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droaiis mi (Srins

ONE WHO SURVIVED.

BRUCE MUNRO.

TORONTO:

F-UBLISHECD BY WARWICK A SONS.

1889.

1758

^ no S\/}

Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the yoar one
thousand eight hundred and eighty-nino, by Bruce W. Monro, in
the office of the Minister of Agriculture.

THIS VOLUME IS NOT
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO

ANY POTENTATE, DOMESTIC OR FOREIGN,

NOR TO ANY COLD, CYNICAL, AND UNSYMPATHETIC

AUTHOR, DICTATOR, OR REVIEWER,
NOR YET TO THE SHADE OF ANY IMMORTAL.

BRIEFLY,

IT IS NOT DEDICATED AT ALL.

1
t
t
t
h

PRBFACK.

MIGHT begin with a hackneyed phrase, or with a highly
original one. I shall do neither, but shall simply try to
Se*1t)rief and pointed. Preface -writing is a fine art, anyway, in
which one naturally wishes to show off his talenl/S to the best
advantage and startle the reader into the belief that hb has picked up
the work of a genius ; while the aim of the 4esultory sketches, etc.,
of this volume is rather to catch the reader en deahahille, figuratively
speaking, when he is in a humor to lay aside the stereotyped con-
ventionalities of the pains-taking author, and enjoy a frolic with
some whimsical characters who often break the rules of etiquette
and throw grammar to the bow-wows. Not that these sketches
were all written at odd times, in an easy, indifferent, off-hand way,
when laid up with the quinsy or thawing out frozen anatomy on a
cold day, and not minded to lose any golden minutes. By no
means ; they were written deliberately and soberly, when I should
often have been reading the newspapers ; and as the printer will
bear witness (if he isn't already a victim to softening of the brain),
the MS. is scarred with frequent and annoying erasures.

A little more regard for future reputation and a little less queasy
compunction about destroying the wishy-washy effusions of boy-
hood would no doubt have prompted the cutting out of the bulk of
the book — including this so-called preface. But while the great
majority of us lay claim to having common sense, few of us can
judiciously exercise it ; and it is a question, after all, whether any
one but a weather-prophet could determine just how much of the
book was originally written before my wisdom teeth were cut. and
how much after the dentist pried them out as superfluous. I shall
be quite satisfied if the results be these : First, if the verdict of
the geneml reader be that the stories are amusing in spots, and that
the writer must certainly have his lucid intervals. Second, if any
boy, on the perusal of this compilation (it is worthy of no better
name), be led into the way of writing alleged funny things, and
thus developing the latent humor there is in every masculine
personality.

(" — Trr.

VI.

PREFACR.

But it is 80 easy to ask impossibilities. For instance, it would be
pleasant to have this volume judged by some of its cat Hnd dog
stories ; wherea) the unkind reader will bu just peevish enough to
prejudge it by the twaddle on the fifteenth page.

An inquisitive young lady of sixty well-preserved years (I gener-
ally respect age, and do so, even in this case, because it is hypo-
thetical) asked what had been survived, or whether the title of the
book wore a misnomer. I gravely suggested ship-wreck, the Inquisi-
tion, and worse evils, but seeing her incredulous smile, truthfully
said that I had once entertained the idea of calling it '' A Maiden's
Inheritance ; or, A Hero to the Rescue ; or. The Witch's Curse ; or,
Buried 'Neath the Blasted Pine." This would have been a good all-
round title, that would admirably till the bill and serve in lieu of a
frontispiece ; but consideration ioT the reader caused me to forbear.
Besides, it would not be fair to delude any guileless youth into the
belief that he had got hold of an interesting dime novel. The
question, however, is so easily answered that it is not expedient to
argue it further ; and the truth is, it has not been survived ; it is
liable at any time to checkmate me.

While in a former volume I was continually prodding the reader
under the fifth rib with an alpenstock to keep him from falling
asleep, in this the reader is left severely alone, or but guardedly
taken into my confidence. It is regretable, though, that some of
the best things buried in these Groans and (tIrins are apparently
meaningless passages and obscure allusions to individuals and inci-
dents. These, of course, I do not condescend to clear up ; in fact,
the ethics of novel-writing would forbid it, even were I so disposed.

It may be added that this preface is really an impromptu effort,
written without premeditation or malice aforethought. Let it go at
that. The chances are that the indifferent reader will never look at
it, anyway. I have written prefaces before, and ought to know
what I am talking about,

BRUCB MUNRO,

CONTENTS.

PAOK.

Proem 1

My First Proposal 3

Groans of the First Frenzy Period 15

To Margarita 16

The Month of May - " ' W

Some Village Characteis 19

Our Visit to the Country 26

How I Loved and Lost My Nelly 81

How I Loved and Lost My Janet - - - - • 87

Hart Gilbert Palmer 48

To My Old Dog, Nero 58

An Meine Verlorene Liebste 50

The Scarce and Bitter Fruit of the Summer of 1884 - - 60

The Canadian Climate 61

Lottie 64

Hard Luck - - -87

The Railwayman's Trials - - 9r

An Experienced Traveler - 98

The Folder Fiend - 102

A Severe Test - 109

The Long-Suifering Tramp 112

Rejected 115

The Hardships of a Brave Man s Life .... 117

How the Hatchet Came to be Buried 131

Verse for the Twenty-ninth of May .... 143

What Augustus Wrote in Lucy's Album - - - ^ - - 143

Sing Me a Song of the Old Days 144

Give Back to Me My Diamond Rings 146

Her Majesty's Customs 146

\. Disillusioned Innocent 162

The Little Lone House 156

Such is Life - . - - - 168

vm.

CONTKNTS.

How a Coolness arose between Bill and Ner« ... 169

A Quiet Evening at Home 178

Discouraging a Journalist :

I. As a Mute, Inglorious Milton • • . . . 186

II. As an Unfledged Humorist 196

To Mignonne- 203

Hiram's Oath - 206

Vain Triumph - - 846

The Young Violioist 260

Mammon 261

Time, the Healer - - - - - - • 261

Things Begin to Get Interesting 862

Signs of Spring 270

Our New Girl 272

A Missing Testimonial 281

Another Valued Testimonial- • - • ^ - - - 286

An Interview with the Prophets - - - - - 289

To the First Organ-Griuder of the Season .... 292

Judith's Dilemma - - - - - - - - 294

City Life vs. Country Life 313

Could I But Know ! - - - 326

Lucy and the Fortune-Teller 327

How He Quit Smoking 337

'' C'est pour Toujours, Nelly" 341

Her Story and His Story 342

Nancy Ann's Elopement 360

A Trip to Washington ^363

• 186
196

• 203
206

' 246
250

- 261
261

• 262
270

' 272
281

- 286
289

- 292
294

- 313
326

- 327
337

- 341
342

- 350
363

PROEM.

As in dreams the old delnsims,
The oldfoAies, the fond mem'ries,
Are revived, and the old heart-break,
That in sleep is oft rebellious,
With o'ermaatering vehemence,
Bursts the mighty Past's locked portals-

MY FIRST PROPOSAL.

A MOST UNSATISFACTORY LOVK-STORY.

FELL desperately in love with Mary Blakely. I
was young, only nineteen, and she was younger,
only sixteen. She was beautiful, — at least, my passion for
her t jld me she was, — amiable, sprightly, and altogether
bewitching. Further, she was poor, and so was L

Oh, how I loved that girl ! I could set my mind on
nothing, accomplish nothing, for thinking of her. I
seemed to know intuitively when she was coming, and
on going to the window would see her pass ; but she
seemed to be near me always.

I resolved that she should bo my wife ; I resolved
further to become a great man. To that end, I would
write a wonderful love-story, which should be the
ft<lrairation of the rest of the nineteenth and the whole
of the twentieth, twenty-first, twenty-second, and twenty-
tliird centuries. By that time my wonderful love-story
would have become a hoary antiquity, like Shakspeare's
dramas ; and, as in the case of Shakspeare, there would
then be grave, fussy, and spectacled litterateurs to
comment on my Mary, my book, and me.

I wrote slowly, laboriously, and stjlenmlj'' ; and as my
story grew and grew, 1 loved Marj more and more. Of
course she was the heroine, and of course I took care to
make this so plain that she could not fail to recognise
herself. How pleased she would be, how honored she
would feel, to tind herself some day the heroine of the

-r=^..

I i

i ;

4 MY FIRST PROPOSAL.

most popular novel of the decade ; and when the world-
renowned writer of this novel should ask her to be his
wife, how quickly would a brilliant wedding em.ue !

Did she love me ? As I loved her, she must love me.
On such an argument I laid the foundations of my air-
castle. I seldom saw her, except to say " good-day," and
I could not determine to a certainty whether I had won
her entire love or not. But I trusted I had ; I tried hard
to per.suade myself I had. At all events, as soon as my
book should be published, the road to her heart would
be open. And with this I must be content till the day of
my triumph should come.

One day I could not forbear telling her about my book
addinff that I meant to send it to Boston for publication.
I hadn't the courage to tell her that she was the heroine
of the book, but I hinted at it darkly by saying I
thought she would like to read it, because there were
certain persons in it that she would know.

I often had cause to be furiously jealous — at least, I
fancied I had cause. Didn't she go to school, and didn't
every boy in school fall in love with her ? Of course
they did — how could they help it ? Most of the boys
were a year or so younger than she, it is true ; but what of
that ? Didn't women marry men younger than them-
selves 3'35 days out of the year ? And besides, was not
the head master — though as ugly as a schoolboy's carica-
ture of the rascal who " tells on " him — an unmarried
man ? Again, did she not get a letter every week or so ?
The address on these letters was wiitten in a hand
decidedly feminine ; but what of that ? That was a mere
ruse between Mary and some nmstached lover. (I, alas !
had met with nothing but disappointment in my

MY FIRST PROPOSAL.

endeavors to cultivate a mustache.) In fact, it seemed
to me that everybody was in love with her, and that she
was in love with everybody. And yet, she was to be my
wife !

One day, the brightest day in my calendar, she said
to me, " Haven't you been well lately, Weston ;* I haven't
seen you for nearly a week."

Fnmi that time I began to rebuild my air-castle on a
better foundation. It is to be remarked, also, that
although she received a letter that very day in the
feminine handwriting, I refused to believe in the
existence of a nuistached lover.

But I am wandering from my starting-point. I did
not often see my Mary, but when I did she always said
" good-day " very courteously, and always accepted the
apples I gave her I have said that I was poor. I had
no money to buy little trinkets and knick-knacks for
her — I had not money even to buy her caramels. But
my brain was pretty active at that period, and writino-
my wonderful book kept my ingenuity always in play.
(What with writing, fancying a lover in every shadow
about her path, plotting to circumvent visionary rivals,
and trying to guess her thoughts, I all but rrined my
imaginative powers.) One day I gave her a Union Pacilic
railway map ; another day, some home-made popped
corn ; still another day, a little treasure of a pop-oun —
not for herself, but f(jr her little brother. I had ))ains-
takingly fashioned this pop-gun myself, and covered it
with kisses. She would not be able to detect any trace
of these fond kisses, to be sure — in fact, I doubted
whether she would ever know anything about them ; but

MY FIRST PUOPOSAI-.

the gvui would neccssariiy pass tliiough her hands, and if
she sliould liappen to kiss it — !

My uncle supplied nie with pens to write my book,
and I took occasion to supply her.

At all this the reader may smile contemptuously.
Very good ; 1 expect him to smile ; a year before I
myself should have smiled aloud,

Mary acc(;pted all these things ; but what did she do
for me ? »She gave me no popped corn ; no railway
" folders ;" nothing whatever. But she lent me, un-
solicited, — except through broad hints, — a French book.

Toward the end of May she seemed to grow weary of
me. The "good day, Weston," was very distant some-
times; and when I yanked the forty-fifth apple out
of my coat-pocket, and began, " Here is," she cut me
snort with an "oh, never mind," and passed on. My
imagination was very active as, sleepless and feverish, I
wore out th«.> night following that <lreadful day. I
distinctly read a dozen letters addressed to her, each one
being an offer of marriage. I vividly saw her married
over and over again, but I was not once the bridegroom.
My p(jwerful imagination poit)ted out that the " mus-
tached lovei' " was my most formidable rival ; that he
was twenty-one ; that he was an accomplished gentle-
man ; that he was the heir of a noble estate ; that he
would eventually marry Mary. My imagination went
further ; it told me that Hubert (that was his name, for
Mary often said she liked the name of Hubert) was
utterly unworthy of her; that her married life with him
would \)c. thorny; that in the end he would desert her ;
that I should then tind and snatch her from her misery ;
that she would simply say to me, with such a piteous

MY FIRST PROPOSAL.

look, ''Oh, Weston, forgive me! "ami then .shmlderiiigly
(lie. At this culiuiiiatiun of horrors, I fell sound asleep.
But worse than this was in store for me. T saw two
or three of the youths of the village escort her home
from church, in a timid and rustic manner that should
have made me laugh. But if they had more courage
than I, how could I laugh ? It was theh' privilege to do
all the laughing. Worse and worse ! I saw her go for
a boat-ride with a young curate and two young ladies of
her own age. Of course the dashing clerical planned the
boat-ride for her ; the other two were but figure-heads,
nonentities, who had probably shoved themselves in,
uninvited and undesired. Of course the young hero was
desperately in love with her ; of course he was dying to
marry her.

Now, I had no boat ; I wouldn't borrow (me — ior I
was a blunderhead at rowing, anyway.

I will not harrow up my feelings by attempting to
describe the agonies I endured. In my desperation I
resolved to lay my heart, and hand, and unfinished love-
storj^ at her feet the first opportunity. I had intended
to wait till I could lay my story printed, and through it
the world, before her ; but now I could endure suspense
no longer ; I must know my fate at once.

I did not encounter Mary again for nearly a week.
She seemed rather pleased to see me, and I said huskily,
" I have not seen you for some time, Mary. I — I — "

" No," she said slowly, and was slowly moving on.

I meant to propose then ; but we were on the street ;
she seemed to be in a hurry. Of course I could not
propose, on She street, under these circumstances ; no
one, surely, could expect it of me. So that opportunity

MY FIRST PROPOSAL.

I )

ill

slipped past. But, iimkinf^ a superliiirnan effort, I said,
" Shall you be at home this evening ( I shouM like to
have an interview with you."

Her face showed a little surprise, and, it may be,
pleasure. Did she suspect ? I think she did.

" Yes, I expect to be in," she replied.

And so we went our different ways.

The battle had now begun. Had I the courage, and,
above all, the self-command, to go on to victory — or
defeat ? 1 devoutly hoped so ; but I was so dazed that
I had no clear idea of anything.

Very early that evening I put in my appearance But
early as it was, Mary was ready to receive me. Farther,
even to my unpractised eyes, she seemed to have taken
special pains with her toilet.

Surely, she expected an offer of marriage ! This so
unnerved me that I could hardly frame what the
crarmmarians call a simple sentence. Then Mrs. Blakely
came into the room for a moment, and greeted me with
marked politeness. My boyish verdancy prompted me
to conclude that she had been told something, and
expected me to propose.

Now, all this should have encouraged me, for if it
meant anything, it meant that they regarded me with
favor. But my head was dizzy, and I felt deathly sick.

Mary's mother discreetly withdrew, and we were alone.

" How are you getting along at school, Mary ? " I

faltered.

" Oh, very well," she said gaily ; " but I'm rather tired

of school."

" How are your plants thriving ? " was my next
(luestion. " I see they are gracing the windows."

MY FIRST rHOrOSAL.

"Oh, they're coming on finely," she replied, stepping to
the window and re-arranging some of the flower-pots.

I had never been in her house before, and it was

somewhat embarrassing for l)ot]i of us. But she was

busying herself with the flowers, while I had nothing —

not even my hat. How I wished that a gentle kitten or

a pet dog would stray into the room, that I might pick

it up and fondle it ! I believed I could pluck up courage

to propose if only my hands were occupied. What big

and clumsy hands they were, to be sure ; and, yes, there

was an ugly ink-stain on the index finger of my right

hand.

Apparently I thought I had not yet exhausted school

topics, and I said, " How are you getting along with your

French, Mary ? "

" I'm translating Souvestro now," she answered.

" Did you ever take up Latin again i " I asked.

These idiotic (iuesti(ms must have been highly enter-
taining to her. But she answered pleasantly, " No, not
since we came to this place. It is only the boys that
study Latin here now, and of course I didn't wish to
take it up with them," shooting me an arch look.

" No, of course not ! " I replied hastily.

Now, if ever, I should have had the courage to ask the
vital question. But I had not.

Soon I in(iuired, " How do you like ' We and Our
Neighbors' ?" — a book I liad lent her.

" I like it pretty well," she answered, a little wearily.

Then ensued a solemn and oppi-essive silence.

" Mary," I said at length, " I — I thought you had
taken a dislike to me lately,"

This was th<' nearest approach to a proposal that I had
yet dared to venture on, and I trembled as I spoke.

MY FIRST PROPOSAL.

" Why, no, Wi'stoii ! " shu said, coming back from the
wiriflow. '• What iiuidu you think tliat ? I always liked
you, Weston."

At this my nineteen-year-old heart beat furiously ; a
dimness impaired my vision ; everything in the room
went spinning around in the craziest manner imaginable.
It was liappiness enough to be able to call her Mary and
to be called Weston in return ; but it was thrilling and
delii-ious joy to hear her say that she always liked me.

With an effort I recovered myself. But instead of
popping the question, as I should have done if 1 wished
her to ])e my wife, 1 — answered the (question she had
asked ! " Oh, 1 suppose I was grum," 1 said.

Another painful pause.

In sheer desperation I l)lurted out " I'll speak to you
about it aL;.iin in about six months, — six or seven months,
— good night, Mary ;" caught up my hat, and tore out of
the house.

Notwithstanding my agitation I perceived that Mary
looked annoyed, and her " good night" was cold and for-
mal.

Only those who have passed through the ordeal can
form a just conception of my feelings. As I strode away
I heaped the most scurrilous epithets upon myself — and
yet I was happy ; for had she not said emphatically, " I
always liked you, Weston " ? If I could but have had
the moral courage, she might now be my promised wife.
But she loved me ; of course she did ; why else had she
spoken in that way, so unhesitatingly ?

Did I believe in " Hubert " ? Certainly not ; " Hubert "
was but a mytli. As for the youths who dared to escort
— or rather shadow — her home from church — . Pshaw !

1 V

MY FIRST PROPOSAL.

om the
s liked

isly; a
3 room
finable,
.ry and
ng and
1 me.
3ead of
wished
he had

to you
nonths,
) out of

Mary
|nd for-

;al can
away
If — and
Jly. " I
'e had
wife,
lad she

iibert "

escort

rsliaw !

The good-for-nothing fellows loved Iut, jM'i-haps, (liow
could they help it :*) and she, pcrluijis, liked them, in a
sisterly way, (what of that ^'^^^ she hx-al ww. As for
the vounir curate — Well, he iiii<cht l»e her uncle, loi- all I
knew, or luM- cousin — no, cousins often niariy. Oranted
even that he was a rival, had I not stolen a niaich on
him!* Mary loved me, even as J loved hei- ; and the
clerical candidate^ was playing a losing game.

So I could afford to pity the young clergyman, for he
seemed a man who would take a disappointment very
hard. Poor fellow ! Yes, I could pity him with all my
heart — but, at the same time, I could narrowly watch
over my own interests.

Why had I said, " I'll speak about it again in about six
months " ? Such a thought had never occurred to me
before — in fact, it must have been the spell of some pre-
sentiment that had constrained me to speak in that way.
Yes, cleai'ly it was destined that in six months' time
there would be a great change wrought in my life. There
would then be a period, an epoch, a — a — sometliing
startling. Certainly ; I could sum up the matter in a few
words : Six months later, mv book would \n\ before the
world ; I should be hailed as a second Dickens — perhaps
it would even be said that I eclipsed Dickens ; and, best
of all, Mary would be my promised wife, for I should
then have no hesitation in b;)ldly asking the dreadful
question. And it might be that my young fritmd in holy
orders should |)erform the marriao-e cereniony for us iust
six months from that date !

But, awful thought I why ha'i I subjoined, " six or
seven months " ? What was the signiticaiiee of that
addendum ? Was there to be some hitch in the pre-

MY FIRST PROPOSAL.

sentiment ? Was some unforeseen calamity to thi'eaten
me at tlie expiration of six montlis, or of seven months f
No ; no. The interpretation clearly was, that everything
depended upon my own exertions ; I must make the most
of my opportunities.

" Good evening," smote my ear.

With a start I awakened out of my reverie, and,
behold! my clerical rival! He was going the way 1
had come, and I had com<3 from Mary's! Where was
he going but to Mary's !

My di8ea.sed imagination, like a mighty engine too
fortnbly set in motion, Ix'gan to pla\' with a destructive
velocity that could not be restrained.

I l(wt track of the young man, but retraced my steps
to Mary's. I came in sight of the place just in time to
see some one going backwards down the slat walk leading
to the gate, talking to — Mary !

My elaborate and be;iutiful air-castle came toppling
about my ears with a crash that was startling.

They were laughing and talking merrily. Who was
it ? the curate, or " Hubert," once more resuscitated ^

I never knew; for the tigure on the walk abruptly took
leave of Mary, and glided away at a lively pace. The door
.slammed to ; I looked up ; Mary had disappeared in the
house.

Then I remembered her cold " good night " and her
look of scorn as I took leave of her, and I again heaped
abuse on my head. " She will think," I retlected, "that
I entrapped her into saying what she did. What does it
all signify ? In reality, nothing ! What a downright
fool I am ! I ivill have a definite answer ! I will know
my fate ! 1 will ask her, no^\ , to be my wife — / sivcar
it !"

MY FIRST PROrOSAL,

Without waiting for my resolution to waver, I daslied
up the walk and the door-steps, an<l sou n< led a peal that
made my ears tingle. Mrs. Rlakcly came runiiinLj to the
door in the liveliest alarm.

" Is it fire ? " she gasped.

" Is Mary in ? " I asked, and b/ushed past her into the

hall.

Then Mrs. Blakely recovered her composure, and
ushered me into the parlor, where Mary was. As the
door opened, Mary, who knew me hy my voice, sat down
at the piano and began playing softly.

" An air that Hubert loves," I groaned. But my
resoluti(m was still firm.

Seeing a rug in disorder, I leaned over it and spread it
out smooth and straight. " Mary," I said, in so sharp a
tone that she started, turned, and faced me, " if I — should
become — a famous fellow, will you marry me ? "

A rosy hue overspread her face, she nervously turned
to her piano, played idly on three notes, and said tremu-
lously, " Oh, Weston ! You mustn't talk that way ! "

" Oh, Im in earnest," I declared.

A long and painful silence. Mary, with her face turned
from me, pretended to be deeply interested in monoton-
ously thumping away on those three notes.

What had possessed me to say " fellow " ? How com-
monplace it sounded, and how it must have grated on
Mary's sensitive ear. If only I could have written it,
how polished and precise it would have been !

I broke the silence, saying, " I don't want any promise,
Mary ; I only want to know what you think."

But the poor girl still harped away at nothing. " I
wish you hadn't said anything about it," she at length
said peevishly.

MY PIK8T PROPOSAL.

Ir'i

I waitoil a nionient longer, (^xp(»('tin^ licr to Hto|) tluit
liat(;t'nl tuiu-tunmiinj^' an«l say soiiK'tbinjjj. But she did
not. Perlia])S slio was waitiiiL;' for ine to exclaim passion-
ately, as the; ortliodox lover would liave done, " 1 love
you : " But I did not.

I should have nr<jfed my suit, and received a definite
answer. Instead of this I mournfully said, " Very well,
Maiy,' and went hopeless away, leavin<^ her to her sonata
of three notes and her own meditations.

An<l so ended my first proposal. Who among us is a
hero on that momentous occasion ? For my further
extenuation, let me ur<;v it upon the indulgent reader to
bear in mind the fact tlui' I was only nineteen.

For my reader's sake, I wish I could wind up by
saying that Mary looks over my shoulder as I write these
last words, and gives me a wifely kiss. Alas, no ! Both
Mary and I are still unmarried ; but the " great gulf "
problem is here, and such a consummation of my idyllic
dream will hardly be realized.

^^\

GROANS EVOKED

Dl'UIXG THK PKIIIOI) OF THE FIRST FRENZY

Lks Soui'iits d'un Jouvenckau,

COULD IT BE SO!

Sr olio otiiit assisao aupr^s de mon oroillcr,

Si BO'S choveux oruloyaient autour do ma tuto,

Si srt voix parlait ii moi,

Si SOS yeux mo regardaient,

Si SOS It'vres baisaiont les miomies,

Si mos mains touaieut los siennes,

Que je sorais heureux !

Que je serais houroux !
Quo je serais heureux, m'amour ! m'amie !

MxVKGukRiTE, mignonne, ma bonne, ma chore, m'amie,
Si jo pouvais te chorcher aiijourd'hui,
Si je jtouvais baiser tes joues si donees,
Si jo savitis que tu ponsasses a Bruce.

Et je songe (|ue tu es proche moi, 6 ma miguonno,
Souf^e (pio tos pL-tites mains sont mibes dans k's miennes ;
Songe tos baisers brulent sur mes joues et levrc'S,
Pendant (pie ta voix dit, "m'amour, j'y suis."

And I dreamed that thou wast with me, oh my darling,
Dreamod thy little hands lay lovingly in mine ;
Dreamed thy kisses burned upon my lips and forehead,
Whilst thy voice did murmer softly, ' I am thine,"

i ^^^?^»S^>^^-.

TO MARGARITA.

Sweetheart, I love your winsome face,
Your soft, dark eyes, your witching grace,
Your artless ways, your heart sincere,
Your many charms, which all endear.
My jealous heart can have no fear,
If in your love it have a place.

i'i'li!
'lip

B
m
ill
i.' .

■M,

You have bewitched me with your smiles,
Your lau 'filing voice, th tt swift beguiles,
Your pouting lips, that coy invite
A bold attemi^t from frenzied wight
Castilian sonnets to indite —
Though 1 would draw my sword the whiles.

Carissima, I love you well,

I love you more than verse can tell.

Wed with me ; do not say me nay ;

Turn not my joy into dismay ;

Wed with me on this happy day.
And glad will ring our marriage -bell.

Beloved, say you'll be my own.

My wife, ere yet this day has flown.

Your sparkling eyes shall know no tears,

Your sun-lit locks will mock the years.

E'en Time can bring naught but which cheers ;

Your fame I'll 8i)rcad from zone to zone.

Not for a span of time, soon fled,

Not for this life alone we'll wed ;

When this world's sunshine disappears,
Together in the brighter splieres.
Throughout eternal, tranquil years.

Our spirit life may still be led.

THE MONTH OF MAY.

Ijll^HEN May coines, the small hoy first hegins to think
ilHilP seriously of tradini,^ off' his niarhles for fish-hooks,
and from fish-hooks his thoughts revert to long-tailed
kites. Before May is half over he yearns to build a dam
and launch a raft.

The small boy is not content to go fishing where it is
dry and wholesome, but seeks out the dampest marsh he
can find. Every night he comes home a good deal too
late for supper, with his pants tucked in his long-legged
boots, to hide the alluvial dep*. sits streaked on them ; his
hands in Ins pockets, to hide the mud stains and the
lacerations of his patent fish-hooks ; and his hat, liis new
straw hat — wliat of tliat ? Alas ' the evil-smelling marsh
water has played sad havoc with the small boy's new hat,
and he has followed the dictates of prudence, and left it
in the woodshed. He sits down to the supper table with
a light heart, and clears it of evervthinj»' save the dishes
and the mustard. He had cauuht an amazinjjf imml^er of
fish, of course ; so many, in fact, tliat he couldn't count
them all — couldn't bemn to do it. But some of them were
too small to l)ring home ; some of them he lost ; some of
them got aiuay ; and some of them were bull-frogs, every
time. Anyway — ami he lays marked an<l exultant
[emphasis on this— anyway, he had a " splendi<l time."

Those who stroll about the city Hud the drug store
iWmd()Ws full of patent cough medicines, and spring anti-
jfebriles, and awful satires on the man who die<l a
Iwretched death V)e( ause he wf)uld not invest a paltry
|f]ollar in a bottle of spring medicine. Remembering how

;

! I t

li^f

THE MONTH OF MAY.

they have exposed themselves to the May sunshine, they
hurry into the drug store and glance at this medicine
and at that, feeling all the time that they will share the
suicidal miser's fate if they do not dose with spring
medicine at once ; and they invest a paltry dollar —
perhaps three or four paltry dollars — in Eau de Cologne
and other perfumes, and saunter out into the street with
a light heart.

There is a beauty in the fields, and the woods, and the
apple orchards, that tempts human nature to while away
the time out in the meadows and the woodlands, to study
botany, and to envy tinkers and tramps. The sun may
be like a fiery furnace, but under the trees it is cool and
delightful. The woods are always cool ; but in the pent-
up city the stone pavement is so intensely hot that it
frizzles, and scorches, and burns everything tha,c passes
over it — except the naked foot of the friendless hoodlum.

"In the spring the young man's fancy turns lightly
to thoughts of love," and in May he decorates himself
with a new watch-chain and a new cane, and finds out
where cream caramels retail at the most reasonable price.
And on Sunday afternoons the highways and the bye-
ways are full of top buggies, and the top buggies are full
of lovers, and the parlors of the farmhouses are sugges-
tive of protracted Sunday evening courtships. And the
country maiden, as well as the city maiden, discards last
year's fashions, and parasols, and earrings, and appears in
raiment and oft-settings of the most enchanting and
dazzling newness ; and the Niagara hackman, reflecting
cm all these things, chuckles a sordid chuckle, for he
knows that twenty-four hours after the marriage of
these lovers, they will be at the Falls, and at his mercy.

SOME VILLAGE CHARACTERS.

'^^UR village does not lie under the shadow of an
"ly§* historic mountain, nor is it laved by tlie water-^
of a sparkling river. Alas, no ! It is bounded by mill-
pi xids, pasture -grounds, and cross-roads. But its streets
arc named ; its site is shown on all the more ambitious
lailway ma|)s ; it gets the daily papers before they are
two days old ; and it can boast (but does not) of having
given to the world a champion dog catcher, a combination
corn-doctor and horse-trainer, an unsuccessful mind-
reader, an insanity expert, a Mormon missionary, and a
courteous lady book-agent.

Our village is inhabited — inhabited by human beings ;
hoys and dogs ; cows and porkers; sheep and mosquitoes I
and certain insects that troubled Egypt during the fourth
plague. It has many buildings — churches, " conmiercial
houses " (in truth, some of them were houses once, and
niay l)e again), hotels, dwelling-houses, ramsh.ackle sheds,
a ]n^r scliool, and more hotels.

On sauntering out into the streets of our village, we •
iiiuuediately see a figure ahead of us. We do not pass
tliis figure, because no one was ever known to pass it.
It is the old woman in black, who is always lugging
altout a market-basket, and always just ahead of you.
Next, we discern the town-clerk's time-worn dog, trudg-
ing leiBurely along in the imperfect shade afforded by the
["splendid" new stores on Waddell's block, on his way
to the shambles, to wrangle with other hungry dogs for
a paltry bone, of which, ten to one, he will be despoiled

11 iii

HOME VILLAGE CHAflACTEHS.

hy tlie postmaster's over-fed Lull-dog, which we shall
meet presently.

It is a proud <lay for our villagers when a son of the
soil hauls a load of hendock in from the liack-woods, and
gazes, with rapturous admiration, at our beautiful new
stores. There is, in fact, but one prouder day in the
whole year for them. That is every Fair-day, when the
Sweedish pliotographer and watch-maker draws his
camero (as he calls it) and his other apparatus conspicu-
ously down opposite that pile; presses a dozen little
orphan bo3's into his service, causes them to lift, and
strain, and groan, and whisper slang (?), and finally gets
his apparatus into what was the right position only to
find that old Sol, like time, waits for no man, and that
it will have to be shifted. But at last everything is
arranged to suit the magnate ; and, after sending one
little boy to get him a drink of water (?), and another
all the way back to his " gallery," on some mysterious
errand, and two or three to every shop within sight, to
announce that opei'ations are about to commence, he
deliberately takes off* his coat, which he consigns to some
adult bystander for safe keeping, gives his " camero " a
final liitch, and takes a picture of those stores. Although
his name and dual employment are end)lazoned on his
belono-insj-s in ornamental o'ilt letters, the villa<i"ers do
not seem to think that he is advertizing himself, but
patrioticly buy his pictures, and have them framed by
the cabinet-maker and sign-painter.

But we have wandered, i'retty soon we confront the
man who appears to be always stepping out of the cor-
ner hotel. He is not a handsome fellow, not the sort of
pei'sonage the editor's heiress would select to elope with ;

SOME VILLAGE CHARACTERS.

iruero a

but he is the undisputed owner of the most unaiiiiable
rat terrier within the town limits. This rat terrier is an
ancient — a venerable — canine, but it has none of the milk
of luiman kindness in its gaunt frame. Poor Hero ! He
lias caused more boys' pants to be prefaced with big
patches, and stopped short the course of more sizable
stones, than any of his congeners.

Soon we catch sight of a middle-aged man and woman
passing the compliments of the day as thc}'^ meet each
other. Judging by appearances, one would fancy they
iinist be lovers, though they are rather elderly to indulge
ill the tender passion. On n^ttking inquiries it is learned
tliat presumably they are lovers — for they have been
engaged these eighteen years.

Here is Sam Weller's Hotel. Loun<]rinfj under the
shade of a horse-chestnut tree is a remarkable individual,
of a youthful and jaunty appearance. His coat is ofF>
but it is hanging close by, spread out so that all its
goi'geousness may be seen to the best advantage. A pair
of seven-dollar boots protects his feet ; a seven-dollar hat
is carefully balanced on Ids artisticly cropped head ; a
seven-dollar meerschaum is dangling between the second
and tlie third tinger of his left hand ; a seven-dollar gold
watch-chain, freighted with not a few seven-dollar trin-
kets of ample dimensions, fetches a tortuous course across
his natty vest, and disappears in his vest pocket ; a
seven-dollar diamond ring causes the fourth member of
his right hand to stick out and point jeeringly at a boy
sliying stones at a stray feline. Who is this great man ?
is asked, with bated breath. It may be the pi'oprietor of
the hotel ; but no, it — it must be one of Thomas Nast's
p< )1 itical corruptionists f I'om the Capital. " I never 1 >ef ore,"

- 1

1 1

SOME VILLAGE CHARACTERS.

says a stranger, "saw a man who looks so like the English
lord of the Boiu BelUr

Curiosity is great, but it is soon gratified. A man who
is evidently no respecter of persons comes swinging
along the street, and seeks to insult the seven-dollar
phenomenon with these opprobrious words :

" Hello, Jim ! I want to get my hair cut."
We expect to see the noble lord start to his feet in a
burst of awful anger. We expect to see, perhaps, a
tragedy. We do not wish to be impanelled on a coroner's
jury, but we resolve to see how this grandee will resent
an insult. Perhaps he will think the clown beneath
contempt, we reason, and go on peacefully pointing his
finger —

"All right, Tom," he says, with alacrity, and away they
go, and turn into a "hair-cutting parlor" round the
corner.

Pretty soon we encounter the postmaster's dog. It is a
powerful brute, witli a deceptive smile on its mouth, a
deceptive wag alxmt its tail. It will bite a shoemaker, an
errand-boy, an errandless boy, a boy with ragged clothes
on, a boy without any clothes on at all, an organ-grinder,
a doctor, a schoolboy (or half a dozen schoolboys), a man
with a cane, a man without a cane, an invalid with three
or four canes, or a brass jewelry peddler. It will bite
*'!ie and all of these, without remorse; but it will not
'ite man, or boy, or scarecrow, carrying a gun, or any-
thing in the shape of a gun. And wherefore ? Because
in puppyhood it was shot twice. But the canine is

SOMB VILLAGE CHARACTERS.

(loomed ; sooner or later it will die by violence. So say
the schoolmaster, the consumptive wood-sawyer, the
butcher's boy, and all the hoodlutus of* the village. So,
it is doomed. But perhaps " sooner or later." like to-
morrow, will never come. It is not the dog, but the dog's
master, that is respected and feared. Perhaps the votes
cast at the last election may influence the destiny of this
canine autocrat.

A little farther on we come up with a meek-eyed
urcliin, of the negativest of negative temperaments, who
tremblingly gasps out "yes, ma'am", "no, ma'am," to every-
body, of whatsoever sex or dignity. No matter what
you ask him, he doesn't know, or he doesn't remember,
or he isn't sure, or he forgets. Once he clean forgot him-
self, and said he didn't think he was sick.

The people of our village are so cultured that
nothing could induce them to say anything they
think vulgar. On the hottest day in July, when the
mercury is boiling and respiration almost suspended, they
meet one another and say, gaspingly, " Isn't it awfully
warm ? " The more genteel among them — that is, those
who have plodded through the first sixty-seven pages of
some one's grammar, and hammered the idea into their
1 head that the suffix " ful " is an adjective, but that
"fully" is an adverb, and that adverbs and warm (what-
ever that may be in grammar) are in some mysterious
manner connected — say " awfully warm ; " but those
whose education has been neglected, shock the refined
lears of the genteely educated ones by saying " awful
Iwarm.'

Marry, after hearing this " isn't it awful (or awfully)
[warm ? " asked by perspiring mortals on every side for

SOMR VILLAGE CHARAnTERS.

(lays t()g(3thGi', liow refresliing it is to hear the gamins
sing out to one another, " It's hot, ain't it. Bill ! "

According to our villagers, though, " hot " is a word
fit only for cooks, vagabonds, and scientists, " cold " is
orthodox, and expressive merely of chilliness. About
the middle of September, when the e(|uinoctial is brew-
ing, and small boys begin leluctantly to leave off "swim-
ming " in the creek, the genteel ones say, " It's cold to-
day, isn't it ? "

If the villagers would drop their scandalous gossiping
leave off reading their idle village weekly newspapers,
and devote a little of their wearisome leisure to the
acquisition of just a modicum of Bostonian — or even
Leadvillian — culture, it would be well for them and for
their posterity. As to awful and awfully, why, existence
would be a luirden if the use of these two words were
forbidden them. Why, they would not be able to mani-
fest their ideas at all.

"The good die young," and the kindly-disposed inhabi-
tants of this hypothetical village are so unobtrusive
that the stranger is not likely to notice them — although
they largely outnumber the others.

The moral of this fragmentary sketch seems to be that
while some inoffensive people are so thin-skinned that
they are sensitive to the least prick from any spluttering
little old Gillott pen, that may have long since spluttered
out all its venom, others again are so much likeapachyderm
in their nature that they will bob up sulkily smiling, even
when sandbagged by a crack from a muleteer's rude
bludgeon.

OUR VISIT TO THE COUNTRY.

|NE joyous day in May I decided that it would be
very pleasant to go down to the old home in the
country and pass the summer there. What could be so
(leli<^htt'ul as a picket hen-house, a vagabond sheep-dog,
an honest cordwood stove, and a roomy frame house,
built by an architect who had never studied architecture
or trigonometry ? Three miles from the post-office, five
miles from the Erie railway, and one hundred and fifty
miles from the nearest )arge city — what more could a
mortal ask who simply wished to forget, for a few
months, that the world moves, and that Ireland longs to
join in the procession.

Such were the arguments I used to persuade my wife,
Fanny, much against her will, to pack up and go down
into the country. I had my way, and we went.

The old house had been vacant nearly a year, and
iconsequently needed airing. The doors would all open
jasily enough, but, as Fanny said, they wouldn't shut
[again without putting forth great effort. I tried hard to
)ersuade her that by leaving tlunn all wide open, such a
^tate of affairs would result in a net gain to us of seven
Hull golden hours in the course of every five years.

A spavined horse and a mild-mannered cow were
)rocured and installed in the cowstable, and a most sub-
stantial buggy was borrowed from a man who had owed
»iy father ten dollars. I felt that nothing more could be
lesired to make home happy, but my wife insisted on
laving a cat. Scarcely a day passed but an adult cat,

OUR VISIT TO THE COUNTRY.

M !

11!
I I

Ifiii

;l !

ill: I!

touring the country incognito, would wander into our
premisos, partake of li([uid refresluiicnt from tlu; milk
pans, aTid then good-huinoredly resunt' its Knight-
errantry. I tried to persuade Fanny to take up with
some one of these Bohemian cats, but the adventurous
spirit was too strongly developed in them, and besides,
she preferred a feline of domestic, and not of cosmopolitan
tastes.

At tlie end of two brief weeks our oow, infused with
the spirit of the age, l)oycotted us, refused absolutely to
give any more milk ; and I engaged a warty-fingered boy
(not necessarily because he was afflicted with warty
fingers, but because it was difficult to find a well-developed
boy not so afflicted) to bring us milk daily. He always
came before we were up, and generally hung about till
dinner-time — not because he sympathised with us in our
loneliness, but because such was his idea of eti(|uette.
From him Fanny got a kitten, and our household was
now complete, •

We were three miles from the post-office, as was
mentioned above, and the mail-carrier, on his route past
our place once a day to an inlying village, left our letters,
etc. It was odd how eagerly I would watch for him,
considering that I had come to this place to get away
from the world. The carrier had an easy, graceful way,
acquired from dexterous practice, of tossing mail matter
into the ditch, and of cracking our sheep-dog's ears With
his whip. But as he drew a salary of TWO hundred
DOLLARS A YEAR from the Government for carrying Uncle
Sam's mails, he was the autocrat of the road and everyone
meekly yielded to his imperious ways.

1 1

OUli VISIT TO THE COUNTRY.

us in our

Onr liouso stood almost on the road — or rather, on a
crose-road, and we were liailod nii^lit and <hiy by stalwart
tramps. At niglit I bade them follow the tele^^raph poles,
and (hiring the day mechanically directed them to Chicago,
New York, Vermont, Ireland, and the Black Hills. Right
oNcr the way from our house stood a large open shed,
appertaining t) a disused chapel close by, thus making
our cornel" quite conspicuous. I always had my suspicions
i tiiat a tramp occasionally put up over night in this shed,
hut never hinted it to Fanny, knowing it would dispel
[all tlie charm of country life for her.

One evening as I sat in the open doorway a gaunt and

Isliadowy figure emerged from this shed, sidled over to ine,

and humbly asked permission to stay tliere all night. I

tohlliim that the shed didn't come under my "jurisdiction,"

lliut Vjelonged absolutely to the public, and was free to the

|pul)lie. " As you," I continued, " are a public man —

jprcsuiuably a publican and a sinner — you are perfectly

jat liberty to occupy the shed.' All this sounded mag-

nauinious on my part, and the stranger gravely thanked

iiK', and as gravely informed me that he was a Division

nil)erintendent of the mines along the J. M. & I. railroad,

m his way east to arrange for a shipment of new plant.

said I was very happy to make his ac(piaintance, and I

loaded h'nn up with cold victuals enough to win over the

aniiers' dogs for the next thirty-six hours, and tifty cents

u lielp pay the freightage on his shipment of plant,

'lien lie cordially invited me to visit him some time at

^is huautiful home in Louisville, or to come and pass a

'tnight with him on his ranch in Texas. I always

nld make friends ; I presume I have twenty-tive

mding invitations to put in a week or a month at

Mi;

OUR VISIT TO TUB COUNTRY.

nfontlonioTi's raiu'lics in T;'Xjih, Colorado, Calit'oniia, British
Columbia, La Plata, New South Wales, and Cape C>()lony.

Coniin*^ in from a swing in the hammock, Fanny over-
heard t)ie latter part of our conversation, and at once took
alarm — in fact, she was frij^htened almost to deatli. In
vain T assured lusr that the Division Superintendent was
a patriarchal-appearing man ; that his right hand hung
in a sling; that he couUl see well out of only one eye ;
and that the only visible weapon he carried was a heavy
brass ring, worn on the index linger of his left hand.

But my wife was morally certain that the Division
Superintendent proposed to draw his supply of plant from
our pr(anises, and she insisted that everything out of
doors should be brought in and locked up. Accordingly
I brouglit into the kitchen ten cro({uet hoops, tifteen
yards of clothes line, a willow bird-cage, a Ijuck-basket
full of oyster and peach cans, a fragment of a horse-shoe,
our dog's dinner plate, and likewise some of his best beef-
bones, a saw-horse, and a basswood bench. I furbished
and reloaded my seven- sh(X)ter, and slept with it under
my pillow ; but Fanny, witl. the sheep-dog, .sat up all
night long, with the lamp on a low chair, and l)lankets
hung over the windows, road^'ng the History ot Alonzo
and Melissa. The next morning the Divi.sion Superin-
tendent was gone, and so were a pair of pullets and the
padlock of the hen-house dooi\ Fanny was right, but I
would never acknowledge it.

About this time we were alarmed one night by the
most demoniacal — or rather supernatural — cries from the
chapel near us. I pretended to be simply mystitied as to
the cause of the " phenomenon," but Fanny showed more
nerve than I did. The next day it was discovered tbut

OUU VISIT TO THE COUNTRY.

lit'i' kitten had ma<lo a inysterious disappcaranco. A.
strange (lo*^ liad eliast'd it under tl»c cliap<d, nnd tlio poor
ci'ciitini' luid <^()t into so tii^lit a place that it eoid*! not
•fft out ajiain. At t\\v risk of u\v neck I roscuod it, of
icourso; and tlio i^liost was hiid.

We ha<l often noticed l>ees Hyinn' in and out of cracks

[in the ontsido of the lionse, ]»ut paid no attention to it till,

jtoo late, we found that the whol(( frame-work of the lionse

[was literally infested witli Ihh's, wasps, and liornets. We

(were aluiost hesieged by them ; theie was not a S([uare

van! of "(daphoai'd " hut had its stronghold of tlie hu/zing^

|)ests. Tliey soon had sncli a fontinL"' established at the

aek door tliat it was no longer safe to come in tliat way ;

50 we bolted the door on the inside, and notified such

)f our neighbors as were back-door callers. I belicive it

irtbrded Fanny no little eold-blooded amusement to see a

b'ainp march boldly up to this door, and knock, ostensibly

in([uiie the way. The first knock not being answered,

^e would pound vigorously on the door, and a detachment

jf hornets, fully a hundred strong, w<mld sally out of their

mbush and haughtily demand the pass-word. Not being

jquainted with the pass-word, the tramp would answer

ick ill forcilde and even treas(mable language. (It was

this way that I picked up the expressive phrase "get

it," in every modern tongue.) The hornets would

ivaiiably resent any impolite insinuations or undignified

istures, being constitutionally averse to impulsive human

pid. If the tramp happened to be of a naturally shiftless

jiaraeter, and had left the gate open behind him, he could

merally make a break for the highway, when he would

bep straight on till iie began to fiel thirsty; but if he

Ld carefnllv shut the gate on coming in — ! But why

1 ' '

f; T

OUR VISIT TO TUE COUNTRY.

^Ml

I ; ii;

1,:|||

i !

recall these harrowing scenes ? Suflice it to say tliat
none of these unfortunates ever dropped me an invitation
to go to Texas, but always a hearty invitation to try a
climate still more genial. Taking pity on suffering
humanity, we hung a placard over the door, solemnly
warning all and sundry to keep away from it. This
scarcely mended the matter. Unfortunately, this rear
door could be distinctly seen from the road, and passers-
by who could not plainly decipher my chirography,
imagined that the place was to let, or else that a way-
side tavern had been opened, and we were pestered
almost to death from 6 a.m to 11 p.m.

Without giving officifd notice a colony of hectoring and
barbarian wasps one day jumped a claim over the front
door, — our only remaining out-let, except by way of thc^
cellar, — and this brought matters to a crisis. They were
very jealous of their rights, and when Fanny proposed
that we should vacate in their favor and return to the
city, I promptly replied that my sole object in life wac to
please her, and that I was calmly waiting till she should
have had enough of country life.

say that

invitation

I to try a

suffering

solemnly

it. This

this rear

d passers-

irography,

lat a way-

) pestered

toring and
the front
svay of th(>
They were
T proposed
arn to the
life was to
she should

HOW I LOVED AND LOST MY NELLY.

He had no breath, no beinjr, but in hers •
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her.
But trembled on her words.

—Byron.

To My Silent Love,
These Rugged Lines are Religiously Dedicated.

In my youth I loved a maiden,

Loved a laughing, blue-eyed n)aiden.

Who was very fair to look on ;

Of a quiet disposition ;

Even temper ; candid ; loving.

As I loved her, so she loved me :

And though we were both but cliildren,

She but fourteen, I but sixteen,

Yet our hearts were knit together

In a firmer bond of union

Than is oft rehearsed in story.

All my thoughts were of my sweetheart ;
All my plans to her confided ;
All her pleasures were my pleasures.
And at school I sat and watched hei ,
With my open books before me ;
But my thoughts were of the future,
Of the day when I should proudly
Lead her up before the altar;
And my pref'rence was so open
That the master and my schoolmates
Came to see it, came to know it \

IIF •'

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32 now I LOVED AND LOST MY NELLY.

Culled me bridegroom, called me husband,
Jeered me, watclied me, and alarmed me

26 Lest they should estrange my Nelly.

But my faithful little sweetheart
Only laughed at all their sallies.
Only bade them to ow' marriage.

How I loved my little sweetheart

30 In those hap])y days of boyhood !

But there came a rude awak'ning
When her father, Nelly's father.
Heard the rumor of our courtship.

He was sad, and stern, and haughty,

35 And it grieved him and incensed him

That his child, his darling Nelly,
At her age should choose a lover,
Should receive one as a lover,
Who lacked fortune, fame, and h<jnor, —

^0 For my father once in anger

Had shot down a felh^w -mortal ;
And he harshly did enjoin her,
Under pain of ch)se iuuuurement,
To forget that I existed ; ^

45 And made ev'ry preparation

For a sojourn in the Old World.

On the eve of their departure
I received a tear-dimmed letter
From my darling little sweetheart.

50 " Faithful unt(j death," was written ;

*' We must wait my father's pleasure,
We nnist wait in hope and patience. —
Just one glim])se as we are leaving."

As their train drew oil" that evening

55 I was standing close beside it ;

And she whom I loved so madly
Leaned her head out of the carriage.
Waved a kiss, and dropped a packet.
Her farewell salute returning,

GO I took up the i)recious packet ;

•«n^

HOW I LOVED AND LOST MY NELLY.

*;.j

8.)

i)5

(2)

And my idol, my beloved,

In a moment was borne from me.

".Just one glimpse," it was, too surely!

In the packet were her picture,
Her gold ring, her opal locket,
With her name, and ate, the legend,
" As a souvenir of the old days."

Thus I parted from my Nelly,
In the golden days of August,
When the world was rare with beauty,
And all Nature bright with sunshine ;
Hardest parting, strangest courtship,
Ever blighting two fond lovers.

All my dreams were of my loved one,
All my life was very lonely,
All my days passed very sadly.
As the days passed, so the years passed.
Slowly, wearily, and sadly,
And I chafed at the long parting.

But at last there came a message
From my absent, loving Nelly,
Breathing still her fond devotion,
Bidding me to hope on ever,
As true love must be rewarded.
"Send no answer," she concluded,
"For it would be intercepted."

If with me the time passed slowly,
If for me the days were lonely,
If for me the burden heavy,
How much more so for my Nelly I

The mementoes she had left me,
Tlic assurance she still loved me,
Cheered me, in my deepest sorrow,
Fired my heart with hope and courage ;
And the merry laugh of schoolboys,
And the joyous song of wild birds,
And the shrieking of express trains
As thev dashed through midnight blackness,

/ >\

v*tt

HOW I LOVED AND LOST MY NELLY.

And the crash along the sea-shore,

100 And the vivid flash of lightning,

And the moon through mountain passes,
Seemed to whisper, seemed to tell me :
"Days of happiness and sunshine
Will come to you in the future."

105 But sometimes there came a murmur,

Came a Voice from unknown darkness,
Mocking ever came it to me :
*' 'Tis a false hope that you cherish,
'Tis a phantom you are chasing. "

110 Oft I sought relief in travel,

Oft 1 followed Nelly's footsteps, ,

But, alas ! not once I saw her.
Still my restless, troubled spirit
Urged me aimlessly to wander,

115 Urged me on, a worse than outcast.

Changing scenery. Old World splendors,
Could not cure my rooted sorrow,
Brought my anguished heart no solace,
To wipe out the old dishonor,

120 To remove her father s hatred,

And secure his full approval
Of a marriage with his daughter,
I st)ught fame, and wealth, and honors,
Worked Vifth dauntless resolution,

125 Waited, pondered, brooded, trusted, .

Built air-castles, nursed my sorrows.
When I next heard of my Nelly
News came to me she was married,
Forced unwilling by her father

130 Into marriage with a maniuis. '

As a thunderbolt all-blasting.
As a whirlpool all-engulfing.
So these tidings fell upon me.
What to me were fame and fortune ?

135 What to me were empty honors ?

What to me that light was breaking ?

HOW I LOVED AND LOST MY NELLt.

I had lost my darling Nelly.

This last sorrow overtook me

In the days of drear November,
140 When the chilling rains of heaven

Blurred the landscape, marred all Nature ;

When the birds, with drooping feathers,

Tripped about in groups of twenties,

Eager to begin their journey
145 To the sunshine of the Southland.

On that fatal day the storm-gods

Seemed to rise in pain and fury ;

A 11 the skies were black and angry,

All the air was full of threat'nings,
160 All dumb creatures were uneasy,

All things showed a coming tempest.
All my passions glowed within me

Like a mutiujus volcano ;

And unable to control them
155 I rushed forth to meet the tempest.

And the bleak and naked meadows.

And the leafless trees of woodlands.

And the boiling mountain torrents.

Seemed attuned to my own sorrows,
160 Seemed in sympathy to greet me.

I could hear the awful tempest

Roaring in the distant forest

Like a monster in his torment ;

While the trees moaned and the brutes moaned,
165 As I hurried headlong onward.

I had but one thought to guide me.

That I must reach some endeared place,

Reach a sacred haunt of old days.

Where I first had seen my Nelly,
170 There to wait the tempest's fury.

With this single thought to guide me

I betook me to the streamlet

Which we two had crossed together

Daily as we loitered school ward.

■ ■i

« *

^ ■Mr-^^

I ;

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175

180

185

190

195

200

HOW I LOVED AND LOST MY NELLY.

And the alders by the streamlet,
Fanned by zephyrs of the summer,
Lashed by whirlwinds of November,
Seemed to beckon, seemed to call mo,
Cried in tones severe, yet pleading,
Tones impetuous, yet plaintive,
As a caged bird's mournful singing :
** 'Twas a vain chase after triumph ;
'Twas too much you sought in this world ;
It w-'is Heaven on earth you asked for."

vxhostly figures shape Ijefore me ;
G'^ostj 'es look on me sadly ;
Ghosily lingers mutely beckon ;
A "-d the spirit Voice hoarse whispero :
" Tjift T y I i~i but a mock'ry.
Death the solo release you long for."

" Oh, my God ! " I cry in anguish,
"I have borne my heavy burdens,
I have wrestled with my sorrow.
Till my strength is all gone from me,
Hear my prayer, oh, let me perish ! "

And the merciful Creator,
With Divine commiseration
For my mis'ry and my weakness.
Loosens and dissolves the tenure
Of this earthly life He gave me.
I am dying — all is over.

HOW I LOVED AND LOST MY JANET.

A Burlesque Version of how Things would have Turned Out.

And why that early love was crost,
Thou know'stthe best— I feel the luost :
But few that tlA'ell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.

—Byron.

To My Evil Genius,
These Rustic Lines are Sardonically Dedicated.

In my youth I loved a maiden,
Loved a giggling, cross-eyed maiden,
Who was homely as a wild cat ;
Of a giddy disposition ;
5 Gusty temper ; gushing; spooney.

As I loved her, so she loved me ;
And though we Avere both but goslings,
She but fourteen, I but sixteen,
Yet our hearts were knit together

10 In a firmer bond of union

Than a three-ply, homemade carpet.

All our plums I gave my sweetheart ;
All my gum with her divided ;
All her melons were my melons.

15 And at school I sat and watched her,

With my idle knife before me ;
But my thoughts were of the future.
Of the day when I should fiercely
Dicker with Niagara hackmen.

20 And my spooning was so open

That the master and my schoolmates
Came to see it, came to know it ;

' i

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11^

HOW I LOVED AND LOST MY JANET.

! ;

lii

\ t

i !

lii:

Called me sai)gog, called me Janet,

" Charivaried " me, and alarmed me
25 Lest they should cut off my melons.

But my grinning little sweetheart

Only snickered at their sallies,

Only bade them mind their business.
How I loved my little sweetheart
30 In those oatmeal days of dad's clothes !*

But there came a birchen whaling

When her father, Janet's father,

Heard the rumor of our mooning.

He was glum, and bald, and big-eared,
36 And it rattled him and " riled " him

That his child, his squint-eyed Janet,

At her age should choose her own beau.

Should receive one as her lover

Who lacked gumption and his liking, —
40 For my father once -ii anger

Had upset the old man's scarecrows ;

And he harshly did enjoin her,

Under pain of no more earrings,

To forget that I existed ;
46 And made ev'ry preparation '

For a sponge on his relations.

On the eve of their departure

I received a pie-stained letter

From my hungry little sweetheart.
60 " Now, old slouch, good-bye," was scribbled ;

" We must wait till paw's relations

Tire of keeping two such eaters. —

Just one peek as we are leaving."

As their train jerked off that evening
66 I was standing close beside it ;

And she whom I loved so daftly

Craned her head out of the carriage,

*This seems somewhat obscure. The meaning is : when the hero lived I
principally on oatmeal porridge, and strutted about in his father's rejected
raiment. — B. w. M.

HOW I LOVED AND LOST MY JANET.

Made wry faces, shied a packet.
Her farewell salute returning,',
60 I secured the well-aimed packet ;

And the old ''accommodation"
Slowly rumbled off my idol.
"Just one peek," it was, too surely !
In the packet were her thimble,
(;,') Her bead ring, her pet dog's collar,

With her name, and date, the legend,

" You can swop these for some fish-hooks."

Thus I parted from my Janet,
In the torrid heat of dog-days,
70 When the roads were rank with tired tramps,

And all Nature with moscpiitos ;
Quickest parting, crudest cimrtship,
ilver teasing two green lovers.

All my dreams were how to manage
75 To secure another sweetheart ;

All my days passed hoeing turnips.
As the days passed, so the hours passed.
Torrid, leisurely, and dusty,
And 1 chafed at so much hoeing.
80 But at last there came a message

From my absent, squint-eyed Janet,
Breathing still her breath of spruce gum,
Bidding me look out for two things :
She had found some one to spark her,
84^ And her pa was getting homesick.

85 "Send no answer," she concluded,

" For you cannot pay the postage.''

If with me time would spin onward.
If in spite of all men's efforts
Headstrong Time would reel off days' lengths,
90 Why not also with my Janet ?

The mementoes she had left me.
The assurance she still liked me,
Cheered me when my chores were hardest,
Fired my heart to fight the red-skins ;

Itii

'.Mi

iv',- >l

; I

:if

; I

now I LOVEU AND LOST MY JANET.

95 And the morry laus^h of jackdiiws,

And I ho jf)you8 8(jng of ravens,
And the chuckling of Vermont tramps
Ah they roamed about on freight trains,
And the crash of breaking soup-plates,

100 An<l the vivid tlash of lanterns,

And the moonbeams (m the wood-pile,
Seemed to whisper, seemed to tell me :
" Days of house-cleaning and cold ham
Will come to you in the future."

105 But sometimes there came a war-whoop,

Came a sneer from gaunt mosquitos,
Mockinj ever came it to me :
" 'Tis dyspepsy that you cherish,
'Tis a mince-pie you are chasing."

110 Oft I sought relief in fishing,

Oi't I ran away a-shooting,
When, alas ! my father trounced me.
Still my shiftless, flighty spirit
Urged me all day long to shirk work,

115 Urged me off, a sorry Nimrod.

Scrawny mud- hens, big tish-stories.
Could not soothe my parent's anger,
Brought my blistered palms no respite.
T(' cut out my unknown rival,

120 To bring 'round her huttish father.

And secure his full approval
Of a courtship with his daughter,
I learnt tiddliug, grew side whiskers,
Wore an actor's gaudy necktie,

125 Wore big slouch hats for head-pieces.

And assumed a cowboy's hauteur.

When I next heard of my Janet
News came slie had caught the measles,
Forced unwilling by her father

130 To go dunning where it rampaged.

As a school-bell which all fun spoils,
As a wasp's sting on a dog's nose,

flow I LOVEL AND LOST MY .lANKT.

So theso tiding s fell xiprm me.
What to me were fiddling parties,

135 Whfit to 1110 were stolen upples,

What were soinhreroa and " siders,"
Tf my .Janet had the measles ?

This last sorrow overtook me
In the days of dainj) November,

140 When the chilling rains of autumn

Made lagoons ahmg the way-side ;
When the birds, with empty paunches,
Trii)ped about in search of tisli-worms,
Eager to begin their journey

145 To the [lickings of the Southland.

On that fatal day the storm-gods
Seemed to rise with aching stom.achs ;
All the skies looked blue and sulky,
All the air was full of Jack-frost,

150 All fat turkeys were uneasy,

All things showed Thanksgiving coming.

All my passions glowed within me
Like a smouldering firecracker ;
And unable to control them

155 I rushed forth to try the weather.

And the damp and soggy meadows,
And the dripping trees of woodlands,
And the marrow-chilling north-wind,
Seemed disposed to bi'ing on tooth-aches,

100 Seemed the weather to give hoarse colds.

I could hear the village youngsters
Yelling in the neighb'ring valleys.
Where they builded dams and bridges ;
While their dogs barked, and their coughs barked,

105 As they builded, shouted, waded.

I had but one thought to guide me.
That I must reach some retired jilace.
Reach a likely haunt of sc^uirrels, —
For the winter nights were coming, —

170 There to bag a few more beech-nuts.

( ' ; ''I

ill

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176

180

185

now I LOVED AND LOST MY JANET.

With thifl prudent tliou^ht to guide me
I betook mo towards tlie 8trt'<imlot
Which wo two had crossed to'^othor
No(»ntimo on a rail-and-b )ard raft.
And the scrul) trees by the streamlet,
Climbed by urchins in tho summer,
Climbed by scarL cats at all seasons.
Seemed to beckon, seemed to call mo,
Cried in tones untuned, yot joerinj^,
Tones ln<fubriou3, yet noisy,
As a small boy's ten-cent trujnpet :
" 'Twas a vain ^hase to pay house rent,"

Then tho hail began to patter.
And I wandered towards the youngsters,
And I sliied a stone among them
— And 1 hied me headhmg homeward !

'I tlii

I'll

HART GILBERT PALMER

Revisits His Native Place in the Role of a

Gheat Man.

THE «TOKY AS FRANKLY TOM) TO HIS FRIENDS.

f^E8, it was Hvo yours since I liad sluikeii tlie dust

of CVnter Hill ofi'iny feet, and in those five
years I had become generally known from Bangor to
Bungay ; for, besides my strike in the San Juan country,
I luid contrived, in various ways, t<j lug myself into
notoriety. In the first place, I had named and built two
mining towns ; I had built a railroad ; 1 had wi'ittcn two
or three wild, frontier, two-volume books, which people
read for the same unfathomable reason that they take
patent medicine for old age. In a general way, I had
struck it rich all around. Above all, I had put out a
gaudy railroad Guide Book ! As with all authors, monopo-
lists, and western millionaires, I was universally known
hy the name of ' Palmer.'

" It was an historical fact that I was notorious — in a
word, a marked man. I one day imagined that the simple
folk I had been la'ought up amongst would ndstake
notoriety for fame, and I determined to revisit my old
home to enjoy it.

" It was early in beautiful June, therefore, that I set
ont to revisit my native place, the obscure little Pennsyl-
vanian village known as Center Hill. I was perfectly
wt'll aware that my fame had penetrated to this remote

1 1 ' j

Bf^t'

> i:i

n 1 1»

ill

HART GILBERT PALMER.

d n

hamlet — in fact, at the outset of luy career, I had taken
care to apprise tliom of my triumphs ; and curiosity or
envy, and above all, their weekly papers, had kept them
cognizant of all my brilliant exploits. But for four long
years I had had no intercourse with the Center Hillites,
which, I well knew, was the l)itterest way I could take to
revenge myself on them for the studied neglect they had
shown me when T lived among them. (I may here remark
parenthetically that the news of the goodly fortune my
fatlier had unexpectedly becjueathed me shortly after the
appearance of my first book, was conmion gossip every-
where, and contributed, more than anything else, to raisemy
estimati(m in the minds of the money-loving people at C.
There were many wild rumors afloat abovit me then, and
those credulous villagers believed my fortune a princely
one.)

" I again repeat that I visited my native village ; and
the advent of a man ktiowii to fame, a reputed millionaire,
and a returned native, all in one pompous individual,
created a great furore. The newspapers had warned them
of my coming, and a dark crowd of people (for it was at
night) swarmed about the depot platform, crowding one
another, and whispering, ' Yes, that's him ; that's him ;
I wonder if he will know me.'

" So, * him ' wasn't welcomed liy a brass band, as 'him '
had half expected to be. I didn't stop to know many of
them, except a few important personages who thrust
themselves directly in my way, and a few modest friends
who kept in the background, but rode up to the hotel
and went to bed. The next day was Saturday, which I
spent indoors, writing letters and giving my apartments
a ship-shape appearance.

HART GILBERT PALMER.

taken
ty or

them
r long
illites,
,ake to
sy had
emark
ine my
ter the

every-
aisemy
le at C
en, and
Drincely

and

lionaire,

lividual,

ed them

was at

ling one

him ;

tis ' him '
many of
thrust
friends
le hotel
which I
xrtments

" Sunday evening I weut to church, bright and early,
to the Episcopal church, as had been my wont aforetime.
The church was better tilled than of old, I noticed ; and
also that a goodly number of Methodists and Presbyterians
seemed to have been converted from their old-time
belief. When I came to leave that church after the
services were over, I found the doorway absolutely
blocked with young ladies. (At least, some of them were
young, and some of them had passed foi- young five years
1 efore.) 1 struggled past them and slunk off, feeling,
somehow, that I had grossly insulted a great many very
respectable people. What were my feelings when I
reasoned out that that gooJly congregation had assembled
to see wliich young lady I should pilot safe home from
church ! Such is Tamo — and fortune ! It seemed to be
taken for granted that as I was still a bachelor I had
returned for the express purpose of marrying some one
of the incomparable spinsters of Center Hill. This should
have occurred to me, being a man of the world. Who
would have thought me such an innocent ?

" That week the campaign was opened and a reign of

terror was inaugurated. I was invited here and there

and everywhere ; to socials, fishing-parties (and there were

no fish to be caught), garden parties, picnics (and it was

early for picnics, too, in that prinutive place), and I

know not what. I was hounded to death to contribute

to undeserving charities ; when, in my own heart, I f-aw

plainly that they shouhl appeal to the shop-keepers, the

baker, and the livery-stable man; for all these did such

ii business as they had ni'ver done before : in fish-hooks ;

(tanned picnic meats ; bread and buns and confectionery ;

livery outfits ; brand-new market-baskets ; paint and

if !,

Hi
Ii

HAHT GILBERT PALMER.

I '!:

putty and wall-paper ; and coal-oil ; and strawberries ; and
aesthetic note paper and envelopes ; and bewitching sum-
mer garments ; and brass ornaments far hats ; and boots
and gloves and parasols and lace collars, that were all
painful in there newness.

"I happened to mention that 1 intended to select a
few characters for a novel I contemplated writing. I
always was unlucky, anyhow ; but in saying that I
deliberately laid myself open to all sorts of unpleasant-
nesses. After I had unwittingly given offence to one
young lady, she took occasion to remark that for her
part she never did see anything really good in my
writings ; and that my book ' The Commaiidery Lode *
was perfectly ridiculous, and not to be com})ared with a
New York Weekly romance of that name. This was said
* behind my back,' it is true ; but so very close behind my
back that it required no mental effort, no practiced ear.
to overhear it. However, I had survived other criticisms,
and I bore up under that.

"One week after my arrival I was at a social gathering
at a house whose doors were forbidden me in my obscure
and lonely youth. I went under protest, but with the
grim resolve of bagging some valuable notes that might
be filed away for future use. During the course of the
evening a youth whom I had always liked as a boy
gravely asked me if I knew what the Frinceburg Revieiv
had to say about me. ' Yes,' chimed in a score of eager
young voices, 'and the Center Hill Reporter, and the
Princehurg Age, and the Dragonahnrg Defender. Oh, but
of course you (^o know,' they added confidently. Center
Hill had so improved in tive years that it now had an
exponent of its own. The Princehurg papers were old

■ 'tn

llAKf GILBERT PALMER.

sheets, of some pretentiousness and very much com-
placency, that were always fighting each other like quarrel-
some dogs. No, I was not aware, I said, that any of these
papers had anything special to say about me. Straight-
way the heir of that house darted out of the room, and
soon came back with an armful of newspapers, and began
lookinof for the numbers that contained those blood-
curdling remarks about myself. I instantly perceived
that by taking prompt and vigorous measures I could
throw cold water, so to speak, on his design, and impress
iiiy greatness upon ever}'^ member of that assemblage*
So I begged him not to put himself to so much trouble
on my account, for I never could spare either time or
patience to get at the pith and marrow of what local
papers have to say. The poor boy's countenance fell J
but the water wasn't cold enough, it seems, for he fum-
bled among those Reviews, R/ porters, Ages, and what not,
more excitedly than ever. Then the young lady who
never could see any good points in my books, for her part,
observed, sotto voce, 'There are some things anything but
complimentary in them.' But any further remarks from
her were drowned by a chorus of voices saying, — well,
saying what amounted to this : The papers gave an
account of my early struggles ; of how I was respected
and beloved by my old and true friends in all that section ;
of how I always made friends right and left ; of how
greatly I was regarded in mi/ youth, ivhen comparatively
obscure ; of my colossal wealth to-day ; of my flowing
style; and so on, ad nauseam. (I notice my present
auditors smile ; [ wish they could have seen me smile
then.) Now, why should I want to wade through such
stuff and nonsense as that ? I had soared to such a pin-

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liART GILBERT IPALMEft.

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nacle of glory that the inaiinclerings of country — or rather
village — newspapers had neither an inspiriting nor yet
a depresing effect on nie. I was perfectly well aware that
little local journals have a trick of lauding well-known
people, with a view to furthering their own ends. I was
aware that all this cheap flattery would, if I suffered my-
self to be influenced by it, lead up to a demand for an
article from my pen — just a slight, hasty sketch would
do ; almost anything. I was aware, also, that if I turned
a deaf ear to these noisy nuisances, or that if I pleaded
that I didn't bring any pen with me, their praises would
give place to defamations, and that they would spill venom
on me without mercy.

" But I hadn't traveled fifteen hundred miles to wade
through the colunnis of their local weeklies. So I said,
* My dear boy, be it for good or for evil, my reputation is
established — for this season, anyway. Please do not
bore us to-night with any cullings from those oracular
weeklies. I thank you for your well-meant kindness, I
am sure. There are people who try to make my life a
burden by mailing me influential newspapers with
marked items about myself; but I generally burn them
at once, without even preserving the valuable receipts they
contain on domestic and other afikirs. I am proud to be
able to say, however, that it i ^ ten years since any person
had troubled me with either a penny valentine or a local
weekly paper. It is not often I make a speech, but I'm
afraid this is one, and I hope you will forgive me for it.

" Now, that boy was well brought up ; exceedingly
well. He needed no further remonstrances from me, but
hied him away with his budget of weeklies. I am soi-iy
he didn't appear again that evening ; very sorry. His

bARt GILtiERt PALMER.

tcular

tSS, I

it'e a
with
:liem
they
to be

His

mainina sh.ould have vented her anger on me, and not on
liini ; for I must say that I had been grossly impolite —
abusive, even. I reasoned at the time that all officious
attention to me would at once cease ; that I should be
regarded as no better than a bear, and so left severely
alone, I was wrong ; wearied as I had become of their
attentions, this did not shake them oti* ''hey seemed
determined, rather, to force me into reading tiieir week-
lies. I found them in my room ; thrust on me wherever
I went; foisted on me through the post-office. But I
steadily refused to read them, and so ol istinate an inditi'er-
ence to the voice of their oracles must have puzzled
them.

" On the 24th of June a circus was first advertized as
coming to Dragonsburg and Princeburg ; and the week-
lies, having another lion to tackle, in a great measure
dropped me. Likewise the villagers didn't persecute me
to read their papers any more, but went on with their
picnics. By George ! they almost picnicked me to death !
I have been troubled with indigestion ever since.

" I may here mention that the first day I went out
into the street I was surprised to find that every family
had either a boy, a horse, a dog, or a cat, that was
afflicted with the name of Gilbert. Some of the boys,
and very many of the cats and dogs, were called Hart —
because it is shorter, I suppose. Palmer, I found, was a
i'ax'orite name for their trotters. Not a few baby girls,
it seems, were christened Gilbertina. All this rather
pleased me, I must admit — till I found tliere were two
foundlings baptized, or rather named, Hart Gilbert
Palmer. To an honest man with a clear conscience, this
was simply annoying ; but when I reflected thnt it was

5S ■

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HART GILBERT PALMER.

the only opportunity the citizens had to bestow my
name in full on one individual, and that thev had im-
proved it on two occasions, I was mollified. Still, it
sometimes vexed me, and even startled me, till I became
accustomed to it, to hear my various harsh names harshly
bandied about the street — particularly when the gamins
would yell, ' Gilbert '11 wallop your dog' ; or ' Hart's got
the mange ; ' or ' Palmer ain't the n.ag he used to be.'

" All this time the match-making mammas were mak-
ing my life a burden. I nnist confess my sympathies
were entirely with those lonely spinsters who, having no
one to chaperon them, entered the lists, and gamely
fought single-handed against those well-equipped
mammas for the possession of my coveted gold.

"The Fourth of July drew near, and I determined to
play a trick on the villagers that should amuse me for
years to come. Tliere were to be great local 'doings'
on this day, of course ; and the villagers planned to make
a spectacle of me as an orator, etc. But I told them, six
days beforehand, that I purposed to do my celebrating
in private, away out in the country. This announcement
alone whetted their curiositv. Then I visited the village
tailor and out-fitter. The incessant picnics and fishing-
parties had told severely on my wearing apparel ; and why
should I not ' patronize home industry,' as the tailor's
sign read ? I directed liiin to make me a suit, of his very
best material, and to have it finished and delivered to
me, without fail, by July 3rd. With great care I selected
a silk hat, and, after cautioning him for the fifth or sixth
time to have my suit finished by the 3rd, left his shop.
Several idlers had dropped in while I was giving my
instructions, and taken careful notes. I was not sur-

for

hmg-
why

ailor's
very

ed to
ected
sixth
shop.

g i"y

sur-

HART GILBERT PALMER.

prised at this. In fact, I had bargained on it; for a
great many curious and gossipy people made it a busi-
ness to dog me about, and watch my every movement.
They took a special pride in supplying all the latest and
raciest gossip about other people's affairs; and they knew
that if they lagged behind in this particular, their reputa-
tion as newsmongers would be endangered.

" Next I went into various other shops, and ordered
gimcrackery with a lavishness that was phenomenal : a
riding-whip, a pair of lady's gauntlets, a gorgeous para-
sol, a box of Malaga grapes, a few pounds of confectionery,
and I know not what. All these were to be sent to me,
without fail, before the 4th. I perceived that the
on-lookers noted all my purchases, and that the shop-
keepers marvelled ; and I chuckled.

" I suffered twenty-four hours to pass before I again
appeared on the street ; and as I had anticipated, a good
many able-bodied people were waiting and watching for
me. After taking a few steps I turned squarely about,
and seeing that I was followed, I pauf^od, as if irresolute.
I feigned anxiety to avoid them by turning up one by-
street and down another ; and by doubling on them
repeatedly I contrived to bring up at my destination,
the village livery-stables, apparently unobserved. I say,
apparently unobserved, for they perceived my efforts to
escape observation, and considerately pretended to let
me elude them ; but I knew I was watched, all the time.
The village now believed that I wished to keep my plans
and movements a secret, and I felicitated myself on my
amazing shrewdness in hoodwinking everybody so com-
pletely. I told the proprietor of the livery that I wanted
a i;ood horse — in fact, the best one he had — for the 4th.

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HART (JILBBRT PALMER.

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Ho show(Ml nio such an animal, and I examintMi it criti-
cally, rcinarked tliat it seemed good for a twenty-mile
run, and tendered him an eagle. He protested that was
too iinich ; ])ut T told liim it was my affair how much I
paid, and that I would have given a handful of them but
I would have secured the horse. Then he, in his turn,
became curious, but he was crafty and disguised it. I
remarked incidentally that I hoped the roads wouldn't
be dusty ; tlien added carelessly that I supposed the old
private short cut to the Ochiltree's was still open, and
that it was the plcasantest and quietest road I knew. I
had now sufficiently piqued the man's curiosity, and after
charging him to send me the horse at eight o'clock sharp
on the morning of the 4th, I went back to the hotel,
noticing that I had been tracked to the livery-stable.

" Let me here explain that the name of Ochiltree was
an unknown name in all that county and in all that
region. I had taken particular pains to consult docu-
mentary evidence, and assure myself of this fact.

" All this was four or five days before the Fourth. I
wanted the thing generally known, and I also wanted to
give the villagers plenty of time to make any changes in
their prograunne for the day that they might think
expedient.

" On the 1st of July T formally told most of my friends

that I should leave for the Pacific coast on the great and
glorious Fourth, by the night train ; but that I should
take my departure from a neighboring town, and that
probably they would see the last of me on the 3rd inst.
Several of them begged me to stay over for the circus, on
which auspicious day, it would appear, they hoped to
work me up to a proposal. The greatest uncertainty

HART GILBKRT PALMER.

prevailed as to whom I shoukl propose ; but a proposal,
to any person, would relieve the general anxiety.

" The news of my openly announced departure on the
4th threw the village into a ferment. There was more
excitement than a local election would have caused.
But who was this Ochiltree ? Where did he live ? Was
it his daughter that I was to elope with, or whose ?
When had I made the unknown's ac([uaintance, anyway ?
In my neglected youth, probably, when no one had
bothered to watch me. On the 3rd I formally bade my
honest friends good-bye. A few asked me pointed ques-
tions about my proposed jaunt on the morrow, Imt the
great majority maintained a dignified silence on that
subject.

" The eve of July the Fourth came punctually on time.
At the eleventh hour I sent a note to the livery-stable,
saying I must have the horse at half-past seven instead
of eight — which was a wise move on my part. Then I
packed my trunk, carefully putting away in it all
the feminine finery I had bought, and which had been
delivered to me promptly that day at noon.

" At 7.30 a.m., July the Fourth, I sprang on my horse
and rode away to the west. This highway led to no
important point, as I very well knew, unless one followed
it for some fifty miles. I rode out of the village at a
smart pace, and at once perceived that my utmost antici-
pations were to be realized. But as I noticed what was
going on about me, my heart smote me at the thought of
spoiling the holiday of so many guileless people. The vil-
lage was rising as one man to pursue me ! I vei'ily be-
believe there was not a Hart, a Gilbert, or a Palmer, in
all that region, sound, or blind, or l^pavined, or foundered,

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HART GILBERT PALMER.

that was not pressed into service. It was indeed lucky
for nie that I was oft* half an hour before they expected
me. * " A stern chase is a long chase," ' I said to my-
self, ' hut this time it will be a woeful way longer for
them than for me ! '

" On they came, amid clouds of dust. It was well that
I had provided myself with a riding-whip, for I needed
it sorely. I had not ridden far when I saw a horseman
stationed by the road.'Side, waiting calmly. Soon another,
and another. I wheeled down a dirt road and galloped
on. Lo, there, also, were horsemen !

" This was beginnino- to <xet interestino- ! These sentinel
horsemen would be able to put the pursuers on my track
at every turn. The pursuers, however, kept so far in the
back-ground that I could hardly suspect, as yet, that
they were actually following me. Evidently these
meddlesome villagers knew what they were about, and
meant business.

" ' I will sliow them, however,' I muttered, ' that they
are no match for a man who knows the world as I do.'
So I inquired of each horseman, as 1 encountered him,
the lay of the land and of the different roads, and left each
one with a wrong impression as to the road I should take.
I made sharp turns, and took my course over half-a-
dozen roads, giving sentinels and wayfarers, each and all,
a false notion of my route. All this, I argued, would
confuse my pursuers and scatter them over the country
in every direction, thus giving me an opportunity to
escape. "

" Three miles from the town I found there were no
more sentinels posted. Apparently it was thought that
once fairly started on my track it would be an easy

HAHT OILBKliT PALMER.

■ii

Ltiy

Ihat

tsy

matter to keep me in view. But, had these scouts heen
placed to the east, the north, and tlie soutli, as closely as
[ found them along my route ? I Hatten'd myself that
that it must be so, but never made bold to probe the
matter.

" Now, f mused, these searchers after knowledge will
study the geography of this tract of country more thor-
oughly to-day than they have ever studied it before since
their fourteenth year; it will give them an outing, and
their holiday won't be entirely h:)st.

" After passing the last sentry I fetched a detour, and
tlu'ew the pursuers completely otf the ncent. I glimpsed
a party of them once as I rode along, and that one fleet-
ing view puffed me up with pride, and amply recouped
me for the gold I had squandered for that day's sport.
It always does a man good to find that he is not without
regard in his native place, and that his schemes are
successful. And surely I had found this, to my satisfaction !

" Now I was free to journey whither I pleased ; and
after a good half -hour's ride I brought up at a substantial
farm-house, barely seven miles from Center Hill, as the
crow flies. Here lived an oldtime schoolfellow of mine,
whom I had not seen for years. He was overjoyed at
the meeting, and we spent the rest of the day happily
together, recalling scenes of our boyhood days. If I did
talk to his sister as much as I did to him, I don't
suppose it is anybody's affair but hers and mine ; and if
I did make over my box of grapes (which I had found
great trouble in bringing along) to a still smaller sister, —
one whom 1 had never seen, — I was only treating her as
well as (or rather better than) I had been treated myself
in days gone by, when I was blessed with a charming

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HART OILUKKT I'ALMKll.

ol(l«ir sistci' of my own. But it i.s an irrolovancy to make
any mention of sue)) tilings at all in tliis nai'i'ation. I luul
notilitMl Will that lie mi^f^lit look for me on the forenoon
of the lA)urth; hut tlxiy out;ht n(jt tv> have expected me
to do justice to the extraordinary dinner they pi'epared
foi- me. As I have; said several times, the picnickers
ruined my appetite.

"During the course of the aftoi'noon three different
sijuads of seai'cluM's passed the old farm-house, and I
([uaked inwardly, fearing tluit I had been run to earth,
after ail. But they all passed on. Then the entire force
of village hoodlums ami gamins, who served as a rear-
guard, filed past, fully one hundred strong. Their holi-
day was not utterly a blank, I am glad to say, for they
wei'e freely popping ort' the joyous tire-cracker as they
scatteretl along.

" The enemy were on the right trail, certainly ; but
they did not tind me out. However, I confided in Will
and his sister, and obtained their pronuse to keep the
allair a secret.

" About six o'clock, seeing no enemies in sight, I
mounted my horse and rode into town, thinking to deepen
the mystery and astonish the villagers afresh. I did not
find (]uite so deserted a place as I had fondly imagined I
shouhl. There were still enough able-bodied people left
behind to have defended Center Hill against any e^•i1
disposed tramps that might have come in by freight tra, .
But the villagers were paralyzed to see me back, at th.it
hour. The time they had arbitrarily fixed, it seems, for
my earliest possible return — in case I should return — was
ten o'clock.

" I was mean enough to tantalize them all still further.

11 ART UlLHKUT PALMEK.

f)7

I ate my suppor and left on tlu' oii^lit o'clock traiii foi*
Drafjonsburg, a town twelve inil(>s to the north-west. I
had my trunk checked for this point, too. I don't know
whether I was followed, or not; hut I left my native
town — perhaps forever— a pny to the most appallitig
speculations and doubts about myself. I chan<,^e<l cars
at Dragonsburg, and left on the midnight train for
Chicago.

" It is a question if any one individual ever brought
about so many blasted hopes, and demoralized air-castles,
and ruinous baker's l)ills, as I did by my outrageous
behavior at Center Hill. Perhaps they try to console
themselves with the thought that my unknown sweet-
heart must have given me the mitten.

" I never had the temerity to make iiK^uiries and find
out whether those poor, misguided people still go on
inflicting my various names on the rising generation of
men and brutes. But 1 presume they don't ; I presume
they heartily wish they had never known me or heard
of me.

" Good George ! I have talked myself hoarse, and my
listeners fast a.sleep ! "

" Not all. But what about the gloves, parasol, and
other feminine luxuries ? "

' That is an entirely irrelevant ({uostion. Still, as you
must have inferred the significance of mv visit to Will,
.ind as I am feeling pretty good-natured, I will tell you :
I have succeeded in working off' most of those knick-
knacks on my feminine relatives. Some of them, liow-
ever, will keep ! — Goodnight!"

■S)! I'
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TO MY OLD DOG, NERO.

Not dog and master we, but fviends,

(Nor were ever sweethearts more fond)

And naught onr fellowship offends,
Nor can jealousy break the bond.

My dog and I are lovers twain,

Without the lover's madd'ning pain.

His joyous bark delights my heart
As wo wander adown the stream ;

My dog and I are ne'er apart,

And our life m a long day-dream.

We little reck how this world wags,

Nor ever find one hour that drags.

And when sometimes with gun we rove,
Nor bold eagles that live in air,

Nor beast nor bird found in the grove,

Than ourselves are more free from care ;

Though well wo know, my dog and I,

That this old world oft gets awry.

The grand old sun, in his day's race,
May be hidden by sullen clouds,

And never show his honest face

To the hurried ^ id restless crowds.

Such haps fret not my dt»g an 1 me.

We view the world so scornfully.

The crackling fire within burns bright,

And my heart is (^uite free from care ; '

Though fondest hopes were put to flight
By a sweetheart as false as fair,

I know my good old dog is true.

And Nero knows I Icve him, too.

TO MY OLD Dog, NERO.
I have no mind to be content

With a pipe or a demijohn ;
Nor have I reason to lament

The old love who has come and gone-
Yet m my dog I have a friend
Whose steadfast love but death can end.

The wind jnay roar, the black rain fall,
And the night may be dull and sad

Nor fnend nor foe may chance to call '
To complam, or to make us glad •

But what care we, my dog and I, '

How tins old world may laugh or sigh.

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II i

GR0AN8 THAT FOUND UTTERANCE

After the Fall of the Second Babylon.

An Meine Verlorene Liecste.

With cruel drag eight weary years

Have come and gone, I know not liow.

My boyish dreams were wide of truth,
My heart is not the heart of youth ;
Yet the old love still glows within,
Yours the one smile that I would win.

To Destiny at last I bow,

And yield vain hopes to saddest fears.

THE SCARCE AND BITTER FRTTIT

Of the Summer of 1884.

Would to God, oh ! would to Heaven,
That these days and nights of torment
Might give place to j ust one moment
Of that happiness or old days
Which I knew ere yet I ventured
To write books ana dream of *"**■** ^ ;
Which I knew er^ either sweetheart —
Either * * * -x- * * of my boyhood,
Or yet * ;;: -it -x- -x- ^f j,iy luanhood —

Had wrung my fond heart with anguish
And veiled all my life with darkness
That will haunt me to r.iy death-bed.

S I' ;

THE CANADIAN CLIMATE.

i^F the attempt had been made in Canada to establish
our present system of seasons, and the allotment
of 365} days to the year, the work would have
proved a superhuman one, and would have resulted in
the complete demoralization of every mathematician and
astronomer undertaking it. Instead of the orderly system
now prevailing, it would have been left a disputed ques-
tion whether winter should begin on the 17th day of
November, or thirteen days before Ciiristmas ; Adiether
winter, once inaugurated, should cover a period of one
hundred and twenty-seven days and nights, or discount
eleven and a half days to the credit of spring. There
would have arisen a far-reaching schism as to wliether
dog-days begin on the 29th of June, or on the 41st of
August ; and the more ardent supporters of one faction
would have wi'itten abstruce text-books to prove by in-
ductive logic that dog-days begin theoretically on the
first-mentioned date, while the equ.ily enthusiastic sup-
porters of the other faction would have proved by
deductive logic, the fashions regulating bathing costumes,
and the hypothetical history of all exhumed mastodons,
that it is ultra vires and high treason to maintain that
dog-days ever did or ever could begin on any other date
than the 41st of August, at 2 o'clock p. m. The faction
of the "great unwashed" would have split oft' from these
latter, holding that, in the fitness of things, dog-days
come in with the advent of the d(jg-catcher, feeze otf and
on indefinitely, co-existent with his career, and finally

^' a:

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111

THE CANADIAN CLIMATE.

leave us abruptly just ten days after the sea-serpent
appears at Newport and tlie first ti'anipdoaded freight
train starts for Texas. The heated disputes occasioned
by all this uncertainty would have led to the rise and
fall of republics, the dynamiting of Ca)sars, the conversion
and extermination of the cow-boy of Arizona, the
premature discovery of revolvers, of Ignatius Donnelly's
Key, of messenger-boys, of divorce lawyers, of subscrip-
tion books, of bogus te-^timonials, and of mind-reading.

Then again the greatest discrepancy would have pre-
vailed among scientists and coal-dealers in trying to strike
an average temperature for January and March ; and the
English emigrant woidd have debated so long the import-
ant question whether a shilling thermometer would be
likely to stand the wear and tear of a Canadian winter,
or whether it would be advisable for him to arm himself
with an instrument warranted to wrestle with April days
in January and all-congealing cold in May, that finally
he would have taken ship for South Africa and have
shared the fate of the tender antelope and the juicy
missionary.

If a Rip Van Wiiikle should awaken in our midst he
could only approximately fix the season and the month.
But there are in Canada four special and immortal days
on which Rip Van could always and infallibly fix n'^t
only the month, but the exact day of the month. The
first in order is the 20tli of Februar}^ on which date the
grimy gamin celebrates the initial game of marbles of
the season. (The peaceable, respectable, and less warm-
blooded public -school boy plays his first game from four
to seven days later, and so is less to be depended on in
fixing a date.) The second date is that of the 3rd of

THE CANADIAN CLIMATE.

st he
onth.
days

The
e the
les of

four
on in
■3rd of

April, on which auspicious day the first patriotic Cana-
dian tramp and the first impetuous robin revisit the land
of their birth. Both are a trifle previous in their
calculations ; both sutler considerably from cold feet ; but
they are too proud to acknowledge their mistake by any
retrograde moA'enient. Our next epochal date is the
29th of May, when the small boy — irrespective of the
condition of the weather, tlic impurity of the water, his
own temperament, his susceptibility to the quinsy, or the
social position of his grandfather — takes his first "swim"
in the creek. On appointed holidays the small boy may
or he may not point the vivacious tire-cracker at the
hired man ; he may or he may not gorge himself with
started turkey on Thanksgiving-day, and so cease to be
tormented with Dr. Bugbears pills and other worthy
remedies that he has so often dutifully choked down —
but he will go in swimming on the 29th of May, or the
heavens will fall. And now we come to the red-letter
day of the Canadian calendar : the glorious 10th of June,
in the afternoon of v/liich day the United States circus
poster makes its annual appearance on the board fences
and dead walls of all inhabita))le places in the land.

On any one of these dates an almanac neetl not be
referred to in Canada by any one who has eyes to see
and ears to hear ; at any other time an almanac is as
vital a necessity as a chart at sea. The promiscuous
•listribution of gaudy patent medicine almanacs in Canada
is all that has saved the country and the climate from the

tablished fate of the chestnut bell and the prospective

fate of the traveling doctor.

h .
1'

LOTTIE.

lANS REINGOLD and I-ottie Kennedy were
l)etr()tlied lovers. The day of their marriage was
appointeil, but it was still far in the future. Lottie's people
were poor, and Hans was not rich, so they were content to
wait till there should be a fair prospect of their having
at least a small portion of this world's goods.

Hans was the chemical expert for a large manufactur-
ing iirm in Philadelphia, and so was necessarily away
from home and from Lottie the greater part of the time.
It was a hard life, being called from one State to another
at a moment's notice, and the work was often exhaustive ;
but Hans took all that as a matter of course, and tried
to make the best of it.

One Christmas day, when Hans was home, Lottie re-
ceived a pressing invitation from a rich but niggardly
old uncle in Albany to come and pay him a long visit.
In fact, the letter ran, ..he was to stay till she should be
heartily sick of the place and of her uncle. The letter
woimd up with a vaguely-worded intimation that if
Lottie's visit should be entirely satisfactory to all parties
concerned, she would have cause to thank her stars that she
came. According to Mrs. Kennedy's interpretation, this
meant that if tlu; old man was pleased with Lottie, he
would make her his heiress.

With such inducements as these, Lottie quickly
decided on making the visit inmiediately. There would be
a little preparation to be made in the matter of two or
three dresses and as many hats. As for gloves, etc., it
was left to the uncle's generosity to supply such things.

LOTTIE.

were
3 was
)eople
ent to
laving

:actur-
away
e time.
,nother
,ustive ;
d tried

)ttie re-
o'^-ardly
[\(f visit,
^ould be
letter
that it'
partie.s
bhat she
ion, this
:tie, lie

[quickly

^ould be

two or

etc., it

things.

Mrs. Kennedy, witli a depth of sagacity that proved
lier to be a woman of no ordinary discernment, had Lot-
tie's new i;anii('iits made very plain and of cheap material.
Tims the old miser, lier uncle, would perceive that
Lottie was poor, but not ashamed to wear plain clothing ;
and thus one step towards gaining his favor would have
been taken. Lottie could safely be left to do the rest.

The lovers saw each other for the last time on New
Year's day. They did not expect to be parted very long,
but the parting was sad, especially for Hans, who must
return to his employment ; while Lottie would be away,
with new people, new scenes, and new duties to occupy
her attention.

" You will not forget me, Lottie ?" said Hans. " You
will not allow that selfish uncle of yours to browbeat you
into a marriage with some favorite of his ?"
" No, Hans ; I will prove true to j^ou."
" Promise me, Lottie, solemnly, that you will never let

your heart "

" Don't bring on the heroics, Hans," Lottie said, with a
lauiih.

" Promise, Lottie," Hans persisted.
" I promise, then ; sincerely — from my heart of heart."
" And I will trust you, Lottie, implicitly. Lottie, sup-
pose that we have a watch-word, a shibboleth, between
us ; S(miething by means of which, in case danger should
menace one of us, the other could be secretly informed

of it." . ■

" Oh, now, Hans, when this is our last day together^
don't let us fritter away the time in trying to be

romantic. "

But Hans knew Lottie better than she thought. "Very
(3)

li! i

It I --

J ■ I

'It

itii

LOTTIE.

we]]," lie said ; " you are right enough; it would be only
foolishness."

There was a pause. Lottie waited impatiently for
Hans to explain what he meant hy a watch-word. But
as he showed no disposition to do so, she finally said,
musingly : " Well, it might be well encjugh, Hans ; at
any rate, it wouldn't do any liarm. What is your idea
Hans ?"

" Oh, nothing ; only, as I shall be traveling about con-
tinually, an item in one of the great journals that has an
extensive circulation would reach me, wherever I might
be, when a letter might hang fire. So, if you should ever
be desperately in need of a friend, a few words, neatly
put, in the personal column of one of the New York
papers, would cause me to fly to you on the wings of the
wdnd."

" Now, Hans, that figure is effective, but it isn't original
with you ; it seems to me I've heard it very often before."

" Yes, of course, Lottie ; it is all a piece of foolishness."

Again Lottie \vas ol)!iged to ask Hans wha^ he meant.

" Let us woi-d it in this way, and then either of us
could insert it : ' The talk on New Year's was not foolish-
ness, after all. Come.' Tluii sign it ' Lottie,' or ' Hans,'
as the case might be."

" Now, Hans, you put it that wa}' on purpose to tease
me ! Why not put it in this way : 'Lottie, you may come
on the wings of the wind. Hans' ? Of course, if / should
insert it, I would reverse the names."

" o ow you are teasing me ! But, yes, that is a decided
im])i-()vement. Now, we must agree not to make use of
our wateh-word unless the need slujuld be ur<»'ent, the
case imperative."

^v'f

LOTTIE.

" Yes, yes ; I understand, without tlie 'case imperative.*
T tliink you have been in the imperative case enougli to-
day — or ratlier, in the imperative mood."

" Tliat's right, Lottie ; you always contrive to hig in
something so that you can tack on an addenihim contain-
ing the words, ' grannnatically speaking,'" Hans replied,
somewhat li'rufHv.

" Well, the caution is needless, anyway; / will never
insei't any sucli personal," Hashed hack Lottie.

Then thev kissed, and asked each other's f'orijivciK^ss,
and cried a little, — at least Lottie did, — and declai"e(l that
nothing sliould ever part them. Lottie presently roi'erred
again to the watch-word, and they decided on Tlic Nc.'w
York IV^oiid, which both read, as the newspaper in which
to insert the personal in case ot* fancied need.

Hans took the train for Philadelphia, to receive his
instructions from the hea<l of the firm ; and tlie next day
Lottie left home for her uncle's, to make a visit of in-
definite lenijjth.

Lottie's life at her uncle's big stone house was (piiet
enough, though not unpleasant; but she felt that it was
a life which would soon become painfully monotonous.
The mid<lle-aged house-keeper was methodical and pre-
cise to an extreme, as well as dictatorial and unamiable,
always keeping a sharp look-out that Lottie should not
intermeddle in household affairs. The rich old uncle was
crotchety and peevish — in a word, a bearish old fellow,
as cross-grain i'd as the typical step-father. He wished
Lottie to be always busy, either reading musty histories,
or keeping his library in prim order, or cutting out clip-
pings from scientific journals, or reading the politics of
the day to him, or answering his business letters, or

Um'I'

-f

LOTTIE.

I*!

i \

knitting woollen stockings for the newsboys — the only
thin<r he ever did to contriltute to the necessities of the
poor.

it is no wonder that Lottie wearied of this and longed
to return home, where, after performing her toilet in the
morninL:", she was free to spend the rest of the day lolling
on a lounge and reading Miss Braddon's interminahle
novels.

" If this sort of thing goes on much longer," she wrote
her mother, " I shall contrive to offend his seigneurship
mortally, and get packed ofi' home in the identical gar-
ments I had when I came. (I have purposely made these
two lines emphatic.) There is no othe*- way to get away ;
for whenever I hint at going home, he puts on a martyr-
like air, and asks me if I am tired of my poor, forlorn old
uncle, if I realize how much he is doing for me, and if I
bear in mind what he said in his letter of invitation.
Then he accuses me of being ungrateful, and giddy, and
shallow-pated, and narrow-minded, and unduly biased,
and surcharged with self-esteem, and irrational, and un-
practical ; and says I am a stumbling-block in my own
pathway. I wasn't brought up to have such epithets
and metaphors heaped upon me, and I won't stand it."

To Hans she wrote that she hadn't found an oppor-
tunity to read a novel since she left home ; " and then,''
she said, " I could find time to read only one during Christ-
mas week, and that a stupid one ; for, what with safTron-
faced dressmakers and the excitement and bustlo of pack-
ing my trunk, and your endless auvd often inop;^ortune
visits, my time was wholly taken up, so that I was even
deprived of needful sleep. As for uncle's Napoleons, and
his Charles V.'s, and his Cffisars, and his Pharaohs, and

I \

LOTTIE.

he
tbe

rote

his Es-vptolouies, nnd liis entoiiu ponies, and his Un-
luippy Stuarts — why, I have as ])r(>t'(niii(l a liativd for
them all as 1 had for my first stui)id, i;a\vky hoau."

Hans wrote I'e^ularly and lovingly to Lottie, and she
never failed to write to him whenever he could tell her
exactly where and when a letter w(mld reach him.

But once he went to the office in Toledo, fully expect-
in"" to find a letter from Lottie. No, there was no letter,
and he had specially retjuested her to write to him there
at such a date. This was very strani^e.

His husinesa detained him in Toledo twenty-four
hours, and he appeared at the post-office after every mail
from the east was due. All in vain.

" Poor Lottie ! Poor little girl !" he murmured " She
would never wilfully miss writing to me ; I know her
too well for that. But what can have happened ? Has
that old ogre, with his romantic Roman notions ahout

the fitness of Romantic? The Neiu York World!

Oh, Lottie ! Lottie ! 1 hope all is well !"

Poor Hans had heen driven so hard since New Year's
that he had not found time to read the World oi' any-
thing else. His only day of rest was Sunday, when he
read and re-read his letters from home, and dozed in his
room at the hotel.

Five minutes thereafter he was reading this among
the personals of a late number of the World :

" Hans, notw^ithstanding the foolish talk (m New
Year's day, Lottie washes you to come on the wings
of the wind. Never mind business ; the ' case' is
' imperative.' "

" Oh, Lottie ! Lottie ! what is the matter V Hans
murmured. " Dear girl ; I knew something serious must

■" i

LOTTIE.

lijivo Impponod, «»i' sho wouM linvc writini. Slic lias
reincnilH'i't'd our vvatcli-woifl, aixl sIm; has availed hri'scdf
of it. It is not just as we an'iTM'd it should he; lait 1
Hnp|»os(^ Ijottit^ wantcfl to iiial<(! it very poiiited ami
iiiiporative. Oh, I liope she is well I This really reads
as if notliin^' very serious is wroiii;' — can it he a joke?
No; it is just Lottie's way; 1 reiiieud)er sho worked ofl'
a pun when her pet kittini died, and she wouM ha\ e
risked her life to save that kitten ; and how she cried
afterwards! I know Lottie; 1 know soinethini'- awful
must be wrong. My route leads towards home, and I
will go that far and then telegraph my (Mn|)l()yers, and
go on to Lottie, if 1 lose my situation and all my
prospects in life. When my love appeals to me so
strongly, it is enough ; I will go."

Hans left Toledo an hour later for Cleveland. Here
he stopped to telegraph to his em[)loyers. Hurrying along
towards the business centre of the city, to do his last
stroke of business and send his telegram, he met with an
accident that might have proved fatal. A coupe rattled
around a corne>- as he was crossing a street ; the horses
struck him ; he fell helpless ; and the rear wheel passed
over his right leg below the knee, breaking it.

A crowd of sympathizing people and of gri'^ning
hoodlums gathered about the helpless and unconscious
man, lifted him tenderly into a cab, and had him taken
direct to the hospital. A surgeon promptly set the
broken limb and prescribed a soothing draught for him ;
and then, poor fellow, he was left alone to his sufferings,
which internal injuries intensified.

" This is a pretty state of affairs," moaned Hans, when
he recovered consciousness and ability to think coherently.

5 '.

LOTTIE,

Inmg

"Tl»(j rosciU! is now virtually at an end. I'oor Lottie!
If she had only \v>itt<'n to let me know what is wronjjf !
I»ut if she could have donc^ so, she would have. Poor
little L;irl ! Anxious as 1 aiu ahout her, I cannot even
j^'uess what niay have happened. When; is she now ?
Oh, why didn't 1 at least teU'<^rapli to ask what was
wront;- ? Hut 1 thought it hetter not to do so. Why, I
didn't even get iny teh>grain sent to the tirni, and when
they miss me, they will not know what has hecome of
me ! Will any one know ? In fact, I am tlu; same as
huried, till I can send a telegram ; and those who n»iss
me may think I have heen murdered. No, this accident
will come out in the Cleveland papers — prohahly, in
other papers. But will they see it ? My first duty is
clearly to apprise my friends and the firm of my
misfortune."

Hans gave directions to wire his employers immediately,
hut hesitated ahout sending any word to Lottie.

" As I cannot help her, why should I add to her distress ?
If I should telegraph, ' Laid up in the hospital with a
hroken leg,' what would she be benefited ? She would
only be uneasy about me, and think me in a worse
condition than I reallv am. But on the other hand, if I
send no message, she will still expect me, and wait
eoiitidently for me to come. It will be at least live
weeks l)efore I can leave the hospital, and that would be
too late. Of course ; didn't the personal say, ' the case is
imperative' ? Sometlnng must be done; but what ? If
only I could know what is the matter !"

The next day Hans had hit upon an expedient.

•' It may be fool" or even wrong, in me," he reflected ;
' hut it is a last re;: 'ce, and I will hazard it. Charley

I '

III'

;.-

■ - h

1 ;

It \

LOTTIK.

always was a l(;yal friciul tonic; iilways ready to lend
me his assi.staiice. It' anylxxly can grasp the situation
and lu'ing Lottie out of her difficulti- ,i, whatever they
may be, it is Charley. Brave, good-naturcid, heedless,
indolent, rollicking Charley ! When we were all hoys
together, he was our policeman, detective, judge, hangman,
aiid outlaw ; and he always played his part creditably.
I always told him that some day kings would read his
namo, and he always said they shouldn't, it' he could help
it — he'd rather be the hero of a novel. It will do him
good to leave his guns and his dogs for a while, and be
detective in earnest."

This would be a titting time to pause and mourn over
Hans' imprudence, speak \^aguely and darkly about the
future, and hint of a day when Hans would rue this
action, though the mischief would then be irreparable.
But the story-teller who feels obliged to have recourse to
such tricks is either aiiticpiated, or else he does not rate
his own abilities as a story-teller very highly. Besides,
the inference, or moral, to 1)6 drawn from the story of
" Lottie" lies deeper than all this.

Hans despatched a telegram to the wilds of Michigan,
where Charles Worthington, his sometime schoolfellow,
was idling away the summer. To insure its being effective,
Hans made his message rather staitling. It ran: —

"Charley: broken my leg ; come first train; awful
revelations; mysteries; new employment for you; for
the sake of othei- days, come ! Ifans Reingold."

The LIO a.m. train l)i'ought a tall, fat, jolly-looking
fellow, with military mustache an<l profuse curls,
Mccompanicil by a, huge dog, that proudly woi-e a, collar on
which was tile legend, Meine Fang/idme sind IMitzschnell

LOTTtE.

ion

icy •

CSS,

•oys
[\an,
h\y.
his
help
him
(1 be

over

it the

i this

i-ahle.

rsc to
rate
sides,
ry of

bio:ai'i,

leilow,

active,

lawful
; for

Inking
curls,

liar on
^hnell

Und Teufeiseharf. Tlio man was Gliarley ; and to complete
his costume he wore a fantastic cap, tni'han, or liead-piece
of some sort, wldch looked as if it liad often heen in the
doii's mouth.

" I'^ifteen years ago I warned you of this," was the new-
comer's greeting, a lie grasped Hans' feverish hand and
si ook it witli a li(.>artiness tliat elicited a gr<mn of pain
from the sufi'crer and a word of caution from the doctor.

" Charley, old fellow, your very presence is medicine ! "
Uans ejaculated.

" Rather violent medicine, I should say," laughed
Charley. " Too big a dose woidd cause dissolution."

" How have you been all tliis time ? How have you
amusLMl yourself ? "

" Happier than the poets picture peasants and dairy-
maids ; as well as if I had lived on patent medicine ; as
i<lle as a ' landed proprietor.' "

" But what have you been doing ? "

" I have been an Indian. Do you mean to say that
Indians are not happy, and well, and idle ?"

"I suppose you mean you have been camping out?"

" Exactly ; I have been camping out — only, I have had
no camp, no hut, no brush-house, no dug-out, no adobe —
nothing — not even a sch()oll)oy's play-house !"

'• Was it pleasant ?"

" Yes, very — when I was asleep, and unmindful of
Nature's livino- wonders."

" What are yon driving at now, Charley ? "

" Well, Hans, if yon have an ilhistrated natural history
handy, I will look up the reptile and insect department,

nd show you."

11^

'^ '

i|m|

III I

LOTTIE.

" If you wish to have a private talk, gentlemen," said
the surgeon, " 1 will leave you. But remember, Mr.
Reingold, no excitement."

" Well, old fellow," said Charley, as soon as the surgeon
had withdrawn, " what was the racket when you sent me
such a telegram ? Was the pain so intense that you were
delirious? or was it a freak of nightmare ? Y(ni never
were an adept at sclioolhoyish tricks, and you are too old
to begin now."

" No, Charley ; tb.is is a S(>)'ious ail'air."

'• ' Affair ' ? That means a duel, I believe. A rival, I
presume? Well, J will do my best for you; but I am
opposed to duels on high moral principles. Poor fellow !
poor broken-le;;"ged Hans ! Got endjroiled, I suppose ;
then challenged ; then broke your leg ; then had the
assurance to send for me to vindicate your Ixmor !
Some scoundrels would at once right ab(mt for the ' happy
hunting grounds ' again — but /will stay and tight it out."

" You read too many novels, Charley. Why, you will
be a romancer yourself, if you keep on as hopefully as
you have begun."

" See here, y(m haven't told me anything about your-
self, your accident, yet. Not anothei- v/ord till I know
Just how this happened, and how you l)ore it, and how it
will affect your finances — that is, your business prospects.
I have come prepared, in case you stand in need (jf any
dross."

" Thank you, Charley ; you are more thoughtful than
I supposed. But I have plenty of money to tide me ovei-
this."

Then Hans talked constantly for half an hour, telling
the story o!" the accident ; of Lottie's visit to her uncle ;

LOTTIE.

VTr.

eon
uic
/ere
3ver
, old

[ am

How 1
pose ;
A the
onoi* !

uippy

out."
1 will
ly as

lyour-
Ikuow

low it

[pects.

any

than
over

LlHng
Imcle ;

of the a,2;reement, made halt' in jest, half in earnest, to
insert a curiously-worded personal in the World in case
of diffienlty ; of the appearance of such a personal ; of
the non-arrival of a letter from Lottie ; and of his
determination to send for Charles.

" Well," yawned Charles, " this tale reminds me forcihly
of Simple Simcm and his doing's. Now, Hans, don't
accuse me of turning i-omancer, for you are drifting into
something worse."

" T'm soiTy, Charley," said TTans (juaveringly.

"Ton my word, I forgot you are sick! Forgive me,
Hans ; I didn't mean anything ; I never do. Yes, I will
play the kniglit-errant ; I will sally forth, like ])(m
<^hii\()te; Lesiege the castle of her captor; decapitate the
dragons and goi-gons ; and convoy her back to you.
Then I will, if you please, hund)ly eat a slice of wedding-
cake, and hunt my way back to Michigan, uncivilization,
and the realities of modern times. — But seriously, Hans,
I can tell you what the game is at Albany."

" You can ? Tell me, then ! "

" Miss Kennedy has forgotten that the first of April has
passed ; or she is homesick ; or she has fallen in love
with on oil-painting of some ancient worthy — perhaps,
Juan de Soto.'*

" Oh, Worthington ! How provoking you are ! If m^'
leg were better, I would ponnuel you like a nuih;."

•' That's good, Hans ! Now you talk rationally."

" Well, will you go ? "

"On the first train in the morninu"."

Then the two old friends got along amicably for a few
minutes longei". Hans gave Charles the address of
bottle's nncle ;nid of her ])a)'ents ; and so they parted.

i! ■ ii

I'fir *i

■? SB i CT p ?nR www

LOTTIE.

ill

lit k

But very early in the moriiino- Charles looked in for a
last ff(>o(l-1)v and for Hans' final instructions.

Slowly the days passed for poor H.ans — one — two —
three. lie did not improve so rapidly as he should have
done, owing to his uneasiness about Lottie. But on the
third day a letter came from Charles, to the effect that he
had reached Albany, and found Lottie and her mother
safe and Avell, at the uncle's home. The uncle was dead,
and Lottie ^vas his sole heiress, the mistress of some tens
of thousands. That was all ; Lottie had been so
" worried " (that was the woi'd) at the time of her uncle's
death that she had not been aljle to write. As for tlie
a<lvertisement, or personal, that was merely a ruse to
bring Hans home and surprise him with the news of
Lottie's good fortune.

The next day Hans received a letter from Lottie her-
self.

" You would have done l)etter lia<l you written or tele-
graphed," she wrote. " I had prepared a fine s\u"prise for
you; and how pleased we should all have been. You see,
dear PLms, the ' personal ' was a mistaken idea, a ' piece
of foolishness,' after all. I am sorry if 1 have been l)lam-
able for your accident, Hans. I suppose I should not
have called you away from your business ; only I knew
you could well afford to give it up, and set up for your-
self in something lucrative and respectable, with a large
capital. Get w^ell as fast as you can, and 1 will w^ ite as
often as may be ; l)ut I have a great deal to attend to
now.

" P. S. I am so glad you sent Mr. Worthington, Hans ;
he is so (h'oll and polite. It has turned out (|uitt' like a
romance, hasn't it ? Just fancy ! My bank account alone

lottip:.

• tele-
for

)\i see,
piece
•laiii-
1 not
knew
your-
large
■vte as
md to

Lans ;

I like a

alone

is fifty thousand ! Sometimes I feel sorry for poor old
uncle, for he was good at heart, after all ; and how much
he must have tlxni'iht of me ! It is too bad for vou to
he suti'ering all alone away off there in Cleveland, and I
wish you would get well and come home. Yon can't
realize how rich I am until you do come. What a hurly-
burly there would have been if you had come straight
home and made the glad discovery !

" Your own LoTTlE."
This was not a cheering letter, and it did not strike
poor Hans as being sincere. Evi<lently Lottie was so
engrossed with her bright prospects that she scarcely gave
a thouixht to him. She wrote to him from a sense of
duty ; but what was he in her eyes but a poor traveller,
while she was an heiress. And then, why should she be
so interested in Mr. Worthington ? And what should
detain Mr. Worthington there longer ? Why did he not
come back and spend a few days in Cleveland with his
old friend, and then retire to his fishing-grounds in
Michigan ?

Clearly, there was cause for uneasiness. Hans fretted
about it a great <leal, and wished, with all his heart, that
he had not sent Charles oaa such a mission. But surely,
when the novelty of things had worn off*, Li>ttie would
remend)er her promise and retuin to her old true love.
How he longed to recover, that he miglit go down to
Albany and see Lottie face to face.

Almost every day thei'eafter n -^hoi't hotter camo fi'om
('harles. These letters, though short, were sincere, an<l
ovcrllowiu'L'' with ii'ooddiumoi'. J)etail(d accounts wcit
soon given of Lottie's iidiei-itance, lur raptui'ous delight,
her thoughts, and her uir-castles ; and the letters always

.r7i

LOTTIE.

?!
r

l ■

lit
ft

wound np with kind wislios for Huns and liopes tliat lie
would soon join tlicni. Sonietinics Cluirlcs would say
that he pui'pos(Ml Icavini;" I'or Cleveland the next day ; but
the next day always hrought a letter offering sonic ])re-
text for n(^ eouiiny:, and sc.'ttino- another date when he
would surelv come.

" Cliarley is still loyal to mc," Hans mused ; " such a
friend as he is will not tui'n traitor in a day, nor yet a
month. But "ivhij does he lini^cr on and on ? Well, when
I cot ahout .lii-ain I wil.1 not let them know it, hut will
make a descent on them nt unawares ! Poor Lottie! her
riches have tunuMl hor head. She will naturally take a
liking for Charles — especially at such a time as this."

One ljri<!'ht day sc-me fo'ir Aveeks after the accident
Charles Worthington unexpectedly put in his appearance
at the hospital.

He greeted Hans hilariously, and declared that in a
week he would he ahle to leave the hosj)ital for Alhany.

" Charles," said Hans feverishly, " what of Lottie ?
Tell me the naked, unpalatahie truth."

" What ? Why, she is the deliirhtedest girl in the
Empire State ! She is so full of life that she can hardly
contain herself. Just think, from indigence to wealth,
at a single hound! The plan is^ to have you (|uit the
Ijuisness you are engage<l in — "

" For somethini; luciiitive and respectable," Hans broke
in bitterly.

" What do yon mean by that ? "

■' She wrote me those very words, Charley."

"You wrong her, Huns. She wishes you to set uy in
some aristi^cratic lHit>ia!i*ss, with her own money as
oa])ital : for, after your iwirriai^e, her money is to be yours."

LOTTIE.

say
Imt

l)ruke

up 111

urs.

"Did she say that?" demanded Hans.

'" Tliose very words,' Hans, bcfoi'i! I had known lier
lialt' an liour."

" Ah ! halt' an honr ! Cliarley, do you believe she loves
uie now i"

" Why, of course slio does ; she is f'r(}ttino' about you all
the time. Your imprisonment in this institution lias
warped your ideas and generally demoralized you."

" Why have you stayed there so long ? " asked Hans.

" Well, my (piarters at the hotel were pleasant, and I
am just as contented at Albany, if comfortably ([uartered,
as any other place. I have stayed there, Hans, because
I was too lazy to ^^o away."

" Well, what do you think of her, Charley T'

" That's a hard ([uestion to answer, old fellow. To
tell the truth, I am sometimes jealous of you ; I — I wish
as bewitching a woman were my promised wife. I — I
can't say enough in her praise."

Charles had certain business of his owni to attend to
down in Tennessee ; and the next day he bade Hans
good-bye, saying that when they met again it would
probably be at Mrs. Kennedy's, where all were to hold a
grand re-union.

Eight da^^s afterwards, Hans, not fully recovered , 1 )ut able
to travel, left the hospital for home and Mrs. Kennedy's,
without somdinij: word to either Lottie or Charles.

As he drove up to the old home he saw Lottie and
Charles lounging on the veranda steps. Charles liad but
.iust arrived from the South, htiving come via Washington.

Charles tfreetod the invalid with effusion, but Lottie
was distant, if not indifferent. Was she iKjt pleased to
see him j-eturn ?

", '

If li

! 1:
1:

iMi 1

LOTTIE.

" Hans, yoii old truant," said Cliarlos, "yon look like a
spectre, and \ dan^ say yon fed like ont\ ]>ut come ;
there is goino- to he a wedding here, and yon innst get
well in time for it."

" Whose wedding ?" Hans asked sulkily.

" Why, yours, of course ; " C 'liarles repliinl unconcern-
edly.

Hans looked quickly and eagerly at Lottie. She did
not smile approval — she did not even smile at all. Had
she ceased to love him entirely ? It siiemed so like it that
Hans grew faint and sick at heart, and ])egan to realize
that his love-dreai* was over.

Mrs. Kennedy's polite greeting confirmed his fears,
and Hans experienced the utter wretchedness that only
discarded lovers can experience.

" Let us have some music," Charles said presently; and
sitting down at Lottie's new grand piano, he called to
Hans : " This is, so to speak, my own composition. At
any rate, it is entirely original with me ; but as to
whether you will like it, or approve of it, I don't venture
to say. I do know it makes me solid with children and
simpletons."

Then, with the solemnity of a mountebank, he rattled
off the air of " Yankee Doodle," accompanying it Avith
the words of Tennyson's " Brook." The effect was
ridiculous ; even Hans, secretly to his own chagrin, was
obliged to laugh. Charles was so delighted with his
performance that he then sang the words of "Yankee
Doodle " to the music of " The Brook."

" Now, then," he said, " I think it is about time for the
lovers to shut out intruders and have a few minutes to
themselves. Come, Mrs. Kennedy."

tOTTlE.

Hans and Lottio wor<» alone.

Lottie," said Hans roproaclif'nlly, "y<»u do not love

mo an

onirer,

I k

now it.

" Why, Hans, what do yon mean ? How do yon know
it?"

" Do you rcmeniher the promise yon _i;'iive me on New
Year's day?"

" Well, what of it V Lottie a^ked petulantly.

"Only this: In your heart you have not heen ti'ue to
that promise, and you cannot deny it."

" If you could know h(>w how deli<j^ht<'<l I was — de-
lighted for yowr sake, Hans, more than foi- my own —
when my uncle's will was read, you would not reproach
me in this way."

" Were you, Lottie f

" Yes, Hans, I was ; and I put the personal in the
World to Ijring you home quickly, so that I might spring
the good news on you before you could possibly hear it
otherwise."

" ir you had only written me oftener when I was laid
up ! But, oh, Lottie ! do you love me still ?"

No answer.

" I see it all, Lottie," said Ft^ sadly. " Your fortune
did not turn your head all at once; you loved me, pro-
bal)ly, till I sent him !"

" Then why did you send him ? If you couldn't come
yourself, why didn't you say so, and not send a deputy ?"

"You have fallen in love with Worthington, Lottie,
and left me to my fate. Deny it, if you dare !"

" I do not deny it, then !" Lottie retorted fiercely.

" So, you admit it ! Oh Lottie! Lottie! you loved me
orKje !

LOTTIE.

•"1

" Whoso fault is it ? Wliy did you send liiin lioro ? But,
Hans, \ tvu'd to l)e true to you ; I tried louLi; and l»)'avel3."

" You did ? liut it was all iu vain. Well, if it is to le,
considci- our enL;ajL;en»ent at an end. 1 suppose you are
already promised to hini," bitterly. "CantiiiL;- hypocrites!"

" How <lan^ you call your life-lono' friend a liypocrite!"
Lr)ttio cried indiiiiianth'. "As to lu'inu' eniraired," she
added coldly, " you are entirely mistaken."

"Oh, tlion h(i has not proposed?" IJans asked sarcasticly.

" Your friend is too strictly honorable to do such a
thinn-."

" Exactly ; " returned Hans. "But," mockingly, " how
came you to know that my honorable friend loves you]"

Lottie made no answer whatever, and Hans continued :
" Pei'haps you are most woefully mistaken in Charles
Worthington, Miss Kennedy, for he is not a marrying
man. In conclusion, let me observe that I do not wisli to
be invited to your wedding, if it should ever take place.
One word more : I advise you, in case he proposes, to test
his love — to put it to a crucial tost, (jrood-by."

He steadied himself witli a chair, and held out his
trembling hand for a last farewell.

" Good-by, then, and thank you for your advice," said
Lottie curtly, ignoring the outstretched hand. Then,
drawing- off her enoacjement ring, she tossed it to Hans,
saying, " It is yours, Mr. Reingold ; I do not wish to
deprive you of your property."

Stung to the (^uick, Hans droj^ped it and retorted, " I
have other property, and I refuse to touch it. Should I
ever have occasion to need another engagement ring,
Miss Kennedy, I will procure a new one, for this has
surely served its turn."

LOTTIR,

Tlio words wiTc cnttiny", as Hans intended tlieni to be.

" Vvry w'vW, tlicii," liottic sai<l loftily.

Hans lu'sitatcil a moment, and then said hundily,
" Won't yon shake liaiids with me, Lottie ? It — it is
better for us to part on friendly terms."

" Yes, Hans ;" said Lottie, softening. "I — I am soriy,
Hans ; I reallv am."

So they shook hands, and parted, never to meet again.

It is (piite unnecessary to follow Hans further. It is
sufhcient to sav that he recovered health and strennth ;
that on again seeking employment with the Philadelpliia
firm, he was warmly welcomed (whi(^h he hardly deserved);
and that t'unv. eventually healed his grief.

Lottie did not hesitate to make it known that her
engagement with Hans was broken; and that very
evening Mr. Charles Worth iniiton made a formal offer of
marriage.

At first Lottie was coy, but soon said "yes."

" Poor Hans was so practical and matter-of-fact," she
said. " You and I are far better suited to each other,
Charles ; don't you think so ? "

" You prefer a lazy, good-for-nothing, smoking, easy-
tempered fellow like me to poor Hans ! Keally, now,
that doesn't speak well for youi- judgment of humanity !"
Charles replied jokingly.

" Yes, I do ; and any sensil)le woman would agree with
me."

" Poor Hans ! I should never have known you if it had
not been for his accident — unless I had been invited to
your and his wedding. It is really too bad, Lottie, about
him. Ma<lly as I love you, I would never have come
between you. If I had thought you loved each other a.s

■

1, ^^a

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0 !S«^ I

I.I

1.25

1^ i^ IIIII2.2

" li£ llilio

1.8

1.4 II 1.6

% ^^ #

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, NY. 14580

(716) S72-4503

^
^

4f^

LOTTIE.

at first, I should have bidden you all farewell in a day or
so, and have gone away as he has done. But for the last
two weeks I have suspected that you could never think
of him as your husband, though T never gave either you
or him cause to know it. I determined to let matters
take their course ; and it is well that I have done so-
I don't feel quite easy in this matter, Lottie ; but I don't
feel altogether guilty."

" If anybody is in the wrong, Charles, it is myself,"
replied Lottie.

Then the two new-made lovers looked each other in-
tently in the eyey, each one thinking how noble was the
other.

Preparations for the wedding went on gaily. One day
Lottie came to Charles with an open newspaper in her
hand, saying the one word " Read ! "

Charles nonchalantly took the paper and read that the
— Bank had suspended payment. This was the bank in
which the old uncle's money had been left ; but the Ken-
nedys, on its coming into Lottie's possession, had with-
drawn it and deposited it in another. This, so far as
Lottie knew, was unknown out of her own family ; and
remembering Hans' words about a love test, she had
resolved to seize this opportunity to test the strength of
her new lover's affection — not that she doubted its
sincerity, but by way of a pretty experiment.

" So," said Charles, when he had read the item,
" according to this, you are sharked out of your inherit-
ance, eh ? Well, never mind, darling ; I have enough of
my own for us all. It is not sf) much as yours ; but it
will be enough. But what a good thing, Lottie, that

'^_

LOTTIE.

poor Hans didn't get things in sliape to set up in Imisness
with that captial to draw on. Why, it wouhl have
resulted in the pecuniary ruin of you all ! How strangely
events have worked that you and I should be united ! "
" And you love me the same as ever ? " cried Lottie.
" Oh, Charles ! this is only a stratagem ; my money was
secured in another bank long ago."

" I suspected your little game, Lottie," said Charles,
with provoking coolness. " You see, I've read a great
many novels; and in about one in forty the heroine,
being an heiress, resorts to some such artifice to try her
lover s faith. So, bearing this in mind, and observing the
studied concern in your manner, I wasn't fooled a particle-
See ? "

" You wicked, cruel man ! " laughed Lottie. " I believe
you don't love me a bit ! My test wasn't any real test at
all. Hans told me to test your love for mo ; and just for
fun, I did. But I'll never let you read any more novels
as long as I live ! "

" Hans said that, did he ? Poor Hans ! He was blinded
by jealousy. But then he had never known me in love ;
and a man in love is not to be judged as a man who is
not."

Charles and Lottie were married, and live happily
together.

As for Hans, the other day Lottie received a copy of the
New York World containing a marked marriage notice.
The bridegroom's name was Hans Reingold and the bride's
that of a charming society belle. As Hans was a man
who would marry for love only, Lottie anl Charles
j-easonably conclude that all is well with him.

LOTTIE.

For all that, Lottie felt sore at lieart when she read the
little paragraph in the World and realized that Hans had
found occasion to need another engagement ring. A
wedding ring, as well ! Lottie was not free from the
little perversities of her sex.

HARD LUCK.

HE and her cousin Molly were up stairs setting
^i forward the buttons on a pair of new boots when
she heard a smart, imperative knock on the hall door. She
thought it might be Joe, although he didn't usually
knock exactly in that way, and she ran down stairs to
open the door herself.

No, it wasn't Joe, at all ; but a stalwart individual
with yellow hair and yellow teeth, clinging for dear life
to a battered gripsack. He was an itinerant peddler, and
she knew it before he had time to ask if she wanted to
look at some good jewelry.

She surmised that he hadn't wrestled with the world
long enough to have had much experience of its ways, so
she determined not to shut the door haughtily in his face,
but to give him a little bit of experience to ruminate on
and profit by.

In answer to his half-formed inquiry she said, " Oh
yes ; certainly I shall ; please walk right in." Then she
called up to her cousin Molly, who was the most out-
rageously mischievous girl in her native town, and always
ready for a spree :

" Molly, can you come down a minute, please ? Here's
a gentleman with a beaiUifid assortment of jewelry."

Molly rushed down stairs without even stopping to
look in the glass, and smiled radiantly on the smirking
peddler, who had struck an awkward and unrestful
attitude.

HARD LUCK.

•I I!

With a gracious bow he plumped his treasure-case
down on a newly- varnished stand in the hallway, flung
it open, and began to haul out gorgeous-looking jewelry.

" Oh ! Oh ! How much is that ?" as he lingeringiy
drew a heavy yellow chain out of his gripsack.

" This is a superfine article," he began, " and exceed-
ingly val — "

" Oh, yes ; we know all al)out that ; " said the young
lady of the house, who had a<lmitted him ; " but what is
the price ? "

" Well, it's worth twenty-five dollars, every day in the
week, but seeing it's you, yoinig lady, I'd let it go at a
sacrifice."

" You would ! Well, how much ? "

" Say, twen — eighteen dollars."

" Oh, but I'm just awfully sorry we can't take it,"
Molly said, and sighed.

" Say, fifteen."

" Too much."

" See here ! Seeing it's you, say, twelve."

" I'm afraid not ; not to-day."

" Say, ten-fifty."

The two young ladies seemed to be making up their
mind to accept this liberal offer, but still hesitated.

" Say, eight dollars — six-twenty-five^-four-seventy-
five — three-fifty — two-seventy-five."

This was too much for the young lady who had opened
the door, and she expressed hearty laughter.

" See here, madam," he said, yanking out a whopping
big locket, " see here, how much do you suppose that's
worth ? One hundred dollars ! One hundred dollars,
every day in the week ! "

IIAKD LUCK.

" You don't mean to say so ! " cried Molly. " But I
suppose you'd sell it for ten cents, any day in the week,
and throw in a stick of gum."

His face showed he was afflicted with St. Vitus' dance,
and that a little too much excitement was liable to bring
it on suddenly. But he recovered himself and drew out
another locket, that wjis unparalleled in its gorgeousness,
and whispered hoarsely : " There, madam, how much do
you take that to be worth ? I gave fifty dollars for that,
in hard cash — fifty dollars."

" And I dare say you would sell it for fifty cents in
cash, and a piece of apple pie ' in kind,' " said Molly.

" Some folks don't know diamonds from button rings,"
the peddler remarked, with fiendish sarcasm ; and he
crowded his valuables promiscuously into his valise, and
started to go.

" Oh, don't be in such a hurry. We haven't seen your
diamonds yet," said Molly. " Are they invaluable, too ? "

" No, nor your button rings," said the young lady of the
house. " I presume you carry a large and varied stock."

" My diamonds are worth a hanged sight more money
than your circumstances would represent — represent —
represent — "

On this innocent word he got muddled ; but he bolted
for the door without stopping to explain himself defi-
nitely.

As he passed through the gate, a few feet in front of
the house, something happened him. The gate was a
miraculously ingenious one, and it required careful study
to be able to manipulate it successfully. The unfortunate
who did not understand it could scarcely open it or shut
it without jamming one of his fingers. It played no

HARD LUCK.

tricks upon the members of the household, but it would
nip the sad -eyed Rhode Island traui[) with remorseless
and unfailing regularity.

Now, our hero, the peddler, had worked himself up into
such a state of mental excitement an account of losing Kve
minutes of his valuable time, and not making even a cent,
that a scene of violence ensued on his essaying that gate.
In fact, he jammed three of his fingers as they had never
been jammed before since his eleventh year.

His thoughts drifted back to a black day in his child-
hood when his father caned those self-same lingers because
he had tried hard to make a canal-boat out of a new
forty-cent straw hat. His eyes filled with scalding tears,
then shot fire; and he articulated, loud enough to be
heard around the comer :

" Jam ad lunas ! " he said. " Jam id ducibus damnetur !"

Or it sounded like that, anyway.

-fe-f

liSSC

^-a-

THE RAILWAYMAN'S TRIALS.

jBOIj T the 20th of March there appeared before a
railway ticket-agent at Green Ba^, Wisconsin, a
(leterinine<l-l()oking woman from the wilds of upper
Brown County. She was accompanied by a red-eyed
boy, just recovering from chicken-pox, who evidently
was her son and heir. He took after his mother, in that
ho was rustic, fidgety, warlike, and wholly uncultured in
all his ways.

" Is this where chey tell you about the railroads ? " the
woman asked.

" Yes, madam," said the ticket-agent promptly.

" Do the cars run from here to Milwaukee ? "

" Yes, madam, direct."

" Do they run every day ? "

"Certainly; two through trains each way every day."

" And do they stop long enough for a body to get on
and off?"
"Certainly they do; and you will be assisted on and off."
" Well, where do I get on ? I don't see no tracks any-
where ; you don't keep them covered up, I suppose, do
you ?
" You board the train at the station, madam."
" Well, we want to go to Milwaukee. This here's
Johnnie, and his paw's coming in to talk with you
binieby ; so it won't be no use to try to cheat me ! His
paw druv us into town, and he told me to go to the
laiU-oads first, and then he'd tackle 'em. He's travelled
considerable, and he ain't easy took in."

THE RAILWAYMAN'S TRIALS.

r
I ^

" It isn't my place to take people in ; it doesn't pay,"
saifl the tick(»t-a^(nit sagely.

" His paw reckoned a ticket shouldn't cost more *n
three dollars, and that the boy ought to be took along
free, seeing he's been 'most dead with chicken-pox, and
is going away for his health."

" Oh ! Well, we'll see. When do you think of going ? "

" We calculate to go to-morrow, and stop over night
here to his sister's. It's my cousin's we're going to stop
at to Milwaukee. Am I likely to lose anything if I go
and buy my railroad ticket to-day instead of to-morrow ? "

" Certainly not ; it will save you the trouble of attend-
ing to it to-morrow. The morning train will be the best
one for you to take, and then you will get there in good
time for your dinner."

" Well, that's lucky, ain't it ! But s'pose I buy it now,
and the railroad should bust up before I want to use it —
who's going to be liable for that there ticket? That's
what I want to know. I don't mean to go too fur trust-
ing any railroad."

" I — I don't — exactly — understand," said the agent.

" Don't, eh ? Well, I guess I'm a grain too cunning to
go and buy my ticket to-day, and perhaps wake up to-
morrow and find your railroad is dead broke, or sold out
— 'specially when you stammer so about it. We'll look
around some, and maybe get a ticket here to-morrow."

The ticket-handler smiled sweetly, as was his wont.

'* Am I sure to get into the right cars ? " she asked
presently. " I don't want to get took off to Chicago, or
New York, or any of them awful places."

" I'll go down to the train myself, and see you otf."
Off where ? You needn't hatch no plot to abduct me !

I H

THE railwayman's TRIALS.

^gto

to-

out

look
^ •>

Sked
), or

me!

I'll have his paw there, and he'll see that you don't play
no tricks on a woman traveling alone with her sick boy."

The ticket agent explained, as well as she would let
him, that he would see her safe on the right train.

" Does cars ever get struck with lightning ? " she
suddenly asked.

" No, not that I ever heard of, madam."

"Are they liable to run off the track this time of year? "

" Not at all."

" I don't know much about railroads and such ; but my
cousin told me to take your railroad. You don't own it,
though, I s'pose ? "

" No, I do not."

" Are the bridges pretty good ? Is there any extry
safe cars you can put us in ? Is any English lord likely
to be going our way this week, so'st I can travel in his
car and be safe ? I reckon you don't dare pitch them
fellows into the ditch."

" The train that leaves to-morrow morning by our line
will be extra safe, for a Jubilee company will be aboard,
and they never get killed — or hurt."

"Is that so ? Well, if they do smash up, anyhow, I
want to know how I can work it to sue the railroad."

" Take out an accident ticket, if you are afraid."

"What's that?"

When this was explained to her, she said, feelingly :
" I shan't take out no accident ticket, for if I was killed
liis paw 'd get the money, and the hired girl would get
him. He told me I'd better get one if I was afraid, and
1 see now what he drove at."

Here the sick boy who was not sick nudged his mother,
and whispered something to her. Turning to the ticket-

THE IIAILWAYMANS TRIALS.

agent she said, " I hain't no goods to speak of, but I
calculate to have when we come back. Tliis boy here's
got a handsleigh that he's going to take down to his
cousin to Milwaukee. You see, the handsleighing '11
soon be done, and he reckons if he makes a present of
his old sleigh to his cousin that he'll get soiueihing
handsome in retui-n. Sal always iua,s that way; .she'd
make her boy give away eveiything."

" All right," said the ticket-jobber wearily. " They'll
fix that for him at the baggage office."

" Oh, you needn't worry about that ; his paw says
he'll work it through for him. What T wanted to say
was," as the boy nudged her again, " i;hat Johnuie here
wants to know if he can't hitch it fast behind tlie cars.
He reckons there'll be some snow yet, and he thin <s it
would be fun to .set and watch that sleigh slidin' r.long
behind."

Again the boy whispered some more, and his mother
said further : " He wants to know if he mightn't (ilimb
out, occasional like, and ride a ways on tlia»t sleigh when
there seems to be plenty of snow. He's used to hitching
on behind. Besides, the railroad couldn't conscientiously
charge the poor boy when he traveled that way."

Ticket-agents do not express astonishment. This one,
however, said, " Unless the boy is as tough as a wrought
iron door-knob, you woidd be sorry anybody ever built
a railroad. And as for the sleigh — "

'* Well, the doctor's always saj'ing he's got an iron con-
stitution, anyway ; and we woul in';, look to you to find
no cord to hitch his sleigh fast, for Johnnie's pockets is
always stuffed with cord."

TllK RAILWAYMAN 8 TRIALS.

" Do you really want to make our *^rain ridiculous by
tyiiij; an old home-made haudsleigh to the rear coach ?
The very suggestion of such a thing is preposterous. And
besides, your sleigh would be wrecked or lost in a
twinkling."

This outburst seemed to i.npress the woman from
Brown County, and saying she would be likely to come
in again, she went out, followed by iU' boy who was used
to hitching on behind.

In about an hour's time they ca? . back, sun jy enough,
and accompanied by " his paw."

Vi oil," she panted, " I've found ov.t sijinething sence I
was here l)efore. But first I wnat to tell you what this
boy wants to know. We seen the cars down to the sta-
tion, and the enjine ; and he wants to know how soon he
could learn to run them. He wants to know if he couldn't
ride with the cnjine-driver, and find out how they do
run them cars. Couldn't he work his way down to
Milwaukee that way, like ? Or could he learn how to do
the hull business complete ? "

" He could not be allowed to bother the engineer,
madam."

" That's what his paw jus* now told him ; but I said I
reckoned I had a way I could work it so'st he could."

" You are mistaken ; I have no authority over any
engineer. When do you think of going down to
Milwaukee ? "

'* Don't be so sure cf that ; nor don't be in such a hurry
to sell me a ticket. I've found out that there's another
railroad that '11 take us from Green Bay to Milwaukee,
just as his paw always said ; and I guess it's our place to
be indopondent now, and yours to be pretty meek, I

t-H

THE RAILWAYMAN 8 TRIALS.

told you jus' now wa had a way to work it so'st you'd
have to favor us a little."

The ticket-agent at last showed faint traces of
anger. It was not often that he was so badgered — even
by the stupidest of stupid old women.

The old lady remorselessly continued, " The other
fellow said this boy here is as smart 's a 'coon, and
that he 'd make an enjineneer before the President gets
his cabinet broke in ; but yoit never even spoke to him ! "

" I ? By the Lord Harry, madam, you didn't give me
a chance. How do you do, my little man ? You certainly
pulled through the small-pox better than the Gov — "

" Who said anything about small-pox ? " snarled the old
lady. " Mij boy had chicken-pox. We ain't easy flattered^
neither."

" So you want to run an engine, do you, Johnnie ?
Well, when you get to ^Milwaukee I hope you may,''
sardonically. " Here's a map of our road. You can
see how straight it runs to Milwaukee. Well, that 's
the way — "

" The other fellow showed us his map, too," said the old
lady, " and it appeared to run 'most as straight as yourn,
and was a sight bigger. It was 'most nice enough for
Jinny to hang up in her room. But they do both look
powerful straight."

" That's the way with them durn maps," said " his
paw," speaking for the first time. " They all run terrible
straight ; but when you get riboard the cars you go 'most
as crooked as a boy with a game leg a-chasin' up a
Tlianksiiivin' rooster."

" Well, I want to ask you something partic'ler," said
the old lady. " S'pose this boy here gets to clamberin

THE Railwayman's trials.

lie old
ourn,
Ih for
look

" his
iirible
I 'most

up a

[' said
berin

around on the top of them cars, what am I to do about
it?"

" Is he so fond of climbing as that ? "

*' Land, yes ! He's an awful boj'^ to climb. T'other day
day he dumb up a ladder twenty-four foot high."

" And doesn't he ever fall ? "

" He fell all the way down plumb that time, and tore his
coat fearful. That's just what I want to find out.
S'p3se he climbs them cars, and falls off, and gets killed ;
ain't that there ^^-ompany liable ? I warn you that / can't
hold that boy."

" How much is the boy worth ? "

" Well, his paw and me reckoned he ought to be worth
about ten thousand dollars, considerin' how much it costs
to raise him, and how terrible sorry we'd be to lose him.''

" Well, then, madam, the company can claim twice that
amount from you if the boy kills himself in that way ;
while you can't recover a ragged dollar from them. So
I would advise you not to let him monkey about the
train, unless you share my sentiments, and would like to
see him martyred."

" Great Scott ! " ejaculated the boy's " paw. '

" You great wretch ! " screamed the boy's " maw."

Burning with righteous indignation, the party hustled
out into the street.

The next morning the ticket-vender had the satisfac-
tion of seeing r^other and son leave Green Bay for
Milwaukee — but not by his line.

" So the other road gobbled them,aioer all ;" he muttered.
" But we are well rid of them ; well rid of them."

i';

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! 1! •

THE OLD LADY POSING AS AN
EXPERIENCED TliAVELEK.

^LONG in April the old lady who had journeyed from
Green Bay to Milwaukee on a visit to her cousin,
went to a ticket agency to negotiate for a ticket Tor her-
self and her son Johnnie to (Jreen Bay. She now con-
sidered herself an experienced traveler, who knew all the
wiles of ticket-agents, and who was not going to take
advice from any person. She and Johnnie had visited
the St. Paul and the Northwestern depots frequently,
and they now knew all about " the cars."

" Well, young man," she said patronizingly to a
spectacled young ticket-clerk, who happened to be in
charge, " I'm out prospecting for a ticket to the city of
Green Bay. Let me know the best you can do for us,
and if it doesn't chime in with my expectations, we'll
just step around to some rival in your line."

The young man quoted the rates for first and second-
class tickets.

" It kinder appears to me," said the old lad}^ " that
considerJn' it's spring now you might do better 'n that.
Me and Johnnie here is always favored when we travel,
and treated well."

" So you will be on our line," said the young man.
" There are porters to assist you on and oti' all trains, and
to take all charge of your baggage."

" Well, that's lucky. But be they honest men ? Won't
they run away with any of my goods ? I've got consider-
able stuff with me."

" They wouldn't dare. This is a civilized community
anyway."

that

that.

travel,

unity

AN EXPERIENCED TRAVELER.

" Well, I've traveled before. I ain't no greenhorn ;
you can't play no humbugging tricks on me."

" What have you in the shape of baggage, madam V

" Well, if it's your place to know, I have got consider-
able. There's a big umbrella for his paw ; and there's a
leather baor with some of mine and Johnnie's clothes in
it ; and there's a box Johnnie's got, with one of them
1 things you call an organette packed into it ; and there's

a toy locomotive his cousin bought for him; and there's
a greyhound pup I reckon we'll carry in his cousin's fish-
basket; and there's my shawl, if it turns cold on the way;
and there's a pair of long-legged boots I got for Johnnie
here to Milwaukee to a bankrupt sale, to slosh around in
this sprin;^, so'st he won't get the quinsy."

" I would like to suggest to you the propriety of pack-
ing your stuff in a trunk, and not attempting to handle
it all yourself," ventured the ticket-clerk.

" Mercy on us ! Do you take me for a lunatic ? Young
man, I ain't so simple. Pack them things in a trunk,
and have it bumped around, and not know where it was,
and mebby lose it ; and have it dumped out to Green
Bay, and busted open on the platform ! His paw's often
telling about the time him and his otlier wife moved on
the railroad, and packed five hundred pounds of house-
hold goods in an old sideboard he bought at a sale, —
'most all the things they had in the world, — and the men
shoved the old thing ofi' onto the ground, to change it
onto a steamboat, and it busted open, and the contents
were landed around there like as if a freight car had
exploded ; and they hadn't no more place to stow
them in than a kitchen table, and an eight-day clock,
and a cook-stove, and a tool-chest, and a powder-keg ;

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100

AN EXPERIENCED TRAVELER.

m
m

\i~

IP;?

and his paw says the way them men swore was worse
than if a pirate had sprained his ankle. No, young man,
I ain't green ; and you can rely on it that I don't pack
my goods in trunks for them railroads to bust."

" I was only thinking, madam, what a bother all your
parcels would be to you," said the ticket-agent meekly.

" Well, young man, it ain't necessary for you to worry
about other people. Be you a married man ?"

" Eh ! Well — 3'es — I am, madam."

" Well, sir, it ain't none of my business if you go home
to-night and forgit to take your wife the starch she may
have asked you to get. It ain't none of my business if
she jaws you about it all night ; and I ain't going to
worry about it."

" It's our duty, madam, to look after the interests of
trpvelers," ventured the ticket-agent.

"It might better be your duty not to interfere where
you ain't wanted. I tell you I've traveled before, and
I'm considerable sharp. You can't take me in no more
'n you could his paw. You ought to take us cheaper
now, because it's spring ; and you hain't got no snow to
shovel off your railroad, nor no water to thaw out for
your bilers ; and the men that runs the railroad don't
need to wear their winter clothes, nor keep the cars so hot."

" I should like to inquire in what country you have
traveled, and what manner of railroads carried you."

" You needn't do it, then I" screamed the woman from
Brown County. " T have traveled. — There's my cousin,
now," she said suddenly ; " she's traveled all over
creation ; and she wouldn't think much more of going
from here to Ohio, where she come from, than she does
pf going around in them street cars."

AN EXPERIENCED TRAVELER.

101

" So your cousin has traveled a good deal, has she ?"
said the ticket-agent, wishing to conciliate tlu' irate old
woman. " Has she ever been to London ^ to Europe ?"

" What ! You don't mean the London where them
British live, do you ? I thought you meant the London
near Madison, or that there place in Canada. I should
think you'd be ashamed of 3'ourself, a young man like
you, to talk about a woman going skiting around in that
way — and away over the ocean to Europe ! And her my
cousin, too ! You needn't try to insult me about my
relations, if you please ! — I should think them railroad
fellows would be afraid to trust you here alone with all
these maps, and pictures, and picture-books."

" I meant no insult, madam," said the young man,
looking scared and bewildered. "In what places has
your cousin been, if I may a.sk V

" Of course you may ask, as long as you ask civil
questions. She's been to Chicago, and to my place, and
to Madison, and to Nvigara Falls ! and to St. Louis !
And T think she changed cars in Chicago on her way
there ! INIebby you'd know ; mebl)y not. We ain't going
to Green Bay till Thursilay, so 'st the hired girl and
Jinny 11 liave most of the week's work done ; so you
see I ain't in no hurry to get m}- ticket jdt. Good day,
young man ; you cm think it over about tliem fares."

And the old lady went out, leaving Johnnie to close
the door behind them — which he failed to do.

She had had a little further experience with ticket-
agents ; and the persecuted clerk — who had a yearning
to learn the railroad business — had had a little further
experience with ti'aveling hunmnity.

111,.,
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THE FOLDER FIEND.

^|ET me have any folders of the railroads here to-
K day?" queried a lank youth with sore eyes, as he
stepped into the tieket-oifice at Bureau, Illinois.

" Do you wish to distribute them I" asked the ticket-
agent, handing over half a pack of folders of his own
road.

" ' Distribute them ?' " echoed the youth. " Oh, no ; I'm
collecting for myself. I like railroads, and I'm Tazy
about folders."

" Then you won't want more than one, I suppose,"
said the ticket-agent, handing him a solitary folder and
sh (vinof the rest back into the stand.

" No, not more than one of each road," said the lank
youth slowly, looking wistfully at the gaudy folders of
all sizes and colors.

" Here, you talk to him, and tell him what he doesn't
know already about folders," said the ticket-agent, with
a sly wink, to a grinning ofHce-boy.

" Got many of 'em V asked the boy coming forward,
all besmeared with red ink and stamped on the left hand,
" Secure through tickets via the Great Line."

" Many ^" cried the youtli who was crazy about folders.
" I've got more of 'em than you ever saw !"

" Glad to hear it," said the office-boy, " But if you
never had one of ours before, I'm mighty sorry for you."

"I have. Besides, I live here, and that makes a
difference."

" Shouldn't wonder. D' you ever hear of the Goose-

THE FOLDKR FIEND.

103

srs.

rou
>>

bone road ? or the Squint-eyed road ? or the Sad Farewell
road ?"

" Do do You don't mean the ' Nickle Plate'

or the ' Scenic Route ?' " stammered the folder fiend.

" No, I don't. We always mean what we say here,
for if we didn't we'd be fined eighty per cent, on pro
rates."

The youth who wanted folders looked dazed. He
began to comprehend that there might be some things
about railroads that he didn't know ; some things that
the folders kept secret, as it were.

" I'm always on the look-out for new folders," he said,
*' and I wish you'd give me tliose you mention. I always
try to keep a weather eye on the i-ailroads and the
folders, and 1 11 bet you there isn't one I don't know,
if you call it by its proper name."

" Shouldn't wonder," replied the office-boy. " But if
you wouldn't try to keep your eyes on the weather so
much, perhaps they wouldn't look so red. And as for
the railroads and the folders, I'll bet you don't know
three out of thirty -seven by nickname ; and if you don't
know the nickname you oughtn't to go nosing around
for folders."

" Name one properly that I don't know !" cried the
youth who wanted more folders.

" Sho ! what's the M. C. ?"

" Michigan Central ! You see, I've got you this time."

" No, you hain't !" roared the office-boy. " There are
three M. C.'s."

" Three ? You — you must mean the Dining Car Line,
then, or the Scenic Route."

"No, I don't. But, see here — which is the Scenic

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104

THE FOLDEU FIKND.

I!;

Route or tlic Uiniiig ( W I>inc, anyway ? Which is it,
or where does it run, when there are nineteen of one and
eighty of the other ?"

" Ninet(3en ! Eighty ! Why, isn't the Denver and
Roe'-o Grand-ay the scenic line of America ?"

" Is it ? ] thouglit it was that, and the lu-ie, and the

B. & 0., and one of the; P. roads, and tlie Hollow Bell,
and tlie Needle's Eye, and the Mournful Note, and the
Shock-haired Crank, and the Seventh Son, and the
Lonely Run, and the Goblin Eye, and the C. P."

" Central Paciiic !" caught up the lank youth hopefully.

" Who said anything about the Central Pacific ?"

sneered the ofhce-boy. " Don't you know there are seven

C. P.'s, and three more building f

" Yon don t say so !" cried the folder fiend.

" I don't, eh ^ I thought I spoke it right out."

" Give me some folders of them, then," with an eager
look in his watery eyes.

" You wouldn't know them if you got them. Why
don't you learn railroading, as I have done, and then you
wouldn't have to go about asking questions and making
a fool of yourself."

" There must be an awful lot to learn," sighed the
sore-eyed youth, looking dejected and humble.

" Creation, yes ! But you appear to know something
already."

" Well, I hope I do — and I really think I do. Try me,
now ; give me a hard question." ♦

" I'll give you an easy one — a beginner's. What's the
route from New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, to Chihuahua
via Long Island Railway 1 Also distance, connections,
and fare. Not in money, but in the way of grub."

THE FOLDER FIEND.

105

"The— ^he — T — That's not an oasy question! I
know better !"

" So do I know better ; it's tlie easi(^st one in tlie book.
Come, now ; you wouldn't give it up, would you J"

"Tlie/>(W.-/ Wlirtt book?"

" Worse and worse ! ' What l)o<)k !' — Wliv, I mean the
Raih'oad Catechism for Freshmen, put out by the
Hanging Beam Railway Co."

" Will 3'ou let me have a copy, please ?"

" Let you have one ? I'd be liot-pickled by the
company if I gave one away ! Why, they pay sixty
cents apiece for them, and they're secretly distributed by
incognito book-aiients."

" I never knew you have so nuich I'uss and nonsense
about railroading," sighed tlie lank youth, looking wearily
about him. '• But say, tell me what you mean by ' hot-
pickled.' Do you mean bounced " ?

" Bounced ? I guess not. I mean ear- whiffled, that's
all. But that's bad enough, you know."

" No, I don't ! You're a humbug, you ai'e. There are
no such cranky railroads as you talk about."

" There ain't, eh ? I wish you'd prove that ! "

"Well, tell me now, do tell me, the inside name for
your own road."

" The Rock Island, or the Rock Island Route."

" Is that all ! "

" That all ! Ain't it enough r "

'■ Hasn't it any nickname, outside of your own selves ?"

" Not worth a cent."

"Honest Injun?"

" Certain sure."

•At

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106

THE FOLDER FIEND.

IIP

? ;

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i ii.

l;i

" Well, I'm glad to know that, anyhow. I suppose I've
got that solid. Say, what's ear-whiffled ? "

"Shut up in a box car with the rats, where they're
bunting and banging into you all day long. 'Sh ! don't
tell ! "

" I won't. But docs it scare you any ? "

"Awful. Give you nightmare and makes your nose
bleed."

" 1 don't believe you ! "

" Then I wish you'd go away and not bother me. I've
got to mail some matter to Denver."

" Have they many folders in Denver ? "

" I expect they have."

" Denver, Colo. ? "

" That's the Denver I mean."

" Many railroads ? "

" U. P. ; Ijurlington ; Denver and Rio Grande ; Texas
and Gulf ; Santa F^ ; and sonu^ local Colorado roads."

" If 3'oa had tried to fool me there you'd liave been
sold, for I know Denver by heart. Got an uncle there,
and I'm going too, some day."

" Glad to hear it. I hope we ain't detaining you. — But
say, who talks of fooling anybody ? You're too fresh, or
you'd know better."

" Tell me the nickname of the I. C. road," pleaded the
folder fiend.

" Which I. C. ? Don't you know there are three ? "

" What three ? " defiantlv asked the folder fiend.

" The Illinois Central, the Intercolonial of Canada, and
the old Isinglass Co.'s road in North Carolina."

" Is there such a road ? Give me a folder of it then,"

" We're out. Go so fast we can't keep them."

iii

THK FOr.DER FIRNO.

107

" Well, tell me what yoti call the Illinois Central."

" The Dixie Hammer, or the Laughing Stepchild."

" Boy," here interposed the ticket-agent, " if you string
off an}' more heroic legends I shall not be able to believe
you my.self. — Here, ytung man," to the folder fiend,
''take this packet of feeders I've carefully made up for
you. The instant a company shall build an all-rail line
to the Sandwich Islands we will remember you and send
you a folder. Meanwhile, perhaps you'd better not call
around again till next leap-year, for you have picked up
information enough to last you till then."

" If we find we cant get along without you, we will
certainly send for you," cheerfully said the office-boy.

The folder fiend snatched up the packet of folders and
walked away, happy, yet feeling giievously discouraged.
When he opened the packet he felt still more discouraged ;
for it contained time-tables only, with never a map.

" This is mean ! " he exclaimed. " This is a mean
joke ! — Upon my word, it's All-Fools'-day ! "

But genius is not easily dismayed. That night he
wrote a peculiarly affectionate letter to his uncle in
Denver, askini^' (apparently incidentally) if his uncle, the
next time he went down to the Union Pacfic, Burlington,
or Rio Grande ticket-offices, would kindly pi'ocure f<»r him
the following-named folders : The Goose-bone, the Dixie
Hammer, the Needle's Eye, the Mournful Note, two or
three of the different C. P.'s, the several Scenic Routes,
the Intercolonial of Canada, the Hanging Beam, and
the Mexican Central. Any others that might chance
in his (the uncle's) way would prove equally acceptable.
" You sec, uncle," he wrote, " I'm determined to learn
railroading, for I want to become a practical railroader.

1 : 1

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'I'M';)

108

THK FOLDKR FIEND.

1 have i'ouiid out that tlie groat roads have even a
literature of their own. Ikit I have no intention of
losing lieart, ev(Mi though I sliouM be «;ar-\vhifHr<l \vh«;n
I do get on a road."

In live days he heard I'roui his unch;, to this e fleet :

" Mij dear Henri/: — Somebody has evidently been
making a fool of you. I do not accuse you, you will
perceiv(!, of wishing to play an April-fool joke on me-
As for railway lOMps (and this seems to be the raison
cVfire of your htter), gut the nnnies of roads from the
daily stock repcrts, or, better still, from tin; OfHeial Guide.
Go down to the (jllice in your own town, where they are
very courteous, and politely ask for what you want.
They have an unlimittM.l supply of folders; but you must
be polite. Of coui-se if you dn^pped in to buy a through
ticket to Yokohama, you might be as boorish as a lioston
tramp on his travels, and they v'(ndd forgive you. Go
ahead and learn railroading, by all means, but don't suffer
yourself to be guyod by anybody; and some day I will
strike you for a pass to South America.

" Your affectionate uncle,

' William Shipyard."

The folder llend now felt utterly discouraged. And
there was one thing that liothcred him sorely: what on
earth was the Ollicial Guide ?

How could he again ask for folders at the ticket-office ?
"I guess," he muttered sadly, " I guess I'd better give up
railroading and study law. It will be just a little easier,
and it can t be such a humbuiiiiing thing."

F.-^

if ■•'''

',1

A SEVERE TEST.

tcSMpELL, oM pard, how are you, and liow are you

^K^!^ getting along now-a-days?" demanded a rough
old harbarian, returned to his native district after an
absence of many years, of a good-natured granger, who
Wt /ing to lead a })etter life. "Manage to live any
bett^^r'n you used to 'i Manage to live without pinching
and starvim; yourj^elf ?"

" Eh ? Well, I guess I hain't starved to death yet, nor
sponged my board otf'n the neighbors. But, I say,
you're looking first-rate. How — "

"Just so. But I hear your family is very much
reduced in size, compared with what it used to be fifteen
years ago. How well I remember, now, that when my
missus give one of your boys and any of the neighbors'
boys a hunk of bread and molasses, your boy'd gobble
his'n down so almighty suddent that it would till a tramp
'most with pity for him ; but t'other boy'd nibble a
mouthful oft' and (m, and tell us the news about the folks
to home and his sisters' beaux, and feeze oft' and on, and
bimeby, if you didn't watch him pretty sharp, he'd up
and give more'n half his piece to our old dog."

" Oh, that's how you kep' your dog, I suppose? That's
why he always had the mange, and poor health, and a
sickly constitution, ain't it, 'cause he got too much of
your own bread and molasses ? "

"I dunno about that; your boys always seemed to bear
up under the diet my missus doled out to 'em — and

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III

110

A SEVERE TEST.

thrived on it, too. But, I say, what's the cause of ycur
family's being weeded out so ? Hain't starved any of
'em sence our folks left these diggings, I reckon ?"

" Great Ccesar's ghost ! — Well, my girls are mostly
married off, — and you bet they're well married, too,
— and my boys are mostly settled down in Colorado and
Dakota."

" I'm mortal glad to hear you say so, Hiram. Yes, I
don't doubt it ; wouldn't doubt it for a minute. The
boys stood it just as long as they could, and then they
cleared out. But it's a mortal shame for them new
countries to be settled by underfed men. Likely as not
they didn't grow their growth out, now, eh? I .shouldn't
wonder."

" See here 1 Do you take me for a meek man ? Do
you take me for a Quaker, now ? Do you take me for a
weak, helpless, worn-out old pop-corn man ? Do you
calculate on my muscles' being paralyzed, or on your
tender spots' being bomb proof ? I see you ain't drunk,
and you needn't expect I hain't no feelings to outrage.
Do you expect I am going to let this sort of thing con
tinue ? See here ! I hain't joined no peace-at-any-price
society; I hain't leagued myself with no anti-Nihilist
gang. See here! If you don't look out, I shall l)e sent
to jail for six months, for assault and battery ; — and you
won't be a mighty sight better off ! "

" Come, now ; don't get riled, Hiram. — But, really, now,
don't you sometimes think that prison fare would have
been a good change for your boys when — "

" I warned you ! "

" Golly, Hiram ! 'Pon my word, you can light out as
reckless a blow with that fist of your'n as an old Revolu-

mmrtv^l

A SEVERE TEST.

Ill

tionary musket I You can rely on it this bruise '11 smell
of Txiomas's oil to-night. A littl ; more practice, Hiram,
and 3^oird 'a' bunged my eye into my brain. I didn't
mean to wound y(jur family feelings right up to a pom-
melling point ; but I heard you'd swore off on all cuss
words, and I told the boys I wouldn't believe it till I
tested you. So I struck out on this here starvation racket,
because I knowed it was a good one. I didn't make you
swear worth a cent, though you came powerful nigh it
once or twice ; but I'd be some better off if things had
turned out as I expected. All the same, I beg your par-
don. Hiram, for you luas provoked. I'll forgive you, too,
for this here bruise ; for 1 deserved it, and you always
tried to be a pretty good neighbor. Let s call it square."
" Durned if I don't ! "

x-)^^!^^*-

It '

"!•

'd i

THE LONG-SUFFERING TRAMP.

i i ^^^T any emploj'ment here for an able-bodied man

I^JI that wants something to do ?" inquired a janty-
looking tramp as he stepped into the printing-office of a
local weekly newspaper that terrorized over a quiet
rioosier town.

" Want to make your fortune, I suppose ? " said a
blonde young man, who had begun parting his luxuriant
hair in the middle the next day after his mother left off
combing it for him.

" Yes," put in another cream-colored youth, who sport-
ed a black cord watch-chain, sagged down in the middle
by a shining brass watch-key. (This young man had
found employment in the newspaper office temporarily,
and now had " something to do " for the first time in his
life.) " Yes, indeed ; he looks as if he needed to make a
fortune pretty badly."

" A fortune — or even a hunk of a one ! " supplemented
the office-boy, coming out of his corner. " Say, mister,
what kind of employment have you mostly been used to
lately?"

" Oh, any soft snap like you fellows have, that pays a
man's board for setting around and keeping his hair
combed, and throws odd jobs in his way," said the tramp
cheerfully. Then fiendishly : *' I guess I know better'n
to think there's any fortune to be made here."

" I don't suppose the man ever had more than two bits
in his life," said the blonde with the luxuriant crop of

lis
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air
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r'n

its
of

THE LONG-SUFFERING TRAMP.

113

hair, ruminating on his own princely revenues, which
could afford him a treat of cigarettes and peanuts every
other day.

" Hadn't, eh ?" snorted the tramp. "I once owned a hull
town in Arizona."

" But now ? To-day ? " insisted the Ijlonde with the
watch-key.

" Well, stranger, I ain't busted plumb to h — 1 to-day."

" No," said the carefully combed blonde, " I suppose
you've got a brass watch, and an old satchel hidden away
behind the freight-shed, and some cold goose somewhere
in your frouzy overcoat, and a horn of apple-jack in your
pistol-pocket."

" And 'most a dozen cigar-stumps tucked away in yer
greasy vest," chimed in the office-boy.

" You be hanged ! " snarled the the tramp. " How
many times a week does your parents have to clean the
cigar-stumps out of your pockets ? Or," sardonically,
" do you manage to find time to smoke 'em all ? "

" What's the matter ? " roared the " editor and proprie-
tor," opening the door leading into his " sanctum," and
craning his bald head into view.

" Oh, I'm poking fun at these chicken-pocked noodles
here," explained the tramp.

" What you want ? " shouted the " editor and proprie-
tor," jumping to his feet, while all the ink which, in the
course of years, had been absorbed by his fingers, oozed
out again into his face, making it black.

"Well, 1 xuas thinking I'd like a little employment ; but
1 ain't very particular about it to-day, I guess, anyway."

*' I'll give you a little employment, though, all the

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THE LONG-SUFFERING TRAMP.

Wr f

same. You just step down and out into the street, and
turn towards the setting sun, and keep straight on till
you begin to perspire freely."

" Well, old chump, 1 guess I'll accept your kind offer,"
said the tramp. "Good day, gamins; I'm sure you'll give
me a good 'send off" in your snide paper."

" Good day," sang out the office-boy. " I guess 'keeping
straight on' is the kind of employment you've mostly
been used to lately."

Then the "editor and proprietor" locked himself up in
his sanctum and wrote a double-leaded editorial on
Rampant Vagabondism, proving conclusively that the
Administration will lose the next Election if it cannot
protect honest, hard-working citizens from the insults of
the unshorn, ravening, audacious tramp.

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REJECTED.

This wretched day could not be brief,
But it has run its course at last,
The stortn-clouds ghostly shadows cast,

And I am left alone with grief.

The cruel truth to-day I learn,

That she cares nothing for my pain,
A life's devotion was in vain,

The old, loved days may not return.

My bird pits drowsy on his stand ;

The tire upon the hearth burns low ;

The little clock ticku faint and slow ;
My old dog, trembling, licks my hand.

I shiv'ring sit, with head bowed low ;

The night wind moans adown the lane ;

Sad 'gainst my casement beats the rain,
Aa if in def'rence to my woe.

Then restlessly I move about.

Reflecting o'er and o'er again
How I have loved so long in vain ;

While still the dull rain falls without.

The still small voice reproves : "Weak man.
Have faith in God ; lose not your soul ;
Whaf though you did not reach your goal.

Perhaps 'twas not in vain you ran."

But still the rain falls sad and drear,

Still m lans the wind as though in pain ;
Roth bear to me the same refrain,

'• She loves you not, and naught can cheer."

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116 ftEJECTED.

Oft times her voice I'll seem to hear,
Sometimes in sleep her face I'll see,
Her sweet, fair face, so dear to me —

But only in my sleep, I fear.

Although I ne'er can break the spell,
I can forgive her cold disdain ; —
'Tis nothing that I loved in vain ; —

But it is hard to say farewell.

Whate'er betide in this world's strife,
Of this my heart doth full assure,
The love I bear her will endure

As long as God shall give me life.

" I ' til

ill

THE HARDSHIPS OF A BRAVE
MAN'S LIFE.

AN OLD-FASHIONED BIT OF HISTORY.

^^BOUT the year 1787 Josejih Tiickey, a you g
^f^^ luechanic livino- in Cornwall, England, set sail for
Canada, with the intention of taking up land along the
St. Lawrence River. He left behind him kind parents,
a devoted bnjther, Henry, and a happy home ; but being
naturally of a roving and adventurous disposition he pre-
pared to embark with a light heart and with no fears for
the future. Before leaving home his friends from far
and near came to bid him a tearful farewell and wish him
every success in his hazardous undei'taking. Emigration
in those early days was quite different from what it is
to-day ; it was then only daring and resolute spirits that
had the hardihood to seek their fortune in the wilds of
the New World.

Joseph was to write home immediately on his nrrival
in America. But no letter ever reached the old home ;
weeks leniithenino- into months brought no tidini^s what-
ever from Joseph. At that period, the close of the last
century, strange ideas were entertained in England
respecting the newly-established government of the
United States. There was still, of course, no little
li()>tility felt towards the enterprising Amercians, who
had dared to dispute the supremacy of King George,
assert their independence, and maintain it, too. Not a
few of Joseph's prejudiced friends in Cornwall boldly

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THE HARDSHIPS OP A BRAVE MAN's LIFE.

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declared that the young man had been enslaved, im^
prisoned, or even murdured by the triumphant Americans
for presuming to settle in Canada. Joseph's mother
mourned long and sorely for him, and after eighteen
months of weary waiting, sickened and died; while Henry
Trickey senior, the father of the family, made strenuous
but unavailing efforts to trace him, or to find out what
his fate had been.

After the lapse of two years the younger Henry deter-
mined to go in search of his lost brother. He embarked
in a merchantman from Plymouth for Quebec direct,
" working his passage," as his brother had done before
him.

In those early days every well-equipped merchant-
man ( arried at least one heavy cannon, and the good ship
Transport manned a couple of redoubtable forty-pounders.
Henry was a resolute young fellow, of dauntless courage ;
but the griui-looking cannons made him feel the more at
ease. It chanced that these guns were needed. One
morning, in mid ocean, as the sun rose a strange ship was
descried, bearing down upon them under full sail — a
piratical-looking craft, beyond all question. She had
stolen upon them during the night, and could probably
easily overhaul the heavily-laden Transport. The captain,
however, determined to crowd on all sail, and do his
utmost to keep clear of the stranger till niglit, when,
under cover of darkness, he might hope to escape by
changing his course. Captain Lucas, like all British sea-
men, was brave, even to recklessness ; but his policy, as
commander of a merchantman, was always to avoid a
conflict with sea-rovers.

On sweeping the horizon with his glass, the captain

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THE HARDSHIPS OP A BRAVE MANS LIFE.

119

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made out a brig to the southward, far in advance of him.
He fancied he was making better headway than this ship,
and if he couhl i)ress on and receive assistance horn her,
the pirate (if such his pursuer should prove to be) would
perlmps give up the chase. The sailors projnptly manned
the yards, and soon every available sail was set to the
breeze, which was fair and steady. Next the captain had
all the ship's small arms carefully inspected and cleaned,
special attention also being paid to the big guns. The
port-holes of these guns were then covered with canvas ;
the oltject being to deceive the pirate, and lure him on, so
that in case a junctuie could be effected with the brig to
the southward, he might find that he had caught a Tartar.
The Transport, of course, was conspicuous both to the
ship in advance and in the rear, although these had mani-
festly been unable as yet to glimpse each other. The
piratical-looking stranger was perceived to be steadily
gaining on them, and to waids noon Captain Lucas, seeing
that escape was impossible, calmly made every prepara-
tion for a struggle. But he did not slacken sail, wishing
to put off the rencounter as long as might be.

The ship to the southward was now made out to be an
American merchantman. Captain Lucas apprised her by
sionals of his dauL^er, and she at once hove to. A further
interchange of sis^nals showed him that he could not look
for any but moral support from his new-found friend, as
she carried no guns ; but she made preparations to intimi-
date the pursuer.

Meantime, the pirate, for such she undoubtedly was,
gained rapidly on the Trans'poTt. At two o'clock any
lingering doubt as to her real character was dispelled by
the running up of a black flag. The pirate ship evidently

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120

TilE HAUDSIllPS OP A BRAVE MAN's LIKE.

perceivo'l that thoro was no time to be lost in attacking
and disabling licr jn-cy. P>y takin<; the sliips singly, two
prizes would prol)ably Ix' secuivd instead of one. No
doubt tlie piratical couiinniider thoui^nt liiuiself in great
luck.

The Trail f^'jwrt , under full sail, bore down towards her
new-found friend, whilst tlie pirate steadily pursued,
gaining on her uninterruptedly. Shoitly after four
o'clock a puff of smoke was seen to curl I'rom the deck of
the pirate ship, and a shot came crashing through the
rigL,dng of the Trant<2)())'t, carrying away lur top-gallant
sail and colors.

This angered Captain Lucas beyond all endurance, and
he resolved on a spirited resistance, although the American
vessel was still too distant to support him in any way.
The canvas was removed from the port-hoLs, and the
first mate, who was an expert gunner, he having served
in the navy, levelled one of the 'Iran^^j^ort's guns squarely
against the enemy. The aim was well taken, for the ball
cut down the pirate's mizzen-mast. This feat called forth
the liveliest applause from all on deck, and the American
brig saluted them in triumph. To Henry Trickey, coming
from an inland Cornish town, such scenes were inspiriting,
and he was almost beside himself with delight.

So unexpected and vigorous a reply from the Trans-
port seemed to impress the pirates strongly, and before
they could recover from their consternation the mate of
the Tram^ffort followed up Ins advantage by firing a
second shot. This was a masterly eflibrt. The ball
struck the pirate hull fairly on the water-line, directly
under the foremast, and staved in her bow. No ordinary
ship in those days could withstand such an accident ; and

THE HARDSHIPS OF A HKA\ K MAN's LlFi:.

121

it was apparent at uiice that the |)irate must <jo to th«
bottom. There was evidently a panic on board, but no
demonstration came from the piiaticai crew. The black
llai,^ still waved — and, yes I anothei* pufK of smoke ! The
grim old pirate chief, who had piobaiily never ^iven
((uarter, (ixpected none, and would stiikc a last blow
iM'Foiehis slup went down. But the aim was hurried
ami faulty, and the ball flew harudess over the bows[>rit
of the Trnnspoi'l.

Captain Lucas at once ordered two yawl-boats to be
launched and put otfto tlie rescue. This was an act of
eoimuon humanity on Ids part ; but the pirates, thinkiuL^
lit- wislieil only to take them jirisoners, chose rather to
j)ut to sea in open boats, and cried sullenly to the rescuing
|»;irty to begone. Two persons only remained behind on
till' siidcing sliip, who cast themselves adrift in a frail
craft just before she went down, and were taken up by
tlie Tra airport' 8 boats.

The 'Transport waited to take on boai'd her own crew
and boats, when she at once made sail in pursuit of the
escaping pirates, joined in the chase by the American
merchantman, which had hitherto been a passive spectator
of affairs. The two pirate shallops spread each their
sails, and pulled away in different, but converging, direc-
tions, tliinking to escape capture. 'J'he pirates knew^ that
capture now by either of the merchantmen meant trial
and execution as soon as the nearest port was touched at.

The captain kindly inquired after the rescued men,
and it transpired that they were not of the pirate crew,
but were prisoners among them. While refusing to take
part in any of the outrages perpetrated by the pirates
or to submit to their domination, these two younij men

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THE IIAHD8UIP8 OF A BRAVE MANS LIFK.

yet consented, on condition of their life being spared, to
perform the ordinary duties of seamen, and both were
frequently called upon to practise their trade, the one as
a carpenter and the other as a worker in iron, for the
benefit of the Freebooter — which, they said, was the
name of the scuttled ship. They were always confined
in the hold when the pirates were in active pursuit of
prey, and their life was at best a wretched one, but they
were sustained by the hope of eventually making their
escape. When the Freebooter received that terrible shot
from the Transport and the pirates saw that she was
doomed, one of their number came to the hold and set
the two captives free, with a caution to keep well out of
the way till they could make sure of escape and rescue.
Of the two rescued men, one was from Cornwall, and
his name was Trickey — Joseph Trick ey. He had recog-
nized Henry at once; but it was with the utmost diffi-
culty that Henry could recognize in this careworn and
prematurely aged man his lost brother, whom he was
crossing the ocean expressly to find. The ship's entire
company shared in the joy of the two brothers in their
strange, romantic re-union Joseph's story was a marvel-
ous one, but it can be given only in this brief outline :
The ship in which he Siiiied for Canada had been attacked
and scuttled by these same pirates, and he had been
virtually a prisoner in their hands ever since, except for
two days, he having once escaped only to be re-captured.
His fellow-sufferer, Frank Miller, was an American who
had fought gallantly throughout the Revolutionary war,
and had been captured by the pirates at a later period.
Joseph and he naturally became firm friends, and formed
many plans to escape from their slavery on board the

THE HAIID8I1IP8 OF A BKAVK MAN'h LIKE.

123

pirate, but were always too prudent to jeopardize their
lives till the opi" rtune moinent sliould come again.

Captain Lucas hotly kept u[) the pursuit of the pirate
crew in their open boats, ably seconded by the American
brig. But for the })rovidential destruction of the Fr<'e-
hootnr, it would have fared hardly with this American
vessel, as she would sunly not have escaped, even
tliough the Transporf should have.

The two pursuing ships came within easy hailing dis-
tance towards evening, when the American brig proved
to be the ComTnonweidth, of Philadelphia, homeward
liDund, under command of Captain Henderson. Not
long thereafter both the escaping shallops were overhauled
— one by the Tranf^port, the other by the ComiTiiomucallh.
The former ship was especi dly fortunate in capturing
the piratical chief himself. 'I'he pirates, to the very last,
doggedly refused to surrender, but, ovei'awed by the
Transport's guns — for which they had the greatest
respect — were constrained to do so. They had to be
ironed at the point of the sword, and were then incar-
cerated, twenty-live in the hold of the Transport, and
twenty in that of the Common luealth. It has not often
happened in marine chronicle that a merchantman has
so easily been able to overpower a corsair, and take all
her crew prisoners.

The two vessels now lay to alongside each other, and
the two jubilant captains resolved to spend the night
together on board the British merchantman. The ships'
crews also mingled freely together, and the greatest
<;o()dfellowship prevailed. Their triumphant shouts and
songs rose high above the execrations of the wretched
pirates.

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THE HARDSHIPS OF A BRAVE MANS LIB'E.

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It has been said that Joseph Trickey's companion in
serfdom was an American. Joseph and he had mutually
agreed, if they sliould recover their freedom, to take up
land on the Hudson River, and settle down as farmers,
Joseph, on leaving liome, could not have been persuaded
to settle in United States territory; but his friend had
convinced hiiii that his prejudices against the Americans
were not only wi oiig, but absurd. In fact, he had be-
come a thorough American in sentiment, and he purposed
taking out naturalization papers if Providence should
permit him to set foot in tliat land of promise.

Henry Ti'ickey's mission might now be said to be
accomplished. But he was easily persuaded by his brother
to 2'o with him and establish himself on New York's
famotis river. The entire crew of the Commonivealth
took a generous interest in the young man, on account of
his brother's and their countryman's singidar history, so
that he could iiot but have the most kindly feelings
towards Americans.

It was this spirit of good-will on the part of his new
friends that induced Henry to cast in his lot with Joseph.
Accordingly, when the two ships parted company in the
morning, the Transport to continue her course to Quebec^
anc he Gommomvealth to Philadelphia, Henry had his
simple trunk transferred to the latter, and sailed away
in her M'ith his brother and Frank Miller.

Piracy being a capital crime, it need scarcely be said
that the pirates, when delivered up to justice, met their
deserts.

Joseph and Henry Trickey and Frank Miller took ship
from Philadelphia to New York, and thence up the
Hudson Pviver. They did not halt till in the neighbor-

THE HARDSHIPS OF A BRAVE MAN S LIFF.

125

hood of the old Dutch town of Schenectady, whither
Miller's relatives had betaken themselves during his
absence. Here in the course of time first Henry and then
Joseph married each a sister of Frank Milhr, and settled
down tranquilly to farmini^ in the beautiful Mohawk
valley. Joseph built his own and his brother's house^
with the bams, outl)uildings, and fences. As the years
passed, the brothers prospered in their vocations, and
sent for their father to come over and live with them.
Henry Trickey senior came at their urgent reguest, but
did not live long thereafter, dying about the beginning
of the present c* ntury.

Strangely enough, Henry Trickey the younger re-
moved to Whitehall, near the foot of Lake Champlain,
about this time, two of his sons afterwards passing over
into Canada, where they established a home near King-
ston. In this new country the young men sutfered much
hardship, and went through many strange and trying
experiences ; but with these removals Henry Trickey
and his family pass out of our knowledge, since it is with
Joseph's fortune that this history has now principally to
deal.

The years came and went, till in the eventful one of
LSI 2, war with Great Britain broke ont. At that period
Joseph Trickey was a middle aged man, owning and
cultivating a magniticent property, well stocked and
equipped, but having little or ro capital besides. He
was not naturally a money-making man, and the large
family growing up under his roof was always provided
for liberally. The war had scarcely been proclaimed
when his eldest son, John, a young man of twenty,
enlisted under General Van Rensselaer, and afterwards

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THE HARDSHIPS OP A BRAVE MAN's LIFE.

(if '

took part in several engagements. On the 22nd February,
1813, he was with that unfortunate company at Oi^dens-
burg that were compelled to " retire " before a British
force — among which he distinctly recognized his two
cousins.

The spring of 1813 finds our old hero Joseph Trickey
entering into a contract to supply the United States
Government with fifty tons of hay, to be delivered at
Plattsburg in July. This was a considerable quantity
for him to undertake to supply, yet he felt no uneasiness
about V)eiitg able to fulfil his contract, though the Govern-
ment had of necessity to be exact and even severe in
having their contracts carried out to the letter.

Misfortune, however, seemed to follow poor Trickey all
that spring. He lost two horses in the Mohawk ; three
or four men that he had employed forsook him to engage
in General Dearborn's attack on Fort George, and it was
dilficult to fill their place ; and, last of all, a June freshet
spread over his meadows, soaking and spoiling a large
quantity of his hay. With his limited means he made
good this loss by buying of his neighbors ; but hay was
scarce and dear, and all his profits were swallowed up by
this outlay.

At last he was prepared to deliver the stipulated
quantity of hay to the commissariat at Plattsburg. As
it was all but impossible to procure teams to haul the
hay, he conceived the idea of floating it up on a raft.
With the assistance only of his younger sons he con-
structed a large and buoyant raft, and transferred to it
twelve tons of hay, which was as much as he thought
advisable to carry on a trial trip. Taking with them a
small supply of provisions and an old fiint musket, he

was
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large

Lilated
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, raft.

lought
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THE HARDSHIPS OF A BRAVE MANS LIPK

127

and one of his sons pushed off the same day. To the boy
it promised to be a glorious pleasure- trip, and even the
man experienced a keen sense of enjoyment as they
floated slowly away from their moorings. But again
disaster only awaited him. The raft proved unwieldy,
and a severe thunder-storm coming up, he ran foul of a
sand-bar, and his entire load of hay was washed otf into
the river ; whilst the bulk of what had been left at
home was seiiously damaged.

Trick ey felt this loss keenly. He would not only be
unai)le to fulfill his contract, but was losing time that
should be devoted to his farm. But he gave way to no
vain repinings. Again his brave and patient spirit
asserted itself; he resolved to return home at once and
make one more stenuous effort to redeem his pledge.

On reaching home he scoured the country far and near
to make up the fifty tons of ha3^ He wrote to the
commis'^ariat at Plattsburg that he could not deliver the
hay on the appointed date, but that he would certainly
do so by the middle of the month, making no mention
whatever of his many losses. This was his old English
pride, that caused him to look on misfortune as a disgrace.

Trickey had made a rash promise, and one which he
was unable to fulfill. Undue exertion and excitement
brought on a fit of sickness, and when he got about again,
on the 20th of July, all the marketable hay he could
muster was thirty tons.

Two days later he was placed under arrest, by order
from Plattsburg, for breach of contract. The hay was
seized and taken away, while he, after an informal trial,
was lodged in the Schenectady County jail.

This was a severe measure; but as viewed by the

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THE HARDSHIPS OF A BRAVE MAN S LIFE.

military authorities, who did not inquire into the circum-
stances, it was justifiable. It was known that Trickey
was a native Englishman, and unkind doubts were
entertained of his loyalty to the United States Govern-
ment, now that they were at war with Great Britain.
The irascible officials did not know that he had had to
contend with grievous and unlooked-for difficulties, nor
consider that his son was bravely fighting the country's
battles.

The jail in which the unfortunate man was temporarily
confined was a primitive structure, rudely built of unhewn
logs, and dating back to the seventeenth century. Tiickey
saw at once that he could easily make his escape from it,
and he resolved to do so, trusting to Executive clemency
for a full iind free pardon. He bore his persecutors no
malice, knowing that his case was misunderstood; but he
wished to uet back to liis farmino- interests, and not remain
a prisoner till his incarcerators should see fit to liberate
him. Peiliaps this was not logical reasoning, nor yet
good policy ; Trickey was rather a man of action than of
reflection. It is certain that he accounted it no crime to
effect his escape, in this instance, from jail. Brought up
a carpenter, he had practiced his trade in his own interests
ever since settling down to farm life, and he was seldom
without a few simple tools about his person. Tlie tools
required for his purpose were an auger and a strong knife,
and these and some others he now hap; ened to have in
his pockets. He had not been subjected to the indignity
of being searched.

There was a barred window, none too secure, but it was
above his reach, and he contemplated no attack on it.
The walls were but wooden walls, — of logs a foot thick

was

|>n it.
thick.

THE HARDSHIPS OF A BRAVE MANS LIFE.

1-29

certainly, — and beyond them was liberty. His jailer
visited him but three times a day, to bring a scanty
meal, and the time of his rounds was carefully noted.
On sounding the wall of bare logs, Trickey found a spot
that would suit his purpose admirably. His first move
was to wrench a spike out of the floor, and thrust it into
the wall just above the spot thus chosen. On this spike
he wished to hang his coat. When the jailer came in the
next time, Trickey took his coat off this spike and sat
down on it to partake of his frugal meal. At the time of
the next visit the coat was hanging on the spike, and
tliis time was not removed. At the third round Trickey
luid his coat on, the air being rather chilly. The spike
ami tlie coat looked innocent enough, and the jailer paid
no attention to them. But every time thereafter that he
made his rounds the coat hung on its spike, and was
never again taken off.

The captive had a stout inch auger with him, as before
mentioned, but no handle for it. But with his clasp-knife
he ingeniously fashioned a handle from a splinter cut out
of the wall in the spot indicated as covered by his coat.
He then proceeded laboriously to bore holes in this spot,
with the object of removing a square block of w^ood, large
enough for him to crawl through. This was a very slow
anil wearisome piece of work, but Trickey persevered in
it manfully. How to dispose of the borings was a difficult
{)roblem, and at fir.st he stowed them away in his pockets.
Careful search, however, disclosed a cavity in the floor,
where not onlv the borinojs but other fraijments from the
hole being made in the wall could safely be secrete I.

After three days' hard labor with MUger and knife the
task was completed. Trickey had carefully measured
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THE HARDSHIPS OF A BRAVE MAN S LIFB.

his size at the shoulders, and a square of wood could now
be taken out of the wall, leaving an opening large enough
to admit the passage of his body. Hanging his coat on
its spike again, and carefully spreading it out as usual so
as entirely to cover the auger holes, he waited, M'ith the
same calm patience that he had exercise*! all his life, for
the night to come. Then he removed the block of wood,
squeezed through the opening, and ([uietly made his way
home. Once safe at home, he did not fear re-arrest,
thou^! i\y ehensive of harsh treatment if detected in
jail-break mg.

Ht wa'^ rig)'^ in his conviction that no further attempt
would be made to molest him. Several intiuential men
in his district took up his case at once, and sent a
memorial of the affair to General Dearborn and to
President Madison. The result was that Trickey was
pardoned for his successful attempt at jail-breaking, and
released from his contract. Further, he received a check
paying him in full for the fifty tons of hay.

Joseph Trickey prospered greatly after the war, and
when he died, in 1835, he was universally regarded as a
hero and a patriot. The patience and fortitude he had
shown under suffering, oppression, and disaster were
virtues which he was often called upon to exercise, and
which distinguished him all his life. His descendants
to-day are respected and prosperous men, settled in
almost every State in the Union. His son John proved
himself a hero in the War of 1812-15, and served again
in the Mexican War.

Such is the true history of a sturdy pioneer who
quietly lived an eventful life of hardship in the long ago.

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HOW THE HATCHET CAME TO
BE BUEIED *

AN ALLEGORY.

TO THE MEMORY

OF THE LATE LAMENTED CAPTAIN KID,

WHO NEVER DID ME ANY HARM,

AND FOR WHOM I CHEERFULLY SPEAK A GOOD WORD.

ii fl^e^hL thin<jrs come to him who waits," including

^ii^Mj the opportunity for vindication.

Thus it fell out with a young man, who apparently
was as powerless to avenge himself of cruel injustice
done him as the mouse caiight in a trap is powerless to
retaliate on its human captors.

But what is impossible to that man who is resolved to
Mcconiplish his purpose 1 In fact, in this case the ways
and means came about so easily and naturally that it
seemed a manifest destinjr he should make use of them.
In a word, he would write up the history of his wrongs,
and give it to the world in the form of an amusing novel.
To the comparatively limited number of people who were
indifierently well acquainted with the facts, it would be
a revelation ; to the great outside world it would simply
he another of those readable books that are at once
vaguely characterized as having been written " with a
purpose." As for the interested persons themselves, it
would probably always remain a seded book to them

^Thrown tngetlier hastily, to take the place of » better «tory, which I
have remorselessly ruled out.— B. w, M.

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HOW THE HATCHEr CAME TO BE BURIED.

for they were to be so mercilessly exposed that no sane
individual couLl ex^it^ct them to get beyond the fifth or
sixth chapter.

It was a pretty scheme, and everything seemed to
favor it. In the first place, he had several damning
letters, which had been written to him, to quote from, so
that he could condemn the enemy " out of his own
mouth," and in the next place, by revisiting his old home
he got possession of a great mass of evidence that would
materially strengthen his case.

It was a com|)licated history, and the young mnn, who
may be called Despiorto Aniquilando Is'emesis, (wliich is
a more poetical and sonorous name than his baptismal
one) soon found that it would not be necessary to deviate
a jot from the tru '^ to make it interesting. Indeed,
every trifling incident seemed to fit into the frame-work
of his plot so naturally that he coidd not help felicitating
himself on his unique scheme of retribution.

It was not long, however, before events ha[)pened to
induce liim to call a halt, and he found that it would be
expedient to drop out one oi" two supernumeraiy
chaiacters and quite necessary to introduce some others
Some whom he had fondly thought guiltless he found to
be as culpable as the principals ; and, singularly enough,
they possessed characteristics tliat would show admirably
in his story, and relieve its occasional nionotony — a
monototiy that could not be avoided, so long ns tlie truth
were rigidly adhereil to. For what is more monotonous
than a life of hardship ? This being the case, he deter-
mined to introduce some new features, and blend the
pathetic with the ridiculous,

Everythiijg favored the growth of the story. Despierto

HOW THE HATCHET CAME TO BE BURIED,

133

was not altogether a novice witli the pen ; otlierwise he
would not have undertaken a work of such nmLinitude.
But he was staking his reputation on the book, rnd he
worked with extreme care and deliberiition. He con-
sidered his cause a just and holy one, and wished to
prove equal to the task he had set himself, and to make
his book a faithful exponent of his wrongs.

It was highly important to him to know how a petty
case in law would be conducted — and strangely enough a
case aiose in which he was first p'aiiititl' ond att<rwards
dffendant. He thought this a hardshij) at tirst, as it
consumed a (jreat deal of his lime and was an insutler-
able aimoyance ; but what of this, when he had obtained,
from personal expirience, the very inlbrmati(m he so
much needed ? This was not all: t!ie one thino- that
troubled him was how to wind u}), exactly how to color
the catastrophe; and here was his opportunity. He
saw in a Hash that this last event could b*' skidfully
worke 1 in, so artlessly that it would S' em to liavi- been
predeterminetl upon from the outset.

All incidents in the book were now liai numiously
balanced, and in its completed state he fonnd that it fully
j\istitied his anticipations. An impartial critic would
not hesitate to pronounce it worthy of Despierto's
vengennce, and an intelligent public would not fail
cautiously to admit thnt the new author had Got 'IHERE
WITH BOTH FEKT. At least, SO reasoned Despirrto. He
went further ; he even fancied that if his ( ncmies (as he
persisted in regarding them, though he ni'Vtr spoke of
them, either for good or for evil, outside the family
circle) could be brought to read it dispassionately, they
would be obliged to acknowledge its merits. He forgot,

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HOW THE HATCHET CAME TO BE BURIF.D.

111

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foolish fellow, that however just criticism may be, it is
never tolerated I)y the criticized. And what is the truth
but a species of criticism ?

Yes, the Uook was written ; all that was now necessary
was to find a publisher worthy of it. And here is
wherein lies the raison (Vet re of our tale. Despierto
received a conditional offer from a publishing house. It
was not specially tempting, but the house was an honor-
able one, and had prestige enough to assure the success
of any book of real merit that it might issue, however
obscurt^ the author. One would naturally think Despierto
would consider himself a made man, and accept the offer
l)y telegram, instead of waiting for a letter to reach the
publishers.

Instead of doing this he at once began to show
symptoms of that strange contrariety that we sometimes
see in human nature, but never in the lovver animals,
which proves that Solomon was in the right when he
advised the sluggard to go to the ANT, consider his ways,
and be wise. Briefly, Despierto repented himself of his
scheme of v luUcation. He put the case to himself in a
biuiit, repellent way that fairly staggered him. "Because
an Indian does his best to scalp nie," he >aid to himself,
" is thao any reason why 1 should turn to, and scalp him,
when chance throws him upon my mercy ? For instead
of Providence delivering my enemies into my hand to
destroy them, pcrhnps it was to spare them. So I will
do as David did to old man Saul, I will content myself
with chopping off their coat-tails, figuratively speaking.
Besides, it may not have been Providence, after all, but
chance. They never had anj' notion of magnanimity,
and till now I have had none. Perhaps they are too old

How THE HATCHET CAME TO BK BURIED.

1 .'if)

in heart to learn ; but 1 uni not, and I will think twice
before I fire m}' bomb-shell into their canip."

The next day Despierto thought better of his good
resolutions, and was on the point of writing the publishers,
when he again hesitat'3d. At length he decided on taking
three days to think the matter over. He began to wish
that he had not put his ease quite so strongly — or rather,
that he had not told the bitter truth with so much
engaging frankness.

But it was not without a terrible struggle that Des-
pierto's better nature finally triumphed and he was
master of himself. Virtue in this instance was not its
own reward. The young man's resouri es ran low, as he
had anticipated them while engaged in writing his book,
in the certainty of being able to efi'ect its immediate sale.
He was forced to get into debt, in a small way — debts
that would not have troubled a careless man, but which
Despierto felt keenly, as he had no instant piospect of
paying them off. The precious time he had devoted to
his new book w^as irredeemable. Despierto neither asked
for nor ex|)ected sympathy, and told no one his troubles ;
but sometimes in his desperation he felt like cursing all
mankind, and almost wished he had introduced a great
many others into his book in the garb c ' i'lllains, and
painted all his bad characters blacker than he had done.

This period in Despierto's life is so dark that it were
best to pass it over. He had waited before and the
opportunity to vindicate himself had come, and now
aiother weary time of waiting brought its changes.

He showed his manuscript, after the darkness had
in a measure passed away, to but one friend — a friend

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HOW THK HATCH KT CAMK TO UK BURIED.

Bit

who could bo implicitly trusted. This is the conversation
that was held wlun his Friend r turned it:

" If you have told the whole truth, and nothir ' 'it
the truth," said his friend, who, since he could not eaSi^j De
culled a worse n;inie, may be called Orgulloso Apesadum-
brado Desagidvio, " I don't see why you should hesitate
one moment to give this to the wodd, which always
sympathizes witli the down-trodden."

" It is absolutely true," replied Despierto, " even
to minutiie. Of course there are anachronisms, — lots of
them, — but they don't count. You wiil have noticed
that I shcnv myself as having been in the wrong on one
occasion. But I wish to forget my enemies, and so for-
(rive them. You know the Divine command is, ' ^^ n^e
not, thnt ye be not judged.' The chances are that c»,w .ae
last day we shall all need all the mercy we can get. Mind
vou, I don't lay claim to any great virtue in taking this
course ; it is as much a (juestion of indignation that has
burnt itself out as of forbearance."

" Y^es, but as 1 take it, it never was a question of
venoeance with you, but siniply of vindication. I w^ill
confess to you, Despierto, that at first I was a little bit
jealous of your work, and I was pre})ared to agree with
you that it should be withheld. But I overcame my
unworthy feeling of jedousy, and now I strongly advise
you to publish it, and let your enemies take the conse-
quences. Send it to the same publishers, if they are still
prepared to accept it, and let your thunderbolt fall.
According to your showing they had no mercy on you
when common humanity shoidd have prompted them to

mercy."

" No, perhaps not. But why should I adopt their

HOW THB HATCllKT CAMK TO HK JiUUlED.

187

tactics? * Nemo me impitne hicrsslf may !>'" a good
enoufjh watch-word, but ther*; are better ones."

"Do they know about tliis sclieine of ydurs ? And
are you sure it would have the efi'cct you nnficipated ?"

" Yes, tliey knew all about it from tlie tir>t, and were
ashamed enoujifh. Tlieir shame onj-lit to satisi'v me."

"No, l>espierto; ir. is one tiling' to be asliamcd, and
another to be re|>entant. They will laugh at you for
being so Quixotic."

" They don't know the meaning of your Quixotism.
As for their bad opinion, I liave alwa\s had it, and
always expect to have it. K has neith- r liurt nw. nor
annoyed me. if I can enjoy a tran(|uillized ennscii'iice
and a fe<'ling of being more civilizfd than I wa.s before,
what is the odds what their op'nion may be f

" 1 will speak bluntly to you, Despierto, and tell you
that tjou don t know the meaning of the term ' civiliza-
tion.' If you were out on the plains, in danger of being
eaten alive by wolves, would your superior eivilization
forbid your shooting these wolves ? "

" What would be the use of shooting them if I eould
intimidate them in some other way ? If all the world
went about avenging private wrongs, ihis planet would
soon be given over to the wolvc s. Come, I don't wish to
pose as an Indian brave, who must have the scalp of
everybody who insults him. l]esidcs, in this instance,
some innocent i)eople would suffer with the guilty, and
that would be outrageous."

" That is your one rational argument. Is there no
way to get around it, though ? How many of these
innocents are there?"

" Enough to form a picnic party all by themselves."

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138

HOW THE HATCHET CAME TO BK BURIED.

ill

" Well, how do you know your book would affect any-
body, in any way whatsoever ? "

" Because I tried the experiment, in a small vvay, some
yt'ars ago, an! twice since ; but I never learned its effect
but once."

" Well, did it have the effect you anticipated for it ? "

" Even greatei' ; I was utterly astonished at the result.
But I afterwards fraternized with my antagonist, and we
called it 'square.' "

"And do you expect to 'fraternize' again, in this case,
lJe>pierto ? " •

" Oh dear, no ; as I told you, I wish to forget, and so
forgive I never could bear to punish anything — nob
even my dog."

" And 1 dare say your dog was the most notorious one in
the neighborhood. Your enemies will misinterpret your
motives, and persecute you as of old, if occasion should
arise. ' Even ^\\e worm will turn,' but you won't, eh ?
Then you may expect to be insult-'d and ill-treated ;
though I dare say you could once have quoted Scripture
to prove you were all right in your scheme of retalia-
tion."

" Certainly I could have. But I am not doing any-
thing out of the common way ; don't you remember that
in Shakspere's play of 'Measure for Measure,' even
the scoundrel Angelo is pardoned ? "

" Yes ; but he doesn't deserve it, and is first exposed."

" Consider Lynch Law, Orgulloso. It is better than no
justice at all ; but the vigilantes are not the most civilized
men in the world. And 1 have found that others might
have treated me almost «s cruelly, had thev had the

HOW THK hatch RT CAMK to BE BURIED.

139

opportunity. 1 thought 1 had a wide experience of
human nature, but this sprinuj I learned something new.
Did you ever find yourself hard up, ( 'rgulloso ? "

" Once ; wnd man's inhumanity broke my hiart."

" VVel!, that was my predicament. If I had let the
book go — "

" Exactly ; you spared your enemies at the expense of
ruining your fortunes."

" Yes ; but, Orgulloso, it gave me the opportunity of a
life time to prove my friends. At one time I told every-
body that I was going away next week— always next
week— and tht-y fell away from me <laily. If thry chose
to think I meant mi>clii f, I let th m think so; till at
last — " "

" Proving- your friends, eh ? And h w <!id you come
out? Not much better thiin ' Timon of Ath. n>,' I ^^ ar-
rant } ou."

" Not a great deal better, perhaps. There were s<>me
old friends that stuck to me like a bur ; and <>iie, whom
our peO;»le hid befriended, away back in the 'B^ifues, took
half an hour to explain wi)y — "

" I understand it all. ' Away b ick in the 'Fifties ' is tlie
name of your initial chapter. Say, what are you going
to do with youi- book ? Going to lay it, in the grate, and
put a match to it, and so sacrifice it to your absurd
whims ? "

"No ; for that would certainly fire the soot, and so the
roof. No; I will keep it; and if I ever feel the old
bitterness again in all its intensity, I will dust it off and
read it over — bitterness, book, and all."

" So you are content U, have a year cut out of your
life, to all eternity ! '

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140

now THE HATCHKT CAME TO BE BURIED.

'il

" Not altogetlier lost time, however. T am stronger
than I was a year ago — [ lio})e, more j^enenjus."

■ Don't you recall what tlie old philosphor used to say,
Despi* rto, that it is better to be just thiin to be gener-
ous ^ Are you wiser than he ? "

" You put a wrong construction on tliat, OrguUoso.
Besides, I mean to ' remodel ' the book, and bru>g it out
yet."^

" You can't do that. A raan-of-war mijxht as well be
cut down into a merchantman. It wouldn't prove sea-
worthy."

" You don't undi'rshand me. I sliall re-write the entire
book, using sueli timbei-s, to follow your nautical phrase,
as can be made to fit into the new craft."

"Well, 1 'espierto, if you leave out the twenty-eighth
chapter you will sink your ship. If tlie first one never
leaves port, the .second will never make it.''

"I hope the contrary, and will risk it." i

" Your now book will be like a man without any nerves
in his org.inization, or like a ship without any crew to
man and sail her."

" Perhaps so ; perhaps you underrate my resources. In
any case, it wdl be more like the captiin of a peace ible
and respectable ocean liner than like a swaggering old
pirate chief, with a Ijlood-stained cutlass in one hand and
a horse -pistol in the other, minus both his thumbs and
short an — "

"Just so, Des[)ierto ; you will be taken for a boasting,
blustering fellow yourself, whose words are mere bluff.
And, see here, is not your pirate chief a greater favorite
with the general run of readers than your ocean captain,
who couldn't properly load a horse-pistol, if his life

HOW THE HATCHET CAME TO BB BURIED.

141

(iejXMided on it ? But, seriously, you do wrong to instance
thu pirate in your comparisons ; to suggest the commander
of a mau-ofwar, commissioned to make reprisals on the
enemy, would bo a neater way of putting it."

" Yes, but you see in my book they are pretty much all
rascals, and quasi pirates, and id getius omne."

" To be sure ; I counted them, and you have managed
to pick up SEVEN DEVILS. Any one would naturally infer
that you had been down to Jericho, and had fallen among
tiiieves, surely enough."

"Just so; my ink ran a little too black. To return to
our tomahawking Imlian ai^ain, I may say of them as
Mark Twain once said, the fact that an Indian likes to
scalp people is no evidence that he likes to be scalped."

" What is the application, Despierto ? "

" Because they enjoyed fixing up a gallows-tree for me,
as higli as Haman's, you surely don't suppose they would
see any fun in being dragged round the walls of their
own Troy, do you ? "

" But, suppose they should open tire on you again ;
wouldn't you slip the cable, and let the good ship stand
out into the open, with ' NO suRRENi^Eu' Hying slily from
the mast-head ? "

" 1 don't know ; I think 1 have washed the war-paint
from my face for good."

" Well, will you let me read your book again ?"

'•Why so? It must be such an undertaking to read
tive hundred pages of manuscript that I thought you
would consider it a doubtful compliment to be asked to
leatl it at all."

" It takes practice, that's all. I want to tind out the
reason why you weakened at the last minute. Why,

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142

HOW THE HATCHET CAMK TO BE BURIED.

I :.P

P-i

Despierto, you are throwing away the opportunity of a
life-time. Your enemies could never pay you back in
your own coin — that is, they could never write either a
readable or a marketable book ; and if they should
attempt it, no reputable publishing house would take it
up, for either love or money. So you had them in a
tight place."

" I know it ; but you know ' it is excellent to have a
giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous to use it like a
giant.' "

" True ; but when the parties of tlie first part were the
giants, it was lawful. These would not have given you
leisure to moon over Shakspere, or to inquire into the
habits of the genus pirate. However, argument is wasted
on you, Despierto. — Well, in any case, you must have had
lots of fun while writing that book ? "

"Lots of it!"

" Come, now, what is your motive in throwing up the
sponge ? "

"1 have hinted at it several times; now I will tell
you : / don't want to go into the White Cap business ! "

S— e7

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T^— 2

VERSE FOR THE TWENTY-NINTH OF MAY.

As this bright, glad, and heav'nly day,

So may your life be ever,
A glorious, endless dream of May,

With not a cloud to sever
- A moment's sunshine from your life,

Or cause the least domestic strife.

May 29th, 1887. — A cold day for verse-making.

WHAT AUGUSTUS WROTE IN LUCY'S ALBUM.

You ask me for a paltry rhyme

In the same free and cheerful way
As asks a beggar for a dime —

But surely I'll not say you nay.

1 on my part will be more bold,

Will usk for more transcendent bliss,

Will for my rhymes ask more than gold,
For in return I ask a kiss I

Quick as a flash Lucy wrote beneath it : —

Not having asked you for a rhyme

I hope you'll think it not amiss
If I give you a beggar's dime

Instead of giving you a kiss !

But Augustus got his kiss, all the same ; and Lucy got more
than ten cents' worth of caramels.

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SING ME A SONG OF THE OLD DAYS.

In the old clays, at my request,

You sang me fiery songs of love ;

Sing now a song with sad refrain,
Despairing as a mourning dove.

In this last met ting of our life

I do not wish to cause you pain ;

To-tlay you are another's bride,

And my old wounds must bleed again.

My L»ve for vou has not grown cold,

Though low the flame has sometimes burned ;

My fiiithful lieart has never changed.

But thoughts of other sw et hearts spurned.

Fcr ten lonj.' years I've cherished h"pe
That your regard I might redeem ;

Man's faith som- times burns on alway,
While woman's love is but a dream.

The spring-time love of steadfast hearts

Is love that cannot pass away ;
Time will bring care, a' id pain, and death,

But the first love knows no decay.

When you and I were sweethearts still,
You promised to be mine for itye ;

I ask not now for more than this,
An old-time song of yesterday.

Sing me a song of the old days

When you and I were sweethearts true ;
Those happy days I would recall,

Ere for all time we say adieu.

•)&!

GIVE BACK TO MR MY DIAMOND RINGS.

Parody on Preceding Poem.

In the old days, at your request,

1 gave you diamond rings iral< re ;

Give now those battered rings to my,
And 1 will trouble you no more.

In this last meeting of our life

I have no harsh wish to laise Cain ;

This ev'ning you'll be "charivaried,"

And your poor ears will ache w ith pain.

My love for \oyi ha'^ grown ice cold.

My court in<r-da\s luive taken w nys ;

Full many sweetheaits I havf lost

For want of my engagi nunt rings.

For ten long years I've cherished hope

Some of the gem> you would give back ;

Man's faith sometiiiies lasts several days,
But to kiep rin^^s is woman's knack.

The lav ish gifts of sweethearts green
May oft again come into })lay ;

Time brought my letters back to me,
The useful rhigs you kept a: way.

When you and I at last fell out,

You peevish said my gifts you spurned ;
Some gloves and songs and gimcrack'ry

You sent — the rings were not returned.

You surely have no further use

For your old sweetheart's diamond rings ;
Your happy husband had no need

To court you with such costly things.

ill

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HER MAJESTY'S CUSTOMS.

HAD been notified of the arrival at tlie custom-house
of a box of bocks for me from England. I was
densely ignorant of the constitution and by-laws of that
great autocracy of Canada, and imagined that all I had to
do was to dress with care, betake myself to the custom-
house, present my paper, and pay the duties. Then, of
course, I should be able to collect my goods, and go on
my way rejoicing. This shows how deplorably ignorant
I was.

I was gi-aciously received at the custom-house by a
benii^nant elderly gentleman, and given some papers to
fill out. This looked simple enough ; and as I proceeded
to fill them out (a not difficult task) I mentally laughed at
the cock-and-bull stories that had lieen told me about the
red-tapeisni of custom-houses. The benignant elderly
gentleman moved away from me in the discharge of his
duties, and my work of filling out the papers was all but
completed when a spruce, mustacheless young man sidled
up to me, and politely but authoritatively asked to see
my papers.

I weakly surrendered them. The young man smiled a
smile of profound pity for my dense ignorance as his
eagle eye glanced over those papers. He was evidently
a youth who, in moments of confidence, told his friends
and his inferiors that he could always tell by instinct
when a greenhorn was at large in the custom-house.

" You are all wrong, my dear sir," he said cheerfully.
" It would be impossible for you to manage this sort of

HEtt majesty's customs.

147

thing, anyway. The ways of the cu&tom-house are
peculiar, you know, my dear sir."

1 replied that I really knew no such thing.

" They are, sir," he said, deliberately tearing up the
papers he had taken from me. " The proper way will be

to go to Mr. , a custom-house broker, who will

assume all responsibility, and save \ ou all trouble. If
you will mention my name," tendeiing me his card, " he
will push the matter through without delay. And it will
cost you only fifty cents."

Then he figuratively, if not literally, put me out of
doors, and very carefully pointed out the office of j\Ir.

. Of course it would never do if 1 should

stumble into the office of some rival custom-liousii brokerl
But, begrudging my enterpiising young fiiend the small
commission he thou^'ht he had made sare of in mv case,
I threw away his card, and did turn into the office of a
rival broker. This goes to show how churlish 1 was.

I had considerable curiosity to find out what manner
of man the custom-house broker might be. I was pre-
pared to face a portly, severe individual, who would try
to extort some very damaging confession from me^
but who would generously spare my life. I was tliere-
fore somewhat surprised to find myself confronted by a
dapper little fellow, ballasted l)y a huge and extravagant
eye-glass, but whom, for all that, even the slim senator
from Virginia couH easily have pitched out of the
window. He looked as if he had been tenderly brought
up on fish balls and tapioca, and carefully protected from
the sun and from draughty doors, I have since made
an important discovery, to wit : that all custom-house
brokers are not cast in the same mold.

148

11 Er majesty's customs.

^' :i

This young man Sijon nuKJe me jiuare that however
frail and spiritual he ml^ht Icjok, he yet rejoiced in a
monumental intellect, and had ways and means of scar-
ing- timid people almost to death.

The first thing he did was to prove to me that my
books had bien wrongly invoiced, and that in the name
of his Queen and his country he was authorized to in-
crease the invoice price by twelve dollars. As the duty
on the books \\a> fifteen cents on the dollar, this did not
seem so very terrible, and I agreed to submit to the
overcharge, after a mild protest. I thought I wouLi give
him a fair start, just to see how far he would pr<'sume
to go before I should sud'lenly check him. That was
where I made an egregious mistake, for he seemed C(m-
tent to have raised and put into the pocket of his Queen
and his country tlie sum of ( ne dollar and eighty cents.

He now proceeded to lay before me such a pile of
papei's that I marvelled where they all came from.

" You will sign your name and address, please ; your
name and address in full," he said, at last, taking up the
undermost paper.

I dill so, remarking that I had no objection to give him
the length of my arm and the name of my dog, if he so
desired.

He regarded me with withering scorn, and placed
another paper before me to be signed. I pc^rceived that
these papers were precisely the same as those 1 had been
given to till out at the custom-house, only that here there
were more of them. This was not calculated to soothe
my ruffled spirits.

" Don't you wish me to fill out these papers in full ? "
I blandly inquired.

HER majesty's CUSTOMS.

149

" No ; it is my clerk's business to do that," he replied

luini^'litily.

His clerk ! T was astonislied ! But on JookiiiLf about
me I espied an ofHce-boy of tender years and in all tlu;
glory of curly hair, pensively chewing gum in a corner.
So he had a clerk, surel_\' enough !

A third paper was spread befo)<' me, wliich I was
requested to sign in two places. Things were beginning
to get interesting. I had the cui-iosity to read a few
lines, first humbly asking permission to do so. I had
tliouii'ht lilacksfcone dry and dreary rcadinu' — but this !

" Where do you get all your census papers, if 1 may
ask?" I suddenly blurted out.

A contemptuous cui'l of the lip was an unsatisfactory
reply, and I made bold to tell him so.

"1 see," I pursu' d, "that you have not ini|uirod into
lay politics, idios^'ncrasies, or superstitions. You wdl
doubtless earnestly wish to know whether my father's
stepfather drank tea or coffee; whether my grandmother
said either or either; and whether I mvself smoke a
twenty-live cent cigar, or chew plug tobacco. I haven't
the sligtest doubt that it will be necessary for you to
know whether I brush mv teeth with ' Sozodont,' or with
some obscur.^ tooth-paste ; whether I prefer as a beverage
hard cider, sasafras tea, water-works water, or butter-
milk ; whether I use hair-oil, or trust to nature and the
barbers to take care of my hair ; whetlier I prefer the
music of the hand-organ to that of the mouth-oigan, or
the music of the tom-cat organ to that of the org.mette ;
whether I carefully measure patent medicine out in a
spoon, or swig it down by guess work ; whether 1 wind
my watch when I get up in the nxorning, or when i retire

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UVAi MAJESTY S CUSTOMS.

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at ni^ht, or vvhethor I vviud it at fltfnl intervals ; whether
T write my letters with a clicap lead-pencil, or with a
fountain pen, and whether I strike iny lelatlves for
postage-stamps, or buy them singly at drug-stores. As I
am somewhat pressed for time to-day, I hope I shall not
hurt your fet lings if I urge that you should uet through
with your inquisition as soon as may be. In case, how-
ever, it is neoessarv for me to underiio a medical exaiiii-
nation, or bo ])laced before an insanity expert, I hope
you will allow me first to telegraph my friends and prepare
a brief obituary for my tombstone."

This prompt manner of forestalling hU programme
seemed to jar on the nerves of the dapper broker, while
it completely demoralized his "clerk." I presume it was
not every day that they encountered a man who could
thus easily take Time by the forelock and get ahead of
their knotty questions. The young man upset one of
his three ink-bottles, and the "clerk" lost his grip on his

gum.

"Where do you deposit all these valuable documents,
anyway ?" I jeeringly in(|uired.

The eye-glass deigned me no reply, but the " clerk,"
on whom I seemed to have made an improssien j^asp 'd
out that the papers were senu to Ottawr. \ v)r this l)reach
of discipline I am sorely afraid that clerk's " ^ igni-

ficent salary was afterwards docked ' cents, or maybe
ten.

"Are they scarce of waste pap&r down there?" I
asked, trying to be sarcastic.

" I meet with a great many fools in my experience as
a broker," the young man replied severely.

I did not retort by saying that I also met with a great

HER majesty's CUSTOMS.

151

urience as

many fools ; T kindly and respectfully told him that I
was very sorry for him.

Then he brij^htened up and t' )ld me confidentially that
the Government had of necessity to use some formality
in collecting Her Majesty's customs. Tliis proves that it
is better to be kind than sarcastic in dealing with the
custom-house broker. If I had retorted gruffly he would
not have vouchsafed me that piece of invaluable inforuia-
tion.

1 thanked him gravely, and said that if I had known
my handwriting was to be inspected by the Queen of
Givut Britain and Ireland I should have called for one of
his very best pens.

H, wever it was necessary for me to sign my name two
or tlu'ee times more, and I w ill venture to afflrm that I
never took so much pains to write it well. What did this
avail me, when 1 could not prevail upon either the broker
or his "clerk" to tell me which one of all the papers I had
signed would be rcserveil for Her Majesty's {)eruHal ?

All formalities were at last concluded, and 1 asked, in
an easy, off-hand way, if I could get my books that after-
noon.

The ethereal young broker became indignant at once.
That afternoon ! I might consider myself lucky if I got
them inside of five days.

I paid him, in lawful coin of the realm, $8.30 (which
included his own fee and the overchai'ge), and walked
out of his office with a heavv heart.

I am happy to say that he over-estimated the time, as
1 received my books in good condition three days later.

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A DISILLUSIONED INNOCENT.

A RT'X'UERCHE ALLEGORY.

^I^N observing young man from a traiKjuil and guileless
^iSll^ country place once made liis way into a fjreat city,
and there made certain discoveries that shocked hiin.
His secluded country life had fostered romantic ideas that
he liad always entertained about the habits and modes
of life of distinguished men and well-known people
generally. His disillusionment was so complete and start-
lino- th it he souu-ht outa slirevvd old uncle of his, who knew
something ot:'tho ways of the world, and unbosomed him-
self to this effect : —

" Why, uncle," he said, " I had the curiosity to call on
the greatest newspaper poet of the day; and instead of
finding a patriarchal-looking man, with the beard of a
Moses and the eyes of a pirate, I found a man who looked
liardly bettor or worse than the average New Jersey
tramp. He was sitting by a grat^, groaning and whining
over a vulgar, insignificant co}"n ; and there was an un-
poetical look about his finger nails, and a shipwrecked
appearance ab'ut his socks."

" Exactly, my boy and if you had asked him what
he had been doing all winter, he would have told you (if
he had been honest enough to te]l the truth) that he had
been trying to find out how many newspapers had copied
his poems. But perhaps he tore himself away from the
grate aft(.T you went out, and wrote a neat little ballad
about yourself, called ' Our Susan's Latest Beau.' Tii
that case the poet would forget all about his corns. It

FT.

i guileless
:^reat city,
ked hiin.
ideas that
id modes
^n people
ind start-
vho knew
med hiiu-

to call on
istead of
;ard of a
10 looked
V Jersey
wliininy
;S an un-
)wrecked

im what
d you (if
it he had
id copied
Tom tlie
le ballad
'au.' Til
)rns. It

A DISILLUSIONED INNOCKNi.

15.'J

is dangerous to go about the world intruding upon the
sacred leisure of those petulnnt individuals to whom the
gods have given a pen."

'And I found, uncle, that a great railroad king, who
has more chimneys on his house than our postmaster has
d)gs on his farm, has a pimple on his nose, a more
hrathenish head of hair than a side-show Indian, n\i\ an
eye that squints so savagely that he wears glasses colored
so deep that he can't see to read the weather bulletins.
Besides this, he wears such shabby clothes that his own
dauo-jiter hates to recognize liim on the street."

" Again I say exactly, my boy ; but instead of worry-
ing- about these things, he was probably tiguring on how
much longer the company couhl stive oft' the expense of
putting up a new freight shed at some little station along
the line."

"And I went to a spiritualist's seance, uncle," pursued
the youth, becoming more subdued, " and found that the
medium's breath sa\'ored of onions that must have
sprouted under the bountiful rains of 1(S82, and that he
had less sense and less education than a scamp evangelist,
and that he couldn't materialize well enouiih to humb'icf
I'ven a crack-brained believer in spooks."

"(,|uite so, my dear boy; and if the hobgoblins evoked
iiad heeii sober enough to perceive wliat a noodle was in
the audience, they would a-suredly have told you that
the shade of Simple Simon wanted to cmisult with you
at vour lod<.jinirs on hydradieaded asininitv."

"Then," continued the young ruin, " I had pointed out
to me the son of a great philantlu'opi.st, now dead; and
the youth had just mustache enough to make him feel
uncomfortable and look ridiculous and his only ambition

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164

A DISILLUSIONED INNOCENT.

is to criticize the mayor of the city and be invited to
dinner by some old friend set up in business by his own
deceased fatlier ; while a gaunt-looking man, with an old
gold mustache big enough and heavy enough to make
him look handsomer than a peacock under full sail, is a
dog-catcher in the summer season, a snow -shoveller in
the winter, and a quack doctor in the spring and fall, when
hoarse colds and influenza get in their best work."

" My boy," said the uncle, "you are working your
intellect too hard. Two years ago you were throwing
stones at the birds, and now you are itching to give
points to old Rhadamanthiis himself. You must learn
that while a man who is not blind can see through a
pane of glass, it needs an observer of fifty years' experi-
ence to determine whether an unassuming and quietly
dressed stranger, entirely off his guard, is a refornied
freebooter or a heartless railroad section boss. Learn
also that fresh young men who go away from home and
think they can learn everything there is to be known
about mankind in six years — not six days — are far from
being wise. But, for your encouragement, I may say
that you have made commendable progress."

But after the young man had gone the uncle sorrow-
fully shook his head, muttering : " That boy is a trifle too
smart for this reasoning world ; he will soon be wanted
elsewhere. — Elsewhere, where the spirits and the mediums
can call him up from the ' vasty deep ' to tell flippant
ghost stories about lunatics who never lived, and who
consequently haven't had a good chance to die. I think
I must encourage the hoy to ease himself of his Cyclopean
omniscience and interest himself in municipal politics."

THE LITTLE LONE HOUSE.

A TRUE STORY.

■^||\VAY out in the country, far f lom any other habita-
'Ml^ tion, a little brown house stood on a hill by the
road-side. Its occupants were a widow and her two
little children, a dog and a cat, also inembirs of the
family. A. small garden surrounded the house, yielding
a scanty supply of vegetables.

Mrs. Carlvle eked out a liviiiof bv teachins^ a small
school. It was hard work to teach this school and take
care of her children, while the remuneration was pitiful ;
but Mrs. Carlyle had a brave heart, and bore her priva-
tions patiently, hoping for brigliter days.

This little lone house seemed to be stransjelv attractive
to lu'u-frars and vai^rants, and they haunted it by niirht
ami 'lay. It was annoying to Mrs. Carlyle, and sometimes
terrifying to tlie children, especially when, as often hap-
pened, a drunken man woul S stagger up to the house,
|)ound on the doors, and even try the windows.

They had a dog, to be sure ; a big, loafing, yelping
creature, which h;id been a plaything for the cliildi'en so
lonL,^ that its usefulness as a dog was a thing of the past.
When an objectionable caller came to the house this dog
would make a tremendous uproar, and scare the intruder
away, if he were a stranger and unacquainted with the
'log's peculiar habits. But once let the doughty dog out
of the door, instead of Hying at the intruder neck and
heels, it would either profes- the greatest friendship for

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156

THE LITTLE LONE HOUSE.

him, or else chase hurry-scurry after a stray cat or a
bird. Carlo deliglited exceedingly in running promiscu-
ously after flying things.

Again and again poor Mrs. Carlyle resolved that she
would never pass another twenty-four hours in the house;
but tlie place was her own, and -she could support herself
there. Further, it was her child len's birthplace.

So they lived on in the little brown houso'; often har-
assed by beggars, tramps, and drunken men ; often having
a hard struggle to keep the wolf from the door. It wa.s
a hard life, and a wearisome one. - ,

One day in wint<'r the daughter of a neighbor, havini,'
been at school all day, was going to stay overnight with
Mrs. Carlyle and her two little girls. The children were
amusing themselves greatly while Mrs. Carlyle busied
herself preparing supper, when suddenly a tall and ^'aunt
figure opened the door of the kitchen and deliberately
walked in. This alone was sufficient to alarm Mrs.
Carlyle and the three frolicking girls ; but — the man was
an Indian !

Tliere was really no cause for alarm, as a peaeeably-
disposed Indian was le^s to be feared than a stroUini,'
white man. But Mrs. Carlyle did not consider this, and
she was uiore frightened than she cared to admit. As
for the two little girls and their visitor, they had read
that very day in their Reader about the baibarities
practiced by the Indians in the eaily days of the country,
and they sickened with horror, feeling certain that they
hhould all be massacred in cold blood.

First the dog was appealed to The three little girls
moti'-ned silently but beseechingly for it to attack tlu'
Indian. Carlo, noble dog, understood ; he obeyed their

'I-

THE LITTLE LONE HOUSR.

157

entreaties without hesitation ; and squatting before the
Indian lie stretched out his paws to shake hands, opened
his mouth, and pant<'d contentedly.

" Poor dog," s lid the Indian. " Good dog, missis, this
un.

" The Indian has charmed him," whispered the little
visitor shrilly. " Indians always do charm people's dogs."

" Oh, I hope he won't poison him! " gasped little Edith
Carlyle.

The three posted thems 'Ives in a position from wliich
they could watch proceedings, but from which they could
beat a retreat at a moment's warning.

'' Boss in, Missis ?" asked the Indian.

" No, he is not," said Mrs. Carlyle.

" I don't care," whispered ( J^rtrude, the elder of the two
sisters, " I don't care, I don't think it wouM have been
wrong for mamma to say we are expecting our uncle
from California."

" Can't you give me a 'n't of food T' asked the Indian.
" I'm hungry. Victuals smell awful good."

Mrs. Carlyle, not so much frightened as confused, took
up a generous slice of meat, and hurriedly Liaveit to the
Indian. He did not ask for a plate, l)ut said poliiely,
" Needs knife to cut it with, Missis. My own all 'haecy."

Mrs. Carlyle was so c 'ufuscd that she gave him the
first knife that cauccht her eye. To her own and the
little girls' consternation, it proved to be what is
fain liarly known as a butehei-s knife ! The poor Indian
gave a grunt of disapproval, lait did not ask for a better
one.

It was high time for the little gii'ls to retreat. Tliere
was a patter of little leet over the floor — ihey had fled.

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158

THE LITTLE LONE HOUSE.

The sanctuary they sought has probably been sought by
every little girl (and boy, too) tliat the sun ever shone
on. They hid in their bedroom ! Here they felt quite
safe for the time being ; but Lizzie, their visitor, quavered,
" I'll never come to visit you again, Gertie."

" Oh, don't be afraid, Lizzie ; " said Gertrude, her voice
trembling ; " we'll get him to let you go, as you're a guest.''

" Oh, he'll kill us all with that big knife ! I know he
will ! " sobbed Eidth. " Listen ! " hearin<jf a rasping sound
from the kitchen. ■' Oh, Gertie ! He is sharpening the
knife to kill us ! Oh, dear ! " - •

There was a scrambling noise — Edith had disappeared.
A moment later and Gertru'le and Lizzie had also disap-
peared. They had not fallen through a trap door, nor
been spirited away ; they h id only gone where they
believed they would be safest — they had crawled under
the bed.

Finding lierselt' deserted by the three frightened
children, Mr Carlyle felt her native courage return, nnd
although still so excited that slie rnade little progress,
she went on with hiT preparations for supper. She
recollected that tho knife slie had given the hunfjrv
Indian was the dullest one in the house ; and perhaps
this comforted her not a little.

The door of the little girls' room opened quickly, and
a figure appeared in the doorway. Three stifled screams
and three gasps of terror came from the trio, betraying
their hiding-place, and they huddled more closely
togretlier.

" Gertrude," said Mrs. Carlyle's voice calmly, *'come out ;
I want to speak to you."

Three little golder heads peered warily and fearfully out

THE LITTLE LONE HOUSE.

159

from uinier the bed. Seiun^ no one but Mrs. Carlyle,
and that she did not aj)pear so very much frightened,
three little tigures eniergeil from their ambush.

"Gertrude, dear," said Mrs. Carlyle in a hushed voice,
'' I want you to put on your thicker boots and your
wiaps, and run up to Mr. Colfax's for some of them to
come and take the Indian away."

" Oh, it's so cold, and the snow is so deep," sighed
Gertrude.

" Yes, dear ; but there is no other way to get rid of
him."

" All right, mamma; I'll start, anyway."

j\Irs. Carlyle's presence began to inspire them with

courage.

" What's he doing now ?" Edith whispered.

" He is still eating his meat, Edith. You mustn't be
frightened, girls."

" Can I go with Gertie, Mrs. Carlyle ?" asked the little
visitor.

" Oh, do come, Lizzie ! You'll be such company."

But when they had put on their wraps and started
out, they found the snow so deep and soft that Gertie's
poor little boots sank through it, chilling and wetting
her feet.

" Oh, dear !" she said. " My feet are going to get
soaking wet ; and then I'll catch cold ; and then mamma
will have to make me onion syrup."

" I wish you had nice long-legged boots like mine,
Gertie ; they are just like boys' boots. Pa got them for
ine on purpose to go to school when it's wet and the
snow's deep."

" 1 wish I had, too," assented Gertie,

160

THK LITTLK LOSE HOUhiE.

" I'll tell you what to do, Gertie ! Let ua turn back,
and I'll take ofi' these boots and let you wear them."

" Oh, will you, Lizzie ? How good you are ! 1
shouldn't be a bit afiaid. But what will you do, Lizzie?"

" I'll stay and talk with Edith till you eouie back."

"And won't you be frightened V

" No, I'll try not to be ; and perliaps if the Indian
should go to kill your ma and Edith, I could help. Only
hurry, Gertie."

Lizzie meant, if the Indian should attempt to kill them,
she might help to resist him. She was a bright little
girl, but she could not always say exactly what she-
meant. *

So they returned to the house. Gertie drew on Lizzie's
top boots, and tlien l»ravely went out into the cold alom-.
The snow was just as deep, but with the magic boots on
her feet slie did not mind it, though she sank into it
the same as before, and progress was slow. But these
boots kept her feet dry and warm, and she trudged on
bravely and hopefully.

At last she reached Mr. Colfax's house. Her story
was a startliuii; one — so startlinfj; that it fritditened the
little Coltax girls so much that they (h^clared iliey would
never go to school aLiain. But Mr. Colfax did not look
frightened, though he immediately put on his cap and
overcoat.

" Won't you please take your aun, Mr. Colfax V Ger-
trude ventured. " I'm sure the Indian is all leady to light
any person."

" No, (iertie ; he W(mldn't be afraid of a min."

Gertrude stayed a few minutes to rcs^ and then set out
for home, halt expecting to see her motliers house burst

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THE LITTLK LONE HOUSE.

1 them,

it little
lat she

Li/zies
d aloiK'.
Doots oti

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cap

out into flames before she reached it. But no; there
stood the house all right.

Mr. Colfax easily prevailed on the Indian to go home
with him, where he was given a good supper and a
night's lodging, and sent on his way rejoicing.

Once rid of their unwelcome visitor, the three little girls
became exceedingly brave, and gravely told what tliey
would have done to circumvent him in case he had at-
tempted to kill them. But Gertie had proved herself a
little heroine, and she knew it.

Some weeks after this occurrence another schoolmate
was spending the night with Gertrude and Edith. This
time it was "e of those same little Colfax girls that had
declared she would never go to school again. Far from
doing this, however, she had gone to school regularly, and
never rested till she was invited to " stay all night" at
the Carlyles'.

" How romantic it must have been for you," she said,
speaking of the Indian's visit. " It was just like a story,
wasn't it, Gertie ? So romantic."

Little Phoebe Colfax was a most " romantic" young
miss, who, instead of writing compositions about sugar,
water, Lvid, sleigh-rides, strawberries, etc., wrote painfully
moral fables about sportive little dogs, big watch dogs,
blind Negroes, good little girls, and bad little boys.

" Yes, it did seem romantic after it was all over, and
we'd had our supper," said practical Gertrude.

"Do you suppose anybody will come to-night?" Phcebe
qu'jried.

" Oh, I hope not !" devoutly said Gertie and Edith in
chorus.

" feo do I," assented Phoebe, " unless it should be some-

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162

THE LITTLE LONE HOUSE.

thing romantic — that is, that would not be too terrible,
and would seem romantic afterwards."

Romantic Phoebe's wish was partially gratified. After
supper, while the three girls were getting up their lessons
for the next day, Mrs. Carlyle heard the sound of a drum
in the distance.

" Girls," she said, " I hear a drum beating. 1 think it
must be some one getting up his enthusiasm for St.
Patrick's day ; don't you want to go to the door and
listen ? "

"Oh, yes!" said the three, laying down their books
and running eagerly to the door. Gertie turned the key
very cautiously, and then, with her hand still on it,
listened intently. Hearing no one outside, she carefully
opened the door a little way, and then shut it with a
bang.

"Oil, dear!" said Edith.

" What is it ? " whispered Phoebe.

" Oh, it's nothing," answered Gertrude ; " I was only
careful."

Then she opened the door again. All was still, except
for the sound of the far-away drum. Growing bolder
she opened the door to the extent of about two inches,
and with her hand firm on the knob, held it so.

" Isn't it nice ? " said Edith.

" Yes ; but then it's only some common drum, you know,
Edith, so it can't be much ; " said Miss Phoebe, who did
not seem to have a very exalted opinion of the music.
Of course if she could have imagined it was a gallant
drummer-boy drumming to his regiment, she would have
been enchanted.

" I don't care ; I like it," declared Edith.

THE LITTLE LONE HOUSE.

163

" Well, if Phoebe doesn't care for it, we'll come in,"
s id Gertrude. " I don't like to have the door unlocked,,
anyway ; and it's pretty cold,"

As she finished speaking sh(> perceived that something
was pressing gently against the door, trying to shove it
open. Tliis was so terrifying that she screamed aloud,
though she did not quit her hold on the door.

" What's the matter ! " cried tv.o voices.

" Some one is trying to get in ! " Gertrude screamed.

" Oh, hang on ! Shove it shut ! Quick ! " cried Phoebe.
Tlien, at the top of her voice, " Mrs. Carlyle ! "

"Oh, it won't shut !" panted Gertie. "Help me, Phoebe!
-My strength is all gone ! I can't shut it ! — Ma ! Quick ! "

Poor little Phoebe ! Poor little girl ! She did what she
knew she would never do; what she despised. She fol-
lowed the example of Lizzie ; she ran and hid with Edith
in Gertrude's bedroom !

Mrs. Carlyle came into the room in alarm. " What is
the matter?" she demanded.

" Oh, mamma ! Some one is trying to get in, and I can't
shut the door any farther ! "

" Stop, Gertrude ! It's Stripy, our cat !"

Yes, it was Stripy. Finding a crack of the door open,
he had pushed gently with his head to shove his way in.
Having ^ot his head inside, he could neither draw it out,
nor fone his body through, nor squall ; for the door, with
Gertrude pushing on it, held his neck as in a vice.

Poor Stripy ! With horrified eyes protruding from his
Ilea 1, he turned tail when released, and sped away like a
mad thing. It was a full week before he came back, and
then he did not come to stay,

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164

THE LITTLE LONE HOUSE.

Miss PIkkVjo was very cniict for the rest of the eveniii".
It is <l()ul)tful whether she could ever hjok on tliat inci-
dent in a romantic light. But Gertrude hud again
behaved like a heroine.

One night after Mrs. Cjtrlyle's little girls had gone to
bed, she was sitting up late, making a dress for one of
them. She was sitting iii the front room, which faced
the road. 'J'he lighted windows of this room could be
seen from iifar.

Busily sewing the dress she heard a stealthy step out-
side, and knew in a moment it was somebody prowling
about the Ikjusc. What sort of person was it ? a house-
breaker ? a vagrant? or a drunken man? Certainly
it was not a neiglibor, nor yet a fiit-nd.

The stealtliy steps drew nearer, and Mrs. Carlyle |)er-
ceived that they were shuttling and unsteady. Evidently
it was a drunken man.

Instincfively Mrs. Carlyle laid aside her sewing and
put out the light. Then she Hew to the three outside
doors to assure herself that they were locked. Yes, they
were fast, but the windows were none too secure.

She had barely seated herself when the door-knob was
turned. Trembling, she wailed to see what the drunken
man would do next. Soon tlie rear door was tried, then
the third and last door. Presently a violent blow was
struck on the front door. The man had made a circuit
of the house and tried all the doors. What would he do
^ow ?

" Can't you let me in, boss ? " asked a thick voice. "I'm
lost, and I want a night's lodging."

So, it was a stranger to the neighborhood — probably a

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THE LITTLE LONE II0U8K.

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tramp. Mrs. Carlyle found couraoe to sny, " No, you
C'}Uin'>t stay here ; you will have to <^o t'nrlliei" on."

" I won't ! " replied the man doggedly.

•'Oh, what shall 1 do?" groaned Mrs. Carlyle. "God
help me ! "

Then, one by one, the drunken tramp tried tlie windows.

This at once roused Carlo, and he began to bark vigor-
ously. The tramp, undaunted, continued to try the win-
dows, pausing occasionally to mock poor Carlo,

The dog's barking awakened the children, and springing
out of their warm bed they ran to their mother, cryino"
piteously.

" Now, girls," said Mrs. Carlyle, " sit (juietly here and
be good, and I will save you. Don't ciy, or make any
noise."

" Yes, mamma," they whispered ; " we'll keep still."

Going to the stairway, Mrs. Carlyle called out in a loud
voice : " Anthony, Anthony ! come down ! There's a man
here, trying to break in ! "

Then, with a whispered "keep still," she slipped off
her shoes and darted noiselessly up-stairs. Gropino- her
way to an old closet, the receptacle of disused furniture,
heirlooms, and rubbish generally, Mrs. Carlyle hunted out
a pair of her husband's heavy old boots, drew them on,
and came stamping down-stairs with a crashing noise.

" I'm coming, Mary ! " she said, in a hoarse and very
loud voice.

Poor little Edith, not knowing wi at it all meant, sobbed
as if h ' eart would break.

" Hut Edith ! " whispered Gertrude, throwing her

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166

THE LITTLE LONE HOUSE,

anns around the frightened child. " It's all right ; it's
mother, Edith."

" Don't speak ! " said Mrs. Carlyle, in s tremulous a
tone that Edith only sobbed the harder.

Striding noisily to the rear of the house, where the
tramp was about to try the last window, — one which
would certainly yield to his efforts, — Mrs. Carlyle, assum-
ing a mascul ne voice a; well as sho could, said sharply:
"Get away from this, you scoundrel, or I'll blow your
brains out ! "

"A' right, boss ; don't shoot, an' I'll go," came the reply.

There was a ring of alarm in tho tramp's voice. Soon
they heard him shuffling along, past the house, and out
of the gate.

This was Mrs. Carlyle's most trying experience with
vagrants. A few days afterwards Mr. Colfax presented
Gertrude with a lively and effective little gun, and taught
her how to shoot it. At the same time another kind-
hearted neighbor gave them a powerful and intelligent
mastiff — a really valuable dog.

This new dog, Nestor, did not seem to have much
respect for Carlo, and they did not agree very well ; but
they ate every day enough to sustain them for three day.s.
Although they persisted in this reckless indulgence oi'
appetite, strange to say it did not hurt them. But two dog.s
were a nuisance ; and if the new-comer had not been
endowed with much dii^nity and self-esteem he might have
picked up some of Carlo's foolish habits.

How was Mrs. Carlyle to get rid of poor Carlo ? One
day a deliverer appeared in the person of a lazy,
good-natured boy (the hero of Phoebe Colfax's stories

THE LITTLB LONfi HOUSE.

167

about bad boys), who iDveigled Carlo off into the woods
on a squirrel-hunting excursion. Carlo enjoyed himself
hilariously that day ; but, for all that, he made a
" mysterious disappearance." His fate is still unknown
to the little Carlyles. Miss Phoebe irjsists that he must
have met his ^ Path while "defending himself" bravely
against some ferocious outlaw ; but the boys look wise,
and say darkly that he didn't go farther south than
Patagonia, the Ultima Thule of their geographies.

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SUCH IS LIFE.

I LOVED a lass of sweet sixteen

As mortal man ne'er loved before ;

Of my fond heart she was the queen,
And should be so for evermore.

Her eyes were of the softest blue,

Her hair was of the richest brown ;

Her heart to me I felt whs true,

And on my suit she did not frown.

From March till June I wooed my love,
And gloried in her gentle rule ;

"My love," I cried, " for this fair dove,
Can nothing sao, can nothing cool."

I raved about her silken hair ;

I feasted on her eyes so blue ;
I said, " No other is so fair,

No other is so sweet and true."

I swore that she should be my own ;

1 swore to take a rival's life ;
I a ore — but when twelve months had flown

Another sweetheart was my wife.

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HOW A COOLNESS AROSE BETWEEN
BILL AND NERO.*

?»f|^HE dop^ Nero was destined to fij^iire somewliat con-
^yl^ spicuously in the family history, and it nuiy be
well to turn aside from these monotonous scenes and
!''rrate a refreshing!; incident of his career. Nero had
now reached the indiscreet and ai><»:ressive ao*e of fifteen
months, and one bright June day he went down to the
" Corners " to pay his respects to the old people and to
bark, in his genial but authoritative manner, at such
teams as did not habitually pass his own domains. In
this way he soon established a reputation for himself at
both coi'ners.

Nero vaulted over the east gate in his usual breezy
style, and stalked straight into the kitchen. It was
getting well on to dinner-time, and he expected, no doubt,
to find both his kind old friends in the house. But the
old clock wanted three minutes of striking twelve, so it
was a little too early for that, though most of the dinner
was indeed smoking on the table.

Great Caesar's ghost ! What was this ? There, on the
"settee," lay a hulking yellow dog, as big as himself, fast
asleep, but with that air of easy content that a dog soon
manifests where it is made one of the family. This was
Bill, of course, whose tragic historv was briefiv outlined
in a preceding chapter.

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*Taken from the MS. of my book, "The Ghkat Tkn-Dollab Law

Suit.'

-B. W. M.

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170

HOW A COOLNESS AROSE

Neither human nature nor canine nature can tolerate
an interlo})er, and Nero was always an outrageously
jealous dog. This was the first he had seen of Bill, and
he determined it should be tlie last. With a snort of
rage he made a lunge at the sleeping hound and dragged
him sprawling off the " settee."

Bill was now thoroii^dily awake, and looking on Nero
as an intruder, a desperado, and a maniac, the struggle
began in earnest. It was not simply a fight for supre-
macy ; it was a fight to the death. The space between
the " settee " and the stove was too cramped, so, backing
out into the arena between table and stove, the battle
was begun all over again. Oh, how stubbornly they
fought !

The pantry door promptly slammed to, and terrified
cries of " Joseph ! Joseph !" smote upon the air. These
cries could not penetrate to the shop, but both dogs
recognized wliat they meant, and redoubled their exer-
tions. Bill, of course, being an older dog, had the science
of fighting perfectly mastered ; but Nero had carried
some hard-won fields, and always fought with the im-
petuosity of vigorous youth. It was hard to say which
one would anniliilate the other. Suddenly a leg of the
table was snapped ofi, and the steaming dinner was
scattered promiscuously over the fioor. With frightful
yells (for Pall was scalded and Nero was burnt) the com-
bat slackened a moment, onlv to be rene\ved the more
determinedly. There were many dainties under their
feet that at another time would have been swallowed,
scalding hot ; but this was no time to think of dainties.
Bill was after Nero's scalp, and Nero was after Bill's
whole hide.

BETWEEN DILL AND NERO.

171

Not even the (liiiuer-bell could be found in the pantry,
so, making a detour through the cellar, a scared, trembling
figure appeared in the shop, almost speechless.

" Why, Jane, what's the matter ?"

" Oh, Joseph ! Those dogs !" was the only answer.

Dropping his hammer and calling upon Jim Paget,
who was balancing himself, as usual on the rickety
stool, a run was made to the house.

At this juncture Bill had his mouth full of Nero's
neck, and Nero was growding hideously ; while Bill's
feet, cut by the broken glass, were streaming with his
patrician blood. Bill seemed to be getting the best of it,
and Nero was ready to w^elcome outside interference.
Not naturally a fighter. Bill was easily persuaded by his
kind protector to loose his hold.

" This here sport," drawded Paget, " would he perhibited
in the city ; but they hain't liurt each other any, an' it's
the natur' of the animile fur to fight."

" But look at our dinner !"

Seeing his second opportunity, Nero made a sudden
and vigorous assault upon liill, took him again at a dis-
advantage, and seemed prepared to fight it out, if it took
all the afternoon.

" Now, look at that !" said Paget. " The little black
feller's got fight enough into him fur a hull ridgyment,
as the sayin' is. Ef I was a-goin' "

"Just like you men !" called out an exasperated female
voice from the " west room." " Why couldn't you lock
up the dogs when you got them separated ! "

Nero had the advantaofe this time, and was not so
easily induced to let it slip. Paget, thinking it was now

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HOW A COOLNESS AROSE

his turn to iiibeifere, undertook to sepaiati; them ; ]mt
his visible nervousness only encouraged the eoml)atants.

" Bill is afraid ol' cold water, and "Nero oi" a "un !'

It was a woman's suggestion, but both men hastened
to act on it. Paget dashed oft to the shop for the firearm,
while his host (juietly took up a pail of water and deliber-
ately poured it over the dogs, thoroughly drenching both.
But neither the drenching nor the formidable-looking
blunderbuss brouglit in by Jim Paget had any effect on
the enraged creatures.

" Joseph, shall I shoot into them ?" asked Paget excit-
edly.

"It isn't a shootin;*: gun that you brouglit," was the calm
answer. " N<y, it isn t necessary to hurt the poor dogs."

Then, with liis deliberate, habitual coolness he stepped
between the two lirutes, grasped either firmly by the
neck, and forcibly drew them apart.

" Now, then," he said to the astonished Jim, "take Bill,
he is the ({uietest, and shut him up under the shop, and
I'll put Nero in the slujp. iVfter dinner we'll turn Nero
loose, and he'll go home."

So the two dogs, Bill snarling and Nero growling, and
each one, no d mbt, claiming the championship, were le<i
away to their resp«'ctive places of confinement.

" They liain't hurt each other, but you'll never make
them fritndly too:;et]ior as long as they live, " said Paget,
coming back mt. » the lious'* and crashing into a dish of
currant Jam, tdat liad escaped unhurt, though it wa^^, <»f
coui-se, no longer eatable. ' Well, 1 never did see," he
continue^l, hAlf-apologetically, " sech a ruin of a dinner.
Joseph, ef it haiiB t been fur me, them dogs vv ould 'a' upset
the stove an' Hurnt your house up."

BETWEEX BILL AND NKRO.

173

" If they had been of a heavier build they might have,"
without the suspicion of a smile. " But what a terrible
shame to put Jane to so much trouble,"

" Yes ; an' what a terryble shame to spile sech a nap-
pertizin' dinner, as the sayin' is," said Jim,in his practical
wav.

" Well, it will do to feed to the chickens. James, I was
just going to ask you what ever became of the young
t'cllovv who, you were telling me, lived with your son.
He seemed to have been a clever young chap, from your

talk."

" ' Clever ' ? Well, that ain't exac'ly the word fur to
describe him, I ain't so hungry that I can't give you the
pertic'lers while the dinner gits cooked over agin. We'll
set right out door, by the shady old well, of our conver-
sation wun't intyrupt Mrs. "

"Xo;" came a voice from the cellarway ; "it won't
interrupt me. But dinner will soon be rea<ly."

" You are the curi'stist folks not to git excited that T

ever did hear tell of," said Pao-et. ' Well, this here

young man took to intyferin' into everybody's business-

There's my little gran'chihlren : they're the cutest fellers

fur to study you ever see. Well, Josepli, that young man

toM 'em they'd got tlieii' jography all mixed up, an'

• liscouraged 'cii; so they ([uit a-learnin' it fur a spell; an'

then lie tells 'cm their urammars is writ wrono- ; an' their

Ilf'aders wis shaky in their hist'iy ; an' he found terryble

t';iult with th«' portry into them : said the mectter was

fi skippin' a cog- no, went a-skippin' afoot now an' agin ;

an' talked so hi<>h-falutin' that the school-master

threateDed fur to report to the Eddication Trustees.

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HOW A COOLNESS AROSE

" Our folks let all that pass; but when he come fur to
talk about things \V(i could all understand, an' said we
orter have an even six hours atvveen every meal ; an' not
have no pies an' things t'ur supper; an' that it was
a-gittin' fashionable now-a-days fur to have nap kins
onto the table ; an' that I was <lead wnmg to help myself
to onct, when I was hungry, we begun to see he was
a-goin' a leetle too fur.

" Bimeby he told the hired girl she was puttin' too miieh
shortenin' into the pastry, an' that slie needn't cook no
more onions, 'cause they didn't agree with hijii, an' we
see a storm was a-comin'. The nex' day he told her that
his faverrite preserve was huckleberry Jam an' quince
marmerlade ; an' that her milk -pails wan't properly
washed ; an' that she didn't change her aprons often
enough, an' we knowed the air was jest chuck-full (;f
steamboat explosions.

" The hired girl hadn't got more'n half cooled down
afore my youngest daughter comes in, an' he serlutes her
with the information that it tain't nice fur real stylish
schoolgirls to take an' plaster their chewin' gum onto the
winder-sill an' under the table, an' we see it was time fur
to take in sail, as the sayin' is.

" The same evenin', or the day before, I most forgit
which, he ups an' tells my son's wife that it wan't
considered genteel any more fur ladies to wear all their
jool'ry at the breakfast table, an' I mistrusted there was
a dog-fight on the ticket, so to speak.

" ' Twan't long afore he insisted that the healthiest
way fur to sleep was to have your winders open to both
ends ; an' that beds orter be aired 'most all day ; an' that
it was pisen to bake pies onto a dish we'd had in the

BETWEEN BILL AND NERO.

175

family fur thirty year, 'cause he said the cracks into it
was full of j^erins, an' I could 'a' swore a earthquake was
all but upon us.

" The nex' day he quorrl'.d with the butcher, 'cause he
didn't make his sausages accordin' to his stric' notions of
proprierty, as the sayin' is, an' we felt it into our bones
that something was dead sure fur to happen.

" The nex' thing he done he told my son it wan't
etiquette to set down to the table into his shirt sleeves,
an' that dogs an' eats orter be shet out door at meal tiuie
an' not be fed permisc'us like by the hull family, an' that
it wan't considered perlite in these here enlightened days
to bring in tramps off'n the street to set down an' eat
along with the household. I see my son didn't like fur
to have a teetotal stranger do the thinkin' fur the hull
family, so I wan't surprised when he reached "

" Now, then, dinner is ready, and I'm sure we are all
hungry enough."

" Well ! Ef your wife don't beat all creation, Joseph,
fur to hustle a meal of victuals onto the table!" said
Pallet, striding; into the house and takinu- the Lfuest's seat
of honor, directly und"" ^he old clock.

No traces of the late disaster could be seen. The tloor
was perfectly clean, — dry, almost, — the bi'oken table was
removed and another was in its exai-t place, and a
counterpart of the "ruined" dinner was served.

The host followed more leisurely, and still more
leisurely began to wait on the table.

This was too much for the impatient Paget, who broke
in : " You're so slow, Joseph, an' I'm so hungry, I'll jest
help myself; an' when you all come to see us you can

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176

now A COOLNESS AROSE

pitch in an' do tlie sairio. Tlie all-firod smart young man
is non coiiipns hienfas, as the sayin' is, as I was jost
perceedin' fur to tell you. I hope you'll both excuse me ;
but I know the size of my appiTtite better'n other
people."

And he did help himself — to all the viands on tin;
table at once, his most dextrous feat being the apparently
accidental tumbling on his plate of two large pieces of
apple pie. l)ut it was not accidental ; it was the result
of adroit manipulation of the knife, and the deprecatory
glance cast at his hostess was one of the little arts that
invariably accompanied it.

His plate was now heaped so full of food that it looked
as if nothing but the most expert jugglery could keep it
all from sliding off into his lap. No doubt the fault-
finding young man he told about so often had been paving
the way for much-needed reforms in a benighted house-
hold.

The host smiled good-humoredly ; but, woman-like, the
hostess seemed hurt.

" How far had we got with that there story, Joseph ? "
Paget suddenly demanded, with his mouth full of the
various dishes heaped on his plate. " I think I must be
goin' home now in a few days. You see, they'll be gittin'
kinder lonesome about now, without the old man, though
I hain't hardly got started to make you a visit yit, an'
we want to examine into them there patents."

" Oh, don't be in a hurry yet, Mr. Paget," said his

hostess kindly. " Still, if you must go There comes

the stage now, back from Newcastle. I'll just ask him
tQ call to-morrow for your trunk."

HKTWEKN liILL AND NKFIO.

177

And slic suited tlic Mftion to tlio word, somowbat to
tlie consternation of Mr. Pa^rt, wlio went tlu* next day,
surely enougli, l(»avin<^' liis intci-estinu;' little story
unfinished for ten long yeai's.

His kind host said to him at ]»artinix: "t have
enjoyed your visit, James ; hut 1 didn't expect you would
be ofoinji" so soon."

" No more did 1, Joseph," was the luguhricjus answer.

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23 WEST .<iAIN STREET

WEBSTER. NY 14580

(716) 872-4503

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A QUIET EVENING AT HOME.

Igra^HE scene lies in a Mormon household. The family
^J^ comprises Elder Sampson, his fi\'e wives, and his
children — forty- two souls in all, not countini.^ tho.se who
have become immortal.

" Wlu^re's my pen-kr»if«3 ?" roars the elder. " Can't a
man be allowed to hav.j a pen-knife to trim his nails ?
Was it you, Nancy, that borrowed it this time ? How
many pen-knives of he:* own does each wife of mine think
she is entitled to, without borrowin;^' mine twice a week '"

" I never touched your pen-knife, you old lieathen !
So there !" screams Nancy, who prides herself on being
his spunkiest wife.

" Then it must have been — No, it was Joliiniy ; I re-
mendjer now. But which Johnny !* Whose Johnny ?"

" Whose, surely !' pipes up his youngest and newest
wife. " One Johnny is a thief, and another is an idiot, and
another is sick in be<l this week with gluttony. Thank
Heaven, that's all the Johnnies liig enough to wield a
l)en-knife.''

" Hold vonr tonifue I bellows fhe elder.

" You old fool I" retorts .\aney. " Why don't you stop
her before slie's sai<l her sav. or else let it alone. You
had better follow your own advice, and ]iold your
tobaccoed old tongue yourself ; for if you (hjn't keep still
you'll waken the ' seven sleepers.'"

" Hang the ' seven sleepers !' " cries out the elder.
" Haven't I been tormented by the ' seven sleepers'
these ten years! It's the 'seven sleepers' at morning

wmum

A QUIET EVENING AT HOME.

179

at noon, and at night. The ' seven sleepers' want this,
and that, and the other thing ; and they've always got tlie
mumps, and the measles, and the sore throat. I tell you,
1 want the subject dropped for a fortniglit. IF tlie hang-
dog Gentiles only knew what we faithful are called on
to suffer, they would admit that w»* an; justified in
claiming the Sevcmth Heaven in th«; licrtijiftur."

Then turninj:; to his fifth wife, Ik; suvs Imrshlv,
Madam, I want you to l«jarn that you will losr your
liold on my affections if you don't cease carping ahotit
my family. It is a large family; and a hcaltliy family ;
and a well hrought-up fainily ; and — and — tlir most
(•i(MlitMl)le <me, on the whole, in tliis place. N«»w, tlin-e
nv four days ago, (I haven't had a chanc(i to sp(!ak about
it Ixd'ore) thrt;e or four "

" She'd better l(iarn better than to make any icniarks
about tny Johnny !" Nancy here breaks in, her eyes
flashing fire at the remembrance of the fifth wife's
satirical comments on the Johnnies.

■ Nancy," says the eldei*. I'ising from his chair with an
air that means instant obedience, " Nancy, you have
work to attend to in the kitchen. You may come in
a;^ain when T call you."

Nancy throws down a patch-work quilt with sulh^i
vindictivene.ss, and strides out of the room.

"Now, then," says the elder, turning lo the fifth wife,
" I want to know what you meant two or three days ago
h\ tlirting with my .second wife's young cousin ? What sort
of wifely behavior is tliat in an elder's household ? What
sort of opinion do you suppo.se 1 can have of you when I
find you out in such actions ?" ■

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A {^UIKT EVENING AT HOME.

mi" •

" Well, /tf is a riic*.* yoiino- man ; jiikJ hv doesn't look
like an old cannibal idol, either, as yon do ! And he isn't
loade<l down with a houseful of quarrelling wives, ^nd
run!iin<r ovei* with snivelling brats. So there, now!"

" Sliad(is of Sniitli I" ganps the astonished eMer.
" Woman, do you know the penalty of such an outburst
as this ? Do you know wherefore I keep an old slave-
driver's whip in my caljinet, under lock and key 1

" Curse it all 1" Ik; mutters to himself. " It is Nancy
that emboldens all my wives to try to shake my authoi'ity.
It was Nancy's jabbering that gave this woman tlu; nerve
to retort." Then he resumes aloud : " This is your first
nottiworthy rebelli(m, and I might be lenient with sou :
])ut the offence Is too aggravated a one. My wives all
have to undergo the penalty of wilfully insulting me. '

The fifth wif(! shmldeis. But just at this ci'itieal
juncture the .second wife — whose cousin it was that had
fired the elder with jealous}' — hurries into the room with
the inielligenee that thr fifth wife's child is almost dying
with croup. So the fifth wife escaped the punishment that
threatened her.

" The fates aie aij'uinst me!" fjroans tlie elder. '"Not
oftener than once in six months can 1 score a nioial
victoi'v over one of these women. Just as I get worked U|)
to boiling ht.'at, and begin to strike teri'oi' to a euipi'it's
heart, somehow the rest of them manage to upset things
and sta\(' oil' juniishment till it is too late. Ihey don't
<'onnive together to do it, either: foi- they hate one
another all around like cats and dogs.

" See here," he calls to Susan, his second wife, whom he
has not seen for three days, ' what sort of re[)ort is this
I hear of you f

A QUIET EVENING AT HOME.

181

The second wife holds out a nevr smoking cap, whicli
she has brought him as a peace-offering, but he refuses
to notice it, though his stock of smoking caps is always
depleted, as the youngsters cannot be restrained from
making away with them.

She looks at him pleadingly aini says, " Heaven knows
what repoit ; we are all spites cm one anothei*."

'■ Spies be hanged !" roars the; elder. " You spend
altooether too much time readinu' them hcatheni.sh Gentile
st.)ry papers. You clutch onto a jS'or York WceHu the
moment it comes into the hous*.', and read, and read,
without any judgment oi- coHnnoii-sciisc,' ; an<l you neglect
tlie work appointed for you to do. Your woi'k is at the
sink, washing dislies, not reading eock-and-))ull ,stori(!s
in the only decent rocking-cliair kft in the house, and
you know it right well. When vour work washing
dishes is done, \o\\ have the faniilv darning to attend to.
Hci'e I go about with niLii^eder stockiims than the scum
of San Francisco ; and I'll wager a house full of them
ilarned papers that everybody else in this household is
lis bad off as I am.''

" Well, it was my own copy of the j)a[)er that I was
reading, so I don't see wdiy Liz/ie need com[)lain," replies
the second wife, who is the meekest of them all, and con-
scfjuently the worst a])use<l.

" Who said Lizzie comi)]ain('(l about anvthin<i"^" shouts
the eMer. "' What are you gi'und)ling about now ;' Can't
\<)U let a man have anv ixsiee ? Do vou want to see him

* & I «

Wear the wrecks of stockings, and then come and abuse him
ahout it, and come in and intei'i'upt liim when he is having
a talk with his oidv ii()()d-lookin<i' wife '. Where is that

■ 1 !

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182

A QUIET EVENING AT HOME.

last p;ii>or, now, anyhow < IF you don't know, who's
going to ? "

" My copy was snatched away from nie wlien I was
trying to read it and work at tlie same time. But there
are two othei-s who have them."

" Don't tell me that ! I know that I subscribe for three
copies of those papers, and get a slight discount off. I
take them for the sake of peace in the family ; but what
good do they ever do me ? Throe of them, and I can't
have one ! — Go and call them all in."
" What, the children, too ? "
" No ; the wives."

" Now, I want to know," cries the long-suffering elder,
as .soon as they are all assembled but the fifth one, " I
want to know if there is one .solitary individual in this
household that can locate any one of the three copies oi
the New York Wediij, or any other heathenish paper
that I sub.scribc for, as I would like to look them over
myself. If your tempers weren't all so sour, I might
have a little cliat with some of you ; but that is out of
the question. Come, now ; where is Susy's, or Peggy's,
or Lizzie's copy of that story paper — or of any other
paper."

The four wives all begin talking at once, and each one
suggests a great many likely an<l unlikely places where
the papers might be. But when search is made no one
of the three copies turns up. At length Nancy declares
that the third living James had been seen to gobble up
some of them to build a kite.

" Very good," says the elder, in a t(3ne that means very
bad for James the third. " Very good ; where is the boy?
Bring him to me."

A QUIET EVENING AT HOME.

183

Diligent search for James is made by Nancj- ; but he
cannot bo found. He has, no doubt, strayed off and got
lost. No one seems much ahirmod at this, however, as it
was a weekly occurrence for a James or a William to lose
]iiin.self — and lie was generally suflt'rud to find himself,
too. The h(msch()ld was too busy or too much pcrtui'bed
to <,'o 'u search of lost members, and none were anixelie
enough or valued encmgh to excite the cupidity of kid-
nappers. So it is conclnded that James will turn up in
the morning ; but the WeeldlcH are considered lost for
fifood and all.

The four wives V>etakc tliemselves to their several
emplovments, and tlie elder is constrained to content him-
.self with the Suit Laic TrUmiic. The tlireatenings
breathed against him and his religion in that resolute,
indomitable cxposer of Morn'onism are scarcely calculated
to soothe him.

Throwing down the p;i|»er with an on th. he .says to him-
self, "I believe I promised Susy's boy a birthday nrt'sent,
and to bring peace to this disturbed house I must fulfill
tliat promise. But how many other birthday presents
shall I in consequence hav(} to make within a week ? Let
me see — fortunately, not more than two or three on this
(tecasion.

" Su.san," he calls. " come here."

Susan comes, in fear and trembling. But thi; elder
says pleasantly, with a smile suggestive of inexhaustible
benevolence, " 1 must give that boy a present, Susan, for
he has been a very good boy, indeed. His birthday will
soon be here now ; on — on — next week — on Friday, I
believe."

" My son's birthday will come on Friday, you heartless
old man ! " flashes Nancy.

184

A QUIIST EVENING AT HOME.

" Well, well," says the elder, " let that pass ; he shall
have a present, too. This boy, Susan ; his birthday — "

" Is to-day," says Susan, sadly. " You have forgotten."

" How can you expect me to remember everything ? "
snarls the elder. " It is your place to remind me of such
matters, not mine to bear them in mind."

" I suppose she was afraid to mention it," sneers Nancy.
'' I take precious good care to remind you of what / want ! "

" Have a care, both of you, carping viragoes, or neither
boy shall receive any present at my hands ! Susan, I
like your boy, and he deserves it, I hope ; but beware
how you bring him into my disfavor ! "

" What have you to say against my son ? " Nancy
asks fiercely. " If he isn't the best child 3'ou have — "

In good truth, the two boys under discussion — whose
birthdays, unfortunately, fell so near the same date —
were as little alike in their appearance and disposition as
an English yokel and a German bauer. The advantage,
it need scarcely be said, was in favor of Susan's boy.

Nancy leaves the room abruptly to call in the two
wretched boys, and another disturbance seems imminent.
But scarcely has she stepped out of the door when angry
blows and execrations are heard, followed by feline
screams of pain and fury. A look of distress crosses
Susan's face, and the elder scowls savagely.

The noise increases ; evidently the whole household is
alarmed. The door opens forcibly, and Nancy bounces
into the room, chastising with a hatchet handle a large,
domestic-looking cat, which, frightened almost to death,
springs towards Susan and finds shelter under her pro-
tecting skirts.

In the doorway loom the three other wives, togethci*
with ten or fifteen shouting, quarrelling children.

A QUIET EVKNINO AT HOMK.

185

" What does this mean ? " cries the elder, in his most
appalling voice, rising majestically to his feet.

" Why," says Nancy deriantly, " that's Susan's thief cut,
and I caught her stealing Lizzie's chicken pie I "

" Let Lizzie look after her own atiairs ! " says the elder,
for once disposed to shield his wife Susan.

But the hubbub cannot be put down at a word from
the elder. Dust darkens the air ; the dignified eld«>r him-
is jostled ; the five wives handle their tongues with
tremendous effect ; one child gets off with a burn, another
with a bloody nose, another with an ugly cat scratch.
The offending cat, of course, gets off scot fVee. (The
writer who sympathizes with the mild-mannered feline
can generally work it, in romancing, to let the gentle
creature go scat free.)

What a scene to enlarge upon ! But who would be so
morbid as to wish to enlarge upon it ? Let us withdraw
from so much of human depravity and wretchedness,
sufficing it to say that neither of those misguided boys
received his promised present.

Yes, I have snid enouich — and more than enough to suit
the fastidious reader. However, I trust the fastidious
reader (for such T hope to have) will allow that the
motive is good, and that but for a profound ignorance of
the " Question " I might have said a good deal more — and
in still more vigorous language.

I ■ ;i . '■

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1 uiA.

DISCOURAGING A JOURNALIST :

I. AS A MUTE, INGLORIOUS MILTON.

[0 you wonld like to become a journalist, eh ?"
surpri.sedlv asked an editor of a vouth who had
come to the office as devil a few years previously, and
had been steadily advancinj^ himself ever since.

" That's my destiny, sir," replied the young man grimly.

" Indeed ? I've seen people attempt to drive their
destiny before, and fetch up in the asylum, or turn out a
horse-jockey. Destiny, my boy, is a cruel despot that
cannot be driven, nor led, nor wheedled, nor intimidated,
nor hoodwinked. Destiny leads a man on as the current
carries one in a boat without oars down an unknown
stream, where you do not know from one bend to another
what is before you. You may glide into a peaceful lakC)
or ground on a sunken snag, or be dashed over a fright-
ful cataract. Destiny toys with a man as a mousing cat
naively toys with a captive mouse. There is this great
difference, however, that I must point out, even at the
risk of spoiling my metaphors: Gliding along in a boat,
as suggested, would have a charm and an excitement
about it, and it could not bo indefinitely prolonged; while
Destiny drags along from day to day like a contented,
leisure-loving snail, sometimes for seventy, eighty, or, in
extreme cases, one hundred years, with provoking
monotony, so that the only pleasurable emotion there is
is in retrospect. You wouldn't like to glide in a boat at
the pace of one inch per day, would you ? Then as to the
cat and the mouse : I have sometimes seen the mouse

r. AS A MUTK, INGLORIOUS MILTON.

187

escape, but 1 never saw a man escape from Destiny. Yet
a man may as sen.3il)ly yield blindly to Destiny, and idly
he its sport, as to think of compelling it. I am a Fatalist
ui^'solf, but I sliould not advise any one else to worship
so cruel a god. Depend upon it, my boy, the only inani-
mate gods to serve aie Industry and Perseverance. They
have been known to check-mate Destiny."

The young man did not know whether the editor was
moralizing for his benefit or for his own amusement.
" Sir," he said timidly, " may I show you som(» of my
immature effusions ?"

"Certainly. But never call them 'effusions' — though
I dare say 'diffusions' would do — ' premature diffusions.'
Winil-falls would come nearer tlie mark, because I doubt
whether they are either immature or over-ripe. Let me
see now what you have hammered out. — So ! I will read
it aloud, as it may scare away stray intruders.

" ' WHEN 1 WAS YOUNG.

" ' When I was young, as I used to be,

Full many a year ago,
I used to think it was howling fun

To " holler," and aing, and swim.

'' ' I went to school when I was a boy,

And learned how to skate and fish ;
I taught the boys how to rig a ship,

The girls how to throw a ball.

*' ' I sharpened pencils for all the school ;

I learned how to shipwreck books ;
I studied fireworks and other things ;

I learned how to build a dam.

' i

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188 DISCOURAGING A .TOURyALIST.

'* ' I iiiudo bon-tires and I found birds' nests ;

I inked desks and books with glee ;
1 made scare-crows and I set tliem up,

To peg at with stones and bones.

" * [ had a dog, and his name was Grim ; —

A dog very fond of war ; —
He used to bark like a tongue-tied cub

At teams, and at crows, and boys.

'* ' I used to sing like a homesick jay.

And whistle all out of tune ;
I u>ed to laugh like a milk-maid belle

At ev'rythiiig that I said.

'' *I used to sport, sprawling o'er my vest,

A chain thiit I hoped was gold ; ,

1 u^ed to wear a great humbug watch,
That never was built to go.

" ' I used to ride im a grizzled nag.

In those happy days of yore ;
His mane pulled out and his ears shot off,

His frame very gaunt and gone.

" ' I used to sail in a crazy skiff,

A craft very crank it was ;
Too warped to sell and too good to burn —

The boat for a boy like me.

•' ' I used to hunt with a rum old gun,

A primitive weapon, sure ;
Too game to burst and too worn to k^U —

At laiit it killed me — all but.'

" I don't see that Destiny had anything to do with
this, my boy — it was indigestion, or a 'piemature' attack
of cerebral jiui-jams. Now, I turned out surer-'footed '

'■ !

with
attack
footed '

I. AS A MUTE, INfJLORlOlJS MILTON.

ISO

verso at your ajje, — verse that would rhyiiir p* chance in-
tervals, too, — and Destiny only allows nie, on sufierance,
to preside over a piratical Democratic newspaper, that is
unknown in HuiopM-, has no j)ayinLj suhserihers in Canada
or Mexico, and that will he t'oi-<;otten within a year after
Destiny winds up my career and shoves another man
iiiti) my editorial chair, who will certainly run foul of
the sheriff within one hundred issues <jf i.. paper. —
Come, now, is this your first effort at verse-mnkini,' r

"Yes, sir; it is. I wrote that two v ars .aid three
months ae;o, when I should have heen still a .« hoolhoy."
" Quite true," said the eclitor. " ' Two yeurs and three
iiioiiius ago!' Well, well ; When you were still in the
(lark ages ot* your intellect, as it were. I 8upi)ose y^ i
aie firndy persuaded that your intellect is now a nine-
teentli century (me — whereas the trutli is, it hasn't yet
advanced to the Reformat'.on period. To return to your
lines, which are not half had, after all. I wctuld advise
you to send this away ^o "Imost any editor in the land,
not keeping another copy, 'raught, or memo, yourself.
Said editor will tire it into the waste-hasket, with unpar-
liamentary language', and that will he the last of it. You
8e<', my hoy, you cannot he a poet all at once, any more
tlian you can he a doctor or a hanioist. I am jioin*;; to
criticise you freely; hut if I put the screws on too tight,
try out, and I will let up. Now, if you were a Words-
worth, you know, you wouldn't he so secretive ahout the
nationality and breed of your childhood pets. To be sure,
you do give away the gender of both dog and horse ; but
you don't explain whether the dog was a pup or in his
dotage. If you were a Byron, your dog would have more
horse sense and better morals than a white man, and the

I,'

190

DISCOURA^!NfJ A JOURNALIST.

Wi .'i

' noble animal ' would be no slouch of a steed. A Mark
Twain would take us into his confidence just fa." enough
to tell us that the dog was lousy and mangy, and the
horse originally the property of a Nebraska half-bree<l.
Almost any one would up and tell which one of the school-
girls he married, and what Destiny has done for him now
that he is older and wiser. — What else have you ? "
" Here is an unrinished poem, sir, that — "
"There you go again! You must say, 'an incomplete
poem.' ' The Admiral's Last Cruise ; or, How the BattU^
was Fought and Won,' eh ? Your title's too long ; some
compositors wouldn't know how to work the second half
all in on one line. Let's see how it reads, anyway : —

" *TIIE ADMIRAL'S LAST CRUISE;

OR,
How THE i ATTLE WAS FoUGHT AND WoN.

" ' The battered old Lord Admiral,

With fleet of fifty sail,
Had long time cruised o'er heaving seas,

And made his foemen quail.

" ' One day, as thus he ranged about,

A man upon the mast —
Who chewed tobacco, and did spit

The juice down thick and fast

" * U;;^on the heads of those on deck —

Thus bellowed, " I do spy
A craft that is so far away

She looks just like a fly."

" ' With that, the old Lord Admiral

Did catch up his spy-glass,
And ran and swarmed up the tall mast

Ab nimbly as au ass

I. AS A MUTK, INGLORIOUS MILTON. 191

'* ' Whicn makes a sudden muve to kick

The boy who bothers hiui.
" A hard-foughc battle there will be,

With loss of life and limb ;

" ' " And many ships will swift go down,

And many men will die."
Thus spok'-! the Lord Hij^h Admiral,

When he the speck did spy. '

" Is that as far as you could get ? Why, you don't
even tell us whuthtr the enemy was renlly in sight, or not.
' Fifty sail, 'eh ? and all up-set about a Hy -speck on the
vast ocean ! What you want to do, my boy, is to heave
some of your top-heavy conceit and ignorance overboard,
and strike Destiny for a cargo of plain common sense,
with a fflimmcrin'; of reason and a little dansferous know-
ledge of inductive logic thrown in by way of ballast.
Here we are all at sea as to whether the Admiral's foe
was a white man or a Chinaman ; or as to whether the
Admiral ever found his foe at all ; or even as to whether
the stupid old fellow would know his foe if he should
meet him on the street. Why, anyone would naturally infer
that the Admiral must have had to turn to and lick him-
self out of his boots, for want of a better foe to tackle,
while the ' fifty sail ' stood around in easy attitudes, and
languidly bet on how long it would take the old fool to
get through pommelling himself. While your strong holt
-seems to be a graceful facility in spreading your titles all
over tlie page, there is a certain deceptiveness about those
titles that would make a subscriber think he wasn't get-
ting his money's worth of tangible facts. A little more
regard for perspicuity and a little less straining after out-
Jiide show would about even up your poetry, though it
runs too much to bear-garden slang."

1 1

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192

OISCOUHAGINO A JOURNALIST.

" Yes, sir ; but the poem is incomplete."

" To be sure ; I had forgotten that important fact.
Why didn't you remind me of it when I was saiHng into
your cock-eyed okl admiral ? What's the i-eason, tliougli,
you didn't wind the thing up .ship-shape, and wipe up the
blood, and holystone the decks, and clean the big guns,
and look after the wounded, and shut sable Night over
the scene, and ring up the pale round moon, and 1' Envoi
the reader yawning to a nightmare sleep ? "

" It is too vulgar to be .spun out further, sir ; and
besides, I didn't want to make it as long as a nursery
ballad."

" Certainly ; you're level-headed there. Better to cut
it short and chaotic and leave the reader in the doldrums
than trail an index and a sequel astern and subjoin a
preface. Now, you leave this with me, and I'll trim the
sails a little ditlerently, and we'll smuggle it into Satur-
day's issue and note how many subscribers give us the
.shake."

" I am very much obliged," said the young man feebly.

" Don't mention it. I've seen older people than you put
up with more abuse for the sake of shoving themselves
into print. But haven't you any love songs ? You're no
poet of Destiny if you can't write that sort of slush.
Why, your true 2^oe^(t 7ia,st'i^<t/' would rather scribble love-
lorn poems than go courting. "

" Well, here's a four-liner, for an autograjjli album —
though I haven't had a chance to put it there 3'et."

" That's a bad practice. Flee the insidious little dog's-
eared album as you would the Latin humorists. — But still
there's no occasion for you to be so distressingly frank
about it. You were too reserved about your idiotic dogs

it fact,
ing into
thoujrh,

e up the
ig guns,
rht over
"'r Envoi

ill'

and

nursery

L>r to cut
doldrums

subjoin a

trim the

to Satur-

^e us the

an feebly.
,n you put
lemselves
lYou're no
of slush,
bble love-

albun.i—

let.

ttle dog's-

- But still

rlv frank

[iotic dogs

I. AS A MUTE, INGLORIOUS MILTON.

193

and ponies, and now you fly to the opposite extreme.
\yhy, if you hadn't told me, I shouldn't have known but
V'Hi had written it in the album of your own sweetheart
find also in the albums of every other fellow's sweetheart.
lict's see it. — Hum ; just ' V^erse for an Album,' when j'-ou
iiiii;'1it have given it a heading longer than the 'pome'
itself. Attention ! —

Why

should you ask me
When I would give you hei
And all I have at my command,
You so have set my soul aflame.'

my name,

and hand.

" Now, as you haven't written it, you say, in any
importunate — or rather unfortunate — person's album,
liere is your golden opportunity — don't ! Next year
aliout this time you might find out that by some terrible
mistake you had inadvertently written it in the wrorg
young lady's album. — Is this the best you have ? Have
you no pastorals or madrigals ? "

" I will show j^ou one more poem, sir ; but it is incom-
plete, too, and 1 don't know what classification it would
come under."

" You seem to have a penchant for leaving your poems
at sixes and sevens. Vulgarly speaki^ig, you bite off
more than you can chew. Well, let me * review ' it foL
you ; and if we can't call it a sonnet we'll call it a lyric. —
So ; I will read it : —

(( (

A SHOUT OF TRIUMPH.

" ' Sing, oh my heart, in joyous strain,
Sing great — sing wild, delirious joy !
Thou art released from all thy pain,
Delight has come, with no alloy.

; !

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194 DISCOURAGING A JOURNALIST.

" ' Brave heart ! thou manfully didst hope.
Through five long, weary, bitter years ;
With giant difficulties cope,
Though racked by ceaseless madd'ning fears.

" * Sad days did but succeed sad days,
But now, true heart, all such are past ;
The glad sun darts resplendent rays.
Thy day of triumph dawns at last.

" * I'll spread thy fame from East to West,
This big round earth thereof shall sing ;
Not through one century's brief quest,
But through all time thy name shall ring ! '

" My boy, there does seem to be an hiatus somewhere
in this. Is it unfinished in the middle, or at both ends ?
The last stanza might be made impressive ; but you have
made it simply amusing. I suppose it doesn't refer to
your heart-disease, but to some candy-loving sweetheart,
eh ? But you must muzzle that heart of yours, or put it
under lock and key, for it is dangerous to let it go wan-
dering about at large. Like your admiral, it doesn't seem
to have any clear idea where to go or what to do with
itself. Seriously, you will have to shout yourself black
in the face before ' this big, round earth ' will pay any
attention to you, or your heart, or your sweetheart ; or
care a snap whether her name is Harriet Jane or Alice
Maude Ethel. You see, ' this big, round earth ' is so
occupied in her leisure moments with the fame of her
Shakespeares, Scotts, and Longfellows, that she will only
grudgingly countenance a new-comer. She is notoriously
cold and unjust to green poets ; but this either puts tliein
on their mettle or kills them off. However, it isn't many

somewhere
both ends ?
it you have
I't refer to
sweetheart,
■s, or put it
it go wan-
aesn't seem
to do with
rself hlack
11 pay any
3theart; or
ne or Alice
irth' is so
Biine of her
le will only
notoriously
r puts them
isn't n^any

I. AS A MUTE, INGLORIOUS MILTON.

195

men that can't and won't get even with their enemies
wlien their ' day of triumph ' does really come.

" Well, my boy, I have kept you long enough for one
sitting ; to-morrow we will examine into your merits as
a writer of modern prose. I will wind up by hazarding
the op'nion that you and Destiny may get there as poets —
if you live — along in the early childhood of the next
century — perhaps while the century is still in his swad-
dling clothes. During the exciting Election of 1912 you
may be in a position to realize a dollar apiece for Cam-
paign songs, or to wholesale them at six for five dollars.
On the other hand, you may die of chicken-pox, or croup,
or some other infantile disease. These things often prove
fatal to embryo poets.

" Come, don't look sad ; you may develop into an eerie
poet like Coleridge or Poe, or a sentimental one like
Tennyson. Meanwhile, you will have to go through a
love-affair that will shake you all up before you can turn
out anything marketable. Sorrow is about the best
poetry-tonic, and the years of early manhood are fuller
of it than an out-house is of spiders. — So long."

h-^l.

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t :

DISCOUEAGING A JOURNALIST :

II. AS AN UNFLEDGED HUMORIST.

'4' V 5

*' ^^^ELL," said the editor cheerfully next day to tlie

^mi^ youth who aspired to be a journalist, "I'm in
the humor to give you another sitting-on. The old
proverb says, ' Never put off till to-morrow what you
can do to-day,' and I suppose it refers to the bitter as
well as the sweet ; to the boy with a bag of candy to eat
and to the boy with a garden to hoe."

" I have nothing in the shape of prose, sir, bi ^ the
draught of a letter I wrote the other night to an old
chum."

" I am very glad of that. Besides, what you write for
one individual reader is certain to be a pure specimen of
your style. To be sure, letter- writing is an art, but it is
as different from story or editorial-writing as playing
marbles is different from snow-balling a school-teacher.
You see, I adapt my illustrations to your years and
understanding. — Now, then, hand me your rough draught,
please, and I will read it and comn>ent on it at the same
time. Is this really the first writing of it, or did you go
over it again, with your pencil in one hand and your
eraser in the other V

*' I touched it up a little, sir."

" Good. You would be foolish not to do that. Here

goes

" • My dear Tom : — I have intended to write to you for
ever so long, but every time I have fixed a day for the
fatal deed some person has inopportunely dropped in and

II. AS AN UNFLEDGED HUMORIST.

197

ST:

lay to the
t, " I'm in
The ol<l
what you
e bitter as
^ndy to oat

ir, bi^ the
, to an old

u write for
peciinen of
rt, but it is
as playing
lool-teacher.
years and
vh draught,
t the sauK'
did you so
and your

Ihat. Here

to you for
[ay for tlie
)ped in and

jnnirlod the afternoon or eveninj,^ away from me. These
Philistines have been hrtes noires to me — but then, on the
other hand, they have proved a mascot to you. Not that
niv h)ng-delayed letter is charged, either literally or
tinuratively, with dynamite. Neither can it unpardonably
atHict its reader with grief, nor yet inspirit him ; but that
it will bore you is a foregone conclusion, for I am going
to write entirely about myself. To e({ualizc things, if my
letter is tiresome, it shall be short.'

" Short, eh ? " sneered the editor. " I never saw a letter
start out that way yet that wasn't as long as an alderman's
address. Short ? Why, it's one, tliree, five, seven — ten
pages long 1 Short ? It must have cost double postage
to send it ; and if the mucilage on your envelope wasn't
good, it will go wandering about the country like a
Campaign liar. To resume : —

" ' I was fully persuaded to write you last Wednesday,
because it was my birthday — but again one of your
mascots interfered in the person of a neighbor's son.
Guileless young man ! If I should address the term
mascot to him he would certainly think I was swearing
at him. You kindly asked about my birthday, Tom. It
Conies this year on the 2nd September.'

" * Comes this year,' eh ? That seems to work in very
neatly.

" ' I was delighted with your racy and gossipy letter.
The bold unconventionality of your style is decidedly a
charm rather than a drawback, and I quite agree with
you tliat in writing a friendly letter to an old crony one
Nliouhl not guard so much against being ofi-hand as
against being too precise and particular. At any rate, I
*^"j'>y y<Jur vivacious letter every time I read it over.'

( .

1!* ;■ 1 1 ■

I I

!1- I

■ r X

I, •

N I

A I

I' I

& .1

ili

198

DISCOURAGING A JOURNALIST.

" ' Vivacious — gossipy — racy — bold unconventionality !'
Really, now, when your friend comes to answer your
letter, the only qualifying terms the poor fellow can hit
on will be ' droll,' and ' breezy,' and ' quaint.' And I have
yet to decide that your letter is any one of all these."

" * Truly, as you say, I spent a month this summer in a
quiet spot, and events — or rather, the want of events —
made a great impression on me. My uncle's farm-house
is old, and my uncle's family have their peculiarities.
The venerable chimney was full of swallows ; the garden-
walks were burrowed with mice ; the cellai was runninj;
over with rats ; the door-steps were crawling with ants ;
the fences were loaded with gorgeous slugs ; the stable
was full of unheard-of noises ; the driving-shed was full
of foreign and domestic tramps ; the air was full of noise
from my uncle's unoiled machinery, and foggy with dust ;
and their patrimony was alive by day with " swarming "
bees and melodious by night with feline professors of
music. The dogs slept all over the house, and scratched
off their fleas all night long; and sometimes I myself
slept next day till the sun was half seas over. If any-
body had been annoyed by this state of affairs my uncle
would have stirred up strife between the bees and the
rats, and have starved the cats into an ancestral relish for
a mouse-diet ; he would occasionally have let a flea-tor-
mented dog loose upon the feline choir ; he would have
given me fifty cents to chop down the giant willow that
rasped against the stable shingles and to liberate the
bumble-bees that flopped inside against its panes of glass ;
and he would have placarded the driving-shed to the
effect that a beggar died there the previous forenoon of
yellow fever.'

ionality !'
wer your
)W can hit
.nd I have
these."
miner in a
E events—
'arm-house
sculiarities.
he garden-
as running
with ants ;
; the stable
ed was full
lull of noise
with dust ;
swarming "
•ofessors of
d scratched
I myself
Y. If any-
•s my uncle
ees and the
i\ relish for
a flea-tor-
Iwould have
iUow that
liberate the
es of glass ;
.ed to the
'orenoon of

II. AS AN UNFLEDGED HUMORIST.

199

" Now you are humi)ing yourself, my boy ! The great
mistake you make is to open fire in a slip-shod way.
Start with a laugh and wind up with a joke ; but work
in your twaddle, if you must have it, when you are ' half
seas over,'

" ' A neighbor of my uncle's isn't feeling first-rate this
suninier. He fell out ivith a homemade ladder in his
grandson's leaky barn, and had a rough-and-tumble set-to
with an insulted rooster in mid-air and with half a pound
of new shingle nails on the floor, and he swallowed four
of his sharpest teeth, and ruptured his left thumb, and
hamstrung the muscles hitching his left arm to his
shoulder-socket, and scared four out of the five children
looking on into St. Vitus' dances, and startled a seven-
year-old mare into a circus performance that destroyed
eighty cents' worth of harness; and finally the injured
man hobbled himself home in a " dead dream," not
knowini; afterwards whether he came through the
carriage gate or crawled through a gap in the fence.'

" My dear boy, you are like all the rest of us in one
important respect : you can't do good execution till you
get wanned up to your work. You must have sweated
out a couple of neck-ties in evolving this. — Or did you
catch onto it all without an eftbrt ? "
" Without an effort, sir."

" Good ! I begin to feel encouraged. All the same,
I'm glad there isn't much more. — ' The newsmongers
'lou't disgorge here oftener than once a fortnight, so I
can't give you much news. Mrs. Hildreth and all the
pretty little children came scattering around one day
about three months ago. Master Jimmy went over to

Holl

owavs', to ROC what a

sprmg

fire of Hollowavinn

1! I-

. !

I.. ■ r

sTun

m '

111

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200

niSCOURAOING A JOURNALIST.

rubbish smelt like, and presently came blubbering back,
witii the downy hide all singed off his manly face. He
looked like a spring chicken that had had all its
pinfeathers scorche<l ott' with a vengeance. And we got
oft' without hearing much of what " they say." Jimmy
is of a most in(|uisitivo turn of mind. Just the other
day I happened to be at the depot when the family pjii'ty
were laying in ambush for a mixed. Jimmy was deter-
mined to find out whether the rails are fastened to<jetht'r
with hair-pins or carpet tacks ; so he smuggled himself
up the platform to the freiglit-shed, and then juinpe<l
down to the track. Before he was found the mixe<l
came grinding along, and rasped a w^hole pocketful of
ornamental buttons oft' his richly embroidered little coat,
I am sure everybody was anxicms to find out what
system of punishment the boy's father favors, but lie
w^as mean enough not to give it away. The poor child
was hustled into the car with reckless haste and quite
unnecessary assistance, and that is all I know about it.'

" I don't like the chipper way you talk about little
children and big men having their necks all but broken.
It makes a w^riter out a heatlien, or exposes him as a
greenhorn. Anotlier thing you want to do is to weed
out some of your adjectives. I don't suppose you have
more than eight hundred in stock, and at this rate your
supply would soon be exhausted. Now to conclude :—

" ' I can now calmly proceed to fire my empty inkbottles
out of the window, and distribute some toil-worn pens
among niv unobtrusive relations. I miirht have said
importunate, but my relations are not importunate.

" ' Yours sincerely, Heinrich.'

II. AS AN UNFLEDGED HUMORIST,

201

" ' Hon — Hannibal — Hannah !' What have you signed
VDUi'sclt', young man ?"

" lleiiirich, sir — Gei-inan for Henrv."

" I dare say it is, my boy. I am ghid you are so com-
pletely master oi the German laii"uage ; but if your
letter should hang fire and not reacli its destination, you
will some day get it back in an official en\'el()p(' from the
Dead-letter office, addressed to 'Mrs. or Mi.ss Hannah I'
Then pc'rhaps you will be sorry that you hadn't signed
vour full name in English, like a white man."

" Well, may I ask what your verdict is, sir ?"

" Can you shoot a guni"

Visions of a turkev hunt with the astonished and
(leli<fhted editor flashed throu<xh the vounsj- man's mind.
His genius had been recognized at last I " You are too
kind!" he cried, grasping the editor's hand. "I can
shoot, and should be delighted to go."

" Well, then," calmly continued the editor, " I would
advise you to tear ofi' the first part of your draught and
take it along for wadding next time you feel impelled to
shoot. As for the rest of it, make a nice little sketch of
it, and iijmost any editor will accept it ; but he won't pay
you for it, because Rhadamanthus isn't built that way.

" But what's the matter with your relations that you
should insist on working ofi" y(jur damaged pens on them ?
Didn't they buy yoii jack-knives or take you to the
circus when you were young — that is, yomiger than you
are now 1 Or did they vaccinate V'ou too often ? You
needn't let on but that your ancestors came over with
l^eif Kiikson, and that your nearest relatives to-day are
Hvinn" i' luxurious life in the most exclusive penitentiaries
in the West."

iU|;i ^^

202

DISCOURAOINO A JOURNALIST.

t
>

11^

&. if

"Then you really think my prose better than my
verse V

" Decidedly. Writing a letter, with your heart in it,
is head-work ; writin<^ a pretty little story, loaded up to
the muzzle with good precepts and pointing a solemn
moral even if looked at upside down, is brain-work ;
writing a rattling good humorous item is mind-work;
but writing clear-cut verse, that the matter-of-fact man
and the cultured man alike will read with keen relish,
and then file away in a disused cigar-box for future
enjoyment — that is soul-work.

" Yes, my boy ; you must quit flirting with the Muses,
for every one of them, including Thalia, will give you the
mitten. Strike up a friendship with the old man, Apollo;
then, if you will curry-comb that spavined old nag of
yours that we read about yesterday, and expose him
where some journalistic cow-boy can stampede him away
for good and all, Apollo may some day take you up
behind him on Pegasus for a little turn when the atmos-
phere seems fairly clear. You nnistn't expect the careful
old fellow to tru.st you alone with his steed yet awhile.
1 shouldn't like to see yov break your neck, you know.
Meanwhile, there's lots of hard work before you.

" Now, if any unshaven poet comes around this after-
noon, tell him it's a cold day for bards and a good one
for barbers, and persuade him to bring his little
manuscript around next week."

" And Destiny, sir ?"

" Won't bother you, if you stick to prose."

" Heinrich" did not commit suicide in despair ; lie
wrote more picturesque letters to his chums, telling them
that he had " captured" the editor.

than luy

heart in it,
acU'd up to
I" a soh'iiin
rain-work ;
iiind-work ;
)f-t'act nmn
keen relish,
for future

1 the Muses,
nvc you the
nan, Apollo;
1 okl naj; of

expose him
le him away
ake you up
[1 the atnios-

i the careful
yet awhil''
^ you know.

ou.
d this after-
a good one
g his little

[despair; h^'
telling them

TO MIGNONNE.

A BOATINO HONO.

On the bosohi of the groat seft,

Like a wikl rose of the ocean,

Rests a lovely, perfumed island,

CoiAl-bastioned, ruby sky-spanned,

" nil 'mid the waves' commotion

Asa tlower on a lone prairie ;

Peaceful as a child wlien sleeping

With his playthings round him scattered ;

Where no harsh gales, ocean-sweej)iiig.

Cast up brave ships, torn and shattered.

Here are men the slaves of science ;
Slaves of reason ; money-branded ;
Slaves of pedants, idlers, dreamers ;
Slaves of theorists with streamers ;
Slaves of Anarchists red-handed,
Who to all laws breathe defiance.
No man's time is here his birth-right ;
False-tongued guests bt eed life-long rancor ;
There the great ships, in Jieir earth-flight,
Distant pass, but ne'er cast anchor.

In that free yet sinless region

Wild, unfettered birds victorious

Pipe their rhapsodies sonorous

In a wayward, untaught chorus,

With exuberance uproarious,

Voicing Nature's pure religion.

More in sadness than in pleasure

Winds and waves chant solemn anthems ;

But in soft, harmonious me? sure,

Soothing as majestic rec^uiems.

1 i

III

204

TO MIGNONNE.

Here the winds moan sullen dirges ;
The poor captive song-bird, lonely,
Hymns his weary supplications,
Tinged with bitter lamentations ;
From the cold, sad sea rise only
Threnodies of boist'rous surges.
Here tlie native songster's wary.
And his madrigals in full joy
Carols but from strongholds airy,
Where he Hies tlie tricky schoolboy.

On this calm and glorious even,

With the stars our only i)ilot,

Let us sail away together,

With this fav'ring breeze ^nd weathev.

To thic ione and loveiy islet,

Which shall be our earth and heaven,

In the vast Pacific waters.

Where the warm waves bathe the shingle,

W^here the moonlight longest loiters,

And where seasons sott commingle.

III

HIRAM'S OATH.

CHAPTER I.

S!rjS8HE Wolfe estate was a noble one, stretching along
^i^ the Shenandoah River, in Virginia, near the old
town of Winchester. The family traced their ancestry
liiick to the Plantagenets, and boasted of having been
cavaliers under Charles the First, in England, and pat-
riots under Washington, in America.

But a curse rested on the family — the curse of heredi-
tarv insanity. Sooner or later almost every male member
of the family became liopelcssly demented. Those who
escaped lived to a patriarchal old age, with intellect un-
impaired ; l)ut they were exceptional cases. Still the
family existed, for most of the young men, on attaining
majority, believed they would be exempt fiom the gene-
ral curse, and so married. But there had been some who
had forsworn marriage rather than rear up children to
inherit the fatal malady.

In ante-bellum days Reginald Wolfe was the repre-
sentative of the family, and his heir and only son was
Hiram — one of those noble ones who had vowed to live
ami die alone. He was a resolute young fellow, with a
grim fixedness of purpose, antl he seemed capable of keep-
ing his vow, without unhappy repinings on the one hand,
or C(msidering himself a martyr worthy of canonization
on the other hand. Yet he made the not unnatural mis-
i^ake of keeping his resolution too prominently before
liim. so that it influenced him in every act of his life.

'-I,

206

HIRAM S OATH.

" I do not reproach you," he said to his father, " but no
son shall ever turn to me and say, ' You have exposed me
to the curse.' The race dies with me ; but it shall die
nobly."

" It is a resolution worthy of you, Hiram," said his
father, " but remember that the physicians think your
chances of escape are exceptionally good."

" True. But that would not prevent the curse from
descending to my posterity. I have made a vow, and I
will keep it ; and my life shall be a cheerful one, too."

" God help him if he ever falls in love ! " Mr. Wolfe
said sorrowfully. " God help him, for his resolution will
be sorely tried."

But Kiram, while assisting his father in the superin-
tendence of the plantation, devoted all his leisure to
books, going into society but little. He went about his
daily duties with a brave heart, and never w^avered in
his resolution.

" I shall never be a madman," he said gaily, " nor shall
I ever have cause to repent of my vow."

Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe insisted on the gratification of
their son's every wish, but grieved about him almost as
much as if he had shown symptoms of insanity. " Poor
fellow ! " the former often sighed. " His life will be the
life of a hermit ! But would that others could have done
as he will do."

" If five generations could escape the curse, it would
become extinct," said Mrs. Wolfe. " Could not this be,
Reginald ? "

" It has been the dream of our family, but I am afraid
it is only a dream. Five generations ! More than one
hundred and sixty years ! In five generations there has

I
4;

HIRAM S OATH.

207

always been at least one in the direct line who has suc-
cumbed, and the probabilities are that there always will
be. Hiram knows he could not live to see the curse re-
moved, and he knows the cruel risk there is that a son
or grandson might become insane. So perhaps it is best
that Hiram should never marry, since he wills it so. But
God help him, poor fellow ! "

Hiram lived to see the twenty-fifth anniversary of his
birthday without having cause to repent of his oath. On
that eventful day he was to take a trip to New-York, on
business for his father.

" I think I am invulnerable, mother," he said at the
breakfast table, in answer to a solicitous in(|uiry from his
mother. " I am twenty-five to-day, and as happy as any
man can hope to be. So keep a good heart, mother, and
don't look so sad. I shall come back all right, never fear."

" I think perhaps I had better go, after all, Hiram,"
Mr. Wolfe said slowly. " It— it— '

" No, father ; it will do me good to see New- York ; I
have not been there since I was a boy. Don't be afraid
for me. I am a monomaniac on the subject of our family
affliction ; but, for that very reason, I shall see the curse
removed, because it shall die with me. So I have reason
to be happy — and proud, too."

Mrs. Wolfe bade Hiram good-bye with tears in her eyes.

" Have you a presentiment of evil, mother ? " he asked.

" Yes, Hiram ; I have ; " she answered sadly. " Couldn't
you give it up, even now, and not go at all ? "

Hiram hesitated. He loved his mother devotedly, and
would gladly sacrifice his own pleasure to humor her ;
but this seemed only a whim of the moment, which they
would laugh at together when he came back safe and

:1M"

!'!

208

HIRAM S OATH.

well. Besides, he must occasionally go out into the great
world ; so why should he hesitate about going now 1

" No, mother," he said at length, " I will go. But don't
be alarmed about me. Depend upon it, no one shall cap-
ture me and spirit me away. I have made a vow ; 1 am
safe. Good-bye."

He was gone ; and Mrs. Wolfe kept repeating to her-
self, " ' I have made a vow ; I am safe.' "

Hiram transacted his father's business in tlie j-reat
city, and said to himself as his train drew out of the Jei-
sey City depot : " Just three days since I bade my
mother good-bye, and now I am ready to go home and
see her again. Poor mother ! how fond she is ! How we
shall laugh at her presentiment ! But I am glad that I
have got along all right, and that I have made a begin-
nine: in seeing the world. The world ! What do I care
for it and its mockeries ? "

The return journey was without incident till shortly
after leaving Baltimore a pleasant voice nearly opposite
asked, in a subdued undertone, " Who is that grave young
gentleman, Herbert ? Did you know him at Yale ? "

" Don't know ; don't want to know. Some lucky dog
with lots of funds, from his appearance," said a gruff voice.

Hiram glanced amusedly towards the speakers, and saw
a fair young girl, with an exquisite physiognomy, spiritu-
alized by sad yet bewitching eyes. I5eside her sat a spare
and morose-looking young fellow, with a dare-devil air —
evidently the person addressed as Herbert.

Their eyes met. The young lady blushed, for she knew
her question had been overheard, and turned her eyes
away quickly. Hiram felt a thrill of pain or pleasure, he
knew not which, and as quickly turned away.

Ill ram's oath.

209

But that fair face haunted him, and soon he turned to
steal another glance at it. Again their eyes met ; again
lioth looked away.

" Tliis won't do ! " Hiram said to himself. " I must re-
member my oath, and avoid temptation. A child must
not play with fire ; and in many things I am but a child."

He took a newspaper out of his pocket and was soon
engrossed in reading it. He thought of the young couple
opposite, and reflected that they would probably leave
liim at Harper's Ferry ; Init he did not again even glance
in tlieir direction.

The conductor came hurrying thi'ough the car, with a
troubled look.

" Sir," piped up a venerable old woman, " is anythin'^
wi-oug ? H something is going to happen I want to know
it."

" There is danger," acknowledged the conductor, pass-
ing on and out of the coach.

Everv one heard the dread words, " There is danger."
Every face grew pale, and many a stout heart (juailed.
But what should they do ? Was the danger imminent ?
Wliat was it ?

Hiram was not afraid, but he thought of the loved ones
at liome. " Poor, dear mother ! Is this her presentiment ?"

Tlienliis thout-'hts reverted to the fair youn<j: o-irl and
he wondered whether she was still in the car. He stole
a glance — yes, there .she sat, looking pale, yet resolute.

" She is brave," commente<l Hiram ; "braver than many
a man in this carriage."

A loud and long whistle, or rather shriek, from the
eiiL^ine. Then the door opened and the conductor shouted,
" Save yourselves ! A train is conn'ng ! Jump to the right !"

!■ I

tWF

I I

i I

210

HIRAM S OATH.

There was a panic. The passengers rose to their feet
and strove desperately to reach the door, but becoming
pressed tof];ether, blocked the passage.

" Which is the right ? Which is the right 1 " gasped
terrified men and women helplessl}'.

Seeing the forward end of the coach free, Hiram forced
his way through to it.

" This way," he said to a portly old lady, and she came
forward and jumped courageously oif the train.

By ones and twos, Hiram assisted nearly twenty per-
sons to jump off' — among them, the fair young lady.
Then the rest, having more room to move about, scram-
bled out of tlie coach and reached the ground.

The train was now at a standstill, and there were but
a few in this or any car, when there same a terrible
shock, and Hiram and the other unfortunates with him
were buried in the ruins of a wrecked railway train.

Those who had escaped did everything in their power
to save the victims buried under the broken carriages.
But they could not effect much till a wrecking party
came to the relief, when, after a few hours' imprison-
ment, the poor sufferers were liberated and taken to Bal-
timore or elsewhere for treatment, some of them suc-
cumbing to their injuries.

CHAPTER II.

When Hiram Wolfe recovered consciousness
found himself lying on a sofa in a darkened room.
He wondered what it all meant, when a shooting
pain in his knee brought back to his memory that awful
scene on the train. He groaned, and moved restlessly.

V &

hiram's oath.

211

A figure in white softly drew near him ; a sweet young
face bent pityingly but gladly over him. It was a face
tliat he knew — the face of her whom he had seen and
saved on the train.

" Are you feeling better 1" she asked, in so musical a
voice that Hiram started, and looked long and intently
into her eyes.

" You are right, Alice," said a gruff voice ; and the young
man who answered to the name of Herbert strode into
the room. " He is the same fellow, and his name is
Wolfe, poor devil."

" Oh, hush, Herbert !" said the young lady reproach-
fully. Then she whispered, " He is conscious now."

" Is he ?" and Herbert walked softly to the sofa, and
looked compassionately at the poor sufferer. " Poor
fellow !" he murmured. " He is indeed a hero, and,"
under his breath and glancing towards Alice, '' he has
met a hero's fate !"

But Herbert had a warm heart, and he said warmly,
" Mr. Wolfe, we owe you a debt of gratitude that can
never be cancelled. You nobly saved my sister's life, and
the life of many on our car. You must be our guest till
you are entirely restored to health ; and everything that
medical skill and good nursing can do, shall be done. I
niyself will be your nurse, and I will administer your
medicines and see that you obey orders."

" Thank you," Hiram said faintly. " But am I so
badly hurt that I cannot be taken home 1"

" Doctors' orders are positive that you must not be
moved ; so make the best of it, my dear fellow, and be
contented. You shall be well taken care of ; and I will
telegraph for any of your people that you wish to have
come."

212

HIRAM*S OATH.

li i

I ' I
I' ■* 1

It ^

" My father would have detained you here, Mr. Wolfe,
even tliough you had escaped unhurt, to express his
gratitude to you," said Alice.

" Yes," said lier brother ruefullv, " vou roVtbed nie of
the honor of saving my sister's life."

Not another word of explanation from the young man,
but, as Alice afterwards explained, he had thouglit her
safe and had gone into the next ear, where they had
noticed a helpless blind man. whom he found and assisted
off the train.

"All this excitement and trouble has caused us to take
an extraordinary interest in you, ^Ir. Wolfe," continued
Herbert, with an arch look at his sister. " If you hesitate
to remain as our guest, you must remember you are our
prisoner. So say the physicians, my respected parents,
and every one concerned."

" You are bent on acting the good Samaritan, in spite
of me," Hiram said laughingly, " and I can only assure
you of my deep obligation to you all. What is the name
of my kind benefactors, and where am I ?"

" Sinclair is our patronymic ; and I am Herbert J.
Sinclair, the most graceless good-for-naught of my day
and generation. But this," with an involuntary softening
of his voice, " is Miss Alice, my sister, who atones for all
my short-comings. As for the scene of this interview, it
is the home of our ancestors, — that is, of my deceased
great-grandparents, who were emigrant vagabonds, — in
Frederick, State of Maryland. Excuse me, Mr. Wolfe,
while I call my mother in."

" Don't think my brother has lost his wits," smiled
Alice. " He talks in that absurd way for his own amuse-
ment."

hiram's oath.

213

" Come, Alice; don't talk about my own 'amusement,"'
said Herbert, in a hard and bitter tcme, as lie left the
room. In a moment he returned with Mrs. Sinclair,
whom he formally introduced to the sufierer.

Mrs. Sinclair was a refined, elderly lady, of a deeply
sympathetic nature ; and as the mother of this singular
brother and sister, Hiram became interested in her at
once.

" What is the extent of my injuries ?" Hiram asked,
after Mrs. Sinclair's kindly inquiries were satisfied.

" Broken bones ; contusions ; a shock to the nervous
system; cerebral disturbance; divers wounds that will
leave scars as mementoes of this event," Herbert made
answer.

" No, Herbert ; it's not so bad as that I" Alice said
quickly.

" A business-like inventory of my hurts," laughed
Hiram. " And now, how long before I shall be con-
valescent ?"

" Depends on the doctors," Herbert said grimly. Then
carelessly, " Oh, two months, or thereabouts, and you will
have so completely recovered that you will be ready to
pack up, and off, and forget us. Meanwhile, you will
not suffer much pain, Mr. Wolfe, and I will give you a
recipe for dulling pain — that is, mental pain."

Herbert Sinclair left the patient's couch and strode
towards an outer door, softly whistling " Blc Wacht am
Rheinr

But he had whistled only a few bars when he checked
himself abruptly, ttung open the door, and clapperl it to
behind him with a bang. In a moment he opened the
door softly, thrust his head in at the o^ 'uing, and said

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214

IIIRAm's OATII.

shortly, " Excuse me." Then the door closed softly, and

they heard him craunching rapidly away in the graveled

walk.

Hiram said nothing, but he noticed fVat tears stood in

Alice's eyes and that Mrs. Sinclair looked sorely troubled,

" A clear case of an undutiful son and brother," he

reflected, in his naive inexperience.

Mrs. Wolfe came innnediately on receipt of a telegram,

and saw at once that it was out of the question for

Hiram to be taken home till he shoidd be convalescent.

A warm friendship sprang up between her and Alice ;

and Hiram, cared for by these two and by Herbert, soon

began to mend.

Hiram was thrown much upon Miss Sinclair's society.

When he was able she read to him and sang for him,

and seemed to take the greatest pleasure in ministering to
his comfort. One day she revealed the story of her
brother's unhappincss, which was becoming a sad puzzle
to Hiram.

" Mr. Wolfe, to remove any harsh opinion you may
have formed of my poor brother, I will explain to you
the cause of his erratic conduct," she began. " It is not
mere eccentricity, as he would have you think, but a
settled grief, that I am afraid will be life-long. Four
years ago, my brother was to be married to a beautiful
young lady, an actress. No one can know how he loved
her, and she seemed to love him. The day of their
marriage was set, and everything seemed to be going on
smoothly. My brother's happiness was so great that he
was almost beside himself. On the day before the
wedding he went to Washington, where they were to be
married. He reached Washington late in the evening,

hiram's oath.

215

but late as it was, he wrote us a long letter. Poor
Herbert ! We have that letter yet, and it almost makes
me cry to think of it. He said he did not know what
[food he had ever done (and he was always doin^^ J^'"^'l,
in a quiet way, Mr, Wolfe) tliat CJod should permit him
to enjoy such happiness, and he hoped he should pi'ove
worthy of his treasure. The next morning Herbert
went to the church where they were to have been
married ; but oh, Mr. Wolfe ! she had deserted him !"
" Deserted him ?" queried Hiram, aghast. " HowT
" Yes ! The evening before, she married an old Jew, a
millionaire, and stole away, leaving only a cruel note for
Herbert."

" Poor fellow !" sighed Hiram. " I had nnsjudged him."

" Herbert as a boy used to delight in the air you heard

him start to whistle the other day, — 'Die Wacht airi

Rhein' — and the woman he loved used to play it for him.

He forgets himself sometimes, poor fellow ! "

" This is a sad story, Miss Sinclair, and I feel for your
brother as if he were my own. He would have been a
noble man ; but now his life is blasted."

" Yes, his experience has been bitter enough. But pray
don't let him suspect that you know this. I have told you
it in confidence, so that you should not judge him hardly."
It was fated that these two should love each other, and
under all the circumstances it was inevitable. Hiram
struggled against it resolutely, knowing that it must end
in a bitter parting. But his love grew stronger every
dav, and his resolution weaker. His health ceased to
mend, and there was danger of a serious relapse. Still
he fousjht against the inevitable, thoufjh his struirffles
became feebler from day to day.

T!"!!"

210

niRAM 8 OATH.

I!' *

"If r oould only ^d away!" he inuninucd. " How can
I help lovinnr her, when I see her every day ? And then
she is so i^ood to me. A man may think himself in love
with a woman, not knowin^,' her inncT life, because he
cannot see it But here am I in Alice's house, with every
opportunity to know every phase of her cliaracter. And
what is she ? All that is unselfish, and artless, and pure,
and noble. God help me ! it is hard ! What makes it
harder still, 1 feel that Alice loves me !"

In this way Hiram battled with his love. He wanted
to subdue this psission ; to prove himself a hero. But
what should he <j^i\\n by it, after all ? he asked himself.
Was it the part of a hero to conquer his love for so noblt,
a woman, because of his oath ? Why .should two hearts
be rent 1 — But then the curse !

" Is that my fault ? Did T bring the curse upon my-
self ? Wh}^ should I not do as my fathers did before me?
Why did I bind myself hy such an oath? But no ; I was
right. T have not bi-oken my oath yet, and God helping
me, I will keep it, and so do right."

Hiram was rin^ht ; Alice loved him.

Mrs. Wolfe and Herbert iSmclair discovered that these
two souls loved each otlier, and tlmt one, Hiram, was
fiixhtinu: aiijainst it.

One day Herbert seated himself beside the sufferer,
and said bluntly, " Mr Wolfe, did it ever occur to you
that you have won my sister's love V

Hiram quivered from head to foot, and said faintly,
" Have I, Mr. Sinclair, I — I — can only say that it is a
most unfoi'tunate mistake. I — "

" * Mistake ' ? What sort of mistake do you call it, pray ?
I don't understand you at all. I am blunt myself ; and
I want you to be blunt — or, at least, frank."

HIRAM S OATH.

317

"I can never many," Hiram said sadly.

" Never marry, eh ? Cume, now ; whose husband are
you, or have ycju been V

" Tliere is a curse in our family — the ciu'se ot'insaiiity.
1 have sworn never to transmit that curse; I never will."

" So, is that your rc^ason ? What soi't of insanity ?
suicidal mania? hydrophobia? delirium tremens? con-
sumption? fanaticism ? or," scowling at Hiram, " family
pride ? "

Then followed a long talk, which i-esultod in a good
understandin'^ between the two vounii" men.

" And you do love my sister V Herbert queried.

"Lovelier? Oh, Herbert! if you could know what I
have --utiered ! "

"'SutFered' ? That is fjood ! You have suffered ! " with a
hard smile. " Well, a lesson in sufferinnr will <lo vou
good. But as for what suffering is — Pshaw ! what cause
have you to suffer? Hiram, do you remember Alice's
(piestion on the train ? "

" Whether you had known me at Yale ? I am not a
Yale man, but I attended our own University of Virgina."

" Don't ! " cried Herbert, with an impatient gesture.
" You demonstrated the fact that you could read when
you took up your newspaper. Hiram, it was a case of
love at sight with my sister."

" How do you know this ? " Hiram asked eagerly.

"Because my sister is so artless that I read her e. ny
thought."

Hiram groaned, and said desperately, " Don't you think
I am strong enough to go home, Herbert ?"

" Are you engaged to my sister yet ? " was the surpris-

ing ouPoiion.

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218

Hiram's oath.

" Engaged 1 Herbert ! How can you ask that, after
what I have told you ? "

" Because after your engagement to my sister you will
rally so fast that you will astonish yourself."

" But the family curse ?"

" Whet do you know about the ' family curse V It is
all moonshine — in your case."

" What do you mean by that 1 " Hiram demanded
peevishly.

" This : whatever fools or lunatics your ancestors may
have been, your mind is sound. You will never be insane
— unless you are now ! " grimly.

" What does all this mean ? "

" I once made demonology the study of my life."

" What ? " asked Hiram, in sad perplexity.

" Dementia — psychology- -anthropology—phrenitis — to
use a generic and explicit term, insanity. You see, I
once contemplated lunacy myself."

" You are an unconscionable joker," laughed Hiram.

" No ; I am a pathologist. I have arrived at my own
conclusions al)out your case, Hiram, and you will be
exempt from the curse. Twenty years from to-day,
unless you experience some maddening grief, or reverse,
you V * 1 be safe, and the curse will be extinct ; for, I
venture to predict, the last of your race to suffer from it
is in his grave."

" Are you sure of this ? " Hiram asked doubtfully,

" I pledge you my word of lionor for it," Herbert said
solemnly. "Hiram, I had heard of the Wolfes of
Virginia, and I made your case a otudy the moment you
came to us."

Hiram lookod np surr»ri.«<^rl. " T — T ran hardlv boliovo

HIRAM S OAiU.

219

that the curse is removed," he said, with tears glistening
in his eyes. " But I did not know that you are a
physician. Have you been treating me ? or is your
practice so exten — "

" Practice ? " broke in Herbert, with a bitter laugh.
" Oh, I don't ' practise ' anything."

After a pause Hiram said hesitatingly : " This is so sud-
den, so unexpected, so incredible, that it seems altogether
visionary. I — I must have time to consider this ; I — "

" I expected you to doubt me," Herbert said dryly.
" But do you really think I could trifle with you ? Do
you suppose I would see my sister married to a madman ? "

" You honestly think, then, that I can shake off the
curse ?

" ' The curse ! ' Hiram, I have heard enough of this ; it
indeed a curse to you. Come, now ; what about this
horrible resolution, or oath, of yours ? Have you it in
writing ? "

" I — I — . When I first formed the resolve, Herbert, I
did not know what it is to love ; so I relied on my own
strength of \n\l, and simply bound myself by swearing
an oath."

" But since you came here ? " Herbert questioned.

Hiram started, and moved uneasily on his couch.

" I see," Herbert pursued. " Since you came here you
have drawn up a fresh resolution, and signed it with your
blood, perhaps. Let me take a look at it, Hiram."

" Promise me not to destroy it, Herbert ! " pleadingly.

" I promise nothing. Let me see it. Oh, Hiram ! have
you so little faith ! "

Reluctantly Hiram drew a paper from his bosom and
silently handed it to Herbert. The writing on it was

220

HIRAMS OxVTH.

1-^

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U'' ■':

it
I

almost illegible, as Hiram, to strengthen his resolution,
had written it while suffering mental and physical pain.
It was ot' the nature of an oath, calling down an impreca-
tion upon himself if he ever deviated in the slightest
degree from his vow.

As Herbert ran over this paper a suspicious moisture
dimmed his eyes. He grasped the sick man's hand, and
said brokenly : " Forgive me, Hiram ; I have treated
you inhumanly, when you were most in need of gentle-
ness and sympathy. You mean well, Hiram, and you
are fiL'htin<:f vour battle stubbornly^, but afjainst dreadful
and hopeless odds. I see that you have suffered, — are
suffering, — and I ask your pardon. But will you let me
keep this for you for just one week ? You can trust me
with it ? "
"Yes."

" Hiram, did you ever hear of Dr. , the great

specialist ? "

" Yes, I have," said Hiram eagerly.
" Well, 1 have sent for him to comedown to Frederick
to-morr(3w to see you. Can you rely on A.is opinion ? "
reproaclifully.

" Oh, Herl^ert ! what a strange man you are ! "

" But if he confirms what 1 insist upon ? "

" If he confirms it, I accept my freedom, thank God ! "

" Hiram," gaily, "you look better already! You will

be down street, buying your own cigars, in ten days."

Then in his old, cynical way : " Don't take it too much to

heart ; 1 tut doesn't it seem to you that, sickly novels

aside, a man is a downright noodle to try to play the

hero in love-affairs ? Why should a sensible num affect

to be a great moral hero, when he might far better be the

HIRAM S OATH.

221

husband of the woinaii ho loves ? It's all bosh ; the

modern high-ilown novel is stultifying us all ; and I say

we oujiht to leirislate at^ainst them and agfainst the siijh-

iiio- 'noble men' outside of them. Some men are born to

sutler for a life-time, eh ? Poor devils ! let them suffer,

then ! That does not concern yoih — Pshaw ! Hiram, I am

worse than Job's comforters, eh ? Or does the word

' noodle ' grate painfully on your ear ? "

With a hard snnle on his lips Herbert tore out of the

room. Hiram liad come to know wliat that hard smile
and rouixh lanfjuau'e meant, — that Herbert's old wound

was bleeding ao'ain, — and he was not anjj-rv with the

restless, unhappy mortal, who could not apply Ins

philosophy to his own case.

" In any other than he, I should suspect lunacy," Hiram

mused.

CHAPTER III.

The next day the venerable old doctor arrived from
Nt;w-York, and carefully examined into Hiram's case.
After hearing the family history from Hiram and M]-s.
Wolfe he reported most favorably, advancing the siime
hope that Herbert had done, that the curse would be
I'einoved.

"By taking the greatest care of 3'ourself, by having no
anxiety to prey on your mind, and no business or family
cares, in twenty years or so all traces of insanity will
have disappeared," said the great «loctoi'.

Herbert looked triumphant — pleased, no doubt, that
the learned mind-doctor was merely echoing his own

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222

U IRA MS OATH.

words. Mrs. Wolfe stood by with tears in her eyes.
No others were present at the interview, or guessed its
purport.

" What do you advise me to do meanwhile ? " Hiram
asked.

" During these twenty years ? As your mind must be
free from care, I should advise that you go and establish
a home for yourself on the plains — a ranch in Texas, say.
Avoid undue excitement, but keep yourself employed all
the time, even though you have to do all the work your-
self. Keep a spirited horse always in your stables, and
whenever you feel low-spirited, mount it on the instant,
and gallop away as if you were pursued by Comanches
or hobomokkos. What you want is, to keep your spirits
up, — not too high, not to excitement, — and always to be
cheerful. Whenever you begin to feel depressed in spirits,
have something to do that will engross your attention
wholly. Secure Dickens' novels, Shakespeare's and
Moliere's comedies, anything diverting ; and, above all,
don't forget that wild horse. A horseback journey
through the new State of Texas, or even through the
Union, would be a good idea, if you didn't attempt it all
at once. Don't permit any cares, great or small, to prey
on your mind, and — that is all."

" And so in twenty years the curse is extinct ! A long
time ! "

" Now, don't chafe about that, Mr. Wolfe. In twenty
years you will have removed the ban of the house of
Wolfe. Let that—"

" The wolf's-bane, so to speak ! " Herbert broke in.

" Let that," continued the doctor, " be your watch-
word. It is a long time, it is true ; I shall not live to see

HIRAM 8 OATH.

223

it ; but twenty years hence you will look back upon to-
day as not so very long ago,"

"And if I pass through this period I am safe, unless — "

"Unless some great trouble should come upon you. But
hope for the best, and trust in Heaven,"

" One word more, doctor : Could you have removed the
curse from our family earlier, by the same method of
treatment ? "

" That is a question that I cannot answer, Mr. Wolfe,
without data respecting the temperament of the victims."

" Is he not a tine subject for the experiment? " Herbert
inquired, with an admiring glance at Hiram.

" Yes, indeed ; this is the hour and the man," laughed
the doctor.

Mrs. Wolfe had a long talk that evening with Hiram.
Slie earnestly advised him to tell Alice everything, and
give no further thought to the family affliction. " Your
oath is not binding now, Hiram," she said ; " your vow
is the same as accomplished."

" No, mother ; not for twenty years ; " Hiram said
sadly.

" But you will speak with Alice ? "

" Yes, mother ; in the morning."

Then Mrs. Wolfe left him, and soon afterward Herbert
strode into the room.

" Well, Hiram ? " was his greeting.

" Well, Herbert," returned Hiram ; " you may give me
back the paper you are keeping for me, if you please."

" To be sacrificed ? "

"Yes."

" That is good ; " said Herbert, surrendering the paper.
" You don't know why I wanted it, so I will t^ll yon : A

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224r

IIIRAM S OATH.

scrap of paper, anytliing in the shape of a document, will
fortify a man's courage, either for good or for evil.
Yours is a sort of mental tliumb-screw, and I wished to
deprive you of its moral support. See how cruel and
crafty I am ! But isn't it so ? I don't know how it
would apply to womankind," petulantly ; " I don't know
anything about them, nor do 1 wish to know."

" But your sister ? " })ronipted Hiram reproach full}'.

" My si.ste/ is any exception; she is an angel."

Hiram \ikc "or a taper, and was about to destroy the
paper when he cheeked himself, and said abruptly, " 1
can't do i'^, H-^.vbeit • keep it for me; keep it for my sake
when I am gone."

" I will do so, my dear friend, for its work is done. So
you are tired of playing the hero, eh ? You will make a
clean breast of it to my sister ? "

" Yes ; and here and now I ask you to our wedding,
twenty years hence."

" That is right ; I will come. Hum, yes ; a wedding !
And so, in twenty years, the days of your heroship will
be fulfilled."

" Don't add to my burden, Herbert ! "

" Forgive me, Hiram ; I am wrong. Now for my idea.
Will you tolerate my company on 3'our ranch, for twenty
years ?

" Herbert ! Will you come with me ? " cried Hirain,
with feverish delight. " Do you mean it ? "

" Unless you expressly forbid it, I am determined to
share your adventures, your privations, your solitu<le,
and — your warhorse ! "

" Oh, Herbert 1 How good you are ! "

" Fiddle ! T'm a wrotoh I

a stmr^v-heirto 1 wro^Hi

Hiram's oath.

•225

Hiram, do you know, sometimes I envy the world its
happiness ; sometimes when I see misery I rejoice in it.
I — I wish Uncle Sam would go to war ; I should revel in
the carnage and havoc. Pshaw ! I'll take it out in
spilling the life-blood of the butfalo. — And so your love-
affair will turn out happily, after all ; and you will marry
the woman of your heart; and you and she will grow
old, and bald, and wrinkled, and childish, togetlier.
Hiram, sometimes I like to see things go to pieces ; I
wish somebody would write a novel and murder every
sDul in it ! Come, when you and I live together on the
ranch, I'll write one myself ! I swear I will ; and I'll be
mv own hero-in-chief ' "

" Don't talk that way, Herbert; it isn't Christian-like."

" God help me ; I know it isn't," Herbert replied sadly.

" Herbert, can nothing console you ? Wouldn't it do
you good to follow the prescription the doctor made out
tor me for low spirits ? We will, on the ran — "

" ' Console ? ' " broke in Herbert, in the old, bitter tone.
" Why do you say that to me ? Has any one been
babbling my affairs ? ' Console ! ' If you should see a
man being tortured to death by Indian braves, would you
step up to him and say, ' Can nothing console you, sir ?

Wouldn't a prescription from Dr. be a good thing

for your low spirits ? ' "

Whistling a lively Negro melody, as if he were as
light of heart as a schoolboy, Herbert sauntered out of
the room.

The next morning Hiram gave Alice the history of the
family curse, and then told her what the great physician
had said.

" Alice," he said, " would it be apkinfj too much if T
8

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226

Hiram's oath.

should ask you to wait for me ? Could you wait twenty
years ? But do you love me, Alice ? Will you be my
wife?"

" Yes, Hiram ; I love you ; " Alice said falteringly, her
face hidden.

" And will you be my wife ? Will you wait for me
twenty years ? "

" Yes," faintly, but firmly.

" Oh, Alice ! Alice ! You will indeed be my guardian

angel ! "

" It is a long time, Hiram ; but I would wait twice as

long."

" Oh, Alice ! my darling ! Come to me, that I may
give you a kiss — just one ! " Then passionately : " Alice !
would you marry m*^ as soon as I get well? to-day ?
now ? "

" Yes, Hiram," said Alice slowly.

" Heaven forgive me, Alice. If you can wait, I can.
You will be here all alone ; while I shall be hard at work,
or scouring the plains on my charger. It will be harder,
much harder, and longer, for you than for me."

" But you will be lonely, too, Hiram."

" No, Alice ; Herbert is going with me. Isn't that
good ! "

" Oh, I'm so glad — for your sake and for his, too. But,"
sadly, " I shall miss him so much."

" I did not think of that, Alice ; I will persuade him
not to go."

" No, no ! I did not mean that ! Besides, we shall see
one another occasionally ; the doctor did not forbid
that — did he, Hiram ? "

" No, Alice ; that pleasure is not denied us."

it twice as

HIRAM 8 OATH.

227

" Herbert will be good company, Hiram, when you get
aecnstomed to his ways. You won't fret about me,
Hirain ; I shall be all right. And don't think the time
long, either. We shall each of us have employment for
our minds and hands, and we will correspond regularly.
You will try to wait patiently, won't you, Hiram ? "

" Yes, dear Alice ; and to prove worthier of your
love."

" A life on the plains may do you both a great deal of
good. I will try not to be uneasy about you, but you
must promise me not to run into danger, of any kind.
Herl)ert is so adventurous that he would storm an Indian
camp, alone."

" I promise you, Alice. Do you think Herbert will
ever get over his disappointment ? — his grief ? "

" I am afraid not. But he is not so bitter as he was
three years ago."

" How was he the first year ? "

" We did not sec him for a full vear after that fatal
day. Some of his friends persuaded him to go off to
Russia with them, and from that country he roamed
over half Europe. When he came back, Hiram, we did
not know him."

" He was so altered ? "

" Yes. ' Am I so woebegone a ghost,' he said, ' that no
one knows me ? ' "

" But sometimes he seems quite cheerful. I heard him
whistling a lively air yesterday, as jantily as a young

sailor.

" Yes, Hiram ; but I often think he does that to keep
from breaking down entirely."
" He must have been a noble fellow once."

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228

HIRAM S OATH.

K-^ !

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■

" He was, Hiram ; ho was the V)est of brothers ; so
clever, good-humored, witty, and good. Now he is
cynical, and — and at times a little inclined to be ill-
natured, I am afraid you must think."

" No, Alice ; he is the only man I could ever think of
as a brother. In truth, he seems as near to me as if ho
were already my brother."

Hiram improved rapidly from that day. He schooled
himself to wait patiently — even to look forward com-
posedly till the years of his probation should be fulfilled.

One day Herbert came to him, and said : " Old fellow,
did it never occur to you that Alice ought to have an
engagement ring ? You used to bind yourself with grim
resolutions, and oaths, and such things, and yet you expect
Alice to keep on being engaged to you for twenty years
or so, without even a betrothal ring ! You don't know
much about womankind, Hiram."

" You are right, Herbert ; I'll try and get out to get
one to-day."

" No, you won't ! Do you see this ? " displaying a
ring-box. " Or are you so unsophisticated that you take
it for a Roman relic ? "

" Herbert ! How good you are ! " was all Hiram could
say.

" Enough of that ; it is growing monotonous. I tell
you, I am a heathen ! "

Hiram opened the box and found a beautiful ring, set
with two brilliants that dazzled his eyes.

The time came when Hiram and Alice should part. It
was a sad moment, but each looked forward hopefully to
the day when they should meet to part no more till
Death should part them for a season in old age.

hiram's oath.

229

" I shall ])e an old woman to be a ))ride, Hiram," said
Alice, smilin;j^ through her tears. " An old won»an — forty
years old ! Think of that ! Wrinkled, perhaps, and gray !"

" But the nohlest of all nohle women, Alice. an<l the best."

" Good-bye, Alice," said Herbert. " Keep a brave heart,
my sister, and we shall weather the storms of twenty
years. I am interested in his case ; he is a noble fellow ;
I — love him — as it were." (Herbert could not bear to be
caui^ht uttering pathos, — bosh, he called it, — and always
contrived to give it a ridiculous turn.) "Now, I am going
to oversee everything, and shall negotiate for all our
supplies, and manage affairs generally, so that he shall
have nothing to worrv him. I mean to secure a medicine
chest, and be medicine-man to the camp. So, don't
borrow trouble, Alice, for I shall care for him as I
would for a baby — I mean, for a puppy."

" Dear Herbert," said Alice, " it is so good of you !
You are going on purpose to take care of him."

" I'm going for my health," sai<l Herbert shortly.

" He is so good a man — "

"He is worthy of you, Alice ; tliat is all. Yes, he is a
noble fellow. Good-bye, dear sister; I will be my brother's
keeper. Y^es, poor soul, he needs some one to look after
him, or he would be binding himself by so. ir> of his
liorrible ' resolutions ' not to neglect his work, or not to
read any books, or not to write — hum ! Good-bye, for a
time."

1 I

CHAPTER IV.

It was in ante-Pacific railway days, and the journey
to far-off Texas was a great undertaking. Hiram
suggested that they should travel the entire distance on

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230

HIRAM8 OATH.

horseback, but Herbert promptly vetoed that as too
fatiguing. The better way would have been to take ship
from Baltimore to New Orleans or Galveston; bu j,ily
it was decided to go by rail to the Ohio, thence down
that river and the Mississippi to Mempliis, and thencf
across the plains by caravan train, or on horseback l)y
easy stages, to Austin. All necessary supplies, of course,
would be procured at Memphis.

At that period the old B. and 0. was completed bej^ond
Cumberland almost to Wheeling. '^S'h:-^ route they took,
staging it over the "gap" to the Ohio. Their journey
was delightful, but uneventful, till Memphis was reached,
whence, after a week's halt, they leisurely coiitim d on
their way on horseback, with a retinue of pad vses
and slaves — or rather, as Hiram afterwards discovered,
manumitted blacks, liberally paid by Herbert. The long
ride across the plains, though wearisome, was bracing and
exciting, and they enjoyed it so much that Hiram began
to feel very hopeful.

" The years will glide away peacefully and happily for
us," he .said ; " but poor Alice ! "

"He mu.stn't fret, poor fellow, even about Alice," thought
Herbert- " Hiram," he said, " what do you suppo.se is in
those packs in front of me?"

" Powder ? "

'You guess as wildly as a parrot, Hiram, and that is
the worst guesser I ever saw. The right one is full of
comedies, for you ; and the othor is full of tragedies, for

me.

" There you are again, Herbert ! "
" Well, I am going to reform ; I am going to take your
medicine with you. When we feel low-spirited we'll both

Hiram's oath.

go coursing over the country full chase, eh, Hiram ?
Marry ! as Shakespeare sonietiuies says, marry ! we'll
(lose ourselves to death. Our mounts now are onlygaula,
as the Germans put it."

" Herbert, why should you not confide in me ? You
are helping me to bear my burdens ; why should I not
help you ? Some ciuel grief is preying on your mind,
Herbert; why should we not sympathize together?"

" Enough of that ! " said Herbert severely. " I always
suspected somebody had meddled with my atlairs. Say,
Fliram, did you ever see me in a rage ?"

" No, Herbert ; you have too much self-command."

After a long intei-val Heibert said slowly: "Hiram,
I will unbosom myself to you ; I will unfold the story of
my woes ; I will lay bare the tragedy of my life."

Hiram listened intently while H«'rbert told the story
of his love. He did not spare himself in the rehearsal,
but seemed rather to take a savage delight in giving
every torturing detail of the tragedy, as he aptly called
it.

" Now," he said when he had finished, " now, do you
wonder that I am a wreck ? Do you wonder that I hate
myself and everybody else ? Do you wonder that I am
an outcast, a Pariah, hating the very word ' happiness/
which to me is so bitter a mockery ? "

" You have suffered, Herbert, as few men have suffered.
I do not wonder that you laughed at my suffering, as
after twenty years it would be over, while yours would
never be over."

" Just so ; you have something to live for, to look for-
ward to ; I haven't."

" But has nothing blunted the edge of your grief ? "

232

Hiram's oath.

'J' '^

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" Don't be so metaphorical. No, nothing ; the edge of
my grief is still so keen that it cuts to my heart's core,
as it did at first. Constancy, Hiram, is in our family.
My parents were engaged for ten years before their
marriage, and Alice's loyalty to you will never waver.
Can you guarantee yourself to be as constant ? "

" Herbert ! How can you question it ? " asked Hiram
angrily.

" I don't. I have seen greater constancy in mankind
than in womankind, and I know your heart, Hiram. But
unfaithfulness on your part would kill my sister, and if
I thought you capable of it I would shoot you as merci-
lessly as I would any other traitor. Aren't you afraid ? "
laughingly.

" You are a modern Horatius. Nc, I am not afraid that
you will ever shoot me, Herbert. If it came to that, I
would shoot myself. But wasn't your grief harder to
bear at first .-* "

" I don't know ; I was away, in Europe, somewhere, or
everywhere, ranging about like .i madman. I suffered
least then, Hiram, for I was not conscious of my sufferings.
Would you believe it? I know scarcely anything of what
I did. But I was awakened one day in Paris. It was a
rude awakening: I saw her and the Jew, looking as happ}
and innocent as twin statues of Charity."

" That must have been hard."

" Yes, rather ; it made me what I am."

" Was she so beautiful ? "

" Don't think me a fool, Hiram — at least, if you think
so, don't say it. I trust to your honor. Here, see for
yourself," handing Hiram a worn picture-case. " But,
VPS ; I am a fool : an ass ; a noodle."

HIRAM S OATH.

233

Hiram opened the picture-case. " And this was the
woman you loved ?"

" Put your sentence into the present tense throughout,"
bitterly. " Well," roughl}^, taking the picture, " what do
you think ? "

" She U a Uiaster-piece of nature, Herbert."

" Her treachery so unmanned me that I ha ' never
been fit for anything since, and never expect to be.
Now, according to romance, she and the Jew should have
come to beggary in six months. Then she should have
written an appeal to me, and I should have — hum !
Marry, I abominate romance ! Then there is another way
for the romancers to figure it out, and happify me, in
spite of myself. They should have a daughter, the
image of her mother, and I should marry her, fortune
and all ! I'll organize a crusade against romancers, I swear
I will, and poison them off with their own absurd theories."

" Have you ever heard from them ? Have they a
daughter ? "

" Don't, Hiram ! Don't ! I've said too much ; I must
cool down, or I shall be beside myself." Then calmly,
" What did you ask ? No, I've never heard anything
about them. But they are all right, never fear ! Psliaw !
Perliaps I wouldn't marry her, were she a widow and
had I tlie chance ! "

" Herbert, it is strange that it did not emV)itter you
jiLjainst all lovers. Yet you have worked hai'd for your
sister and me, and you have removed the shadow of the
curse,"

" Those are the most sensible remarks vou have made
Hiram. And you are right ; it did embitter me ; it in-
c 'nsed me almost beyond endurance to hear anything

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HIRAMS OATH.

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about love or lovers. But in my sister's case it was
different. When I returned from Europe, the most
wretched mortal on earth, my sister was everything to
me. She was so kind, so compassionate, so unobtrusive.
She put up with all my vagaries and perversities, and
never vexed me. In short, if it had not been for my
sister, I should now be a grinning lunatic in some private
asylum. I did not notice for some time how good she
was to me ; but when I did notice it I swore that I would
work for her happiness, if the occasion should ever come.
I saw that a love-affair with her must be a life-affair, as
with me. The occasion did come, Hiram, and you know
the rest. I did my duty, and — I feel better for it."

" You have done enough to secure your happiness
hereafter, my more than brother."

" And yet I am unkind to lier, my sister."

" In what way ? "

" I am so rough. God knows I regret my harshness
towards her. My mother and sister find traces of my
tears, poor souls, and they think I cry myself to sleep for
the woman I love, when it is often because of my brutality
at home. Never mind ; now that I am away from home

shall rival you in writing kind and encouraging letters
to Alice. I can write a kind letter, Hiram, though per-
haps you cannot believe it."

" I can believe vou niiixht be the kindest of men."

" Pshaw ! I am used to my misery now. In fact, in a
mild way, I enjoy my misery and my chronic peevish-
ness."

Hiram and Herbert established themselves on a fine

ranch on the Colorado River in Texas, north of the State

Capital, at that time a town of less than 4,000 inhabitants.

aiftAM's OATH.

235

Beer, buffaloes, and wild horses were all about them, and
Indians were near enough to lend a spice of danger to
their surroundings. They expected to occupy their new
quarters for nearly the entire period of twenty years, and
they made themselves as comfortable and their home as
pleasant as if they would spend a life-time there.
Austin was their post-office and base, and Herbert under-
took the management of everything, so that Hiram had
absolutely no cares whatever.

Each one procured a spirited horse, to which Herbert
gave fantastic and sonorous names, and whenever Hiram
seemed at all depressed the horses were promptly called
up and saddled. Then together they galloped over the
country, sometimes taking a run of fifty miles. The old
doctor was right : a wild gallop on his mettlesome steed
never failed to exhilarate Hii'am's spirits.

They prospered as ranchers, but did not devote all
their energies to money-making. They had come for no
such purpose, and were not disposed to neglect health,
exercise, or recreation for it. Herbert read his tragedies,
and wrote long letters to Alice ; Hiram read comedies,
tragedies, magazines, anything readable, and also wrote
k)iig letters to Alice. Herbert was right ; they vied with
each other in writing loving and cheering letters. Be-
sides this, Herbert frequently wrote to the old doctor
and to Mrs. Wolfe about the " patient," as he styled
Hiram. But they were almost 1,800 miles from home,
and it took time for letters to reach their destination.

So they lived, a sort of Robinscm Crusoe life, which
was good for both. Each one enjoyed himself, and took
kindly to his pursuits. Hiram did not complain, or get
low-spirited ; and even Herbert seemed to grow rational.

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236

hiram's'^oath.

I If

This life had continued about a year when ore day-
Herbert said resolutely : " Hiram, the books I read when
I was a boy harped incessantly about a man's having a
purpose in life. That was good, though it never did me
any good. But now I am going to have one ; I am going
to coin money ; I am going to be a miser."

"What for?"

" Oh, you'll see. Perhaps I am going to pension the
man who will be blood-thirsty enough to write a novel
to my taste "

" But how are you going to make the money ? "

" On this ranch. I am going to work in earnest, and
not watch the overseer smoke, and look on, and talk in
his ingenuous way, any longer. Or I can speculate in
real estate in Austin ; or dabble in medicine, — patent
medicine, for instance, — or write poetry that would brand
me as a madman. To-morrow I shall buy a slate and a
slate pencil and figure out how long it will take to equip
a new navy for our marines."

" Is that your game ? "

" No ; it isn't. Hiram, you have something to live for
and work for, and I mean to have, too."

Long afterwards, when Hiram found that Alice, with a
party of friends, was traveling in Europe, he learnt that
Herbert had supplied her with the means to do so. "She
needs change and amusement as much as we do, Hiram,"
he said deprecatingly. " You must hoard for an heir ; I
mustn't."

" Herbert, you are a noble fellow."

" Fiddle ! I "^anted to learn practical farming, and I
was too lazy to learn it without an incentive to work
Poor Alice ! She would never have thought of going off

Hiram's oath.

•237

to see the sights of Europe if some one hadn't proposed
the idea to her."

Years rolled away, and still Hiram and Herbert lived
their lonely life on the ranch, took their long rides, and
wrote loving letters to Alice. Every Christmas they
spent in Maryland, and twice Alice came to spend a few
days with them on their plantation.

The air was filled with rumors of war ; the nation was
trembling on the verge of a rebellion.

" Hiram, I was born to be a soldier, even though I fall
in the first battle. The spirit of fighting was strong in
me when I was only a hobbledehoy. We will not part,
Hiram, (and you shall not go to war, do you hear ?) but
I can aid the cause of right out of my private means, and
now and then see and smell the smoke of War."

" As a Southerner — " began Hiram.

" As a Southerner, I have no sympathy with the North ;
but," resolutely, " as a man, / will stand by the blacks
through thick and thin!"

' And yet your father is a slave-holder, and we have
blacks on our estate ! "

" You know my contempt for quack politics ; you know
my hatred of slavery ; you know my dogged resolution
when I set about doing a thinj;. We have blacks on our
ranch, it is true ; but they are not slaves, if laborers'
wages make free men. Hiram, I have long groped as a
blind man for a purpose in life, and 1 have found it now,
thank God ! Come, let us write to Alice about it."

" Yes, Herbert ; for I am with you heart and soul. I
have suspected this about our blacks ; but," laughingly,
" I don't know what other secrets you are keeping from
me.

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238

HIRAM'S OATH.

The years loUod on ; the war was past. Hiram and
Herbert were forced to give up their property in Texa.s,
and even to llee for life — when their horsemanship stood
them in good stead. But they wpre sfill nlivo aud well^
and Herbert took their misfortunes easily, though for a
time he feared that if anything might unsettle Hiram's
mind their reverses and troubles would. Groundless feai-.
So long as Hiram had Alice's love, he could smile at fickle
fortune equally with Herbert.

The war eft'ected a great change for the better in Her-
bert. Though still outwardly the same restless, cynical
being, he had lost much of his heartache in the smoke of
war. He had fought in many battles, with the indomit-
able courage of a hero. He had risen, too, to the rank of
major — a distinction which he ignored.

"1 advanced the cause ; that is enough;" he said. " We
have nothing more to fight about, and I never want to
see the country plunged in another war."

The twenty years were all told but one. Hiram's eager-
ness to return to Maryland and claim his bride was intense ;
but in nineteen years he had schooled himself to wait.

One day Herbert said to him : " Hiram, old fellow, you
have been everything to me ; you and Alice ; wife, child-
ren, everything. I can never leave you, for it would be
like taking my life-blood. You will reserve a nook under
your roof -tree for me — won't you, Hiram ? " pleadingly.

" Herbert ! you shall never leave us ! "

It was the month of December, and the two men, no
longer young, but middle-aged, were lounging about the
streets of San Francisco. In just six months' time the
engagement made nearly twenty years before was to he
consummated by a marriage.

ii..>< £

in RAM 8 OATH.

239

Herbert and Hii'am were in good spirits, for every-
thing was well with tliem. They were talking, as they
had been talking for the last twenty years, about the re-
union that w^as to take place in the June of 1872.

" Time goes fast, after all, Hiram ; six months will
whiz past before we know it. It has been about the best
love-test I ever heard of. I have had no occasion to
.shoot you, eh ? You and Alice can stand tire after this ;
there will be no danger that I shall ever pick up a paper
and tind your names figuring in a list of divorce cases."

As Herbert spoke he lazily turned into a newstand,
,an<l bought a newspaper for the day. His eyes caught a
heading that almost paralyzed him.

" Awful loss of life at sea ! Wreck of the steamer
Pluehus and loss of half her passengers. Details of the
catastrophe. Etc., etc."

Alice was again in Europe, and this was the steamer
in which she was sailing on the Mediterranean, before
she should come home for the last time.

A glimmer of hope that Alice migtit not have been on
hoard, or that she might have escaped, penetrated to Her-
bert's brain. But, no ! There was her name among the
names of those who had perished.

All sense forsook him ; he dropped down helpless. The
paper slipped from his nerveless hand, and Hiram cried
aloud for help. Then, with a quick prescience that it
was something Herbert had seen in the paper, he picked
it up.

" Poor fellow ! Perhaps it was something about the

woman who has made his life "

Hiram said no more, for he had taken in at a glance
all that Herbert had read,

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240

IS 8

HIRAM S OATH.

CHAPTER V.

Tt was two days later. Hiram was delirious in the
hospital off MoDtgomery-street ; Herbert had so far
recovered as to be able to watch by him, but his thoughts
were too chaotic to be chronicled.

A messenger-boy brought in a telegram for one Her-
bert J. Sinclair. It was only because the newspapers
had published among the city items that two robust men,
Sinclair and Wolfe, had swooned away on reading an ac-
count of the disaster in the Mediterranean, and been
taken to one of the hospitals, that the operator, from the
purport of the telegram, had known where to find him.

" Read it, my boy," said Herbert wearily, when the
telegram was tendered him. " Read it ; / can't."

" * Herbert Sinclair : — Fearing you might have heard
of the wreck of the Phcehus and think me lost, I tele-
graph to let you know I am safe in Genoa, having left
the Phcehus two days before she went down.

"'Alice Sinclair.'"

Herbert broke down and wept as he had not foj thirty
years. For years no great joy had come to him, and this
was almost too much. But he recovered himself and
sent a cablegram to Alice, saying everything was all
right, but begging her to sail for home immediately.

Then he went to Hiram's bedside, hoping to make the
poor fellow conscious of the life-giving news. But that
was out of the question ; Hiram was raving piteously
about the oath he had made when twenty-one.

" Poor Hiram ! His reverse has come ! Oh, that lie
ipay recover ! Has this been my doing ? Have I been

HIRAM 8 OATH.

241

wrons: in havino- him live in Texas, and here, and there,
and everywhere ? Was the sacrifice made in vain ? Has
it all been in vain ? Was I wrong in having Alice travel
abroad, and so incur danger of being killed ? Am I
directly responsible for all that has happened ? God help
me ! I am ! I was a madman myself, crazed by my
love troubles, when I brought the old doctor to see Hiram,
and I must have distorted the facts to him. God help
me ! I was a madman ! "

An hour later Herbert was in a coupd on his way to
the telegraph-office. He feebly made his way into the
Imilding, and asked to see the messenger-boys.

When he returned to the hospital again he muttered :
" A troop of poor little messenger-boys will think kindly
of me to-night, — one of them, in particular, and he a little
Jew, — but that will not make me any better."

The new year came, and with it came Alice and Mrs.
Wolfe. Hiram was hovering between lit'e and death, but
the doctors held out hope that he would recover. Again
Alice and Mrs. Wolfe were his nurses, while Herbert
looked sadly on.

Slowly life and reason came back to Hiram. His rav-
ings were less violent. Instead of fancying himself and
Herbert on their ranch in Texas, his thoughts went back
to the days when he had first known Alice. Then he
would speak of the day when he had first seen her, on
the train. From that his tlioughts would drift to the
terrible scene when the train went to pieces and he was
buried under its ruins. This had made a lasting im-
pression on his mind. /

So passed January, February, and March ; and spring
had come again. Still Alice watched over Hiram, though

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242

HIRAM S OATH.

\l.:

he had long since been removed from the hospital to a
private house, which Herbert had rented.

"Alice," said Herbert one day, " do take a little exer-
cise. Why, you look like a vine that has grown in the
cellar, and never seen the sun ! You will be ill yourself,
Alice ; and then what should we do ? See here ! Be
ready for a drive at six, p.m., for if you are not ready we
shall have to take a close carriage, and I have ordered an
open one. Poor girl ! When you came Imck from Europe
this time you didn't look more than thirty, but now you
look fully forty."

Herbert was right ; she was so wearied, and worn, and
sad, that she seemed no longer the bright Alice of old.

As they turned into Golden Gate Park they almost
collided with a gay equipage, in which sat a lovely woman,
robed in sombre black, but looking supremely happy and
good-humoured.

" At last ! " sobbed Herbert. " Alice," brokenly, " that
is the woman I loved; that is my luife ! And we might
have killed her !"

" Oh, Herbert ! Drive after her ! She is a widow
now ! Drive "

" No," said Herbert sadly, " I must not. I am a child
again, and I wish to have it so. My heart is ashes, but
I have you and Hiram to love me ; that is enough."

" But, Herbert, she is in black ! She is a widow ! And
she looks as beautiful and as young as ever. You must
see her ! "

" Don't, Alice. The awful past is dead. We have the
happy future before us, nnd that is enough. Let me be a
child again."

Hiram's oath.

243

Reason camu bnck to Hiram Wolfe. The twenty years
were all but told, and again he was himself. After a
touching interview with Alice and his mother, he asked
to see Herbert.

" Yes, dear Hiram," said Alice, " I will call him. It is
hard to realize that all is well at last. The suti'ering is
all passed now, but it has been bitter «^'nough. You are
weak yet, Hiram ; but you have a month and a half to
wt well in."

" Till June," said Hiram, faintly and sadly.

" Yes, Hiram ; till June. But don't look so sorrowful ;
the tide has turned ; our days of happiness liave
come."

She kissed him tenderly, and he passionately returned
the kiss.

Herbert came into the room, to find Hiram wasted to a
shadow, but with the old resolute look in his eyes.

" Sane as a legislator, old fellow^ !" w^as Herbert's
greeting. " Now, this is something to live for, isn't it ?
And you haven't lost a day, either ; for the date we fixed
on liasn't passed yet. I believe I must sell out my woes,
wliolesale, and champion lovers every time."

" Herbert, listen !" said Hiram, in so strained a tone
that Herbert started.

" You are weak, Hiram," he said ; " too weak to talk."

" I must. Herbert, the curse is not dead ! I know it is
not. The siege I have gone through has only intensified
tliu latent insanity in our family. 1 could not escape it,
Herbert."

" No, Hiram ! No ; it is dead. All this suffering and
waiting have not been in vain ! Think of yourself !
Think of Alice !"

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HIRAM H OATH.

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" It is of Alice I tliink, Herbert. Thu oatli made loin^
years ajjfo must be renewed. Answer me trul}^ HeiUt \t •
is there not danger ? The curse of insanity would
follow — "

" Oh, I don't know ; I don't know ; I had not thought
of this. Oh, Alice ! Hiram! Would to Heaven — "

" Be calm, Herbert. My strength is gone ; my con-
stitution is undermined ; my mind is shattered ; 1 shall
die. Tlie great dt)ctor is no more, but I know what he
would say. We did not tell him that I wished to marry
at the fultilment of the twenty years, but he knew it.
It was tacitly understood, Herliert, that if the malady
should return the curse would likewise return."

"He said nothing about that; he simply said in
twenty years you would have left it behind you. So, it
is bosh ; I don't believe it."

" You do, Herbert ; and / do. He did not say it,
because — "

" Because he never dreamed of such a thing !" broke in
Herbert.

— " because he did not \vish to trouble us. But it was
understood. Herbert, in a few days I shall die, because
I, too, have nothing to live for. What I said years ago
was sadly prophetic : ' I have made a vow ; T v 11 keep
it.' — Herbert, my brother, don't grieve ; !< jte your life
to Alice, as you have devoted it to nit

But Herbert could no longer conu '1 his grief ; he
groaned in agony.

" Herbert, I did not destroy the foolish oath 1 drew up;
you kept it for me. Give it to me, please, if you have it
still ; I wish to destroy it now, before I die."

IM .

HIRAM8 OATU.

246

Sliakin<^ from head to foot, Ht3rl)ert slowly drew a
heavy metal case from an inner pocket, and took there-
from a paper. Faitliful H(>rbert ! He had carried it
about him all these years, the metallic case preserving it
intact.

"It once saved my life from a Confederate bullet,

iram.

" Thank God for that ! But Alice nmst not see that
wicked oath ; burn it in the grate, before me. — That is
good. I made my will long ago, and you will find it
with our lawyer. It leaves everything without reserve
to Alice. We shall all meet again, Herbert."

These were Hiram Wolfe's last conscious words, His
sufferings were not prolonged ; at midnight he called
deliriously :

"Herbert! Herbert!"

" Yes, my brother ; I am here."

" Herbert, it is pressing me hard. Call up the horses,
jind we will take a long run together. Then — we will
write — to Alice."

A labored breath, and all was still.

" He is gone !" sobbed Herbert.

Hiram had kept his oath ; he had removed the curse.

Alice, Herbert, and Mrs. Wolfe went back to Virginia,
taking their dead with them, and thence to Maryland.

Spring had come, but it had no charms for them.
The years rolled on, and they mechanically went through
with their duties. But Hiram could never be fortjotten.

.'liMv

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'Pi

VAIN TRIUMPH.

(a ^.'RAOMENT.)

In the days of my young manhood
At the golden age of twenty,
I looked out UT^on a bright world
Full of beauty and of gladness ;
Saw in Nature only sunshine,
Saw in mankind only goodness,
For I lived at peace with all men,
Though by no man was befriended.

From that time came premonitions.
Dim forebodings, transc'.ent glimpses,
Of a phantom, weird and sombre,
That in future days should haunt me.

For this was no boyish passion,
But a 'ove to last a life-time,
To survive all evil fortune,
E'en the grave, and live triumphant
In the glorious Hereafter.

Soon I won my darling's promise
To be mine, now, and forever.
And thencefortli how bright was Nature,
Filled a;;ain with joyous sunshine I
Strong and pure ny faith in Heaven,
And in the Almighty's goodness.

4 'i

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Then begnn the phantom visits
That had long been full exjiected.
'Twas n(j monster that came to me,
No forbidding, cruel spectre,

VAIN TRIUMPH.

247

But a slow, dim-outlined figure,

Partly spirit, partly vision,

With grave gestures and sad accents,

Oft alluring, oft consoling.

Vaguely whispering of Nelly,

Then again of disappointment ;

Friendly towards me, and yet mocking,

A pursuer, no inspirer.

Still I, awe-struck, clung u.ito it,

Nightly waited for its coming;,

Though too oft it came to torture.

"Never more," she said in anger,
*' Can I speak to you or see you.
I am promised to another ;
My cUl love for you is conquered.
And the past is past forever."

Thus she heartless broke her promise,
Heartless left me to my mis'ry.
Left me, with this grave suspicion,
And would hf ar no explication.

How I longed for night to bring me
Counsel from my sage familiar ;
But, alas ! it came not nigh me,
Gould it be it was connected.
As had oft been borne upon me.
With the sweetheart who had loved me ?

As one who has been a captive
Half a life-time in a dungeon
Sees a day fixed for his freedom.
Then is thrust into a dungeon
Deeper, blacker, and more a.vful,
With no hope of future egress —

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248 VAIN TRIUMPH.

As in dreams the old delusions,
The old faces, the fond mem'ries,
Are revived, and the old heart-break,
That in sleep is oft rebellious,
With o'ermastering vehemence.
Bursts the mighty Past's locked portals,
Brings the dead again before us,
Shows dim glimpses of the Future,
Then soothes all our fierce repinings,
Till we wake to dull reaction
And the sharp regret of living —
So now gliding like a phantom
Nelly's spirit came beside me.
With a calm, bright smile of greeting.
" Though on earth we parted strangers,"
Came a voice, a breath, an echo,
"Though I seemed but brief to love you,
And (mce goaded you to madness.
Yet my heart was with yoa alway ;
And now from the sleepless Death-land
I am come to prove repentance
And redeem my girlish promise
That our love should be innnortal.
'Tis for me to ask forgiveness,
And for you again to pardon."

With a quick, wild cry of triumph
I reached forth with frenzied gladness
To seize fast my death-won Nelly,
That she ne'er again should leave me.

But once more I grasped at shadows ;
'Twas the old hallucination,
The old sombre, mocking phantom,
With his i)rotean disguises,
Armed with means of keener torture,
Since he wore my loved one's features,
Had her air, her grace, her accents —
For now joyous first, then sadd'ning,
With life's vigor and life's clearness.

1 ' i

VAIN TRIUMPH.

Nelly's footsteps, Nelly's laughter,
On my ears like music falling,
Roused me from my trance-like stupor.
She was jesting with another.
Not for me her mirth or converse.

So the smile was as the phantom.
And the words were but a mock'ry.

249

•x-

This strange thought stirred all my life-blood,
Fired again my drooping spirits,
Brought new soul into my being ;
And once more I sought my Nelly,
Still unwedded, still my goddess.

^-Mc^^'^i

lii |i

Mi ..

1 1 I

■i I

I * I

.1 , IB

Til

THE YOUNCx VIOLINIST.

|ARL ADLER was a romantic, indolent young man,
^ with no capital in life except a genius for music.
He was an expert performer on the violin, his favorite
instrument, and could sing divinely.

Poor Carl ! He did not support himself by means of
either his violin or liis voice, l)ut worked hard day after
day in a tobacco-factory, of wJiich he was superintendent.
He had ambitious dreams of some dav leaving; his work
in this factory, and appearing before the world as a great
violinist ; but for the present there was nothing for him
to do but to plod on steadily and accept whatever fortune
might give him.

After working all day he would go homo to his lodging-
house, take his violin case, and Avander out of the city to
a (juiet spot beside the river, where he would play some-
times till well into the night. This he w^ould do every
pleasant evening, playing softly in his own room wlien
the weathxcr was not suitable for him to go out. He
preferred to be alone when playing solely for his love of
music ; but his landlady, who could not appreciate music
— who, in short, cared for nothing but a confab witli a
gossiping neighbor — did not encourage him to play in
the house.

" There is no one for me to love ; no one to care for
me," Carl would often sigh. "I have no mother, no
sister, no wife ; I am but a stranger in a strange land. I
seem to have no particular friends ; there is no one that
could ever become well enough ac(iuainted with me even

-W^J

THE YOUNG VIOLINIST.

251

to take an interest in my welfare. 1 must never dream
of a wife and home ; I must live for myself and fame,
the only thing to love, my violin."

Month after month Carl Adler lived his solitary life ;
but one day a change came. It was evening, and with
his violin case under his arm he was slowly making his
way to his retreat up the river As usual he was think-
ini:; of his art and his beloved violin. Suddenly a young
lady and gentleman turned the corner of a street, and
met him face to face. He stepped aside and was moving
on, when the gentleman exclaimed :

" Here's the very person you want, Miss Archer."
Then sotto voce, " An adept at the art, I assure you."

Carl pauseci, and the stranger continued, " Permit me to
introduce you. Miss Archer, to Mr, Adler. Mr. Adler,
Miss Archer."

Carl bowed in acknowledn'ment of the introduction.
Thmigh " only a workman," as he habitually called him-
self, he was a gentleman, and could feel <|uite at ease in
what Charleston called the " best society."

" 1 am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Adler,"
sii" 1 ]\Iiss Archer, in a slow, musical voice. "Would it be
convenient for you to come and give us some iinisic
to-morrow evening ^. Of course, if it would be at all
incfmvenient — "

"Certainly I will come," Cai-1 replied, so promptly that
the young lady for a moment fancied he was over-
powered by the honoi* of the invitation. But a second
glance at his face convinced her that such was not the
case.

"You play Strauss's compositions, I supposed" she
iiski'd. • • • ■

1^i|

i i

h,: i ■'-

1;. 'I

252

THE YOUNG VIOLINIST.

I 1

■ .'I i

i 11

;t, f .

" Yes, I have most of his compositions," (^^arl said
modestly.

" Sind Sie nicht einer seiner Landslente, Herr Adler ?"

" Ich bin es ; ich kam aber vor fuent'zehn Jahren, wie
ein Kind, nach Amerika, und icli spreche lieber englisch
als deutseli. Ich hab(^ Musik liier stiulirt."

" Very w^ell ; bring all the best of Strauss's music yon
have, please, Mr. Adler."

" I will ; but, excuse me, Miss Archer, you have not
given me the address," Carl said, with a smile.

Miss Archer, taken by surprise, looked at Carl blankly,
for she supposed that everybody knew where Justice
Archer lived. Immediately she recovered herself and
gave the address, adding : " Have you your violin with
you in the case ?"

" Yes, madam."

" I suppose you value it very highly ?"

" Yes, Miss Archer," Carl replied, with a fond glance
at the case. " I — I worship it."

" It's a Stradivarius, is it not ? " a.^ked the gentleman.

" No," replied Caid, " it's an Amati."

" Ah, well ; both were the great Cremimese makers."

Then Miss Archer and her escort pursued their way,
and Carl went on to his retreat.

" Of course it is my violin, not me, they want," Carl
mused. " But all the same, I will go, and do my best to
amuse the company."

The next evening he dressed with care, and bent his
way to Justice Archer's big marble house. He was at once
shown into a han<lsomely furnished salon, Mdiere he found
a knot of fashionable people already assembled.

Miss Archer advanced and received him cordially.

Carl said

err Acllev ?"
Jahren, wie
ber englisch

i music you

ou have not

^arl blankly,

here Justice

herself and

L' violin with

fond glance

|e gentleman.

makers."
id their way,

want," Carl
lo my best to

and bent his

ie was at once

lere he found

lied.

Im cordially.

THE YOUNG VIOLINIST.

253

Then .she introduced liim to tw^o or three of those present
as " Mr. Adler, a young violinist of this city."

Carl saw in what light he was regarded, and was care-
ful not to obtrude. However, ho had not come as a paid
musician, and this thought comforted him.

Presently lie was called upon to play. Feeling that
some of the fashionable pt.'ople about liim were covertly
liiughing at him, and wi.shing, perhaps, to exhibit his skill
before Miss Archer, wdio had already made an impression
on his susceptible heart, he exerted himself to the utmost,
and played as if by inspiration.

In a f(;w minutes lie became aware that his audience
were drawing nearer and nearer — even crowding about
liiin. But he took no notice of this, playing on with his
whole soul in the music.

When the last strains of " Wein, Weib, und Gesang "
died away there w^as a loud burst of applause. Carl
bowed in acknowledgment, and coolly keyed up his in-
strument.

" That is grand," said a portly old gentleman. " I have
not heard such music since I came from the land of
violins."

'' The instrument is a master-piece, the handiwork of
one of the old classic makers," said the young gentleman
who had introduced Carl to Miss Archer the previous
evening, "but as much is due to the performer's talent and
>kill as to that."

"^e.s, Mr. Adler," said Justice Archer, .stepping up to
the now blushing violinist, "you are worthy of your
Aniati."

But Carl knew his own worth, and this praise did
not turn his head. " They rate me too liighly," he said

254

THE YOUNG VIOLINIST.

111 f

to himself ; " it is the instrument. But probably they
took me for a conunon scraper on a nameless violin."
Then he said aloud : " Don't give me praise that I do not
deserve. I have not handled the bow long enough yet to
be master of it."

" How long is it since you first took up the violin?"
asked one of the guests.

" Barely six years," Carl replied — not deprecatingly, for
it is the work almost of a life-time to perfect one's self
in playing on the violin.

More music was called for, and Carl delighted the com-
pany throughout the entire evening, sometimes playin<,f
alone, sometimes accompanied on the piano by Miss Archor
or other young ladies. The uninitiated joined in the cry,
and every one declared the performance ex(]uisite. Some
of the gentlemen were envious of Carl's marvelous dex-
terity and sympathy in wielding the bow ; and some
of the fair sex were desperately in love with him, ami
manor^uvred adroitly to obtain an introduction.

The evening passed pleasantly until some person de-
manded why Mr. Adler had never appeared in pnhlic
before. Then some one unluckily asked what Mr. Adler's
occupation might be.

This was put as a direct question, and Carl did nut
hesitate to answer it. Feeling a little bitter, perhaps, that
it was his music, not himself, that excited admiration, aiul
being somewhat of a Socialist at heart, h" answered
bluntly, almost defiantly, " I am a workman in a
tobacco factory."

There was dead silence for a full minute. Carl stealthily
glanced about him, and saw the look of horror that
transfixed the faces of several of those present. But he

THE YOUNG VIOLINIST.

255

only smiled grimly, and said to himself, " This will be a
st'vere test for some of them, it seems. Now we shall
see who are truly ladies and gentlemen."

But a shadow crossed his face when ho saw that Miss
Archer herself looked inexpressibly annoyed, and he
wished he could recall his hasty words. " But no," he re-
flected ; " let me see whether she is like the rest."

'• Mr. Adler," said Justice Archer, " I am glad to see you
are not above your calling. As an American citizen, you
are on a level with us all; as a musician, you are intinitely
superior to any of us. The young man with a genius like
yours need not be ashamed to stand before a workman's
bench, because he is conscious that some day he will im-
inoi'talize himself."

It may be the justice said this as a well-merited rebuke
to such as sneered at Carl. The latter himself took
it as a mild rebuke, and felt equally abashed with
those at whom it was more directly leveled.

Soon afterward the party broke up. Several of the more
intluential people gathered about Carl, among them the
justice, Miss Archer, and Mr. Melbourne — the gentleman
who had given Carl the introducticm to Miss Archer, and
who had, in a quiet way, proved himself Carl's champion.

"I hope we shall hear you again," said the justice kindly.
" Cannot you come in some day next week ? What day
shall we appoint, Mollie ? " to his daughter.

"Could you come next Wednesday? " Miss Archer said.

" Yes, Miss Archer."

" Yery well, then ; we shall expect you next Wednes-
day."

" I will come. Good evening."

Carl fell in love with Miss Archer ? Passionately.

:^i

256

THE YOUNG VIOLINIST.

" She does not despise me, at all events," he retlectc*].
" In fact, she seemed to rc^aird iiu^ with soinetldng inoi-c
tangible tlian niei'e courtesy. Was it achiiiration ? Oh I
that the day of my tiiumpli would come ! But it seems
as far away as <'ver."

Carl ktspt his appointment on the following Wednesday,
and played as ex([uisitely as he had done befoi'e. How-
it thrilled him with delight to stand beside Miss Archer!
As they both read off the same sheet of music he was
obliged to manoeuvre dexterously to avoid hittino- hci'
with the bow. It was a novel experience for him to have
a young lady accompanist.

On this occasion it was discovered that Carl could sin"-,
and he fairly electrified Miss Archer with his tine voice.
How it rejoiced him to call forth approbation from her !

Before the evening was over a maid brought in suli-
stantial refreshments of cake and cottee ; and when Carl
rose to take leave he was pressed to come again.

Poor Carl ! As he walked to his lonely rooms he swore
that, God helping him, Miss Archer should be his wife.

" They treat me as hospitably as if I were the most
stylish gentleman in all Charleston. I will hope for the
best, and do my utmost to prove worthy of her and to
win her."

The next time Carl Adler went to Justice Archer's he
found Mr. Melbourne there. "I want to enjoy the music,
too, if you will permit me," this gentleman said, smiling
good-humoredly.

C!arl felt a pang of jealousy ; but he and Miss Archer
were soon so much engrossed in playing that he almost
ergot another's presence.

The younq violinist.

257

reflected.
iin<^ more
Dn ? Oh 1
t it set'ias

ednesday,
)re. How
ss ArchtT'.
,ic he was
litting- her
im to have

could sing,
tine voice.

1 from hcv '•

gilt in s\ih-
when Carl

in.

IS he swore
his wife.

the most
ope for the
her and to

Archer's he
the music,
laid, smiling

Vliss Archer
tt he almost

" Sing me * The Archer and the Eagle,* " suggested Mr.
Melbourne, with a provoking hiugh.

Tlie joke elicited an appreciative smile fi'oin tlie justice,
but Carl started as if he already felt tlie " holt." This
whimsical allusion had never occurred to him l)efore.

Again refreshments were served ; again he was pressed
to come and play.

So the summer passed. Carl had played at the justice's
>ix times since the night of the social gathering. He was
now madly in love with Miss Archer. 8he tilled the void
in his heart; slie was his all in all. He care<l to live but
to see her, and counted on the evenings he was to spend
with her as a schoolboy counts on his holidays. Not
■satisfied with seeing her occasionally at her own home,
he neglected his beloved violin, and haunted the park and
other places where he thought there was any possibility of
seeing her. Then he regularly attended the church which
she attended. Still he never intruded, never spoke unless
she recognized him, and never presumed while in her
father's house.

" She must be my wife, or I shall go mad," he said.

At length he determined to propose marriage boldly,
iait before doing so he would make a supreme eftbrt to
have the world recognize his genius. To that end he
made application to Justice Archer and some others for
letters of recommendation, and armed with these he went
jto Boston. There his wonderful genius excited the
liveliest admiration from musical critics. The New
[England Conservatory of Music received him most favor-
ably, and prophesied a brilliant career for him.
At last it seemed as if fortune had smiled on him.

llM

I' !

268

THE YOUNG VIOLINIST.

f. 5

" The factory will liavo to look out i'or another superin-
tendent," he said gleefully. "But I must <;•<) hack to
Charleston and see my darling. An hour will settle my
aflairs there, and then huriali for Boston again I "

Carl found that he was expected to give still anotln r
recital in Boston in the course of a f(!W days, and that
probably he would not get away for a full week. Too
impatient to wait so long, he determined to write to
Miss Archer that very day, telling her of his good fortune
and of his ambitious dreams, and asking her to be his
wife.

Full of his great love for her, Carl wrote a pathetic,
yet eloquent, letter. Then there was nothing for it but
impatiently to await an answer.

" It seems almost madness for me to do such a thiiij;,"
he said to himself. " What has slie ever said that I should
suppose she cares for me ? She has treated me \\ itli the
greatest kindness and respect, but that is all. What
cause have I to be so infatuated ? But she loves me I she
loves me ! she loves me ! I know it ! Didn't she lend me
some of her best music to bring here, and didn't she give
me a boquet when 1 bade her good-bye? Oh, my love!
my love ! God lias been merciful ; he has helped me ; and
you will yet be mine."

The last day of Carl's stay in Boston had come. He
had given one more exhibition of his genius, and h\>
success was now assured. There was nothing more for
him to do but to become famous, he was told.

To-day he might confidently look for a letter. What
would the answer be ? His letter was to be sent to tli'
" general delivery," and as he walked to the post-office
his heart was light and heavy by turns.

THE YOUNG VIOLINIST.

259

etter. What

His thonu^lits reverted to the evening he had sung
" The Archer and the Eagle," and tliese lines rang in his

memory : —

'* With fatal aim tho bolt sho lancliod,
- And with a acream tho eagle rose.
His gaping wound can not l)o stanched —

His j)lunies are hers, tho proud Montroso ! "

His voice trembled as he asked the clerk to look for
his name. A letter was carelessly handed liim, and at a
lifljince he saw that the handwriting was feminine and
tlu' post-mark Charleston.

He almost staggered as he walked out of the post-office.
"Slie is the only one," he thouglit, "who would write to
ino ; so it is from her. Heaven help me! It must he
hope, for the tide has turned."

Turning up a (piieter street, he tore open the envelope
and took out the letter, which ran : —

" Mil. Adler, Dear Hir. — Though pleased to hear of
your merited good fortune, I was pained and surprised
at your proposal of marriage. If I have ever unwittingly
<,dven you cause to think I might be your wife, I sincerely
regret it. I am truly sorry if you feel as deeply in this
matter as your letter represents ; but can only say, in
reply, that I am soon to marry Mr. Melbourne. Try not
to think of me at all ; dtvote youi'self wholly to the glory
of vour art.

" With sincerest wishes for your prosperity and happi-
ness, 1 am, as ever, your true friend, M. Archer."

Carl read this letter to the end, and then mechanically
put it '• his pocket. Then he went on, ho{)elessly, aim-
lessly. [ — I ought to have waited," he said aloud,

Prest 'v he fell.

Hi;

I S-

260

THE YOUNG VIOLINIST.

', '

1' ;

■!

■1

^Bi

■^1

■ !-

. !
i

■ a

Two or three kind-hearted people ran up to hiiu, end
a crowd soon collected.

" Sunstroke,'' cried one.

" Heart disease."
iipoplexy.

" Take hiiu to the hospital."

Three days later this brief paragraph appeared in the
Boston Globe :

" Sept. 7th. — At the hospital died yesterday Mr. Carl
Adler, a young violinist from the South. It is said tliat
he had just received an appointment from our New
England Conservatory of Music. Doctors differ as to
the cause of his death, but it is generally attributed to
the intense heat, which has caused sunstrokes all over
the country. In the young man's pocket was a letter
from a friend in his Southern home. Contents not
divulged."

The Boston doctors didn't believe in sentiment, but
they could respect a dead man's secret. Otherwise the
reporters might have worked up a grim sensation.

i I'

hiixi, end

•ed in the

Y Mr. Carl
said that
our New
ifier as to
iributed to
is all over
as a letter
atents not

iment, but
erwise the
ion.

MAMMON.

A STRONf! man, true, with noble mien,
Defiant, in his oft proved might,
H- ■ jteadfast dog erect beside,
Reflecting all his master's pride ;
With firmest trust in maiden's plight,
And little reck for Fortune's spleen.

A maiden fair, with love of pelf.
And scornful of a brave heart won ;

Fierce, taunting words ere she forsook

A last embrace, a last sad look.

A lean dog, dozing in the sun,
A madman, mutt'ring to himself.

TIME, THE HEALER.

Stoney-eyed grief — Christmas, 1885.

As looms against the midnight skies
A lonely, spectral, blasted tree,

So shapes the past l)uft)re my eyes

Whene'er my thoughts revert to thee.

Chastened grief — Christmas, 1888.

As some loved picture in a book

Recalls a cherislicd by-gone thought,

So thou, when on the past I look,

Recall'st the happiness once sought.

fg^.'Tr^^

THINGS BEGIN TO GET INTERESTING.*

^I^FTER a weary march due east, they came to a small,
cleared space, in which stood a miserable hut. A

fc\fV^'^P''-*l-^tf

faint line of smoke was curling out of the roof, but no
person was in sight.

" Now, this isn't another powder magazine," said Steve;
" therefore it must be a 'wayside hut.' My wounds have
made me thirsty, of course, and we can probably get a

drink here, wlietlier any one is in or not, so I am going

• )>
m.

The oohers, also, felt thirsty; and Charles was advanc-
ing to knock at the door, when Steve softly called him

back.

" Now, Charley," he said, " I haven't read romances for
nothino;, and if there's villainy any where in this forest,
it's here. Of course you've all read that villains have
what is i ailed a ' peculiar knock V"

" Yes," whispered four out of the seven.

*' Well, I ^Mu going to give a ' peculiar knock' on that
door with my sound hand, and you must mark the etfect
it has. You needn't grasp your weapons ; but just keep
your eyes and ears open. Then will you do whatever I

ask ? "

"We will," they said, smiling at Steve's whim.

Then the man who luid not read romances for nothing'
stole softly to the door, and knocked in a " ])eculiar
manner."

* Extract from my book, " A Bll'NDKRING Boy." In.^el•t^'(^ here without
a word of permission from the author or any of the mythical characters
portrayed. — B. w. M.

THINGS BEG.V to GET INTERESTING,

263

Without a moment's hesitation, a voice within said,
" Well done ! "

Steve faced the others and winked furiously, while he
reasoned rapidly to this ellect: " Evidently, here is a nest
of knaves. The fellow on the inside thinks his mate is
in danger, and knocks to know wliether it is safe for him
to come in."

Then the voice within asked uneasily, " Jim ? "

" Will," said Marmaduke, leaning o\ er the litter, " we
are '^■rtainly on the track of the man who stole your
deer ! "

" Oil, I had forgotten all about the deer," AVill groaned.

'^teve started, but collected himself in a moment, and

.'lispered to Jim, " Come along, Jim ; this fellow wants

to see you. Now, be as bold as a lion ; blow your nose

like a trumpet; and observe: 'By the great dog-star,

it's Jim ; lemme in.' "

Jim managed to do this ; but he l)asely muttered that
he wasn't brought up for a circus clown.

" Then come in ; the door isn't locked ; " the voice
within said harshly, but unhesitatingly.

Stephen tiling open the doot and strode proudly into
the liut, closely followed by the others. One scantily
t'liniished room, in a corner of which a man lay on a bed,
was disclosed. This man's look of alarm at this sud ^-jn
I'litrance filled Steve with exultation.

'■ What does all this mean ? What do you want ^ " the
tii'L-ujiant of the bed demanded.

'* A glass of water," said Steve.

" Well, you can get a dish here, and there is a spring
outside," with an air of great relief.

" Is this the man { " Steve asked of Marmaduke.

iW 'if

f n

264

THINGS BEGIN TO GET INTERESTING.

Marmaduke sadly shook his head.

" I am very low with the small-pox," said the unknown,
" and those of you who have not had it, nor have not been
exposed to it, had better hurry out into the open air."

This was said quietly — apparently, sincerely.

The hunters were struck with horror. It seemed as
though a chain of misf(jrtunes, that would eventually
drag them to destruction, was slowly closing around them.
Small-pox ! Exposed to that loathsome disease ! They
p-rew sick with fear !

" Was it for this we went hunting ? " Charles groaned,

For a few moments the hunters lost all j^resencc- of
mind ; they neglected to rush out of doors ; they forgot
that the sick man seemed wrapped in suspicion ; they
forgot that they had gained admittance by stratagem ;
Steve forgot that he was playing the hero.

A cry of horror from Jim roused them from their
torpor.

" What a fool T am ! " cried Henry. " I had the small-
pox when I was a little boy; and now, to prove or
disprove this fellow's statement, I will run the risk of
taking it again. The rest of you may leave the room or
not ; just as fear, or curiosity, or thirst, or anything else,
moves you. I believe, however, that there is not the
least danger of contagion."

" No, no ; come out ! " Mr. Lawrence entreated, not
wishing to be responsible for any more calamities,
" Come out, Henry, and len ve the man alone."

" Believe me, Mr. Lawrence, I run no risk," Henry
declared. " I shall—"

" Ha 1 " shrieked the sick man. " Lawrence ? Did you
sav Law — '

THINGS BEGIN TO GET INTERESTING.

265

He stopped abruptly. But it was too late ; he had
betrayed himself.

" Yes, my man ; I said Lawrence ! " Henry said excitedly.
" Come, now ; explain yourself. Say no more about small-
pox — we are not to be deceived by any such pretence."

The sick man looked Uncle Dick full in the face ;
groaned; shuddered; covered his face with tbe bed-
clothes ; and then, villain-like, fell to mutterinfj.

After these actions, Jim himself was not afraid.

" Mr. Lawrence, Will, all of you," Henry said hoarsely,
" I think your mystery is about to be unriddled at last.
This man can evidently furnish the missing link in your
history. He is either the secret enemy, or an accomplice
of his." Uncle Dick trembled. After all these years
was the mystery to be solved at last ?

Stephen's hurt and Will's knee were forgotten in the
eagerness to hear what this man had to say. All were
familiar with Uncle Dick's story, as far as he knew it
himself, and consequently all were eager to have the
mysterious part explained. The entire eight assembled
round the bed-side.

After much inane muttering the sick man uncovered his
head, and asked faintly * Are you Richard Lawrence ? "

" I am."

" Were you insane at one time, and do you remembei*
Patriarch Monk { "

" Yes, I was insane ; but I know nothing of what
happened then."

" Well, 1 will confess all to you. Mr. Lawrence, T liave
sutiered in all these weary years — surt'ered from the
aiT;oiiy of remorse."

" Yes ? " said Uncle Dick, with a rising inflection.

t^'

jpupHjpp

m K

,11

266

THINGS BEGIN TO GET INTERESTING.

" I will keep in}^ secret no longer. But who are all
these young men ? " glancing at the hunters.

'* They are friends, who may liear your story," Uncle
Dick said

" To begin with, I am indeed sick, but I have not the
small-pox. That was a mere ruse to get rid of disagree-
able callers."

At this Steve looked complacent, and Henry looked
triumphant ; the one pleased with his strategy, the other
pleased with his sagacity.

At that very instant quick steps were heard outside,
and then a " peculiar knock " was given on the door,
which, prudently or i'nprudently, Steve had shut.

" It is a man wlio lives with me," Patriarch Monk said
to the hunters. " We shall be interrupted for a few
minutes, but then I will go on." Then aloud : " You
may as w^ell come in, Jim."

If this was intended as a warning to tlee, it was not
heeded, for the door opened, and a man whom Will and
Marmaduke recognized as the rogue who on the previous
day had feigned a mortal Avound in order to steal their
deer, strode into the hut.

On seeing the hut full of armed men, he sank down
hopelessly, delivered a few choice ecphoneses, and then
exclaimed : " Caught at last ! Well, I might 'a' known it
would couae sooner or later. They have set the law" on my
track, nihi all thesje fellows will help 'em. Law behind,
and what on earth in front ! — 1 sav, fellows, who are vou ? '

" Hunters." Henry said laconically.

Then the new-<'om<»r recognized Will and Mannaduk*-.
and ejaculated, ' Mi, I see ; yesterday my ring was
ruined, and now I in rained

I »>

tlllNGS BEGIN TO GftT rNTERESTING.

267

are vou :

The officer of the law, whose nonelialance had provoked
the lumter.s in the forenoon, was indeed hehind, and soon
he, also, entered the hut, which was now tilled.

" Just like a romance," Steve muttered. " All the
characters, good and bad, most unaccountably meet, and
then a general smash-up tak(^s place, after which the
guud march otl' in one direction, to felicity, and the bad
in another, to infelicity — unless they shoot themselves.
Now, I hope Patriarch and Jim won't shoot themselves ! "

" Jim Horniss," said the othcer, " 1 am empowered to
arrest you."

" 1 surrender," the captured one said sullenly. " You
oiii;ht to have arrested me before. I'd give back the
deer, if I could ; but I sold it last night, and that's the
last of it."

" That will do," the officer said severely.

The hunters now held a short conversation, and it was
decided that Mr. Lawrence and Heiny should stay to hear
what Patriarch Monk liad to sav for himself, but that the
others should go on with Will and Steve to the surgeon's.

The officer of t]i(3 law thought it might be necessary
for him to stay in his official capacity, and so he took a
seat and listened, while he fixed his eyes on Jim Horniss.

And the confession he heard was worth listening to.

The hut was soon cleared of all save the five ; and the
six first introduced to the rtader were afj;ain totjether, and
on their way to the surgeon's.

" Well," said Will, "it seems I have lost my deer ; but
I have the comfoi-ting thouy'lit of knowinii' that the rascal
will receive tlie punisluuent he deserves."

'!t

I'll

268

THINGS BEGIN TO GET INTERESTING.

" How strange it all is," said Marmaduke, " that your
uncle should stumble on the solution of his mystery when
he least expected it ; and that yon could not find the thief
when you looked for him, but as soon as you quit, we
made straight for his house."

" No," Steve corrected good-humouredly, " that isn't it ;
but as soon as I took to playing the part of a hero of
romance, ' events came on us with the rush of a whirl-
wind.' "

Leaving the wounded and the unwounded hunters to
pursue their way through tlie forest, we shall return to the
hut and overhear Patriarch Monk's long-delayed confes-
sion.

As soon as the door was shut on the six hunters he began.
His face was turned towards Mr. Lawrence, but his eyes
were fixed on his pillow, which was hidden by the cover-
let ; and his punctuation was so precise, his style so elo-
quent and sublime, and his story so methodical, compli-
cated, and tragical, that once or twice a horrible suspicion
that he was reading the entire confession out of a novel
concealed in the bed, flashed across Mr. Lawrence's mind.

If this dreadful thought should occur to the reader, he
can mentally insert the confession in double quotation
marks.

W "Sff ▼ v ■sif- ^

" I now surrender myself to outraged justice, — volun-
tarily, even gladly, — for I can endure this way of life no
longer. Forgive me, if you can, Mr. Lawrence, for I have
been tortured with remorse in all these years."

The villain's story was ended ; and Uncle Dick, Henry,
the officer of the law, and Jim Horniss, fetched a sigh of
relief.

Hi-

THINGS BEGIN TO GET INTERESTING.

2G9

Tliey felt extremely sorry for the sick man who had
confessed so eloquently and prolixly ; but Mr. Lawrence
was not so "tortured" with pity as to plead for his
release from punishment. In fact, he had nothing to say
against the law's taking its course with him. However,
he spoke kindly.

" Mr. Monk," he said, " I forgive you freely, for it was
my own foolishness that led me into youi" power. /\s for
the money, it seemed fated that it should melt away, and
to-day not one cent of it remains. I am glad to see you
in a better frame of mind, sir; but I must leave you now,
to see how it fares with my nephew. Come, Henry."

" And your story ? " asked the confessor, with a curi-
ous and eager air.

" Excuse me, Mr. Monk," said Uncle Dick ; " but my
story would seem prosaic, exceedingly prosaic, after yours.
Good day."

And he and Henry brutally strode out of the hut, leav-
ing the ex-villain " tortured " with curiosity.

i\- 1.

li-

SIGNS OF SPRINCI.

H 11 it

Signs of spring como thick and fust ;

The toboj,'<,fau is neglected,
Snowshocs, t<to, aside are cast,
And lawn-tennis resurrected.

The snow-shoveller s work is o'er —
Let us thirst not for his gore,
He will trouble us no more,
Careless lives he on his fortune.

Soon we'll read of baseball nine ;

Jokes on blanket-suits will languish ;
Steamboat jokes fall into line ;

Ice-cream horrors swell the anguish.
Soon will gas-bills take a drop(^)
Roaring furnace tires will stop.
And the smart house-cleaner's mop
Will despotic niake its circuit.

Small boys hie them to the broi>k.
With intent to get a wotting ;
Scaly lish they joyous hook ;

Hard at rafts they labor, sweating.
Soon the frog will serenade
From the friendly barricade
Of the dank pond's gruesome shade
Those who do not wish to hear him.

Loud, in tranquil safety phiced,

Fiends will i)ractice on the cornet ;
Brisk the small boy will be chased
By the wild, bellig'rent hornet.

Soon the bumble-bee will come,
With the wasp, his hufti'^h chum ;
Soon will blithe mostpiitoes hum,
Ere our blood they cheerful sample.

SIGNS OP SPUINCJ.

The dog-catcliors with their Itiros,

Sc()<)i)inL,' dnt,'.s witli Lj.iy iihaiidun,
Will try li;u-(l tlu- Itluckumnors —
Our jtcjt (h»Lj to hiy their h.-uiil on.

Ere the sad-eyed ViTiaunt trump,
Witli h\n lies of licld .lud camp,
Can his chestnuts (piite revamp,
Watch-dogs llci'ce renew ac(|uaintHnce.

Love-sick leap-year-privileged girls

Now will have a little leisure
To trick out in monstrous curls —

Trick'ry in which they take pleasure.
Then, enchanting as a rose,
As their woman mind well knows,
They will bring to time the beaux
Who have courted them all winter.

Some spring poet so(^n will die.

Martyr to his rhymes atrocious,
Slain, ere he can raise a cry,
By some editor ferocious.

Soon the peddler on his round
At the door will gaily pound,
And the old, familiar sound
Will remind ;"s spring is coming.

271

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OUE NEW GIRL.

^HE looked as if she would be equal to any emer-
m^M gency, in so far as mere physical strength was

were

1 1

i it. .

concerned ; so we decided to give her a trial.
a quiet family of four, and not very exacting.

Our expectations v/ere grandly realized. The most
determined tramp would meekly apologize for ringing
the bell when her Amazonian figure appeared at the door
in answer to the sum^vons. Even a bailiff, who came
around with fire in h -s cock eye to collect an account of
seventy -five cents, only stayed to parley with her for
the brief space of two minutes, when he, also, beat an
infflorious retreat. For once he had met his match.

Going to the door was her supreme accomplishment.
She took a ring as a personal insult ; but would drop
whatever slie might be at, and striding to the door, would
throw it wide open, stand squarely blocking the way, and
glare at tlio unfortunate person outside with a gorgon
look of haughty defiance. If running water from the
hot water tap in the kitchen, she would march to the door
if a ring came, leaving the tap wide open. But we knew
she would never be detained long at the door.

It was not a week, however, before she began to receive
calls herself from lier numerous friends ; and in these cases
the interview never lasted less than fifteen minutes. A
period in our liistory hinges upon such a call, one day
when I had gone upstairs to take a hot bath. Just as I
stepped into the bath, our new girl opened the hot water
tap in the sink below. " CjBsar ! " I groaned, " if that

■■XI

OUR NEW GIRL.

273

bell should ring ! " Ring ! ting ! ting ! went the bell,
surely enough ; and our new girl hurried to the door,
leaving the tap below wide open. The ringer was a bosom
friend of hers, and as no one came to my rescue, by the
time they had exchanged their mutual confidences about
their mistresses' affairs, my hot bath was gone up. This
brought on such a cold that I was constrained to remain
in my room for nearly a week.

The first morning I felt well enough to get about the
house, the new girl, in opening the shutters, clumsily
knocked one of them down into the street. It so hap-
pened that an old African rag-and-bottle fiend was
trundling his push-cart along the sidewalk at this inop-
portune moment. The shutter rattled down so close
behind him that he ran headlong into a hydrant — his
carjio littered the walk and the boulevard — and he keeled
over his cart all in a heap.

I saw this from a window, and hastened to the door —
which was very rash and unfortunate on my part. The
old fellow picked himself up slowly, and looked behind
him in a very scared and deprecating way. On seeing
me at the door and the grinning girl at the upper window,
he heaved a sigh of relief, and exclaimed : " By gosh, boss !
I thought it was a p'liceman a-goin' ter pull me fer run-
nin' this heah outfit er mine on the sidewalk."

" Are you hurt ? " I asked.

" Well, between you and me, I was pretty badly scart.
I do feel shook up, now I comes to raise myself, worse 'n
if a gris'-mill had kersploded ; and jes' look at them

goods

1 "

" Too bad," I said soothingly, and turned to step back
into the hpuse.

'4 '

274

OUR NEW OIRL.

" Hol' on, boss ! " the old fellow cried out. "Let ns
esterniate the dainidge on the spot, so'st there wun't he no
hard t'eclin's arisin' ahout this misfortune, and no unfair
advantaffe took l>v cither one er ns ; and so'st von, hein'
a hones' man, can recon]) me tcr once."

" Will forty cents ' rcconp ' you, old man, if I throw in
five more for your loss ot' tinui ?" 1 asked hau<ditilv.

" No, hoss, it wun't ; hut seein' you're cons))os('d to nek
like a f^^ennerinan ahout it, and hein' as I'm handy with
tools, and not ahove doin' a little repairin' myself in a
case like this heah, we will esterniate tliat my outfit is
damid^vd to the tune of two dollahs. That's the wav I
figrrer it out, hoss ; hut I'm willing ter make a perduetion
of twenty-five per cent, in your case, as it's soi-ter a|>in
the grain fer me ter be downright hard on a gennei'man,
anyhow, hein' as I was l»rung up a gennerman, inyself."

I told him that he had foun<l his vocation at last, and
that I had no douht he could outjew the ablest German
Israelite in his ti'adc. Then I weakly co!npromised on a
dollar and ten cents, and hurriedly retreated into the
house, as a crowd of gamins was beginning to collect,
eager at the prospect of a free circus.

I found that the shutter was " damaged to the tune "
of fifteen cents, and I felt all broken up. But what was
my consternation next day to find that a mischievous
reporter, who lived across the way, put a startling para-
graph in his paper, to the effect that an inoffensive and
nnich-esteemed old colored citizen, trundling a homely
but respectable cart peacefully along the public highway,
had been assaulted by an arrogant householder, and most
shamefully handled " But," pleasantly concluded the

OUR NRVV GIRL,

275

paragraph. " this man of violence was mulcted to the tune
of S200, which will pi-oltably cause liim in future to keep
at a resju'ctful distance fn^ni guileless old men of the
push-cart fraternity."

Of course this mean joke was understood and appre-
ciated, not alone by my intimate friends, hut hy those
who had witnessed the mishaps of the old tramp and my
pai-ley with him. And hy all these it iv<(8 appreciated —
i'or many long and weiiry tlays. The great army of
iVicnds — of all ages, and se.xes, and colors, and creeds,
and conditions — that our new girl would seem to have
accumulated in the course of her life, likewise appeared
ti) understand and apf)r('ciat(; the affair. But their covert
ridicule did not atlect n»e.

The dav after this unfricndh' encounter of mint* with
the swindling son of Africa, my mother directed the new
liirl to drive a strong nail in ihr wall in the dining-room,
for the jnu'pose of securing a lirackct. In half an hour's
time we heard a noise in that dininu-i'oom that shook the
foundations of the housi', and reminded us of Noah huild-
ing his ark. We (Uislied into the room, and lo ! there
stood the new girl on the sewing-machine, wielding a
neighbor's ten-pound hannner, and tiying hard to pound
into the wall a Northern Paciiic railroad spike, which
she had fished up in the wood-shed. Truly, she was ener-
getic, but too impetuous.

Two days aftei- this inci<lent I was called to the door
at the hour of noon by the new girl, who said, with a look
of genuine alarm and horror, that " some man wasaskiui;
for me, all tied up together and crunche<l-up-looking, like
as if he had fell offen a house afire."

^76

OUR NEW OIUL.

r< f

I*' i-

I 1

li',

Full of curiositv to see wliat iiuiiinor of man it could
be that had daunted even our new <,'irl, I inconsiderately
went to the door without stoppini,^ to make any inipiiries,
an«l liad liard work to reco<;nize ujy friend of the damaged
push-cart.

His right hand was painted livid with iodine. His left
arm hung in a sling, a!id was hound with cloth — mostly
venerable pantaloons, with an outside veneer of dismal,
greasy cotton — till it was decidedly larger than a stove-
pipe. His stomach (which he evidi'utly considered the
seat of life) stood out into empty space like the smock of
an emigrant boy loaded with stolen apples ; and was
braced, guyed, stayed, and kept from falling oti' him l>y
the volumimms folds of four different muttter.s, or "com-
forters," in various stages of unwholesomeness. Besides
these mulHers, his stomach was belaved by two encirclin<^
pairs of suspenders and a piece of comparatively new
skate-strap. Verily, ho nuist have harnessed on the
entire stock of a rag warehouse. He would have afforded
no inconsiderable load for an easy-going horse to pull.
He took up as much room as a drunken man with a
wheel-barrow, and would have crowded an alderman
completely off* the sidewalk.

" Well, boss," he began, in a voice that sounded as if he
must have swallowed a [uecc of ragged ore, " that night
after I seen you I was t(X)k a?f-ful sick. The doctah
says I'm terrible bad, and that I mus' go ter the infer-
mery as sot.n's I seen you agin. The doctahs ecks-zamin-
ed me, and foun' that I'm damidged in-ter-nal-ly ter the
tune er eight hundred dollahs. Now, that's pretty tough,
ain't it, boss ? " and he hitched his supports and looked
very sad.

6UR NEW niRL.

277

" Bein' ez ino and yon air lK)tli jns' men," ho continued,
" I'm willinj,^ tor settle this heah aftair without any legul
perceedings, coz I doan' want tor put you tor any trouble ;
(liere he aliectod to be caught by a terrible spasm) and so
I come erround heah, all weak and a-totterin' ez I ani»
tor say that I'll coniponuiso with you in or quiet way for
five hundred dollahs, spot cash. And that's orbout the
lihoralist oh.ih I ever heerd tell of, boss."

I listened caliulv, witli an insci-ut;ible look that boiruiled
tlu! old hypocrite to continue his argument. He went on
to say, further, that if I would heed a friendly warning I
would gladly compromise ; as if he didn't collect that
money to buy patent medicine and doctors' medicine, he
would surely die. But the money would be collected, all
tlie same ; for he had seventeen able-lxxlied heirs, who
would never give me a moment's peace till they had
collected the full amount of eight hundred dollars, with
interest !

No doubt the old fellow thought all this would sttigger
ine. But a man who knows anything of the reprobate
Negro is not easily staggered.

He next proceeded to say that if I could stand the ex-
pense of a great puljlic trial, he would willingly unbosom
all his frightful wounds and " damages " to a sympathetic
court. But he believed I would spare myself this fright-
ful loss of time and money.

It so happened that the Water-works Department had
that very forenoon set about re})lacing the hydrant
aLjainst which he had collided wdth a new one entire.
Old age and last year's frosts had rendered this hydrant
cranky and unreliable. The rigors of another w^inter
might destroy it.

. i

■1; »!■

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|i' ;

|1 •!

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til

I'll

278

OUR \E\V GIRL.

Porceivinf( my opportunity, I slowly and with liiueli
dignity [jointcd with tluvc iingors to the disniantlcil
hydrant, and said hai-shly: "Rash criminal! the relentless
arm of outraj^ed city by-law is waiting to snatch you u]),
and make a feai't'ul example of you ! If you had hut
dimly com})relK'nded the awful pains and penalties iu-
ftictcd upon those who demolish, impinge on, or tamper
with the city hydrants, — thus endangering property and
liampering the work of the city watering-carts, — you
would at once have set out by rail for (Janada. I, old
man, am one vested with authority in this department of
the city's welfai-e, and I cannot but do my duty. As soon
therefore, as j'ou lecover sufficiently to bo able to work
hard for a living, the city will provide you with no light
employment in the city jail ; and the prosperous business
which you are building up will go to the dogs, 1 am
confident that a I'epudiator of youi* ulnquitary oneirom-
ancy will at onc(^ solecize the invulnerability of the
platit\i<le. 1 wish further to impress upon you the vitiosity
of the rhino})lastic turgidity and incompatibility which
has predetei-minedly crystallized the unctuousness of
your andiiguous odontology."

This bloodthirsty and pompous bluster was not with-
out its cHect. The old African quailed under it, and I
continueil : " Think not to work upon my sympathies ; for
since this periodicity to a city Itydrant has occurred, be-
fore my very door, I am steeled to pity and sworn to
vengeance !" Again the old man quailed, and I wound
up by saying that as a former Indian hunter and fighter
mider Wild Bill, I could perceive that his " damages "
would not realize thi'ee cents on the dollar.

■d

OUR NEW OIRL,

279

The old ruin, now thoron«:^hly alaniicd, p;la<lly compro-
mised by accoptin^ an order on our <lniL,^u:ist for a l)()ttlo
of stoniacli l)itters and a I)()ttlc of liair-oil.

Tlie wicked old heathen looked so woeheirono as he
shuffled off' that I relented so far as to hold out a promise;
tliat he and his family should have all our soap-«;rease,
ra<^s, bones, and l)ottles, /?re to the fifth generation. But
I stipulated that he should nevei- levy on my pocket-book
an'ain, ami that, so lon<:^ as he remained out of jail, he
sh((uld give our new girl as wide a berth as a Oattling gun.

He tried to look grateful, but said I wasn't acting right
throuixh like a " j^eimerman," thou<d» he <messed he would
liave to give in this time. I warned him not to bother
me about it if a street car should run over him on his
way home ; and so we ])arted. The two workmen now
came back to the hydrant, and he slouched away with
amazing agility.

The very next day our new^ girl set the kitchen on tire,
so carelessly as to have invalidated my insuivince policy.
I saw clearly that she was likely to run some one into an
untimely grave, and myself into the State's prison or the
pt^or-house. So we made her up a purse of ten dollars,
liought her a scalper's ticket over the St. Paul, and per-
suaded her to go and take up land in Dakota. We have
since heard that she is doing well, i>uc that no one has
had the rashness to marry her.

I thought I had shaken off the enterpi-ising accunmlator
of ra<rs and bottles. But about two weeks after his last
appeal to me, we were suddenly besieged one day by no
fewer than seven tramps for free soap-grease, etc., etc. —
c\'identlv some of the old fellow's able-bodied heirs.
That idle promise to him was a fatal mistake on my part.

280

OUR NEW OIRL.

for he took it sf.'riously. It wasn't so mucli a (juestion of
loss of revenue, Imt now that our new girl's sphere of
action had been enlarged, who would scare away these
fiends from the door ? I j^lotted to secure the services of
a couple of bowelless bull-dogs — Init if the oM man him-
self should come around again !

One happy day we decidijd that the climate of Chicago
wasn't cold enough to suit us, and removed to Minneapolis.

A MISSING TESTIMONIAL.

|p\(D MATRON r.Y cat that lias succcssfiillv reared
'jKfmk sevi'iitcrii tamilit's tliat have all lurnt'tl out well,
si'IkIs in the following gratt'fiil reeomnu'ud <>t' Dr. Hum-
Imgger'H untMjuallt'<l " Propnctary Medicines." As the
It'iirncd doctor cannot consistently })ul>lish it in almanac
form at this inopportune time of year (the only mistake
Mrs. Pussy Cat makes is in forwarding her testimonials in
February instead of Septt'inher), no time is lost in placing
lier letter herewith hefore " suH'ering humanity," It is
manifest that these high encomiums are genuine and
unsolicited.

" Dear Sirs : — 1 beg to inclose you a photograph of
mv seventeenth family of triplets. From too nmch tVmd-
ling by my genial host's impulsive son, they became
reduced to a mere skeleton at the early age of seven
weeks, and I despaired of saving their precious lives.
But fortunately I got hold of a phial of your marvelous
Lung- Waster CJordial, which I began using according to
your printed directions. The first dose brought them
relief, and three dozen bottles efiected a permanent cure.
" This amazing result induced me to try your celebrated
Angel-Maker Bitters for Tonuiiy, an elder son of mine.
Tommy was gifted by nature with a magnificent solo
voice, and for months past has been the leader of our
Harmony Club, and has organized numy brilliant serenad-
ing tours. His midnight glees are everywhere greeted
with tunudtuous applause and peremptory encores of
'Scat! Seat!' from impulsive humJin-tribo bpings, who

282

A MIS8ING TESTIMONIAL.

cannot restrain tlioir entliusiasni. In fact, their rrpturous
emotions often become so uncontrollable that they pro-
dij^'ally heave valuable kitchen and toilet articles out of
the windows, and address congratulatory speeches to him,
largely composed of those complimentary phrases be-
ginning with ' By .' On more than one occasion

Tommy has narrowly escaped Iteing hit by elegant
boquets of boot-jacks, thrown by some ardent a<lmiivr
belonging to the impetuous human tribe. But one bitterly
cold night Tommy came home at 8 a.m., comphiining of
a hoarseness in his throat. I naturally became alannud,
fearing it might result in pneumonia. The next day
Tommy was worse, and imagine my anguish on realizing
that his glorious voice was likely to be impaired ! There
were plenty of rivals who wcjuld have rejoiced to see my
noble boy's star wane, and peter out. From this you will
understand my intense satisfaction and overflowing
gratitude to you ; for twenty-two bottles of Angel-
Maker Bitters and one two-pound tin of Don't-keep-it-in-
the-house Salve restored his voice to its pristine vigor.
He has since taken twice his weight of your Hough-on-
Health Pills, with the very best results.

" But I must proceed to inform you of other incredible
cures. Miss Minnie, a petted daughter of mine, was once
out charivariing a white race tyrant who had annoyed
several callers by turning an infernal-machine called a
hose upon them, when she contracted a severe cold and
was badly frost-bitten about the ears. I liberally applied
your Out-of-the-frying-pan-into-the-fire Liniment to my
darling's ears, and dosed her with your Stomach-Paralyzer
Tonic. This is the triumphant result : She lost the tips
of her ears, but her intellect thawed out, and her brain

A MISSING TK8TIM0NIAL.

283

and stomach wore saved ! Far from suffering any ill
<'rtt'(*ts from the loss of her ear-tips, Minnie thinks it gives
lur rather a rZ/sii/jf/*// appearance, anil I predict she has
set a fashion that other feline holies an<l heaux will
lijisten to copy.

" Now we come to tlie most wonderful cures of all, the
crowning work of your invaluable specitics. One awful
day a playmate of my kind host's son committed t^'p
diaiiolical crime of assassination on a most dutiful anu
rtiiiiable son of minft, a little younger than my beloved
T(anmy, by drowning him in a bucket of abominable
drinking water ! I sh'T 'der to this hour when I think of
it. Oh, he was such a pron.Ising youth ! He is yet ; lor
your Heart-Stilior Compound brought him back to life
and health ! In :*etaliation for this dastardiv outraue on
an innocent life, my heroic son Tom last week waylaid
the canary-bird of the man-tribe assassin and n»ad«' a
bird's-nest pudding of it, and the next day caj)tured his
taine white mouse and brought it home, when w«» prt'oared
a rich ragout and invited in two or three familv co'inec-
tions. My restored darling, Pete, was able to digest a
little fricasseed mouse, and is now able to go out into
.Society again,

" \V(3 all thought this would crush the murderous
wliitc-ti'ibc child, an<l bring his shoi-t bhick hair to a
pri-mature matui'ity. Alas, no! It is won<li'rful how
([uickly that race can throw off their griefs. Yestei-day
his papa brought him a nioid<ey, and to-day the foul
creature, as I v/as going upstairs for a nap in the work-
basket, caught me by my terndnal facilities (as my host,
a railway man, enviously calls my graceful tail), and
actually dror>ped me into a tub of filthy ' bathing-water,'

284

A MISSING TESTIMONIAL.

which the deluded man-tribe animals prepare for a 'bath'
every Saturday — or ot'tener ! Of course they considered
it clean, because it hadn't been used yet. I was never
subjected to so shameful an -ndignity in my life. It
makes my blood boil ! You naturally ask in alarm, did
I really get wet ! Sirs, I sank beneath that hideous
water, and with difficulty rescued myself. What to do I
did not know till I remembered your Out-of-the-frying-
pan-mto-the-fire Liniment. Without doubt, this has
saved my life. I have since started on a bottle of your
Silencer Elixir, and after dinner shall try some of your
Slow-Decay Preparation, and next week hope to feel
myself again. To-night we purpose to charivari the
monkey- monster, and may feel ourselves called upon to
compass his ignominious execution. In case of any
set-to with him, or in the event of any intestine strife,
we must again resort to your remedies, when I will
promptly write you full particulars.

" N. B. If you can make any use of this testimonial
you are perfectly at liberty to u'^e my name. May it do
for other suffering mortals what it has done for me and

mine.

" Sincerely yours,

" Mrs. Pussy Oat."

If a tramp evangelist from Kentucky, with a push-
cartful of circus-poster letters of recommend, can wheedle
a rising barrister of tender years out of his own good opini-
on of himself, what else need we expect from the discovery
of these unforged testimonials but a renaissance of
Scottish chivalry and a decadence of legal previousness ?

for a 'bath'
y considered
I was never
my life. It
n alarm, did
ihat hideous
(Vhat to do I
f-the-frying-
)t, this has
ottle of your
5ome of your
lope to feel
jharivari the
died upon to
case of any
testine strife,
when I Avill

testimonial
May it do
le for me and

USSY Cat."

with a push-
, can wheedle
j\\ good opini-
the discovery
snaissance of
Dreviousness ?

ANOTHER VALUED TESTIMONIAL

^^URELY enough, within two weeks Mrs. Pussy Cat
^^ sent in another testimonial, which is herewith
given to the reader in its entirety : —

" Dear Sirs : — I again feel it my duty to inform you
of the astonishing cures your remedies are performing.
But for them, several old families would have been com-
pletely wiped out.

" We had a terrible time on the occasion of our last
charivari. At my urgent request, Tommy did not start
out with his famous crescendo, but contented himself
with trilling a sonorous bass, which at intervals became
an ecstatic tremulo. Tommy's versatility is past all
belief.

" It was soon evident that our recital was awakening
unusual intei'est in the man-tribe households, and that
an unexpected demonstration from them would soon
come. It did come ; and it was both unexpected nnd
undcsired. Suddenly the monkey-monster himself shot
sailing through the air, as though discharged from a giddy
schoolboy's catapult. Did it mean that the motive of our
clamorous protest was understood, and that the hideous
creature was to be sacritieed to our outraged sensibilities ?
Tliat is a disputed (juestion to this day, since we cannot
determine that any of the conflicting rumor-^ are correct.

" The concert broke up in confusion, and many of our
bravest veterans tied the field. In fact, the grandest
hero of our community, who has carried oft' more scars

286

ANOTHER VALUED TESTIMONIAL.

E:s

f >■

and bears more medals than any warrior of our contem-
porary annals — even he, our haughty generalissimo,
precipitately attempted to scale an utterly unscaleable
chimney. He fell, with his habitual gracefulness, fairly
upon the monkey-monster, afterwards claiming his
intention was to gain vantage ground for a reconnaissance.
But Tom insists it was cowardice, unworthy of even the
human tribe. My Tom is a musician, not a combatant,
while Pete is a society pet ; yet these gallant boys, seeiiio-
that the old general was on his mettle again and enofaoed
in a victorious hand-to-hand conflict with the eneiiiv
sounded a reveille, and bore down on the scene with
intrepid valor. Tom encouraged the cowardly old
veteran to fight it out to the bitter end ; while Pete, with
foolhardy but luiheard-of daring, attacked the monster's
unsightly tail. He said afterwards that he was never
calmer in his life, knowing that even though he should
be grazed by a parried blow, we had access to your
System-Shatterer Specific.

" Tom and Pete had thus all but con([Uercd the monster
when a human-tribe woman appeared, armed with «
broom, and prepared to do battle on our side, 'ilic
monk(!y, in despair, at once gave up the struggle and
surrendered to this person, who carried the crushed and
abject creature away to some frightful punishment, we
doubt not. Our humiliated v(!teran slank painfully away
(he has since died of grief and shame for his cowardice;.
and several of the musicians, supes, and prompters
returning, heartily congratulated my brave boys on their
splendid victory. They have even gone so far as since to
confer a new Order of Merit upon them — that of tlie Un-
terrified^ Bystanders. That very evening Tom and Pete

ANOTHER VALUED TESTIMONIAL.

287

began to take your Muscle-Attacker Compound, your
Insonmia-Iiiducer Mixture, and vour Mortal-Coil-Shuffler
Prescription, and are now fast getting over the effects of
the terrible scene with the monkey. I think if the cowardly
old veteran had tried a little of your General-Debility-
liringer Ointment, or your Brain-Softner-Kesolvent, or
even your Sight-Dimmer Wash, he might be spinning
his yarns among us yet.

" I must now acquaint you with the details of Tcmi's
wonderful recover}' from hereditary insanity — or in-
cipient mumps, I don't clearly make out which from
your diagnoses. The other day Tom scented a savory
siiiell of fish, and found a rich treat of pure California
salmon in a tish-can, which had been considerately opened
and carefully carried out into the garden by one of our
host's attentive children. Tom inserted his noble
Egyptian head into the opening, and was enjoying a
delicious repast, when suddenly a ferocious Dog bounded
upon him ! To his horror, Tom found he could not with-
draw his head from the fish-can, nor shake it oft'! But
with his characteristic courage he ran as (mly a feline
hero can run. A terrific shock apprised him that he
had brought up against the garden-wall (pool' Tom could
not see, you will understand, but he lot/ked majestically
picturesque as he dasluid gallantly hither and thither),
and he abruptly changed his course and eventually found
liimself in his luxurious nook in the woodshed ; while
the stupid Dog kept right on, and burnt his tail on the
kitchen range. I promptly got out a bottle of your
Apoplexy-Producer Preparation and placed it in plain
sight, which enabled our host's daughter to remove the
tish-can easily. We have been doctoring Tom ever since

V li

288

ANOTHER VALUED TESTIMONIAL.

with your Cancer-Fetcher Gargie, your Nerve-Shaker
Draft, and your various other specifics, to such good
effect that Tom was able yesterday to attend a rehearsal.
" I had thought to write you of further unparalleled
cures, but think I have done iny share. It is sufficient
to add that no feline nursery should be without your
remedies.

" Respectfully yours,

" Mrs. Pussy Cat."

If an unworthy disciple of Esculapius can successfully
juggle two large-limbed executors, untrannnelled by
anything but their own Unpurified Conscience, out of
twenty-two dollars in excess of his lawful hire, what else
need the blindfold Goddess of Justice expect from all
this but a frenzied entreaty to take her " darned old
gun" and go in peace ?

^^^

e-Shaker
iich good
rehearsal,
paralleled
sufficient
lout your

Y Cat."

iccessfuUy
nelled by
ice, out of
, what else
t from all
arn(

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE PROPHETS.

HpHE probabilities are that nobody will got left in
^©b predicting the kind of weather we may expect this
month of March, as witness these conflicting f(jrecasts :
The settler from Manitoba, who pro-emptied his claim
away back in the 'Sixties, and who knows more about
tlie idiosyncrasies of this particular month than the office-
boy of the Meteorological Department, announces, with
all the vagueness of an oracle, that there will be " some
right smart flurries of snow, with considerable call for
cough-.syrup, and no end of bluster about March winds
and dust" — and in this non-committal dictum he will
come nearer the truth than any other of the prophets.
Then the oldest inhabitant of Wentworth County will
proclaim, in the emphatic manner of his tribe, that "there
ain't goin ' to be no secli airly spring sence 1871, when
Benjamin Grigg sowed peas on the eighth of March ; "
while his old maid sister, who has resolved on matrimony
this s{)ring, although it is not leap-year, and who knows
that proposals in the rural districts need the bracing
stinmlant of a drive on runners under the keen and
frosty moon, declares that the sleighing will last till the
middle of April.

About the fourth of the month an editor out at Shanty
Bay, who encourages Canadian literature in the same
masterly way that General Middleton and the " boys "
eneou iged Louis Riels little rebellion, — namely, by
10

if;

■'S

♦

rl .i

I 'I

ill

lii-i

290

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE PROPHETS.

determinedly sitting on it, — will officially make this
announcement, in his classical and vigorous style, unto
all peoples conversant with the English language : " We
speak in this morning's issue with no uncei-tain sound
respecting the sort of weather that our prosperous and
intellectual subscribers may expect during the current
month. We are always logical. We are ever observant.
We are at all times brief. The spring poetry sent us up
to date is wanting both in respect to quantity and
quality. It falls far behind that inflicted upon us
during any previous year of our editorial experience. It
is poor stuff. It is mawkish. It is peevishly puerile
and uninterestingly unintelligible. Eryo, we argue ?
prolonged winter — a backward spring — an inclement
season — an ice-bound March ! Reader, it is not always
May. Now is the time to subscribe ! "

The recluse professor of Toronto and millions of other
awe-struck people will read and ponder the wise words
of the Shanty Bay editor. But the learned professor
alone will reply to him. He will come out with a
carefully-written article on Commercial Union, in which
he will satisfactorily prove that if complete Reciprocity
were at once established between the United States and
Canada, our " rough, raw, and democratic " March might
be interchanged for a soft, southern, attempered month,
of almost Florida-like geniality.

While the Indian a(.;riculturists of Muskoka say thev
will continue to farm for muskrats for two full moons
yet, a Grand Trunk freight conductor is morally certain
that we needn't look for any more March weather at all
this year, except in the almanacs and time-tables, because
April is within twenty-four hours' run of Montreal.

we argue ?

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE PROPHETS.

291

In spite of tliese varying speculations, the sagacious
small boy, with the instinct of his species, will see to it
that his skates are kept fearfully and wonderfully ground,
and that his broken hand-sleigh is promptly repaired.

From all this, what can we expect but an average
March ?

-.00^

o».

TO THE FIRST

Organ-Grindee of the Season,

■3. ■A- i.t',S

iliill

fc'a

I PRAY you, grind no more to-day,

Or your small eyes may cease to gleam ;

I'd rather hear a jackass bray, '
Or even a mad poet scream.

Oh, let me hear a raven sing !

It surely would less torture bring.

Your verj' monkey seems half crazed,
And jal bers in a troubled way ;

The gamins stare at you amazed,

And hearken not to what you play.

When friendly critics of this stamp

Find fault, I think you should decamp.

Can you not grind some other airs

Than " Put Me in My Little Bed "

And " Climbing Up the Golden Stairs ? "
Play any other strains instead ;

Grind chestnuts old from " Pinafore,"

Or newer ones from " Ruddigore."

Perhaps your intellect has fled,

Perhaps, swan-like, you hymn your dirge :
To put you in a narroiv bed

My aggravated passions urge ;
And though I fain would do no crime,
With you, I fear, 'tis scoot or climb.

TO THE FIRST OROAN-ORINDER OP THE aEASON.

Our dimes for cough-drops yet we save,
And boys their marbles still entrance ;

The spring-time bards now long to rave.

E'en Jack Frost gives them now a chance.

Come, get thee to a peanut stand,

And cater to the rhymster band.

Forbear, rash man, to longer play,
Prepare your spirit for its flight ;

I can my wrath no longer stay,

Your death you premature invite.—

Cease, or you'll hear a maniac shout,

And you will think the sun's put out.

293

li:

^^.

^^priir^

ii !

liiJ! ' )
If »': 1

■n^

w i

V f

• r

!■

JUDITH'S DILEMMA.

^UDITH MARCHEMONT had a score of lovers.

yg^ She was a beautiful girl, the pride of her parents,
the admiration of her fi-iends, and the envy of her less
fortunate confidantes.

Two suitors were res(jlved to win her : one, a medical
student, a romantic, handsome young fellow, with a
pitiful income ; the other, a practical youth, the heir and
only son of a burly old Illinois farmer, whom ambition
fired to become a civil engineer. Judith fancied herself
most in love with the romantic young man, who could
quote poetry, describe the i)yramids of Egypt, go into
raptures over Shakespeare, and explain why the U. S.
must control the Panama Canal ; but she would also
smile sweetly on the young civil engineer, with his plain
manners and hard common sense, who was so madly in
love with her. Charles Montgomery, the first mentioned,
prided himself on being the great-grandson of a Revolu-
tionary hero, and was disposed to look down on Robert
Richter, the son of a German emigrant.

At length matters came to such a crisis that both
young men felt the time for a direct proposal had come.

Robert Richter bought a box of delicious bon-bons, and
laboriously penned a little note on pink-tinted paper,
offering his hand, his heart, and his fortune. At least, he
thought he did. His proposal ran in this wise : —

" Miss Marchemont : Dear girl, you know how madly
I love you. I think I have sufficiently proved my
devotion for you. I cannot offer you my heart in person,

Judith's dilemma.

295

but to-day I have plucked up courage to do so hy letter*
Sometimes I have a moment of exquisite happiness,
thinking that you must love me; then again I am goaded
to frenzy, fancying that you are only trilling with me«
Yon Imve so many lovers who are worthici . in every
respect, than I, that my heart misgives me. even now.
But if you can love me, ever so little, make mo supremely
hai)py by giving me just one word of hope, and I will
strive to prove worthy of your entire love. I do not ask
you to write to me ; I will not intrude upon your time.
All I ask is, if you could ever think of me as a
husband, let a little ribbon band (blue, lovers' own color)
stream from your window, or any place you think most
suitable, to-morrow morning, and I will post myself
where I can catch an immediate glimpse of it.

"Your own Robert Ritchter."

Judith received this note and the box of bon-bons
early in the evening, A boy delivered them, but
amorous Robert was outside in the darkness, in the hope
of catching even a glimpse of the girl he loved — which
he did not.

Judith tore open the box and hungrily pounced upon
the bon-bons. Then she leisurely opened the dainty note,
and perused it. Her eyes sparkled as she read, and a
smile parted her rosy lips. But tliis was not her first
offer of marriage ; if she accepted it, it w^ould not be her
I first engagement. Naturally she was flattered and
i pleased ; but she did not manifest much emotion.

" Dear Robert," she murmured softly, " how good he is !
How modest and unassuming in offering his love ! Who
would have thought so grave a gentleman wouVl indulge

mrn

$ 1

li. *

296

JUDITH'S DILEMMA.

9 I

<'8 :

'i,l !■

i '5

Li^iili

in such romance about a ribbon — a blue ribbon ! Wliy,
I should sooner expect Charley to be guilty of such an
act ! Poor Robert ! I wonder what I had better do !
Well, I won't decide till I consult mamma. How foolish
of Robert to say he would not intrude on my time by
asking me to write an answer, when he comes here and
takes up my time evening' after evening ! But what
good taste he has in selecting caramels. I wonder what
Charley would have sent me ? "

Mamma, on being consulted, congratulated her daughter
on her good fortune. By all means Judith must accept
this oH'er; Robert would be so good to l»er. The mistress
of a happy home, with every luxury at her comman<l, and
with opportunities for foreign travel, would she not be
happy ?

So Judith Marchemont decided to accept the old
farmer's son. She had plenty of time to make up her
mind, if it was a question of doing so, but having once
come to a decision she troubled herself no more about
the matter, but spent the evening munching her bon-bons
and reading a fashionable novel, wondering once or twice
where Charley could be that he did not come in.

The night was a wretched one for Robert, whose sleep
came in fitful catches. How he Ionised for the lii^ht of
day, that was to make or mar his happiness.

Morning dawned, serene and balmy. Judith ate the
last of her bon-bons, then opened a drawer full of deli-
cate ribbons of various colors, and composedly selected
one of blue.

" What a strange whim for Robert," she mused. "Let
me see, what did he say ? The window, I believe. Now,
I've just thonorht of a lovely idea ! I'll tie it to the bird-

JUDITHS DILEMMA.

397

cage, the very cage hi gave me, and hang that out of the
win<low ! That will please Robert ; for he is always
referring to the bird and its cago."

No sooner said than done. Judith thought the ribbon
had a remarkably pretty etfect, as it fluttered in the
morning breeze, and as she was admiring it she caught
sii'ht of Robert standing: on a corner of the street. He
bowed profoundly, and then pretended to go away. But
slie noticed that he did no<^ go out of si*;ht of the ribbon-

She now discovered Charles Montgomery was

loitering on the corner, a block up the street, steadfastly
rt'Lfarding the fluttering blue ribbon.

" How provoking that he should see me ! " she murmured ;
and instantly she took in the cage and detached the
I'ibl ion.

" How is it Charley never proposed ? " she asked her-
self. " Such a scheme as this, now, would take his fancy.
I wonder if he suspected anything ? Does he lack the
courage, or what is it ? Well, I must think no more about
him."

Judith tripped lightly down stairs, and told her mater-
nal counselor what she had seen.

" Miss Judith," said the housemaid, coming into the
room, "a boy brought a parcel to the back door last night,
and asked me to give it to you. I'm sorry, Miss Judith,
hut," here she blushed, " Harry was in, and — "

Here the speaker stopped, and did not seem disposed
to go on.

" Give me the parcel ! " Judith said eagerly.

And Judith ran away from the breakfast tr.ble to her
own room, with a rectangular parcel, securely tied with a
long and strong cord. When opened, Judith found Dante's

298

Judith's dilemma.

ifSi

immortal poem, illustrated by Gustave Dore, in three
richly-bound volumes. Her own name was emblazoned
on a fly-leaf in each volume, in bold characters that she
knew at once as Charles Montgomery's.

Beside her name in the "Paradisio" lay a note addressed
to herself. It would have been a sardonic lover indeed
that would have ventured to place a note in any other
volume than this.

Judith literally tore the envelope to pieces, and her
face blanched as her eyes ran over the note.

Almost in tears, slie murmured angrily: "Oh, dear!
That stupid girl ! She is always making some blunder,
Oh, Charley ! Charley ! I'll have mamma send her off
this very day ! "

Charley's note ran thus : —

" Dear Judith : — I can endure suspense no longer. I
love you, Judith, with my whole heart, passionately,
eternally. Will you be my wife ? You know my dreams
of ambiti(m ; you sympathize with me in them ; with you
to inspire me I should become illustrious. I cannot pour
out my heart as I could were I with you, but I will call
on you to-morrow evening, to plead my cause and receive
my fate at your hands.

" My dearest, 1 cannot waii.. so long. If you would he
my guiding star, let a blue libbon (your favorite color,
dear girl,) appear a moment from your boudoir when you
see me at the intersection of the Avenue to-morrow morn-
ing.

" Your devoted slave,

" Charles L. Montgomery."

■TUDTTIl's DitEMMA.

299^

ONTGOMERY.

" All! T enjTfaffed to both ? " Judith asked herself. " T
certainly am enga.gced to Robert, and Cliarles as certainly
believes me enoracjed to him ! Each one thinks himself
my future husband ! Oh, dear ! How unfortunate I am !
My head is going to ache ; 1 know it is ! And Charles is
coming in this evening ! What was he thinking of just
now ? I half fancied he was laughing at me, when per-
haps he was composing a sonnet ! I wonder if they saw
each other ! "

Then she picked up one of the volumes, and reverently
turned the leaves.

" What exquisite oaste Charles has/' she soliloquized,
'He knows exaccly what will please me. Who but
Charles would have sent me these ? It is only a short
time that I have known him, and yet how quickly he
anticipates all my wiishes, and how thoroughly he knows
my tastes. What is a box of confectionery, even of the
choicest kind, compared with books worthy of Dord's
art? And Charley knows I like sugar-plums, too; he
buys only the best, if they are not so expensive as
Robert's, Pshaw ! \\'hat do I care for money ! "

And Judith ran down stairs, with a good appetite for
breakfast. After the meal was over she held another
consultation with her mother.

Mrs. Marchemont was troubled. Clearly, Robert was
the better match ; clearly, Judith favored Charles. What
should she advise ?

'■ I don't see what I'm going to do," Judith said fret-
fully. " Charles is so handsome and gifted, and Robert
appears so common-place beside him."

"Yes, Judith," said her mother gently, "but Robert

:'■■ <\ r

300

JUDITH 8 DILEMMA.

61; •?

has a strong mind, rooted good principles, great reso-
lution, and — and a fine property to recommend him."

" A minor consideration," said Judith. Then, with a
smile : " Here I am, accidentally engaged to two gen-
tlemen, at liberty to choose between them, and more
undecided than ever ! What a ridiculous situation ! I
do wish young men wouldn't try to be so romantic!
Tt is all very well in romance, but in real life it is a
bore. What could I have done if I had received both
proposals last night ? I couldn't have accepted either
— at least, not by hanging out a ribbon."

" Well, you can decide better, perhaps, after you see
both. I think it is all for the best," said Mrs. Marche-
mont decisively.

At eight o'clock that evening the door-bell rang
gently. Judith, her face flushed, and her manner excitsd,
herself answered the summons,

Robert Richter, his face radiant, stepped into the
hall. He pressed Judith's hand and ceremoniously
bowed.

" Step into this room," Judith said tremulously, open-
ing the door of the parlor.

" Are you alone ? " Robert whispered.

" Oh, yes," said Judith.

" Is your father in ? I — I want to speak to him."

" No, he is out this evening, on business."

Then the two went into the parlor, glittering with
its showy furniture and gimcrackery.

" My own dear little girl," said Robert, " how good
you are ! "

Then his eyes rested on the Dord volumes, which
Judith had been examining while w^aiting for Charles,

Judith's dilemma.

aoi

great reso-
imend him."
rhen, with a
bo two gen-
m, and more
situation ! I
so romantic!
1 life it is a
'eceived both
;epted either

after you see
Mrs, Marche-

Dor-bell rang
inner excited,

)ed into the
eremoniously

ilously, open-

to him."

itterijig with

, " how good

>lumes, which
r for Charles.

Robert did not remember having seen these beau-
tiful books before, and he took up a volume eagerly.
As he caught the inscription and date on the tly-leaf
he flashed Judith a look of ineffable delight and exulta-
tion, for he reasoned: "Some one — a lover, of course,
Charles Montgomery, probably — gave her tliese yester-
day, and she accepted me this morning ! What further
proof of her love can I ask ? "

Laying down the book, Kobert fumbled nervously
in his pocket for a little box that enshrined a dazzl-
ing engagement ring.

Judith instinctively guessed what was coming, and,
amazed at Robert's evident delioht on examinino; the
book, she looked at him vaguely, wondering whether
he smiled because he had a more beautiful gift.

In the midst of her speculations she was startled by
a peremptory ring of the door-bell. Charley's ring '
She knew it was !

A look of vexation passed over Robert's face. He
meekly dropped the ring-box, with the ring still in it,
back into his pocket, and sank into a chair.

Tiie housemaid answ^ered the door, and Charles
Montgomery was triumphantly ushered into the parlor.

On seeing Mr. Richter so comfortably seated tete-a-
tete with Judith, Charles w^as visibly annoyed. His
dark eyes flashed and his brow darkened. Wo shook
hands with Judith as warmly and imiuired after hor
welfare as solicitously as if he had just returned from
Arabia, and then greeted Robert with ceremonious civi-

lity.

Judith now began to realize keenly the embarrass-
incnt of the situation. Each of these young men

L )

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302

JUDITH 8 DILEMMA.

believed himself engaged to her ; oach one had come
to ratify the engagement ; each one probably had an
engagement ring in his pocket.

Feeling that she must make an effort to talk, but
not knowing how to begin or what she was saying,
she queried, turning to Charles, ' Is the skating good
to-day, Robert?"

" I believe we have had no skating for the past two
Weeks," Charles answered drily,

"Oh, yes! how stupid of me!" said Judith, with a
forced laugh.

" Have you seen these new books of Miss Marche-
mont's ? " asked Robert, handing Charles one of the
volumes in question.

" What do you think of them, Miss Marchemont ? "
asked Charles, without deigning Robert a look.

" I've been in raptures over them," said Judith,
beginning to recover her equanimity. " I have studied
the illustrations so carefully that I have not yet got
out of the ' Inferno.' "

The young men did not perceive anything ridiculous
fn this, but Judith immediatelj'" did, and was amused,
in spite of herself.

" Yes ? " said Charles, looking pleased, but thinking
that Judith spoke with too much constraint. " She is
usually so unreserved and natural," he murmured.

" 1 1 was so good " said Judith, and then stopped.

But Charles knew what she would have said. So
did Robert ; he drew himself up straight in his
chair, and looked as grim as the Sphinx.

" Is your father in, Miss Marchemont 1 " Charles
asked, in a low tone.

JUDITH S DILKMMA,

303

" No ; he is out ;" Judith returned, in a tone equally
low

If they fancied Robert had not overheard, they were
mistaken. He glared at Charles, and then darted
Judith a reproachful look.

" This soft weather will be bad for consumptives and
such people, but good for you and your brother profes-
sionals, Mr. Montgomery," said Robert, with a palpable
sneer that surprised Judith. In all her wide experience
she did not yet know what discreditable things jealousy
can prompt a lover to say.

Charles started as if he had be^n struck. Why should
this humdrum fellow be suffered to come and pay his
addresses to Judith ? Why did Judith tolerate him at
all 1 Should he not muster all his forces, and annihilate
the clod ? Should he not crush him so utterly that
Juilith would never look at him again? Should such a
varlet browbeat Charles Montgomery 1 Never ! In five
minutes Charles Montgomery would so demoralize him
that he would slink crest-fallen out of the house, never
to re-enter it.

But it would be best to begin with musketry lire, and
reserve his bomb-shells for a final effort. So he said,
very calmly, as he supposed : " To be sure it will. But are
you not afraid, Mr. Richter, that you will have to give
up jour intention of surveying railroads, and take to lay-
ing out grave-yards 1 "

Robert started in his turn, but replied sharply : " Oh,
I didn't wish to insinuate that (ill doctors will kill their
patients. It is the new men, you know, that always do
the greatest ' execution.' "

Charles Montgomery winced, and a dazed look appeared

|/,

■^

.AjM

304

JUDITH S 1)I[,KMMA

|i i

on Judith's face. How should she get rid of these two ?
If they were bent on quan'clling, as it seemed probable,
it would be better to get rid of both. Did Charles and
Robert diflfer in polities ? She knew they differed in
religion, and if they should get into a dispute about poli-
tics or religion, what would be the upshot ? She shud-
dered to think of it.

" I — I wish Ivobert would go," she said to herself. Then
aloud : " Oh, never mind such things," she .said lightly.
" Are you going to the next inauguration ? '

This was a random inquiry, and Judith quaked as soon
as she had made it, realizing that it would be almost cer-
tain to bring up the question of politics.

" Yes, I should like to go," said Charles. " What an
attraction Washington proves to the rustics ; they come
even from the copper regions. It is as good as a fair for
them."

" But then we thrust ourselves on our country friends,
and make ourselves a nuisance," interpolated Judith, by
way of saying something.

" Are your people fond of * patronizing ' such things,
Mr. Richter ? " Charles asked carelessly.

" My father sometimes had to do such things in his
official capacity as Senator," Robert said quietly and with
secret satisfaction at Charles's discomfiture. " But that
isn't the place I should care to take a wife to, unless I
liver' in the vicinity, and could avoid the jam. I wouldn't
,1 . , V wife fagged out for all the fairs, and so forth, in
I- e \,a"»'erse."

.,s not aware that you have a wife," Charles said,
tauntingly. " I thought you still enamored of school-
girls/'

JUDITHS DILEMMA.

305

Judith tromblod. The two had seemed peaceably dis-
posed a moment ago, and now another chish was immi-
nent. And wliat if Robert or Charles, in the heat of the
moment, should declare his engagement to her? She
waited, breathless, to hear what Robert would say.

That young gentleman retorted boldly, and with ill-
concealed exultation : " I shall be happy to introduce you
to my wife at no distant day."

Charles thought that matters began to look serious.
What was this fellow doing there, and why was he,
usually so humble, putting on so insolent and triumphant
airs ? Pshaw ! perhaps the fellow was intoxicated. In
any case, he, Charles Montgomery, had nothing to fear,
for was not Judith his promised wife ? Yet, in spite of
this comforting reflection, Charles Montgomery was
uneasy.

" Unless a rival should step in your way ! " he sug-
gested,

Robert's eyes flashed fire. " Let a rival," he said, " be-
ware ! "

" Let a rival cross my path," said Charles impetuously,
" and I would shoot him like a dog ! "

Judith shuddered. She began to fear that the two
young men might snatch each an umbrella or walking-
stick from the hall, and fight a duel over her very
head.

Robert looked up sharply. "Yes?" ho said. "But
unless you are as good a marksman with the shot-gun as
you are with, say, the lancet, you would probably miss
him, and so cause yourself much annoyance, and the other
party much amusement. Of course, if the shooting were
purely accidental, why, then, according to the newspaper

\m ■

306

JUDITHS DILEMMA.

f! ;< ;■

tragedies, your victim would be pretty effectually put out
of the way."

" Spoken like a Solon, my honest German," observed
Charles, with a look that showed Robert's " shot " effec-
tive.

" Does not your professional experience bear out my
remarks ? " Robert asked.

" My professional experience has not yet begun,"
Charles said loftily.

" I beg your pardon, with all my heart ! " Robert said
drily.

"I have often been amused," observed Charles, "at the
way sturdy old farmers send their sons away to study a
profession, or seek some employment not (juite so homely
as farming. A farmer's son should, in general, be a
farmer, except where he discovers special aptitude for
some other calling. The higher walks require a finer
organism and subtler intellect."

Charles thouglit this eloquent, and unanswerable.

" Yes," said Robert, " it would be better for a good many
of us to till the soil than starve to death or go to the
dogs by sticking to some beggarly profession,"

This was intended as a home thrust, and Charles took
it as such. " To come down to hard facts, what does pay,
for young men ? " he demanded.

" Well," said Robert slowly, " I don't know that any-
thing does — except taking the census at four dollars a
day, or starting out in the dime museum way."

Charles laughed, in spite of himself, — more at the acci-
dental rhyme than at anything else, — while Judith began
to hope that the two would now be civil to each other
while they stayed.

Judith's dilemma.

307

Rut Charles again returned to the attack, feeling, how-
ever, that it was not so easy to disconcert the intruder.
" You are almost as witty as my old Revolutionary great-
grandfather," he said, with a lofty air.

" Oh ? " said Robert. " Was your great-grandfather any
connection of General Montgomery's, of Revolutionary
fame ? "

" No," replied Charles shortly, " he was my mother's
grandfather." Then, brightening up, " Pray, Mr. Richter,
what were your antecedents in the ' Vaterlander ' ? "

"We call it ' Vaterland,'" corrected Robert. "An
ancestor is mentioned, barely mentioned, in connection
with Charles the Fifth's Abdication, and another was
one of Frederick the Great's favorite generals. My father
has a medal, presented by the emperor himself, for some
signal service that he rendered the Government. But all
this reflects no credit on me. 1 believe that every man's
reputation should depend on his own merit, and not
descend to him from his forefathers,"

A long and painful silence ensued. Judith warmed
towards Robert on account of his ancestors, but still she
wished he would go. However, it was a great relief that
the young men were disposed to monopolize the conver-
sation.

Then Charles took up a new subject. " What did
you think of the play the other evening ? " he asked
Robert. " Was not that tragedy sublime ? Or do you
prefer comedy ? "

" Well, I believe I was he — was — was ei gaged —
otherwise," Robert stammered, appearing V3ry much
confused.

Charles looked angry, and Judith, uneasy.

IHi

■ua

308

Judith's dilemma.

Then Robert ad<led, recklessly, defiantly : " I don't
like such a comedy as this ! "

Judith was ant^ry enough now. Robert's cause was
hopeless, if he could have known it — and perhaps he
did know it.

Another painful silence. Judith felt that she could
not endure this kind of torture much longer.

Nor did she. A side door opened, and Mrs. Marche-
mont glided in, bearing a tea-tray with cake and
coffee. She courteously accosted the rivals, and deposited
the tea-tray on a table.

Charles and Robert drank their coffee so incautiously
and feverishly that they scalded their throats ; but
Judith knew that a little moderation was alwavs advi.'-
able in sipping the family beverage.

" Can't you play something, Judith ? " Mrs. Marche-
mont asked.

Charles and Robert greeted this proposal cheerfully,
the latter observing that it would be better than so
much monotonous talk.

Judith played one of her most soothing sonatas ;
then, thinking her mother would remain in the room
till one or both of the rival suitors had taken leave, she
returned, to the table.

But such was not Mrs. Marchemont's purpose. She had
determined that, as Judith could not decide on any course
of action, she would bring matters to a crisis herself.

" Mr. Montgomery," she said, *' Harold would like to
see you a few minutes in the library."

It certainly cost Mrs. Marchemont an effort to say this,
as her manner and voice betrayed ; but she knew her
duty, and could do it bravely.

JUDITH S DILEMMA.

Charles looked stupefied, then indignant, but grandly
rose to his feet, bowed mockingly to l^obert and pro-
foundly to Judith, and marched out in the wake of Mrs.
Marchemont.

Judith looked indignant, too, but said nothing ; while
Robert made no attempt to conceal his intense delight and
relief.

Charles was ushered into a bright and cheerful room,
and Harold, Judith's brother, a thirteen-year-old school-
boy, rose from his seat at a table and grinningly
stretched out his paw to shake hands. Charles frigidly
extended his hand, saying nothing.

" It's too bad the sleighing's all gone," Harold sighed.

" I think so," Charles replied absently.

As Harold ventured on no further regrets, Mrs. Marche-
mont explained that he wished to ask Charles a few
questions on some mooted points in history, in which the
dear boy was deeply interested.

Charles muttered something about being happy to ex-
plain away any " misunderstanding," and Harold dived
among a pile of school books on the table, snatched up a
history wdth a jerk, and hurriedly began tumbling over
the leaves, apparently trying to hunt up some of his
" mooted points." But he seemed to be floundering about
from Preface to Finis quite at random, and the "mooted
points " eluded his search. Perhaps he had picked up
the wrong history.

" I heard you asking about a dog the other day," he
said suddenly, looking up from his history. " Now,
Charley, if you want to buy one, a chum of mine has got
a splendid pup for sale — awful cheap, too."

310

Judith's dilemma.

^1 -t

"Yes?" said Oharh's. "Is — is it a ^n)oil Ijargain — 1
moan, a <^(k)<1 (lo*^ — a pup likely to iiiako a <^ood dog ? "

*' (Jiucss 'tis ! " saitl Harold enthusiastically.

But Mrs. Marehoniont perceived that Charles was not
in the humor to accept this desirable pup, evtm as a

gift.

The same housemaid that had delivered Charles's par-
cel to Judith that morning, now stepped into the room
with a scuttle of coal, and set about replenishing the fire
in the grate, tirst courtcsying respectfully to gloomy-look -
insr Charles. *

" Oh, Susjin," said Mrs. Marchemont, with sudden ani-
mation, " did you give Miss Judith the parcel you spoke
of ? You are so careless that I cannot depend on you at
all. You said a parcel came last evening, but that you
forgot to give it to Miss Judith."

" Yes, ma'am," said Susan meekly ; " but I gave it to
her all right about ten o'clock this morning. Some other
boy brought another little parcel last evening, but Jane
says she got it, and delivered it straight. I'm awful
sorry about it."

Then Susan, her duty done, slipped out of the room.

" Can't you find, it ? " Charles asked sharpi v, strangling
a sob.

" No," said Harold, with a look of relief. " Oh, well,"
tossing the book upon the sofa, "it isn't much difference,
anyway."

" Why, Harold ! " said his mother, with a look that
threatened mischief to the indifferent student.

" Good evening, then," said Charles. " Is this the way
out ?" opening a door which communicated with the hall.
" I see it is ; good evening."

JUDITH S DILEMMA.

311

And so, iiionsurin^f five niilos an hour, he took his loavo
of the lionse — forever.

A minute hiter Judith vmw into the room.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Marchemont, "that was
strategy."

"Weil, mamma, Robert has gone, too; mortally offended."

" Robert ? " aghast. "How was that ? " Then, noticing
the open-eyed and open-eared Harold, she said, " See
which way they've gone, Harold. But don't let them see
you, mind."

Harold jumped up and trotted off' briskly.

" Now, Judith."

" Well, he proposed again, and I told him that Charles
had proposed the same way. Then he got angry, and
asked if I meant the sijrnal for him or for Charles. I
told him frankly that I believed I liked Cliarles best, but
that the signal was for him only. But I was cross, and
angry about the way you treated C^harles, and 1 suppose
1 showed it plainly. Then we had a long talk, and he
went away in a towering rage at everything and every-
body. I tried to reason with him, but it was no use. "

" Well, one or both will come back to-morrow, Judith,"
Mrs. Marchemont said soothingly. " Poor girl ! what an
ordeal it was for you ! "

Soon afterwards Harold bounded into the room, saying
breathlessly : " I hey met not far off, and talked a long
time ; and then both laughed a little, and hoisted up their
shoulders, and lit their cigars, and shook hands real hard,
and said Judith was a good girl, but she hadn't much
mind, and that wasn't her own, but her mother's; and then
they looked up at the electric light, and Charley said,

312

JUDITHS DILEMMA.

II; I !

' Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars,' and
Robert—"

" Yes," said Judith, " that is the last line of the 'Infer-
no,' where their pilgrimage down below is completed."

" Quite complimentary ! " said Mrs. Marchemont. " Well,
go on, Harold."

" Then the^ both sighed, and looked pretty solemn, and
said nobody seemed to be able to get into the 'Paradisio'
worth a cent this evening, and went away smoking like
a steamboat when the fireman is coaling her up,"

"Never mind, Judith," said Mrs. Marchemont. "I know
what young men are ; they will be back to-morrow."

She was woefully mistaken. Neither Charles nor
Robert ever came back, or ever again proposed to Judith
Marchemont. Judith grieved a few days for Charles,
whom she sincerelv liked. But at Easter a new lover
appeared on the scene ; she fell in love with him ; and
said " yes " when he proposed in the orthodox, matter-of-
fact way.

It will be some years before either Charles or Robert
attains his " Paradisio " here below.

.- *
It *

CITY LIFE VS. COUNTRY LIFE.

a ^^^Y dear fellow, you don't know anything about
py^lS it. I have ' been there,' and know whereof I
speak."

" Pshaw ! Man knows but little here below, and
knows that little mighty slow, to paraphrase the poet
who lived before railway accidents were introduced or
the telephone clerk was patented. Your own experience
must convince you that all a man can learn in this world,
from suffering, from observation, from dead books, or
even from communicative Nature, amounts to but a
handful of cobwebs, a bucket of cinders, with here
and there a live coal of knowledge — so called. But is it
knowledge ?"

" So you are in for an argument again. White ? Very
well, then ; we will tight it out, if it takes us till mid-
night. Please wait till I slip off my boots and tire this
necktie into a drawer. Make yourself comfortable in
my long-suffering chair, fo' I am going to lock the door
and put the key in my pocket. When I have convinced
you that city life is as different from country life as a
nightmai'e is different from a cheering visit from an old
friend, then will I sheathe my jack-knife, and unlock the
door, and bid you good morning or Happy New Year, ag
the case may be. Remember, this is August the 6th, and
the hour is nine p.m."

" Am I the old friend, or the nightmare, old fellow ?"

" My dear White, you are the old fi'iend. I can count

on mv fino-firs all the friends I have in the wi<le world

314

CITY LIFE VS. COUNTRY LIFE.

who are worthy of that sacred name. You are one of
them ; but some of the warmest and noblest live in the
country. In fact, my only boast is that I am a country-
man myself." ^

" Your only boast ! Oh !"

" Well, one of my only boasts. One of these friends,
as I've told you, took holy orders, and is to-day in
Buffalo. We seldom correspond, but the old friendship is

eternal. One of them is dead to me forever ; another .

But what we want to do is to argue, not talk. Come,
open lire."

" What is your line of argument ? Do you hold that
city life is the sivmrnuin honum, and that country life is
simply existence ?"

" By no means. Each has its charms, and you and I
love both. What I hold is this: A hermit like myself does
far better to shut himself up in a house in the city, for
genuine peace and solitude, than in the country. Here
one can have perfect freedom, and immunity from care.
There is no occasion to go out of doors for anything,
because all a man can ask for is brought to him."

" Peace and solitude ! Why, the street cars roar and
jingle along in your hearing eighteen hours a day, and
circus parades pass the door ! As for not going out, you
simply must go out."

" Not a bit of it ! When a child comes here and thirsts
for a drink of fresh water, what do we have to do ?
Simply turn a tap, and load the poor innocent up with a
water-works mixture of animalcules, diluted sewerage
and so on. In the country it is different. There you
must go from ten feet to ten rods right out doors, frighten
the chickens out of their wits if it is day-time, or

CITY LIFE VS. COUNTRY LIFE.

315

mayhap run foul of an erratic polecat if it is midnight.
The colder the day or the blacker the night, the more
thirsty and persistent that child becomes. My aunt
once got an idyllic black eye by running the pump-
handle, that was pointing like the needle of a compass
at the North Pole, plumb into her optic, one night when
I was thirsty. It was months after that before I durst
get thirsty again over night, or demur if they teased me
with lukewarm water."

" Nonsense, old fellow ! They have buckets and pails
in the country, and in them they accumulate water, even
as they accumulate liens' eggs in a market-basket."

" True ; but the thirsty child will have fveHh water,
because he is built that way. Experience and observation
both teach this. Fresh water and fresh vouth are akin."

" Granted. But the city water, you acknowledge, is
more or less impure. Observe that / don't say so, or — "

" No ; I took that watery argument out of your
bucket, or you would have made the most of it, though
now you disclaim it."

" Quite so, my great logician. But when your hypo-
thetical thirsty child drinks country water, he imbibes
the Simon-pure article."

" I doubt it. Did you never see a well, White, with a
bull-frog Masonic Lodge in possession ? Did you never
hear of a white-haired boy that unloaded the contents of
a rat-trap into the ancestral well I Did you never hear
my gruesome story of the Gorman who innocently
([uafFed a goblet of the Simon-pure article, which was
richly flavored by a luxuriant willow hard-by, and asked,
in mingled astonishment and disgust, ' Have any of your
pets died lately V Did you never see a red-headed hired

316

CITY LIFE VS. COUNTRY LIFE.

boy, with a far- away- California look in his big blue eyes
and a railway pamphlet in his pocket, dreamily empty
the dish-water where it could most easily meander into
the well ? Lest you should steal a march on me and
sing the praises of the spring in the hollow, — which
spring, by the way, is as far from the house as tlie water-
works offices are from us here, — let me jog your memory
and ask if you never saw the muley cow roil the waters
of that crystal spring, or the unwashed hog lave his
fevered snout therein 1"

" But you claim that you can den up like a hermit in
the city, and never have occasion to go out at all. Will
you be good enough to give me particulars ?"

" I can and will. In the country, if you wish to buy a
newspaper or post a letter, you must journey an English
mile — perhaps a German mile — to do it, over roads that
may be moderately dusty or outrageously muddy. In the
city, the postman drops your letters and regular papers
in the letter-box, and the smiling newsboy conies and
gives you your choice of fifteen papers — half of which
you never heard of, and never want to hear of again."

" But the jaunt in the country will be medicine to you."

" Good. But suppose you are unable to go so far, or
haven't time ? Three miles, to post a letter and get a box
of cigars !"

" Nonsense ! ^ou can send for your mail."

" Good, again. I knew you would think of these
things. My dear White, I once sent for my mail by a
boy who wouldn't rob a crow's nest, or throw stones at
the glassware on the telegraph poles, or eat onions, or
drink sweet cider, or pick up a whet-stone if he found it
in the road. What do you suppose became of my mail f

" I give it up."

. CITY LIFE VS. COUNTRY LIFE.

317

" Well, as it turned out, there was a letter and two
papers. That boy's sister got it into her head that these
were fashion papers (just as if a blase man like myself
would care for fashion papers), and she slipped off the
wrappers. I don't think she got much information out
of the papers, but on one there was a scrap of news,
written in English, and on tlie other there was ditto in
Spanish. She could read the English first-rate ; but the
other bothered her. However, she copied it off', and her
sister-in-law, who had studied Frencli at the joyous age
of fourteen, insisted that it was Ollendorffian French, and
lost her reason trying to make it out. As for tho
letter — "

" But how did you find out these things ?"

" Such things are sure to come out, White ; especially
in the country. Two days afterwards the good boy
brought me my mail. The wrappers on the papers were
apparently undisturbed, )jut the envelope of the letter
was so worn and crumpled that the post-marks were
indecipherable. That might have proved unfortunate,
for it was the third and last of a series of anonymous
letters that I had received. But I had long since found
out the identity of my fair correspondent, though she
was not yet aware of it. But you will agree with me,
perhaps, that it may prove a rash experiment to send for
your mail. Some things are not well done by proxy, eh ?"

" You certainly gleaned a little knowledge — or rather
wisdom — that time."

" True. No cobwebs mixed with it, either."

" Well, go on. How can you get the necessaries of life,
even in the city, without bestirring yourself to get out ?"

" How 1 My dear White, you must keep your eye.s

If',;; .f
■,-<■ ,

1^1

318

CITY LIFE VS. COUNTRY LIFE.

locked up in your revolver-case, and your ears in your
trovvsers pockets, lest you shoul<l hear and see and so
learn something. Let us outline the programme of one
day, — say, Wednesday, — for both city and country. In
the city, then, at 8 a. m. a gigantic milkman rings you to
the door and gives you a good, Scriptural measure of
milk. Winter and summer, rain or shine, you can rely
on getting it. He will never fail you — except for ten
days, when he is y way on his bridal trip, and then
he sends a d.v,^)utv, '"ho has learned the ' route' and
makes punctual time vi U;hin three days. But if he should
miss you, you can h^jl any one of a dozen others passing
the door. In the couiiny ,v on will get better milk, and
generous, neighborly measure, I grant you. But — those
stupid cows have to be hunted down, day after day,
which is no joke for the tired farmers. Again, they are
likely to * go dry' just when the doctor orders you to
drink a quart of milk as a morning recreation. If he
orders you to take egg and milk for pastime, why, then
will tlie hens lay off, too. Tlie practical dairyman suffers
no such contingencies to bother him."

" Oh, go on ; you make me tired."

" Please remember that the key of the door is in my
pocket. At 9 a.m. the grocer sends around, in his
inquisitive way, to know what your orders are. At 9:15
the coal-oil peddlar turns up with his stone-blind horse
and oil-soaked conveyance. He has only fifty cents'
worth of clothes on his back, to be sure ; but he has
thirty dollars in his various pockets, and three tliousand
more in the savings bank. He will sell you good,
marketable oil, at ten cents a gallon cheaper than you
can get it in the country — where, many a time, I have

CITY LIPR VS. COUNTRY LIFE.

319

seen •' most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors ' saunter-
ing along the sidewalk of the township metropolis, with
a largo, rusty, conspicuous, aggressive coal-oil can in their
right hand, which they will shift to their left to shake
hanas, in a hearty, honest way that wins the admiration
even of the ungracious city snob. You will admit that
in the country it is coal-oil or candles, while in the city
home gas can be used altogether. At 9:30 you will hear
a crash outside that may suggest the idea of an alderman
capsizing in a fit ; but it is only the iceman slinging a
lump of ice upon your door-step. It is beneath his
dignity to ring door-bells. If it is glad eyed June, at
10:10 a.m. the strawberry huckster will sell you berries
that you will relish if you will only shut your eyes ; and
at 3 p.m. and at 6 p.m. his rivals will come along and sell
you just as good berries at half the price. At 10:11 a.m.
your baker will rlrive up behind him with your bread,
and while you are taking in your supplies from them the
baker's horse will damage three dollars' worth of straw-
berries, and the affair will come out in the newspapers.
At 12 p.m.—"
" That would be pleasant, now, wouldn't it ?"
" It would be, for the neighbors, certainly. But how
long would you have to live in the country to see such
things 1 At high noon the butcher will call, if you are a
sensible man and leave orders for him to do so, and he and
the vegetable men will supply you with enough to keep
the cook-stove busy for a week. In the midst of your
midday meal a good-natured Polish Jew, who speaks five
different languages, will pay you a friendly call and offer
you eighty cents for the accumulated old clothing of as
many years — or in rounder numbers, of one hundred

•(

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320

CITV LIFE Vs. COUNTRY LIFE.

years. In the country you might have converted these
into a scare-crow ; but the crows would have laughed at
it, and the neighbors would iiave criticised it. At 2 p. m.
the city chimney-sweep will come and threateningly
show you a mandamus from the City Hall, setting forth
that if your chimneys are not swept on next Monday, you
will be sent to the penitentiary for ten years for arson
and as many more for high treason, the sentences not to
run concurrently ; whereas in the country you would
have had to let your chimneys burn out of themselves, at
the risk of wounding the tine sensibilities of the Enoflish
insurance companies."

" This is not argument ; it is balderdash."

" Come, now ; if the discourse were yours, / should
politely call it badinage. But even balderdash may be
argument. At 3 p. m. a veneraule old man, who may
have seen better days, or may see them yet, will come
around and naively sell you three packages of envelopes
and of note-paper, at ten cents a package. To be sure,
there may be better an<l cheaper down town, but neither
better nor cheaper in the country. At "

" Hold on ! I've got you this time ! The Government,
or Post-office authorities, don't send around colporters
with postage-stamps, and it isn't a speculation for private
parties. You must send out for them ! "

" You will not break in on my narrative again in that
way. White. Lo ! at 10 p.m. a neighbor across the street
will come in without hat or cane. He will plead that he
must write seven letters for the morning mail, and that
he is ' long ' on stamps and ' short ' on envelopes ; can you
make a deal ? Lo ! here is the opportunity to unload
some of the dearly-bought envelopes. He leaves yon

CITY LIFE VS. COUNTRY LIFE.

321

leaves von

stainp.s enough to mail live letters, and materially reduces
your stock of envelopes. Seel"

" But such a thing might happen in the country."
" Eh ? Well, yes ; I stand rebuked. In fact, it would
l)e much more likely to happen in the country. — At 5 p. m.
!i sunburnt book-agent will visit you, with forty-seven
dollars' worth of literature in his grip. Here you have
your choice of all the best works issued by the leading
subscription-book publishers in America. What luck ! "
" Are you afraid of him, or does he ' unload ' on you ?"
" My dear White, I used to be much more afraid of a
dashing young gossip I knew in the country. Peace be
to her ashes ! She talked herself to death at the early age
of twenty-two. Now, I take the initiative with this
young man, and talk him black in the face, and then
write him out a charm against hungry dogs, and advise
hi in how I would tackle a man who has just five minutes
to catch a train, and how I would lay for the man who
had just got out of jail for subscribing in an order-book
with his shot-gun. Then I cheerfully subscribe for a
l)()ok that he says is to be published five years hence, but
which I know is already out."
" Well, have you done 1 "
" No ; but I will stop to wind ray watch."
" Oh, say ! You wouldn't know an argument from a
horse-shoe ! "

" That reminds me of more arguments. Three or four
times a year there is an election going on in the city, and
tlie opposing parties will send around a carriage and
insist on giving you a free ride to the polls. Suppose
the ' rate-payers ' arc called upon to vote $700,000.00 to
help a new railway build into the city. You ride with
11

iif'i
mi.

rwm

322

CITY LIFE VS. COUNTRY LIFE.

: i

.111

' ■

the Antis, because they send a more luxurious carriage,
and vote for the railway people on principle. If you are
sick in bed with sciatica or pneumonia, it doesn't make a
bit of difference ; they will have your vote, and Death may
claim your life, or not. The only thing they draw the
line at is this : They hate to go carting around patients
who are suffering from diphtheria or yellow fever."
" But what has all this to do with the country ? "
" I am coming to that. The city horse will not shy
at the circus parade you spoke of, neither will he be led
from the narrow line of the street car rails by the seduc-
tive music of a three-hundred-dollar hand-organ, which
can be heard four blocks away, and which truly causes
its owner to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. But
with the country horse it is different, you know. Tliis
summer an old friend of mine undertook to drive me
along the beautiful roads of our native district. He will
not ask me to go again, neither will he pride himself on
his Jehuship. All went merry for the first two miles,
and then we suddenly came upon a city dude, touring
the country on his 'bike' — his shycycle, as my friend
jocosely and not inaptly called it. The only mistake the
youth made was in setting out before he had mastered his
wheel ; and the only mistake our horse made was in
turning wildly into the same ditch into which the youth
had upset himself. Forty beautiful spokes suddenly be-
came worthless wire ; while my friend was thrown head-
long upon the unfortunate bicyclist. But it didn't interrupt
our journey half so much as it did the hitter's. This
seemed to infatuate our horse, however, and he bowled
us along most enjoyably. Anon we heard a noise like a
freight-train coming right along the highway. My friend

City life vs. 'iountrv lifb.

323

I carriag*',
It' you ari'
I't make a
Death may
draw the

d patients

>>
sver.

?»>

ill not shy
[ he be led
the seduc-
gan, which
ruly causes
i brow. But
now. This
o drive uie
jt. He will
himself on
two miles,
ide, touring
iny friend
mistake the
nastered his
ade was in
the youth
addenly he-
ro wn head-
a't interrupt
,ter's. This
he bowled
loise like a
My friend

jumped out at once, and led poor Sam, the horse, now
trembling like a leaf, to a telegraph pole, and tied him
fast with six or seven pieces of ^trap and a rope. I asked
him if his fall had made him crazy, and he said, ' No ;
I wish I had a logging-chain besides these.' He explained
nothing and I asked nothing, for if it Wtis a (juestion of
ignorance on my part, I wasn't going to give it away.
Presently a steam thresher outfit, drawing three contented-
lot)king men and two wagons, came craunching along,
and I began to w'sh we had had a city horse. The men
laughed at us till the tears came, and I'm sure I didn't
hlame them. But it was no joke to Sam. That telegraph
pole is fifteen degrees out of plumb to tlds day. When
tlie steam thresher monster was a quarter of a mile past
us on its journey, my friend led Sam out into the road,
climbed into the buggy, and we were off' again like a
Hash. But we were just five minutes too late for our
letters to catch the English mail, and we began to feel
iliscouraged. But on our way liome we got along famously^
and were beginning to congratulate ourselves. We
were almost at the top of a big hill. On below in the
liollow was my friend's home and our journey's end.
Suddenly a piercing scream came from this hollow, and
our horse began to plunge violently.

'" What can it mean ?' gasped my friend. 'If it comes
again, Sam will kill something ! '

" It did come, again and again. Sam did not ' kill
something' ; but he ran away, and threw us both into a
hed of nettles on the brow of the hill. I give you my
Word that neither my friend nor I got a broken neck ;
hut we saw Sam dash on and knock the buggy to pieces,
and fetch up at last, with considerable harness still on

^J^p

324

CITV LIPK VS. COUNTHY LIFE.

I'Pt'

"'id

r's

him, at the stables. The shrieking ceased ; but what do
you suppose it was ? "

"Oh, your ridiculous imagination."

" You are away off". It was my friend's c'.ty cousin, i\
lively girl of fifteen. She was fishing her first fish in the
stream in the hollow, and had captui'ed an astonished
crab on her fish-hook. Both were frightened to deatli ;
but the crab couldn't scream ! "

" So you prefer city life to country life ? "

" I never said so. White. I am like the boy in the
stupid fable ; I like both, off and on."

" I agree with you, in part. But what have we, bciii
arguing about ? "

" I don't know ; I have talked for the sake of talking-.
I am not through yet, but if I get through in time I am
going to get my life insured and go back to the country
to-morrow."

" Not through yet ! Say, give me thot key ! I give in ;
I am more than convinced ; I am overwhelmed. — That's
good ; thank you. Say, old fellow, you didn't touch on
two things, after all : pure country air, and "

" True. Now it is my turn to give in to you. White."

" And how you contrive to post your love-letters,
whether in city or country. You don't trust them to ordi-
nary mortals to post, and the letter-carrier is not likely to
help you. But perhaps you have some jugglery, which "

" Give me back the key. White, and we will fight it
out all over again."

" You go to the mischief ! Good night ! "

And the door shut with a bang.

Dut what do

COULD I BUT KNOW

To One Miss Front.

,ve we, rjoeii

Could I hut know that the din) years
That 8wift will come, as they have gone,
Would one day bring
The cruel sting
From my sad heart, which nothing cheers
Could I but know
^^'hether or no
In remote time bright days will dawn
And tierce Despair yield up his fears. '

Could I but know, oh silent one !
That you would care were I cut oft';

Would waste one tear

Over my bier ;

Would, sad reflect my race was run.
Could I but know

If you would go
Still wreathed with smiles, still quick to scoff
At the poor wretch whose work was done.

Could I but know, long-loved sweetheart,
Ihat you would heed gen'rous renr.wn

Coming to me,

Glorious, free !
Would you then feel or joy or smart ?

Could I but know

Whether or no
Fame wcmld bring me your smile or frown
Or one kind word, wrung from your heart.'

!'!rff

^4 ;•

I ;■ f

326

COULD I BUT KNOW.

Could I but know that, after all,
The old-time love might burst aflame,

Surge in your heart,

Wake with a start,
Wake to new life, come at my call !

Could 1 but know

It might be so !
For mistakes past mine be the blame,
Since, to all time, I am your thrall.

LUCY AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

WAtm^ dear Hart, 1 am delighted to see you again."
g^Si " I might say the same ; but it isn't necessary ;
you know my nature. What I wish to do, it' you will
only give me a chance to get in a word, is to congratulate
you. I am told you are engaged to a handsome young
lady. Now perhaps you will be good enough to invite
me to the wedding."

" Your congratulations are a trifle premature, old
fellow ; I can't quite persuade the young lady to make
up her mind. Do you know, one reason why I am so
pleased to sec you is because I want you to help me out
of my difficulties."

" I always did admire your engaging frankness, Jack.
But what can 1 do about it ? "

'• You can suggest ways and means by which I can
prevail on the young lady in question to quit coquetting
with me. I am even more anxious for this wedding to
coine about than you are. Give me some of your sage
advice."

" Well, I could suggest twenty things to you, if — "

" Suggest one ! "

" One ? Give me five minutes to think it over, and I
will suggest a hundred ! "

" Don't tantalize me in this way ! "

" Jack, is your lady-love superstitious — however little ? "

" She is inclined that way, for a fact. But what of it ? "

" Everything. Take her out for a walk, say, to-morrow
afternoon, along the river, and just before you come to
the Great Western bridge you will encounter an old gipsy

,► ^

l( t

t t,

328

LUCY AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

woman fortune-teller. Keep mum, and your sweetheart
herself will suggest the idea of having her fortune told.
The rest follows naturally."

" You are to personate the fortune-teller ? "

" It is most wonderful that you should have guessed
it, Jack ! Your penetration passes all belief ! "

" Oh, come, now. Hart ; I kneiv you could hit on some-
thing."

" For the fun of the thing, you might come along with
quite a party of young people. It will be just as easy to
make a dozen matches as one. But you must post me
thoroughly as to your sweetheart's idiosyncrasies and
history, because I don't want to make any mistakes. I
think you may quietly begin your preparations this very
day for a brilliant and speedy wedding."

" My dear Hart, how can I thank you enough ! "

" Don't mention it. I shall charge the young lady six
shillings for telling her fortune, and you will have to pay
it, on the spot. Fortune-tellers don't give credit, you
know. But I mean to send her a handsome wedding-
present."

Then the two young men held a long conversation,
and when they separated Hart Montague was indeed
"thoroughly posted." The lover, Jack Herrick, once
ventured on a mild piotest that it was taking an unfair
and ungentlemanly advanta;i;e of his sweetheart, but his
friend appeased him by quoting the old saying that " all
is fair in love and war."

Lucy Pendleton was indeed somewhat superstitious ;
but that, in the eyes of her admirers, was only another
of her many charms. She was a lovely girl, but capricious.
This was not likely to frighten away any suitors, though

Lucy and T&E i*ORTtNK-TELLER.

329

Jack Herrick realized that his chances of winning her
were altogether dependent on her caprice, not on his
solicitations.

Behold the pair, then, strolling along the cla<«sic Avon
on the next afternoon. With them were three or four
young ladies, each with an escort. They had some vague
idea of joining a picnic party up the river, but had no
suspicion that Jack was directing their movements. For
once in a way. Jack was master of himself and of the
situation.

" Oh, look ! " cried Lucy, as they turned a bend in the
river. " There is a ridiculous old gipsy hag ! Let us go
up and speak to her."

The word ridieulov.s admirably described the creature
before them. In fact, Jack had no little difficulty in
recognizing his friend Hart, so faithfully did that scamp
represent the typical gipsy fortune-teller.

The party drew near, and saluted the gipsy with mock
politeness. Jack was all impatience, of course, though
not at all apprehensive of the fraud's being discovered.
His impatience was soon (juieted.

" Can you tell fortunes, mistress ? " inquired Lucy.

" I have told the fortunes, sweet lady, of the greatest
people in England. The stars are to me an open book.
I look into the future as into a looking-glass, and the
past is mirrored before me as the full moon upon the
broad river."

" Tell me something first of the past. The future
floesn't trouble me so much as you may think."

" Give me your left hand, sweet lady ; and let the
young man give me as a fee the silver in his left hand
vest-pocket."

330

LUCY AND THE FORTUNE-TELLEIt.

V i

|!' i

'11 I

Lucy ungloved a fair hand, and for one brief moment
it was attentively examined by the gipsy. Then with o
start it was dropped. " The future will trouble you,
sweet lady, ere many moons. Fate is already knocking
at the door of your heart."

" Well," asked Lucy curiously, " what do you read ? "

" Time enough to tell you that, sweet lady. First I
will tell you something of your past, as you wished me."

" Never mind the past at all. Tell me of the future."

" Not so. On the day you were thirteen years old you
were saved from drowning in this very river."

" Yes ! " acknowledged Lucy, starting in her turn.

" On the thirteenth of the seventh month, July, 1887,
you narrowly missed being hit by a rifle-ball. You
thought a little brother had accidentally fired the shot.
It was not so. His ball found another billet."

Lucy, as well as the other young ladies, now became
thoroughly interested.

" You have noticed how often the numbers thirteen
and seven have occurred in your history, sweet lady ? "

** Certainly I have, and wondered at it," assented
Lucy.

" These numbers will follow you all your life. One is
lucky, the other unlucky. There are thirteen letters in
your name ; you have had six offers of marriage. If you
do not accept i-he seventh, you must wait for the thirteenth.
This man will be an outlaw, but this line in your palm
shows that the seventh man will propose this evening.
If you refuse him he will kill himself, and you will fall
to the outlaw, who vrlU poisori you in 1913."

Miss Lucy was now becoming alarmed. " How shall I
make sure who is the seventh ? " she asked.

w^mi

LUCY AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

331

" There are but four letters in his Christia,n name,
sweet lady, as in yours ; though there are seven in his
family name. His destiny is illustrious. He will be
titled by your Queen ere you are three years married ;
will fight three battles against the Italians, and fix his
name upon the stars forever. He will be so rich that ten
horses cannot draw his gold. But if you refuse him. all
this glory ends in brimstone ; he will shoot himself."

" Is he handsome, too ? " asked Lucy, with great
interest.

Hart and Jack exchanged amused glances. Hart did
not think the prospective bridegroom handsome, so he
replied : " See for yourself, sweet lady ; his picture is
the thirteenth in a book that was given you on your
seventeenth birthday."

Lucy remembered perfectly well that Jack's photograph
was the thirteenth in her album, and that she had always
looked upon this accidental placing of it as ill-omened-
Still, if this old witch said he was the man —

" Is there no ill luck in that ? " she asked at length.

" Sweet lady, it is destiny. The lucky and the unlucky
numbers chase each other all through your life. Link
your fate with the great man's, and you will live long
and be happy. His star will never wane — unless you
refuse him this evening."

Jack now began to look triumphant. He even began
to fancy that his friend's wild talk was prophetic.

" What of the person who fired the rifie-ball ? " Lucy
suddenly asked. " Who was he, and when shall I see
him again ? "

" Sweet lady, these are dark things. It is not good for
you to know everything, but I will tell you that you will

!^'i

332

LUCY AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

r J

be in Rome in July, seven years distant, and that on the
thirteenth of the month, at seven minutes to noon, you
will meet him face to face. If the man who proposes
seventhly is then your husband, his glittering sword will
disable your secret enemy ; if the bearded outlaw is then
your husband, your secret enemy will again attempt
your life."

" And kill me ? " gasped Lucy.

" No, sweet lady; you escape sorely wounded, and live
for your outlaw husband to poison you in 1913."

" Oh, certainly ; I forgot about that," said Lucy.

The look of implicit faith on her innocent face was
almost too much for Hart Montague. In fact, his
triumphant success caused him to feel remorseful rather
than jubilant.

But now other members of the party pressed forward
to have their fortunes told. This was a critical test for
Hart, as he was not familiar with their history, and he
feared that perhaps he had overreached himself, after
all, in bidding Jack to bring along chance comers.
However, he still had his fancy and the future to draw on,
and so predicted for one an alliance wdth a North
American Indian ; for another, the equivocal dignity of
an elevation to the restored throne of Republican France ;
for another, the cheerful revelation that she would be
wrongfully sentenced to death for murder, and pardoned
at last on the scaffold ; and for another, the equally
cheerful alternative of being the wife of three drunkards,
each one a worse sot than the first, or of being " cycloned "
into a volcano, and there entombed alive.

The next morning the two young men met again, by
appointment.

LUCY AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

333

lat on the
noon, you
> proposes
word will
LW is then
1 attempt

I, and live

icy.
face was
fact, his

ful rather

d forward

al test for

:y, and lu;

self, after

comers.

) draw on,

a North

dignity of

,n France ;

would he

pardoned

le equally

Irunkards,

cy cloned "

again, by

" Jack, my dear boy," said Hart, " I beg to congratulate
you once more. Yesterday I read Miss Lucy's hand ; to-
day I read your face. She accepted you on the spot,
eh ? "

" Yes ; and I herewith ask you to our wedding, on the
7th of the seventh month — that is, next July."

" You are a rascally lucky fellow. Jack ; but you don't
deserve your good fortune. Do you know, I've been
dreaming about that girl all night. If I had known she
was half so pretty, I would not have told her fortune ; I
would have cut you out. Aren't you afraid of me, even
as it is ? "

Jack laughed, an easy, good-natured laugh. " I will
introduce you," he said, " and she will take you for the
' outlaw,' and be afraid of you. But what's the reason
you never married, old fellow ? You would be more than
a match for the cleverest girl in England ; you could win
whom you pleased."

" I have helped my friends in their love-affairs, time
and again, Jack ; but when I am concerned myself I have
scruples about these things. Howevei', I never had any
heart troubles. I say, Jack ; I want you to drop a hint
some day to those stupid young gallants. One might
woo his sweetheart in the guise of an Indian, and another
as a * mountain-climber,' and so on ; and the young ladies
would take it all as a good joke, and accept it as a mar*
velous fulfillment of the gipsy's prophecies."

Hart was introduced to Miss Lucy, and the warmest
affection sprang up between them ; but, even as Jack
said, she looked upon him with a vague, unrestful feeling
that in the dim future he would, by some process of evo-
lution, metamorphose himself into the gipsy's outlaw,

334

LUOY AND THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

1 'I

Hart would never betray any confidences reposed in him,
even to expose deception, so that the secret was safe, so
far as he was concerned.

Preparations for the wedding went on gaily. A few
days before the date fixed for the great event, Lucy said
to Jack, " Do you know, my dear Jack, I am going to try
and find our gipsy prophetess again. There are a great
many things that I wish to consult with her about."

" You will hardly find her, Lucy. She is probably off"
on her broomstick among the stars she talked of so
glibly."

" Jack ! How can you speak in that way of that gifted
woman ! She may be able to overhear you, for all you
know, even from the stars. Do be careful."

*' Yes, but you know, Lucy, my destiny was fixed the
moment you accepted me ; so I can say what I please.
But if you really want to see the old gipsy, I can pre-
sent you to that personage in five minutes."

" You can ! Pray, are you in league with her 1 "

This was said without any suspicion whatever — per-
haps without any meaning whatever. But Jack had long
felt it his duty to tell Lucy the whole truth, and he
thought this an opportune time to do so.

" Lucy," he said, " I will make no more ado about it.
It was all a scheme between Montague and me ; your old
witch was that rascally dog."

A pale little face quivered for a moment, and then poor
Lucy swooned away. Jack ran terrified from her pres-
ence, and on returning in the evening was politely
informed that Miss Lucy was unable to see him.

It was several days before Lucy was able to leave her
roorau Her first act on being able to sit up was to write

Lucy and the portune!-teLler.

336

Jack a frank little note that proved at once she was in
full possession of her reasoning faculties, if not very well.

This note gave him to understand that he need never
show his cruel, ugly face in her father's house again ; that
she despised him as being worse than a criminal ; that
she never loved him ; that he might have brought his
confession around in a way to win her sympathy ; that
she always hated him ; that his friend was quite free
from blame ; that she might have married him a year
ago, if he had had any energy or decision ; again that
she despised him ; that his plot was not clever, it was
childish ; that he was a credulous, infatuated fool ; that
he might have won her without resort to any wicked
stratagem ; and finally, that she despised him, and would
not see him.

Poor little Lucy !

It was Jack's turn to be ill when he received this let-
ter. It drove the faint-hearted fellow to despair, and
effectually disabused his mind of any further belitef in his
friend's dazzling prophecies about battle-fields and martial
renown.

Lucy recovered finally on the 13th of July. On that
fateful day at 7 p.m. her mind was clear and decided on
many points — perhaps on most points.

The reader can easily guess how things shaped them-
selves. Lucy, as many another young lady would have
done, married Hart Montague ; and in her that young
rascal found a wife whom he does not deserve, but whom
he loves dearly.

Lucy still believes that seven and thirteen are her
lucky and unlucky numbers, and takes a solemn interest
in tracing out how they are alternately chasing each other

336

LtJCY AND TitE FORTUNE TElLER.

|! »,

in the most trivial affairs of her everyday life. She has
even persuaded Hart to promise to take her to Rome
when the seventh year period shall come.

As for poor Jack, he thought seriously of studying law
last Christmas, but has finally decided on ente>'ing the
army by buying a commission. It is somewhat remark-
able how curiously events will come about in this uncer-
tain world.

The moral of this story may or may not be that the
swain who cannot manage his own love-affairs without
calling in the interference of outsiders, richly deserves to
"get left."

' i

She lias
r to Rome

idying law
te>"ing the
it remark -
ihis uncer-

that the
's without
leserves to

HOW HE QUIT SMOKING.

(I f

AIN 'T no manner of use to say you can't keep
from frettin' about these things," said the old
man, in his slow, doggeu way. " Lemme tell you how I
quit smokin', away back in Eighteen fifty-seven. I hain't
tetched it sence, except in the way I'm goin' to tell you,
and I wan't no ruggeder then to stand a strain onto my
system nor you be. You see, I've kep' on livin' all these
years without it, an' I'm able to do as good a day's work,
ef the notiont takes me, as ever I was ; an' I'm seventy
year old.

" It come about in this here way : The doctur says to
me one day, ' Jim,' says he, ' Jim, you're a-goin' to kill
yourself with that old pipe ; it's chuck-full of nikkerteen,'
says he, ' the p'isenist kind of stuff they is. You can't
quit smokin' at your age,' says he, * but you'd orter git
nice, clean pipes,' says he, ' fur to smoke out of.' ' Doc-
tur,' says I, ' I'll smoke this pipe out in about ten min-
utes,' says I, ' and then, be gosh ! I'll quit ! ' ' Don't go
fur to do that, Jim,' says he, ' or we'll have to bury you,'
says he. ' Not yit ! ' says I. They wan't nothin' more
said about it, an' the doctur reckoned I dassn't try it.
But I'd give my word, you see, that I'd do it, an' that
'twouldn't kill me, neither ; so I done it.

" Yes, sir, I done it ; I quit smokin' that very day. I
went out an' bought a bran' new pipe, with a long handle
onto it that 'd set into my mouth jest as comfurtable, and
then I got some splendid terbakker, better'n I'd been used

*Taken from the MS. of my book, "The Great Ten-Dollar Law-
Suit." — B.W,M.

:!■:!

IfWw*

338

flow HE QUIT SMOKINO.

ter allowin' mystilf, an' I took 'cm alonj^hoinc, an' T sluivt'd
tliat fcerbakker up jost as fine, an' put it into that tliere
pipe, an' prodded it down with my little finger, an' liglitcd
a sliver into the stove, an' Iiilt it about six inclies al)()Vo
tliat pipe, an' purtended I was a-goin' to have a good
smoke. But I never done it. I put tliat pipe up (jiito
the chimbley-pieee where my old one used ter set, an'
rested the bowl agin the fur aidge of the wall, an' h'istcd
the stem aerosst my gran'father's old spectickle case,
where it could p'int at me, jest as coaxin' an' as natchurl,
an' then put some nice, long lighters alongside of it. You
know in them days matclies was scarce an' poor. They
was high, too. Then I takes away my old pipe, an' I says
to it, kinder solemn, like, ' The time's come fur us ter
part, old feller,' says I ; ' but 'tain't me that's got ter go ;
it's you' I 'most cried, though, to throw the old pipe
into the stove, an' know that was the * final end ' of it, as
the sayin' is.

" Jest 's I got the stove-led on agin the old woman
come in, an' I ups an' says to her, ' Manner,' says I, ' I've
quit smokin' ; so you wun't have no more cause,' says I,
' fur to go jawin' around about me settin' onto the table,
smokin', an' a-spittin' onto the floor.' ' Jim,' s;»ys she,
' Jim, what fool tricks are you up to now ? You know
you can't keep from smokin' no more 'n you can froii)
talkin' !' says she. But I took an' showed her the br "
new pipe, an' she allowed I'd got some queer notiontiik >
my head, anyhow ; but she let on that she reckoned 1
couldn't never hold out. This I'iled my grit, an' I was
determined not ter tetch terbakker. The old woman
used to w^atch me pretty sharp at first, to see ef I didn't
go an' smoke on the sly ; but bimeby she give in I'd quit.

now HE QUIT SMOKING.

:{39

i I ,slia\H'<l
hat tlicrc
m' lighted
les ai)ovc

} up onto
)!' set, an'
an' h'istrd
ckle case,
^ natch url,
of it. You
or. They
, an' I say.s
Eur us ter
jot ter go ;
3 old pipe
d ' of it, as

Id woman

ys I, ' I've

e,' says I,

the talkie,

says she.
You know

can from
r the bi
lotiont i
reckoned i
, an' I was
)ld woman
ef I didn't

in I'd quit.

" But sonictimos on a frosty momin', you know, when
I'd be a-walkin' beliind two fellers smokin', an' tlie smoke
'd come a-waftin' back ter me, like, I'd feel jest 's ef I
wanted to take * two whitis an' a spit,' as the sayin' is.
All the tinn; I knowed there was a pipe at home a-waitin'
fur me, all ready fur a good snujke ; an' sometimes when
I'd go h(mie feelin' kinder hungry, I'd go an' take aholt
of it an' examine that it was all right, an' I'd say to it,
sorter boastin', like, * Well, old boy,' I'd say, ' don't you
feel terryble lonesome, a-layin' here all alone ? ' Then I'd
put it back agin, where the stem could keep a-p'intin' at
me.

" At first I used to have the awfullist time a-puttin' in
the long evenin's ; but when I got wore down to it I
found I could set an' talk to Manner an' folks that 'd
come in jest as clever 's ever I could. They used to joke
me some about it, but they got over that when they see how
fearful determined I was. The new pipe used to be smoked
now an' agin by the boys that come in, jest to keep up its
spirits, like ; an' they used to say it 'd draw beautiful.
But I never done no more 'n purtend to take a few whiffs
at it when I filled it agin. I always kep' it tilled an'
kernspicuous right there onto the chimbley, an' when the
terbakker runned out I got some more.

')imt^by somebody let it fall plumb onto the coals, an'
it got cracked an' sp'ilt. I felt terryble bad ter see it go,
thoi. h I hadn't never tried it' fair, with the terbakker
really afire. Hows'ever, I went an' got another pipe, —
fashionabler 'n the old one, my, it was a daisy I — an' I
filled it an' j at it in the old spot, where it could lay
a-p'intin' at me an' a-temptin' me. Hanner, she scolded
some about me goin' an' buyin' more pipes, jest fur to look

340

HOW HE QUIT SMOKING.

\m\

at, when I might 'a' got her some h'ver med'cine ; but I
told her I couldn't git along nohow without a pipe
about the house. It's a terryble comfurt to think that
it's there, ready fur me ' at a moment's notice,' as the
sayin' is. It's a-waitin' fur me now ; all I got to do when
I git home is to take an' light a match, an' give a good
pull, an' there's my pipe a-smokin' away jest as sosher-
able. But I ain't a-goin' ter tetch it, except jest ter sorter
shake hands an' joke it about feelin' so lonesome.

" There's the old doctur, now ! I'll jest go and ask him
what's the reason some folks can't quit smokin' a pipe
without gittin' theirselves buried fur it ! I've joked him
about it more'n a hundred times."

But the spry old doctor dodged around the corner and
was gone.

ae ; but I
ut a pipe
ihink that
ce,' as the
o do when
ve a good
as sosher-
t ter sorter
le.

id ask him
in' a pipe
joked him

jorner and

"C'EST POUR TOUJOURS, NELLY."

To-day i lifted dry-eyed from their grave

Such sad mementoes of the wretched past
As in my bitterness I once had cast
Away from me, as being gifts you gave,

Though which, for mem'ry's sake, awhile I'd save,
Safe in a limbo, whence I hoped at last
To give them up unto destruction's blast,
When my poor heart had ceased for you to crave.

I gave no thought to the long, wasted years,
Which are forever lost, but had no will
To handle but with awe these souvenirs

For through my heart there shot the old-time thrill,

E'en though these mute things seemed instinct with jeers.
To f nd, though all is lost, I love you still.

HER STORY AND HIS STORY.

it's ^
i

! 1

K *

^I^X ac(|uaiiita:ice, recently married, after long years of
^H^ patient waiting, to an old widower, — sincere, un-
pretentious, and rough-and-ready, a typical Canadian, —
gave her admiring relatives and friends this startliug
account of her nowly-ac(|uired husband's ancestry and
former greatness: —

" Yes, girls ; Mordecai comes of a very old family.
They were the wealthiest and most aristocratic people in
Central Ontario, and held vast estates right in the heart
of what is to-day the city of Belleville. Min'decai often
tells of his wild adventures as a boy in that mountainous
region, where he killed the most ferocious bears — ;jast for
sport, you know. Once he killed a noble stag, after a
terrible struo-ole. He was so venturesome that he often
wandered away alone, without any of his father's retain-
ers, or even a guide. Yes, girls ; he killed this stag, wlien
his own life was in deadly peril, and afterwards presented
it to the Smithsonian Institute at Washington. If wo
ever go to the American Capital, we nmst certainly make
it a point to see it. Mordecai is ac((uainted with two
members of the President's cabinet and with a numlior
of senators, besides knowing the Premier of Canada an<l
all his cabinet ! "

" Oh, how nice that must l)e ! " sighed a fair listener.

" Yes, girls ; I will tell you presently about our visit
to the Executive Mansion at Ottawa. Well, as I was about
to remark, Mordecai says he once or twice regretted en-
dowing the Smithsonian Institute with his stag, it was

HER STORt AND UIS STORY.

543

y years of
icere, im-
nadiaii, —
startliiijx
istry and

(I family,
people in
tlie heart
ecai often
untainous
— ;just for
;g, after a
t he often
r's retain-
tac;, when
presented
1. If we
Illy make
with two
I nnnilicr
inada and

istener.

our visit

ivas abont

ett('(l en-

^, it was

such a magnificent specimen of the antlered race. He has
one very funny story, too, about a friend of his being
once chased by a polecat, but my husband is such a
polished man that he can rarely be persuaded to mention
such subjects. But if he hadn't been the crack shot he
is, his fri(>nd would — would have lost an evening's enjoy-
ment at Vhe manor-house, where a grand ball was to be
given.

"Bis father died early in life, and Mordecai was ex-
tremely kind to his widowed mother. One day when she
was unwell and the servants w^ere nAvay, or refractory, the
little fellow actually cooked his own dinner rather than
disturb his motlier — and, of course, br-^night up as he w^as,
he was as innocent of the kitchen and of culinary aflairs
as a young prince.

" In those early days, before his father's death and for
some years afterward, the family frequently entertained
Provincial and foreign notabilities, and Mordecai received
his name from a New England grandee wlio passed a week
with them. They kept ' open house,' and their spacious
mansion contained many guest-rooms ; but it was often
crowded, for all that, and the mor ■ guests they could en-
tertain, the better pleased w^'re the genial host and
liostess.

'• You may know, girls, how courageous a lady Mor-
decai's mother w^as. One day it was necessary for a
messenger to be sent to Toronto, one hundred miles
distant. The family coach was in Kingston, under-
going repairs, and after the death of Mordecai's father
there was not so large a retinue of servants kept up, so
that, on this particular occasion, there was no trustworthy
person alujut the manor to be des]iatched on this impor-

v-aia*li*f.*r=^j

I !

-4-

344

HER STORY AND HIS STORY.

tant mission. That undaunted old lady actually under-
took to drive there alone, giils; and she did it. Mordecai
tells how when night came on she put up at a lonely way-
side inn, near the town of Newcastle, and was so nervous
that she remained awake half the night. — Not that she
was afraid, you know, for she was very courageous ; but
the novelty of the situation, as Mordecai says, was so
startling. 'J'he next day the heroic old lady sighted a
bear, and she said if she had had her late husband's ritle
with her — it descended to him from the first Duke (^f
Marlborough, girls — she would have felled him.

" But all this was years ago. Now I must tell you of
our visit to the Dominion Capital. A mere description
of the sights of Ottawa would not be very entertaining,
so I will pass on to tell you of our picnic at Rideau Hall.
His Excellency's private secretary recognized Mordecai
at once as an old friend, and escorted us all over the Hall
and the grounds. A sharp shower coming up unexpect-
edly, we took refuge in a lovely little summer-house, or
pagoda, v/here no one ever thinks of venturing. But I
could see that Mordecai felt perfectly at home there.

" While we were in Ottawa he got some lovelj^ slatted
honey — such a quantity of it, too — and brought it to our
new home. Of course lue couldn't eat it all ; but Mor-
decai and I gave most of it away — he is so generous, you
know. Well, he can afford to be ; he is next thing to
being a millionaire."

" Oh, my ! " said her listeners, in unfeigned surprise.

" Yes, girls. Mordecai was brought up with all tlie
choicest wines and liquors on his father's table, as gentle-
men's sons were, of course ; but he grew up a thoroughly
temperate man, and is a Prohibitionist to-day. I don't

HER STORY AND HIS STORY.

345

illy undei--
Mordecai
onely way-
so nervous
t that slu'
^eous ; but
fs, was so
• sighted a
3and's ritle
jt Duke of
1.

tell you of
description
itertaining,
ideau Hall.
[ Mordecai
ir the Hall
unexpect-
r-house, or
g. But I
there,
el}' slatted
it it to our
but Mor-
lerous, you
t thing to

surprise.

th all tlie

as gentlo-

horoughly

I don't

suppose he would know a drunken man if he should meet
one. From all this you will see what his principles are."
" Yes, indeed."

At this juncture Mordecai himself came in, and when
told by an interested young lady of his wife's charming
narrative, he proceeded, in his bland, ingenuous way, to
ofive his own account of the family history and of his
early triumphs. At first his auditors fancied he was
wandering from his text ; but presently it dawned upon
them that there mi<xht be certain va^ue coincidences in
the two stories.

"Yes," he began good-naturodl}^ "I've seen some pretty
rough experiences in my time, and some amusing ones.

" My parents kep' a little tavern in the wilds of Hast-
ings County, near the Bay of Quinte, and T was raised
there and spent half my life there. My father was a
smart man, for them days, but awful close ; and the way
he used to charge his guests was something fearful. I
have known members of Parliament and Government
officials to stop with him — why, I was named for a
Massachusetts big-bug, though I'm no hand to brag about
such things. As I was going to say, I've known wealthy
Englishmen and poorly-paid preachers to go away from
dad's telline' him to his face that he was tlie heartle.ssest
old skin-flint they ever came across ; and ordinary
travelers used to quarrel so with him that sometimes it
came to blows, and once a Justice of tlie Peace, traveling
unbeknownst, had the old man fined for his cantankerous
behavior. He was always more careful after that, was
father; but that was the way he made his money, because,
you see, taverns were scarce and poor in that region in

346

HER STORY AND FIIS STORT.

■f

them days. But tliey kep' a veiy lespectable place, and
no one could find p.ny fault, except with the old man's
outrageous charges. The tavern was large and comfort-
able, and was oftentimes chuck-full of travelers. You
ought to have seen father then ! The more people he could
jam into the place, and feed, the better pleased he was.

" But father died when I was very young, and mother
kep' things going for a few years. She couldn't carry it
on as he had done, and us boys wer(i too small to run
things, so when slie saw she was losing monev, she sold
out. One time she ran out of liquor. (I'm a teetotaler
myself, and vote for no- whiskey candidates, as long as
they are good party men, though I was brought up right
in the midst of the poisonest kinds of liquors, thougji
father wouldn't allow us to drink, he was so close. But
I have seen so many drunken men that I never want to
touch any spirits.)

" As I was saying, mother ran out of li(juor one time,
just as an election was conung on, and there wasn't a
living soul she could sei 1 away for supplies. She was
never any hand to do business by correspondence, as
father was, — "

At this point the new wife made a frenzied attempt to
head him off. But Mordecai was a little deaf, and he
kept on in the same dogged, ingenuous way.

" and she thought she'd have a nice little excursion,

any way. So she left me and the hostler in charge of
the tavern, and went away to Toronto on foot. She ha<l
to go on foot, though it was a good hundred miles, because
father's two horses and his rigs were in Kingston, sold to
a livery-stable man. My mother was a plucky woman,
though, even for them days. When night came on she

HER STORY AND HIS STORY.

347

wasn't goincr to spend any money at taverns, so she just
roosted in a tree along the wayside, near the littk) village
of Newcastle. But she was almost sorry for it, because
she couldn't sleep, hardly. — Not that she was afraid, you
know, but it was a sort of a novel situation, even for a
pioneer's daui,diter. The next day she fell in with an old
bear, and she said if she had had dad's old gun along — it
used to belonjj- to a York County horse-thief, and dad
kep' it in payment of his bill. Well, if she had had this
old gun along, she could have got a crack at that bear,
for sure. Hut the old lady got kind of discouraged, and
came back in the stafje-coach, with a driver that had an
old account at the bar.

" Speaking of bears, I used oftentimes to run away
from home, where they always kep' us working too liard,
and went after bears. The country thereabouts is full
of hills and hollows, and used to be full of game. I
wasn't like these hunters now-a-days, that must have
their guides along ] I always went alone, and had more
sport, too. The old folks never allowed me no spending
money, but one day I killed a splendid buck, after a
terrible fight with him, and sold it to a professor that
came along — not a music professor, you understand, but
one from a college. Well, that stag was put into a
museum at Washington ! It's there now, and Hester and
me mean to try and look it up if we ever go to Washing-
ton. I know two members of the President's cabinet
down there, and lots of senators, and the Premier of
(Janada, and dozens of members of Parliament; got
uccpiainted with them when I was a station-master on
the old St. Lawrence and Ottawa Railway. But I don't
suppose they would remember me now.

«'(!''i(i*>»«iI85«pWt^

'A ;

348

tlER STORY AND HIS STORt.

Wtm

[I*

1. 1

" Yes, that was a magnificent old buck ; but he nearly
killed me, and I was always sorry I didn't ask more,
for I'm sure the professor would have given me as much
as twenty-five dollars for him,

'* But I didn't always have such luck. One day I had
a falling-out with mother, and cooked my own dinner —
and it W8;S a good one, too! for I was brought up to wash
dishes and make myself handy about the kitchen. Yes,
we had a few words about something ; and as I wasn't
feeling real well and wanted to brace up for a party there
was to be that evening, I went out into the swamp with
my gun. First thing I knew, I had beat up a skunk, and
if the story wasn't so long I would give you all the par-
ticulars, for it's a funny story enough. Well, if I hadn't
been a first-rate shot, I shouldn't have got to that party
that night.

" But this was in my childhood. The railways came
along and boomed things, and towns grew up all over.
Why, if my father had only known it, he could have got
all the land where the little city of Belleville now lies !
And if dad had once got it, and held onto it after liis
fashion of holding on, Hester here might be a
millionairess to-day, with her diamonds and French cooks,
instid of being the one jooel of an old man of fifty -nine,
with a poor fifteen thousand. •

" Hester and me went down to Ottawa here this sum-
mer, on our wedding trip. She wanted to see the Gov-
ernor-General's place, and as I knew one of the gardeners
there, I was sure we should be able to see what there
was to be seen ; so we went. He showed us all around,
and pointed out the Governor's private secretary, and we
enjoyed a very pleasant afternoon. But a nasty rain

HER STORY AND HIS STORt.

349

) he nearly

ask more,

le as much

day I had
n dinner —
up to wash
;hen. Yes,
\s I wasn't
party there
^v^amp with
skunk, and
ill the par-
if I hadn't
that party

came on, and we had to take shelter in a root-house. As
I told the gardener, I felt at home there, because I was
brought up right out in the country. But the man
seemed mad because I didn't give him fifty cents or a
quarter— and there he was an old friend of mine !

"Before we came away from Ottawa I bought fifty
pounds of strained honey, thinking it would sell first-rate
when we got home. But honey was cheap, and it was no
go. When we saw it was getting candied, we gave most
of it away. But I often laugh at my little speculation
in honey !"

And Mordecai leaned back in his chair and laughed
lieartily— but his wife had fainted away.

ways came
p all over,
d have got
s now lies !
t after liis
^ht be a
ench cooks,
fifty-nine.

'^■'

-Hr

e this sinn-
le the Gov-
B gardeners
what there
all around,
try, and wq.
nasty rain

NANCY ANN'S ELOPEMENT.

rANCY ANN BRTGGS was a rustic maiden who
lived in the north of Durham County, in Ontario.
She had l)een baptised Nancy Ann, and was religiously
called Nancy Ann by her parents and all the neighbors-
Poor young woman ! her education had been sadly neg-
lected ; but she could wash dishes, feed hens and turkeys,
ride a pony, rattle off simple airs (m the rickety
melodeon, and fashion Robinson Crusoe-looking garments
for her father and her two brothers, with any girl in the
township. She was not handsome, but even her brothers
admitted that, in spite of her saffron face and her reddish
hair, she was tolerably good-looking, especially when
rigged out in gorgeous Sunday attire.

Her venerable father, who Ixn-e the high-sounding title
of Patriarch Briggs, had an account of some thousands iu
the bank, besides a large and well-stocked farm. The
farm was to fall to the boys, of course ; but Nancy Ann's
dowry would be a modest fortune for a person of her
social position, and the stalwart young gallants of the
neighborhood were not slow to find this out. The most
favored suitor was a spare, chuckle-headed rustic, with
yellow hair and green eyes, who sported a time-worn
pipe, and doted on his shaggy mustache and on his huge,
lazy, good-natured, good-for-nothing dog, RoUo. About
the only inheritance this young man received from his
parents was his name — Manfred Wallace Trampkowski.
But this romantic name was sufficient inheritance, and it
won Nancy Ann's susceptible henrt.

NANCY ANNS ELOPEMENT.

351

aiden who
in Ontario,
religiously

neighbors-
sadly ne;;-
ud turkeys,
he rickety
Lcr cfarmonts

ii'irl in the
ler brothers
her reddish
jially when

unding title

When slic found that this Manfred was poor, hIk' re-
solved to marry him or no one. Manfred seemed to be
(|uite as much in love with her, and there is this to prove
he was: hu was naturally absent-minded, and often when
asked his name, would gravely answer, " Nancy Ann
Briggs."

But Peter Briggs, Nancy Ann's elder brother, conceived
)i deadly hatred for Manfred, and persuaded himself tliat
tlie fellow was a rascal, bent only on securing her money.
He tried to poiscm his father against the swain ; but the
old man stolidly refused to be so poisoned. Patriarch
shifted his quid from one side of his cavernous mouth to
the other, a trick of his when about to lay down the law
to his boys, and made answer :

" Peter, you jest let 'em alone. I tell you, Manfurd's a
hully fellow to work — ask anybody 't ever hired him.
He can haul more wood, and split more rails, and break
more colts, and haul in more hay, 'n any man I 'most ever
seen. Manf urd can always work for me, and Nancy Ann's
g-oin' to marry who she likes, same's her mother did afore
her. D' vou hear ? "

Then good brother Peter appealed to his mother, who
sarcastically told him that he would do better to look
out a wife for himself. But the good soul promised to
remonstrate with Nancy Ann — which she did, to no pur-
pose. The simple result was that Nancy Ann and Man-
fred Wallace continued their courtship without molestar
tion, and brother Peter was not taken into their counsels.
But Peter was the more firmly convinced of Manfred's,
im worthiness ; and he and Tom Sprague, a personalde
young farmer, resolved to depose him. The g<id of love
liiid tampered with Tom's heart ; he wa;s dreadfully

352

NANCY ANNS ELOPKMENT.

ciiaiiiored of Nancy Ann. Tlic pcr.si'CutioiLs oi this pair
of sclu'incrs .soon lu'oaiiu' so intolcral)!^ that Nancy Ann
and Manfred (letcrinincd to (ilope. Tom got wind of tliis,
and wont to n^port to IN'tci*. When Peter liad di<,'e,sttMl
the inteUigence it occnned toliiin tliat l>y taking prompt
and vigorons nieasui-es th(!y might disconcci't thisycheiiic.
Tom's woehegoneness excited Ids liveUest compassion,
and presently a hriUiant i<h'a Hashed through Ins nuiid,

" Tell you what it is, Tt)ni," lu» said, " we'll hoodwiiik
em! You'll help me, a course?"

"Course I will!" I'eturned Tom, rolling his eyes wildly,
and putting on a gorgon look. " What's the game, Pete ?"

" You know, I s'pose, that that Trampkovvski 's tlm
biggest tomfool of a coward 't ever run away frojii a
tramp ? "

" Well, Pete, I reckon I know he is," Tom said heartily.

" Well, you and me 's kindy funny ftdlows ; s'pose wt-
play a trick on the rascal. We must do something to git
even with him, anyhow. D' you ever hear tell of high-
waymen, Tom, that swoop down onto lonely travelleis,
and make 'em fork over all their money and valuables?
S'pose 't we fix up for highwaymen, and stop 'em .-is
they're goin' off ? It would serve 'em right, I reckon, for
puttin' on style, and tryin' to run off in paw's old coach,
eh, Tom ? '

* Tom darted Peter a look of rapturous delight. " Just
the thing, old boy ; but liow'll you work it ? "

" Lemme alone for that ! I'll fix up for the highway-
man, and swoop down onto 'em, and scare that great
noodle into spasms. Jest 's he's so scart he's 'most dead,
you come runnin' along to the rescue, like, and frighten
me off, and rescue Nancy Ann. I'll have my own clothes

NANCY ANN .S ELOPHMKNT.

363

1)11 under the lu<,diwiiyiiuin'.s, and 1 wun't run fur 'fore I'll

the liiirli

.ft"

back to

wayuian H t()<:fg('ry on ana conio
help you, and ho's to inak«' thin;^rs look all right. Then
wo'll take Nancy Ann cryin' hack to the house;; then, if
Manfuivl ever dares show his face again, after niak in' such
a n'idjut of himself, r reckon we'll hinidl(! him out s'm*
other way. Then Nancy Ann '11 marry you, sun; ; women
always do mai-ry the fellow 't rescues 'em."

"Jest so; hut what about the driver, Pete? They'll
have a driver, of course ; what if he turns to, and fights ?"

" My stars, Tom ! that wun't do ! They'll have our Bill
to drive 'em, sure ; might recognize me 'f t'others didn't.
Tom, I'll tell you. We'll git my brother Jim to step into
Bill's place. Jim 's jest the chap for it ; Jim 's a mighty
lively boy ; always up to some game."

" Well, will Jim pitch in and light the highwayman, or
what'll he doT'

" I'll have Jim git fearful scart, and unhitch the horses,
and beg for mercy, and gallop off for home, leavin' the
spooneys in the coach at the mercy of the higliwayman.
Then I'll scare Manf urd 'most to deatli. Wun't he just
howl ! Then you'll come rushin' along, and I'll make off
in a jiffy."

"And so everybody '11 git scart, all around!" said Tom
jocosely.

" Jes' so. Now, let's be off."

Manfred Wallace Trampkowt-ki and Nancy Arm Brigjis
made every preparation to elope that very evening. They
planned to slip away secretly, dj ive to the village of Bally-
duff, and be niarried. After they had once been legally
joined together, they c^ I defy the petty persecutions of
brother Peter and Tom k i-gue,
12

*m^.fmmmmmH:j^-M

^l,, ^"llpp ^

354.

NANCY ANNS ELOPEMENT.

Bill, the family Jack -oi'-all -trades, was to be their John.
But when the eventful hour came, ho took " mighty sick"'
(the effect of a nauseous dose slipped in^o hi^i drink ])y
Peter) ; and Jim, who thrust him.self in the way of the
discxmsolate lovers, was asked, in sheer desperation, if he
should like a drive. Jim, a mercurial and monkeyish
hobbledehoy, had been instructed beforehand, and he
guessed he was always ready for a drive.

So the three stole out of the house, the dog Rollo at
their heels. It was a beautiful starlight night, just such
a night as a young couple would choose for an elopement.
Manfred and Jim speedily harnessed a shuffling old nag
to the " coach " — a family heir-loom, which had been
rudely fashioned by Patriarch Briggs' father, half a cen-
tury before.

" Got everythink ^''ou want, Nancy Ann, my dear ? "
Manfred asked tenderly.

" Yiias, MantVed. What a long and lonesome road it'll
be to Mr. Parson York's. But then I'm all ri^ht with
you to purtect me."

" Yaas. Nancy Ann ; I'd fight for you through fire and
water," said Manfred earnestly, blinking his heavy eyes
prodigiously.

" Bet you wun't, you blatherin' liar ! " chuckled Jim.
" Bet you'll howl like a tom-cat with his tail froze off !
And I'll gallop off a piece on paw's ol' bob-tail, and then
sneak back and see the show ! Ge dup, there, you old
fool ! G' 'long, I tell you ! " and Jim, perched on the roof
of the crazy vehicle, smacked his father's home-made
whip, and away they nn);blod at a round pace.

A lont; lane led from the Brii^ii-s homestead to tlie

•DO'

main road, which ran to the village. From the laiu-

nancv Ann's elopement.

355

;heir John,
ghty .sick"'
drink ])y
\y of the
Ltion, it' he
nonkeyish
1, and he

f Rollo at
just such

elopement.

fr old nafj
had been

ial£ a cen-

iiy dear ? "

le road it'll
right with

jh fire and
leavy eyes

}kled Jim.

froze ofi !

and then
:e, you old
Ion the roof
home-made

lad to tilt'
the hiiu',

near this main road, a by-road, that went no whither in
particular, and was of no apparent use to the Briggses or
to the township, took its start. Jim did not drive on to
the main road leading to BallydufF, but, according to in-
structions received from his brother Peter, tui'iied down
this by-road. He went rattling along, keeping up his
spirit, by whistling, bullying the nag, and calling out
cheerily to Manfred's dog.

The lovers in the " coach " supposed, of course, that
they were traveling along the direct road to the village,
and philandered, as lovers will.

" Halt !" yelled a sepulchral voice. "Stand and deliver!"

A figure ai-med in Guy Fawkes attire sprang from be-
hind a rail fence that skirted the road, strode towards
them, and seized the horse by the bridle.

Jim bellowed a shriek that he had resei'ved for this
occasi(m ; but it savored strongly of a war-whoop of de-
light. " What's the matter ? " he thundered, as though
he were the highwayman.

" Oh, Manfred ! what is th.at ? " gasped Nancy Ann.

•' I dunno — o — o," faltered Manfred, his pallor unper-
ceived in the obscurity pervading the " coach," but his
mortal fright betraying itself in his voice.

Peter and Tom had not misjudged Manfred ; he was an
arrant coward.

Then the hideous figure in Guy Fawkes costume
presented a pistol and threatened to shoot the driver.
But it whispered: "'Member what I told you, you
jack — "

" It's rol)bers ! " screamed Jim. " We've took the
wrong road, and robbers is all around us ! Manfurd !
Help me ! "

1^'

356

Nancy ank's elopement.

Then Manfred plucked up a grain of courage, thrust
his head out at the window, and shrieked, " Drive on !
We'll be killed 'f you don't!"

" I can't ! " Jim shouted back. " He's caught the horse,
and he's going to shoot ! "

" Manfred, set on Rollo ! " said Nancy Ann.

This was a woman's suggestion, but Manfred hastened
to act upon it. " Sic 'em, Rollo ! Sic 'em, the villains ! "
he shouted huskily.

Rollo, thinking there must be a squirrel somewhere
about that he was ca]'ied on to chase, ran snuffling and
yelping up and d'i.vn the road.

" Sic 'em, Rollo ! " pleadingly.

But Rollo could not be induced to attack masquerading
Peter, whose disguise he had at once penetrated, and he
frisked about that worthy as though he had found a
friend indeed.

" Stand and deliver !" thundered the highwayman.

"Oh, Manfreo, th' dog's fascinated!" Nancy Ann
ejaculated faintly. " Robber's bewitched him ! "

" Drive on ! " gasp:d Manfred.

" Want yer dog shot ? " yelled the highwayman.

But Jim now scrambled down off the " coach," un-
harnessed tlie nag, and galloped away, makin

'S'

tremendous clatter, so that Manfred and Nancy Ann
should know, beyond all doubt, that he had deserted
them, and that they were at the mercy of the highway-
man.

The doughty robber, with fine effect, hallooed nn
execiT.tion aftei" the fleeing driver, then flung open tlie
door of the " coach," and again bellowed, his voice
admirably disguised : " Stand and deliver ! "

NANCY ANK*S ELOPEMENT.

357

age, thrust
Drive on !

b the horse,

d hastened
3 villams! "

somewhere
mffling and

asqueracUng
bted, and ht.'
ad found a

vayman.
ancy Ann

Iman.

coach," un-
making ;i
ancy Ann

ad deserted

id hio-hwav-

liallooed fin

Ing open tlie

his voifo

Tliis stereotyped form of words was all, he believed,
that the hio^hwavman ever addresses to the imfortunates
whom he waylays.

" Oh," groaned Manfred, " let us go ! We ain't got
nothink ! "

" JAiiY ! " screamed the outlaw. " Stand and deliver,
or t tire ! "

" I hain't a cent,'" protested Manfred.

The loyal brother cocked his pistol threateningly.

" / hain I. But," brightening, " she has," indicating
Nancy Ann,

" HiVhwavmen don't take nothin' from ladies," said
the robl^er, with lofty scorn. "But who is she? your
sister ? "

" She's goin' to be my wife ; we was goin' to git
married."

" Coward ! " was the answer. " Coward ! Ask vour
sweetheart to ransom you ! Coward, do you know what
highwaymen do with such fellows as you be ? "

Then Nancy Ann swooned away. An ordinary young
lady would have swooned away at the outset, but Nancy
Ann was not an ordinary young lady.

" You've jxot a watch ; I know vou have ; STAN DAN
DELIVER ! " bellowed the highwavnian, at a loss to
know how "chivalrous" brigands would deal with that
sort of coward.

" 'Tain't paid for yit, or you c'd have 't," Manfred
gasped.

" Pretty fellow, t' sport a watch t ain't paid for ! "
snorted the highwayman.

At that nujment Nancv Ann revived, but Manfred did
not pei'ceive it, and goaded to desperation he blurted out

pnpp

ill

358

NANCY Ann's elopement.

that the watcli would he paid for as soon as he got
married.

At this candid statement the highwayman expressed
intense scorn. " Stand an' deliver, or I fire ! " he
roared.

Unobserved, Jim now stole up in front of the " coacli,"'
and listened with all his ears. He had slidden off the
horse when well out of sight, and turned it loose,
knowing it would immediately pick its way back to the
stables at home.

"I — I'll give you a hundred dollars soon 's I git
married," said Manfred.

Springing lightly into the " coach," Peter despoiled the
trembling coward of his watcli, and tucked it away in
his own pocket. Poor Manfred fetched a groan of agoiix-,
but offered no resistance.

A war-whoop was heard in the rear, and a solitary
figure was descried, hurrying towards them at a round
pace. It was Tom Sprague, on his w-ay to the " rescue."'

The highwayman started, clutched his pistol, and tlien
said faintly, " My gracious ! tain't loaded ! "

Manfred instantly became as bold as a hero of romance,
" Git out, you great villain ! " he screamed. " I aint
afraid of you — never was ! Here, sic 'em, Rollo 1 — Whoop,
there ! Come along ! " to the rescuer.

The pretended highwayman flung Manfred his unprid-
for w^ateh, saying, " 'Tain't you I'm 'fraid of, but this
Itrave young man comin' ; " and then nimblj^ took to his
heels, chuckling gleefully: •' I)igger fool 'n I thought!
Coward 's scart 's a sick cat ! Guess Nancy Ann 'U hate
him like poison ; a course she will ; women always do
hate cowards. She was braver 'n Manfurd ; only fainted :

NANCY ANNS KLOPEMENT.

359

as he got

expresse*]
fire ! " Ix;

le " coacli,"
den off the
i it loose,
back to the

n 's I git

^spoiled tlic
it away in
n of agony,

a solitary
at a romitl
le " resciH'. '

, and then

)t' roniaricf.
" I aiut
; — Whoop,

lis nnpjnd-
)t', but this
took to his
I thouii'ht !
inn '11 liato
alwavs do
Iv tainted ;

hut women always do faint. What bully fun, any how !
Guess there ain't many brothers 'd do 's much for their
sisters ; and I guess paw and maw '11 give in I was right.
Guess I know who 's tit for Nancy Ann to marry."

Hiding behind a tree, Peter stripped off his disguises,
and making a detour, came up in his proper person,
almost on the heels of Tom Sprague.

" Why, Nancy Ann, what's the matter ?" Tom asked,
with much concern.

"Oh, dear!" cried Nancy Ann. "Robbers was all
around us."

" Why, Nancy Ann," piped up Brother Peter, in his
natural voice; "why are you here? What has happened?"

" Robl)ers attackted us, and on'y just left us," explained
Manfred.

" Oh, Tom ! you drove 'em off! How good you are !"
said Nancy Ann.

" Left 'cause we scart em off, 1 guess," Manfnnl said
sulkily.

"And so T(mi rescued you!" said Peter. " Well, I
always know^ed Tom wasn't afraid of notliin;'- ; 'bout the
bravest fellow I 'most ever se^n ; no wonder the r«)V>ber
'd slink away when he seen Tom eomin' runnin". — Well.
Manfurd, what 'd you do to scari' 'em ?"

" I — I got 'em off just afoi-e Toui come ah)ng," Manfred
faltered.

"Well, Nancy Ann, f(»lks at home "11 be fearful scart,
you 'way off here at this time of night. You better go
light home, or you'll ketch cold, ('on • on, Manfurd :
you and me'U haul home j)aw's old hen-hou.se ; 't
wouldn't do to leave it behind foi- tlT i-ol>ber. — Nancy

B(/sii\#>»i

i'itmi

360

NANCY ANN S ELOPEMENT.

Ann, come dear; you and Tom can walk home jtst in
front ; 'tain't far. Manfiird and nie 's goin' to haul tli'
old wheeliekull."

And Nancy Ann and Tom walked on in advance, Tom
feelint>: that he had won the wav to her heart at last.

" Nancy Ann," he said, " soon 's I can I'm off t' tli'
Black Hills, to — to make my fortune. Then I'm comiu'
back, rich as Vanderbilt. Then, Nan-n-cy — Ann-n — ."
But here til e heroic Tom, the gallant rescuer, broke down,
and could not articulate furthci".

Peter, full of ju])ilance, and Manfred, his bosom glow-
ing with rage and l)ittei-ness, tugged away at the
venerable " coach."

Apparently, Rollo did not like to see his master thus
degraded, and he barked peevishly.

" Git out, sir," said Manfred snappishly, making a
bootless attempt to kick the devoted creature.

Now, " sir," ad(h'essed to a dog by his master or any
one else, is a term of reproach.

As the party neared the home of Patriarch Briggs, a
gaunt and shadowy iigurt', trussed up in the identical
garments in which Peter had arrayed himself when he
played the highwayman, darte«l across the path ahead of
them, apparently dodging to ket'p out of sight.

It was Jim, of cours» . masijuerading for his own
amusement .in the costmne which his \>ig brother had
discarded.

Rescued and rescuers saw liim, and with an involuntary
imprecation Peter b( i' nstdf.

" Good-for-nothin' noodi*- he muttered to himself.
" Might 'a' k no wed better n to let him help us !"

NANCY Ann's ELOPEMENf.

3G1

lie jest in

) haul til' ^

lice, Tom

t last. .

I ofi t' th' '

;'m comin' ^

Aim-n — ." :

:)ke down, t

soiii glow-
y at tl It-

aster thus

making a

iter or any

I Briggs, a
identical

£ when lu'

II ahead of

his tnvii
other had

\'()luntarv

himself.

"BtopI" shouted Munt'ixd, quitting his hold on the
sliafts of the "coach" and bounding after the boy. "Stop,
will you, or I'll heave a stone !"

Jin; did not stop, but redoubled his speed. But Man-
fred soon overhauled him, wound his arms around him,
and bore him struiTii'linix back to the others.

" Same rig 's th' robber had !" Manfred panted. " What
—what--"

Jim — though fast in the clutches of Manfred, though
fearing terrible retribution from his brother and Tom
Sprague — burst into a derisive laugh.

" Nancy Ann," said Manfred, " we've been fooled ! Th'
robber was some of these fellers, sure 's guns ! — What
d' you mean ?" shaking Jim. " What 've you t' say for
yourself ?"

" S'pose I wanted them clothes to git lost ?" Jim de-
manded indignantly. " S'pose I wanted to lose that
there mask i"

"So; jes' 's I thought:" said Manfred. "Pack o'
knaves !"

" Yes ; and a nice coward ycm was, wasn't you !"
sneered Peter.

" So you're a thief, are you, Pete Briggs '^ Or was it
}■ ou, Tom Sprague V

" I never stole nothin' !" protested Peter. " I give back
your watch."

" Oh, Nancy Ann !"

" Oh, Manfred ! Manfred '."

" Sister," said Peter earnestly, " don't go and fall in
love with such a coward again. Oh, Nancy Ann, here 's
Tom, tl)at loves — "

' !. ' " in

P«l

36'i

NANCY ANN'S eLOFKMRNT.

" Toiii? I haft' him — and you, tool" flnsliod l)afk
Nancy Ann.

Tom Sprat^uo sold his farm, and took to brakinf^ on
the Grand Trunk — for Nancy Ann married Manfred
Wallace. The good brother Peter did not grace the
wedding with his presence, perhaps because he was not
invited ; but Jim got a goodly hunk of wedding cake —
which he did not deserve.

Love-lorn maidens sometimes envy the heroines of
romance their paragon husbands ; but surely none will
be so foolisli as to envy Nancy Ann her husband.

A TRIP TO WASHINGTON.

NOT A HONEYMOON TRIP.

S|i|pHE man who goes on an early morning journey
"i^^^ and, witli an easy indifference, puts ofi' getting liis
^Daggage down to the station till the eleventh hour, is at
the mercy of the expressman whom he has engaged to
call for it. The fact that this expressman, instead of
making a note of his '>atron's address simply ties a piece
of grimy cotton string aronnd his little finger, is apt to
bring disquieting dreams to the intending traveler and
to prove as effective as an alarm-clock in rousing him up
at an unseasonable hour.

But the expressman Avas on hand an hour before the
boat was timed to start — for it was a boat, not a train,
that 1 was to leave on, and the preceding paragraph is
in so far misleading.

" That boat starts sharp at seven," he said, half-apolo-
getically, " and it is six now."

But he magnanimously allowed nip ten ndnutes to eat
my breakfast and to get the landlady h dog shut up. It
was his vigorous assault on the duor-bell that had roused
the dog and induced it to spring headlong out of the
window, at the imminent risk of running foul of the
dog-catcher. But he was apparently used to that sort of
thing, and did not pause ten ndnutes on that account. "I
always allow fifteen minutes over-time," he said, after we
liad got off, ." because somebody is bound for to bender
jiie." I said I wished he had told me sooner about allow-

rfp

i ff i" i ..fi|

wmt

3G4

A TRIP TO WASHINGTON.

ing a fifteen minutes' reprieve, as I should liave felt
justified in asking for soiiH^tliing more substantial for
breakfast than a raw omelet and some cold oatmeal.

As we drove along the wharf (for I accompani(ul him)
he uttered an emphatic exclamation of disgust on .seeing
a brother expressman drawn up alongside the steamer,
ahead of him. So, it was evidently his ambition to get
down to the boats ahead of all comer.s. I could have
approved of this sort of thing much better if I had had a
more staying breakfast.

But at last I was on board, bag and baggagfe. This
consisted of a square-sized trunk (capacity 250 cwt., tare
40 lbs.), that had always proved a favorite with express-
men and raih\'ay porters, as it was portable, easy to get
a good grip on, and, on account of its S([uare .shape, would
admit of other trunks l)eing Hung on top of it without
danger of their rolling off. Besides this I had a " small
wheel-chair," as I called it, and an invalid tricycle. The
size of the " small wheel-chair " almost assumed lar<!-e
proportions to the astonished porter, wlien he nonchal-
antly took it with one hand, only to brace himself and
grasp hold with both hands ; while the tricycle was 42
inches wide, six feet long, and stood four feet high in its
stocking feet. As the classical young man from Smith Crik
Bridge observed to me, I had a " not inconsiderable (juan-
tity of impedimenta " to look after ; and I was mean
enough to envy the old lad}- who was only burdened with
an occui)ied parrot-cage, a pet dog in a blanket suit, six or
seven venturesome nephews and nieces (mostly boys and
tomboj^s), scattered about the upper and the lower decks,
and a valise, that was not burglar-proof, amidship.s.

A whole-souled passenger, who seemed to have no

A TRIP TO WASIIINOTON.

365

]»ai:^<,'aLif«'! wluitovor to l)ot]ier al)()ut, except a generous
load oF stimulants, already aboard liiiii, took a most
friendly interest in me — so far even as to afjree with me
in politics, claiming first to be a Ch'veland man, from a
chance remark of mine, and tlien a Harrison man, wlien
I commen<led the course of a member of the President's
cabinet. I then artlessly told him tliat I was a Canadian*
to tlie twelfth generation ; and he promptly ordered me
up a ghiss of iced lemonade, and informed me tliat the
Free Soil party would sweep the country in 1900.

Soon I was joined by an affable young Philadelphia
tourist, who had come over on an excursion which
allowed him only a night's stop-over at Toronto. He had
seen nothing, and was badly in need of l)eing posted, as
there was a l)lank of three pages in his note-book for the
city of Toronto, which must be tiller, somehow. So I
posted him, and he posted his note-book. Bearing in mind
the thought that I was likely to run across the Washing-
ton liar in my wanderings, I was careful to keep within
the truth in my information. But we were interrupted
by a fresh young ma:i, who knew" nie, but whom I had
forgotten ; and I am sorry to say that he wandered
straight away from the beautiful truth in everything he
said. But he generously left me his card on parting. It
was unique in its way, and not adapted to the ordinary
card-case. To be brief, it was a sheet of blotting paper,
considerably smaller than a leaf from a minute book, with
his name in two-inch capitals, his house and office address,
his telephone number, and a jx^inted intimation of his
business. He said schoolchildren often struck him for
his cards, and I said that children and the unoffending
public generally know a good thing when they see it. He

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

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1.25

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III—

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c*.

c^J

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

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23 WEST MAIN STREEi

WEBSTER, NY MSBO

(716) 872-4503

1^ .'"^■#.

'<'^%'

'Fi^:

i/l

366

A TRIP TO WASHINGTOr.

Ihh

'''H

' ■ 1

■ ■ s 1

couldn't make out wlmt I meant, but as he turned to go
wondering away I saw that his left breast pocket hung
heavy, and that it was crammed full of his schoolchildren -
alluring cards.

It was a fast boat, and soon brought us all to Niagara,
where some of us changed from boat to train. The
interval was not a hmg (me, and was profitably spent in
listening to a telephone conversation between a customs
officer and a railway man about a horse deal and a
deferred fishing excursion. Their language was good.

The run from Niagi«ra to Buffalo by the Michigan

Central wat-j a remarkably pleasant one, enjoyed by nil

the passengers except uie nervous old gentleman, who

insisted that we must all change cars before we could

possibly get into Buffalo. The fact that the train kept

right on and that the good-humored conductor gave his

affidavit that it was all right made no difference to the

old gentleman, anel it was all they could do to keep him

from getting off at every stopping-place. At Falls View

all the passengers but this excitable party and myself
seemed to get off, helter-skelter, to run down the sid(?walk

and gaze at the Falls. Sudtlenly it struck him that this

must be the place to change cars, and he turned appeal-

ingly to rue. "No," I said, " these people have got off to

see the Falls." — " Fine sight," he said. " Is — is it — the —

Niagara Falls ? "— " Yes," I told him, " I expect it is."

— " Well, well ! " he ejaculated. " I never saw them

before!" — I believed him. I also believed that he, to(»,

was from Smith Crik Bridge, and that in his guileless

innocence he imagined that before he got into Buffalo the

train was likely to run alongside of several cataracts,

and that if he should travel for two or three days he

A TRlt» to WASHlKOTON.

So7

would run across no end of falls like Niagara. But I

felt sorry when I learned that he was a very sick man,

going to a quack doctor's institution in Buffalo.

It was a long wait at the Erie station, from 12.15 till

5.30, so I went about a little, looking at the trains and

talking to the train-men, as is my wont. I knew I could

not see much of Buffalo, and so did not try to see any-
thing. This was not sensible, but it was restful. I had

vague doubts as to how the Erie and the Lehigh baggage-
men would receive all my stuff*, although I had a written
order to show them, and so made haste to interview
them. The Lehigh Valley baggageman, I learned, was
the only one 1 had to deal with, and I found him to be
the most whole-souled railway man I ever ran across,
and the most genial to talk to. He and I had a long
chat together, and he informed me that he had been on
the road, in his present capacity, for thirteen years, and
I informed him that I had never traveled above seven or
eight himdred miles in my life. He did not despise me
for this, but helped me aboard the train himself, put me
in the through car for Philadelphia, on the side to get
the best view of Portage Falls; and then got my machine
and " small wheel-chair " into the baggage car. I was
traveling alone, and, as he must have seen, eager to talk
to entire strangers, when opportunity offered, so he came
back to me for another chat. He blamed me for not
coming down in daylight, so that I could see something
of the pictures(iue Lehigh Valley scenery. " Why," he
said, " you won't see anything ; you won't see how they
climb the mountain ; it will l)e dark V)efore we get to
Hornellsville. But you must come back in broad day-
light." He left the train at Elmira, and I never saw him

368

A TRIP TO WASHINOTOH.

attain. I explained to no one that it wasn't a (juestion of
seeing scenery with ine, but of getting into Philadelpliia
in broad daylight.

I <lidn't make any special effort to g(; to sleep, is I did
wish to see what there might ho. to be seen, even if it
was only the blank nothingness of midnight. But at all
hours of the night, wherever the train stopped, passengers
were Lfettinjj on and off. Once in a while I cau<rlit
glimpses of the river, when the glare from the head-light
was reflected on it, and could alwavs tell \v hon we weic
crossing a bridge. These things were a great consolation
to me— till I raised the window to get the midnight air, an<l
then couldn't get it down again. However, at every stati( )ii
and every switch I could the better see the pretty niul
effective-looking white caps of the trainmen. Once 1
accosted a switchman with the intelligence that it was a
fine night. He looked up at me in evident astonishment,
and said, ratlier plaintively, but with the charactei-istic
indifference of switchmen: "It's raininjx." When wo
got fairly down into the coal region the skies, for miles,
seemed all ablaze. It was the reflection from the great
furnaces, and 1 congratulated my.self that I knew it with-
out having to ask the conductor. There was nothing to
mar my enjoyment of this lonely run except the gurgling
noi.se from a tired boy who was just learning how to
snore. I am afraid it will take him three or four years
of patient practice to get the art of snoring down fine,
but in another six months he will be able to count his
enemies, if he travels much by night, as Samson counted
his slain Philistines, by thousands.

Morning came when the sun rose, naturally. It was
raining, surely enough. But I was now able to amuse

A TRTr TO WA8HFN0T0N.

3(19

myself l»y looking at the toy onpnes and cars, as T
styled tliuiii, of the Lelii<>^li Valley Co. Soon two young
men appeared in my ear from another car. They were
good-natured young fcdhnvs, and very talkative. Tlu^y
had travele<l a great deal, and considerahly farther this
trip than I ha<l, and were also a great deal hungrier than
I was. We took the Reading roa<l at Betidelu ni, and at
every .stop})ing-point thereafter the two young men
would get off with the determination to get something
to eat. But they would hai-ely get on the .statitm plntform
when the train was off again, and they would come hack,
huno'riei" than ever, but alwavs irood-h.umored. " It
seems funny," one of them said, " to get into Buffalo and
see the horse-cars eveiywhere." I thought it would seem
funnier still to him when he got into the great city of
Phihulelphia an<l found the same thing.

As we were getting into the city limits an elderly man
in his shirt sleeves of linsey-woolsey dropped down l)eside
me to give me the clieering news that we .should soon be
there ; and finding out that he was a New Jeisey farmer,
as 1 had half suspected, I at one*;, and with a reckless-
ness that di.sarmed him, brought up the subject of his
native mosquito. " Is it true," I asked, " that the
mos(iuitoes are as bad over in Jersey as the funny men
in the newspapers make them out to be ?" — " Naw ;" he
said, wiping some P. »Jc R. coal dust ofl' his red, honest
face, " naw ; we hain't .seen any this summer." Then I
let him talk, as I found he could talk a good d<.'al more
sensibly than I could.

At 7:04, sharp on time, the train drew into the station
at 9th and Green Sts., and I haven't the slightest doubt
that the huntny younj; men <fot somethin*' to eat. The

1C-

sio

A TRiP to WASnlNOtOI^.

imposing an*ay of the trains of the Reading Co., togethei*
with the rain, kept me about the depot for somt; littli;
time. At hist tlie rain compromised with me, that is, it
slackened up till I got away up Green-street, and then it
began all over again.

It amused me to see two stalwart Philadelphia police-
men stop a street-car and an omnibus to enable me to
cross a crowded tlioroughfare on my machine, for,
though the same thing has been done elsewhere, my
thoughts always drift hack to a bright June «lay when a
COUNCILMAN of a country village stopped his horse and
buggy directly over a cross-road on seeing me coining,
effectually barring my way. This COUNCILMAN stopped
ostensibly to examine a dilapidated bridge. He also
stopped to impress me with his authority. I waited a
minute while he stalked leisurely about, then said,
" Would you kindly drive the horse forward a little, so
that I may pass." The councilman did nothing, but a
7)i<tn who chanced along promptly lead the horse out of
the highway, while the aggrieved councilman muttered,
" If time is precious to you." — " If what ?" I asked
flippantly, and he repeated his remark, when I replied,
" I must get past, that's all." Yes, that was all ; hut T
have always wcmdered which of us enjoyed that scene
most, he, in stopi)ing me, or I, in being stopped.

The next day I went down to the Broad-street station,
to get off to Bryn Mawr. Here the "special messenger" of
the Pennsylvania fixed things for me, and I had no
trouble. The return fare is fifty-one cents. " This is
one dollar," said the special messenger, as I handed him
a bill. Then he brought me my ticket, with the watch-
word : " Count your change. Come this way." And he

A TRIP TO WASHINCTON.

371

saw nic safe n\) tlie luigt^ago elevntor, on my machine,
and pointed out tlu' Bryn Mawr accomodation, w.ien he
disappeared like a Hasli, to wayhiy some other troultled
traveler. The ten-mile run over the Pennsylvania's
perfect road-bed was all too short. But it looked like
more rain, and I got off the train and hurried away. 1 was
afraid I might not find the humorist at home, after all.
But the quick step and the genial, " How ar" you, Bruce !"
re-assured ne, for I knew it was the humorist himself.
♦ * * » ♦

I had to wait on the platform at Bryn Mawr about
ten minutes, when I could get back on the same train I
had come out on. I had told the conductor I should " lav
for" him again, and he had smiled feebly, whether at the
slip-shod slang or at the unparalleled coiupliment thus
paid him I don't know. While waiting, the magnificent
" Pennsylvania Limited" flashed past, and a thrill of
enthusiasm shot through me. " She hasn't sto^Dped since
she left Harrisbuig ! ' I cried, ar.d a by-stander looked at
me pityingly and said, " Oh, yes, she has !" — " Isn't that
the Limited, from Chicago ?" I appealed of a train hand,
and he corroborated me. " But it will have stopped at
Lancaster," insisted the l)y-stander. — " Only at divisions,"
said the train hand ; and the by-stander turned huffishly
away, outraged that a total stranger on the station })lat-
form at Bryn Mawr should know (or pretend to know)
more about the Pennsvlvania Raili-oad than a native
Philadelphian. And I went back, and still it rained.

The next day found me again at the Broad-street
station, bound, at last, for Washington. The " special
messenger" was on hand, and again got my ticket and
relieved ine of all worry, though this time the chair and

372

A TRIP TO WASHINGTON.

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the trunk were to go, if the Union Transfer Co. could
get fchein down in time — wliicli they did not. So I left
on the 11:18 train, with my checks, aiul the baggage
came on later. The conductor on this train was particu-
larly obliging, and lighte(l up when we came to the long
tunnels through Baltimore. I don't suppose he lighted
up on my account, however. But he was kind. The
train was not a "flier," but at last the Capitol loomed in
sight, and soon we got sidewalk glimpses of tl\e Washing-
ton Negr(^, and then rolled into the B. & P. depot, where
President Garfield was shot. This noble man will always
be remembered and venerated.

The next thing I knew I was inquiring the way, for
the oblicjuely-crossing avenues confused me — the more
so, as 1 didn't know one street from another, anyway.
" Better keep on the con'crete, sah, or the officers
mightn't like it," advi.sed a colored brother; and I con-
cluded to do so. But what avenues, what streets, and
what pavements ! VV^ashington is famous for its mag-
nificent thoroughfares and its perfect pavements. Away
up Capitol Hill I went, to B, street South East, where I
got good accommodation. This was not so much due to
newspaper advertisements as to the inquisitive, but
thoroughly obliging, small boy, who directed me to such
good purpose that I found lodgings with his parents.
But I felt at h(^me with them at once, and was very
comfortable. Lest I should forget it, I will pause here t(t
speak a good word for the frank and courteous citizens
of tho American capital, whose democratic simplicity is
a reality, not a sham.

The next day I went into Virginia — at least, I went
down through Georgetown and crossed the Potomac

A TRIP TO WASHINOTON.

373

bridf^o. I anticipated seeing negro women eairying
baskets on tlieir liea<ls, and T was not disa})|)ointed.
Perhaps I miglit have been disappointed any otlier day.
And I also saw the venerable old negro of tradition,
driving a steer tackled to an equally venerable cart, that
was six feet wide. I will .say it was six feet, but I could
just as easily say it was .seven, and not grieve my con-
science a bit. I was looking for this old negro — and he
must have been lookin<; for me, for he said Lfoorl da^' to
me and looked pleased to see me.

Ju.st after crossing the bridge a small boy came up to
me and said, mysteriously: " Mister, you ain't allowed
to go on this sidewalk. Kin you give me a crnt ?" I
said, " I have nothing but a bill ; you wouldn't want
that,would you ?" Then he took the road and I kept
the .sidewalk. Georgetown is a quiet place, and most of
the inhabitants are content to claim a population of only
20,000. It is, like Washington, under District Goviirn-
ment. The old Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, unlike; the
old negro, had got tired of waiting for me, and had
practically given up the ghost.

I lost no time in seeing the editor. He was not so
formidable a personage, after all. In fact, I thought his
cigar seemed more suggestive of danger than he did ;
and I am glad to say I had no cause to be afraid of him,
and of course he wouldn't acknowledge whether he was
afraid of me or not.

How pleasant it was to bowl along Peiuisylvania
Avenue and to wander about the Capitol grounds ! The
gleaming white shaft of the Washington monument,
seen from almost every point, inq)i-(\sses itself as a land-
mark upon the memory of every visitoi*. It is an

!il!

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374

A TRIP TO WAfilllNOTON.

. 1

inspiring; object, especially when seen from the Capitol.
One day I went up the broken sidewalk to the very base
of the monument, and look a good long look at tlie
elevator.

The daily stream of visitors is enormous. They sec
everything, partly because everything is free, and partly
becau.se they must give a satisfactory account of the city
when they return home. Washington has public .squares
and little parks everywhere. In these there are always
fountains, an<l negroes, and locusts. The water i.s usually
"hydrant water," and consequently warm in .summer;
the negroes are always talkative and in a happy frame
of mind ; and the locusts are always able to sing their
old songs. If there is cosmopolitan life to be found
anywhere, it is here, for liere are typical I'epresentat'ives
of all States and all countries. And they are all good-
natured, and proud of the beautiful city, and not a bit rest-
less under the mild rule of Washington's .*iOO po'licemen.

Ye.s, everything is free — e.Kcept Iwmse-rent — and all
officials are obliging. They take a pardonable pride in
.showing you through the city's magnificent public build-
ings, and are determined you shall leave with a good
opinion of the " National ( 'apital." As was remarked to
me many times : " Every one who comes to Washington
likes the city, in spite of himself." The citizens are
proud of their institutions, and Uncle Sam's Government
is extremely popular. They have no mayor or aldermen
to vote for, and no vote at Presidential elections.
Consequently, there is no pandering to voters, and the
citizens have their time to devote to their business. All
the same, the keenest interest is felt in Presidential
contests. But here is manifestly a .system that would

A TRIP TO WASIIINIJTOK.

375

not suit soiiio Jiinltitious citios, whoso citizens would
relapse into harharisin, if it were not fur their annual
aklernianic elections.

The White House and grounds are always ojien to
the public, and 1 fnMjuently turned in at the j^reat gates
on Pennsylvania Avenue, whicli stand wide open. Tliore
is one notice «>nly, ov r the driving stables, which reads,
" Private Entrance." Otherwise, some eager visitor from
Coal Oil Junction mi«dit )je determined to iind out how
the horses are shod, and so get his wisdom teeth knocked
where they wouM be safest — down his throat.

It was no Joke for me to climb the steep grade of
Capitol Hill, but there was always some one to give me a
push up it. I usually halted by the imposing Garfield
monument — not to look out for possible assistance, but
to admire the monument. At least, I am sure it always
had that appearance. A ragged little urchin told me the
first day the significance of the allegorical figures at the
base of the monument, its cost, and other particulars.
I said nothing, but huml^ly reflected that if my gamin
informant had been a Canadian boy, he would have been
well posted in the best localities to look for cigar stubs,
but would have looked with greater interest upon circus
posters and bonfires than he would have given to
monuments. In Washington even the street urchin
reads the newspapers he sells, and has a sense of genuine
patriotism. One day I encountered, midway up the
grade, a spick and span little buggy, drawn l>y a team
of well-trained goats. T have seen goat teams before,
but I never saw clean and civilized-looking goats before.
Everybody admired the turnc^ut, especially a Maryland
farmer (all the same, he may have been a Government

376

A TRIP TO WASIIINOTONj

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employee), who halted, and observed to ine, " Isn't that a
dahliiitf team I" I expect he halted because he reflected
that it was not every day he could enjoy the spectacle of
such a team as the boy's, an<l such a rig as mine. But !
reflected that the Canadian farmer has not yet been born
(though one could wish otherwise) who would cheerfully
use such an expression as, " Isn't that a dahling team!'

My first day out I went down to the navy yard, where
the y(mng marines kindly insisted on showing me every-
thing. As a matter of fact, there wasn't much for me to
see, except a big gun, nearly completed. I always liked
t .' see the marines on the street, in their smart attire, and
with their careless, janty air. They always looked to be
in fighting trim, too. But once I got badly fooled. See-
ing a negro in what seemed to be a nefjlig^ sa,i\or costume,
I asked him if he was l U.S. marine. He grinned all
over, and said : " No, sah ; but I am often mistaken for
one. I don't wear no coat, but these heali shirts are
made to ordah." "They cost you a dollah and a half
apiece, don't they, Jim ?" suggested a companion of his.
"Three dollahs a pair," corrected Jim, with a bland smile.
On my way back from the navy yard, I paused to rest
under a grocery awning, and overheard the grocer and an
idler discussing the Behring Sea troubles. For the sake
of springing a feeble joke on them, I listened attentively,
occasionally putting in my oar. When the question was
thoroughly discussed, they became the more interested in
me, and I said, as I turned to go, " I am a Canadian, and
I have just been down inspecting your navy yard." I
had expected to see a look of surprise steal over their
faces. I saw a good deal more, but kept right on, without
pausing to guess exactly what their looks indicated.

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A TRir TO WASHINGTON.

377

;n*t that a
3 reflccte<l
(octacle oi'
le. But 1
been born
cheerful Iv
team!"
ird, wheic
me every-
for ine to
I'ays liked
attire, and
)ked to be
led. See-
r costume,
rinned all
staken for
shirts are
,nd a halt'
on of his.
and smile,
ed to rest
:er and an
the sake
;tentively,
stion was
;erested in
idian, and
yard." I
over their
ti, without
ated.

Sunday in Washington I spent indoors, on account of a
broken tire. I did enjoy looking out of tlie window at
the church-goers and passers-by. Street cars going all
day long, and boys boarding them to sell the papers.
Apparently, these boys would sometimes innocently accost
a clergyman. The negro church goers, from my locality,
seemed most numerous. The oidy pathetic sight 1 saw
on this Sunday was a little boy of eight or nine years,
with his hair hanging down his back in long, straggling
curls, and with a bright red sash about his v;aist. 1 ^ad
noticed the same boy on Saturday, when his hair vas
braided and negligently hairphmed to his crov^ ; and
then, as now, he bravely ignored the whispep'd jests of
other boys, whosu parents hud tin in patronize t!;e
aesthetic Wi^ hington barbers. It was a spectacle to bring
tears to one's eyes — a cheap edition of the little lord.

"Which way are you going now?" cried out a friendly
voice to me, and I recognized a gentleman of whom I had
previously made inquiries. I replied that I thought of
going down into Alexandria. "Oh, don't take such a trip
as that, where there is nothing you would care to see.
Go along New Hampshire Avenue, and take a look at the
extravagant mansions there. It is the most aristocratic
part of Washington." Presently I concluded to do so,
getting a wayfarer to point out to ine Secretary Blaine's
splendid house, and tlie building occupied by the Chinese
legation. I also had the good fortune to see the Japanese
minister and his suite ; and I smiled to think how prone
we are to judge foreigners by the worst representatives
of their nationality, instead of by the best. Canadians
would not like to be judged by their fugitive and outcast
classes.

378

A TRIP lO WASHIXOTON.

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I wamlered al)ont the l-^otanical Gardens (very often in
quest of a drink of cold water), and sjient a ijood deal of
time at tlie Sniitlisonian Institute. "Are you from French
Canada, or English Canada?" asked a kindly old ^uard,
to whom I had revealed my nationality, thus demonstrat-
ing to me that he knew all aliout my countiy.

When Friday came around again, 'it occurred to me
that I was getting homesick ; so T put a new laltel on the
trunk, and went <lown to the ticket office. If T had got
up fifteen minutes earlier, I could have 'patronized' \\\^
Nortiiern Central, the direct route to Suspension Bridge;
but, as it was, I decided to iuHict myself upon the
B. & O. people to Phihuh'lpliia, and tlience home as I had
come. It was only fair play to give all the railroads ii
show, anyway. The scalpers had nothing up my way,
but they expi'essed their regret, and never once intimated
that they took nir for a hoodler, fleeing to Cana<la. I
have no reasim to suppose they did.

It was a magniticent train that pulled out from
the foot of Ca])itol Hill at 4.'2() p.m., and we ran to
Baltimore without a halt. But shortly after leaviuir
Baltimore the engine broke down, and we were detained
more than an hour. Other trains were Ha'^oed, of
course, but there was an element of danger in the
situation that made the waiting tiuie (piite interesting.
The passengers got otl' the tiain in lai-ge numbers, and
then would pound vigorously on the vestibule doois
for admittance — to the great annoyance of the trfi lu-
men. One young man climbed down the steep em-
bankment we were on, and gatheivd a handful of
mayweed. With this he i-eturned to the train, cryin^,
'Marguerites, marguerites, only fi' cent a bunch." But

I ' ' ■ ■

A TRIP TO WASHIN(JTON.

379

often in
{\ (leal of
n French
id guard,
nonstrat-

.'d to UK'

»el on tin '
r had got
lized ' th'^
II Bridge;
upon tlie
i as I liad
ailroails a
my way,
intimated
anada. I

out from
,ve ran to
leaving
detained
agged, of
,>r in tlie
iteresting.
ubi'rs, and
lule doors
tlu' train-
steep eiii-
andful of
in. crying,
»eh." " Bnt

even tliis failed to rouse one indifferent passenger, who
showed his contempt for railway accidents l>y falling
asleep in his seat. At last the engine was in a tit con-
dition to back the ti-ain up to a .siding, where another
enfdne was in waitin<x, and we were off aiiain. The
conductor ai;reed to teleuraiih ahead to lind out whether
the Burtalo train could hv held. This was doubtful; and
I journeyed on through the rain (for it naturally began
to rain as we drew near Philadelphia) with the pn)spect
of a "lay over" of twelve hours in the (^'uaker City.

We got in an hour and twenty ndnutes late. Immedi-
ately a man boarded my cur, saying, in an au<lible voice:
" Passeni^ers vl(( Lehiiifh \^illev will ])lease change cars,
as there is no through coiniecti(m to-night;" and I knew
the "lay over" was inevitable. So I intru.sted him with
the secret that I had a machine on Vxmrd, and he kindly
set about o-ettino' me off". In a short time he, the con-
ductor, the ti'ain porter, the brakeman, a policeman, and
the big, good-natured station master had me aboard my
machine, and I was glad, bi^cause I knew that some one
of them would be able to tell me where I could get
something to eat. However, I spent some little time
perusing the inscriptions on the trains, while good-
natured Charley Selby, the coIoiymI station porter, went
out and got me a substantial supper, as the station
restaurant was then closed.

Early next mornino- T went up to Wayne Junction,
from the B, & O. station, and had another wait, of nearly
two hours. Of course it was raining. There are trains
passing here till you can't rest ; and the gigantic, odd-
built engines of the Reading company are a treat to look
at. I wasn't yet wearied when the baggageman called

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380

A TftiP TO WASHINGTON.

f' *

to me, "Bethlehem train, sir! Come this way!" And T
was off, on the morning train, with the opportunity of
seeing some of the finest scenery in the world, in spite
of fate. I declined the trainboy's exciting romances, and
even felt no interest in looking up the daily railroad
accidents in the newspapers, because I knew I could at
least get an unsatisfactory glimpse of Solomon's (iap,
Mauch Chunk, the valley of the Wyoming, and tlie
winding Lehigh.

A young man had kindly given up his seat to me, but
I was not comfortably settled for so long a ride, and at
Bethlehem the conductors (for there seemed to be no enil
of them) kindly put me into the smoking compartment
of the parlor car. Here there were seats for only six,
and never more than four in at once, and there was
absolutely nothing to mar one's enjoyment of tlie
journey. All the rest of the way I looked out of the
window, and I am sure I saw more than most people on
that train. " Now," I argued, " if there are not more
than seventeen freight cars on the sidiny-s at Maucli
Chunk, I shall be able to see something." I am sorry to
say that there must have been more than a hundred,
scattered about in the most tantalizing way to cut off
the view. But it looked just as bad over on the Jersey
Central tracks. We played at hide and seek with this
latter railroad all the way up to Wilkesbarre, and it was
amusino; to watch their trains. At Glen Summit we luul
climbed the mountain, and there, at an elevation of some
2,000 feet, most of the passengers took dinner, in a
spacious frame hotel. This is scarcely an ade(pu:t<'
description, so I will add that the situation is delight-
fully romantic.

A TRIP TO WASHINGTON.

381

!" And T
rtunity of
d, in spitu
lances, and
y railroad
[ could at
ion's (iap,
, and tlie

to me, l)iit
de, and at
I be no en«l
iripartineiit
V only six,
there was
nt of tlie
out of tlu'
people ou
not more
at Maiich
ni sorry to
1 hundred,
to cut off
the Jei'sey
with this
and it was
niit we luid
on of some
nner, in a
adefjUf^tt'
is deliglit-

At Wilkesbarre the smoking compartment was entered
by a distinguislied party, in the pers(m of two English
noblemen, from the Black Country, wdio may have known
more about tlie topography of Egypt and Farther India
than most of us will ever wish to know, but who were
all at sea the moment tliey had crossed tlie Atlantic.
They were over " doing " the mines, and now on tlieir
way to Niagara. We Hew past ten or twelve stations
before they wn>uld converse with any one but themselves ;
but their reserve was broken at last, and all the rest of
the way they proved genial enough to have satisfied even
a tyi)ical Western plainsman. They picked up a vast
deal of infoiniation, from one source and another, on that
trip, because no absurd fear of displaying their ignorance
restrained them from asking pertinent questions ; and in
all cases oi doubt appeal was made to the pull man
conductor for corroboration or disproof. " Oh," said one
of them, as we were running from Say re, Pa., to Waverly
N, Y., (a distance of two miles), " Oh, there is New York
City and New York State ! " Yet no one could laugh at
such remarks, because they were made so artlessly.
Said another, " When it is five o'clock with you, it is ten
o'clock in England." — " Yes ; and onl;* two o'clock on the
Pacific coast." They were so much impressed with the
vastness of the country, just from one day's ride, that
they were advised to take a six day's journey across the
continent. Such practical suggestions as these give
foreigners at least a vague notion of our country.

There was a giant on our train, who got off at
Hornellsville for his supper, and frightened the depot
policeman into a burst of unprofessional laughter. The
giant stood seven feet high, an«l was perfectly pi'opor-

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A TRIP TO WASIIINGTOV.

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tioned ; and the blinds of the dining-hall had to he
lowered to keep the vulgar eye from spoiling the giant's
appetite.

There was a lively American from Newark in the
smoking compartment, who was determined that tlie
English lords should see everything, and be posted in
everything. He got them out on the platform when tlie
train slowed over Portage bridge, where they amused all
the passengers by one of tliem jocosely asking for liis
friend's accident insurance policy. This refreshing witti-
cism, coming from an Englishman, w^as the funniest
incident of the trip. The story told by the American
gentleman about the Switch Back was the best story ; but
prolmbly it is well known. The English noblemen, how-
ever, paid most attention to his instructions to them how
to find Main- street, Buffalo, from the Erie depot, and the
best place thereon to get a bracing drink of something
that would enable them to enjoy a midnight glimpse of
Niagara Falls.

It was not a highly satisfactory view of the Falls aiul
surroundings that we o:ot crossins: the river. Even the
Cantilever did not show up to good advantage. I was
alone at this time, and had an enjoyable talk with the
through conductor of the Lehigh. His run was completed
at Niagara Falls station, on the Canadian side, and hero
he kindly brought me my machine. Conductors do not
usually express re ret on parting with me, but I infjuircd
the days on wliich this gentleman makes his return, or
eastern, trips, and proposed to come down with him when
I revisit Washington — and he lieard me through without
flinchins:. I could not but admire such couraixe. And so
w^e parted, in the expectation of meeting again. T had

A TRIP TO WASHINGTON.

383

Is return, or

looked for my friend the Imggaoenian at Elniir>i, Lut saw
nothing of liim. I neglected to inc^uire on what trains ho
makes his runs ; but am satisfied he would have come in
to see me, had he been on our train. My machine would
have given me away, of course.

I got off a few ill-timed jokes (for it was midnight)
with the customs officer and the station policeman, and
was informed that I could have a clioice of staying over
at the Bridge or at Hamilton, as the next day being
Sunday, there was but one train, in the evening, from
Hamilton to Toronto. Another " lay over," tliis time of
about twenty hours, was before me. All this was
attributable to the collapse of the engine on the
picturesque B. Sz 0. However, as they afterwards gave
me to understand, they could not guarantee to run on
their own time. As for the delay of twenty hours in
getting from the Bridge to Toronto, that is a scheme of
Toronto and Montreal philanthropists, to enable belated
travelers to do the Falls or Hamilton's Mountain (capital
M.) on Sunday, when expenses are lighter.

I at once decided to forego the unique attractions of the
A»nbitious City (with which I was familiar) f^r a ramble
next day about the Falls, as it seemed my destiny to have
an opportunity tt) see ever^'thing. Soon I was greeted
by a cheery voice, and rec( ^.lized the young man with
whom I had sat on leaving Wayne Junction, He was
far from traveling alone, as I was, for he was one of a
party of seven, bound for Minneapolis. They all crowded
about me, with the esprit de corpH of fellow-travelers.
Besides, it was njy country now that we were all in.
"This is the young man who gave up his seat to. you,
a d this is the one whom you asked if the car yoM. wei.'e^

384

A TRIP TO WASHINGTON.

I ?!

I *i

in rail iliroiigh to Suspension Bridge." And so on. A
hand sliake, and they were all aboard the through Grand
Trunk train for Chicago. The English lords did not
cross the Bridge, and expressed no desire to visit Canada.
I hope I was in no way responsible for this !

Unwashed, and even sa7is breakfast, I made an early
morning start for the Falls. Peihaps I was as clean as
(and J hope I was no hungrier than) the few peo|>le
astir at that early hour. I had bargained on being able
to enjoy the sublime spectacle with no one about to
dictate to me, or say, " Look from tliis point, or gaze at
that projecting rock ; " and I was not disappointed. In
a word, the Niagara Falls liar and the impromptu poet
were non est, and the solitude of the early morning houi
was a fitting time to see the Falls. I knew from my
sharp appetite that I should seem to be getting the wortli
of my breakfast, when I got back; and again I was not
disappointed. I crossed the bridge in the afternoon, and
looked about on the American side. A party of
Scandanavian emigrants, bound for Minnesota, who came
in, were too much worn out even to look at the Falls ;
and I could sympathize with them. But perhaps tliev
did not know they were in that part of the country, or
realize they were enjoying the privilege of being, for a
time, on Canadian soil ! Some of us go through the
world as in a dream.

It was an eventful ride to Hamilton. At least, 1
thought so ; but as I had not been able to get any sleep
since awakening Friday morning, I was not in the humor,
perhaps, to take in the scenic attractions by the way. I
got aboard the train there as soon as it was made up.
Two others came in shortly afterw^ards, and in a friendly

A TRIP TO WASHINGTON.

385

SO on. A

gh Grand

did not

t Canada.

an early
ls clean as
;w people
being able
about t(j
or gaze at
inted. In
iiptu poet
•ning lion I
from my
the wortli
I was not
noon, and
party of
who came
the Falls ;
haps they
ountry, or
eing, for ;i
rough the

t least, 1

any sleep

;he humor,

le way. 1

made up.

a friendly

.spirit I warned them that the train did not pull out for
an hour and a half. One of them, an American, answered
me that he ahvays made it a inile not to keep railway
trains waitin*; f or /u' >h. And we laui^hed, and \vere jxood
friends. The other got off at Burlington ; and I maryeled
that he hadn't walked to save time, for we were half an
hour late in starting. Two cowboys who came in made
thiuijs very lively. They claimed to hail from Leadville ;
but just why cowboys should claim Leadville as their
headquarters was something T couldn't make out ; so I
gave it up.

At Tonmto an obliging brakeman took me, and I took
his lantern ; and so 1 wound up my trip. I said to him,
" I have come all the way from Washington, and have
fared as well at your hands as at any person's."
Singularly enough, he didn't ask me to go into
particulars, but took the checks for my machine, \vhich
he had brought me, and seeing me all aboar«l, made off
with his lantern. Then I started for home, wondering if I
was not too tired to get there, and not pausing to inquire
of a church-comer, whom I knew, how much Toronto had
gained in population in the ten days I had been away.

This last sketch was written at the instigation of a
misguided friend, who advised me to write something
openly about myself, in a frank, desultory way, without
jejune clap-trap or any hidebound feeling about egotism.
Said friend has been jailed, and such advice will hardly
be given me again — but if it should be, I will promise
not to hecMl it.

THE END.