewhat nearer the left bank, so that it would pass between the shore and the wagon, provided the latter remained stationary. "there are injins on that," called out smith from his hiding-place. "i seen their top-knots." the whites understood their peril at once. the oxen were lashed and goaded, until they slipped on their faces in their efforts to pull the wagon forward, while the men caught the wheels and turned them round and round without moving the wagon a particle. all depended upon reaching the shore before the indians could come upon them, for, beyond a doubt, there were indians concealed upon the raft which was so rapidly nearing them. for a dozen feet or so the wagon moved readily; but at this point it sunk below the hubs, and the united strength of men and oxen utterly failed to move it--this, too, occurring when the position was such that the approaching raft must pass so close as almost to touch it! "no use, boys," called out mr. smith. "get your rifles ready for the imps." most of the men had placed their guns in the wagon while toiling at the wheels, and they now caught them and stood on the defensive. as yet, nothing could be seen of the savages who were concealed upon the raft, but a moment later, the logs swerved over toward the shore which the settlers had just left. thus it was plain that the indians, seeing the true state of affairs, were as anxious to avoid the collision as the whites had been. the water being shallow, they were able to place their feet upon the bottom, and thus move the raft readily. as is generally the case, the courage of the whites increased in proportion as they discovered that of the indians diminishing, and the proposal was made by one to wade over to the contrivance and demolish it. the better sense of the others, however, prevailed, and they maintained the defensive only. as the raft came down-stream, it continued veering over to the shore so much, that if it passed the wagon at all, it would do so by a safe distance. all at once, as the expectant settlers were looking at it with the most acute attention, some one called out: "look _under_ the concern." all, of course, did so, and all distinctly saw in the clear water, directly under the raft, some ten or twelve human feet walking along on the bottom. not only the feet themselves, but the legs, as far up as the knees, could be seen, and they formed a most curious sight mixing promiscuously together, as it seemed, while moving forward. the raft thus had the appearance of some great aquatic monster, whose ridged back floated on the surface, while his feet traversed the bottom. the bodies of the indians, of course, were above the current; but being prone, the logs being arranged for that especial purpose, they were effectually concealed from view. in a moment, the raft floated over that portion of the river which had been muddied by the passage of the wagon, and the feet of the indians became invisible. when they had crossed it, they were too far down to be seen, and thus the logs went onward, moving so much faster than the current that they left a wake behind them. "all together now--once more!" said the older smith, catching hold of one of the wheels. the others did the same, and the oxen having had sufficient rest the combined strength of all started the wagon, and a few moments later it went up the bank on dry land and entered the woods. with a want of foresight that was unaccountable, the settlers had failed to pay any further attention to the raft after it was fairly below them. perhaps it was the recollection of this that led the elder smith and one of his friends to walk down to the bank and look for it. they descried it, lying against their own side of the creek, not more than two hundred yards distant, and, at the very moment their eyes rested upon it, they caught a shadowy glimpse of an indian, as he flitted noiselessly from it into the wood. as they waited and saw no more, they rightly judged that he was the last one, the others having landed entirely unobserved. "that looks bad," said smith, "we are not done with the rascals yet." at this moment son jim, who was still on the other side of the creek, called out that eight indians had landed, and were stealing up the river bank to attack the party. his words were heard, and every man dropped on his face in the wood, and with loaded rifles waited the assault. they had scarcely done so when the sharp explosion of several guns broke the stillness, and the two foremost oxen, with a wild bellow of agony, sunk to the ground and died. the brutes behind them imitated their motion, although operated upon solely by their own sense of weariness. they thus unconsciously did the wisest thing possible under the circumstances, as the shots that were afterward fired passed harmlessly over them. for the space of twenty minutes after this incident, a perfect silence reigned in the wood. these twenty minutes were occupied by the shawnees in getting in a position to pick off the settlers. the latter could see them dodging from tree to tree, and coming closer and closer every moment. emboldened by their immunity thus far, they became more incautious, until several exposed themselves so plainly that the elder smith and one of the settlers fired precisely at the same moment, each one shooting a savage dead. a whole volley was returned, several bullets cutting the shrubbery and bushes over the heads of the settlers, while others passed through the wagon-covering, evidently fired with intent against the women and children in it. these shots accomplished nothing, as the latter kept their heads below the top of the heavy oaken sides, which were proof against the best rifle ever discharged. the two shots of the settlers for a time created a sort of panic with the indians. they retreated far more rapidly than they had come up, and in a few moments were invisible. the whites were too well versed in indian ways and strategy to take this as a genuine retreat, knowing that in a few moments they would return more furious than ever. there was an advantage in favor of the settlers of which, up to this moment, they had not been aware. some fifty yards below them was an open space over forty feet in width, across which the shawnees hurried pell mell into the cover beyond. here they were reinforced by some half-dozen indians of their own tribe, who had been in the vicinity and had been attracted by the sound of firing. the assailants now numbered about a dozen, and confident in their strength, made ready for the final attack. all this time young smith, upon the opposite side of the creek, was engaged in watching the shawnees as well as he could from his covert. he now called out to the whites that they were about to advance again, and that he would pick off one at least as they passed across the open space referred to. a moment later, the crack of his rifle showed that he had kept his word and that the crisis of the contest was upon them. young smith had fired just at the moment the foremost indian came in view. the other had advanced to a point about half way across the opening, when five spouts of flame burst from the thick shrubbery upon the opposite side of the creek; there was the simultaneous report of as many rifles, and five messengers of death went tearing among the shawnees, mangling, killing and scattering them like chaff in the whirlwind. "_the riflemen of the miami!_" shouted laughlin, in a delirium of joy, springing to his feet and swinging his cap over his head. all eyes, in a transport of pleasure, were turned toward the spot where the thin, blueish smoke of their rifles was rising, but for a few moments nothing was seen. at the expiration of that time, the manly form of lewis dernor rose to view, and, with a nod of recognition, he stepped into the stream and commenced wading across, closely followed by young smith, who, up to the moment of the discharge of the rifles, had no more suspicion the hunters were in the vicinity than had the shawnees themselves. it scarcely need be said that the welcome which the settlers extended to the hunter was of the most hearty and genuine kind. through his instrumentality they felt they all had been saved from massacre at the hands of the shawnees. "but where are your men?" asked several. "upon the opposite side. they will cross over shortly." "and will they accompany us?" "they will not leave you until you have reached your destination." "the indians will not trouble us again?" "no, i think not; but the boys can go with you as well as not, and i make this arrangement as a sort of compensation for my failure to keep my appointment." "your absence did excite much wonder, but you came up in the nick of time, most certainly." "sego, unconsciously, was the cause of our delay. he was absent at the time i reached the miami. we could have come on without him, of course; but, as i was pretty sure a large body of indians were going to attack you, i thought it best not to come until we were all together." the rifleman spoke with such sadness that all noticed it and felt great curiosity to know the cause. there was but one who dared to question him, the elder smith, and he at once called him aside. "what's the matter, lew?" he asked. "i never saw you act so odd. come, out with it." "oh, there's nothing the matter with me," replied dernor, his very manner showing an increase of his embarrassment. "yes, now, i know there is. let's hear it." the bronzed face of the hunter took a deeper hue as he asked: "is she--edith with you?" "of course she is," laughed smith, a dim, vague idea of his meaning beginning to make its way through his brain. "to tell the truth, then, smith, there is one man of ours that i _must_ prevent from seeing her." smith looked up in amazement. lewis proceeded: "the distance from here to the settlement toward which you are journeying is not more than forty miles. let me take edith and make that journey alone. i have traveled the ground often enough, and i will lead her through the woods safely and much sooner than you can perform the same journey. this is the only favor i have ever asked or expect to ask of you. don't refuse it. "why, my heavens! who intended to refuse it? take her? of course you may, provided she is willing, for where could she be safer than in the charge of lew dernor? nowhere, i cac'late." "you please tell her that it is _necessary_, then, will you?" old smith hastened away, and told edith sudbury that her own safety demanded that she should place herself under the care of the hunter, who would conduct her safely to the settlement. she exhibited some natural hesitation at first, but having perfect confidence both in smith, who so long had acted the part of father toward her, and in dernor, who had manifested such interest in her welfare, she made her preparations. smith simply stated to the others that this singular proceeding was imperatively necessary, and requested them not to refer to it in the presence of the other hunters. a few minutes later, the four remaining riflemen stepped into the stream, and commenced wading across. as they did so, edith sudbury and the hunter plunged into the forest, and commenced their eventful journey to the settlement. chapter v. apprehension. they're gone--again the red-men rally with dance and song the woods resound; the hatchet's buried in the valley; no foe profanes our hunting-ground! the green leaves on the blithe boughs quiver, the verdant hills with song-birds ring, while our bark canoes, the river skim, like swallows on the wing.--g. p. morris. as the riflemen reached the spot where the settlers were awaiting them, the preparations for resuming the journey were instantly made. the dead oxen were rolled to one side, and on the hardened ground the wagon was easily dragged by the remaining yoke. the hunters and experienced men of the party were certain that the shawnees had fled, and that, for the present at least, there was no further danger from them; but, in order to quiet the fears of the women, a thorough examination of the surrounding woods was made. this search resulted only in the discovery of the dead bodies of the indians. as the riflemen never scalped a savage, the bodies were left undisturbed. "where the deuce has lew gone to?" demanded o'hara, after several times looking around him. those who were acquainted with the facts of the case looked in each other's face, as if in doubt what to reply. "don't anybody know? eh? say!" he repeated, in an angry voice. "he's taken a near cut to the settlement," replied the elder smith. "_anybody go with him?_" "he took a female, believing that her safety demanded such a course." "lew never had more sense than he needed, and it's all gone now. cutting across through the woods with a gal," repeated o'hara, in a contemptuous tone. "just as though she'd be safer with him than with us. i hope the shawnees will get on his trail and catch both." "what do you want the gal caught for?" demanded harry smith, blustering up. "she'd no business to be such a fool as to go with him." "i never allow any one to say any thing against her," added young smith, growing red in the face. "if you want your head broke, just say so," said o'hara, savagely. "come, come," interrupted the elder smith, "boys should be careful not to get mad. shut up, each of you, or i'll whip both of you." this ended the high words between the two parties, and five minutes later they were conversing together on as friendly and good terms as it can be possible between two mortals. all things being in readiness, the party resumed their journey, using the same caution that had characterized their march previous to the attack of the indians. the riflemen themselves performed the part of scouts, and the progress was uninterrupted by any incident worth mentioning until late in the afternoon. the sky, which had been of a threatening character for several hours, now became overcast, and it was evident that a violent storm was about to break upon them. this being the case, there was nothing to be gained by pressing onward, and the settlers accordingly halted for the night. a sort of barricade was made around the wagon, so that, in case of attack, a good resistance could be made, and the oxen were secured fast to the wagon. stakes were cut and driven into the ground, and a strong piece of canvas, which had been brought for the purpose, stretched across them in such a manner that a comfortable shelter was afforded those whose duty did not compel them to brave the storm. these arrangements were hardly completed, when a dull, roaring sound, like that of the ocean, was heard in the woods. it came rapidly nearer, and in a few moments the swaying trees showed that it was passing onward over the camp. the frightened and bewildered birds circled screaming overhead, the rotten limbs and twigs went flying through the air, and thick darkness gathered at once over the forest. a moment later, several big drops of water pattered through the leaves like so many bullets and immediately the rain came down in torrents. the thunder booming in the distance, then sharply exploding like a piece of ordnance directly overhead, the crack of the solid oak as the thunderbolt tore it to splinters, the incessant streaming of the lightning across the sky, the soughing of the wind--all these made a scene terrifically grand, and would have induced almost any one to have sought the shelter offered him, convinced that the only danger at such a time was from the elements themselves. but with the riflemen the case was far different. they well knew that it was just at such times that the wily indian prowled through the woods in quest of his victims, and that at no other period was his watchfulness so great as at one like the present. thus it was that three of the miami riflemen braved the terrors of the storm on that night, and thus it was that all three were witnesses of the occurrences we are about to narrate. the storm continued without intermission almost the entire night. the only change perceptible was in the thunder and lightning. the flashes of the latter grew less and less, until several minutes frequently elapsed between them; but the rain came down as if the "windows of heaven were opened," and a minute's exposure was sufficient to drench one to the skin, while the wind, soughing through the trees, made the hours as dismal and dreary as it was possible for them to be. the three riflemen who stood as sentinels, were dick, george dernor and o'hara. no changes were made during the night, as the men would have looked upon such a proceeding as childish and foolish. o'hara was leaning against a tree, some ten or fifteen yards from the camp, watching that portion of the wood which immediately surrounded him, as well as the occasional gleams of lightning would permit. while doing this, his gaze fell upon a stump, about twenty feet distant. as the lightning flamed out, he saw distinctly a bareheaded man seated upon it! at first sight of this singular apparition, o'hara started, rubbed his eyes, fixed his gaze upon the spot, believing that he had been deceived. a moment later, as another flash illuminated the wood, he saw the man again. he was seated on the edge of the stump, his feet and arms hanging down, and, as stated before, without any covering for his head. the latter was bullet-shaped, and the view which was afforded of him was so perfect, that the hunter saw he had short, curly hair, of a reddish color. his eyes were small, but sparkling like an indian's, and, when they could be seen, were fixed with frightful intensity upon the rifleman. the whole expression of his face was forbidding and repulsive. at the first distinct view of this man, came the conviction to o'hara that he had seen him before, and he spent a few minutes in endeavoring to remember where and when it was. he was unable to do so, however, although he was positive that he was an enemy to him. "i don't care who he is," muttered o'hara; "he ought to know better than to squat out there when he knows i have seen him. i say, old chap," he called, in a louder tone, "come down off that stump, or i'll fetch you." whoever the person addressed might be, it was evident he cared nothing for the command of the hunter, for the latter, the next moment, saw him, not only seated as immobile as ever, but with a sneer of contempt upon his face. this so exasperated o'hara that he instantly called out: "i'll give you two seconds to get off of that, and if you don't do it in that time, i'll tumble you off." he brought his rifle to his shoulder, so as to be ready to fire if the man remained. he held it thus full a minute, at the end of which he discerned the foolhardy being who had not changed his position in the least. hesitating no longer, he pointed his piece directly at his heart, and discharged it. "it's your own fault," mused the hunter. "i gave you fair warning and plenty time to get out the way, and in such places as we're in just now, we can't afford to stand on ceremony. you must be careful----" again the red lightning flamed out, and revealed the man, seated as before, the sneer on his face having increased, and his eyes flaming with more dreadful intensity than ever! "man or spirit," said o'hara, now thoroughly startled, "i'll give you another shot at any rate." he reloaded, and, awaiting his opportunity, fired again full at the man's breast. o'hara's hair nearly lifted the cap from his head, when he saw his foe sitting unharmed, and as scornful as though no bullet could wound him. the bravest man has his weakness, and the greatest weakness of such characters as the man we are dealing with is their superstition. o'hara verily believed the man at whom he had fired possessed more than mortal attributes, and, far more frightened than he would have been had a score of shawnees sounded their war-whoop in his ears, he made a low whistle as a signal for dick and dernor to come up. in a moment they were beside him, curious to know the cause of his firing. the next flash of lightning showed three hunters intently staring toward a man who was sitting composedly on a stump, and staring back at them with equal intensity. "you all seen him, didn't you?" asked tom, in a whisper. receiving an affirmative answer, he added: "let's all aim square at his breast, and then we'll be sure that one of us at least will hit him. if that doesn't finish him, there's no use of trying." for the third time, the mysterious being braved the deadly bullets, this time from three separate rifles, and for the third time he was seen sitting, unharmed and contemptuous, upon the stump. "it's all a waste of powder," said o'hara. "we might pour a broadside from a brigade into him without making him wink." "let's go up and take him," said dick. "he'll take _us_," said o'hara, who was not ashamed of his fright in such a case as this. "fudge! don't be frightened; come along. i'll lead." thus strengthened, o'hara moved on behind the two others. most assuredly the mysterious personage would have been captured, had not the lightning, which continued to act the part of illuminator, discovered their approach to him. his feet were instantly seen to twinkle in the air, and he whisked off the stump as quick as thought, and disappeared. to make sure, however, the riflemen passed their hands over the stump, but of course found nothing. the booming of the thunder had been so continuous, that the reports of the rifles had not awakened the settlers, and the three hunters conversed together without fear of disturbance. "i don't care what he is," said o'hara, "i'm sure i've seen him before." "just what i am sure of," added dick. "the very second i laid my eyes on him, his face seemed familiar. but it must have been several years ago." "it's queer i can't remember," repeated o'hara, as if talking with himself. "i remember having seen him, too, i'll be hanged if i don't," added george dernor, with a dogged decision. o'hara made a leap fully six feet from the ground, and uttered a half-whistle, indicative of some great discovery. "what's up? what's the matter?" asked dick, considerably surprised. "just one of you break my head, will you, for i'm the greatest fool that ever lived. i remember now who that man is." "who?" o'hara repeated a name that fairly took the breath away from the others. they had let one of the most inhuman villains of the day escape, and one for whose life either of the riflemen would have undergone any sacrifice. the mention of his name, too, revealed to them the reason why he had been unharmed by their shots. "we fired at his _breast_ every time," said o'hara. "if we had only fired at some other part of his body, he would have been riddled. what a precious set of fools we are!" as no one disputed this exclamation, it may be supposed that all agreed to it. at any rate, their vexation was extreme for having failed to remember the man who, at that particular time, was probably more notorious than any other living being in the west. "what's done can't be helped," remarked dick. "if we ever have the chance to draw bead on him again, we'll _know where to aim_." nothing further was seen of the man who had braved their utmost through the night. he had taken his departure, and was fated to play an important _rôle_ with a couple of our other friends. the storm abated toward morning, and the settlers were once more under way. their destination, a small frontier settlement, was reached late in the day, without any further incident, and their dangers for the present were ended. to the unbounded surprise of all, they learned that lewis dernor and edith had not arrived, and there had been nothing heard of them. this caused the most painful apprehension with all, for they knew well enough that they would have been in several hours ahead of them, had not something unusual prevented. they could imagine but one cause--indians! the settlers commenced their labors at once. trees were felled, and the foundations of strong, substantial cabins laid, ground was cleared and prepared to receive the seed, while the garrison of the block-house was strengthened, and the condition of the settlement improved by every means at their command. lewis had left a request with the emigrants, upon taking edith from them, that the riflemen should await his return at this settlement, and they accordingly remained. two days passed without his coming in, when the anxiety of edith's friends became so great, that it was determined to form a party to go in quest of her; but, upon mentioning the resolve to o'hara, he strenuously opposed it, affirming that a large party could accomplish nothing at all, save to get themselves in trouble. in this opinion he was joined by several of the more experienced, and as a consequence, the scheme was abandoned. o'hara then expressed the intention of taking a companion and going in search of them himself. the companion he chose was dick allmat. sego took an active interest in these proceedings, but as yet had not heard the name of edith sudbury mentioned. indeed, none knew that name except her immediate friends, who heeded the request which lewis had made, that it should be kept a secret. thus it happened that he entertained not the slightest suspicion of the true state of the case. had he known it, nothing could have hindered him from hurrying forth at once to the rescue. o'hara and dick left the settlement one day about noon, and struck off in the woods toward the creek where the affray with the shawnees had occurred. it was their design to take the trail, if possible, and follow it up until they discovered a clue to the unaccountable state of affairs. on reaching the creek, however, they were chagrined to find their fears realized. the storm which we have mentioned as succeeding the departure of lewis and edith, had completely obliterated all traces of their footsteps, and the riflemen were left with no dependence except their wood-craft. this, in the end, answered their purpose. examining the woods with the eye of a true hunter, o'hara satisfied himself of the course his leader would take, and this he pursued with the dogged persistency of the indian himself. he was confident that the trail which he and the girl had made subsequent to the storm could be followed without difficulty, if he could only strike it. but just here lay the trouble. "it looks likely," said o'hara, as he and dick stood deliberating upon the proper course to pursue, "that he would take the nearest cut to the settlement, and then again it doesn't look so likely. lew is such a fool, there's no telling what he'd do." "why do you think he wouldn't take the shortest way home?" "'cause he wouldn't, that's why. you see, dick," added tom, in a more pleasant voice, "shawnees are in the woods, and it's no ways unpossible that they haven't learned that them two fools are tramping through the country. if they do it, why it looks nateral that they'd s'pose they'd try to reach home just as soon as they could, and would try to head 'em off. now, if the red-skins know this, lew knows also that they know it, and i hope, for our own credit, he's got too much sense to walk into any of their traps. that's the reason why i think he may have took a longer way home." "just exactly what he has done," said dick in a glow of admiration. "how do you know it is, eh?" "i mean i think so, of course." "well, say what you mean, next time. and that is what makes all the difficulty. how are we to know where to look for his trail?" "it's pretty certain we won't find it by standing here all day." "you go west and i will follow the creek, and when you stumble on any thing worth looking at, just give the whistle." the two did as proposed. dick ranged backward and forward until nightfall, while o'hara examined the banks of the creek, until the gathering darkness made it a hopeless task. upon coming together, they had nothing favorable to report, and thus ended the first day's search. "you know what i'm certain of?" asked o'hara, as they were ready to resume the hunt upon the next morning. "no, of course not." "i'm sure that that red-headed villain that we fired at on the stump is mixed up in this affair." dick opened his eyes at this startling thought, and replied, in a few moments: "i shouldn't wonder at all if he really was. hang him! it's just the business that suits him. but lew ought to know enough for him." "every man is a fool when he is in love," said o'hara, contemptuously, "and that's the reason why i'm pretty certain both of 'em are in trouble. if he wasn't in love with the gal, he might know what to do; but--oh! heavens," he added, unable to find words to express his disgust at his leader betraying such a weakness. "i s'pose we'll hunt as we did yesterday?" "of course. let's go at it at once." o'hara returned to the creek and resumed his search along the banks, while dick took to the woods as before. a half-hour later, a whistle from the former called him to the stream, where he found his friend bending over some "sign" that he had discovered in the soft earth of the shore. "it's his," said o'hara, "as sure as you live. they spent the night on the other side of the creek, and he has carried her across the next morning, and taken to the woods at this point." "we can easily tell the direction he has taken, then." "not so easy, either; for don't you see he has gone _up_ the creek, which ain't toward home. i tell you what it is, lew has smelled danger, and if the red-skins have catched him, there's been some splendid fun afore they done it. lew ain't such a fool, after all." "do you think," asked dick, in a low tone, for he entertained a strong affection for his leader, "do you think it is _certain_ lew has been catched?" "no sir," replied o'hara, in tones so loud that they woke an echo through the woods. "it ain't certain by no means. he may have thought it best to make a long circle before reaching home, and like enough he is in the settlement this minute, or very near there. but i guess not," he added, after a minute's pause, and in a different voice. "things look dubious, and we may have a big job before us." "let's go to work at once." "the first sensible words you've spoken this morning, when it seems we're both doing more talking than is necessary. come on." the trail was followed with the greatest difficulty, for the time which had elapsed since it was made was almost sufficient to obliterate it entirely. now and then, where the ground was more favorable, it was easily discernible. after progressing a mile or so, o'hara exclaimed, with an air of perplexity: "there is something here that i don't understand. i've seen only _the track of one person up to this time_." "she isn't with him, then?" "yes, but he _appears to be carrying her_; and what that means is more than i can tell. it can't be she's hurt." "maybe, tom, we ain't on the track of lew," said dick, with a hopeful gleam. "yes, we are. i could tell his track among a thousand. the mistake isn't _there_. all we've got to do is to follow it." the pursuit was renewed and kept up until the bank of a smaller stream was reached, where the trail was irrecoverably lost. after leading into the water, it failed to come out upon the opposite side, and the utmost skill of the hunters was unable to regain it. the entire day was consumed by them in the search, when it was given up as hopeless. it would have been hard to tell which feeling predominated in the breasts of the two riflemen--an apprehensive anxiety for the fate of their leader, or a gratifying pride at this evidence which he had given of his consummate knowledge of woodcraft. these two hunters continued their hunt for two days more, when they returned to the settlement and reported their failure to gain any definite knowledge of dernor and edith. neither had the settlers gained any tidings of them. where were they? chapter vi. a hunter's wooing. and we knew that this rare sternness had its softness too, that woman's charm and grace upon his being wrought; that underneath the armor of his breast were springs of tenderness, all quick to flow in sympathy with childhood's joy or woe; that children climbed his knees, and made his arms their rest. london charivari. it was with a heart beating with more than one excessive emotion, that lewis dernor, the rifleman, plunged into the forest with edith sudbury. none knew better than he the perils that threatened them in those dim labyrinths, and none was better prepared to encounter them. were they twice as many, he would rather have braved them than allowed edith and sego to meet before he had declared his love to her. in taking this step, the rifleman had more than one twinge of conscience, for he could but consider it of questionable propriety in acting his part. beyond a doubt, sego and edith were accepted lovers, who had been separated for months, and it seemed cruel, to say the least, thus to take advantage of their separation. the more he reflected upon it, the more guilty did he feel, until he formed the resolution to acquaint his fair charge with the presence of her lover with the settlers, and then leave her own heart to decide the matter. the instant this resolve was formed, the honest-hearted hunter felt better. what though the judgment should be against him, he had done his duty, and this very fact gave him a pleasure which nothing else could destroy. his great, all-absorbing love for edith had led him to use the artifice mentioned, in order to defer the interview between her and sego; but, great as was this master-passion, it could lead him no further in deception than it had already done. more than once he half determined to turn and make his way back to the settlement, and was only prevented by a dread of the speculation and remarks that such a proceeding would occasion upon their part. it must not be supposed that lewis doubted his ability to reach the settlement in safety, with edith. had he known what danger he was doomed to encounter, he would have retraced his steps instantly, although he had commenced them with such a strong determination to keep her and sego separate for a time. for an hour or so the journey progressed in silence upon the part of the hunter and his charge. while, as might be expected, his passion often led his gaze from the path he was pursuing, still it made him doubly alive to the responsibilities resting upon him, and increased his vigilance and watchfulness to a degree that would have appeared absurd to an ordinary observer. most of the time, he kept a step or two in advance of edith, trailing his rifle in his left hand, while his form was half bent, and his head projected forward, giving him the attitude of constant and intense attention. his eyes were flitting constantly from tree-top to ground, from side to side, ahead and behind him, kindling with admiration and fire as they rested upon the form of his companion. the latter was enveloped in a large shawl, a portion of which covered her head, while her arms gathered the rest around her person. her face was inclined, so that she was not sensible of the many ardent glances to which she was subjected. she stepped lightly forward, her beautifully moccasined feet hardly disturbing the leaves, among which they twinkled like some forest-flower. lewis had proposed to himself, when starting, to take the nearest route to the settlement; but his apprehension for the safety of edith led him to change his intention after going a few miles. the indians which he had assisted so signally to repulse, he believed would hover around the settlers so long as there remained an opportunity to pick off any of them. they would not fail, too, to scour the woods in search of smaller parties, and knowing the destination of the emigrants, would select the very ground over which they too were journeying. the rifleman took the best course to avoid them. retracing his steps some distance, he turned off toward the creek, he having concluded to ascend this for several miles, and then take a circuitous route to the settlement, convinced that, in this case, the longest way was the surest. "why this change of direction?" asked edith, looking up in alarm, as he turned and commenced retracing his steps. "i think it best," he replied, with a smile. "have you discovered danger? are we pursued?" "not that i know of. but i have been thinking for some time that if there _are_ any injins in this wood, this is the very ground they will select to cut us off, because they know that it is the one which we would naturally take, in making such a journey as this." "_i have full faith in you._" and the gallant rifleman felt he would die before any act of his should cause her to lose this faith in him. as she turned her trusting blue eyes up to his, their heavenly light seemed to fill his whole being, and he scarcely was conscious of what he did when he reached out his hand, and said: "edith, let me take your hand." "why, what need is there of that?" she coyly asked, with a roguish look, as she half complied and half hesitated. "i shall feel safer--that is, i shall feel more certain of your safety if i lead you." "oh! well, you may lead me then," and she slid her almost fairy hand into his hard, horny palm, with a charming simplicity, which made the hunter's heart leap with a painful pleasure. that little, white member, as the rifleman grasped it, was like the poles of a battery. it sent a shock through every part of his system, and gave his arm precisely the same tremor that takes place when a person is charged through this limb with electricity. if edith had only returned the pressure, lewis dernor most assuredly would never have been able to stand it, and, therefore, it was fortunate that she did not. it was this pressure, and the looks accompanying it, that made edith sudbury conscious that the hunter loved her. she would have been an exception to her sex had she not suspected this before. the thousand and one acts, and little, airy nothings, had given her a suspicion of the truth long since, but she had never felt certain of it. this knowledge, which must ever be pleasant and flattering to the maiden, caused no unpleasant feelings on her part. if she did not love him, she certainly respected and admired his noble qualities, and the difference between the emotions named and love itself is certainly too faint for recognition. under almost any circumstances they will grow into the passion, and all be lost in blending. respect is the scout and guide that leads love to the soul. the tell-tale blush stole on edith's face, as a realizing sense of her situation came upon her, and, for a long time, she dared not look up, much less speak. suddenly the rifleman made a spring in the air, and drew a deep breath, as though seized with a mortal pain. "what's the matter?" asked edith, in a tremor of apprehension. "oh! it nearly killed me!" replied the hunter, in a faint voice. "what? do tell me. are you hurt? what caused it?" "why, edith, _didn't you squeeze my hand_?" "if i did, it was _certainly unintentional_." "never mind. i thought it was on purpose." the merry, musical laugh of the maiden rung out through the forest-arches, and the rifleman, for the time, lost all thoughts of indians and danger; but this delightful forgetfulness could not last long. as the faint rumble of thunder was heard in the distance, he started, as though awakened from a dream, and looked furtively around him, half expecting to see his dread foes start from behind the trees, and rush upon him. "are you frightened?" asked edith. "only for you," he replied, with a natural gallantry. "and why are you alarmed on my account? what has occurred that makes you walk faster, and look so constantly about you?" "edith," said the hunter, in a low voice of passionate tenderness, "you have lived on the frontier long enough to be familiar with its dangers. when i first saw you, it was in an awful situation for a gal like yourself, but you bore it like a man. i 'spose, therefore, that there's no use in keeping any thing back from you." "of course not. what good could that possibly do?" "well, then, it's my opinion that _some one is following us_." "what makes you think so?" asked edith, in genuine alarm; for there is something startling in the sudden knowledge that a foe is pursuing us, when there is no shelter at hand which can secure us against him. "i can not give you the reason that makes me positive a foe is behind us; but i am so certain of it, that we must hurry forward and take measures to hide our trail." "why not rejoin our friends?" "i do not think it can be done, as there are plenty injin between us, and we could not avoid them." "do what you think best, for surely none can know better than you." "come on, then." they ascended the creek until the darkening sky, booming thunder, and constant flashing of lightning warned them that the storm was at hand. the hunter then stooped, and, lifting his companion in his arms with the same ease that he would have picked up an infant, stepped into the stream, and waded nearly across, going several hundred yards further up before stepping upon the land. by this time, the swaying of the trees, and the pattering of several large drops of water, told them that they had but a few minutes to spare. the hunter was perfectly acquainted with this section, and made all haste toward a spot which, more than once, had served him as a shelter in such storms as this. it consisted of a number of fallen trees, evidently torn up by some tornado, whose branches were so interlocked and matted that a slight effort of the hand of man had turned into a comfortable security as one need wish who was storm-stayed in the forest. as this was reached, the storm burst upon them in all its grand fury, but their refuge answered every purpose, and not a thread of edith's clothes was wetted. darkness came on prematurely, and, as the reader already knows, the storm continued nearly through the entire night. fully, and almost morbidly alive to the danger that ever menaced them, lewis kept his station at the mouth or entrance of their shelter until daylight, not willing that for a moment a free entrance to any foe should be offered. when morning dawned, it was clear and beautiful, and the two set out immediately upon their journey. as they had partaken of no food for a considerable time, the rifleman was on the alert to procure some. the forests of kentucky and ohio, at that day, literally swarmed with game, and, in less than a half-hour from starting, he had brought down a wild turkey, which was dressed and cooked with admirable skill, and which afforded them a nourishing and substantial meal. lewis was fearful that the late storm would cause such a rise in the creek that he would be unable to cross if he waited any longer, and he, therefore, attempted it at once. he found it muddy and rapidly rising, but he carried edith over without difficulty, and then resumed his journey, taking such a direction that he could only reach the settlement by a wide _détour_ from directness. "at any rate," said dernor, "if any one attempted to follow us yesterday, he is thrown off the track, and has got to commence again." "should they accidentally come across our trail, it would be easy enough for them to follow it, would it not?" "yes, any one could do that, but you see we're so far up the stream that there is little likelihood of that." "i _do_ hope the indians will not trouble us more," said edith, in a low, earnest voice. "and so do i," said the rifleman, in a lower and more earnest voice, and venturing at the same time to press the hand that he held within his own. there certainly was something in the situation of these two calculated to inspire mutual trust. edith felt that, under the merciful being who was ever watching her, there was no stronger or more faithful arm upon which she could rely than the one beside her--that there was no heart truer, and no devotion more trustworthy. under these circumstances, her words were quite unembarrassed and familiar. "suppose we _are_ overtaken?" she asked, looking up in his face. "_you_ will never be captured while _i_ have strength to defend you," was the fervent reply. "you are too kind and noble." this time edith impulsively pressed his hand, and, to his dying day, lewis dernor affirmed that this was one of the happiest moments of his life. deeply learned as he was in wood-lore, he was a perfect novice in the subtle mysteries of the tender passion, and the cause of his ecstasy on this occasion was the sudden certainty that his love was returned. had he been less a novice in such matters, he would have reflected that this slight evidence of regard most probably was but a mere momentary emotion which any man in his situation might have inspired. but, "where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise;" and the happy hunter was all unconscious of this disagreeable possibility. he felt an unutterable desire to say something--something grand and terrible--which would give edith a faint idea of the strength of the passion burning in his breast. inability to say this something kept him silent for a long period. several times, indeed, he was on the point of speaking, but the words that came to him were too commonplace and weak to express his tumultuous thoughts. just as he was on the point of deciding upon something, it came to him with startling suddenness that he was too careless with his charge. for the last hour he had hardly been conscious that he was traveling in the woods, much less that in these same woods lurked the deadly indian, whose thoughts were constantly bent upon murder and outrage. "edith," said he, "i would do any thing if it would only place us where we could talk without fear of being disturbed. but it can't be done here. there's injins in these woods, and i'd never forgive myself if i should forget it agin, and i've already done so several times. just stop a minute." he took her hand, and the two bent forward in the attitude of intense listening; and listening thus, they heard faintly in the distance the report of a rifle. it was several miles away, and evidently fired by some wandering indian or hunter. its only effect upon our friends was that peculiar one of making them more fully sensible that there were other beings in the woods besides themselves. "it means nothing," said dernor. "let's go on, but more careful than before." "do you think there is any one following us?" asked edith, for this constant renewal of her apprehension made her nervous and unnaturally suspicious. "i have no reason to think so, and i haven't any suspicion that there is. so i guess there's no need of being scared." "i can not help feeling frightened," said edith, clinging closer to him. "i do wish we were at the settlement. how much longer will it take us to reach it?" "to-morrow, at the very furthest, i hope we shall be there, and perhaps to-night, if we keep up a brisk walk." "i see no reason why we should not hurry." "nor i, either," laughed dernor. "so come on." he struck up a brisk walk as he spoke, and continued it for some twenty minutes, when a small creek was reached, the one where o'hara and allmat lost the trail. before wading it, the rifleman paused on its banks as if in deep thought. this was so marked that edith questioned him. "i'm thinking whether it wouldn't be best to put this brook to the same use that i did last summer. a half-dozen miamis got rather closer to me than was pleasant, when i jumped in here and threw them off the scent." "how?" "i will show you." he picked her up as he spoke, and stepped carefully into the water. the center of the stream was sufficiently deep to hide his trail, even had the bottom been less favorable than it was. but this was hard, gravelly and pebbly, and he walked close to the edge without fear of betraying himself. having gone a considerable distance, he approached the bank, and made a leap which carried him several feet upon it. he alighted upon the face of a large, firmly-fixed stone, where, poising himself for a moment, he sprung to another; and then, making a fourth leap, came down upon the ground. by this artifice he avoided leaving any visible trail until so far from the creek that almost any pursuer would fail to discover it. this explains why his two pursuers did fail in pursuing him. "we're safe again for a while," said the rifleman. "any one who comes upon our track must do it between us and the creek." "i feel greatly relieved," said edith. "and much more comfortable, i suppose?" "why, of course," she replied, half laughing, as she turned her gleaming, radiant face up to his. the rifleman hardly knew what he did. a mist seemed to come before his eyes, and he felt as though floating in space, as, acting under an electrifying impulse, he stooped and kissed the warm lips of his fair companion. this transport of bliss was changed to the most utter misery when she answered, with every appearance of anger: "you ought to be ashamed of yourself to take advantage of my helplessness." "are you offended?" he asked, his very voice showing his wretchedness of feeling. edith looked up with flashing eyes, crimsoned face, and silent voice, as if she would annihilate him by her very look. gradually a change, like the sunlight breaking through the storm-clouds, overspread her features. the light of her eyes grew softer, and the expression of her face more merciful, until, as the hunter had paused and scarcely breathed for her reply, she said, with one of her most enchanting smiles: "i am not offended. you may kiss me again if you wish to do so." "if i wish to," said the rifleman, drawing her to him. "if i wish to----" here his words became unintelligible. he continued kissing her until she checked him. "sh!" the crackling of some bushes a few yards away showed that they were no longer alone. the whole aspect of the rifleman changed. the lover became the ranger instantly. cocking his rifle, he placed himself in front of edith so as to confront this unexpected danger. chapter vii. the countryman. nature hath framed strange fellows in her time. shakspeare. the crackling of the bushes continued, while the rifleman compressed his lips and stood like a tiger at bay. in a moment he saw a man making his way through the tangled shrubbery, and almost immediately he lowered his rifle with an expression of disappointment. the individual before him was so different from what he expected, that a fuller notice of him is necessary, especially as he now takes his place as one of the _dramatis personæ_ of this tale. he appeared to be an awkward countryman, cowardly, ignorant of wood-craft, and completely bewildered by the dangers that beset him. his dress was half-savage and half-civilized, torn and disfigured, as if he had been running at the top of his speed through a thicket of briers and brambles. the only weapon he carried was a large knife firmly grasped in his hand. his face was blank and expressionless, save that it bore the impress of great animal fear, now mingled with surprise at confronting our two friends so unexpectedly. his head was round, bullet-like, with sandy hair, while the face seemed stained and begrimed with dirt and perspiration. he stood a moment with both hands stretched stiffly downward, his mouth wide open, apparently unable to find words to express his astonishment. "well, young man, good-day to you," said dernor, advancing toward him. "good-day--good-day; fine weather for corn," he repeated, as if anxious to gain the good opinion of the hunter. "how came you in these parts, my friend?" "heaven save you, i _run_ here. the injins have been after me." "they didn't catch you?" "no, sir," replied the young man, bursting into a loud guffaw. "i run too fast." "what might be your name?" "zeke hunt, but i'm derned 'fraid it won't be any name at all if i stay in these parts much longer. oh, dear," whined the young man, "i wish i was back in pennsylvany, on the farm." "what made you leave it?" "the old man whipped me, and i run away." "why don't you go back?" "i'd rather meet all the painted injins in the woods than him. he'd whip me all through the town." "no doubt you deserve it." "boo-hoo! you ain't going to lick me too, are you?" plead the man, gouging one eye with his finger. "no, no; don't make a fool of yourself. what would i wish to hurt you for?" "i don't know, i'm sure. i'm 'fraid of everybody." "see here, zeke, was there any injins chasing you, just now?" "yes--no. i've been clear of them a long time, i run so fast; but i'm just as afeard, as i s'pose the injins are all over the woods." "not so bad as that, though we'd be willing to get along if there was a few less." "yes, that's so. got any thing to eat?" "no, but we'll soon have something." "can i go 'long with you?" asked the frightened fellow. "if you wish to, provided you do what i want you to." "oh, i'll do any thing for you. who's that with you?" he questioned, peering around the hunter, who, although he had advanced a few steps, still stood in front of edith. "a young friend, miss edith sudbury." "glad to see you," said the young man, with an awkward bow. "but see here," pursued the rifleman, "how comes it you are in these woods at all? you didn't come all the way from pennsylvany alone?" "oh, no--oh, no. i came down the ohio in a flat-boat." "how is it that you are here, then?" "the other day we stopped along the shore a while, and i went off in the woods, and got lost. when i found my way back, the flat-boat had gone, and i was left alone. i've been wandering around ever since, and am nearly starved to death. be you two hunting?" "no, we are making our way to a settlement some miles off. do you wish to go with us?" "yes, anywhere to get out of these derned woods. gracious! what a big job it'll be to cut all these trees down," said young hunt, looking above and around him, as though absorbed with this new idea. "a big job, certainly; but there'll be a big lot to do it when the time comes. there don't appear to be any reason why we should wait, and so we'll move ahead." "which way are you going?" "right ahead." "over the same ground that i come over?" "i s'pose so." "oh, heavens! you are lost if you do. don't do that." "what's the matter? any danger?" "the woods are chuck full of injins, i tell you. there must have somebody passed that way and they looking for them, there are so many." dernor turned and spoke to edith: "no doubt he is right. it is but what i suspected. what shall i do? take a longer way home, and a safer one, or the short route?" "take the _safest_, whichever that may be." "that is the longest. come on, friend." "i'm follerin'," replied that worthy, striding after him. it was considerably past the hour of noon, and the brisk walk through the woods had given the rifleman an appetite something akin to that of his new-found companion, so that he did not forget the expressed wish of the latter. he had no difficulty in bringing down another turkey and cooking it. there was one peculiarity which did not escape either dernor or edith. on the part of the latter it occasioned no concern, but it was the subject of considerable wonder and speculation with the former. zeke hunt, as he called himself, professed to be ravenously hungry; but when the tempting, juicy meat of the turkey was placed before him, he swallowed but a few mouthfuls. this was a small matter, it was true, and with any one except the rifleman, would have escaped notice but this sagacious hunter considered it of so much importance as to ask an explanation. "you appeared to be dying with hunger, and now, when food is offered, you hardly touch it. what is the meaning of that?" "i don't know," said zeke, wiping his fingers on the hair of his head. "yes, you do know. tell me the meaning of it." "s'pose i ain't hungry." "isn't the bird cooked well enough?" "wouldn't hurt if 'twas cooked better." the rifleman at first was disposed to resent this insult, but, on second thought, he set the man down as a fool, and one unworthy of notice. there is no disguising the fact that his action had given the hunter an unpleasant suspicion, which, however, was dissipated by the perfect coolness with which he met his inquiry. "i guess yer ain't used to cookin', be you?" he asked, perfectly unabashed by the frigid manner of the hunter. "i've done considerable, sir, in the last few years." "don't say so. shouldn't have thought it, from the way that thing looks." "what is the matter with this cooking, i should like to know; eh?" "oh, nothin', as i knows on. the gal appears to like it well enough." "indeed i do," said edith, unable to restrain a laugh at the manner of their new companion, who, seeing it, rolled his head back and gave an answering "horse-laugh" that could have been heard a half-mile distant. "don't let me hear that agin," said the rifleman, rising to his feet. "why don't you want to hear it?" asked zeke, in blank astonishment. "it's no wonder the flat-boat left you, if you were in the habit of making such noises as that. it's enough to wake every sleeping injin in these woods." "it'll scare 'em, i guess, won't it?" "i should think it would, so don't try it agin." "done eatin'?" "yes, of course." "thought it was about time." "we will not reach home to-night," said the rifleman, speaking to edith. "i'm sorry, for they'll be worried about us." "i am sorry, too, for i dislike to remain in the woods so long." "this fellow will be of little use to us, as he doesn't appear to know any thing. i can't understand how he has come this far. he's been lucky, i s'pose, but whether we're going to be, with him along, is more than i can tell." "of course you won't turn him off. it would be cruel," said edith, sincerely commiserating the helpless situation of the young man. "as long as he behaves himself, and it doesn't make it any more dangerous for you, he can stay with us; but he mustn't open that big mouth of his as wide as he did just now." "hello! how long afore you're goin' to start?" called out zeke, as our two friends stood talking together. "follow behind us, and make no noise, if you want to save your top-knot." "hope there ain't no danger of that happening, after i've come as far as this all right." the three moved forward once again, the movements of the rifleman characterized by his usual caution, while zeke hunt straddled along at a most awkward gait, kicking up the leaves, and breaking and bending the undergrowth in such a manner as to make the care of the hunter entirely useless. in this manner they traveled until nightfall, when they reached the banks of a small brook, beside which it was decided to encamp for the night. during the latter part of the day it had been steadily growing colder, so that, after some deliberation, dernor concluded to start a fire. "you don't s'pose the injins will see it, do you?" asked hunt. "i'm sure i can't tell. why do you ask?" "'cause, if _they_ are goin' to see it, i want to get out the way. i don't s'pose you've traveled the woods much, have you?" "probably as much as you have." "you have, eh?" there was something in the tone in which this was uttered that made the hunter turn and look at zeke hunt. as he did so, he saw an expression of his greenish, gray goggle-eyes that made him feel certain, for the minute, that he had seen him before. it may have been a fancy, for the expression was gone instantly, and succeeded by the same blank, half-idiotic look. this was the second time the same unpleasant suspicion had entered the mind of the rifleman, and he was resolved, at the least, to keep an eye upon zeke hunt. while it was not at all impossible that the story he had told was true in every particular, still there was an air of improbability about it, which could not escape the notice of so quick-sighted a man as dernor, and, from this time forward, every action or word of the awkward countryman was watched with a jealous eye. the fire which was kindled was carefully screened, so that it would not be apt to catch the eye of any one in the neighborhood. after some conversation between the hunter and edith, the latter wrapped his blanket over her own, and, thus protected, lay down upon the ground. the weariness and fatigue brought on by the day's travel soon manifested itself in a deep, dreamless, refreshing sleep. "are you going to stay up all night?" asked dernor of the countryman. "i don't know whether i am or not." "ain't you sleepy?" "don't feel much so jest now; s'pose i mought after a while." "you have traveled enough. why don't you feel sleepy?" "haw! haw! haw! what a question. how do i know why i ain't sleepy? you don't appear so yourself." "i ain't, either." "you've done as much tramping as i have." "that may be; but i'm used to it, and you ain't." "don't know 'bout that. used to do good 'eal of it up on the farm. say, you, did you ever hear of the riflemen of the miami?" "yes, very often. they are sometimes seen in these parts." "i'd like to jine them 'ere fellers." "you jine 'em!" repeated dernor, contemptuously. "you'd be a pretty chap to go with them. them chaps, sir, is _hunters_!" he added, in a triumphant tone. "jest what i s'posed, and that's why i wanted to jine 'em." "can you shoot?" "ef you'll lend me your iron there a minute, i'll show you what i can do." "it is dark now. there is no chance to show your skill. wait till morning." "very well, don't forget. i've done some shootin', fur all i ain't used to injins. but, i say, do you know the head feller of them riflemen?" "i'm very well acquainted with him." "what sort of a chap is he?" "good deal such a man as i am." "haw! haw! great man to be the leader. hope you're never taken for him, be you?" "very often--because _i am_ the leader of the riflemen myself." "get out," said the countryman, as if he expected to be bitten. "you can't make me believe that." "it makes no difference to me whether you believe it or not. if you make much more noise, like enough you'll find out who i am." "be you really the leader of the riflemen?" queried zeke hunt, not noticing the warning which had just been uttered. "i've told you once, so let's hear no more about it." "my gracious! you don't look much like one. 'pears to me you and i look a good deal alike. don't you think so?" "heaven save me, _i hope_ not." "oh, i'm willing that it should be so. i ain't offended." the impudence of the countryman was so consummate that dernor could not restrain a laugh at it. "they always considered me good-looking down hum," he added; "and there wasn't a gal i wasn't able to get if i wanted her." "i should think you would be anxious to get back again." "would be, if it wasn't for the old man. he was _awful_ on me. didn't appear to be proud of me at all." "queer, sure. i don't see how he could help it." "me neither. dad was always mad, though, and used to aboose me shameful. the fust thing in my life that i can remember was of gettin' a lickin'." "what was it for?" "nothin' worth tellin'. i was a little feller then, and one day heated the poker red-hot, and run it down grandmother's back. but there! didn't he lam me for that! always was whippin' me. school-teacher was just as bad. licked me like blazes the fust day." "did he lick you for nothin'?" "purty near. didn't do any thing except to put a handful of gunpowder in a dry inkstand, and then touch it off under his chair. haw! haw! haw! didn't he jump? and oh gracious!" he added, in a solemn tone, "didn't i jump, too, when he fell on me." "you seem to have been about the biggest scamp in the country. why did he whip you this last time when you run away?" "hadn't any more reason than he had at other times. i tried to take ann parsons home from singing-school, and she wouldn't let me. that was the reason." "he couldn't have whipped you for that." "well, it all come from that. i followed her home, and jest give her my opinion of her, and when her old man undertook to say any thing, i jest pitched in and walloped him." "you had a sensible father, and it's a pity he hasn't got you now, for i don't care any thing about your company." "you going to turn me off? you said you wouldn't." "and i shan't, i tell you agin, as long as you behave yourself. if you cac'late to go with me to the settlement, you must not have too much to say. remember that we are still in dangerous territory, and a little foolishness by either of us may bring a pack of the red-skins upon us." "just what i thought. i'm sleepy." and without further ceremony, he lolled over on the ground, and in a few minutes, to all appearances, was sound asleep. intently watching his face for a time, the rifleman now and then saw his eyelids partly unclose, as if he wished to ascertain whether any one was scrutinizing him. the somewhat lengthy conversation which we have taken the pains to record, had about disarmed the hunter of the suspicions which had been lingering with him for a long time. he believed zeke hunt an ignorant fellow, who had been left along the ohio river, as he had related, and who had not yet learned that trait of civilized society, carefully to conceal his thoughts and feelings when in conversation. the impression which he first felt, of having met him before, might easily arise from his resemblance to some former acquaintance. still, the rifleman was by no means so forgetful of his charge as to indulge in slumber, when there was the remotest probability of danger threatening her. inured as he was to all manner of hardships and suffering, it was no difficult matter for him to spend several nights in succession without sleep. he therefore watched over her through the second night, never, for a single moment, allowing himself to become unconscious. several times he saw the countryman raise his head and change his position, and when spoken to, heard him mutter something about it being "derned hard to sleep with his head on the soft side of a stone, and one side toasted and the other froze." the hours wore away without any incident worth mentioning, and at the first appearance of day edith was astir and ready to resume the journey. enough of the turkey, slain on the day before, remained to give each a sufficient meal, and with cheerful spirits upon the part of all, the three again took up their march through the wilderness. the route which the information of the countryman led the hunter to adopt was such that he expected to reach the settlement in the course of the afternoon. it will thus be seen that it was a very circuitous one--they, in fact, being already several miles north of their destination. as yet, the eagle eye of the hunter had discovered no danger, and their march was continued without interruption until noon, when they halted for a few minutes' rest. "if you haint no 'bjection, i'll try a shot with your gun," said zeke hunt, "bein' as you thought i couldn't shoot any." "i'd rather not have my rifle fired at present, youngster, as ears that we don't fancy might hear it." "you're only afeard i might beat you, that's all." this remark so nettled the hunter that he resolved to gratify his disagreeable companion. "put up your mark, then," said he, "and as far off as you choose." the countryman walked to a tree somewhat over a hundred yards distant, and with his knife clipped off a small piece of bark, leaving a gleaming spot, an inch or two in diameter. "you fire first," said he, as he came back. the hunter drew up his rifle, and pausing hardly a second to take aim, buried the bullet fairly in the center of the target. "whew! that's derned good; don't believe i can beat it much; but i'll try." the gun was quickly reloaded, and, after taking aim and adjusting it nearly a dozen times, zeke hunt fired, missing the tree altogether. as he ran to ascertain the result of his shot, instead of handing the rifle to dernor, he carried it, apparently without thinking, with him. when he had carefully examined the mark, he proceeded to reload it, before returning. this was so natural an occurrence, that the hunter received his weapon without noticing it. "want to fire again?" asked the countryman. "no, it isn't worth while." "i give in, but think i'll be up to you after a little practice." about half an hour afterward, as they were walking along, dernor, by a mere accident, happened to look at the pan of his rifle and saw that the priming had been removed. a moment's reflection convinced him that this had been done by zeke hunt, not accidentally, but on purpose. the hunter managed to reprime without being noticed, and he made a vow that this apparent lubber should henceforth be watched with a lynx-eye. they had gone scarcely a half-mile further, when the latter came up beside edith, and remarked that he had been taken sick. "don't you feel able to walk?" she asked. "i'm dreadful afeard i shall have to ax you to pause for a while," he said, manifesting that peculiar repugnance to receiving kindness, which, singularly enough is manifested more or less by every person in similar circumstances. "what's the matter?" gruffly asked dernor, who was still meditating upon the incident we have mentioned above. "sick," groaned zeke hunt, apparently in great misery. "what has made you sick?" "i don't know; allers was considered delicate." "how do you feel?" "_jest as though i wanted to whistle!_" was the curious reply and placing his finger in his mouth, the fellow gave a sound that would have done credit to an ordinary locomotive. "if you make that noise again i'll shoot you," said the rifleman, now fairly convinced that mischief was intended. without heeding his threat, the sick man arose to the upright position, and with flashing eyes, repeated the sound. "i gave you warning," said dernor, raising his gun, pointing it at his breast, and pulling the trigger. it missed fire! "i guess you'll have to fix up that load a little," said zeke hunt, "and afore you can do that, you're likely to have visitors." the rifleman clubbed his gun and advanced toward the man. the latter drew his knife, and said: "keep off, lew dernor; don't you know me?" "i've been a fool," said the hunter. "yes, i know you through your disguise, _simon girty_. i see what you have been trying to do, but you will never take one of us alive. i hear the tramp of the coming indians that he has signaled," he added, addressing edith, "and there is not a minute to lose." so saying, he placed his arm around her waist, and started off at a rapid run. chapter viii. the flight. the pass was steep and rugged, the wolves they howled and whined; but he ran like a whirlwind up the pass, and left the wolves behind.--macaulay. moments like these, rend men's lives into immortalities.--byron. for a few minutes, the rifleman ran "like a whirlwind," supporting entirely the weight of edith, for none knew better than he the imminent peril that menaced both. the wood was quite open, so that his way was not much impeded, and he went at a terrific rate, well aware that all depended upon gaining an advantage over the indians at the start. he had gone but a short distance, when he became convinced that his only danger was from falling into the hands of his pursuers, as it was their sole object to make him and edith prisoners; as a consequence, there was no danger from being fired at by them. when he deemed it prudent, he released his hold upon her, and she, half running and being half carried, flew over the ground at a rate as astonishing to herself as it was to her pursuers. the latter kept up a series of yells and outcries, amid which the discordant screeches of zeke hunt, now simon girty, the renegade, could be plainly distinguished. several furtive glances over the shoulder gave him glimpses of some eight or ten savages in pursuit, the renegade being among the foremost. as dernor was thus hurrying forward, he recalled that, less than half a mile distant, the woods were broken and cut up by ravines and hills, as though an earthquake had passed through that section; and, believing that this would afford him a better opportunity of eluding his foes, he turned in that direction and strained every nerve to reach it. as for edith herself, she seemed fired with supernatural strength, and sped with a swiftness of which she never dreamed herself capable. seeing this, the rifleman attempted to draw the charge out of his gun and reload it. it was a work of great difficulty to do this while running, but he succeeded in accomplishing it at last. constantly glancing behind him, in order to see his chance, he suddenly whirled and fired with the rapidity of thought. without pausing to reload, he again placed his arm around edith, and dashed forward almost at the top of his speed. finding that the indians, if gaining at all, were gaining very slowly upon him, he half concluded that it was their intention to run his companion down, well knowing that, although he was fully competent both in speed and in bottom to contest with them, it could not be expected that she could continue the rate at which she was going, for any length of time. "ain't you tired?" he asked, hurriedly. "not much; i can run a great deal further," she replied, in the same hurried manner. "keep your spirits up; we'll soon have different ground to travel over." almost as he spoke, they came to the edge of a sort of ravine, too broad for either to leap, and too precipitous to admit of an immediate descent by either. still retaining his hold upon her, dernor ran rapidly along the edge, until reaching a favorable spot, he lifted her bodily from the ground, and bounded down to a rock over a dozen feet below, and then leaped from this to the bottom of the ravine, edith sustaining no more of a shock than if she had been a feather. being now in the bottom of the ravine, where the ground was comparatively even, the hunter placed the girl once more upon her feet, and side by side they continued their flight from their merciless pursuers. their loud, exultant yells continued reverberating through the woods, and glancing upward, dernor saw the form of a huge indian suddenly come to view, on the edge of the ravine, some distance ahead of him, and make some menacing motion toward him. as the ravine at this point was a sheer precipice, the hunter did not believe he would attempt to descend it, and feeling there was no danger of being fired upon, he kept steadily onward. but he was mistaken. before he was opposite the savage, he came sliding and tumbling down the ravine, as though some one had pushed him from behind. however that may have been, he alighted on his feet without injury, and made directly toward the fugitives, with the manifest intention of checking their flight. lewis dernor saw that a collision with the indian was unavoidable, and without the least hesitation prepared himself for it. the savage was a miami--a brawny, muscular warrior, fully six feet in height, of matchless symmetry and formidable strength. when the combatants were perhaps a dozen yards apart, he raised his tomahawk over his head, and poising it a moment, hurled it, with a most deadly force, full at the head of the hunter. the latter had not expected such a demonstration as this, but had detected it in time to avoid it. he dropped his head the instant the weapon left the savage's hand, and it whizzed over him, going end over end, until it struck the solid rock, where the terrible force of the concussion shivered it to atoms. seeing this, the miami whipped out his knife and stood on the defensive. "now, my good friend," muttered dernor, between his clenched teeth, "it is _my_ turn." he handed his rifle to edith--who had paused, now that they were so close to their enemy--and, drawing his own knife, made a sort of running bound, coming upon the indian with a panther-like spring, that nearly drove him backward off his feet. there was a clashing of knives, the scintillation of steel against steel, the deadly embrace, and hand-to-hand struggle; and, as the rifleman recoiled clear of his fallen adversary, he reached out to edith for his rifle. "come on," said he, in his ordinary voice; "i guess the way is clear." "i--i am afraid," faltered edith, "that i can not run much further." "there ain't any need of it," said the hunter. "lean on me, and we'll walk awhile, if there's a thousand tearing injins after us." edith panted and trembled violently from the exhausting efforts she had been compelled to make, while the mortal terror she felt at the miamis, made her nearly wild with excitement. their chilling yells, so different from any thing ever heard among civilized beings, would have crazed almost any person, but dernor listened to them with as much composure as he would to the songs of so many birds. he became aware, shortly after, from the direction of these sounds, that the indians had entered the ravine, and were now coming along again, at the top of their speed. he paused a moment, to determine precisely the distance of these, and then looked into the gloomy, terror-stricken face of edith. "i have rested," said he, "and if we don't get over ground faster than this, them red-skins will have us both, in less than ten minutes. let me carry you." she made no resistance, for she was barely able to stand, and supporting her in such a manner that her feet hardly touched ground, dernor once more threw all of his astonishing energy into the flight. fully a quarter of a mile he ran directly through the ravine, and then, reaching a point that would admit of it, he made a running leap, and came up out of it, like a diver emerging from the sea. he was now in the woods again, after having gained a considerable advantage over his pursuers; but the indians behind him were still uncomfortably close, and he could not hope that all would pass the point where he had left the ravine, without discovering the signs he had left there of his flight. knowing this, he was aware that the golden moment was the present. the miamis--to whom most of the pursuers belonged--were "thrown off the scent" for the time. after having gone a considerable distance, and having satisfied himself that they had not yet regained it, dernor determined to take advantage of this to give edith a portion of the rest she needed so much. "i am not used to running like this," said she, leaning heavily on him, "and i am afraid i can not bear it." "i ought to be shot and scalped, for making you take this journey," said dernor. "why, you did it for the best," she added, in surprise. "yes, i thought so--perhaps, the best for myself. i had no idea of being pursued in this manner. it seems i have been a fool. i let that simon girty make me believe he was an awkward countryman, and lead me into this muss." "you think we can keep out of their hands?" "i trust so; the night ain't many hours away, and if we can only keep clear till then, why, all right. i hain't seen the injin yet, miami or shawnee, that could foller a track in the night-time." "they did not see us come out of the ravine. how will they know enough of our direction to keep up the pursuit?" "injin is injin, and the dirt i made in scratching out of there will be seen by a dozen of their snaky eyes." "how far, dear friend, did you say it is to the settlement?" "full twenty miles." "we can reach it, then, by traveling all night?" "yes, very easy, if you can hold out till the darkness comes on." "i hope i can, but i am so terribly worn out that i must go very slowly. you said it was the best for _you_ that we should undertake this journey alone, through the woods. what did you mean by saying that?" "i will tell you some other time," replied the hunter, in great embarrassment. "i done so that i might be _alone with you_." edith looked earnestly at him, as though she would read his very soul. she was about to speak, when the appalling yells of the human bloodhounds sounded so fearfully near, that her very blood seemed to curdle in her veins. "where shall we fly?" she asked, looking up imploringly in the face of the hunter. "come on as rapidly as you can," he replied, again supporting her. great as were the apprehension and terror of edith, she could but notice the singular conduct of her companion. he kept constantly looking around, not as though he expected danger, but as if searching for something. the cause of this was soon manifest. "edith," said he, "it will be full two hours afore there'll be enough darkness to do us any good. can you stand it till then?" "i can _stand_ it," she answered, with a sad laugh, "but i can not _run_ it." "we must either run or be took. now, _my dearest_ _one_, you've done enough to kill a dozen common women, and you shouldn't try to do more, and i don't intend to let you." "but how can---- oh, heavenly father! hear those shouts--but how can you prevent it?" "i must leave you behind." edith's eyes dilated with horror, now doubly intensified. "don't think for a minute," the hunter hastened to say, "that i intend to desart you. no, no; may the lightning strike me down if i could ever do such a thing. what i mean is, that i must hide you till night, when i'll come back, and we'll go on, taking things comfortably." "it must be done quickly. don't wait a minute." the rifleman led the way to some thick, dense bushes and without approaching them very closely, signified her to enter them. she did so, with considerable difficulty, and when she had entered and covered away, he could see nothing of her. "stay there till i come," said he, "and be careful and not put your head out, if you hear any noise." "how shall i know whether it is you or not?" "i'll be around as soon as it is dark enough, and will speak. don't forget what i said. don't let any noise make you show yourself. good-by." "good-by;" and the hunter turned to attend to his own safety. chapter ix. the rifleman and huron on the trail. the woodcock, in his moist retreat, heard not the falling of their feet; on his dark roost the gray owl slept, time, with his drum the partridge kept; nor left the deer his watering-place, so hushed, so noiseless was their pace. w. h. c. hosmer. on a fine summer day, the one succeeding that upon which occurred the incident just related, one of the riflemen of the miami, was making his way through the dense forests that at that period nearly covered the entire portion of ohio. his short stature, bowed legs, and round, shining visage, showed unmistakably that he was tom o'hara. his rifle was slung over his shoulder, and as he walked leisurely along, he had that easy, saucy air which showed him to be totally unmindful of the opinion of friend or foe. that he had no fears of disturbance was manifest from the carelessness with which he proceeded, constantly kicking the leaves before him, and when a limb brushed his face, suddenly stopping and spitefully wrenching it off with an expression of impatience. he was in a worse temper than usual, and incensed at something that continually occupied his mind. "what can have become of the fools?" he muttered. "he oughter been home two, three days ago, and we hain't seen a sign of him yet. can't be lew's such a dunce as to walk into the red-skins' hands. no, no, no." he shook his head as if displeased, and for a time continued his solitary journey in silence. the great question which he was debating was regarding his leader's whereabouts, and his ill-temper arose principally from the fact that he was unable to offer a solution satisfactory to himself. "let me see," he added. "if lew is took, why the gal's took, and if the gal's took, lew must be too; so that p'int is settled. it _might_ be some of the injins _have_ got him, but somehow or other i can't believe it. don't look reasonable, although dick 'peared to think so." again he bent his head as if in deep thought. gradually his meditations brought him nearer the truth. "he's found out that the shortest path was the safest one--something a man is pretty apt to think when he is with the gal he loves, and so he has took the roundabout way home. that's it, sure. but hold on a minute," said o'hara, as a new thought struck him; "i'd like to know the route which it would take them so long to travel over. it's queer, i'll be hanged if it isn't. that gal will be the death of lew yet. i'd like to see the gal that could pull the wool over _my_ eyes." and, as if alarmed at the thought, he strode rapidly forward, shaking his head, and muttering more savagely than ever to himself. gradually he regained his natural state of semi-composure, and proceeded in his audible musings: "whatever is up, i'm bound to find out afore i go back. not that i care a cent for lew--not a bit of it. if he don't know any better than to shut his eyes when injins is about, he oughter suffer. but then i'd like to know _how things is_. hello!" the rifleman stopped and commenced snuffing the air, like an animal when it scents danger. "that's smoke, as sure as i live. who's been kindling a fire at this time of day?" turning his head in every direction, he, at length, determined the one from which the vapor came. there being scarcely any wind at all, he rightly judged it must be close at hand. stealing carefully along from tree to tree, he finally detected the faint blue rising through the wood, scarcely fifty yards away. approaching still closer, he gained a full view of the fire, and also of him who had kindled it. the latter was an indian warrior, who was seated on the ground with his legs gathered under him, and his head bowed forward as if sleeping. the hunter saw, from the nodding of his head, that such was the case. occasionally he would incline forward until ready to fall on his face, when he would start up with a jerk, rub his eyes, look about him, and then go to nodding again. "it seems that everybody have lost their senses," muttered o'hara. "now just see that injin wagging his head at the fire, tryin' to sleep here in broad daylight. how easy i could send a bullet through him! but there's no danger of that, as we riflemen don't fight in that style. be careful, my fellow." here the indian fell over on his face and then scrambled to his feet, looked around, seeking to appear wondrously awake, and then sat down as before. "a huron, as i live," said o'hara, in pleased astonishment. "what can _that_ red-skin mean by being in these parts? all alone, too. if he was only oonamoo, now, i'd feel glad to see him." oonamoo, to whom the hunter alluded, was a huron scout, well known along the frontier as one of the best friends the whites possessed. he had the shrewdness, cunning and skill of his people in an astonishing degree, and had many times given evidence of his faithfulness to the settlers. he was well known to the riflemen of the miami, having guided them in several expeditions, and with o'hara especially he was on good terms. the anxiety of the latter, therefore, to meet him can be well understood. "oonamoo would unravel the whole thing afore noon," said he, "and i'd about as lief see him this minute as i would see lew. let me get a better glimpse of his face. i didn't suspect him being a huron when he jumped up just now, or i'd noticed his features. it don't look like oonamoo, to see him noddin' in that style." he moved cautiously around, until fairly in front of the savage, when he uttered a low, peculiar whistle. the latter instantly raised his head, his black eyes open to their fullest extent, and gave a look that at once discovered his identity to o'hara. "oonamoo, and no mistake," he muttered; and then repeating the whistle as a warning that he was about to approach, he stepped boldly forth and revealed himself. the huron started with surprise, and then advanced with an expression of pleasure to greet his white brother. "glad to meet," he said, speaking brokenly. "and i'm derned glad to see you, oonamoo, for i need your help this minute. what are you doing? out on a scout?" the huron shook his head. "no scout--oonamoo live in woods--like the deer--can't sleep near white men's houses." "'pears you can sleep here though, the way your head was bobbin' around. been up late at night, i s'pose?" "no sleep now--meet 'hara, white brother," said he, with an expression of joy upon his swarthy countenance. "yes, i smelt the smoke of your fire, and follerin' it up i cone onto you. 'pears to me it was rather careless kindling your fire here in broad daylight. ain't there any injins in the neighborhood?" "woods full of 'em--shawnees, miamis, delawares, all over, like leaves of trees," replied the savage, sweeping his arm around him. "ain't you _afeard_ they might come down on you?" the rifleman indulged in an inward laugh, for he well knew the reply that would be made. the dark face of the huron assumed an expression of withering scorn as he answered: "oonamoo don't know _fear_--spit on shawnee and miami--he sleeps in their hunting-grounds, and by their wigwams, but they don't touch him. he scalp their warriors--all he meets, but oonamoo never lose scalp." "don't be too sure of that; that proud top-knot of yours may be yanked off yet, mr. oonamoo. many a shawnee would be proud to have that hanging in his lodge." "he never get him though," replied the huron, with great readiness. "i hope not, for i'd feel sorry to see such a good warrior as you go under when he is needed so much. you ain't on a scout or hunt just now, then?" the savage shook his head from side to side as quick as lightning. "then you'll take a tramp with me?" it now went up and down with the same celerity. "to sum up then, oonamoo, lew, our leader, is in a bad scrape." "shawnee got him? miami got him?" "that's what i want to find out. shouldn't be s'prised if both have nabbed him." "how get him?" there was something curious in the eagerness with which the huron asked the questions. it was more noticeable from the fact that o'hara spoke slowly and deliberately, so that the short, broken sentences of the savage seemed all the more short and broken. "that i can't tell, oonamoo," repeated the hunter, who, it will be noticed, evinced the remarkable fact of being in a good temper with the indian. "you see, him and the gal----" "gal with him?" asked the savage, with amazing quickness. "yes; didn't i tell you that?" "bad--bad--gal make him blind--see notting, all time--she afore his face." "you've got the idea this time, oonamoo. lew's in love, above his head and ears, and can't be to blame so much for what he's done," said o'hara, a gleam of pity stealing through his rough nature, like a ray of sunshine entering a gloomy cave. "he's made a fool of himself, i'm afeard, 'cause there's a female on his hands." "what want to do? foller him--catch him?" "that's it. the first thing to be done is to find the trail." "where lost? where see him last?" o'hara proceeded to relate as best he could what is already known to the reader, or more properly that portion of it which was known to him. he stated that he and dick allmat had lost the trail in a small brook, and that their most persistent efforts had failed to recover it. upon speculating further, he learned from oonamoo that they were in the vicinity of the ravine where dernor and edith had so narrowly escaped the indians, the latter fact of course being unknown to them. the huron added, that there was "much track" in the woods around them, and o'hara, thinking that perhaps his leader's might be among them, proposed that they should make an examination of them. to this the savage readily agreed, and the two moved forward through the wood for that purpose. in the course of a few minutes they reached the ravine, and the indian, pointing down into it, as they stood upon its bank, said: "full of tracks--many injin pass there." "let us go down and take a look at them." a few minutes later, they were following up the ravine, on a sort of half-run, the huron leading the way, and evincing, at nearly every step, that remarkable quickness of sight and comprehension so characteristic of his race. suddenly he paused so abruptly that o'hara ran against him. "what the deuce is the matter?" he asked, rubbing his nose. "look!" several dark drops of blood were visible on the ground which was also torn up by the feet of the combatants. as the reader probably suspects, this was the scene of the conflict between dernor and the miami indian. "see," said oonamoo, walking slowly around, and pointing to the ground. "track of injin--track of white man--tear up ground--fight--till injin killed. white man then run--see him tracks there, there, there," he added, pointing further and further from him as he uttered each of the last three words. "but where's the gal?" the huron pointed to the spot where edith had stood spell-bound while the contest was going on. o'hara, although a skillful backwoodsman, was not equal to his savage companion; but he saw at once, from the dainty impress of the earth, that he was correct in supposing that edith had stood there. they now resumed their pursuit, the hunter bringing all his wood-craft into play, in order to keep up with his companion. "i can't see her tracks to save my life," said the former, after they had proceeded some distance. "him carry her," replied the savage, without the least hesitation. "hang me if you haven't got about as much brains as a person needs in these parts," muttered o'hara, admiringly, as he imitated the monotonous trot of the savage. a moment later and he paused again. "what's up now?" asked the hunter. "track gone." "but i see plenty in front of us." "white man's not there--gone." a minute examination revealed the fact that most of the impressions were now made by persons passing _backward_ as well as forward, as though confusion had arisen from some cause. o'hara suspected the reason of this, but, without venturing an opinion, questioned his dusky friend: "huntin' for tracks," he answered. "white man gone." the two now walked slowly backward, their gaze wandering along the sides of the ravine instead of the bottom. in a moment the quick eye of the indian discerned the spot where he judged the exit had been made, and a short examination proved that he was right. the feet of dernor had sunk deep in the soft earth as he made his herculean efforts in the ascent, while those of his pursuers were so light that they hardly disturbed them. up out of the ravine came the huron and hunter, and into the woods they plunged, following the trail now with the greatest readiness. a short distance further they reached the banks where edith had concealed herself, and here, for a time, even the red-skin was at fault. he saw that the shrubbery had been passed by most of the pursuers without their having approached closely enough to make an examination. from the circuit which dernor had made to reach these bushes, the quick-witted huron rightly suspected that he had turned them to some account. accordingly, he cautiously parted them and looked in. an immediate "ugh!" showed o'hara that he had made some discovery. "hide gal there--then run on." "where is she?" "injin didn't git her in bushes," replied the savage, implying that if she was captured at all it was not done here. "go on, then," added o'hara. it was now noticed that the steps of the fugitive had shortened, it following, as a natural consequence, that he had slackened his speed at this point. several hundred yards further on, another fact was observed. the pursuing indians, instead of adhering to the trail, as they had done heretofore, separated and left it. this, to both oonamoo and o'hara was evidence that they had either come in sight of dernor, or else were so certain of the direction he was taking that they did not deem it necessary to watch his footsteps. the rifleman could not believe the former was the case, inasmuch as it was the very thing, above all others, which his leader would seek to avoid; for the most requisite condition to the success of his artifice, was that his pursuers should still think edith was with him. be that as it may, one thing was certain. the pursuer and pursued at this point were very close together--closer than the safety of the latter could admit for any length of time. a few hundred yards further, the dark face of the huron lit up with an expression of admiring pleasure. "him run agin," said he, glancing to o'hara, who was now beside him. the steps of the flying rifleman now lengthened rapidly, as if he had traveled at superhuman speed. as o'hara saw the remarkable leaps which he must have taken, he could not help exclaiming, in admiration: "go it, lew. i'd like to see the red-skin that could overhaul you, when you're a mind to bring your pegs down to it." "run much--like scar't deer," added oonamoo. "yes, _sir_; lew has been letting out just along here, and i reckon them injins never seen such steps as he took." it was very evident that the hunter had "let out" to his utmost ability, and with the determination of leaving his pursuers far in the rear. previous to this he had not called his formidable power into play; but so rapidly had his gait increased that in many places his footsteps were fully ten feet apart! it had not escaped the notice of oonamoo and o'hara, that a white man was among the pursuers, and it occasioned considerable speculation upon the part of the latter. the trails of the two were distinguishable, dernor having a small, well-shaped foot, inclining outward very slightly, while that of the other was large, heavy, turning outward at a very large angle. "who can this chap be?" asked o'hara of his companion. "renegade--bad white man--girty--white chief." "whew! i see how it is now. that's the dog that hung around the settlers on the night of the storm, and got fired at a dozen times." "why no killed--no hurt?" "we didn't know who he was, and all shot at his breast." "ugh! no hurt him, then." "no, for, they say, the dog often wears a bullet-proof plate over his breast, and his life has, more than once, been saved by it. he's a brave man, for all he's such an inhuman brute; for who would dare to sit and let us fire agin and agin at him, when it was just as likely we'd fire at his head as at his breast? it was more of an accident than any thing else that we didn't kill him." "bad man--kill women and children," said oonamoo. "no one disputes that. what a pity we didn't know him when we first set eyes on him. i shouldn't wonder now if he's been fooling lew, as well as us. my gracious! hasn't the boy used his pegs along here?" exclaimed o'hara, again looking at the ground. "no catch him," said the huron. "no injun run like him. tracks turn round pretty soon." "what makes you think so?" "gal bring him back--not leave _her_!" "you're right. he won't forget she is behind him. but how is he going to throw the dogs off the scent?" "how t'row white men off scent, eh?" "i understand--by taking to the water." "take to water agin." as the huron spoke, they came upon the edge of a second brook--one, in fact, large enough to be called a creek. the trail led directly into this, it being manifest that dernor had so shaped his flight as to reach it. "i will cross over and examine the opposite side, while you do the same along this shore." "no, won't," replied oonamoo, with a decided shake of his head. "white man no cross--gal behind him--come out on this side agin." the savage was so certain of this, that he refused even to allow o'hara to enter the stream. a moment's reflection convinced him, also, that the supposition was correct, and they commenced their ascent of the bank. they had gone scarcely a dozen steps, when they came upon numerous moccasin-tracks, showing that, if the pursuers had crossed the creek, they had also returned. at this discovery, oonamoo indulged in a characteristic exclamation: "he hide trail--all safe--no cotch him." "how are _we_ going to find it?" asked o'hara. marvelous as was the skill of the huron, he doubted his own ability to regain the trail in the ordinary manner, and he accordingly had resort to the same means that he used in ascending the ravine. without attempting to search for the trail itself, he carefully examined the shore in order to find the point at which the fugitive could safely leave the stream. oonamoo, from his knowledge of the leader of the riflemen, knew that he would walk for miles in the creek, before he would leave it without the certainty of deceiving his pursuers. the course which dernor had taken being such that he had entered the water at a point considerably _above_ where edith had concealed herself, the savages, in case they were aware that the latter was somewhere on the back-trail, would naturally suppose that, if he came out of it on the same side in which he had entered, it would be _below_ this point; which, all being comprehended by the huron, satisfied him that the fugitive had disappointed these expectations, and gone _up_ the stream. two things, therefore, were determined with considerable certainty--dernor had not _crossed_ the creek, but had left at a point either near or above where oonamoo and o'hara were standing. satisfied of this, the two moved along the bank, taking long, leaping steps, treading so lightly as barely to leave the impression of their feet, and scrutinizing each bank with the most jealous eye. they had ascended fully a half-mile without discovering any thing upon which "to hang a suspicion," when o'hara, who had contrived to get in advance of the huron, uttered a suppressed exclamation of surprise. "here's where he could have come out," said he. oonamoo looked carefully before him, and shook his head. the object in question consisted of a fallen tree, the top of which lay in the edge of the stream, while the upturned roots were nearly a hundred feet distant. it will be seen at once, that the hunter could easily have walked along the trunk of this without leaving a visible footprint, and leaped off into the woods from the base and continued his flight as before. plain as was this to the huron, another fact was still plainer--the rifleman had done no such thing. "why do you think he hasn't used this tree?" asked o'hara. "too plain--_injin sure to t'ink he do it._" oonamoo had told the exact truth, for dernor had really approached the branches of the tree with the intention of using them as we have hinted, when he had seen that his pursuers would be sure to suspect such an artifice, from the ready means afforded him; and he had, therefore, given over his first resolve, and continued his ascent of the creek. all around the base were the imprints of moccasins, showing where the shawnees and miamis had searched and failed to find the trail. oonamoo having noticed all this, in far less time than it has taken us to relate it, walked out on the tree-trunk as far as it would allow him without wetting his feet standing thus, he leaned over and peered out into the water. "look dere--knowed it," said he, pointing out a few feet from the shore. the water was semi-translucent, so that it required a keen view to discover the object of the huron's gaze; but, following the direction of his finger, o'hara made out to discover on the bottom of the creek the _sign_ left by the passage of a human foot. they were not _impressions_, because there was not a dent visible, the ground being entirely free from any thing like it; but there were two delicate, yet perfect _outlines_ of a moccasin. the hunter had stood a few moments on this spot, and then stepped into deeper water. the tracks thus left by his feet had gradually filled with the muddy sediment composing the bottom of the creek, until, as we have said, there were no _impressions_ left; but, completely around where they had once been, ran a dark line, as if traced by the hand of an artist, a complete outline of the hunter's foot. this faint, almost invisible, evidence of his passage had entirely escaped the eyes of his pursuers. "what i t'ought," said oonamoo; "knowed dey'd t'ink he'd come out dere--go in water agin--come out furder up-stream." "by thunder," said o'hara, in amazement, "you make me ashamed of myself, oonamoo. i believe you could track the gray eagle through air. come, now, where is lew? you can tell, if you're a mind to." this extravagant compliment was entirely lost upon the stolid huron. he appeared not to hear it. he merely repeated, "he come out furder up," and, springing lightly from the tree, continued his cautious ascent of the creek, o'hara following behind, and occasionally muttering his unbounded admiration of the indian's astonishing skill. the opposite side of the stream was overhung almost entirely with the heavy undergrowth so characteristic of the western forests. beneath this it would have been an easy matter for a foe to have concealed himself and to fire upon the hunter and indian; but the latter scarcely deigned to look across, well knowing that no such a danger threatened them. while the savages were searching for the trail of the fugitive, oonamoo was certain that, as yet, no one knew that any one was upon theirs. even had they known it, they would have cared but little, for they were too formidable a body to fear the two men who were following them. all along the shore were numerous moccasin-tracks, showing how persistently the indians had kept up the pursuit. it struck o'hara that his leader must have walked pretty rapidly through the creek to keep out of sight of the enemies, for they, being upon the land, had nothing to retard their progress. the causes of his success in this matter were twofold. in the first place, the extraordinary speed at which he had run had placed him far in advance of his pursuers, upon reaching the creek, so that he had ascended it a good distance before they reached it; and, unlike the shrewd huron, they were deceived by the artifice he had practiced, believing that he had either crossed the stream, or gone down it. in this manner he gained a start sufficient to accomplish all he desired. o'hara was just on the point of framing his mouth to ask a suppressed question, when oonamoo, who was several feet in advance, suddenly paused and raised his hand over his head, as a signal that silence and caution were now necessary. chapter x. the pursuit of the pursuers. the red-breast, perched in arbor green, sad minstrel of the quiet scene, while hymning, for the dying sun, strains like a broken-hearted one, raised not her mottled wings to fly, as swept those silent warriors by.--w. h. c. hosmer. the huron stood a moment as motionless as a statue; then, bending slowly forward, still holding one hand partly raised as a signal for the hunter to retain his immobility, he took several steps forward, so lightly and cautiously that there was absolutely no sound at all produced. he then sunk slowly downward, and seemed to concentrate all his faculties into the single one of sight. this lasted but a moment, when he arose to the upright position, and, turning his head, signified to o'hara that he might approach. the latter did so, and immediately saw the cause of his cautious movements. drawn up on the bank, so as to be entirely free of the water, with the bottom turned upward, lay an indian's canoe. it was made of bark, beautifully shaped, and it was evident had not been used for a considerable time. they silently surveyed this object for some time, when oonamoo, who had also been examining the earth around it gave vent to a chuckling, guttural laugh--a sure sign that he had made some discovery which delighted him hugely. it would have been an amusing sight for any one to have seen this expression of pleasure upon the dark, stoical face of the huron. there was scarcely a change of his features, but such as was perceptible would have been mistaken by an ordinary observer as an evidence that he was undergoing some physical pain. "what is the matter? what is it that pleases you, oonamoo?" asked o'hara, considerably puzzled to understand the cause. "shawnee fool--miami fool--don't know notting." "what makes you think so?" "_he come out dere!_" he replied, pointing at the end of the canoe which lay nearest the water, and then indulging his characteristic chuckle again. as we have hinted in the preceding pages, o'hara was a most skillful backwoodsman, having few superiors among those of his own color. when he chose to exercise his wood-craft, the true cause of his being termed a lucky hunter was apparent, it being nothing more than his wonderful skill and shrewdness. but, remarkable as were those qualities in him, he was by no means equal to the huron. those signs, invisible in the deep labyrinths of the woods to common eyes, were as plain to him as the printed pages of the book to the scholar. in the preceding chapter, we have endeavored to give some idea of the skill he displayed when these qualities were called into requisition. o'hara, understanding perfectly the superior ability of his dusky friend, relied upon him to solve all difficulties that might arise, scarcely making any effort himself to do so. this will account for his apparent ignorance of the secrets of the forest, which, perhaps has been noticed by the reader. "shawnee fool--miami fool--don't know notting," repeated the huron. "they don't know as much as you, that's sartin; but i've found more than once they knowed enough to satisfy me." "_he come out dere_," said oonamoo, again. finding there was little chance of gaining what information he wished from the indian, o'hara set about solving the difficulty himself. the former having announced that dernor had left the creek at this point, it now remained for him to determine by what means he had thrown his pursuers off the scent, as it was very manifest he had done. the ground around the canoe was quite wet and spongy, showing the numerous footprints with considerable distinctness. among these, it was very easy to distinguish that of the leader of the riflemen. the instant o'hara saw this, he became aware of the curious fact that it was more _recent than those of the indian_, proving that dernor had _followed them_, instead of they having followed him! how this was accomplished, the hunter was at a loss to determine, although, from the expression of the indian's face, he knew it was all plain to him. "lew has gone over this ground last," said o'hara, "but how he has done it, i can't see just now. how was it?" "_look under canoe_," said oonamoo. o'hara's eyes opened, as he began to comprehend matters. he carefully raised one end of the canoe, and saw at once that his leader had lain beneath it, while his enemies were searching for him. a few words more from the huron, and every thing was explained. believing the reader will be interested in the description of the ingenious artifice adopted by the hunter, we here give it as briefly as possible. it may seem incredible that lewis dernor should have been concealed beneath this indian canoe, when fully a dozen savages were thirsting for his scalp, and when it would have appeared the height of absurdity to think that they would fail to look beneath it. nevertheless, such was really the case. it happened in the following manner: when the rifleman discovered the canoe lying against the bank, he sprung from the water, coming upon the frail barken structure with such force that he perceptibly started the bottom. it thus appeared to have been deserted for its uselessness. stepping off of this upon the swampy ground, he walked about twenty yards up the bank, when he turned to the left, and approached the water again. the trail which he left was so distinct that no one could fail to see, he having purposely made it thus. instead of taking to the water again, as it would appear he had done, he merely entered its margin, and then walked backward to the canoe again, stepping so exactly in his own footsteps, that the wily shawnees and miamis had no suspicion of the stratagem practiced. reaching the canoe, he managed to lift it, without changing its position, when he lowered it again, without making any additional footprints. this done, he slipped beneath it, drew up his feet, and confidently awaited the approach of the savages. in about twenty minutes they came up. the foremost paused, upon seeing the canoe with its cracked bottom, and were about to overturn it, when their eyes rested upon the footprints of the fugitive. there was no need of looking beneath it, for they could see the direction he had taken. he was going at such speed that they had no time to pause, and they immediately dashed off in pursuit, the others following suit, like so many hounds. so soon as he was satisfied they were out of sight, the rifleman came from beneath the canoe, carefully setting it back in its place again, and struck off in the woods at a more leisurely gait. "all safe--nebber git on track agin," said oonamoo. "don't believe they will. by gracious! but i should hate to try that trick of lew's. just s'pose they had looked under! it would have been all up with him. i daresn't use such means, 'cause i haven't got legs enough, for emergencies. where does the trail lead to now, oonamoo?" "where gal hid--go get her now--injin know notting about it." "i s'pose lew will take his time now, as he knows he's got the dogs off his track." "go slow little ways--then run fast--want to see gal." the huron certainly displayed some knowledge of the workings of the heart when he remarked, in substance, that, although the lover might proceed at a moderate gait for some distance, it would not be long before the thoughts of edith would urge him to as great exertions as he had displayed during the height of the chase. true to what he had said, o'hara noticed that his footsteps gradually lengthened until it was manifest that he had been "letting himself out" again. it was now getting well along in the afternoon. the huron struck into a sort of a compromise between a walk and a trot, he being anxious to make what progress he could before darkness set in. they had come too far to overtake dernor and edith the next day, and o'hara began really to believe that the two had reached the settlement by this time. upon mentioning this supposition to oonamoo, the latter shook his head--meaning that all danger had not been overcome by the fugitives. the woods were too full of indians, and the settlement was too far away for them to accomplish the rest of their journey without danger. objects were just growing indistinct, when o'hara and the huron came upon the bushes where edith had been concealed. they saw that dernor had approached on the opposite side from which he had left it, and that upon being rejoined by his charge, he had once more started northward, as if his desire was still to remain above his enemies, and avoid, as much as lay in his power, all probabilities of encountering them. "i s'pose we've got to lay on our oars, as the sailors say, till daylight," said o'hara. the huron looked at him, as if he failed to comprehend him, and he added, in explanation: "there being no light, of course we can't see their tracks, and will have to wait till morning." "no wait--go on all night." "how will you do that?" "oonamoo know which way dey go." "i don't deny that, but, smart as you are, i don't believe you can see a trail on such a night as this." "don't want to see trail--know which way go--go up, then go off toward settlement." o'hara understood that the huron had formed his idea of the general direction which the rifleman had taken, and intended to follow him in this manner. being thoroughly well acquainted with the country, there was no difficulty in doing this; and, without pausing to think of drink or food, the two resumed their pursuit as hopefully and confidently as though the matter were already settled. to follow up thus persistently one of the most skillful border-men of the period, with the desire of assisting him in whatever strait he may have gotten himself, would have been the acme of absurdity upon the part of those undertaking it, and would have gained for them no thanks for attempting it, had the circumstances been difficult. but, incommoded as he was by the charge of edith, and environed by enemies, it could hardly be expected that he would come through unscathed. his enemies, fully aware of the difficulties of his situation, undoubtedly were using every endeavor to thwart him, it being certain that they were aware of his identity. to have captured the leader of the riflemen of the miami would have been a feat of which even a war-party would have been proud, and the huron well knew they would not give over their efforts until he was absolutely beyond their reach. this was the reason why he was so anxious to press forward as far as it would be prudent to venture during the darkness. by midnight the two had reached a point above which the huron believed the fugitives would not go; and being unable to determine the precise course which they had taken after this, they concluded to wait until daylight before going further. accordingly they lay down on the ground, both dropping to sleep immediately, and both waking at precisely the same moment, just as the light of the day was appearing. a half-hour's search discovered the trail of their friends within several hundred yards of where they had slept--thus close and exact had been the calculation of the sagacious huron. he and o'hara now began to entertain hopes that, after all, the fugitives had succeeded in reaching the settlement. the latter, at the most, was not more than twenty miles distant; and, had dernor been allowed the entire night to travel, he could have safely reached it. a critical examination of his footprints, however, revealed the fact that they had not been made more than twenty hours before. if he had reached the settlement, therefore, he must have done it in the latter part of the preceding day. the two now pressed on with all haste. they had gone scarcely a half-mile, when both made a startling discovery. numerous moccasin-tracks became suddenly visible, and o'hara needed no prompting to understand that the persistent indians were again upon the trail of the fugitives. how they had succeeded in regaining it, after being so cleverly misled, was a mystery. the huron accounted for it only upon the supposition that they had come upon it by accident. a slight comparison of the two trails by oonamoo showed that the savages were close behind their friends--so close that they could overtake them ere they could reach their destination--the settlement. chapter xi. at bay. like lightning from storm-clouds on high, the hurtling, death-winged arrows fly, and windrows of pale warriors lie! oh! never has the sun's bright eye looked from his hill-top in the sky, upon a field so glorious.--g. p. morris. as oonamoo and o'hara pressed forward, they found they were gaining very rapidly upon the pursuers and pursued. as for the huron, he had an apprehension amounting almost to a certain conviction that the leader of the riflemen, after all, had committed a sad mistake, in believing that he was safe from his enemies, after being rejoined by edith. this belief had led him into some trap, and the faithful indian felt that his services were sorely needed at that very moment. it was yet early in the day, when he and the hunter ascended a sort of ridge, which afforded them quite an extensive view of the surrounding wilderness. here, carefully protecting their persons from observation, they looked out over the forest in quest of signs of human beings. the unexperienced person might have looked for hours without discovering the slightest evidence of animal life in the vast expanse spread out before him. he would have seen the dark emerald of these western wilds cut by the gleaming silver of many a stream and river; the tree-tops gently bowed, like a field of grain, when the breeze rides over it; and overhead, perhaps, would have been noted the flocks of birds circling in curious figures; but all beneath would have been silent--silent, save in that deep, solemn murmur which comes up perpetually like the voice of the ocean. but the huron had scarcely glanced over the sylvan scene, when his dark eye rested upon what, to him, was a most palpable evidence of the presence of others in these woods. about a half-mile distant, on the edge of a small clearing, stood the remains of a log fort. this was subjected to a most searching scrutiny by both, but, for a time, o'hara discovered nothing unusual in its appearance. "he's dere--he and the gal," said oonamoo, pointing toward the pile of logs. "how do you know that? have you seen him?" "see now what he done--he's dere. look agin." "i've looked at them logs ever since we've been standing here, but hain't seen lew or the gal yet." "eber seen logs afore?" "have i ever seen them logs before? yes, often." "how they look when last see him?" "the same as they do now, i believe." "sure?" asked oonamoo, in a tone that revealed all to o'hara. he now looked again toward the remains of the log-fort, and understood at once the meaning of the huron's question. he had passed by the spot during the preceding autumn, and noticed that the logs were scattered and thrown down, as if a tornado had passed over the spot. now, however, there was system in their arrangement--proof sure that the hand of man had been employed upon them. the huron had seen them scarcely a week before, and knew that all these changes had been made since--that, in fact, lewis dernor had made them, and at that moment was standing at bay behind them. while yet they were looking, they saw something gleam for an instant in the sunlight, and then disappear as if drawn behind the logs. "that was lew's rifle," said o'hara. "he always keeps the barrel polished up so that it nearly blinds a person to shoot." "'sh! look." at the point where they had witnessed the movement of this bright object, they now saw a red jet of flame spout out, a wreath of blue smoke arise, and then came the report of a rifle. "there's one red-skin the less," said o'hara. "when lew pulls trigger, _something_ is sure to go under." "want us there," said oonamoo, starting down the ridge on his peculiar trot, and moving off toward what may now properly be termed a fort. upon coming in its vicinity, both exercised the greatest caution in their movements, knowing, as they did, that it was besieged by their deadly enemies. a half-hour's reconnoitering by both showed that there were ten indians, exclusive of one dead one, collected at one end of the clearing, where each, safely ensconced behind a tree, was patiently waiting for a shot at the rifleman, whom they now at last believed they had fairly cornered. upon witnessing this condition of affairs, oonamoo and o'hara debated a proposition proposed by the latter. it was that the huron, who was very fleet of foot, should instantly make all haste to the settlement, and return with the riflemen and a sufficient force to scatter the besieging indians to the four winds. this undertaking would require more than five hours at the utmost to fulfill it, but those five hours were so precious, that oonamoo decided not to make the attempt. he felt sure that unless dernor surrendered, the party of savages would attack the place in a body before two hours elapsed; and, brave and determined as he knew the rifleman to be, he could see that a resistance upon his part would be useless. he, therefore, acted with his usual wisdom, in deciding to remain upon the ground to render assistance when it would be needed. the first plan adopted by o'hara and the huron was to keep their position, remaining carefully concealed, until the savages should move forward to the assault, when, as the former expressed it, they would "wade in promiscuously." this project offered to its originators the great point of excitement and desperate fighting, but was finally rejected by the huron for the last reason. it is a very pleasant thing for a nation to think itself invincible and able to conquer all others with which it may come in collision. the same sensations, in a smaller degree, no doubt are experienced by two persons when, in the flush of the moment, they feel able to combat with five times their numbers; but, if time be allowed, the "sober second thought" will prevail, and action will be guided more by prudence than madness. the huron was as brave a man as ever breathed, but he was also as shrewd and cunning. he knew well enough that should he and o'hara rush in upon ten desperate, well-armed warriors, no matter how fiercely they might fight, the result would be that both would be killed and no one benefited. he, therefore, determined to resort once more to his powers of stratagem. the great point now was to make dernor aware of the vicinity of his two friends. without this oonamoo would be more likely to be shot by him than by the savages. this part of the stratagem was the most difficult to accomplish. the shawnees and miamis being collected at one end of the clearing, it could not be expected that any signal, however skillfully or guardedly made, would attract the notice of dernor. it might possibly be seen by edith, but would not be understood. this means, therefore, was not even attempted. the besieged rifleman of course kept himself invisible. he had become aware, when within a mile or so of the present spot, that he was again pursued by his unrelenting enemies, and making all haste thither, had thrown the logs together as compactly and securely as the time allowed him would permit. he had brought down one of his assailants, and they in turn had buried some twenty balls in the logs around him, without inflicting injury upon either edith or himself. in the hope of giving his leader an inkling of the condition of affairs, o'hara uttered a whistle, so perfect an imitation of the call of a certain bird, that the suspicious shawnees and miamis failed to notice it. pausing a few moments, he repeated it, and then awaited the action of oonamoo. whether dernor had caught the signal or not, of course his friends had no means of judging; but the huron, knowing that if he had not his own death was certain, now coolly made the desperate attempt he had decided upon. securely sheltered behind his log-fort, dernor stood with cocked rifle awaiting his chance to pick off one of his enemies. every faculty was absorbed in this, and he scarcely removed his eye once from the spot where he knew they were collected. he was aware of their exact number, as he was also of the fact that girty, the renegade, was not among them. his lips were compressed, a dark scowl had settled upon his face, and it would have been easy for any one to have read the iron determination of his heart. he was at bay, it was true, and he was not ignorant of the desire of the savages to gain possession of him. he said nothing to edith of the resolve he had made, but she needed no telling to understand it. so long as life remained, her defender would never desert her. he was standing thus, gazing stealthily out through a loophole, when edith, who was watching every portion of the clearing, placed her hand on his shoulder and told him that an indian was stealing toward them from the side opposite to that on which their enemies were collected. as quick as thought dernor wheeled around, pointed his rifle out and took aim at the approaching savage. the latter saw the movement, understood fully its cause, and yet made no attempt to escape, relying entirely upon the chances of the rifleman discovering his identity before firing. his faith was rewarded, although oonamoo came nigher death in that single moment than ever he imagined. dernor's finger was already pressing the trigger, when he saw directly behind the approaching indian the barrel of a rifle project from behind a tree and then disappear again. this served to arrest his attention, and before he renewed his aim the round face of o'hara was thrust forth and disappeared again. this led him to examine the face of the venturesome indian. a single glance and he recognized oonamoo, the faithful huron. he instantly drew his rifle in, and the latter, understanding the meaning of it, sprung nimbly forward, and with one bound cleared the opposing barricades and came down beside the besieged rifleman. the latter grasped his hand and silently pressed it. "who is with you?" he asked, after relinquishing it. "'hara--short feller--legs like bent injin's bow." "nobody else?" "nobody else," replied the huron. "you watch that side, then, oonamoo, and i will attend to this." "no watch this side--no injin come here--all on toder side--me watch with you--come round this side bime-by." "do as you please; you're an injin and ought to understand them." oonamoo had been seen by the besieging savages as he bounded over the logs, and, for a few minutes, they were puzzled to understand the meaning of so singular an occurrence. their first impression was that one of their number, more daring than the others, had taken this desperate means of getting at the rifleman, and they listened intently for sounds of combat and struggles between them; but, as moment after moment passed without the silence being disturbed, their eyes were opened to the fact that he had been reinforced by a formidable ally; and this, too, when a little foresight on their part would have prevented it. having felt certain, previous to this, that the white man had no friends in the vicinity, they had neglected to surround his fort, so as to prevent their approach. to prevent any thing further happening like this, a part of the band now proceeded to get on the opposite side of him. there was but one way in which this could be done without being menaced by the rifles of the besieged party. several of the indians, being careful to keep the protecting trees before them, slowly retreated backward until they had gone far enough in the wood to be safe, when they passed around and approached the fort from the opposite side. it was not long before they became aware that the friend of the rifleman was fully as sagacious as himself, and that, after all, the parties were not so unequally matched. the threatening muzzles were constantly protruding from behind those logs, and it was absolute suicide for any one to attempt to stand before them. dernor having caught a glimpse of o'hara, his companion, wondered considerably that he did not follow the example of the huron, and unite with him in the fort. thus strengthened, his confidence would have been restored, and he would bid defiance to the shawnees and miamis. but, as he waited, and finally saw that a number of indians had succeeded in getting behind him, he was compelled to give up this hope. this excited speculation the more upon his part, because he was fully aware of o'hara's defects, and felt that it would have been the most prudent course for him to adopt. at length he questioned the huron: "where's tom?" "dunno--gone away." "why didn't he do as you did--come over and join me?" "tom 'hara goin' _to do sumkin' else_--_he_ know what." "i expect he does. he'd better move his carcase from where he was a few minutes ago, or them dogs will move it for him." "he know--_dey_ won't move _him_--he get out way soon enough." "he's got too short legs," said dernor, who, aware of the affection the huron bore him, and experiencing a sort of reaction of his spirits after their continued depression, was disposed to quiz oonamoo a little. "got _long_ eyes, dough," replied he, quickly. "got long eyes?" laughed dernor. "i don't know as they're any longer than mine." "good 'eal longer. tom 'hara neber let shawnee and miami get him atween the logs--he know too much." dernor felt the sarcasm of this remark and took it kindly. "neither would they have got me here, had i been alone." it would be difficult to describe the expression that illuminated the huron's face at this remark. he turned his dark, basilisk orbs (their fierceness now subdued into a softer light) full upon edith, who, seated upon a portion of one of the logs, was listening to the conversation. the muscles around the corners of his mouth twitched a little, a wrinkle or two gathered, his beautiful white teeth became visible, but she only half-suspected that he was smiling. "nice gal," said he, his voice now as soft as a woman's. "white man love her--fight for her--oonamoo do so too." she did not know whether to be pleased or frightened at the look of the huron. in her perplexity she turned toward dernor. "you needn't be alarmed," said he, understanding her embarrassment. "oonamoo here is an old and tried friend, and will stand by you as long as i will, which," he added, in a lower tone, "will be as long as the one above gives me breath. he is devoted to me if he doesn't love you." "yes, oonamoo does--he love all white folks--love the gals--clever to him and feed him when hungry." dernor merely smiled, believing that the remark of the savage fully explained his passion without any qualifying observation of his own. "oonamoo love white folks--love missionaries--tell him all about god up dere"--pointing upward--"spirit land--happy place--oonamoo don't take scalp when injin sleeping--so he go up dere when he die." "i believe you will, for if there ever was an honorable savage you are one," said dernor, warmly. the huron made no reply to this compliment, evidently thinking enough had been said. it must not be supposed that this conversation occurred in the connected form in which we have given it. several moments sometimes elapsed between the different remarks, and hardly once during its progress did dernor look at the savage. once or twice he turned toward edith, as also did oonamoo, but the danger that menaced him was too great for either to be diverted from it. some twenty minutes had elapsed, when an exclamation from the huron showed that some new scheme was afoot. immediately after, a blazing arrow came whizzing through the air, and buried itself in the logs. the sharp crackling told that the twist of flame had communicated with the logs and it was burning. "my god! are we to be burnt alive?" exclaimed dernor, losing his self-possession for a moment. "ugh--can't burn--logs too wet--go out," replied his unmoved companion. so it proved, although an inch or two of some of the logs were sufficiently seasoned to take fire, they were all too damp and soaked to burn. oonamoo had hardly spoken when the blaze went out of itself. a perfect storm of arrows, tipped with burning tow, now came sailing in upon them, but the only inconvenience they occasioned was a blinding, suffocating smoke, which lasted, however, but a few moments. "where the deuce did they get their bows and tow from?" asked dernor. "do they carry such articles with them?" "sent for 'em after git here," replied oonamoo. "won't any of these logs burn?" "too wet--smoke--but won't blaze." the indians soon found that nothing could be accomplished in the way of burning out the fugitives, so they ceased the attempt only to devise some other expedient. what this was to be, the besieged party for a long time were unable to determine. the first warning they had was a bullet, which grazed the face of oonamoo, coming in at the _top_ of the fort. "ugh! shawnee climb tree--oonamoo fetch him out dere," said the latter, sheltering himself as quick as lightning, and peering out in the hope of gaining a glimpse of the miscreant who had come so near shooting him. he was disappointed, however, the savage descending the tree with such skill and caution that his person was never once exposed to the eagle eye of the huron. for an hour succeeding this last attempt nothing further was done by the besieging savages. they carefully kept their bodies concealed, so that the utmost watchfulness on the part of oonamoo and dernor failed to get a shot at them. they saw enough, however, to make them certain they were surrounded by their enemies, and that for the present, at least, under heaven, they had nothing but their own bravery and good rifles to rely upon. there were several means by which the fugitives could be compelled to succumb in the end, if these means were only employed by the savages. the first and obviously safest was to keep up the siege until they were compelled to come to terms. dernor had not a drop of water nor a particle of food, and consequently this plan on the part of the besiegers would have been only a question of time. again, a rapid and determined assault could scarcely fail to take the rifleman and the huron. there were ten indians to make the attempt, but those ten knew well enough that two of their number would never live to reach the fort in case the rush was made and that there would be desperate work before the two men could be overcome. during the hour of silence these plans occurred to dernor, and he mentioned the first to oonamoo. the cunning savage shook his head. "won't do that--_afeard_." "afraid of what?" "settlement two--t'ree--fifteen mile off--_afeard_ other long knives come afore we got starve." "i hope the boys are somewhere in the woods. why don't the cowardly dogs rush in upon us? they could batter these logs down in five minutes." "_afeard_ we batter _'em_ down," replied the huron, with a sparkle of his black eyes. "we would surely knock some of them over, but i don't suppose we could finish up the whole ten." "finish some--don't know which--dat de reason." "their heads are so full of their devilish inventions, i should think they could get up some way to attack us without getting a shot at them." "attack purty soon--keep eye peeled--don't see notting?" "nothing at all," replied the rifleman, who, all this time, was peering through a chink in the logs and not looking at the indian. taking it for granted that if the huron saw no danger there could be none, dernor turned toward edith, and asked, in that low, passionate tone which he instinctively assumed in addressing her: "and how do you feel, dear edith, all this time?" "_my_ courage, i think, will bear up as long as _yours_," she answered, with a faint smile. "it will bear up to the end, then," he added. then looking at her a moment, he continued: "edith, how you must feel toward me for bringing you into this trouble! i have been thinking of it for the last day or two." "did you do it on purpose?" she asked. "that is, did you _know_ we should be pursued and persecuted as we have been when we started?" "know it? of course not. i would have been shot before i would have come." "then why do you ask me such a question? no, lewis, i do not blame you in the least. on the contrary, i shall never be able to express the gratitude i feel for what you have done." this was the first time edith had addressed the rifleman by his given name, and it gave him a peculiar pleasure which it would be difficult to describe. he was only restrained from approaching by the reflection that he would cut a most ridiculous figure in the presence of the huron. his feelings were now such that, upon his own account alone, he would have welcomed several days' siege. in fact, he would have cared very little had oonamoo been a hundred miles distant just then. but these emotions were only temporary. five minutes later, he felt heartily ashamed that he should have entertained them. "i am certain, edith----" further utterance was checked by an exclamation from the huron. looking forth, dernor saw that the crisis of the contest had arrived! chapter xii. conclusion. they come!--be firm--in silence rally! the long knives our retreat have found! hark! their tramp is in the valley, and they hem the forest round! the burthened boughs with pale scouts quiver, the echoing hills tumultuous ring, while, across the eddying river, their barks, like foaming war-steeds, spring, the bloodhounds darken land and water, they come--like buffaloes for slaughter.--g. p. morris. at that point from which the huron had advanced to the fort, the shawnees and miamis had now collected, preparatory to their final attack upon it. the wood being thick at this spot, they had little difficulty in keeping their bodies out of sight, the besieged being enabled to judge of their position by the points of their rifles and portions of their dress, which they took no pains to conceal. "that means business," said dernor, loosening his knife, and examining the priming of his rifle. "what's their idea, oonamoo?" "run all togedder--make big rush--all come from one side." being satisfied of this, the huron crossed over to the side of the hunter, so as to be ready for the assault. he was as cool as if sitting in his own wigwam, although none was more aware than himself of the peril that hung over his head. could the shawnees or miamis once obtain his person, no species of torment that their fiendish minds could invent would be left untried upon him. but he had played hide-and-seek too long with death, to be disconcerted in a moment like this. "what are they waiting for?" asked dernor, who began to grow impatient at the delay. "ain't waitin'--here dey come!" as he spoke, ten indians suddenly appeared to view, from behind as many trees, and, pausing a moment, set up a yell that must have been heard miles distant, and rushed with the speed of the whirlwind toward the fort. half-way across the clearing they had come, when the sharp crack of two rifles was heard, and the two foremost savages, making a tremendous bound in the air, came down to the ground in their death-struggles. but the others were not checked in the least. on they came, right over the prostrate bodies, and the next minute were tearing at the pile of logs, with the fury of madmen. the rifleman and the huron had discharged their rifles together at the savages, as they came pouring forward; then drawing their knives, they awaited the onset. the logs, loosely thrown together, could not long resist the efforts to dislodge them, and, in a few minutes, came tumbling to the ground. the first bronzed skull that appeared above them was shattered like an egg-shell, by the stock of the huron's rifle; while, as the savages swarmed in, dernor stooped, and catching edith round the waist, bounded clear of the logs, and dashed at headlong speed across the clearing. right behind, like a pack of hounds, poured his relentless enemies, held in check solely by the huron, who, covering the retreat of his white friends, raged like a tiger with his clubbed rifle; but, powerful and agile as he was, he was finally brought to the earth, and, heedless of him, the savages poured onward, intent only on capturing dernor and edith. at this moment the edge of the clearing was reached; the fugitive had dashed into the wood, and his enemies were just following, when several flashes illuminated the edge of the forest, and simultaneous with the report, the remaining riflemen of the miami, with one exception, burst into the clearing and shot forward like a tornado toward the savages. the number of the whites was increased by harry and jim smith, but half of the indians had already gone to the earth, and the remaining ones broke and scattered as if a mine had exploded beneath their feet. "hello! anybody hurt?" demanded harry smith. "come back here, lew, and let us see you." the fugitive had run quite a distance; but, recognizing the voice of a friend, he halted, looked back, and then returned. in the clearing, he saw standing the panting, excited forms of the brothers smith, allmat, george dernor and ferdinand sego! the latter was leaning on his rifle, and looked up as lewis and edith came to view. he instantly started, as if struck by a bullet, and gazed at her as though he doubted the evidence of his own eyes. edith, on her part, was hardly less agitated. she trembled and leaned heavily a moment on the hunter's arm, and then, relinquishing her hold, bounded forward and was clasped in the arms of sego. neither spoke until they had partly recovered from their emotions; then they conversed in tones so low, that the bystanders, had they wished, could not have overheard the words that were said. all this time, as may well be supposed, lewis dernor was tortured by the most agonizing emotions. the beautiful dreams and air-castles which he had been continually forming and building during the past few days, now dissolved like mist in the air, and left nothing but the cold, cheerless reality, far colder and more cheerless than had ever before impressed him. sego and edith were reunited, and although there appeared to have been some mystery and misunderstanding between them, it was now cleared up, and their happiness seemed complete. the rifleman drew a deep sigh and looked up. "i say, lew," said his brother, "i've asked yer half a dozen times, whether there's any thing that need keep us here any longer?" "the huron--oonamoo?" asked the hunter, looking around him. "was oonamoo with you?--i recollect, now, tom said he was. well, that must be him, then, stretched out yonder." the two moved toward the prostrate form of the indian, which lay upon its face. they rolled him over on his back, but he was limp and nerveless as a rag. his body was still warm, but to all appearance he was entirely lifeless--a gash on the side of his face, from which a great quantity of blood had streamed over his person, adding to the ghastly appearance of the body. "poor fellow! he's dead," said lewis, with a saddened feeling, as he looked down upon him. "he was a faithful fellow, and had few equals. i'm sorry he's dead." "oonamoo ain't dead," said the prostrate individual, opening his eyes, and getting upon his feet with some difficulty. "play 'possum--dat all." "you're a good one," said george dernor, admiringly, as he supported him. "you've had considerable of a hurt though, along side of your noddle." "hit purty hard--hurt a _leetle_," said the huron. "we'll dress your wounds as soon as we reach the brook out in the woods. what did you play 'possum for?" "fool shawnee--fool miami--t'ink dey cotch lew and gal, den come and git oonamoo scalp. if t'ink he ain't dead, kill him; wait till get out of sight, den run." the meaning of which was, that the huron, upon being felled to the earth, concluded it best to feign death until his enemies were out of sight, when he would have risen to his feet and fled. the wound he had received was so severe, that he knew his flight would be difficult and tardy, and he, therefore, avoided giving any signs of life as long as he had reason to believe the savages were in the vicinity. of course he was perfectly conscious when the two riflemen stood over him, and heard their words. understanding at once from these the changed condition of affairs, he arose to his feet, as we have mentioned. a few minutes later, the party was moving slowly through the wood. the brothers smith led the way; behind them came sego and edith far more affectionate and loving than she and dernor had ever been. the latter, with his brother, and allmat and oonamoo, brought up the rear. in a few minutes they reached the brook, where the party halted. the stoical huron had borne up like a martyr thus far; but the precipitation with which he sought a seat the moment a pause was made, showed that he had taxed nature to the utmost. the cool fluid was taken from the brook in the canteens of the hunters, all the blood thoroughly washed from the indian, and then the wound was carefully bandaged by edith, from pieces of her own dress. this done, the savage rose to his feet--his head being so swathed and bundled up that it was nearly thrice its ordinary size--and looked about him with an air that was truly amusing. "you'll be all right agin in a few days," said harry smith. "let's move on, as the day is getting well along." "oonamoo don't go furder--leave you here," said the savage. "how is this? come, go with us to the settlement and stay till your wound gets better," said lewis. all joined their entreaties, but it availed nothing. the savage had made up his mind, and it could not be changed. "can't stay--shawnees, delawares, all round--git much scalp in woods," and waving them an adieu, he plunged into the forest. "injin is injin!" said jim smith; "you can't change his nature. the missionaries have had a hold of him, and made him an honorable red-skin, but they can't get that hankering after scalps out of him. shall i tell you where he's going? he's going back: to the clearin' where them dead injins are stretched, and intends to get their top-knots. i seen him look at 'em very wishful-like when we started away. he was too weak, and he didn't want to do it afore edith, or he'd 've had 'em afore we left that place." [the next time the riflemen encountered the huron, it was upon the war-trail, and full a dozen more scalp-locks hung at his girdle!] again the party moved forward, now with considerable briskness, there being no cause for tardiness or delay. sego and edith conversed in low tones, every look and action showing their perfect happiness, while the hardy leader of the riflemen was as wretched an object as it is possible to imagine. they had progressed several miles, when, as they descended a sort of hollow, they encountered o'hara, hurrying along as fast as the shortness of his legs would permit. "hello!" he exclaimed, suddenly halting. "is the row done with?" "of course it is," replied harry smith. "who finished it?" "we all had a hand in it, i reckon." "it's an all-fired shame. as soon as--where's oonamoo?" he abruptly demanded, looking around him. "gone off in the woods for scalps." "didn't lose his?" "no; although he come mighty nigh losing his head." "it's an all-fired shame," resumed o'hara. "as soon as he got inside the fort there with lew, i streaked it for the settlement to get the boys. i told you to hurry, but after you got to the clearin', i wanted you to wait so that i could jine in the fun, and pitch in promiscuously. why didn't you do it?" "matters were mixed up a little too much to allow us to wait," replied lewis dernor. "s'pose they was, but i'm mad and want to lick somebody. won't you fight, lew?" the latter merely smiled, and the party moved on, o'hara being forced to bottle his wrath, as he could find no one upon whom to expend it. occasionally, however, he and the brothers smith had a war of words, but it amounted to nothing, being attended by no real ill-feeling upon either side. it was just growing dark when the party reached the settlement. the delight with which the fugitives were welcomed by the settlers need not be described. many had had the most painful apprehensions regarding edith, and nearly every family felt as if one of its members had been restored, upon her return. and the confidence which they reposed in the gallant-hearted rifleman, the reliance which they placed upon his prowess and bravery, were such that all felt his death would have been a public calamity. the riflemen remained several days in the settlement, there being no special cause for hurrying their departure. while the members of this small party enjoyed themselves to the utmost, the sadness and dejection of their leader was remarked by all. he was often seen wandering in the woods, silent and moody, resolutely refusing communication with any one. he carefully avoided sego and edith, until the latter, wondering more than the others at the cause of his changed behavior, sent word to him that she wished him to spend an evening with her. dernor's first impulse was to refuse the invitation; but, on second thought, he concluded to accept it, and he returned a reply promising to call upon her on the following evening. edith was living with smith, where sego was also spending his time, and, from the wording of her invitation, he confidently expected to meet her alone. he was considerably disappointed and chagrined, therefore, on entering the room, to find sego seated within a few feet of her, the expression of both faces showing that each was full of happiness and utterly delighted with each other. both welcomed him, and when he had been seated, edith asked, rather abruptly: "now, lewis, what is the matter with you?" "nothing," he replied, looking at the toe of his moccasin, and feeling a little stubborn and ugly simply because his fair questioner was just the opposite. "now you needn't tell me that," she persisted. "what makes you act so strangely--and keep away from me as though you hated me?" "_you_ ought to know," replied the hunter, more sullenly than before. "i? i am sure i do not. pray, what is it?" the hunter, who was acting much like a pouting child, refused to make answer. edith laughingly repeated her question several times, but it was not replied to. still laughing and blushing, she arose, and moved her chair close beside him; then, sitting down, placed one of her warm hands in his. gently patting his embrowned cheek with the other hand, she asked, in that voice which none but the maiden can assume who is conscious of her power: "_won't_ you tell edith what troubles you?" matters were getting decidedly dangerous. there sat the sullen hunter, his head bent, his lips closed, and his eyes fixed resolutely upon the toe of his moccasin. right before these eyes, so directly before them that the view of his foot was almost hid, was the beaming, laughing, radiant face of edith, looking right up in his own, her eyes sparkling, and her countenance a thousand times more lovely than ever. several times dernor felt like catching her to his bosom, and kissing her lips again and again; but, as he was on the very point of doing so, he remembered that sego was in the room, and felt more angered than ever, and gazed harder than ever at his moccasin. "won't you even look at me?" asked edith, putting her open hand over his eyes, as if to pull his gaze down. he instantly looked her steadily in the face, without changing a muscle of his countenance, while she, folding her hands, returned the gaze with equal steadiness. her lips, too, were resolutely closed, but her eyes fairly scintillated with mischief, and she seemed just able to prevent herself from laughing outright. how long this _oculistic_ contest would have continued we can not pretend to say, but it was ended by edith asking: "what makes you look so troubled, lewis?" "because i am," he replied, curtly. "tell me the cause, and i will do all i can to help it." "it's _you_ that have done it!" he spoke with deep feeling. "i that have done it!" repeated the girl, in consternation. "why, how did i do it?" "edith!" his words were ringingly clear. they were winged with reproof. "do you want me to tell you?" "of course i do." "when we were alone, you led me to believe that you loved me. as soon as you saw sego you went right into his arms, and i was forgotten." the lurking mirth and mischief in her face grew more perceptible each moment, while he was certain, although he did not look in that direction, that sego was doing his best to smother a laugh. "well, what of that?" she asked, looking down from his face and toying with a button at his waist. "_what of that?_" he exclaimed, indignantly. "it is the meanest thing a person could do." the reader must be indulgent, and consider the circumstances in which the hunter was placed. the mischievous edith was tormenting him. how could she, being a woman, help it? "don't you believe i love you?" she asked, after a moment's pause. "believe it? to my sorrow and mortification, _i know_ you don't." "lewis!" "you love sego, and i can be nothing to you but one of many friends," he added. "yes, dearly do i love sego!" the maiden replied, with the old roguishness in her eyes. "fudge!" he exclaimed, impatiently, and making a movement as if to move away. "edith"--he spoke earnestly--"i can not bear this trifling. i am sorry you have treated me thus. i must leave you----" "no, you must not leave me!" she as earnestly answered. "do you wish to keep me here longer, to mortify me?" "i have something more to say to you." "say it quickly, then." "in the first place, look straight into my eyes, as you did a few minutes ago." the hunter did as requested, although it was a harder task than he suspected. "now," said edith, "in the first place, _i love you_; and, in the second place, i love him (pointing to sego); but (here a pause) i do not feel the same toward each of you." "i shouldn't think you did, the way things looked in the clearing!" edith laughed outright, and then said: "lewis, let me tell you something. the man sitting there, whom you know as ferdinand sego, _is my own father_!" "is that so?" demanded dernor, almost springing off his seat, "then, by thunder, if you ain't the most noble gal in the wide creation, and i the biggest fool." and he embraced her, unmindful of the presence of sego, who seemed in danger of an epileptic fit from his excessive laughter. "how is this? let's understand matters," said the rifleman, a few minutes later. "i can soon explain," said sego. "to commence at the beginning, my name is ferdinand sego sudbury. i emigrated out in this western country some years since, with my wife, and only daughter, edith, here. shortly after, my wife died; and, feeling lonely and dejected, i took to wandering in the woods, making long hunts, to while away the time. you remember when i encountered you, and received an invitation to make one of your number. i accepted it, with the understanding that i could not spend my entire time with you. when not with you, i was at my own cabin, with my daughter. i joined under the simple name which you have known me by, for no reason at all save that it was a mere notion, i having used that name in the east on more than one occasion. i kept my relations with your band secret from edith, as i did not wish to alarm her by letting her know that i took part in your desperate expeditions. "it happened on one occasion, when wandering along the ohio, on my return to my cabin, that i encountered a flat-boat, in which were several of my acquaintances. at their urgent request, i waded out, was taken on board, and accompanied them to their destination, down the river. here i left them, and several days after reached my cabin. i found edith gone. the undisturbed condition of the furniture forbade the supposition that she had been carried off by the savages. i endeavored to find her trail, but a storm obliterated all traces, and i was compelled to give her up as lost. "it was quite a while before i rejoined you. when i did, i said nothing of my loss, not believing that you knew any thing about it. it seems singular that i should have omitted to mention it; but, i will not deny i had a lingering suspicion that edith had eloped with some young hunter, whose acquaintance she had formed during my absence. after i had been with you some time, i mentioned her name, but, you not having heard it, i gained no satisfaction by doing so. "what happened after this is known, perhaps, better to you than to me. if you love edith, as i rather suspect you do, from all i have heard and seen, you are welcome to her. i know she has a strong affection for you." it is wonderful how a matter like the one in question will become known in a small community. the next day there was not a person in the whole settlement who was not aware of what has been related in the last few pages, and there was not one who did not rejoice in the happiness of the noble-hearted leader of the riflemen of the miami. -------------------- as we have hinted in the commencement of this work, the organization known by the name last mentioned, kept up its existence several years longer. lewis dernor remained its nominal leader, but, after his marriage, the exploits of its members became less frequent and noted. all, however, joined in the great border war which raged for several years previous to . in anthony wayne's great battle of this year, tom o'hara and allmat fell, and, as has been said in another place, the organization was broken up, never again to be revived. lewis dernor and edith lived to a ripe old age, and their descendants at this day are among the most respectable and widely-known of the inhabitants of southern ohio. produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) transcriber's note minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. printer errors have been changed and are listed at the end. all other inconsistencies are as in the original. characters that could not be displayed directly in latin- are transcribed as follows: _ - italics ^ - superscript yale historical manuscripts i published under the direction of the department of history from the income of the frederick john kingsbury memorial fund a journey to ohio in as recorded in the journal of margaret van horn dwight edited with an introduction by max farrand new haven yale university press copyright, , by yale university press printed in the united states of america first published, october, second printing, december, third printing, december, fourth printing, april, fifth printing, october, all rights reserved. this book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers. introduction "if it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no epilogue;" and rosalind might well have added that a good story needs no prologue. the present journal is complete in itself, and it is such a perfect gem, that it seems a pity to mar its beauty by giving it any but the simplest setting. there are many readers, however, with enough human interest to wish to know who rosalind really was, and to be assured that she "married and lived happily ever after." that is the reason for this introduction. margaret van horn dwight was born on december , . she was the daughter of doctor maurice william dwight, a brother of president timothy dwight of yale, and margaret (dewitt) dwight. the death of her father in , and the subsequent marriage of her mother, was probably the reason for margaret dwight being taken by her grandmother, mary edwards dwight, a daughter of jonathan edwards, who trained her as her own child in her family in northampton. the death of her grandmother, february , , was the occasion of her going to live in new haven in the family of her aunt, elizabeth dwight, who had married william walton woolsey, and whose son was president theodore woolsey. three years later, in , margaret dwight left new haven to go to her cousins in warren, ohio. it was doubtless there that she met mr. bell, whom she married, december , , a year after her arrival. william bell, jr., was born in ireland, february , , and after he was a wholesale merchant in pittsburgh. the family genealogy formally records that margaret dwight bell became the mother of thirteen children, that she died on october , , and that she was "a lady of remarkable sweetness and excellence, and devotedly religious." family tradition adds a personal touch in relating that her home was a center of hospitality and that she herself was active and very vivacious. the journal of the rough wagon trip to ohio in was evidently kept by margaret dwight in fulfilment of a promise to her cousin, elizabeth woolsey, to whom it was sent as soon as the journey was over. a good many years later the journal was given to a son of the author, and the original is now in the possession of a granddaughter, miss katharine reynolds wishart of waterford, pennsylvania. it has been well cared for and is in excellent condition, except that the first two pages are missing. this is of less importance from the fact that two independent copies had been made. the text of the journal here printed is taken from the original manuscript, and is reproduced as accurately as typographical devices permit. max farrand. a journey to ohio milford friday eve. at capt pond's. shall i commence my journal, my dear elizabeth, with a description of the pain i felt at taking leave of all my friends, or shall i leave you to imagine?--the afternoon has been spent by me in the most painful reflections & in almost total silence by my companions- i have thought of a thousand things unsaid, a thousand kindnesses unpaid with thanks that i ought to have remembered more seasonably; and the neglect of which causes me many uneasy feelings- my neglecting to take leave of sally, has had the same effect- i hope she did not feel hurt by it, for it proceeded from no want of gratitude for her kindness to me. i did not imagine parting with any friend could be so distressing as i found leaving your mama. i did not know till then, how much i loved her & could i at that moment have retraced my steps! but it was too late to repent-- deacon wolcott & his wife are very kind, obliging, people, & miss wolcott is a very pleasant companion, i do not know what i should do without her. we came on to butler's this afternoon & i came immediately down to uncle pond's & drank tea. miss w. came with me & both uncle & aunt invited her to stay and sleep with me, which she accordingly did. cousin patty has been with me, to say good bye, to all my friends, & to-morrow we proceed to stamford. sat. night, d. nash's inn. middlesex- we had a cold, unsociable ride today, each one of us being occupied in thinking of the friends we had left behind & of the distance, which was every moment increasing, between them & us. mrs w has left an aged father in the last stages of consumption, that was a sufficient excuse for silence on her part. mr w. made several attempts to dispel & by kind words & _phebeish_[a] looks but without success; he appears to be a very fond husband. we stopt to _eat oats_ at a tavern in fairfield, west farms, an old lady came into the room where miss w. (whose name, by the way, is susan, not hannah, sally, or abby) & we were sitting. "well! gals where are you going?" "to new connecticut" "you bant tho- to new connecticut? why what a long journey! do you ever expect to get there? how far is it?" "near miles" "well gals, you gals & your husbands with you?" "no ma'am"- "not got your husbands! well i don't know- they say there's wild indians there!" the poor woman was then call'd out to her daughter (the mistress of the house) who she told us has been ill five months with a swelling & she had come that afternoon to see it _launch'd_ by the physicians who were then in the house-- she went out but soon return'd & told us they were "cutting her poor child all to pieces"- she did not know but she should as lieve see a wild indian as to see that scene over again-- i felt very sorry for the poor old lady- i could not help smiling at the comparison. the country we pass thro' till we are beyond n. york, i need not describe to you, nor indeed could i; for i am attended by a very unpleasant tho' not uncommon, companion- one to whom i have bow'd in subjection ever since i left you-pride-- it has entirely prevented my seeing the country lest i should be known-- you will cry "for shame" & so did i but it did no good- i could neither shame nor reason it away, & so i suppose it will attend me to the mountains, then i am sure it will bid me adieu- "for you know the proverb" 'pride dwelleth not among the mountains'- i don't certainly know where this proverb is to be found, but julia can tell you- for if i mistake not it is on the next page to "there is nothing sweet" &c- i do not find it so unpleasant riding in a waggon as i expected-nor am i very much fatigued with it- but four weeks to ride all the time, is fatigueing to think of- we came on to nash's tavern where we found no company excepting one gentleman who looks like a d^r susannah (m^r nash's granddaughter) says he is a "particular bit" one who likes good eating & a great deal of waiting upon, better than he likes to pay for it- here we stay over the sabbath. footnotes: [footnote a: for the description at the word _phebeish_, the reader is referred to miss julia.] sunday eve-- this morning susannah came & invited us to attend meeting- we at first refused but i afterwards chang'd my mind, & "took a notion" (as susannah told her friends to whom she did me the honour to introduce me) to go- so taking an apple to eat on the road we set out for the church- it was "situated on an eminence" but was a small old wooden building-the minister; who i found was brother to m^r fisher, susannah told me was not very well liked by some "he hadn't so good a gait to deliver his sermons as some," but she believ'd he was a very serious good man- she then gave me his history but i cannot spend time to give it to you- - the sermon had nothing very striking in it but if i had time i would write you the text heads &c just to let you see i remember it, though i fear it has done me no good for i heard it like a stranger and did not realize that i was interested in it _at_ all- i was entirely of susannah's opinion respecting the preacher, for i thought his "gait to deliver" was better than his voice, for he has a most terrible _nasal twang_--before we got home at noon, i had found out the squire & half the parish, susannah's history & many other _interesting_ things which i have almost forgotten--i saw or well dress'd good looking girls, & as many young men answering the first part of the description, one of whom was chorister- & another, from the resemblance he bears them, i imagine must be brother to miss haines or the n york sexton---- i went all day to meeting & am now very tir'd, for our walk was a very long one, i should think almost miles each way which would make almost miles for one poor sermon---- october - monday- cook's inn--county west chester-- i never will go to new connecticut with a _deacon_ again, for we put up at every byeplace in the country to _save expence_- it is very grating to my pride to go into a tavern & furnish & cook my own provision- to ride in a wagon &c &c- but that i can possibly get along with- but to be oblig'd to pass the night in such a place as we are now in, just because it is a little cheaper, is more than i am willing to do- i should even rather drink clear rum out of the wooden bottle after the deacon has drank & wip'd it over with his band, than to stay here another night-- the house is very small & very dirty- it serves for a tavern, a store, & i should imagine hog's pen stable & every thing else- the air is so impure i have scarcely been able to swallow since i enter'd the house- the landlady is a fat, dirty, ugly looking creature, yet i must confess very obliging- she has a very suspicious countenance & i am very afraid of her- she seems to be master, as well as mistress & storekeeper, & from the great noise she has been making directly under me for this half hour, i suspect she has been "stoning the raisins & watering the rum"- all the evening there has been a store full of noisy drunken fellows, yet m^r wolcott could not be persuaded to bring in but a small part of the baggage, & has left it in the waggon before the door, as handy as possible- miss w's trunk is in the bar-room unlock'd the key being broken today- it contains a bag of money of her father's, yet she could not persuade him to bring it up stairs-- i feel so uneasy i cannot sleep & had therefore rather write than not this hour- some one has just gone below stairs after being as i suppos'd in bed this some time- for what purpose i know not-unless to go to our trunks or waggon- the old woman, (for it was her who went down,) tells me i must put out my candle so good night---- tuesday morn--i went to bed last night with fear & trembling, & feel truly glad to wake up & find myself alive & well- if our property is all safe, we shall have double cause to be thankful-- the old woman kept walking about after i was in bed, & i then heard her in close confab with her husband a long time-- our room is just large enough to contain a bed a chair & a very small stand- our bed has one brown sheet & one pillow- the sheet however appear'd to be clean, which was more than we got at nash's- there we were all oblig'd to sleep in the same room without curtains or any other screen- & our sheets there were so dirty i felt afraid to sleep in them- we were not much in favor at our first arrival there; but before we left them, they appear'd quite to like us- & i don't know why they should not, for we were all very clever, notwithstanding we rode in a waggon-- m^rs nash said she should reckon on't to see us again (miss w & me) so i told her that in years she might expect to see me- she said i should never come back alone, that i would certainly be married in a little while- but i am now more than ever determin'd not to oblige myself to spend my days there, by marrying should i even have an opport^y-- i am oblig'd to write every way so you must not wonder at the badness of the writing- i am now in bed & writing in my lap- susan has gone to see if our baggage is in order-- i hear the old woman's voice talking to the good deacon- & an "i beg your pardon" comes out at every breath almost--oh i cannot bear to see her again she is such a disgusting object-- the men have been swearing & laughing in the store under me this hour- & the air of my room is so intolerable, that i must quit my writing to go in search of some that is _breathable_- i don't know how far i shall be oblig'd to go for it- but there is none very near i am certain-- having a few moments more to spare before we set out, with my book still in my lap, i hasten to tell you we found everything perfectly safe, & i believe i wrong'd them all by suspicions--the house by day light looks worse then ever- every kind of thing in the room where they live- a chicken half pick'd hangs over the door- & pots, kettles, dirty dishes, potatoe barrels- & every thing else- & the old woman- it is beyond my power to describe her- but she & her husband & both very kind & obliging- it is as much as a body's life is worth to go near them-- the air has already had a medicinal effect upon me-- i feel as if i had taken an emetic- & should stay till night i most certainly should be oblig'd to take my bed, & that would be certain death-- i did not think i could eat in the house- but i did not dare refuse- the good deacon nor his wife did not mind it, so i thought i must not-- the old creature sits by eating, & we are just going to my great joy so good bye, good bye till to-night---- tuesday noon- ferry house near state prison- it has been very cold & dusty riding to day-- we have met with no adventure yet, of any kind-- we are now waiting at the ferry house to cross the river as soon as wind & tide serve- the white waves foam terribly how we shall get across i know not, but i am in great fear- if we drown there will be an end of my journal---- hobuck, wednesday morn-buskirck's inn-- after waiting or hours at the ferry house, we with great difficulty cross'd the ferry & i, standing brac'd against one side of the boat involuntarily endeavouring to balance it with my weight & groaning at every fresh breeze as i watch'd the side which almost dipt in the water- & the ferrymen swearing at every breath- m^r, m^{rs} & miss wolcott viewing the city and vainly wishing they had improv'd the time of our delay to take a nearer view---- at length we reach'd this shore almost frozen- the ferry is a mile & an half wide-- i was too fatigued to write last night & soon after we came retired to bed- we were again oblig'd all to sleep in one room & in dirty sheets- but pass'd the night very comfortably--if good wishes have any influence, we shall reach our journey's end in peace- for we obtain them from everyone-- the morning is pleasant & we are soon to ride----m^{rs} buskirck the landlady, i should imagine is about years of age & she sits by with a three year old child in her lap- she wears a long ear'd cap & looks so old i thought she must be grandmother till i enquir'd-- springfield-new jersey- pierson's inn-wed^y-pm oclock- "what is every body's business is no body's" for instance- it is nobody's business where we are going, yet every body enquires- every toll gatherer & child that sees us---- i am almost discouraged- we shall never get to new connecticut or any where else, at the rate we go on- we went but eleven miles yesterday & to day-- our waggon wants repairing & we were oblig'd to put up for the night at about oclock.---- i think the country so far, much pleasanter than any part of connecticut we pass'd thro'-but the turnpike roads are not half as good- the deacon & his family complain most bitterly of the gates & toll bridges- tho' the former is very good-natur'd with his complaints-- also the tavern expenses are a great trouble- as i said before i will never go with a deacon again- for we go so slow & so cheap, that i am almost tir'd to death. the horses walk, walk hour after hour while m^r w sits _reckoning his expenses_ & forgetting to drive till some of us ask when we shall get there?- then he remembers the longer we are on the road the more _expensive_ it will be, & whips up his horses--and when erastus the son, drives, we go still slower for fear of hurting the horses-- since i left you i have conceived such an aversion for doctors & the words, expense, expensive, cheap & expect, that i do not desire ever to see the one (at least to need them) or hear the others again, in my life-- i have just found out that elizabeth town is but miles off & have been to the landlord to enquire if i cannot possibly get there & he encourages me a little, i cannot write more till i am certain- oh if i can but see my brother! after a long crying spell, i once more take up my pen to tell you i cannot go,- there is no chair or side saddle to be got, & i will, by supposing him at new york, try to content myself- to describe my disappointment would be impossible--it is such an agravation of my pain, to know myself so near & then not see him-- i have the greater part of the time till now, felt in better spirits than i expected-my journal has been of use to me in that respect----i did not know but i should meet with the same fate that a cousin of m^r hall's did, who like me, was journeying to a new, if not a western country- she was married on her way & prevented from proceeding to her journey's end- there was a man to day in camptown where we stopt to eat, not oats but gingerbread, who enquired, or rather _expected_ we were going to the hio- we told him yes & he at once concluded it was to get husbands- he said winter was coming on & he wanted a wife & believ'd he must go there to get him one- i concluded of course the next thing would be, a proposal to miss w or me to stay behind to save trouble for us both; but nothing would suit him but a rich widow, so our hopes were soon at an end- disappointment is the lot of man & we may as well bear them with a good grace- this thought restrain'd my tears at that time, but has not been able to since-- what shall i do? my companions say they shall insist upon seeing my journal & i certainly will not show it to them, so i told them i would bring it with me the first time i came to henshaw (the place where they live) & read it to them; but i shall do my utmost to send it to you before i go- that would be a sufficient excuse for not performing my promise which must be conditional--i will not insist upon your reading this thro' my dear elizabeth & i suspect by this time you feel quite willing to leave it unread further- i wish i could make it more interesting-- i write just as i feel & think at the moment & i feel as much in haste to write every thing that occurs, as if you could know it the moment it was written- i must now leave you to write to my brother, for if i cannot see him i will at least write him- i cannot bear the idea of leaving the state without once more seeing him-- i hope next to write you from miles hence at least--poor susan feels worse to night than me, & m^{rs} wolcott to cheer us, tells us what we have yet to expect- this you may be sure has the desir'd effect & raises our spirits at once-- friday morn- chester n j. we left springfield yesterday about nine oclock & came on to chester about miles from spring^d----patience & perseverance will get us to n c in time-but i fear we shall winter on our way there, for instead of four weeks, i fear we shall be four times four---- we found an excellent tavern here compar'd with any we have yet found, & we had for the first time clean sheets to sleep in- we pass'd thro' morristown yesterday, & small villages- one called chatham i do not know the names of the others-- it is very hilly in n jersey, & what is very strange, we appear almost always to be going up hill, but like the squirrel, never rise inches higher- the hills look very handsomely at a little distance,- but none of them are very high---- m^r & m^{rs} wolcott, after telling us every thing dreadful, they could think of, began encouraging us by changing sides & relating the good as well as the bad- they are sure i shall like warren better than i expect & think i shall not regret going in the least---- the weather yesterday was very pleasant, & is this morning also- we wish to reach easton to day, but i am sure we shall not, for it is miles distant- or hundred miles appears like a short journey to me now- indeed i feel as if i could go almost any distance- my courage & spirits & both very good--one week is already gone of the -- i wish i could fly back to you a few minutes while we are waiting---- mansfield-n j-sat-morn october - we yesterday travell'd the worst road you can imagine- over mountains & thro' vallies- we have not i believe, had rods of level ground the whole day- and the road some part of it so intolerably bad on every account, so rocky & so gullied, as to be almost impassable- miles this side morristown, we cross'd a mountain call'd schyler or something like it- we walk'd up it, & m^{rs} w told us it was a little like some of the mountains only not half so bad--indeed every difficulty we meet with is compar'd to something worse that we have yet to expect- we found a house built in the heart of the mountain near some springs- in a romantic place-whether the springs are medicinal or not, i do not know- but i suspect they are, & that the house is built for the accommodation of those who go to them- for no human creature, i am sure, would wish to live there- opposite the house are stairs on the side of the mountain & a small house resembling a bathing house, at the head of them-- soon after we cross'd the mountain, we took a wrong road, owing to the neglect of those whose duty it is to erect guide boards, & to some awkward directions given-- this gave us a great deal of trouble, for we were oblig'd in order to get right again, to go across a field where the stones were so large & so thick that we scarcely touch'd the ground the whole distance- at last the road seem'd to end in a hogs pen, but we found it possible to get round it, & once more found ourselves right again- we met very few people, yet the road seem'd to have been a great deal travelled- one young man came along & caus'd us some diversion, for he eyed us very closely & then enter'd into conversation with m^r w who was walking a little forward-he told him he should himself set out next week for pittsburg- & we expect to see him again before we get there-- erastus enquir'd the road of him & he said we must go the same way he did; so we follow'd on till we put up for the night; he walking his horse all the way & looking back at the waggon-as soon as we came to the inn he sat on his horse at the door till he saw us all quietly seated in the house & then rode off- which of us made a conquest i know not, but i am sure one of us did----we have pass'd thro' but towns in n j- but several small villages- dutch valley, between some high hills & the mountain- batestown, where we stopt to _bait_-& some others- all too small to deserve a name- at last we stopt at mansfield at an inn kept by philip fits (a little f). we found it kept by young women, whom i thought _amazoons_- for they swore & flew about "like _witches_" they talk & laugh'd about their sparks &c &c till it made us laugh so as almost to affront them- there was a young woman visiting them who reminded me of lady di spanker-for sprung from the ground to her horse with as much agility as that lady could have done-- they all took their pipes before tea---- one of them appears to be very unhappy- i believe she has a very cross husband if she is married- she has a baby & a pretty one-- their manners soften'd down after a while & they appear to be obliging & good natur'd---- pennsylvania- saturday eve- miles from bethlehem- hanover- oct ^{th} before i write you anything i will tell you where & how we are- we are at a dutch tavern almost crazy- in one corner of the room are a set of dutchmen talking singin & laughing in dutch so loud, that my brain is almost turn'd- they one moment catch up a fiddle & i expect soon to be pulled up to dance- i am so afraid of them i dare hardly stay in the house one night; much less over the sabbath- i cannot write so good night-- sunday morn- i have hesitated a long time whether i ought to write or not, & have at length concluded i may as well write as anything else, for i cannot read or listen to deacon w who is reading- for i am almost distracted. we have determin'd (or rather m^r w has & we must do as he says) to spend the sabbath among these wicked wretches- it would not be against my conscience to ride to day rather than stay here, for we can do no good & get none- & how much harm they may do us i know not- but they look as if they had sufficient inclination to do us evil-- sunday eve- sundown- i can wait no longer to write you, for i have a great deal to say- i should not have thought it possible to pass a sabbath in our country among such a dissolute vicious set of wretches as we are now among--i believe at least dutchmen have been here to day to smoke, drink, swear, pitch cents, almost dance, laugh & talk dutch & stare at us- they come in, in droves young & old- black & white- women & children- it is dreadful to see so many people that you cannot speak to or understand-- they are all high dutch, but i hope not a true specimen of the pennsylvanians generally-- just as we set down to tea, in came a dozen or two of women, each with a child in her arms, & stood round the room- i did not know but they had come in a body to claim me as one of their kin, for they all resemble me- but as they said nothing to me, i concluded they came to see us _yankees_, as they would a learned pig-- the women dress in striped linsey woolsey petticoats & short gowns not inches in length- they look very strangely- the men dress much better- they put on their best cloaths on sunday, which i suppose is their only holiday, & "keep it up" as they call it-- a stage came on from bethlehem & stopt here, with girls & a well dress'd _fellow_ who sat between them an arm round each-- they were probably going to the next town to a dance or a frolic of some kind-for the driver, who was very familiar with them, said he felt just right for a frolic-- i suspect more liquor has been sold to day than all the week besides-- the children have been calling us yankees (which is the only english word they can speak) all day long-whether it was meant as a term of derision or not, i neither know nor care- of this i am sure, they cannot feel more contempt for me than i do for them;-tho' i most sincerely pity their ignorance & folly- there seems to be no hope of their improvement as they will not attend to any means- after saying so much about the people, i will describe our yesterday's ride- but first i will describe our last nights lodging- susan & me ask'd to go to bed- & mrs w spoke to m^r riker the landlord-(for no woman was visible)- so he took up a candle to light us & we ask'd m^{rs} w to go up with us, for we did not dare go alone- when we got into a room he went to the bed & open'd it for us, while we were almost dying with laughter, & then stood waiting with the candle for us to get into bed- but m^{rs} w- as soon as she could speak, told him she would wait & bring down the candle & he then left us- i never laugh'd so heartily in my life- our bed to sleep on was straw, & then a feather bed for covering- the pillows contain'd nearly a single handful of feathers, & were cover'd with the most curious & dirty patchwork, i ever saw-we had one bedquilt & one sheet- i did not undress at all, for i expected dutchmen in every moment & you may suppose slept very comfortably in that expectation----m^r & m^{rs} w, & another woman slept in the same room- when the latter came to bed, the man came in & open'd her bed also, after we were all in bed in the middle of the night, i was awaken'd by the entrance of three dutchmen, who were in search of a bed- i was almost frightened to death- but m^r w at length heard & stopt them before they had quite reach'd our bed- before we were dress'd the men were at the door- which could not fasten, looking at us- i think _wild indians_ will be less terrible to me, than these creatures- nothing vexes me more than to see them set & look at us & talk in dutch and laugh-- now for our ride- after we left mansfield, we cross'd the longest hills, and the worst road, i ever saw- two or three times after riding a little distance on turnpike, we found it fenced across & were oblig'd to turn into a wood where it was almost impossible to proceed- large trees were across, not the road for there was none, but the only place we could possibly ride- it appear'd to me, we had come to an end of the habitable part of the globe- but all these difficulties were at last surmounted, & we reach'd the delaware- the river where it is cross'd, is much smaller than i suppos'd- the bridge over it is elegant i think-- it is covered & has windows each side-- as soon as we pass'd the bridge, we enter'd easton, the first town in pennsylvania- it is a small but pleasant town- the houses are chiefly small, & built of stone- very near together- the meeting house, bank, & i think, market, are all of the same description- there are a few very handsome brick houses, & some wooden buildings--from easton, we came to bethlehem, which is miles distant from it- m^r w. went a mile out of his way, that we might see the town- it contains almost entirely dutch people-- the houses there are nearly all stone- but like easton it contains some pretty brick houses- it has not half as many stores as easton---- the meeting house is a curious building-it looks like a castle- i suppose it is stone,- the outside is plaister'd- we left our waggon to view the town- we did not know whether the building was a church or the moravian school, so we enquir'd of or men who only answer'd in dutch- m^r & m^{rs} w were purchasing bread, & susan & i walk'd on to enquire- we next saw a little boy on horseback, & he could only say "me cannot english" but he i believe, spoke to another, for a very pretty boy came near us & bow'd & expecting us to speak, which we soon did; & he pointed out the school & explained the different buildings to us as well as he was able; but we found it difficult to understand him, for he could but just "english"- we felt very much oblig'd to him, though we neglected to tell him so- he is the only polite dutchman small or great, we have yet seen; & i am unwilling to suppose him a _dutchman_. the school buildings are low, long stone houses- the stone houses are not at all handsome- but rather ugly--where we stopt to bait yesterday, we found another waggon containing a widow jackson, her sons & a daughter in law- they enquir'd where we were going & told us they were going to the same place & immediately join'd our party- we were sorry as we did not wish an addition to our party, & thought by not travvelling on sunday we should lose their company, but rather than lose ours, they wait till monday-they are very clever people apparently, & we may possibly be benefited by them before we end our journey--we now find the benefit of having our own provision- for i would not eat anything we could get here. monday morn-october - it rains & we shall have a dismal day i am afraid-m^r w's harness last night was very much injur'd by being chew'd to pieces by a cow- i have broken my parasol handle a little, but it will not much injure it-i have a bad cold to day- which i know not how i have taken- i more than ever wish to reach warren-- pennsylvania- monday-eve- a dutchman's inn- i dont know where. palks county-or some thing like it-- we have only pass'd thro' small towns to day, allenstown & kluztown- the former is about miles from hannover, where we spent the sabbath, & from bethlehem- before we enter'd the town, we cross'd the lehi in places- it was not deep, & we forded it to save time & _expence_- it runs i believe through bethlehem or at the side of it & is a very small river- allentown is not a pleasant place-the houses are almost all stone- it contains small stone churches- we went into a store, where i bought me a coarse tooth comb for cents- i should never get accustom'd to the pensylvania currency- it diverts me to hear them talk of their fippenny bits (as they pronounce it) & their eleven penny bits-- kluztown is but a few miles from allentown-it has but one short street which is very thickly built with stone & log houses-- it is rather a dirty street & not more pleasant than the others stone is used for everything in this state- the barns & houses are almost entirely built of it- i imagine the dutch pride themselves on building good barns, for a great many of than are very elegant- they are & stories high, have windows & one or . i saw with blinds- they are larger & handsomer than most of the houses- the dutch women are all out as we pass, dressing flax, picking up apples &c &c-the dress of the women grows worse & worse-we find them now with very short petticoats, no short gown & barefoot-- the country is not pleasant, at least does not appear so as we ride thro' it at all- i should think the land must be good as we see large fields of grain very frequently- there does not appear to be as much fruit as in n y & n j--we saw immense quantities of apples in each of those states, particularly n j- there would be thousands of bushels at the cider presses, & still the trees would be borne down with them-- the roads in this state are pretty good, where, dame nature has not undertaken to pave them- but she has so much other business on hand that she has never learn'd to pave, & makes a wretched hand at it- i wish she could be persuaded to leave it to art for the future; for we are very great sufferers for her work- it is quite amusing to see the variety of paintings on the innkeeper's signs- i saw one in n j with tho^s jeff'^{ns} head & shoulders & his name above it- to day i saw gen g washington- his name underneath- gen putnam riding down the steps at horseneck- one sign was merely little kegs hanging down one after the other- they have the sun rising, setting, & at meridian, here a full moon, a new moon, the moon & stars around her, the lion & unicorn "fighting &c", & every thing else that a dutchman has ever seen or heard of- i do not believe one of them has wit enough to invent any thing, even for a sign----several of these creatures sit by jabbering dutch so fast, that my brain is turn'd & my thoughts distracted, & i wonder i have been able to write a word- if you find it unintelligible you must not wonder or blame me- a dozen will talk at once & it is really intolerable- i wish uncle porter was here-how can i live among them weeks? we have come about miles to day- it rain'd a very little this morning & the rest of the day has been quite pleasant tho' somewhat cold- tomorrow we pass thro' reading-- wednesday oct^ber ^st highdleburg-penn- we pass'd through reading yesterday which is one of the largest & prettiest towns i have seen-we stopt about hours in the town, & i improved my time in walking about to see it- i went into the stores enquiring for a scissor case- almost every one could talk english- but i believe the greatest part of them were dutch people- as soon as we left reading, we cross'd the schuylkill- it was not deeper than the lehi, & we rode thro' it in our waggon. a bridge was begun over it, but the man broke & was unable to finish it- it would have been an excellent one had it been completed- it is now grown over with grass & serves as a walk for the ladies---- we put up for the night at leonard shaver's tavern-he is a dutchman, but has one of the most agreeable women for his wife i have seen in this state-i was extremely tir'd when we stopt, & went immediately to bed after tea- & for the first time for a long while, undress'd me & had a comfortable nights rest- we are oblig'd to sleep every & any way- at most of the inns now---- my companions were all disturb'd by the waggoners who put up here & were all night in the room below us, eating, drinking, talking, laughing & swearing- poor m^r w- was so disturb'd that he is not well this morning, & what is more unpleasant to us, is not good natur'd, & m^rs w has been urging him this half hour, to eat some breakfast- he would only answer "i shan't eat any"-but at length swallow'd some in sullen silence- but is in a different way preparing to ride-- if i were going to be married i would give my _intended_, a gentle emetic, or some such thing to see how he would bear being sick a little- for i could not coax a husband as i would a child, only because he was a little sick & a great deal cross- i trust i shall never have the trial- i am sure i should never bear it with temper & patience. m^r w is i believe a very pious good man, but not naturally pleasant temper'd- religion however, has corrected it in a great degree, but not wholly overcome it- m^{rs} w- is an amiable sweet temper'd woman, as i ever saw; the more i know her, the better i love her- susan is a charming girl-but erastus is rather an obstinate boy- he feels superiour to his father & every one else, in wisdom--m^{rs} jackson is a clever woman i believe, but i have a prejudice against her which i cannot overcome- she is very inquisitive and very communicative- she resembles moll lyman or rather crazy moll of northampton in her looks- she has considerable property & feels it very sensibly- her youngest son is almost eighteen & has his wife with him, who is not quite as old- they have been married months, & are a most loving couple- i cannot help thinking whenever i see them together, of "love i sophia?" &c-- her name is eliza & his, john-- the other son is a very obliging but not a very polish'd young man- i like them all better than at first---- wednesday eve- miller's town- penn- oct- ^{st} we have come miles to day, & just begin to shorten the distance between pittsburgh & us, & to increase it between phildelphy (as the dutchmen call it,) & us- it has for a long time been miles to pitts^g & to phil^{hia}- but is now to one & more than to the other-- it began snowing this morning which rendered our ride more unpleasant than before- m^r w has continued just as he was in the morning- scarcely a word has been spoken by any of us- i never felt more low spirited & discouraged in my life- we have pass'd through little towns to day- moyerstown & the other i don't know the name of- we also pass'd thro lebanon which appear'd to be a town of considerable size & pleasant- we did not stop at all in it- the other towns were merely one short dirty street- this town is one street only, but a tolerably pretty one- there are a number of good houses in it- we have once more got among people of our own nation & language- & they appear very clever-- harrisburg- p- thursday- eve-november- ^{st} - it has been snowing fast all the afternoon & we found it very difficult travelling & were oblig'd to put up just in the edge of the town- it was m^r w's intention to cross the susquehannah which is the other side the town- we shall not pass thro' it- we cross'd the sweet arrow, a little river about miles from the susquehannah-- we cross'd it in our waggon-m^r jeremiah rees is our landlord- his wife is sick with a fever arising from the hives at first- he has a sister who seems to take the direction of the female part of the business- she is a strange creature- friday morn- i have been very much diverted at hearing some part of her history which she told last night, after drinking a little too much i suppose-she says she has property if she is not married- she had her fortune told a short time since- & was told to think of a certain gentleman living about miles off- which she did, & thought so hard that a drop of blood fell from her nose- she was telling m^{rs} jackson of this & ask'd how far she was going- being told about miles- well she said she really believ'd her oldest son was the young man she was to have, for he looks just like the one she thought of- the young man will be quite flatter'd no doubt---- we are all in tolerably good spirits notwithstanding we are unable to proceed on our journey- it still continues snowing, & we shall stay here till tomorrow morning & how much longer i do not know---- there was a cockfighting in the house last night & a great many of the "finest young men in the town" got so intoxicated as to be unable to get home without assistance---- m. v. d. sunday eve- east pensboro' township- p- we left m^r rees' yesterday ten oclock- & after waiting some time at the ferry house, cross'd the susquehanna with considerable difficulty- the river is a mile wide & so shallow that the boat would scrape across the large stones so as almost to prevent it from proceeding- we only came miles- the riding was awful- & the weather so cold that i thought i should perish riding miles- this will do well for us, miles in days- we were to have seen the mountains yesterday, but are miles from it-- i should like to have staid at m^r rees' till we reach home if it was possible, notwithstanding we had like to have all lost our characters there- while we were at breakfast, the black wench miss'd nearly dollars of money, & very impudently accused us with taking it, in rather an indirect manner-- i felt at first very angry, but anger soon gave place to pity for the poor girls loss- it was money she had been saving for a long time that she might get enough to buy her a dress- but she left it about very carelessly in the closet where any one might have taken it who was so disposed-- but had i been inclined to steal, i could not have stolen from a poor black girl- i would rather have given her as much- i never felt so queerly in my life- to be suspected of theft was so new & unexpected to me, that i was wholly unprepar'd for it-- we went to m^r rees & begg'd him to take some method to satisfy the girl we were innocent but we could not prevail on him to, tho' we really wish'd it-he gave the girl a severe scolding & desir'd us not to remember it against them, or to suffer ourselves to be made a moment uneasy by it, & both himself and m^rs rees were extremely sorry any thing of the kind had happen'd- the girl continued crying & assuring us her money had been safe all summer till then & nobody had been near it but us- i, nor any of us had any doubt that the landlord's sister, whom i before mention'd, had taken it- she had the day before or ninepences in her shoes, & when m^r w ventur'd to ask her if she had not taken it to tease the wench, she swore by every thing she had not touch'd it- she said it was fashionable for ladies to carry money in their shoes- i suppose she had long been eyeing it, & thought then would be a good opper^ty to take it but did not intend it should be discover'd till we were gone & unable to defend ourselves from the charge which she then meant to make against us-- she is so worthless a character in every respect, that i am certain she could be guilty of stealing upon occasion-- she was very fond of telling what ladies, like _her_ & _me_, did & wore-- she is between & y^{rs} of age- it was an honour i was not very tenacious of, to be rank'd with her ladyship-the money was not found before we left there & i suppose the poor girl feels as certain some one of us have it, as that she has lost it- should i ever return this way i would call & enquire about it- i hope it will be found with babby (for that is the creatures name)-- we put up for the sabbath at a tavern where none but the servants deign to look at us- when i am with such people, my proud spirit rises & i feel superior to them all-- i believe no regard is paid to the sabbath any where in this state- it is only made a holiday of-- so much swearing as i have heard amongst the pensylvanians both men & women i have never heard before during my whole life- i feel afraid i shall become so accustom'd to hearing it, as to feel no uneasiness at it. harrisburgh is a most dissipated place i am sure- & the small towns seem to partake of the vice & dissipation of the great ones-- i believe m^{rs} jackson has cast her eyes on susan or me for a daughter in law- for my part, though i feel very well disposed toward the young man, i had not thought of _making a bargain_ with him, but i have jolted off most of my high notions, & perhaps i may be willing to descend from a judge to a blacksmith- i shall not absolutely determine with respect to him till i get to warren & have time to look about me & compare him with the judges dobson & stephenson- it is clever to have two or three strings to ones bow-- but in spite of my prejudices, they are _very clever_-- among my list of _cast offs_, i would rank dutchmen, a pensylvania waggoner, ditto gentlemen- for their prophanity- & a slut- the words, landlord & lady, terrible,- get married,- get a husband-&c &c-- i do not find it as easy to write a journal as i had hoped- for we are seldom favour'd with any more than the barroom, & there is always as many men as the room will hold besides our party, & there is nine of us- so you may judge whether i find it difficult or not- i frequently begin a sentence & forget how to finish it,- for the conversation grows so loud, that i am oblig'd to listen to it & write between whiles- i sometimes get quite discouraged & think i will not try again, but i take too much pleasure in writing, to give it up willingly-- miles west of carlisle- penn-monday nov- ^{th}- we came but a little peice as the dutchmen say, to day, & are in a most curious place to night- if possible i will describe it- it is a log hut built across the road from the tavern, for _movers-_ that the landlord need not be _bother'd_ with them-- had it been possible for our horses to have reached another inn we should not have staid with the cross old dutch fellow-we have a good fire, a long dirty table, a few boards nailed up for a closet, a dozen long boards in one side & as many barrels in the other- benches to sit on, two bottomless chairs, & a floor containing dirt enough to plant potatoes-- the man says he has been so bother'd with movers, that he has taken down his sign, for he does not need his tavern to live-- if we had a mind to stay we might but if we chose to go on he had no objection-- cross old witch- i had rather have walk'd miles than stay, but the poor horses could not-- we are going to sleep on the floor all in a room together in the old stile without bothering the old scamp, for any thing-mrs jackson has beds-- if i did not feel provok'd with the wretch i should rest comfortably- tues- morn- the old man i believe feels a little asham'd of his treatment of us & was going to make some apology, but concluded by saying with a forced laugh, that if we ever came there again, he would treat us just so- he may if has oppor^{ty}-- tuesday night- nov- ^{th}- we have only counted miles to day although the riding has been much better than for several days past- we stopt in shippenburgh at noon- the town contains only one street a mile & a half in length & very thickly built- the street is some part of it pleasant, & some part dirty-- i saw in it a handsome young gentleman who was both a dutchman & pennsylvanian, yet in an hour & half i did not hear him make use of a single oath or prophane word- it was a remarkable instance, the only one i have known, & i could not but remark it- prophanity is the characteristic of a pennsylvanian---- we are miles from strasburgh & the mountains, & one of our horses is ill, owing to erastus giving him too many oats- erastus is master rather than his father, & will do as he pleases for all any one- he is a stubborn fellow, & so impudent to his mother & sister, that i have no patience with him-- we are not as bless'd as the israelites were, for our shoes wax old & our cloaths wear out-- i don't know that mine will last till i get there---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- wed- morn- last night susan & i went to bed early, as we slept ill the night before- we expected to get good beds & were never so disappointed- we were put in an old garret that had holes in the roof big enough to crawl through- our bed was on the floor, harder it appear'd to me, than boards could be- & dirty as possible- a dirty feather bed our only covering- after lying an hour or two, we complain'd to m^{rs} wolcott who applied to the landlady for a bedstead, but could only obtain leave for us to sleep on one bed with another over us- i slept wretchedly & feel very little like climbing a mountain--m^r & m^{rs} w could not sleep at all & got up at about eleven oclock-- she had good beds in the house or i would not have complained so much-- jennyauter-p--wednesday oclock p m-between brothers---- this morning we cross'd the first mountain call'd first brother, & are in an inn between the first & second brother; the latter we are soon to ascend-the first m-n is - / miles over,- better road than we expected- but bad enough to tire the horses almost to death- we met & were overtaken by a number of people-- we all walk'd the whole distance over- i did not stop at all to rest till i reach'd the top- i was then oblig'd to wait for some of them to overtake me, as i had outwalk'd them all. it is not a little fatiguing to walk up a long mountain i find--when we had nearly reach'd the foot of it, we heard some music in the valey below, & not one of us could imagine from what it proceeded; but soon found it was from the bells of a waggoner- he had twelve bells on the collars of his horses, (not sleigh bells) & they made a great variety of sounds which were really musical at a distance-- we found at the tavern where we are now, or rather they came after us, a m^r beach, & his wife who was confin'd nine days after she set out on her journey, with a little son-it is just a fortnight since she was confin'd, & this morning she ventur'd to set out on her journey again- they came from morristown- n j- & are going to some part of the ohio, much farther than we are going. m^{rs} b- appears to be a very pretty woman & quite a lady- her father & mother, a sister & little children, set out with them, but were oblig'd to leave them & go on, as soon as m^{rs} b was confin'd- i feel afraid she will catch her death, tho' every care is taken to render her journey safe & comfortable-- she & babe are both very well now-- fannitsburg- penn- m^callen's inn-wednesday night- nov- ^{th}- we have over come mountains to day- & are between the ^d & ^d brothers- we walked over it-i have walked about miles to day & feel as much fatigued as i have almost ever been in my life- it was _long_ miles over- we met a number of waggons on it- but no other travellers- this is a very small but pretty place- the first m-ns are very near each other- the ^{th} is or miles distant--they are higher than i expected, & make a formidable appearance- it has been very smoky all day- i am so tir'd i can neither think or write, so good night---- thursday morn- we had a good nights rest, but i am so lame i can scarcely walk this morning- i have a mountain to walk over, notwithstanding-- m^r w's horses grow so dull that he expects to be oblig'd to put up for a few days, & we are all almost discouraged--the weather looks stormy & where we shall get to or what we shall do, i cannot imagine--the jacksons enquire about the road & the mountains &c &c, of every one they see, & get such different & contradictory answers from each one, that it perplexes & discourages us all- i wish they would be contented to wait patiently till time & experience inform them what they cannot find out any other way- m^r w says i have now an oppor^{ty} to experience the truth of a text of scripture which says "all men are liars"- i found that out long ago- & this journey confirms the truth of it. peach orchard, p- thursday night-phelps' tavern-- i do not feel to night, my dear elizabeth, as if i should ever see you again- mountains & more hundreds of miles part us; & tho' i cannot give up the idea of returning, i cannot think of traversing this road again- if i live to return i will wait till the new turnpike is finished-- we cross'd the last brother this morning, & found the greater part of it, better than the other two- but about rods near the top it was excessively steep-- we found a house at the foot of the steepest part- a woman & her sons live there & keep cakes & beer-- the woman told us she had no husband at _present_--i suppose, she has one in expectation--on the first mountain, i found some sweet williams-- we stopt at noon, at a dismal looking log hut tavern- the landlady (i hate the word but i must use it,) talk'd about bigotry, bigotted notions, liberty of conscience &c- she did not look as if she knew the meaning of conscience, much less of bigotry-- all this afternoon we have been walking over young mountains, distant relations of the brothers, but not half as clever- i was so lame & so tir'd that for an hour i did not know but i must set down & die- i could not ride- the road was so bad, it was worse than walking- i would not tell you all this, if you were to receive this before it is all over---- it rain'd a very little all day, but just at night it began to rain very fast, & i expected we should all catch our death, walking thro' mud & mire, with no umbrella, or but one that would not cover us all- we were wet thro before we reach'd this dreadful place where we now are-- the woman is cross & the man sick---- friday night- it rain'd all day yesterday, & such a shocking place as this is, i never saw- a dozen waggoners are here, some half drunk & no place for us to stay in but our waggons or a little chamber with squares of glass in it- with scarcely room to sit or stand-- saturday morn---- i am now in despair, it continues raining faster than ever- the house full of drunken prophane wretches, the old woman cross as a witch- we have nothing to eat & can get nothing but some slapjacks at a baker's some distance off, & so stormy we cannot get there---- m^{rs} jackson frets all the time, i wish they would go on & leave us, we should do as well again---- m^r beach & his wife & child & the woman who is with them, are here, & the house is full- m^{rs} beach rode in all the rain thursday, but took no cold & bears it well as any one- it rains most dreadfully & they say it is the clearing off shower- oh, if it only proves so---- "oh had i the wings of a dove, how soon would i meet you again"- we have never found the wretches indelicate till last evening, but while we were at tea, they began talking & singing in a most dreadful manner---- we are miles from sidling hill, the next mountain, & a mile & a half from this, there is a creek which we must cross, that is so rais'd by the rain, as to render it impossible to pass it---- saturday night- our "clearing up shower" has lasted all day with unabated violence,-- just at sunset we had a pretty hard thunder shower, & at dusk there was clear sky visible & the evening star shone bright as possible, but now it is raining fast again--after giving an emetic i would take a long journey with my _intended_, to try his patience---- mine is try'd sorely now- i wish you could just take a peep at me-my frock is wet & dirty a quarter of a yard high, only walking about the house- i have been in my chamber almost the whole day, but was oblig'd to go down just at night to eat, & look at the sky- i was very much frighten'd by a drunken waggoner, who came up to me as i stood by the door waiting for a candle, he put his arm round my neck, & said something which i was too frighten'd to hear- it is the first time the least insult has been offer'd to any of us- one waggoner very civilly offer'd to take susan or me, on to pitts^g in his waggon if we were not like to get there till spring- it is not yet determin'd which shall go with him-- one waggon in crossing the creek this afternoon, got turn'd over & very much injur'd-- we have concluded the reason so few are willing to return from the western country, is not that the country is so good, but because the journey is so bad-- m^r w. has gone to & from there, times, but thinks this will be the last time- poor susan groans & sighs & now then sheds a few tears-i think i exceed her in patience & fortitude----m^{rs} wolcott is a woman of the most perfect equanimity i ever saw- she is a woman of great feeling & tenderness, but has the most perfect command over her feelings- she is not _own_ mother to these children, but she is a very good one---- i have learn'd elizabeth, to eat raw _pork_ & drink whisky-dont you think i shall do for a new country? i shall not know how to do either when i end my journey, however- we have almost got out of the land of dutchmen, but the waggoners are worse---- the people here talk curiously, they all reckon instead of expect-- youns is a word i have heard used several times, but what it means i don't know, they use it so strangely-- m^r rees used to exclaim at any thing wonderful, "only look at that now"-- "i reckon you are going into the back countries" is now our usual salutation from every one---- susan is in bed for want of some employment & i will join her, after telling you, it has really clear'd off now, & the moon is shining in full splendor.- i hope to-morrows sun will deign to smile upon us- it is long since we have seen it---- i expect to be oblig'd to go thro' a process of fire & brimstone at my journeys end & shall feel thankful, if that will remedy all the evils arising from dirty beds &c-- i find no necessity for even that yet, but i fear i shall soon----good night---- sunday oclock p m- we left the inn this morning in the hope of getting a _little piece_ on our way, but have only reach'd the baker's, half a mile from where we set out- the creek is so high we cannot cross it yet- an old man & his wife live here, & appear to be very kind clever people, & what is more than we have found before, they appear to regard the sabbath- they are methodists- this is a small log hut, but clean & comfortable- there are no waggoners here-- i shall be oblig'd to colour my frock i believe, for it attracts the attention of those creatures so much, that i dare not go in sight of them scarcely- i often think of the lines your mama repeated to us "in silk, &c" sunday night. about sunset, we left the baker's & came down to the creek, but found it was impossible to get over the waggon, & the road was so intolerable between the place we had left & the creek, that we could not go back, & what to do, it took a long time to determine; but at length m^r w concluded we had better come over to a dirty tavern this side, & let erastus sleep in the wagon-- the stream runs so fast, that we did not dare cross it alone, as there was nothing but a log to cross on; so the waggoners & our own party, were oblig'd to lead & pilot us, over the stream & thro' a most shocking place as i ever saw- the men were all very civil- they are waiting this line is the shape of a pensylvania waggon-- with of us---- we fare their the rest waggons, like worse & worse, & still m^r w- & his wife, tell us this is nothing to what will come- i do not fully believe them, for we cannot endure much more & live--susan & young m^{rs} jackson have been quite unwell all day-- i never felt in better health, & my spirits are pretty good, considering all things-- we are not able to get beds here, & are to sleep on the floor to night- there is another family here, with several little children-- they say there has been a _heap_ of people moving this fall;- i don't know exactly how many a heap is, or a _sight_ either, which is another way of measuring people-- i would be _apt_ to think it was a _terrible_ parcel, to use the language of the people round me---- i have such an enormous appetite the whole time, that i have been in some fear of starving- for food of every kind, is very scarce with us- money will not procure it, & nothing else i am sure, will- for they love money better than life, if possible-- sabbaths we have pass'd on the road, & i suppose or more will pass before we get among people who "remember the sabbath day to keep it holy"-- we find no books to read, only at the bakers to day i found part of a bible, a methodist hymn book & a small book containing an account of the progress of methodism throughout the country; in letters from ministers & others----we left m^r beach & family, at the tavern we left to day-- i hope tomorrow to write you from a comfortable place or miles at least from the next mountain-- monday morn- we have now i think met with as bad as can befal us-- never, never did i pass such a night---- we could get no bed & for a long time expected to be oblig'd to set up all night- but we could get no room nor fire to stay by, & the landlady was so kind as to give up her bed to us; so m^rs w & susan went to bed there, while i went to bed with m^rs jackson in another room- i took off my frock & boots, & had scarcely lain down, when one of the wretches came into the room & lay down by me on the outside of the bed- i was frighten'd almost to death & clung to m^{rs} jackson who did not appear to mind it- & i lay for a quarter of an hour crying, & scolding & trembling, begging of him to leave me-at last, when persuaded i was in earnest, he begg'd of me not to take it amiss, as he intended no harm & only wish'd to become acquainted with me-- a good for nothing brute, i wonder what he suppos'd i was- i don't know of any thought word or action of mine that could give him reason to suppose i would authorise such abominable insolence---- the man & his wife, who are here, & their family, john jackson & his wife, & m^{rs} jackson, were all in the room-the moment he left the room, i put on my frock & was going in to m^{rs} w & susan, but i could not get to them without going thro' the room where all the waggoners were, & m^{rs} jackson did not think it safe, so i got on another part of the bed where none of them could come near me, & had been there about minutes when m^{rs} w & susan came into the room both crying, & as much frighten'd as i had been, for one of the creatures had been into their room, & they could scarcely get him out- m^r w- was in the waggon, & the landlord was so afraid of these wag^gs that he did not dare stay in his own house, for they threaten'd to put him into the creek, if he did not continue giving them liquor- i wish they had put him in- a mean sneaking fellow!-- his poor wife was then oblig'd to bear it all, & she was very much distress'd on our account- she was not to blame for any thing that happen'd, for as long as her husband suffer'd it, she could not prevent it-at last m^{rs} w- went to bed with m^{rs} jackson & me, & susan lay down with john & his wife- we lay but a few minutes, when one of them came into our room again crawling on his hands & knees- m^{rs} w & i sprung & run out into the mud in our stocking feet & were going to call m^r w.- but the creatures came out to us & begg'd us not to, & pledg'd their honor (of which you may suppose they possess'd a great share) that we should not be disturb'd more- & tenderness for m^r w- who we knew would be sick to day if depriv'd of rest, at length determin'd us to go back; but we did not go to bed again till just morning, when some of us slept nearly or quite an hour- which was every wink of sleep we could obtain during the whole night- the fellows were all but one, very still afterwards- indeed there was but who made any disturbance, & only one of those was very bad- but one, was a complete child of the evil one- the vilest, worst, most blasphemous wretch, that ever liv'd-- m^r w- came back to the house before oclock, & this morning, threaten'd them with a prosecution- they are quite angry- they are in the employ of this man who is moving; he is a merchant & they carry his goods to pitts^g-- nov^{br}- ^{th} monday night- nail shop-on the ^{th} mountain we have got - / miles on our journey to day, & now it rains again-- if i could describe to you our troubles from roads, waggoners & creeks, i would,- but it is impossible-- the waggoners set out just before we did & the bad one being foremost has taken all the pains in his power to hinder our progress, by driving as slow as possible & stopping every other moment- the road was too narrow to pass them, unless they would turn out for us- all but one did, but he swore he would not- we came by them as they stopp'd at noon, & put up to night at an inn on the mountain, out of the direct road, where we should peaceably pass the night- but the waggoners have follow'd us, & the house is full- they are not in our room-- our party now consists of m^{rs} jackson's, m^r beach's & m^r w's familys-- the woman who is with m^r beach, is such a foolish old creature, that we are all out of patience with her----she is aunt to them, i believe---- if i were to choose, i would never have company on a long journey- such company at least- our chairs here are taken from us for the waggoners---- our road over the mountains, has not even a good prospect to render it pleasant-- i have been repeating to susan all day, "comfort damsel &c"- m^{rs} jackson is scolding because she has no chair to set on.- m^r w- tells her, "fret not thyself because of evil doers"---- there is another impassable creek a head, & a hundred waggons waiting to cross it- our prospect brightens fast-dont you think so? good night-- tuesday eve- nov- ^{th}- miles east of bedford- penn- we have at length escap'd the waggoners & mr beach- the former did not trouble us last night at all in the night- when we went to bed they watch'd us narrowly, & after we were in bed we heard them talking about us, enquiring of each other where we slept &c- we were in the room with m^r & m^{rs} wolcott, directly over the room they were in, but still i felt afraid of them- the worst one is quite mad, & says he intends if possible, to give us more trouble than he has done already- the other is quite asham'd of his conduct & i suspect would be willing to make any amends in his power- he told this to m^{rs} jackson who is much too familiar with them, & i believe it was owing entirely to that, that they conducted so- for the rest of us always avoid even the sight of them, as much as possible; & much more any conversation with them-- we got up very early indeed & set out before breakfast, because the horses could have no hay, & we have got quite out of their reach--we cross'd a little stream call'd the juniaatta- i spell the names as they are pronounced, but i do not spell them right, i am sure, nor can i find out how they are spelt many of them- the river is long & narrow- it takes a winding course thro' the mountains, & is a very pretty stream-- we rode some distance on its banks, & the road been tolerable, it would have been pleasant- i have said so much about the badness of the roads that you will hardly believe me when i tell you we seen some of the worst to day we have ever found- & some, as good as any in this state---- i should not have suppos'd it possible for any thing to pass it- m^{rs} w said it seem'd like going into the lower regions, but i had always an idea, that road was smooth & easy- i am sure if it was as bad as that, it would have fewer travellers-we went down however till we came to a lower region-it was really awful-- we saw some men to day, mending the roads- i did not think a pennsylvanian ever touch'd a road or made a bridge, for we are oblig'd to ride thro' every stream we come to-we have been nearly miles to day; & have been oblig'd to walk up hill, till we are all very tir'd- i felt too much so to write, but i am unwilling to omit it- we are now, comfortably & quietly seated, in a private house- i only wish now, we could get rid of what company we have left- but that we cannot do---- wednesday night. a private house- miles w- of bedford we cross'd the juniaatta again to day, with a great deal of trouble, after waiting on its banks about hours- it is astonishing how the last week's rain, rais'd every stream & overflow'd every place-the like here, has not been known for years it is said-- a waggoner last week, with horses, was drown'd crossing a creek- he was advis'd by those who were by, not to venture- & answer'd "he would be damn'd to hell if he did not cross it"- he made the attempt & in a few minutes was sent into eternity, & probably to that awful place---- it has been raining very fast this afternoon, & we put up at a little log hut, a few miles west of bedford- we came about miles to day- the house is very small & there is scarcely room to move- thursday night-- allegany m^{tn} nov- - we have had a warm & pleasant day till towards night, when it began to rain, as it has done every day for a fortnight- we are now at a tavern half a mile from the top of the allegany mt-this mountain is miles over- at the highest part of it is a most beautiful prospect of mountains- or ridges one after the other-- we clamber'd up a high rock near to the highest part, but found the prospect little better than the one from the road- i wish i could describe it to you- we have had no prospect of any consequence from any of the mountains before- i have been quite disappointed at not seeing any--we found winter green berrys in abundance on it-i pick'd a sprig of ivy from the top, which i will send you- call it laurel & preserve it, as it came from the very _backbone of america_, as they all tell us--we have walk'd a great deal to day, & indeed we are oblig'd to every day, for the whole country seems one continued m^{tn}- i thought we had reach'd the top of this, for we began to descend a little; but we have half a mile more to ascend yet---- this house is full of travvellers & wag'^{nrs} but all are very peacable-there is a curiosity in the house- a young lady who has come from n connecticut _unmarried_-- after staying in warren a year--a thing i never before heard of, & had begun to think impossible. i feel quite encouraged by it- & do not believe the place as dangerous as is generally reported---- i find in every family a _paggy_- every body is dutch-- the children & girls, are all very much attracted by my little black buttons, & the manner in which my frock is made-& the wag'^{rs} by the colour of it- there will be little of it left by the time i get to warren, for it is almost gone-- friday night- allegany m^{tn}-- after a comfortable nights rest, we set out on foot to reach the height of the m^{tn}- it rain'd fast for a long time, & at length began snowing- we found the roads bad past description,- worse than you can possibly imagine- large stones & deep mud holes every step of the way- we were oblig'd to walk as much as we possibly could, as the horses could scarcely stir the waggon the mud was so deep & the stones so large---- it has grown so cold that i fear we shall all perish tomorrow- we suffer'd with cold excessively, to day- from what i have seen and heard, i think the state of ohio will be well fill'd before winter,-waggons without number, every day go on- one went on containing _forty_ people- we almost every day, see them with or - one stopt here to night with -- we are at a baker's, near a tavern which is fill'd with movers & waggoners- it is a comfortable place, but rather small- one old man has been in examining my writing, & giving his opinion of it in dutch, to a young fellow who was with him- he said he could not read a word of any thing-- he found fault with the ink, but commended the straitness & facility with which i wrote- in english- i was glad he had not on his specs---- we came but miles to day, & are yet on the allegany- it is up hill almost all the way down the mountains-- i do not know when we are down them for my part--_i'm thinking_ as they say here, we shall be oblig'd to winter on it, for i _reckon_ we shall be unable to proceed on our journey, on account of roads, weather, &c-- we are on the old pennsylvania road- the glade road is said to be ten times worse than this-that is utterly impossible- we thought we should escape the waggoners this way; but find as many of them as ever- they are a very great annoyance---- what would the old man say hereto?-- i am very tir'd, so good night-- saturday eve- miles from laurel hill-penn- we came but or miles to day, & are now near the ^{th} mountain- in a tavern fill'd with half drunken noisy waggoners-- one of them lies singing directly before the fire; proposing just now to call for a song from the young ladies---- i can neither think nor write he makes so much noise with his _love songs_; i am every moment expecting something dreadful & dare not lay down my pen lest they should think me listening to them- they are the very worst wretches that ever liv'd, i do believe,--i am out of all patience with them- the whole world nor any thing in it, would tempt me to stay in this state three months- i dislike everything belonging to it--i am not so foolish as to suppose there are no better people in it than those we have seen; but let them be ever so good, i never desire to see any of them----we overtook an old waggoner whose waggon had got set in the mud, & i never heard a creature swear so- & whipt his horses till i thought they would die--i could not but wonder at the patience and forbearance of the almighty, whose awful name was so blasphem'd-- we also overtook a young _doctor_-who is going with his father to mad river in the state of ohio---- he has been studying physic in new jersey,- but appears to be an uneducated man from the language he makes use of----i believe both himself & his father are very clever- i heard them reproving a swearer-- he dresses smart, & was so polite as to assist us in getting over the mud-- susan & i walk'd on before the waggon as usual, & he overtook us and invited us into the house & call'd for some brandy sling- we did not drink, which he appear'd not to like very well, & has scarcely spoken to us since---- he thinks himself a gentleman of the _first chop_, & takes the liberty of coining words for himself- speaking of the people in this state, he said they were very ignorant & very _superstitionary_ --perhaps you have heard the word before- i never did-- sunday morn- we had good beds last night, contrary to my expectation,- and we are going on our journey this morning- it is extremely cold & very bad riding or walking- m^r w- has been so long detain'd by bad weather & riding, that he thinks himself justifiable in riding on the sabbath- i thought so some time ago-- sunday noon- we are on the top of laurel hill, the ^{th} mountain-- we women & girls, have walk'd between & miles this morning-- we left the waggons getting along very slowly, & came on to a house to warm us- it is a log hut & full of children, as is every one we come to-- the wind whistles about us, & it looks very much like snow---- one waggon got set this morning, & hinder'd us this long time-- the young doctor & his father are still in company with us-- the former, who has got over his pouting fit, leaves his father to drive,- while he walks on with the ladies- he is not with us just now-- he has not conquer'd the antipathy i bear a young physician-- or rather a _young doctor_-- how little it seems like the sabbath-- i would not write if i could do any thing else-- but i can not even think good thoughts---- sunday eve-- nov- ^{th}-- foot of laurel hill--penn-- i wish my dear elizabeth, you could be here for half an hour, & hear the strangest man talk, that you or i ever saw in this world-- he is either mad or a fool-- i don't know which, but he looking over me & telling me i _can_ make a writer-- he is the most rating, ranting fellow-- i wish you could hear him----i begin to think him mad-- his name is smith-- he & his wife are journeying either to new orleans or the ohio---- i never was more diverted than to hear him (he is certainly crazy-- repeating a prayer & a sermon & forty other things in a breath) talk about the dutchmen in pennsylvania-- he & his wife came amongst them one evening & stopt at several houses to get entertainment, but was sent on by each one to the tavern-- he began by stating his religious tenets, & at length after every body & thing was created, he says the _under gods_ (of whom he supposes there were a great number) took some of the skum & stir'd it up, & those fellows came out--or rather hell boil'd over & they were form'd of the skum----i believe he has been studying all his life for hard words & pompous speeches, & he rattled them off at a strange rate-- his language is very ungrammatical--but the jacksons are all in raptures with him--they cannot understand his language (nor indeed could any one else) & therefore concluded he must be very learned- their observations are almost as diverting as his conversation- i could make them believe in ten minutes, that i was a girl of great larnin-if i were to say over kermogenious- heterogenious & a few such words without any connection--no matter if i do but bring them in some how-- we are over the ^{th} mountain & at an inn at the foot of it- this m^{tn} is called worse than any of them- it is only about miles over- we have only come to day, & i have not been in the waggon- the horses once or twice got set, & cast &c- we have had a deal of bad luck-- there is a great many travellers here-the house is full---- the young d^r told me he was married, to day-- i like him rather better than i did, before, & ventured to walk on a mile or two with him- he gave me the history of his courtship &c-and some information respecting the part of ohio he is going to, that was quite interesting-- susan chose to ride down the hill, & i outwalk'd m^{rs} w, so we were quite alone till we reach'd this house- m^{rs} jackson & eliza had gone on before us, and i every moment expected to overtake them, but did not see them till we got here-- i am very tir'd & have laughed myself into a headache; so i can write no more to night. monday morn- last night we were again cheated out of our beds, & oblig'd to pass the night as we could, & that was most uncomfortably- i was quite unwell with the headache, & had waited for a bed an hour & a half longer than i felt able to set up; & when i found i could get none, i had a long crying spell-- this morning i feel almost sick-- m^r w-is so much afraid of making trouble, that he will wait till every body else is served, & let them cheat him out of his eyes, & say nothing. our party here consists of english, irish, german, & americans- of the first- of the second- of the third- & a house full of the last-- this strange man is an everlasting talker- he knows every body & every thing about them- he has been repeating one of m^r pierpont edwards' speeches to me- & one of m^r hilhouse's-not one second elapses between his words-he is a very pompous fellow & takes great pains to display what he does know- he has been a schoolmaster-& now i suspect is crazy & running away with a girl he calls his wife- but who seems to be nobody---- it rain'd very fast last night- & is more muddy than ever-- monday night- a mile west of the mountains- rejoice with me my dear elizabeth, that we are at length over all the mountains, so call'd-- i do not suppose we shall be much better off than we were before, as it respects roads- for i had just as lieve go over a mountain, as to go over the same distance of any part of the road we have had this fortnight or three weeks- but it sounds well to say we are over the mountains-- we cross'd chesnut ridge, the th & last m^{tn} this afternoon- it is miles over-- miles we have come to day-- there is a pretty prospect of hills as you come down the m^{tn}- one house on the top of it-- we have taken a great deal of pains to get rid of company to day, by going forward & staying behind- but it is an _unpossibility_ (m^r newington) i am more out of patience than ever-- we came on to the ^{th} tavern after we got down,- because we thought those behind us, would stop sooner- m^{rs} jackson & her tribe were with us-but we thought all the rest were out of the reach of us- this is a little hut, one window in front- but it is neat & comfortable inside, & we were all quietly seated round the fire, congratulating ourselves on our escape, when in came the young doctor- i thought we should all scream out- m^{rs} jackson told him she thought we had lost him- he said he lik'd not to have found us- i wish with all my heart, they had got fast in the mud a little while. the rattlebrain'd fellow is not here, to talk us to death-- he pass'd us on the road, singing & screaming, advising us to go back & learn hog latin- alias german- or dutch-- we are now miles from pitt---- nov^{br} ^{st} tuesday night-a mile from greensburg-penn- we have had better roads to day, but only came miles-- last night we had good beds, but were oblig'd to sleep in the room with the d^r & his father-m^r & m^{rs} w- of course, as we have determin'd not to sleep out of their room again-- the landlord & his wife were extremely clever- they gave us a great many apples & some cherry bounce- such treatment, after being refus'd even the privilege of getting any victuals,- as we were the night before, was very welcome-- the landlord has been a waggoner-"only look at that now"-a clever waggoner! i cannot but think his cleverness (is there such a word?) came after he gave up his waggon---- after riding a little way, we overtook m^r smith again, & found he had been fighting with a waggoner, who began to insult him, by calling him a damn'd yankee-before they ended m^r s- whipt of them- i was glad they got whipt, for almost every one deserves it-- m^r s- lamented we were not there to see the fun- he declar'd, or rather swore, he would not leave us again, but would stand by and fight for all- he lets his wife ride alone, & he walks on to talk to every one that will listen to him-- as for the d^r, he is "nothing but a pester"- susan & i took a great deal of pains to go either before or behind to get rid of his company, but it does no good, for he will either wait, or walk faster- i had a great mind to ask him, if he expected to lose his wife soon-we pass'd thro greensburg, a pretty little town, situated on a high hill- the other waggons had gone on, & were bating in the town- but m^r w- did not stop, so the d^r follow'd on & left his father, & waited at another place for us to bait- we were only able to come a mile farther, as the horses fail'd-the rest of the company had gone on, expecting us to follow- the d^r came in here with us & i thought intended to stay, by his actions, but he at length walk'd on to join the rest of his company-- we have escap'd hearing m^r s- talk, which i would not be oblig'd to do for pence an hour- wednesday morn- i have not spent so pleasant an evening this long time as the last- will you believe me, when i tell you we heard some waggoners conversing upon religious subjects- instead of swearing & cursing- one is an irish waggoner, & appears to be sensible, well inform'd man- & what is more, has read his bible- clever waggoners! i think i will never condemn a whole race again- i can now, even believe it possible to find a clever dutchman in pennsylvania. i hope we shall lose all our company this morning- but i expect they will wait for us- this is a good tavern- we have had sun shine for days past- the weather, as it respects heat & cold, is very variable- but it invariably rains every day-- thursday morn- sewel's tavern-versailes-township- yesterday morning, we did not set out till quite late, but had the good fortune to overtake all our company within an hour or two, & were oblig'd once more to put up with them- we had also, a considerable addition to our party-- we were oblig'd to walk a great deal, & just at night, i happen'd to be on before the waggon some distance & prevented m^r w- from stopping at a private house, which we pass'd- i did not think of his wishing it till m^{rs} j-mentioned it, i then set out to return, but saw the waggon coming & sat down on a log- we did not reach a tavern till some time after dark- & m^r w-got hurt & his waggon got set-, & he feels unpleasantly towards me, & thinks me the whole cause of his trouble-- the whole family feel & treat me differently this morning, & i can not think myself to blame- for we are oblig'd to walk almost all the time, & if we are behind the waggon m^r w- always is angry-- m^{rs} w- susan & i, were oblig'd to walk, till we found a house, & if the young d^r had not been with us, i don't know but we should have pass'd the night in the woods - but he was so good as to assist us - the gentlemen all reach'd the tavern before us, & when m^r w- came & told his trouble, they very kindly went back & assisted him-- there were but two beds to be had, so m^r smith gave up his place to me, & m^r & m^{rs} w took the other-- the gentlemen were very noisy all night, as they could not lie down-- i am much better pleas'd with m^r & m^{rs} smith, than i was before- he is a lawyer- & i believe knows more, than i at first suspected-- he is a great talker, & has a story for everything- we came miles yesterday-- to day i am so dreadfully lame that every step i take, almost brings tears- my feet are sore with walking- nov- - friday morn- turtle creek-penn- one misfortune follows another, and i fear we shall never reach our journey's end-- yesterday we came about miles-- after coming down an awful hill, we were oblig'd to cross a creek; but before we quite came to it, the horses got mired, & we expected every moment one of them would die-but erastus held his head out of water, while m^r w-was attempting to unharness them, & m^{rs} w- & susan were on the bank, calling for help-- i sat by, to see the horse breathe his last; but was happily disappointed in my expectation-- no assistance could be got- till m^r w- waded though the water, & then men with horses came over-- we came to this inn, & m^r w- thought it best to stay till this morning- all our company have gone on- m^r smith invited me to ride with his wife, on to pitts'^g- & i on some accounts, wish i had accepted his invitation-indeed i could scarcely get beside it-- we found a gentleman (doctor i presume by his looks-) here, who was very sociable & staid an hour with us- he appear'd to be a man of good information & considerable politeness-- we found the landlord very good natur'd & obliging, & his wife directly the contrary-- we find the men generally, much more so than their wives-- we are miles from pitt----& here like to be- the landlord offers to keep susan & me, till spring, & let the old folks go on-- we got into the slough of despond yesterday-& are now at the foot of the hill difficulty- which is half a mile long- one waggon is already fast in the mud on it- & m^r w- is afraid to attempt it himself--i think i will winter here---- friday eve- miles past pitts'^g- penn- this morning we set out once more & proceeded miles- it was snowing very fast, & one of our horses was taken sick & could scarcely get that little distance-m^r w- was oblig'd to whip it almost every step to keep it from lying down-- we could not ride at all & stopt at the first tavern we came to--we are afraid the horse will die & then what will become of us?---- i am more than ever discouraged- sat-morn- our horse is better & we are going to set out again---- nov^{br} - saturday night- - / miles beyond pittsburg- just as we were getting into the waggon this morning, m^r w- found he had left his great coat miles back, & went back on foot after it, while we proceeded to pitts- which we reach'd about noon-- m^r w- came about an hour after---- after getting well warm, susan & i were going out to view the town, when m^r w- came & hurried us away, as he wished to cross the river before night- from the little we did see of the town, i was extremely disappointed at its appearance- it is not one half as large as i suppos'd- but i am unable to give you any account of it, from my own observation-- it is situated at the confluence of the rivers, the alleghany, & monongahela- the town suffer'd very much by the flood- one house floated down the river- its inhabitants were in the upper part of it calling for assistance-none could be render'd & what became of them i did not learn- i believe it is not known- it was late before we could cross the river (alleghany) & we came on but miles & a half to a very good tavern- the man & his wife are both good natur'd--we found the road to day, better than for a long time-- we left almost all the stones when we cross'd the last mountain- & to day i believe we have cross'd the last hills of any consequence- we are now- "on the banks of the pleasant ohio"---- sunday eve- it has been all day & still is, raining another flood i fear- all the men in the neighborhood came here to keep the sabbath by drinking whiskey &c &c- but no swearing-- i sat reading very quietly & one of them came & desir'd to look over me- i very much doubted whether he could read, but he convinc'd me he could by his observations, which were given with such a tobacco breath as almost suffocated me- he was not more than half shaved, & could read without spelling more than half the words- for he would read a page & half in an hour, nearly-- there is a sweet little boy here about years old- he has been writing with me some time & talks so much to me that i am as slow writing as this man was reading-- this is the th sabbath since i left you-- we have lost our company--i quite want to see some of them again-- wednesday nov- - miles from greersburg-penn- i have had no opport^y of writing you for days-before now- we set out in the rain on monday, & came on miles- to a hut- with a sign up call'd a tavern- & such a place!- i found the people belong'd to a very ancient & noble family- they were first & second cousins to his _satanic majesty_- i could but wonder that he should suffer them to lead so laborious a life, for they are among his most faithful friends & subjects-- probably they are more useful to him in that station, by increasing the number of his subjects-- their dwelling resembles that of their royal cousin- for it is very dark & gloomy & only lighted by a great fire- no one who is once caught in it, ever wishes to be again-- the man is only related by marriage to his lordship---- wednesday eve-- the house had only one room in it-- there was a number of travellers & we got but one bed- that was straw or something harder- the pillow case had been on or years i _reckon_, so i pin'd over my handkerchief- & put night gown over my frock--we rose an hour before day break, got breakfast & set out in the snow for another hut- we rode several miles on the northern bank of the ohio- we saw a very large rock containing a great many names-we added ours to the number-- the road was at the foot of a very high hill or mountain, & so near the river, there was scarcely room for a waggon- i rode in constant fear, for the bank down to the river, was very high and steep-- we came on miles, to beaver town, on tuesday- we cross'd the big beaver, a stream which empties into the ohio- it is generally, fordable, but is at present so rais'd by the rain, that a flat is used-- we found a very good inn at beaver town; & soon after supper, judge austin & a m^r weatherby (merchant-) of warren, came in--not dobson nor stephenson)-- i felt as glad to see them & as well acquainted with them in a few minutes, as if we had all our lives been neighbors--the judge, resembles d^r goodsel in his looks:- but is older & larger- m^r weatherby looks like t. devereaux--they both, told me they were sorry m^r edwards did not know i was on the road, that he might have sent an horse after me-- they were on their way to pitt^g but judge a, had some idea of returning immediately back to warren, & they had a mind to hire a horse & have me return with him, but m^r wolcott objected-- i can guess his reason for it, but i will not write it-- i very much wish'd it, as i fear i shall be oblig'd to walk a good part of the way- m^r w- says it would not hurt any of us to walk miles every day of our lives- i told him i should not like to walk it in stormy weather, as we are now oblig'd to; but he said it would not hurt me if i shouldn't-- i have already worn out my boots almost entirely, with walking-- m^r w- is a very strange man- i don't know what to make of him --i shall be so thankful to get thro'- & then if i am caught with a deacon of any name, again, i shall deserve to suffer-- we are within miles of warren, & to be unable to get there under or days, is perfectly tantalizing-- we came - / miles to day, & are at a very comfortable inn, just in the edge of greersburg- we expected to get a little further, to hart's tavern quite in the town: & there i hop'd to see judge austin again, & i determin'd at any rate to accept his offer of getting me a horse, & go directly on with him, for i do not intend to walk miles a day till we get there, if i can help it- even if it will not hurt me-- i won't take the _good_ deacon's word for that. the horses are really tir'd out & out, & every day by the time we get miles they will stop & it is extremely difficult to get them on at all- but it is so _expensive_ hiring a horse to go on, that as long as the waggon alone, can be drawn or miles a day, it will not be done--but i feel provoked, as you will easily see, so i will write no more on this subject---- i am so anxious to end my journey, that i have lost all interest about the country i pass through-- it snows or rains every day, constantly-- i think in good weather, the ride from warren to pitts^g must be pleasant- if that were at present the case, my journal would be as much more interesting, as my journey would be pleasanter-- i am quite tir'd of both, but still so habituated to them, that i think it will seem very strange for a few days after i end them, (if i _live_ after that time) not to run out the waggon as soon as i have eaten my breakfast--& not to have my journal in my work-bag to fill it up-- it is very troublesome i assure you-- i fear it will be worn out before you get it- it is already very dirty, & so badly written you will never read half of it-- thursday eve- miles as usual has been our days ride-- i have not walk'd my miles, but i walk'd as much as i could- we are in a comfortable house before an excellent fire- it is snowing very fast-- saturday- p m- warren- after so long a time-- friday morning we set out early with the hope of getting to youngstown at night & to warren to night, but miles from y----n, the horses were so tir'd they would not stir, so we stopt at a private house for the night, an hour before sun down-- we had been in the house but a little time, when susan look'd out & told me she thought there was some one after me, & i soon saw m^r edwards & horses-- "i was never so happy i think"-- i ran out to meet him- he came in & set a while, & just at dark we started for youngstown-- m^r edwards insisted upon susan's going with us, so she rode behind him, and i rode the single horse-- we reach'd _cousin_ joseph woodbridge's about the middle of the eve-- they got us a good supper & gave us a bed-- m^{rs} w- is a very pretty woman (i mean pleasing)- they have children, & appear to be very well off, (you understand me) & happy-- they live in a very comfortable log house, pleasantly situated-a cousin in this country, is not to be slighted i assure you- i would give more for one in this country, than for in old connecticut-- this morning m^{rs} todd came over to see us, & urg'd us to stay & spend the day with her-- but spite of her solicitations, we set out for warren soon after breakfast--my horse was extremely dull & we did not get here till near oclock-- cousin louisa was as happy to see me as i could wish, & i think i shall be very happy & contented-- the town is pleasanter than i expected- the house better- & the children as fine--cousin has alter'd very little, in any way--i found a m^rs waldo here just going to connecticut, & lest i should not have another opport^y, i intend sending this by them, without even time to read it over & correct it-- i _am_ asham'd of it my dear elizabeth, & were it not for my promise to you, i don't know that i should dare to send it-- i will write your mama by mail, i have not time for a letter now--my very best love to every body-- i have a great deal more to say, but no more time than just to tell you, i am ever & most affect^{ly} yours- m v d---- let no one see this but your own family-- * * * * * transcriber's note the following changes have been made to the text: page vi: "doutbless" changed to "doubtless". page : "to night" changed to "to-night". page : "the appear" changed to "they appear". page : "where we going" changed to "where we were going". page : "but is is an" changed to "but it is an".