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THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 \ 
 
THE GREAT MODERN 
 STORIES SERIES 
 
 THE GREAT MODERN" 
 
 FRENCH STORIES Compiled and 
 
 Edited with an Introduction by Wil- 
 
 lard Huntington Wright 
 
 THE GREAT MODERN 
 
 ENGLISH STORIES Compiled and 
 Edited with an Introduction by Ed 
 ward J. O Brien 
 
 THE GREAT MODERN 
 
 AMERICAN STORIES Compiled and 
 Edited with an Introduction by Wil 
 liam Dean Howells 
 
 In Preparation 
 THE GREAT MODERN 
 
 GERMAN STORIES 
 THE GREAT MODERN 
 
 RUSSIAN STORIES 
 
THE 
 
 GREAT MODERN 
 AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 AN ANTHOLOGY 
 
 COMPILED AND EDITED 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY 
 WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 BONI AND LIVERIGHT 
 1920 
 
Copyright, 1920, by 
 
 BONI & LlVERIGHT, INC. 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 A REMINISCENT INTRODUO PAGE 
 
 TION ........ William Dean Howells vii 
 
 MY DOUBLE; AND How HE 
 
 UNDID ME Edward Everett Hale 3 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE Harriet Prescott Spof- 
 
 ford 22 
 
 THE CELEBRATED JUMPING 
 
 FROG or CALAVERAS 
 
 COUNTY Mark Twain ... 36 
 
 A PASSONATE PILGRIM . . Henry James ... 43 
 MLLE. OLYMPE ZABRISKI . T. B. Aldrich . . . 110 
 A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI . . Charles Warren Stod- 
 
 dard 123 
 
 THE OUTCASTS OF POKER 
 
 FLAT Francis Bret Harte . 143 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS WRECK . . Frank Stockton . . 155 
 THE MISSION OF JANE . . Edith Wharton . . 170 
 THE COURTING OF SISTER 
 
 WISBY Sarah Orne Jewett . 190 
 
 THE REVOLT OF MOTHER . . Mary E. Wilkins 
 
 Freeman .... 207 
 
 TOLD IN THE POORHOUSE . Alice Brown . . . 225 
 AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL 
 
 CREEK BRIDGE .... Ambrose Bierce . . 237 
 THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE . Hamlin Garland . . 248 
 STRIKING AN AVERAGE . . . Henry B. Fuller . . 267 
 EFFIE WHITTLES Y . ; . . George Ade . . . . 288 
 THE LOST PHOEBE .... Theodore Dreiser . . 295 
 
 A FAILURE Edith Wyatt . . . 312 
 
 THE YELLOW WALL PAPER . Charlotte Perkins 
 
 Stetson Gilman . . 320 
 y 
 
 59*7 
 
VI 
 
 THE LITTLE ROOM . 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 AUNT SANNA TERRY . . . 
 THE LOTUS EATERS . . . 
 JEAN-AH POQUELIN . . . 
 BRER RABBIT, BRER Fox, AND 
 THE TAR BABY 
 
 Madelene Yale 
 Wynne .... 
 Landon R. Dashiell . 
 Virginia Tracy 
 G. W. Cable 
 
 PAGE 
 
 338 
 352 
 361 
 390 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris 413 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES AND BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . 419 
 
A REMINISCENT INTRODUCTION 
 
 WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS 
 
 My reading has always been so much my living that I can 
 not separate them, and I should not like to part my remem 
 brance of My Double; and How He Undid Me from my 
 sense of convalescence on the sick bed where I first read it in 
 Columbus, Ohio, and laughed myself back into health over 
 it. I discovered in it the dear and delightful author of it, 
 and felt as if I had invented Edward Everett Hale long 
 before I knew him by name, for in those days The Atlantic 
 Monthly, where I first read it, never gave the names of its 
 contributors, such being its sacred Blackwood Magazine 
 tradition. My first reading of the story was the first of 
 many readings of it and laughings over it with all the friends 
 who then inhabited Columbus to the sum of the little city s 
 population of 20,000. These were all people of my own age, 
 say of twenty or twenty-one, and my partners, both sexes, 
 in the awful joy of Miss Prescott s (not yet Mrs. Spofford s) 
 tremendous story of Circumstance f still unsurpassed of its 
 kind. We thrilled over it severally and collectively (the 
 whole 20,000 of us), and are still ready to swear it unsur 
 passed, though we are now over seventy or eighty years old 
 and 200,000 in number. 
 
 It wanted at least two generations to freeze our young blood 
 with Mrs. Perkins Oilman s story of The Yellow Wall Paper, 
 which Horace Scudder (then of The Atlantic) said in re 
 fusing it that it was so terribly good that it ought never to be 
 printed. But terrible and too wholly dire as it was, I could 
 not rest until I had corrupted the editor of The New England 
 Magazine into publishing it. Now that I have got it into 
 my collection here, I shiver over it as much as I did when I 
 first read it in manuscript, though I agree with the editor of 
 The Atlantic of the time that it was too terribly good to be 
 printed. 
 
 vii 
 
yiii INTRODUCTION 
 
 In a far zigzag of time and kind from this awful study of 
 incipient madness is A Passionate Pilgrim, which I had the 
 privilege of accepting from Henry James in the earliest years 
 of my long Atlantic editorship. I had the privilege of ac 
 cepting many more famous things of his, but young" as this 
 story is in many ways, it is of a life, a feeling, a color, and 
 above all a prompt distinctness, altogether absent from his 
 later, and, if one will, more masterly work. In fact it is of 
 a masterliness which its maturer author might deny but would 
 not forbid, his young editor affirming. The American char 
 acter studied in it is American to the last degree, and as 
 sharply distinct from the English, as the fervidest Ameri 
 can could wish, and it is of the greater interest because the 
 young author s Americanism eventuated, after many long 
 years of English sojourn, in his renouncing his American 
 citizenship and becoming an English subject. Every reader 
 will have his, or her, feeling as to the biographical fact, but 
 I think no one can deny the genuine passion of this most 
 passionate pilgrim, or the pathos of his experience. It is an 
 intense piece of American fiction, such as the author has 
 never since surpassed. 
 
 The three great artists, working always in simple and 
 native stuff, whom I have almost inevitably grouped to 
 gether in the order of my acquaintance with their stories, are 
 collectively, if not severally, without equal among their con 
 temporaries in their order of fiction. I like the beautiful 
 art, the gentle nature-love and the delicate humor of Sarah 
 Orne Jewett because I knew it first as the very junior editor 
 whom it first came to in settled form, but I do not know that 
 I value it more than the stories of Mrs. Wilkins Freeman or 
 the stories of Miss Alice Brown, which I knew with the rest 
 of the public when they began to appear in response to other 
 editorial welcome. I think The Revolt of Mother had the 
 widest and warmest welcome from the whole English-read 
 ing world; Miss Brown s story here is fairly suggestive of her 
 far-reaching study of New England life; and very possibly 
 it is because of my earlier liking for Sarah Orne Jewett s 
 story that I like it most. She is less dramatic in the piece 
 chosen than the others; the story is scarcely more than a 
 
INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 placid and whimsical study of scene and character; it was 
 hard to find any story of hers that was more than a study, 
 but how preciously richer than a story this study is ! 
 
 I had a like difficulty in getting a story from Charles 
 Warren Stoddard s South Sea Idyls, for when I came to re 
 new my friendship with them, I found A Prodigal in Tahiti 
 the only one among those delicious sketches which was like a 
 story, and this was scarcely like a story at all. Half my 
 life it had been a delight to me, and I was not going to 
 forego it because it was a bit of autobiography and not a 
 dramatic invention. My situation would have been the joy 
 of Stoddard himself, and if there are smiles in heaven, where 
 he has been these half dozen years, he must be looking down 
 with a characteristic pleasure in the dilemma of the earliest 
 editor of a study which refused to be quite a story. He must 
 be generously sharing with that editor the delight of the 
 "detonating boot" which he wore in the dusty walks to the 
 joy of the gentle Tahitian crowds following him in his famine 
 around their island from breakfastless morn till supperless 
 eve. 
 
 I think Aldrich came after Stoddard s sketch with his 
 unique invention of Marjorie Daw and I am sure of the suc 
 cession of Mademoiselle Zabriski following that, and which 
 I reproduce here, not as the better but the best his publishers 
 can allow his latest editor who was his earliest. Mademoiselle 
 Zabriski is not only the next cleverest thing of Aldrich s 
 after Marjorie Daw, but is notable for being one of those 
 feats of fact in which nature sometimes imitates art, as I 
 personally learned from an experience behind the scenes of 
 a country circus where I was once presented to an amiable 
 clown who said he liked my books, and then presented me to 
 his son newly alighted from the trapeze. I viewed the youth 
 with the surprise of a spectator who had just seen him in 
 flying skirts and now beheld him in succinct tights. "But 
 but," I faltered, and "Oh, yes," his father interjected, "You 
 thought he was a girl. Well, the public likes them better as 
 girls," and I was aware of standing in the presence of one 
 who might well have been Mademoiselle Zabriski, but had 
 not quite the artistic touch of Aldrich in his realization. Some 
 
* INTRODUCTION 
 
 day I hope to tell the pleasant tale of my relation witH 
 Aldrich as a most favored and desired contributor with the 
 young under-editor, and all our joyous lunching and joking 
 together in the rivalry of our new-married housekeeping; 
 but this is not yet the time or place. I can only affirm it 
 one of the happiest things I remember. 
 
 With Miss Edith Wyatt s story I had the same sort of 
 difficulty in finding anything definitely dramatic among her 
 studies of Chicago life, as I had in finding a story among 
 Stoddard s South Sea Idyls. She called them Every One 
 His Own Way, perhaps because she could not think of a 
 more distinctive name for them. But they were all exquisite 
 things, most artistic and most realistic things, delicate por 
 traits of life worthy of equal place with the stories and 
 , studies of those unrivalled sisters three, Miss Jewett, and 
 Mrs. Wilkins Freeman and Miss Alice Brown whom I have 
 put here in their rare succession. 
 
 If I am required to say why I have chosen from Mrs. 
 Edith Wharton s many minor masterpieces The Mission of 
 Jane, I should be defied in vain unless I were suffered 
 to say that it was the instant delight of the whole family who 
 read it together and cherished it thereafter as one of the 
 most precious jewels of remembrance. Even this would ap 
 pear no sufficient reason save to such elect as could rejoice 
 in the portrayal of the perfect and entire dullness of Jane 
 and her equally dull admirer. It is truly an unsurpassed 
 piece of art, worthy of like rank with the best things in our 
 wonder-book of good things here, though there is nothing 
 better here than the episode of Aunt Sanna Terry, which a 
 beneficent chance vouchsafed to one of us in the very un 
 expected pages of The Southern Workman where the humor 
 of Miss Dashiell had lavished it on that organ of Hampton 
 Institute. There is, to my thinking, no superior to it in the 
 whole range of colored character, as the mastery of the South 
 which knows it best has portrayed it in Uncle Remus, and 
 Mark Twain and Mr. Cable s very varied and exquisitely 
 rendered shades and differences of the race unsurpassedly 
 known to him. 
 
 Not yet to turn aside to these greater names, I must ask 
 
INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 the reader to share my pleasure in Miss Virginia Tracy s 
 delightful tale of The Lotus Eaters where they sit famish 
 ing at the lunch table in the absence of the retarded alimony 
 of the hostess. There is never so good talk as that of players 
 off the stage, however they fail on it, and the climax of the 
 hostess s announcement to the lovers among the clothes-lines 
 on the roof that "the alimony has come" is something un 
 rivalled in the strokes of tragi-comedy or comi-tragedy. 
 
 I could not read Mr. Cable s most touching story of Jean- 
 ah Poquelin without hearing the voice of Mark Twain in 
 reading its most dramatic phrases with his tragic pleasure 
 in the old Negro-trader s concealment of his leper-brother in 
 defiance of the authorities proposing to run a street through 
 his property, in the interest of public improvement. His 
 glorious defiance of "Strit shall not pass!" sounds in my 
 ears yet, as Clemens pronounced it; and in its other kind I 
 hear him read The Tar Baby as he heard the colored fablers 
 of his Missouri childhood tell it. His own earliest and last- 
 ingest masterpiece, The Jumping Frog, I never heard him 
 read among the other masterpieces of his which he delighted 
 to give with that unequalled dramatic authority of his, but 
 many a time I heard him tell the story of its publication by 
 his fellow Californian who first brought it out in New York 
 when they had both ceased from the Pacific Slope and trans 
 ferred themselves to these Atlantic shores. It was supposed 
 to have enriched the publishers in the same measure that it 
 impoverished the author, but this may have been one of those 
 imaginary experiences in which his varied life abounded. 
 It did not affect the unequalled quality of the great story 
 itself which remains one of the most stupendous of his in 
 ventions. It won that English renown which others of his 
 great things enjoyed before their home-acceptance, and it 
 lost nothing in hearing "Tom Brown" of Rugby speaking of 
 it at Lowell s table as The Leapin Frog instead of The 
 Jumping Frog, though the loving misnomer hurt the Ameri 
 can ear. 
 
 Clemens was by all odds the best reader I ever heard, 
 whether he read his own things or others things, and he 
 sang with as great feeling the Negro spirituals of the Jubilee 
 
xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 Singers when they first made their way North. He told the 
 stories of Uncle Remus in his native speech. How Joel 
 Chandler Harris might have interpreted them I cannot 
 venture to say. From an almost inarticulate meeting with 
 him at Boston I have the impression of a transcendent bash- 
 fulness in which we made no way with him in any hospitable 
 endeavor and he left us with the remembrance of nothing 
 more distinctive than a meeting at his publisher s, who was 
 also mine; but I could imagine all delightful things in him 
 if once I could get beyond that insuperable diffidence of his. 
 
 The Son of the Middle Border is represented here by an 
 early favorite of mine in The Return of the Private which 
 remembers all the simple pathos of the home-coming of those 
 Civil War veterans when they returned to their corn-fields 
 from their battle-fields. Hamlin Garland has done many 
 other beautiful and manly things, but no homely things more 
 beautiful and manly or more characteristic of his art; and 
 I think Mr. Ambrose Bierce has done nothing more imagina 
 tive than An Occurence at Owl Creek Bridge, where he car 
 ries further the sort of post-mortem consciousness which 
 Tolstoy and Turgenev were the first to imagine. It is very 
 excellent work, and is all the more interesting in the ex 
 pression of Confederate feeling, which is less known to fic 
 tion than Union feeling in the war dear alike to North and 
 South. 
 
 The plain poetry, tending to the plain wierdness of Mr. 
 Theodore Dreiser s story of The Lost Phccbe is of a quality 
 that I find in almost nothing else of anyone else. The tender 
 ness of the plainest of Lincoln s plain people whom God 
 seemed to him to have made mainly in our nearer Middle 
 West is expressed incomparably in the delusion of the old 
 widower who believes that his wife returns to him as the 
 phantom he can make no other see. The local conditioning 
 is studied with the same fidelity that keeps the older New 
 England alive in the art of those Sisters Three whom I 
 have grouped together and am never tired of praising. There 
 is a "touch of nature beyond the reach of art" in the crazy 
 custom of the old wanderer who throws his stick before him 
 
INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 in his search for his "lost Phoebe sure that he will find 
 her beside it when he comes up to it. 
 
 One does not escape that choice of The Outcasts of Poker 
 Flat which so many have made before me as more representa 
 tive of Bret Harte s most characteristic work. Why we do 
 not choose The Luck of Roaring Camp, the thing that first 
 won him world-wide recognition, or some other thing, like 
 Tennessee s Partner, I cannot say; I only know that The 
 Outcasts of Poker Flat offers itself at the hands of general 
 preference. Perhaps it has been chosen because of the 
 characterization of the gentleman-gambler whom the keen 
 est critic among Harte s contemporary Calif ornians regarded 
 as his strongest suit. Certainly he has done nothing better 
 in his best sort than "Mr. John Oakhurst, Gambler." 
 
 With the like perversity of editors, I have chosen one of the 
 shipwrecks dear to Frank Stockton s whimsical humor, and 
 not the unique triumph which all the rest of the world likes 
 best in The Lady and the Tiger. But I shall always believe 
 that a large minority of his lovers will be with me in my 
 choice of The Christmas Wreck, though to be sure there is 
 The Wreck of the Thomas Hike. His fine spirit is subtly 
 with us in the far range of its numberless caprices and in 
 ventions, though eternity seems the richer and time the poorer 
 in his going from us. If his fame seems in a momentary 
 abeyance it is because this sort of eclipse must come to all. 
 We must remember that it is the shadow of our little moon 
 that now and again blots the sun, though I cannot specify 
 personally any renown which has come between us and Stock 
 ton s beloved name. 
 
 In this collection there is nothing humaner or more humane 
 than Mr. George Ade s quite perfect study of real life, Effie 
 Whittlesy. It is a contribution to American fiction of a 
 value far beyond most American novels; and the American 
 small town which has often shrunken into the American City 
 lives again here in its characteristic personality. It is a thing 
 which I have read unnumbered times to myself and to those 
 I love best, but I am still in doubt whether the admirable 
 Effie or the excellent Ed Wallace is more my friend. I 
 have so much affection for them both that I have a sincere 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 regard for Mrs. Wallace, though she somewhat tardily wins 
 it. The story is the best in the volume In Babel, where 
 the Chicago-West, which so incomparably burlesques itself 
 in the famous Fables, studies its likeness in the art of a 
 master, as it does in Mr. Henry B. Fuller s Striking an 
 Average. This is not only good Chicago, but is good native 
 American not too fine in the youth intending municipal 
 politics in his own interest and is good Irish-American in 
 the clever, handsome Irish girl who means to help him up 
 with the help of her efficient political father, already at the 
 top in municipal politics. It is all very lightly and per 
 suasively done, not only in the youth s society mother, but 
 in the girl s mother and their unforced friendliness. The 
 girl s superiority to the youth is never rubbed into the reader, 
 who is not made to do more than share the young Ameri 
 can s own sense of it. 
 
 I think that probably more interesting people, especially 
 interesting women, have a greater devotion for Mrs. Wynne s 
 romance of The Little Room than for any like story if 
 there is any other like story. It first appeared in Harper s 
 Magazine some thirty years ago, and it has never since dis 
 appeared, though evanescence is the prime motive of it. I 
 myself was one of the many editors of the collections which 
 contain it; and I put it in one of my first volumes of those 
 Harper Novelettes which it was another s happy thought 
 to suggest the republication of in kindred groups. It re 
 mains forever a question whether The Little Room was a 
 habitable chamber, or a mere closet without valuable char 
 acter; the sequel to it which the author wrote has not seemed 
 to explain or enhance its interest in this editor s view. But 
 no such difference of opinion can affect its weird charm; it 
 must remain forever a triumph of the imagination, an unend 
 ing tease of the curiosity, though this is a quite inadequate 
 expression of its peculiar charm. It may or may not add to 
 its appeal that there is an architectural plagiarism of its 
 motive in the beautiful house which Henry VIII built for 
 Anne Boleyn at Southampton. From the street you see a 
 window which opens to no room within. If you doubt of 
 Mrs. Wynne s Little Room yon can go there and verify it. 
 
PUBLISHER S NOTE 
 
 References for the Study of the Short Story 
 
 Those who wish to study the short story beyond the 
 material afforded in the present volume will find the follow- 
 ^eferences helpful: 
 
 For American literature in general three of the best 
 short accounts are: A History of American Literature, by 
 Fred Lewis Pattee (Silver, Burdett & Co., 1896) ; A History 
 of American Literature, by William Peterfield Trent (D. 
 Appleton & Co., 1903); and American Literature, by Al- 
 phonso G. Newcomer (Scott, Foresman & Co., 1901). For 
 a more extended treatment the three-volume Cambridge 
 History of American Literature (G. P. Putnam s Sons, 
 1917-1918-1920) is the most thorough work. This is edited 
 by William P. Trent, John Erskine, Stuart P. Sherman and 
 Carl Van Doren, and the chapters are written by specialists, 
 but in a way to interest the general reader. Particular 
 chapters are referred to farther on. For an extended treat 
 ment of one period of American literature Fred Lewis Pattee s 
 A History of American Literature Since 1870 (The Century 
 Co., 1915) is invaluable. A stimulating little work along 
 critical lines is The Spirit of American Literature, by John 
 Albert Macy (Boni & Liveright, 1913: The Modem 
 Library). 
 
 For a study of the short story in general an excellent ap 
 proach is through the collection, edited by Alexander Jessup 
 and Henry Seidel Canby, The Book of the Short Story (D. 
 Appleton & Co., 1903), which shows the evolution of the 
 short story from about 2500 B. C. through 1890 by its 
 eighteen representative stories from various literatures. An 
 introduction of twenty-eight pages traces the development of 
 
xvi PUBLISHER S NOTE 
 
 the short story under the headings, The Short Story and the 
 Tales, The Short Story and the Novel, and The Rise of the 
 Short Story. This was the pioneer collection of short 
 stories from various literatures, to show the development of 
 the form. The List of Representative Tales and Short. 
 Stories included directs the student to further reading. Four 
 years after the appearance of the book edited by Jessup and 
 Canby, Brander Matthews put out a collection along similar 
 lines, The Short Story (American Book Co., 1907). 
 
 The most comprehensive collection of purely American 
 short stories is The American Short Story: Examples Show 
 ing its Development (Allyn & Bacon: Boston, 1920), which 
 contains seventy-three stories ranging in date from 1788 to 
 1920. This is the largest collection of short stories in one 
 volume yet made. As a guide to more extended reading there 
 is included a list of over thirty-five hundred American 
 short stories and short story collections. A much smaller 
 undertaking is American Short Stories, edited by Charles 
 Sears Baldwin (Longmans, Green & Co., 1904), which con 
 tains fifteen stories ranging in date from 1819 to 1897. An 
 interesting introduction of thirty-five pages is marred by 
 many errors, including wrong dates and misstatements of 
 fact. Apart from its many mistakes the book is good as far 
 as it goes. A collection of American short stories in a 
 special field is The Best American Humorous Short Stories 
 (Boni & Liveright, 1920), edited by Alexander Jessup. 
 The volume contains eighteen stories ranging in date from 
 1839 to 1914, and an interesting introduction of twenty- 
 six pages. Bret Harte, Stockton, Bunner, and O. Henry 
 are among the authors represented. A series of ten small 
 volumes, Stories by American Authors, edited anonymously 
 (Charles Scribner s Sons, 1884-88) contains fifty-eight 
 stories. The selection in no way represents American 
 literature adequately, since neither Irving, Poe, Hawthorne 
 nor Bret Harte are included, nor does it contain any stories 
 written after 1885. 
 
 Those who wish to read some of the best short stories in 
 French literature will find forty-four of them in the series 
 of six small volumes, Little French Masterpieces, edited by 
 
PUBLISHER S NOTE xvii 
 
 Alexander Jessup (G. P. Putnam s Sons, 1903). The 
 authors represented are Merimee, Flaubert, Gautier, Daudet, 
 Maupassant and Balzac. Each volume has an introduction 
 by a distinguished critic; especially valuable for the stu- 
 lient of the short story are the Essays on Maupassant, by 
 Arthur Symons; and Balzac, by Ferdinand Brumetiere. 
 Ti the latter a differentiation is made for the first time 
 between the French forms of fiction, the nouvelle, the conte 
 and the roman. The translation is by George Burnham 
 Ives. A remarkably comprehensive and incisively critical 
 work is A Century of French Fiction, by Benjamin W. Wells 
 (Dodd, Mead & Co., 1898). The three essays on the various 
 aspects of Balzac, and those on Merimee, Gautier, Flaubert, 
 Daudet, and Maupassant will be found the most interesting 
 of its seventeen chapters to the student of the short story. 
 A single-volume collection of twenty-two stories is The 
 Great Modern French Stories: A Chronological Anthology, 
 edited by Willard Huntington Wright (Boni & Liveright, 
 1917). It contains a valuable introduction of forty-two 
 pages. 
 
 Among the purely critical volumes dealing with the short 
 story, in addition to the collections containing critical 
 matter mentioned above, is A Study of the Short Story, by 
 Henry Seidel Canby (Henry Holt & Co., 1913). This 
 volume contains eleven short stories, all from English and 
 American literature, but the critical portion of the book so 
 far outweighs the collection in importance that it is men 
 tioned here rather than with the collections. The introduc 
 tion of seventy-eight pages is divided into sixteen chapters. 
 Another excellent volume dealing critically with the sub 
 ject is A Handbook of Story Writing (Dodd, Mead & Co., 
 1917). This treats the short story from a technical stand 
 point. A somewhat more advanced treatment of the 
 subject is The Art and the Business of Story Writing, by 
 Walter B. Pitkin (The Macmillan Co., 1912). The 
 Philosophy of the Short Story, by Brander Matthews 
 (Longmans, Green & Co., 1901; republished with revision 
 from The Saturday Review, 1884) was the first American 
 treatment of the short story as a separate form of fiction. 
 
xviii PUBLISHER S NOTE 
 
 It said explicitly what Poe had hinted at in his review of 
 Hawthorne s Twice-Told Tales in 1842 and in his essay 
 on the Philosophy of Composition (1846). The chapter on 
 The Short Story (republished from The Atlantic Monthly, 
 August, 1902) in Bliss Perry s, A Study of Prose Fiction 
 (Houghton, Mifflin Co., 1902) is interesting, as is Clayton 
 Hamilton s Structure of the Short Story, in his book, A 
 Manual of the Art of Fiction (Doubleday, Page & Co., 
 1908). William Dean Howells chapter on Some Anomalies 
 of the Short Story (reprinted from The North American 
 Review, October, 1901) in his Literature and Life (Harper 
 & Bros., 1902) is decidedly stimulating. 
 
 For the American short story the chapters in The Cam 
 bridge History of American Literature, Volume II (G. P. 
 Putnam s Sons, 1918) on Hawthorne, by John Erskine; Poe, 
 by Killis Campbell; Magazines, Annuals and Gift-Books, 
 1783-1850, by William B. Cairns; and The Short Story, by 
 Fred Lewis Pattee, are all valuable. The chapter on The 
 Triumph of the Short Story in Patte s History of American 
 Literature Since 1870 (The Century Co., 1915) is a com 
 prehensive survey from Bret Harte almost down to date. 
 John Erskine s Leading American Novelists (Henry Holt 
 & Co., 1910) is especially interesting to the student of the 
 short story for its chapters on Hawthorne and Bret Harte. 
 William Crary BrownelPs American Prose Masters (Charles 
 Scribner s Sons, 1909) is a notable work of criticism of six 
 great American authors. The chapters on Hawthorne, Poe 
 and Henry James will attract the short-story investigator. 
 Then there is Hawthorne and the Short Story, by Walter 
 Morris Harte (University of California: Berkeley, 1900), 
 the introduction by Alexander Jessup to his collection, The 
 American Short Story (Allyn & Bacon, 1920), already men 
 tioned, and Charles Sears Baldwin s introduction to his 
 American Short Stories (Longmans, Green & Co., 1904), 
 also referred to above. The chapters in Henry Siedel 
 Canby s A Study of the Short Story (Henry Holt & Co., 
 1913) entitled Poe, and the Further Development of the 
 Romantic Short Story, Nathaniel Hawthorne, America in 
 the Midcentury, Bret Harte f The Local Colorists, and The 
 
PUBLISHER S NOTE xii 
 
 Deepening of the Short Story: Henry James, will all be 
 found extremely interesting, as will this writer s chapters 
 on Edgar Allen Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Midcentury 
 in America and The Americans from Bret Harte to the 
 Nineties, in his larger book, The Short Story in English 
 (Henry Holt & Co., 1909). 
 
 The most comprehensive treatment of the short story in 
 any one literature is Henry Seidel Canby s The Short 
 Story in English (Henry Holt & Co., 1909). Until recently 
 there has been no comprehensive or entirely satisfactory 
 collection showing the development of the English short 
 story. The Great Modern English Stories, compiled and 
 edited, with an introduction by Edward J. O Brien (Boni 
 & Liveright, 1919) is an interesting and valuable collec 
 tion containing twenty-eight stories all of which were written 
 within the last forty years. Mr. O Brien stresses the point 
 that the short story is not a characteristic English form. In 
 this same Great Modern Short Story Series will appear in 
 1920, The Great Modern German Stories, compiled and 
 edited with an introduction by Ludwig Lewisohn, The Great 
 Modern Scandinavian Stories, compiled and edited with an 
 introduction by Edwin Bjorkman, and The Great Modern 
 Italian Stories, compiled and edited with an introduction 
 by Arturo Giovannitti. 
 
 The two volumes already mentioned by Blance Colton 
 Williams and Walter B. Pitkin, although chiefly technical 
 treatments of the subject, also go into what may be termed 
 the "practical" side to a certain extent. Other volumes deal 
 ing with this, including such aspects as popularity, market 
 ing, etc., are J. Berg Esenwein s Writing the Short Story 
 (Hinds, Noble & Eldredge, 1909), The Contemporary Short 
 Story, by Harry T. Baker (D. C. Heath & Co., 1916), and 
 Where and How to Sell MSS; a Descriptive Directory for 
 Writers, edited by William B. McFourtie (Home Corres 
 pondence School: Springfield, Mass., 1919). 
 
 Edward J. O Brien s annual volumes, of which the latest 
 at this writing is The Best Short Stories of 1919 (Small, 
 Maynard & Co.), keep the student of the subject up-to-date. 
 Besides reprinting a selection of the best stories by American 
 
xx PUBLISHER S NOTE 
 
 authors that have appeared in American magazines each 
 year, these volumes contain a list of a larger number of the 
 best short stories, a list of the best story collections of the 
 year, and other valuable matter. 
 
 CHARLES STEWART RIVERS. 
 
MY DOUBLE ; AND HOW HE UNDID 
 ME* 
 
 BY EDWARD EVERETT HALE 
 
 IT is not often that I trouble the readers of the Atlantic 
 Monthly. I should not trouble them now, but for the 
 importunities of my wife, who "feels to insist" that a 
 duty to society is unfulfilled, till I have told why I had to 
 have a double, and how he undid me. She is sure, she says, that 
 intelligent persons cannot understand that pressure upon pub 
 lic servants which alone drives any man into the employment 
 of a double. And while I fear she thinks, at the bottom of 
 her heart, that my fortunes will never be remade, she has a 
 faint hope, that, as another Rasselas, I may teach a lesson 
 to future publics, from which they may profit, though we die. 
 Owing to the behavior of my double, or, if you please, to that 
 public pressure which compelled me to employ him, I have 
 plenty of leisure to write this communication. 
 
 I am, or rather was, a minister of the Sandemanian con 
 nection. I was settled in the active, wide-awake town of 
 Naguadavick, on one of the finest water-powers in Maine. 
 We used to call it a Western town in the heart of civilization 
 of New England. A charming place it was and is. A 
 spirited, brave young parish had I; and it seemed as if we 
 might have all "the joy of eventful living" to our hearts 
 content. 
 
 Alas ! how little we knew on the day of my ordination, and 
 in those halcyon moments of our first housekeeping! To be 
 the confidential friend in a hundred families in the town 
 cutting the social trifle, as my friend Haliburton says, "from 
 the top of the whipped-syllabub to the bottom of the sponge- 
 
 * Permission of Little, Brown & Co., and Ellen Day Hale. 
 
 3 
 
4 THE GREAT MODERN^ AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 cake, which is the foundation"; to keep abreast of the 
 thought of the age in one s study, and to do one s best on 
 Sunday to interweave that thought with the active life of an 
 active town, and to inspirit both and make both infinite by 
 glimpses of the Eternal Glory, seemed such an exquisite fore- 
 look into one s life! Enough to do, and all so real and so 
 grand! If this vision could only have lasted! 
 
 The truth is, that this vision was not in itself a delusion, 
 nor, indeed, half bright enough. If one could only have been 
 left to do his own business, the vision would have accomp 
 lished itself and brought out new paraheliacal visions, each 
 as bright as the original. The misery was and is, as we found 
 but, I and Polly, before long, that, besides the vision, and 
 besides the usual human and finite failures in life (such 
 as breaking the old pitcher that came over in the May 
 flower, and putting into the fire the alpenstock with which 
 her father climbed Mont Blanc) besides these, I say, 
 (imitating the style of Robinson Crusoe) there were pitch 
 forked in on us a great rowen-heap of humbugs, handed down 
 from some unknown seed-time, in which we were expected, 
 and I chiefly, to fulfill certain public functions before the 
 community, of the character of those fulfilled by the third 
 TOW of supernumeraries who stand behind the Sepoys in the 
 spectacle of the Cataract of the Ganges. They were the 
 duties, in a word, which one performs as member of one or 
 another social class or subdivision, wholly distinct from what 
 one does as A by himself A. What invisible power put these 
 functions on me, it would be very hard to tell. But such 
 power there was and is. And I had not been at work a year 
 before I found I was living two lives for two sets of people, 
 one real and one merely functional one my parish, whom I 
 loved, and the other a vague public, for whom I did not care 
 two straws. All this was in a vague notion, which every 
 body had and has, that this second life would eventually 
 bring out some great results, unknown at present, to some 
 body somewhere. 
 
 Crazed by this duality of life, I first read Dr. Wigan on 
 the Duality of the Brain, hoping that I could train one side 
 of my head to do these outside jobs, and the other to do my 
 
MY DOUBLE; AND HOW, HE UNDID ME 5 
 
 intimate and real duties. For Richard Greenough once told 
 me that, in studying for the statue of Franklin, he found 
 that the left side of the great man s face was philosophic and 
 reflective, and the right side funny and smiling. If you 
 will go and look at the bronze statue, you will find he has 
 repeated this observation there for posterity. The eastern 
 profile is the portrait of the statesman Franklin, the western 
 of Poor Richard. But Dr. Wigan does not go into these, 
 niceties of this subject, and I failed. It was then, that, on 
 my wife s suggestion, I resolved to look out for a Double. 
 
 I was, at first, singularly successful. We happened to be 
 recreating at Stafford Springs that summer. We rode out 
 one day, for one of the relaxations of that watering-place, 
 to the great Monsonpon House. We were passing through 
 one of the large halls, when my destiny was fulfilled I I saw 
 my man ! 
 
 He was not shaven. He had on no spectacles. He was 
 dressed in a green baize roundabout and faded blue overalls, 
 worn sadly at the knee. But I saw at once that he was of 
 my height, five feet four and a half. He had black hair, 
 worn off by his hat. So have and have not I. He stooped 
 in walking. So do I. His hands were large, and mine. And 
 choicest gift of Fate in all he had, not "a strawberry- 
 mark on his left arm," but a cut from a juvenile brickbat 
 over his right eye, slightly affecting the play of that eye 
 brow. Reader, so have II My fate was sealed! 
 
 A word with Mr. Holly, one of the inspectors, settled the 
 whole thing. It proved that this Dennis Shea was a harm 
 less, amiable fellow, one of the class known as shiftless, who 
 had sealed his fate by marrying a dumb wife, who was at that 
 moment ironing in the laundry. Before I left Stafford, I 
 had hired both for five years. We had applied to Judge 
 Pynchon, then the probate judge at Springfield, to change 
 the name of Dennis Shea to Frederic Ingham. We had ex 
 plained to the Judge, what was the precise truth, that an 
 eccentric gentleman wished to adopt Dennis under this new 
 name into his family. It never occurred to him that Dennis 
 might be more than fourteen years old. And thus, to shorten 
 this preface, when we returned at night to my parsonage at 
 
6 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Naguadavick, there entered Mrs. Ingham, her new dumb 
 laundress, myself, who am Mr. Frederic Ingham, and my 
 double, who was Mr. Frederic Ingham by as good right as I. 
 Oh, the fun we had the next morning in shaving his beard 
 to my pattern, cutting his hair to match mine, and teaching 
 him how to wear and how to take off gold-bowed spectacles ! 
 Really, they were electro-plate, and the glass was plain (for 
 the poor fellow s eyes were excellent). Then in four suc 
 cessive afternoons I taught him four speeches. I had found 
 these would be quite enough for the supernumerary-Sepoy 
 line of life, and it was well for me they were. For though 
 he was good-natured, he was very shiftless, and it was, as our 
 . national proverb says, "like pulling teeth" to teach him. 
 But at the end of the next week he could say, with quite my 
 easy and frisky air: 
 
 1. "Very well, thank you. And you?" This for an 
 answer to casual salutations. 
 
 2. "I am very glad you liked it." 
 
 3. "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so 
 well said, that I will not occupy the time." 
 
 4. "I agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the 
 room." 
 
 At first I had a feeling that I was going to be at great cost 
 for clothing him. But it proved, of course, at once, that, 
 whenever he was out, I should be at home. And I went, dur 
 ing the bright period of his success, to so few of those awful 
 pageants which require a black dress-coat and what the un 
 godly call, after Mr. Dickens, a white choker, that in the 
 happy retreat of my own dressing-gowns and jackets my days 
 went by as happily and cheaply as those of another Thalaba. 
 And Polly declares there was never a year when the tailoring 
 cost so little. He lived (Dennis, not Thalaba) in his wife s 
 room over the kitchen. He had orders never to show him 
 self at that window. When he appeared in the front of the 
 house, I retired to my sanctissimum and my dressing-gown. 
 In short, the Dutchman and his wife, in the old weather-box, 
 had not less to do with each other than he and I. He made 
 the furnace-fire and split the wood before daylight; then he 
 went to sleep again, and slept late; then came for orders, 
 
MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME 7 
 
 with a red silk bandanna tied round his head, with his over 
 alls on, and his dress-coat and spectacles off. If we hap 
 pened to be interrupted, no one guessed that he was Frederic 
 Ingham as well as I ; and, in the neighborhood, there grew up 
 an impression that the minister s Irishman worked da\ -times 
 in the factory village at New Coventry. After I haa jiven 
 him his orders, I never saw him till the next day. 
 
 I launched him by sending him to a meeting of the En 
 lightenment Board. The Enlightenment Board consists of 
 seventy-four members, of whom sixty-seven are necessary 
 to form a quorum. One becomes a member under the regu 
 lations laid down in old Judge Dudley s will. I became one 
 by being ordained pastor of a church in Naguadavick. You 
 see you cannot help yourself, if you wouM. At this particular 
 time we had had four successive meetings, averaging four 
 hours each wholly occupied in whipping in a quorum. At 
 the first only eleven men were present; at the next, by force 
 of three circulars, twenty-seven; at the third, thanks to two 
 days canvassing by Auchmuty and myself begging men to 
 come, we had sixty. Half the others were in Europe. But 
 without a quorum we could do nothing. All the rest of us 
 waited grimly for our four hours, and adjourned without any 
 action. At the fourth meeting we had flagged and only got 
 fifty-nine together. But on the first appearance of my double 
 whom I sent on this fatal Monday to the fifth meeting 
 he was the sixty-seventh man who entered the room. He was 
 greeted with a storm of applause! The poor fellow had 
 missed his way read the street signs ill through his 
 spectacles (very ill, in fact, without them) and had not 
 dared to inquire. He entered the room, finding the presi 
 dent and secretary holding to their chairs two judges of the 
 Supreme Court, who were also members ex officio, and were 
 begging leave to go away. On his entrance all was changed. 
 Presto, the by-laws were amended, and the Western prop 
 erty was given away. Nobody stopped to converse with him. 
 He voted, as I had charged him to do, in every instance, with 
 the minority. I won new laurels as a man of sense, though 
 a little unpunctual and Dennis, alias Ingham, returned to 
 the parsonage, astonished to see with how little wisdom the 
 
8 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 world is governed. He cut a few of my parishioners in the 
 street ; but he had his glasses off, and I am known to be near 
 sighted. Eventually he recognized them more readily than I. 
 I "set him again" at the exhibition of the New Coventry 
 Academy; and here he undertook a "speaking part" as, 
 in ir , ooyish, worldly days, I remember the bills used to say 
 of Mile. Celeste. We are all trustees of the New Coventry 
 Academy; and there has lately been "a good deal of feeling" 
 because the Sandemanian trustees did not regularly attend 
 the exhibitions. It has been intimated, indeed, that the 
 Sandemanians are leaning towards Free-Will, and that we 
 have, therefore, neglected these semi-annual exhibitions, while 
 there is no doubt that Auchmuty last year went to Com 
 mencement at Waterville. Now the head master at New 
 Coventry is a real good fellow, who knows a Sanskrit root 
 when he sees it, and often cracks etymologies with me, so 
 that, in strictness, I ought to go to their exhibitions. But 
 think, reader, of sitting through three long July days in that 
 Academy chapel, following the programme from 
 
 TUESDAY MORNING. English Composition. "SUNSHINE. * Miss 
 Jones. 
 
 round to 
 
 Trio on Three Pianos. Duet from the Opera of "MIDSHIPMAN 
 EAST." Marryatt. 
 
 coming in at nine, Thursday evening I Think of this, reader, 
 for men who know the world is trying to go backward, and 
 who would give their lives if they could help it on! Well! 
 The double had succeeded so well at the Board, that I sent 
 him to the Academy. (Shade of Plato, pardon!) He 
 arrived early on Tuesday, when, indeed, few but mothers 
 and clergymen are generally expected, and returned in the 
 evening to us, covered with honors. He had dined at the 
 right hand of the chairman, and spoke in high terms of the 
 repast. The chairman had expressed his interest in the 
 French conversation. "I am very glad you liked it," said 
 Dennis; and the poor chairman, abashed, supposed the ac 
 cent had been wrong. At the end of the day, the gentlemen 
 present bad been called upon for speeches the Rev. Frederic 
 
MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HL UNDID ME 9 
 
 Ingham first, as it happened; upon which Dennis had risen, 
 and had said, "There has been so much said, and, on the 
 whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the time." The 
 girls were delighted because Dr. Dabney, the year before, 
 had given them at this occasion a scolding on impropriety of 
 behavior at lyceum lectures. They all declared Mr. Ingham 
 was a love, and so handsome! (Dennis is good-looking.) 
 Three of them, with arms behind the others waists, followed 
 him up to the wagon he rode home in ; and a little girl with a 
 blue sash had been sent to give him a rosebud. After this 
 debut in speaking, he went to the exhibition for two days 
 more, to the mutual satisfaction of all concerned. Indeed, 
 Polly reported that he had pronounced the trustees dinners 
 of a higher grade than those of the parsonage. When the 
 next term began, I found six of the Academy girls had ob 
 tained permission to come across the river and attend our 
 church. But this arrangement did not long continue. 
 
 After this he went to several Commencements for me, and 
 ate the dinners provided; he sat through three of our 
 Quarterly Conventions for me, always voting judiciously, 
 by the simple rule mentioned above, of siding with the 
 minority. And I, meanwhile, who had before been losing 
 caste among my friends, as holding myself aloof from the 
 associations of the body, began to rise in everybody s favor. 
 "Ingham s a good fellow always on hand"; "never talks 
 much but does the right thing at the right time"; "is not 
 as unpunctual as he used to be he comes early, and sits 
 through to the end." "He has got over his old talkative habit, 
 too. I spoke to a friend of his about it once; and I think 
 Ingham took it kindly," etc., etc. 
 
 This voting power of Dennis was particularly valuable at 
 the quarterly meetings of the Proprietors of the Naguadavick 
 Ferry. My wife inherited from her father some shares in that 
 enterprise, which is not yet fully developed, though it doubt 
 less will become a very valuable property. The law of Maine 
 then forbade stockholders to appear by proxy at such meet 
 ings. Polly disliked to go, not being, in fact, a "hens -rights 
 hen," and transferred her stock to me. I, after going once, 
 disliked it more than she. But Dennis went to the next 
 
10 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 meeting and liked it very much. He said the armchairs were 
 good, the collation good, and the free rides to stockholders 
 pleasant. He was a little frightened when they first took 
 him upon one of the ferry-boats, but after two or three 
 quarterly meetings he became quite brave. 
 
 Thus far I never had any difficulty with him. Indeed, 
 being of that type which is called shiftless, he was only too 
 happy to be told daily what to do, and to be charged not to 
 be forthputting or in any way original in his discharge of that 
 duty. He learned, however, to discriminate between the lines 
 of his life, and very much preferred these stockholders meet 
 ings and trustees dinners and Commencement collations to 
 another set of occasions, from which he used to beg off most 
 piteously. Our excellent brother, Dr. Fillmore, had taken 
 a notion at this time that our Sandemanian churches needed 
 more expression of mutual sympathy. He insisted upon it 
 that we were remiss. He said, that, if the Bishop came to 
 preach at Naguadavick, all the Episcopal clergy of the 
 neighborhood were present; if Dr. Pond came, all the Con 
 gregational clergymen turned out to hear him ; if Dr. Nichols, 
 all the Unitarians; and he thought we owed it to each other, 
 that, whenever there was an occasional service at a Sande 
 manian church, the other brethren should all, if possible, at 
 tend. "It looked well," if nothing more. Now this really 
 meant that I had not been to hear one of Dr. Fillmore s 
 lectures on the Ethnology of Religion. He forgot that he 
 did not hear one of my course on the "Sandemanianism of 
 Anselm." But I felt badly when he said it; and afterwards 
 I always made Dennis go to hear all the brethren preach, 
 when I was not preaching myself. This was what he took 
 exception to the only thing, as I said, which he ever 
 did except to. Now came the advantage of his long morning- 
 nap, and of the green tea with which Polly supplied the 
 kitchen. But he would plead, so humbly, to be let off, only 
 from one or two! I never excepted him, howewer. I knew 
 the lectures were of value, and I thought it best he should 
 be able to keep the connection. 
 
 Polly is more rash than I am, as the reader has observed 
 in the outset of this memoir. She risked Dennis one night 
 
MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME u 
 
 under the eyes of her own sex. Governor Gorges had always 
 been very kind to us ; and when he gave his great annual party 
 to the town, asked us. I confess I hated to go. I was deep in 
 the new volume of Pfeiffer s Mystics, which Haliburton 
 had just sent me from Boston. "But how rude," said Polly, 
 "not to return the Governor s civility and Mrs. Gorges s, when 
 they will be sure to ask why you are away!" Still I de 
 murred, and at last she, with the wit of Eve and of Semiramis 
 conjoined, let me off by saying, that if I would go in with her, 
 and sustain the initial conversations with the Governor and 
 the ladies staying there, she would risk Dennis for the rest 
 of the evening. And that was just what we did. She took 
 Dennis in training all that afternoon, instructed him in 
 fashionable conversation, cautioned him against the tempta 
 tions of the supper-table and at nine in the evening he drove 
 us all down in the carry-all. I made the grand st&r-entree 
 with Polly and the pretty Walton girls, who were staying with 
 us. We had put Dennis into a great rough top-coat, without 
 his glasses and the girls never dreamed, in the darkness, of 
 looking at him. He sat in the carriage, at the door, while we 
 entered. I did the agreeable to Mrs. Gorges, was introduced 
 to her niece, Miss Fernanda I complimented Judge Jeffries 
 on his decision in the great case of D Aulnay vs. Laconia 
 Mining Co. I stepped into the dressing-room for a moment 
 stepped out for another walked home, after a nod with 
 Dennis, and tying the horse to a pump and while I walked 
 home, Mr. Frederic Ingham, my double, stepped in through 
 the library into the Gorges s grand saloon. 
 
 Oh ! Polly died of laughing as she told me of it at midnight ! 
 And even here, where I have to teach my hands to hew the 
 beech for stakes to fence our cave, she dies of laughing as 
 she recalls it and says that single occasion was worth all 
 we have paid for it. Gallant Eve that she is! She joined 
 Dennis at the library door, and in an instant presented him 
 to Dr. Ochterlong, from Baltimore, who was on a visit in 
 town, and was talking with her, as Dennis came in. "Mr. 
 Ingham would like to hear what you were telling us about 
 your success among the German population." And Dennis 
 bowed and said, in spite of a scowl from Polly, "I m very 
 
12 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 glad you liked it." But Mr. Ochterlong did not observe, and 
 plunged into the tide of explanation Dennis listening like a 
 prime-minister, and bowing like a mandarin which is, I 
 suppose, the same thing. Polly declared it was just like 
 Haliburton s Latin conversation with the Hungarian minister, 
 of which he is very fond of telling. "Qucene sit historia 
 Reformations in Ungarid?" quoth Haliburton, after some 
 thought. And his confrere replied gallantly, "In seculo decimo 
 tertio," etc.; and from decimo tertio* to the nineteenth 
 century and a half lasted till the oysters came. So was 
 it that before Dr. Ochterlong came to the "success," or near 
 it, Governor Gorges came to Dennis and asked him to hand 
 Mrs. Jeffries down to supper, a request which he heard with 
 great joy. 
 
 Polly was skipping round the room, I guess, gay as a lark. 
 Auchmuty came to her "in pity for poor Ingham," who was 
 so bored by the stupid pundit and Auchmuty could not un 
 derstand why I stood it so long. But when Dennis took Mrs. 
 Jeffries down, Polly could not resist standing near them. He 
 was a little flustered, till the sight of the eatables and drink 
 ables gave him the same Mercian courage which it gave 
 Diggory. A little excited then, he attempted one or two of his 
 speeches to the Judge s lady. But little he knew how hard it 
 was to get in even a promptu there edgewise. "Very well, I 
 thank you," said he, after the eating elements were adjusted; 
 "and you?" And then did not he have to hear about the 
 mumps, and the measles, and arnica, and belladonna, and 
 camomile-flower, and dodecathem, till she changed oysters 
 for salad and then about the old practice and the new, and 
 what her sister said, and what her sister s friend said, and 
 what the physician to her sister s friend said, and then what 
 was said by the brother of the sister of the physician of the 
 friend of Her sister, exactly as if it had been in Ollendorff ? 
 There was a moment s pause, as she declined champagne. 
 "I am very glad you liked it," said Dennis again, which he 
 never should have said but to one who complimented a ser- 
 
 * Which means, "In the thirteenth century," my dear little bell-and- 
 coral reader. You have rightly guessed that the question means, 
 "What is the history of the Reformation in Hungary?" 
 
MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME 13 
 
 mon. "Oh! you are so sharp, Mr. Ingham! No! I never 
 drink any wine at all except sometimes in summer a little 
 currant spirits from our own currants, you know. My own 
 mother that is, I call her my own mother, because, you 
 know, I do not remember," etc. ; till they came to the candied 
 orange at the end of the feast, when Dennis, rather confused, 
 thought he must say something, and tried No. 4 "I agree, 
 in general, with my friend, the other side of the room" 
 which he never should have said but at a public meeting. 
 But Mrs. Jeffries, who never listens expecting to understand, 
 caught him up instantly with, "Well, I m sure my husband 
 returns the compliment; he always agrees with you 
 though we do worship with the Methodists but you know, 
 Mr. Ingham," etc., till the move was made upstairs; and as 
 Dennis led her through the hall, he was scarcely understood 
 by any but Polly, as he said, "There has been so much said, 
 and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the 
 time." 
 
 His great resource the rest of the evening was standing in 
 the library, carrying on animated conversations with one and 
 another in much the same way. Polly had initiated him in 
 the mysteries of a discovery of mine, that it is not necessary 
 to finish your sentences in a crowd, but by a sort of mumble, 
 omitting sibilants and dentals. This, indeed, if your words 
 fail you, answers even in public extempore speech but better 
 where other talking is going on. Thus, "We missed you at 
 the Natural History Society, Ingham." Ingham replies, "I 
 am very gligloglum, that is, that you were mmmmm." By 
 gradually dropping the voice, the interlocutor is compelled to 
 supply the answer. "Mrs. Ingham, I hope your friend 
 Augusta is better." Augusta has not been ill. Polly cannot 
 think of explaining, however, and answers, "Thank you, 
 Ma am; she is very rearason wewahwewoh," in lower and 
 lower tones. And Mrs. Throckmorton, who forgot the sub 
 ject of which she spoke as soon as she asked the question, is 
 quite satisfied. Dennis could see into the card-room, and 
 came to Polly to ask if he might not go and play all-fours. 
 But, of course, she sternly refused. At midnight they came 
 home delighted, Polly, as I said, wild to tell me the story of 
 
14 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 victory; only both the pretty Walton girls said, "Cousin 
 Frederic, you did not come near me all the evening." 
 
 We always called him Dennis at home, for convenience, 
 though his real name was Frederic Ingham, as I have ex 
 plained. When the election-day came round, however, I 
 found that by some accident there was only one Frederic 
 Ingham s name on the voting-list; and, as I was quite busy 
 that day in writing some foreign letters to Halle, I thought 
 I would forego my privilege of suffrage, and stay quietly at 
 home, telling Dennis that he might use the record on the vot 
 ing-list and vote. I gave him a ticket, which I told him he 
 might use, if he liked to. That was that very sharp election 
 in Maine which the readers of the Atlantic so well re 
 member, and it had been intimated in public that the minis 
 ters would do well not to appear at the polls. Of course, 
 after that, we had to appear by self or proxy. Still, Nagua- 
 davick was not then a city, and this standing in a double 
 queue at town meeting several hours to vote was a bore of 
 the first water; and so, when I found that there was but one 
 Frederic Ingham on the list, and that one of us must give up, 
 I staid at home and finished the letters (which, indeed, pro 
 cured for Fothergill his coveted appointment of Professor of 
 Astronomy at Leavenworth), and I gave Dennis, as we 
 called him, the chance. Something in the matter gave a good 
 deal of popularity to the Frederic Ingham name; and at the 
 adjourned election, next week, Frederic Ingham was chosen 
 to the legislature. Whether this was I or Dennis, I never 
 really knew. My friends seemed to think it was I; but I 
 felt, that, as Dennis had done the popular thing, he was en 
 titled to the honor; so I sent him to Augusta when the time 
 came, and he took the oaths. And a very valuable member 
 he made. They appointed him on the Committee on Parishes; 
 but I wrote a letter for him, resigning, on the ground that he 
 took an interest in our claim to the stumpage in the minister s 
 sixteenths of Gore A, next No. 7, in the 10th Range. He 
 never made any speeches, and always voted with the mi 
 nority, which was what he was sent to do. He made me and 
 himself a great many good friends, some of whom I did not 
 afterwards recognize as quickly as Dennis did my parish- 
 
MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME 15 
 
 ioners. On one or two occasions, when there was wood to 
 saw at home, I kept him at home; but I took those occasions 
 to go to Augusta myself. Finding myself often in his vacant 
 seat at these times, I watched the proceedings with a good 
 deal of care; and once was so much excited that I delivered 
 my somewhat celebrated speech on the Central School-District 
 question, a speech of which the State of Maine printed 
 some extra copies. I believe there is no formal rule per 
 mitting strangers to speak, but no one objected. 
 
 Dennis himself, as I said, never spoke at all. But our 
 experience this session led me to think, that, if by some such 
 "general understanding" as the reports speak of in legislation 
 daily, every member of Congress might leave a double to sit 
 through those deadly sessions and answer to roll-calls and do 
 the legitimate party-voting, which appears stereotyped in th 
 regular list of Ashe, Bocock, Black, etc., we should gain 
 decidedly in working-power. As things stand, the saddest 
 state prison I ever visit is that Representatives Chamber in 
 Washington. If a man leaves for an hour, twenty "correspon 
 dents" may be howling, "Where was Mr. Pendergrast when 
 the Oregon bill passed?" And if poor Pendergrast stays 
 there ! Certainly, the worst use you can make of a man is to 
 put him in prison I 
 
 I know, indeed, that public men of the highest rank have 
 resorted to this expedient long ago. Dumas s novel of The 
 Iron Mask turns on the brutal imprisonment of Louis the 
 Fourteenth s double. There seems little doubt, in our own 
 history, that it was the real General Pierce who shed tears 
 when the delegates from Lawrence explained to him the suffer 
 ings of the people there and only General Pierce s double 
 who had given the orders for the assault on that town, which 
 was invaded the next day. My charming friend George 
 Withers, has, I am almost sure, a double who preaches his 
 afternoon sermons for him. This is the reason that the 
 theology often varies so from that of the forenoon. But that 
 double is almost as charming as the original. Some of the 
 most well-defined men who stand out most prominently on 
 the background of history, are in this way stereoscopic men 
 who owe their distinct relief to the slight differences between 
 
16 THE GREAT MODERN, AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 the doubles. All this I know. My present suggestion is 
 simply the great extension of the system, so that all public 
 machine-work may be done by it. 
 
 But I see I loiter on my story, which is rushing to the 
 plunge. Let me stop an instant more, however, to recall, 
 were it only to myself, that charming year while all was yet 
 well. After the double had become a matter of course for 
 nearly twelve months before he undid me, what a year it was ! 
 Full of active life, full of happy love, of the hardest work, 
 of the sweetest sleep, and the fulfillment of so many of the 
 fresh aspirations and dreams of boyhood! Dennis went to 
 every school-committee meeting, and sat through all those 
 late wranglings which used to keep me up till midnight and 
 awake till morning. He attended all the lectures to which 
 foreign exiles sent me tickets begging me to come for the 
 love of Heaven and of Bohemia. He accepted and used all 
 the tickets for charity concerts which were sent to me. He 
 appeared everywhere where it was specially desirable that 
 "our denomination," or "our party," or "our class," or "our 
 family," or "our street," or "our town," or "our county," or 
 "our State," should be fully represented. And I fell back 
 to that charming life which in boyhood one dreams of, when 
 he supposes he shall do his own duty and make his own 
 sacrifices, without being tied up with those of other people. 
 My rusty Sanskrit, Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin, French, 
 Italian, Spanish, German and English began to take polish. 
 Heavens ! how little I had done with them while I attended to 
 my public duties ! My calls on my parishioners became the 
 friendly, frequent, homelike sociabilities they were meant 
 to be, instead of the hard work of a man goaded to despera 
 tion by the sight of his lists of arrears. And preaching 
 what a luxury preaching was when I had on Sunday the whole 
 result of an individual, personal week, from which to speak 
 to a people whom all that week I had been meeting as hand- 
 to-hand friend ! I never tired on Sunday, and was in condi 
 tion to leave the sermon at home, if I chose, and preach it 
 extempore, as all men should do always. Indeed, I wonder, 
 when I think that a sensible people like ours really more 
 attached to their clergy than they were in the lost days when 
 
MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME 17 
 
 the Mathers and Nortons were noblemen should choose to 
 neutralize so much of their ministers lives, and destroy so 
 much of their early training, by this undefined passion for 
 seeing them in public. It springs from our balancing of 
 sects. If a spirited Episcopalian takes an interest in the 
 alms-house, and is put on the Poor Board, every other de 
 nomination must have a minister there, lest the poor-house 
 be changed into St. Paul s Cathedral. If a Sandemanian is 
 chosen president of the Young Men s Library, there must 
 be a Methodist vice-president and a Baptist secretary. And 
 if a Universalist Sunday-School Convention collects five hun 
 dred delegates, the next Congregationalist Sabbath-School 
 Conference must be as large, "lest they whoever they may 
 be should think we whoever we may be are going 
 down." 
 
 Freed from these necessities, that happy year, I began to 
 know my wife by sight. We saw each other sometimes. In 
 those long mornings, when Dennis was in the study explaining 
 to map-peddlers that I had eleven maps of Jerusalem already, 
 and to school-book agents that I would see them hanged 
 before I would be bribed to introduce their text-books into the 
 schools, she and I were at work together as in those old 
 dreamy days and in these of our log-cabin again. But all 
 this could not last and at length poor Dennis, my double, 
 over-tasked in turn, undid me. 
 
 It was thus it happened: There is an excellent fellow, 
 once a minister I will call him Isaacs who deserves well 
 of the world till he dies and after, because he once, in a 
 real exigency, did the right thing in the right way, at the 
 right time, as no other man could do it. In the world s great 
 football match, the ball by chance found him loitering on 
 the outside of the field; he closed with it, "camped" it, 
 charged it home yes, right through the other side not dis 
 turbed, not frightened by his own success and breathless 
 found himself a great man, as the Great Delta rang applause. 
 But he did not find himself a rich man; and the football has 
 never come to his way again. From that moment to this 
 moment he has been of no use, that one can see, at all. Still, 
 for that great act we speak of Isaacs gratefully and remember 
 
i8 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 him kindly; and he forges on, hoping to meet the football 
 somewhere again. In the vague hope, he had arranged a 
 "movement" for a general organization of the human family 
 into debating clubs, county societies, state unions, etc., 
 with a view of inducing all children to take hold of the 
 handles of their knives and forks, instead of the metal. Chil 
 dren have bad habits in that way. The movement, of course, 
 was absurd; but we all did our best to forward, not it, but 
 him. It came time for the annual county-meeting on this 
 subject to be held at Naguadavick. Isaacs came round 
 good fellow! to arrange for it; got the town-hall, got the 
 Governor to preside (the saint! he ought to have triplet 
 -doubles provided him by law), and then came to get me to 
 speak. "No," I said, "I would not speak, if ten Governors 
 presided. I do not believe in the enterprise. If I spoke, it 
 should be to say children should take hold of the prongs 
 of the forks and the blades of the knives. I would sub 
 scribe ten dollars, but I would not speak a mill." So poor 
 Isaacs went his way sadly, to coax Auchmuty to speak, and 
 Delafield. I went out. Not long after, he came back, and 
 told Polly that they had promised to speak, the Governor 
 would speak, and he himself would close with the quarterly 
 report, and some interesting anecdotes regarding Miss 
 Biffin s way of handling her knife and Mr. Nellis s way 
 of footing his fork. "Now if Mr. Ingham will only come 
 and sit on the platform, he need not say one word; but it 
 will show well in the paper it will show that the Sande- 
 manians take as much interest in the movement as the 
 Armenians or the Mesopotamians, and will be a great favor 
 to me." Polly, good soul! was tempted, and she promised. 
 She knew Mrs. Isaacs was starving and the babies, she 
 knew Dennis was at home and she promised ! Night came, 
 and I returned. I heard her story. I was sorry. I doubted. 
 But Polly had promised to beg me, and I dared all. I told 
 Dennis to hold his peace, under all circumstances, and 
 sent him down. 
 
 It was not half an hour more before he returned, wild with 
 excitement in a perfect Irish fury which it was long be- 
 
M F DOUBLE; AND HOW^ HE UNDID ME 19 
 
 fore I understood. But I knew at once that he had undone 
 me! 
 
 What happened was this: The audience got together, at 
 tracted by Governor Gorges s name. There were a thousand 
 people. Poor Gorges was late from Augusta. They became 
 impatient. He came in direct from the train at last, really 
 ignorant of the object of the meeting. He opened it in the 
 fewest possible words, and said other gentlemen were present 
 who would entertain them better than he. The audience were 
 disappointed, but waited. The Governor, prompted by 
 Isaacs, said, "The Honorable Mr. Delafield will address 
 you." Delafield had forgotten the knives and forks, and was 
 playing Ruy Lopez opening at the chess-club. "The Rev. 
 Mr. Auchmuty will address you." Auchmuty had promised 
 to speak late, and was at the school-committee. "I see Dr. 
 Stearns in the hall; perhaps he will say a word." Dr. Stearns 
 said he had come to listen and not to speak. The Governor 
 and Isaacs whispered. The Governor looked at Dennis, who 
 was resplendent on the platform; but Isaacs, to give him his 
 due, shook his head. But the look was enough. A miserable 
 lad, ill-bred, who had once been in Boston, thought it would 
 sound well to call for me, and peeped out, "Ingham!" A few 
 more wretches cried, "Ingham! Ingham!" Still Isaacs was 
 firm, but the Governor anxious, indeed, to prevent a row. 
 knew I would say something, and said, "Our friend Mr. 
 Ingham is always prepared and though we had not relied 
 upon him, he will say a word, perhaps." Applause followed, 
 which turned Dennis s head. He rose, fluttered, and tried 
 No. 3 : "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, 
 so well said, that I will not longer occupy the time!" and 
 sat down, looking for his hat; for things seemed squally. But 
 the people cried, "Go on! go on!" and some applauded. 
 Dennis, still confused, but flattered by the applause, to which 
 neither he nor I are used, rose again, and this time tried No. 
 2: "I am very glad you liked it!" in a sonorous, clear de 
 livery. My best friends stared. All the people who did not 
 know me personally yelled with delight at the aspect of the 
 evening; the Governor was beside himself, and poor Isaacs 
 thought he was undone! Alas, it was I! A boy in the 
 
20 THE GREAT MODERN^ AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 gallery cried in a loud tone, "It s all an infernal humbug," 
 just as Dennis, waving his hand, commanded silence, and 
 tried No. 4: "I agree, in general, with by friend the other 
 side of the room." The poor Governor doubted his senses, 
 and crossed to stop him not in time, however. The same 
 gallery-boy shouted, "How s your mother?" and Dennis, 
 now completely lost, tried as his last shot No. 1, vainly: 
 "Very well, thank you; and you?" 
 
 I think I must have been undone already. But Dennis, 
 like another Lockhard, chose "to make sicker." The audience 
 rose in a whirl of amazement, rage and sorrow. Some other 
 impertinence aimed at Dennis broke all restraint, and in 
 pure Irish he delivered himself of an address to the gallery, 
 inviting any person who wished to fight to come down and 
 do so stating that they were all dogs and cowards and the 
 sons of dogs. and cowards and that he would take any five of 
 them single-handed. "Shure, I have said all his Riverence 
 and the Misthress bade me say," cried he, in defiance; and 
 seizing the Governor s cane from his hand brandished it, 
 quarter-staff fashion, above his head. He was, indeed, got 
 from the hall only with the greatest difficulty by the Gov 
 ernor, the city marshal, who had been called in, and the 
 superintendent of my Sunday-School. 
 
 The universal impression, of course, was, that the Rev. 
 Frederic Ingham had lost all command of himself in some 
 of those haunts of intoxication which for fifteen years I have 
 been laboring to destroy. Till this moment, indeed, that is 
 the impression in Naguadavick. This number of the At 
 lantic will relieve from it a hundred friends of mine who 
 have been sadly wounded by that notion now for years ; but 
 I shall not be likely ever to show my head there again. 
 
 No ! My double has undone me. 
 
 We left town at seven the next morning. I came to No. 9, 
 in the Third Range, and settled on the Minister s Lot. In 
 the new towns in Maine, the first settled minister has a gift 
 of a hundred acres of land. I am the first settled minister in 
 No. 9. My wife and little Paulina are my parish. We raise 
 corn enough to live on in summer. We kill bear s meat 
 enough to carbonize it in winter. I work on steadily on my 
 
MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME 21 
 
 Traces of Sandemanianism in the Sixth and Seventh Cen 
 turies, which I hope to persuade Phillips, Sampson & Co. 
 to publish next year. We are very happy, but the world 
 thinks we are undone. 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE * 
 
 BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD 
 
 SHE had remained, during all that day, with a sick neigh- 
 bor those eastern wilds of Maine in that epoch fre 
 quently making neighbors and miles synonymous and 
 so busy had she been with care and sympathy that she did 
 not at first observe the approaching night. But finally the 
 level rays, reddening the snow, threw their gleam upon the 
 wall, and, hastily donning cloak and hood, she bade her 
 friends farewell and sallied forth on her return. Home lay 
 some three miles distant, across a copse, a meadow, and a 
 piece of woods the woods being a fringe on the skirts of the 
 great forests that stretch far away into the North. That 
 home was one of a dozen log-houses lying a few furlongs 
 apart from each other, with their half-cleared demesnes sep 
 arating them at the rear from a wilderness untrodden save by 
 stealthy native or deadly panther tribes. 
 
 She was in a nowise exalted frame of spirit on the con 
 trary, rather depressed by the pain she had witnessed and the 
 fatigue she had endured; but in certain temperaments such 
 a condition throws open the mental pores, so to speak, and 
 renders one receptive of every influence. Through the little 
 copse she walked slowly, with her cloak folded about her, 
 lingering to imbibe the sense of shelter, the sunset filtered in 
 purple through the mist of woven spray and twig, the com 
 panionship of growth not sufficiently dense to band against 
 her the sweet home-feeling of a young and tender winter 
 wood. It was therefore just on the edge of the evening that 
 she emerged from the place and began to cross the meadow- 
 land. At one hand lay the forest to which her path wound; 
 
 * Permission of the author. 
 
 22 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE 23 
 
 at the other the evening star hung over a tide of failing orange 
 that slowly slipped down the earth s broad side to sadden 
 other hemispheres with sweet regret. Walking rapidly now, 
 and with her eyes wide-open, she distinctly saw in the air 
 before her what was not there a moment ago, a winding-sheet 
 cold, white, and ghastly, waved by the likeness of four 
 wan hands that rose with a long inflation and fell in rigid 
 folds, while a voice, shaping itself from the hollowness above, 
 spectral and melancholy, sighed, "The Lord have mercy on 
 the people! The Lord have mercy on the people!" Three 
 times the sheet with its corpse-covering outline waved beneath 
 the pale hands, and the voice, awful in its solemn and mys 
 terious depth, sighed, "The Lord have mercy on the peo 
 ple!" Then all was gone, the place was clear again, the gray 
 sky was obstructed by no deathly blot; she looked about her, 
 shook her shoulders decidedly, and, pulling on her hood, went 
 forward once more. 
 
 She might have been a little frightened by such an appari 
 tion if she had led a life of less reality than frontier settlers 
 are apt to lead ; but dealing with hard fact does not engender 
 a flimsy habit of mind, and this woman was too sincere 
 and earnest in her character, and too happy in her situation 
 to be thrown by antagonism merely upon superstitious fancies 
 and chimeras of the second-sight. She did not even believe 
 herself subject to an hallucination, but smiled simply, a little 
 vexed that her thought could have framed such a glamour 
 from the day s occurrences, and not sorry to lift the bough 
 of the warder of the woods and enter and disappear in their 
 sombre path. If she had been imaginative, she would have 
 hesitated at her first step into a region whose dangers were 
 not visionary; but I suppose that the thought of a little child 
 at home would conquer that propensity in the most habituated. 
 So, biting a bit of spicy birch, she went along. Now and 
 then she came to a gap where the trees had been partially 
 felled, and here she found that the lingering twilight was 
 explained by that peculiar and perhaps electric film which 
 sometimes sheathes the sky in diffused light for very many 
 hours before a brilliant aurora. Suddenly, a swift shadow, 
 like the fabulous flying-dragon, writhed through the air be- 
 
24 THE GREAT MODERN : AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 fore her, and she felt herself instantly seized and borne 
 aloft. It was that wild beast the most savage and serpen 
 tine and subtle and fearless of our latitudes known by 
 hunters as the Indian Devil, and he, held her in his clutches 
 on the broad floor of a swinging fir-bough. His long sharp 
 claws were caught in her clothing, he worried them saga 
 ciously a little, then, finding that ineffectual to free them, he 
 commenced licking her bare white arm with his rasping 
 tongue and pouring over her the wide streams of his hot, 
 fetid breath. So quick had this flashing action been that the 
 woman had had no time for alarm, moreover, she was not 
 of the screaming kind; but now, as she felt him endeavoring 
 to disentangle his claws, and the horrid sense of her fate 
 smote her, and she saw instinctively the fierce plunge of those 
 weapons, the long strips of living flesh torn from her bones, 
 the agony, the quivering disgust itself a worse agony 
 while by her side and holding her in his great lithe em 
 brace the monster crouched, his white tusks whetting and 
 gnashing, his eyes glaring through all the darkness like balls 
 of fire a shriek that rang in every forest hollow, that 
 startled every winter-housed thing, that stirred and woke 
 the last needle of the tasselled pines, tore through her lips. 
 A moment afterward, the beast left the arm, once white, now 
 crimson, and looked up alertly. 
 
 She did not think at this instant to call upon God. She 
 called upon her husband. It seemed to her that she had but 
 one friend in the world that was he; and again the cry, 
 loud, clear, prolonged, echoed through the woods. It was not 
 the shriek that disturbed the creature at his relish; he was 
 not born in the woods to be scared of an owl, you know 
 what then? It must have been the echo, most musical, most 
 resonant, repeated and yet repeated, dying with < long sighs 
 of sweet sound, vibrated from rock to river and back again 
 from depth to depth of cave and cliff. Her thought flew after 
 it ; she knew, that, even if her husband heard it, he yet could 
 not reach her in time; she saw that while the beast listened 
 he would not gnaw, and this she felt directly, when the 
 rough, sharp, and multiplied stings of his tongue retouched 
 her arm. Again her lips opened by instinct, but the sound 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE 25 
 
 that issued thence came by reason. She had heard that music 
 charmed wild beasts just this point between life and death 
 intensified every faculty and when she opened her lips 
 the third time it was not for shrieking, but for singing. 
 
 A little thread of melody stole out, a rill of tremulous 
 motion; it was the cradle-song with which she rocked her 
 baby how could she sing that? And then she remembered 
 the baby sleeping rosily on the long settee before the fire; 
 the father cleaning his gun, with one foot on the green 
 wooden rundle; the merry light from the chimney dancing 
 out and through the room, on the rafters of the ceiling with 
 their tassels of onions and herbs, on the log walls painted 
 with lichens and festooned with apples, on the king s-arm 
 slung across the shelf with the old pirate s-cutlass, on the 
 snow-pile of the bed, and on the great brass clock, dancing, 
 too, and lingering on the baby, with his fringed gentian eyes, 
 his chubby fists clenched on the pillow, and his fine breezy 
 hair fanning with the motion of his father s foot. All this 
 struck her in one, and made a sob of her breath, and she 
 ceased. 
 
 Immediately the long red tongue was thrust forth again. 
 Before it touched, a song sprang to her lips, a wild sea- 
 song, such as some sailor might be singing far out on track 
 less blue water that night, the shrouds whistling with frost 
 and the sheets glued in ice a song with the wind in its 
 burden and the spray in its chorus. The monster raised his 
 head and flared the fiery eyeballs upon her, then fretted the 
 imprisoned claws a moment and was quiet; only the breath 
 like the vapor from some hell-pit still swathed her. Her 
 voice, at first faint and fearful, gradually lost its quaver, grew 
 under her control and subject to her modulation; it rose on 
 long swells, it fell in subtile cadences, now and then its tones 
 pealed out like bells from distant belfries on fresh sonorous 
 mornings. She sung the song through, and, wondering lest 
 his name of Indian Devil were not his true name, and if he 
 would not detect her, she repeated it. Once or twice now, 
 indeed, the beast stirred uneasily, turned, and made the 
 bough sway at his movement. As she ended, he snapped his 
 jaws together, and tore away the fettered member, curling it 
 
26 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 under him with a snarl, when she burst into the gayest reel 
 himself from birch and cherry-wood; how many a time she 
 had heard her husband play it on the homely fiddle made by 
 himself from birch and cherry-wood; how many a time she 
 had seen it danced on the floor of their one room, to the patter 
 of wooden clogs and the rustle of homespun petticoat; how 
 many a time she had danced it herself; and did she not 
 remember once, as they joined clasps for right-hands-round, 
 how it had lent its gay, bright measure to her life? And 
 here she was singing it alone, in the forest, at midnight, to a 
 wild beast! As she sent her voice trilling up and down its 
 quick oscillations between joy and pain, the creature who 
 grasped her uncurled his paw and scratched the bark from 
 the bough ; she must vary the spell, and her voice spun leap 
 ing along the projecting points of tune of a hornpipe. Still 
 singing, she felt herself twisted about with a low growl and 
 a lifting of the red lip from the glittering teeth; she broke 
 the hornpipe s thread, and commenced unravelling a lighter, 
 livelier thing, an Irish jig. Up and down and round about 
 her voice flew, the beast threw back his head so that the 
 diabolical face fronted hers, and the torrent of his breath 
 prepared her for his feast as the anaconda slimes his prey. 
 Frantically she darted from tune to tune; his restless move 
 ments followed her. She tired herself with dancing and 
 vivid national airs, growing feverish and singing spasmodi 
 cally as she felt her horrid tomb yawning wider. Touching 
 in this manner all the slogan and keen clan cries, the beast 
 moved again, but only to lay the disengaged paw across her 
 with heavy satisfaction. She did not dare to pause; through 
 the clear cold air, the frosty starlight, she sang. If there 
 were yet any tremor in the tone, it was not fear she had 
 learned the secret of sound at last; nor could it be chill 
 far too high a fervor throbbed her pulses ; it was nothing but 
 the thought of the log-house and of what might be passing 
 within it. She fancied the baby stirring in his sleep and 
 moving his pretty lips her husband rising and opening the 
 door, looking out after her, and wondering at her absence. 
 She fancied the light pouring through the chink and then shut 
 in again with all the safety and comfort and joy, her husband 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE 27 
 
 taking down the fiddle and playing lightly with his head in 
 clined, playing while she sang, while she sang for her life 
 to an Indian Devil. Then she knew he was fumbling for 
 and finding some shining fragment and scoring it down the 
 yellowing hair, and unconsciously her voice forsook the wild 
 war-tunes and drifted into the half-gay, half-melancholy 
 Rosin the Bow. 
 
 Suddenly she woke pierced with a pang, and the daggered 
 tooth penetrating her flesh dreaming of safety, she had 
 ceased singing and lost it. The beast had regained the use 
 of all his limbs, and now, standing and raising his back, 
 bristling and foaming, with sounds that would have been 
 like hisses but for their deep and fearful sonority, he with 
 drew step by step toward the trunk of the tree, still with his 
 flaming balls upon her. She was all at once free, on one end 
 of the bough, twenty feet from the ground. She did not 
 measure the distance, but rose to drop herself down, careless 
 of any death, so that it were not this. Instantly, as if he 
 scanned her thoughts, the creature bounded forward with a 
 yell and caught her again in his dreadful hold. It might 
 be that he was not greatly famished; for, as she suddenly 
 flung up her voice again, he settled himself composedly on the 
 bough, still clasping her with invincible pressure to his 
 rough, ravenous breast, and listening in a fascination to the 
 sad, strange U-la-lu that now moaned forth in loud, hollow 
 tones above him. He half closed his eyes, and sleepily re 
 opened and shut them again. 
 
 What rending pains were close at hand! Death I and 
 what a death! worse than any other that is to be named! 
 Water, be it cold or warm, that which buoys up blue ice 
 fields, or which bathes tropical coasts with currents of balmy 
 bliss, is yet a gentle conqueror, kisses as it kills, and draws 
 you down gently through darkening fathoms to its heart. 
 Death at the sword is the festival of trumpet anl bugle and 
 banner, with glory ringing out around you and distant hearts 
 thrilling through yours. No gnawing disease can bring such 
 hideous end as this; for that is a fiend bred of your own 
 flesh, and this is it a fiend, this living lump of appetites? 
 What dread comes with the thought of perishing in flames! 
 
28 THE GREAT MODERN^ AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 but fire, let it leap and hiss never so hotly, is something too 
 remote, too alien, to inspire us with such loathly horror as a 
 wild beast; if it have a life, that life is too utterly beyond our 
 comprehension. Fire is not half ourselves; as it devours, 
 arouses neither hatred nor disgust ; is not to be known by the 
 strength of our lower natures let loose; ,does not drip our 
 blood into our faces from foaming chaps, nor mouth nor 
 snarl above us with vitality. Let us be ended by fire, and 
 we are ashes, for the winds to bear, the leaves to cover ; let us 
 be ended by wild beasts, and the base, cursed thing howls 
 with us forever through the forest. All this she felt as she 
 charmed him, and what force it lent to her song God knows. 
 If her voice should fail ! If the damp and cold should give 
 her any fatal hoarseness! If all the silent powers of the 
 forest did not conspire to help her ! The dark, hollow night 
 rose indifferently over her; the wide, cold air breathed rudely 
 past her, lifted her wet hair and blew it down again; the 
 great boughs swung with a ponderous strength, now and then 
 clashed their iron lengths together and shook off a sparkle of 
 icy spears or some long-lain weight of snow from their heavy 
 shadows. The green depths were utterly cold and silent and 
 stern. These beautiful haunts that all the summer were hers 
 and rejoiced to share with her their bounty, these heavens 
 that had yielded their largess, these stems that had thrust their 
 blossoms into her hands, all these friends of three moons 
 ago forgot her now and knew her no longer. 
 
 Feeling her desolation, wild, melancholy, forsaken songs 
 rose thereon from that frightful aerie weeping, wailing 
 tunes, that sob among the people from age to age, and over 
 flow with otherwise unexpressed sadness all rude, mourn 
 ful ballads old tearful strains, that Shakspeare heard the 
 vagrants sing, and that rise and fall like the wind and tide 
 sailor-songs, to be heard only in lone mid-watches beneath the 
 moon and stars ghastly rhyming romances, such as that 
 famous one of the Lady Margaret, when 
 
 She slipped on her gown of green 
 
 A piece below the knee, 
 And twas all a long, cold winter s night 
 
 A dead corse followed she. 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE 29 
 
 Still the beast lay with closed eyes, yet never relaxing his 
 grasp. Once a half-whine of enjoyment escaped him, he 
 fawned his fearful head upon her; once he scored her cheek 
 with his tongue : savage caresses that hurt like wounds. How 
 weary she was ! and yet how terribly awake ! How fuller and 
 fuller of dismay grew the knowledge that she was only pro 
 longing her anguish and playing with death! How appal 
 ling the thought that with her voice ceased her existence ! Yet 
 she could not sing forever; her throat was dry and hard, her 
 very breath was a pain, her mouth was hotter than any des 
 sert-worn pilgrim s if she could but drop upon her burning 
 tongue one atom of the ice that glittered about her! but 
 both of her arms were pinioned in the giant s vice. She re 
 membered the winding-sheet, and for the first time in her life 
 shivered with spiritual fear. Was it hers? She asked her 
 self, as she sang, what sins she had committed, what life 
 she had led, to find her punishment so soon and in these 
 pangs, and then she sought eagerly for some reason why her 
 husband was not up and abroad to find her. He failed her 
 her one sole hope in life and without being aware of it 
 her voice forsook the songs of suffering and sorrow for old 
 Covenanting hymns, hymns with which her mother had 
 lulled her, which the class-leader pitched in the chimney- 
 corners grand and sweet Methodist hymns, brimming with 
 melody and with all fantastic involutions of tune to suit that 
 ecstatic worship, hymns full of the beauty of holiness, stead 
 fast, relying, sanctified by the salvation they had lent to 
 those in worse extremity than hers, for they had found them 
 selves in the grasp of hell, while she was but in the jaws of 
 death. Out of this strange music, peculiar to one character 
 of faith, and than which there is none more beautiful in its 
 degree nor owning a more potent sway of sound, her voice 
 soared into the glorified chants of churches. What to her 
 was death by cold or famine or wild beasts? "Though He 
 slay me, yet will I trust in Him," she sang. High and clear 
 through the frore fair night, the level moonbeams splinter 
 ing in the wood, the scarce glints of stars in the shadowy 
 roof of branches, these sacred anthems rose rose as a hope 
 from despair, as some snowy spray of flower-bells from 
 
30 THE GREAT MODERN^ AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 blackest mould. Was she not in God s hands? Did not 
 the world swing at His will? If this were in His great plan 
 of Providence, was it not best, and should she not accept 
 it? 
 
 "He is the Lord our God; His judgments are in all the 
 earth." 
 
 Oh, sublime faith of our fathers, where utter self-sacrifice 
 alone was true love, the fragrance of whose unrequired sub 
 jection was pleasant as that of golden censers swung in 
 purple-vapored chancels ! 
 
 Never ceasing in the rhythm of her thoughts, articulated 
 in music as they thronged, the memory of her first com 
 munion flashed over her. Again she was in that distant place 
 on that sweet spring morning. Again the congregation rustled 
 out, and the few remained, and she trembled to find herself 
 among them. How well she remembered the devout, quiet 
 faces, too accustomed to the sacred feast to glow with their 
 inner joy, how well the snowy linen at the altar, the silver 
 vessels slowly and silently shifting, and as the cup ap 
 proached and passed, how the sense of delicious perfume 
 stole in and heightened the transport of her prayer, and she 
 had seemed, looking up through the windows where the sky 
 soared blue in constant freshness, to feel all heaven s balms 
 dripping from the portals, and to scent the lilies of eternal 
 peace! Perhaps another would not have felt so much 
 ecstasy as satisfaction on that occasion; but it is a true, if a 
 later disciple, who had said, "The Lord bestoweth his bless 
 ings there, where he findeth the vessels empty." "And does 
 it need the walls of a church to renew my communion?" she 
 asked. "Does not every moment stand a temple four-square 
 to God? And in that morning, with its buoyant sunlight, 
 was I any dearer to the Heart of the World than now?" "My 
 beloved is mine, and I am his," she sang over and over again, 
 with all varied inflection and profuse tune. How gently all 
 the winter- wrapt things bent toward her then ! Into what re 
 lation with her had they grown ! How this common depend 
 ence was the spell of their intimacy! How at one with 
 Nature had she become! How all the night and the silence 
 and the forest seemed to hold its breath, and to send its 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE 31 
 
 soul up to God in her singing! It was no longer despond 
 ency, that singing. It was neither prayer nor petition. She 
 had left imploring "How long wilt Thou forget me, O 
 Lord?," "Lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death," 1 
 "For in death there is no remembrance of Thee," with 
 countless other such fragments of supplication. She cried 
 rather, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the 
 shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; 
 Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me"; and lingered, and 
 repeated, and sang again, "I shall be satisfied, when I awake, 
 with Thy likeness." 
 
 Then she thought of the Great Deliverance, when He drew 
 her up out of many waters, and the flashing old psalm pealed 
 forth triumphantly: 
 
 The Lord descended from above, and bow d the heavens hie: 
 And underneath his feet he cast the darkness of the skie. 
 On cherubs and on cherubins full royally he road: 
 And on the wings of all the winds came flying all abroad. 
 
 She forgot how recently, and with what a strange pity for 
 her own shapeless form that was to be, she quaintly sung 
 
 Oh, lovely appearance of death! 
 . What sight upon earth is so fair? 
 Not all the gay pageants that breathe 
 Can with a dead body compare! 
 
 She remembered instead, "In Thy presence is fulness of joy; 
 at Thy right hand there are pleasures f orevermore" ; and, 
 "God will redeem my soul from the power of the grave: for 
 He shall receive me"; "He will swallow up death in victory," 
 Not once now did she say, "Lord how long wilt Thou look 
 on? Rescue my soul from their destructions, my darling 
 from the lions," for she knew that "the young lions roar 
 after their prey and seek their meat from God." "O Lord, 
 Thou preservest man and beast!" she said. 
 
 She had no comfort or consolation in this season, such as 
 sustained the Christian martyrs in the amphitheatre. She 
 was not dying for her faith, there were no palms in heaven 
 for her to wave but how many a time had she declared, 
 "I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God, than 
 
32 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 to dwell in the tents of wickedness!" And as the broad rays 
 here and there broke through the dense covert of shade 
 and lay in rivers of lustre on crystal sheathing and frozen 
 fretting of trunk and limb and on the great spaces of re 
 fraction, they builded up visibly that house, the shining city 
 on the hill; and singing, "Beautiful for situation, the joy of 
 the whole earth, is Mount Zion, on the sides of the North, the 
 city of the Great King," her vision climbed to that higher 
 picture where the angel shows the dazzling thing, the holy 
 Jerusalem descending out of heaven from God, with its 
 splendid battlements and gates of pearls, and its foundations 
 the eleventh a jacinth, the twelfth an amethyst with its 
 great white throne, and the rainbow round about it, in sight 
 like urito an emerald "And there shall be no night there, 
 for the Lord God giveth them light," she sang. 
 
 What whisper of dawn now rustled through the wilderness ? 
 How the night was passing! And still the beast crouched 
 upon the bough, changing only the posture of his head that 
 again he might command her with those charmed eyes. Half 
 their fire was gone she could almost have released herself 
 from his custody yet, had she stirred, no one knows what 
 malevolent instinct might have dominated anew. But of that 
 she did not dream; long ago stripped of any expectation, she 
 was experiencing in her divine rapture how mystically true 
 it is that "he that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most 
 High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty." 
 
 Slow clarion cries now wound from the distance as the 
 cocks caught the intelligence of day and reechoed it faintly 
 from farm to farm sleepy sentinels of night, sounding the 
 foe s invasion, and translating that dim intuition to ringing 
 notes of warning. Still she chanted on. A remote crash of 
 brushwood told of some other beast on his depredations, or 
 some night-belated traveller groping his way through the 
 narrow path. Still she chanted on. The far, faint echoes of 
 the chanticleers died into distance, the crashing of the 
 branches grew nearer. No wild beast that, but a man s step, 
 a man s form in the moonlight, stalwart and strong, on 
 one arm slept a little child, in the other hand he held his 
 gun. Still she chanted on. 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE 33 
 
 Perhaps, when her husband last looked forth, he was half 
 ashamed to find what a fear he felt for her. He knew she 
 would never leave the child so long but for some direst need, 
 and yet he may have laughed at himself, as he lifted and 
 wrapped it with awkward care, and, loading his gun and 
 strapping on his horn, opened the door again and closed it 
 behind him, going out and plunging into the darkness and 
 dangers of the forest. He was more singularly alarmed than 
 he would have been willing to acknowledge; as he had sat 
 with his bow hovering over the strings, he had half believed 
 to hear her voice mingling gayly with the instrument, till he 
 paused and listened if she were not about to lift the latch and 
 enter. As he drew nearer the heart of the forest, that in 
 timation of melody seemed to grow more actual, to take body 
 and breath, to come and go on long swells and ebbs of the 
 night-breeze, to increase with tune and words, till a strange, 
 shrill singing grew even clearer, and, as he stepped into an 
 open space of moonbeams, far up in the branches, rocked by 
 the wind, and singing, "How beautiful upon the mountains 
 are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth 
 peace," he saw his wife his wife but, great God in 
 heaven! how? Some mad exclamation escaped him, but 
 without diverting her. The child knew the singing voice, 
 though never heard before in that unearthly key, and turned 
 toward it through the veiling dreams. With a celerity almost 
 instantaneous, it lay, in the twinkling of an eye, on the ground 
 at the father s feet, while his gun was raised to his shoulder 
 and levelled at the monster covering his wife with shaggy 
 form and naming gaze his wife so ghastly white, so rigid, 
 so stained with blood, her eyes so fixedly bent above, and her 
 lips, that had indurated into the chiselled pallor of marble, 
 parted only with that flood of solemn song. 
 
 I do not know if it were the mother-instinct that for a 
 moment lowered her eyes those eyes, so lately riveted on 
 heaven, now suddenly seeing all life-long bliss possible. A 
 thrill of joy pierced and shivered through her like a weapon, 
 her voice trembled in its course, her glance lost its steady 
 strength, fever-flushes chased each other over her face, yet she 
 never once ceased chanting. She was quite aware that if 
 
34 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 her husband shot now the ball must pierce her body before 
 reaching any vital part of the beast and yet better that? 
 death, by his hand, than the other. But this her husband 
 also knew, and he remained motionless, just covering the 
 creature with the sight. He dared not fire lest some wound 
 not mortal should break the spell exercised by her voice, 
 and the beast, enraged with pain, should rend her in atoms; 
 moreover, the light was too uncertain for his aim. So he 
 waited. Now and then he examined his gun to see if the 
 damp were injuring its charge, now and then he wiped the 
 great drops from his forehead. Again the cocks crowed with 
 the passing hour the last time they were heard on that 
 night. Cheerful home sound then, how full of safety and all 
 comfort and rest it seemed! What sweet morning incidents 
 of sparkling fire and sunshine, of gay household bustle, 
 shining dresser, and cooing baby, of steaming cattle in the 
 yard, and brimming milk-pails at the door! What pleasant 
 voices, what laughter, what security! And here 
 
 Now as she sang on in the slow, endless, infinite moments, 
 the fervent vision of God s peace was gone. Just as the grave 
 had lost its sting, she was snatched back again into the arms 
 of earthly hope. In vain she tried to sing, "There remaineth 
 a rest for the people of God" her eyes trembled on her 
 husband s, and she could think only of him, and of the child, 
 and of happiness that yet might be, but with what a dreadful 
 gulf of doubt between ! She shuddered now in the suspense ; 
 all calm forsook her; she was tortured with dissolving heats 
 or frozen with icy blasts; her face contracted, growing small 
 and pinched; her voice was hoarse and sharp every tone 
 cut like a knife the notes became heavy to lift withheld 
 by some hostile pressure impossible. One gasp, a con 
 vulsive effort, and there was silence she had lost her voice. 
 
 The beast made a sluggish movement stretched and 
 fawned like one awakening then, as if he would have yet 
 more of the enchantment, stirred her slightly with his muzzle. 
 As he did so a sidelong hint of the man standing below 
 with the raised gun smote him; he sprung round furiously, 
 and, seizing his prey, was about to leap into some unknown 
 airy den of the top-most branches now waving to the slow 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE 35 
 
 dawn. The late moon had rounded through the sky so that 
 her gleam at last fell full upon the bough with fairy frost 
 ing; the wintry morning light did not yet penetrate the gloom. 
 The woman, suspended in mid-air an instant, cast only one 
 agonized glance beneath, but across and through it, ere the 
 lids could fall, shot a withering sheet of flame a rifle-crack, 
 half heard, was lost in the terrible yell of desperation that 
 bounded after it and filled her ears with savage echoes, and 
 in the wide arc of some eternal descent she was falling 
 but the beast fell under her. 
 
 I think that the moment following must have been too 
 sacred for us, and perhaps the three have no special in 
 terest again till they issue from the shadows of the wilder 
 ness upon the white hills that skirt their home! The father 
 carries the child hushed again to slumber, the mother follows 
 with no such feeble step as might be anticipated, and as 
 they slowly climb the steep under the clear gray sky and the 
 paling morning star, she stops to gather a spray of the red- 
 rose berries or a feathey tuft of dead grasses for the chim 
 ney-piece of the log-house, or a handful of brown ones for 
 the child s play, and of these quiet, happy folk you would 
 scarcely dream how lately they had stolen from under the 
 banner and encampment of the great King Death. The hus 
 band proceeds a step or two in advance; the wife lingers over 
 a singular foot-print in the snow, stoops and examines it, 
 then looks up with a hurried word. Her husband stands 
 alone on the hill, his arms folded across the babe, his gun 
 fallen stands defined against the pallid sky like a bronze. 
 What is there in their home, lying below and yellowing in. 
 the light, to fix him with such a stare? She springs to his 
 side. There is no home there. The log-house, the barns, the 
 neighboring farms, the fences, are" all blotted out and mingled 
 in one smoking ruin. Desolation and death were indeed 
 there, and beneficence and life in the forest. Tomahawk and 
 scalping-knife, descending during that night, had left be 
 hind them only this work of their accomplished hatred and 
 one subtle foot-print in the snow. 
 
 For the rest the world was all before them, where to 
 choose. 
 
THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG 
 OF CALAVERAS COUNTY * 
 
 BY MARK TWAIN 
 
 IN compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who 
 wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garru 
 lous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend s 
 friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I here 
 unto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that 
 Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth; that my friend never knew 
 such a personage; and that he only conjectured that, if I 
 asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his 
 infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me 
 nearly to death with some infernal reminiscence of him as 
 long and tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was 
 the design, it certainly succeeded. 
 
 I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar 
 room stove of the old, dilapidated tavern in the ancient min 
 ing camp of Angel s, and I noticed that he was fat and bald- 
 headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and 
 simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He roused up and 
 gave me good-day. I told him a friend of mine had com 
 missioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished 
 companion of his boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley Rev. 
 Leonidas W. Smiley a young minister of the Gospel, who 
 he had heard was at one time a resident of Angel s Camp. 
 I added, that, if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about 
 this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many 
 obligations to him. 
 
 Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me 
 there with his chair, and then sat me down and reeled off 
 the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. He 
 never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice 
 
 * From the collected works of Mark Twain, published by Harper 
 & Brothers. 
 
 36 
 
THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG 37 
 
 from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned the initial 
 sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthu 
 siasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran 
 a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed 
 me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was 
 anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it 
 as a really important matter, and admitted its two heroes 
 as men of transcendent genius in finesse. To me, the 
 spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through such a 
 queer yarn without ever smiling, was exquisitely absurd. As 
 I said before, I asked him to tell me what he knew of Rev. 
 Leonidas W. Smiley, and he replied as follows. I let him 
 go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once: 
 
 There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, 
 in the winter of 49 or maybe it was the spring of 50 I 
 don t recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me 
 think it was one or the other is because I remember the big 
 flume wasn t finished when he first came to the camp; but 
 anyway, he was the curiousest man about always betting on 
 anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get any 
 body to bet on the other side; and if he couldn t, he d change 
 sides. Any way that suited the other man would suit him 
 any way just so s he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still he 
 was lucky, uncommon lucky he most always come out win 
 ner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there 
 couldn t be no solit ry thing mentioned but that feller d offer 
 to bet on it, and take any side you please, as I was just tell 
 ing you. If there was a horse-race, you d find him flush, or 
 you d find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dog 
 fight, he d bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he d bet on it; 
 if there was a chicken-fight, he d bet on it; why, if there 
 was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which 
 one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would 
 be there reg lar, to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged 
 to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a 
 good man. If he even seen a straddle-bug start to go any 
 wheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get 
 wherever he was going to, and if you took him up, he would 
 foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find 
 
38 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 out where he was bound for and how long he was on the 
 road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley, and can 
 tell you about him. Why, it never made no difference to 
 him he would bet on anything the dangdest feller. Par 
 son Walker s wife laid very sick once, for a good while, and 
 it seemed as if they warn t going to save her; but one morn 
 ing he came in, and Smiley asked how she was, and he said 
 she was considerable better thank the Lord for his inf nit 
 mercy and coming on so smart that, with the blessing of 
 Prov dence, she d get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, 
 says, "Well, I ll risk two-and-a-half that she don t, anyway." 
 
 Thish-yer Smiley had a mare the boys called her the 
 fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, be 
 cause, of course, she was faster than that and he used to win 
 money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had 
 the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or some 
 thing of that kind. They used to give her two or three hun 
 dred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at 
 the fag-end of the race she d get excited and desperate-like, 
 and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her 
 legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out 
 to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust, 
 and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing 
 and blowing her nose and always fetch up at the stand 
 just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it 
 down. 
 
 And he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him 
 you d think he wan t worth a cent but to set around and look 
 ornery and lay for a chance to steal something. But as 
 soon as money was up on him, he was a different dog; his 
 under- jaw d begin to stick out like the fo castle of a steam 
 boat, and his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the 
 furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bully-rag him, 
 and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three 
 times, and Andrew Jackson which was the name of the pup 
 Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was satis 
 fied, and hadn t expected nothing else and the bets being 
 doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the 
 money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab 
 
THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG 39 
 
 that other dog jest by the j int of his hind leg and freeze to 
 it not claw, you understand, but only jest grip and hang 
 on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley 
 always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a 
 dog once that didn t have no hind legs, because they d been 
 sawed off by a circular saw, and when the thing had gone 
 along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come 
 to make a snatch for his pet holt, he saw in a minute how 
 he d been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in 
 the door, so to speak, and he peared surprised, and then he 
 looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn t try no more to win 
 the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He give Smiley a 
 look, as much to say his heart was broke and it was his 
 fault for putting up a dog that hadn t no hind legs for him 
 to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, 
 and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. 
 It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would 
 have made a name for hisself if he d lived, for the stuff was 
 in him, and he had genius I know it, because he hadn t 
 no opportunities to speak of, and it don t stand to reason 
 that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them 
 circumstances, if he hadn t no talent. It always makes me 
 feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his n, and the way 
 it turned out. 
 
 Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken-cocks, 
 and tom-cats, and all them kind of things, till you couldn t 
 rest, and you couldn t fetch nothing for him to bet on but 
 he d match you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him 
 home, and said he cal klated to edercate him; and so he 
 never done nothing for these three months but set in his back 
 yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he did 
 learn him, too. He d give him a little punch behind, and 
 the next minute you d see that frog whirling in the air like 
 a doughnut see him turn one summerset, or maybe a 
 couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and 
 all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catch 
 ing flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he d nai] 
 a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley said all 
 a frog wanted was education, and he could do most any- 
 
40 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 thing and I believe him. Why, I ve seen him set Dan l 
 Webster down here on this floor Dan l Webster was the 
 name of the frog and sing out, "Flies, Dan l, flies!" and 
 quicker n you could wink, he d spring straight up, and snake 
 a fly off n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again 
 as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his 
 head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn t no idea 
 he s been doin any more n any frog might do. You never 
 see a frog so modest and straight-for ard as he was, for all 
 he was so gifted. And when it come to fair and square jump 
 ing on the dead level, he could get over more ground at one 
 straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jump 
 ing on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand ; and 
 when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him 
 as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of 
 his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled 
 and been everywhere all said he laid over any frog that ever 
 they see. 
 
 Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he 
 used to fetch him downtown sometimes and lay for a bet. 
 One day a feller a stranger in the camp, he was come 
 across him with his box, and says: 
 
 "What might it be that you ve got in the box?" 
 
 And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, "It might be a 
 parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain t it s 
 only just a frog." 
 
 An the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned 
 it round this way and that, and says, "H m so tis. Well, 
 what s he good for?" 
 
 "Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, "He s good enough 
 for one thing, I should judge he can outjump ary frog in 
 Calaveras county." 
 
 The feller took the box again, and took another long, par 
 ticular look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very de 
 liberate, "Well, I don t see no p ints about that frog that s 
 any better n any other frog." 
 
 "Maybe you don t," Smiley says. "Maybe you under 
 stand frogs, and maybe you don t understand em; maybe 
 you ve had experience, and maybe you ain t only a amature, 
 
THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG 41 
 
 as it were. Anyways, I ve got my opinion, and I ll risk 
 forty dollars that he can out jump any frog in Calaveras 
 county." 
 
 And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder 
 sad like, "Well, I m only a stranger here, and I ain t got no 
 frog; but if I had a frog, I d bet you." 
 
 And then Smiley says, "That s all right that s all right 
 if you ll hold my box a minute, I ll go and get you a frog." 
 And so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars 
 along with Smiley s, and set down to wait. 
 
 So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to 
 hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth 
 open and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot 
 filled him pretty near up to his chin and set him on the 
 floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in 
 the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and 
 fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says : 
 
 "Now, if you re ready, set him alongside of Dan l, with 
 his fore-paws just even with Dan l, and I ll give the word." 
 Then he says, "One two three jump!" and him and the 
 feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog 
 hopped off, but Dan l give a heave, and hysted up his 
 shoulders so like a Frenchman, but it wasn t no use he 
 couldn t budge; he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he 
 couldn t no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley 
 was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he 
 didn t have no idea what the matter was, of course. 
 
 The feller took the money and started away; and when he 
 was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over 
 his shoulder this way at Dan l, and says again, very de 
 liberate, "Well, / don t see no p ints about that frog that s 
 any better n any other frog." 
 
 Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at 
 Dan l a long time, and at last he says, "I do wonder what in 
 the nation that frog throw d off for I wonder if there ain t 
 something the matter with him he pears to look mighty 
 baggy, somehow." And he ketched Dan l by the nap of the 
 neck, and lifted him up and says, "Why, blame my cats, if 
 he don t weight five pounds!" and turned him upside down, 
 
42 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he 
 see how it was, and he was the maddest man he set the 
 frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched 
 him. And 
 
 (Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the 
 front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.) And turn 
 ing to me as he moved away, he said : "Just set where you 
 are, stranger, and rest easy I ain t going to be gone a sec 
 ond." 
 
 But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of 
 the history of the enterprising vagabond Jim Smiley would 
 be likely to afford me much information concerning the Rev. 
 Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I started away. 
 
 At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he 
 buttonholed me and recommended : 
 
 "Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yeller one-eyed cow that 
 didn t have no tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, 
 
 "Oh, hang Smiley and his afflicted cow!" I muttered, 
 good-naturedly, and bidding the old gentleman good-day, I 
 departed. 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM * 
 
 BY HENRY JAMES 
 I 
 
 INTENDING to sail for America in the early part of June, 
 I determined to spend the interval of six weeks in Eng 
 land, of which I had dreamed much but as yet knew 
 nothing. I had formed in Italy and France a resolute pref 
 erence for old inns, deeming that what they sometimes cost 
 the ungratified body they repay the delighted mind. On my 
 arrival in London, therefore, I lodged at a certain antique 
 hostelry far to the east of Temple Bar, deep in what I used 
 to denominate the Johnsonian city. Here, on the first even 
 ing of my stay, I descended to the little coffee-room and 
 bespoke my dinner of the genius of decorum, in the person 
 of the solitary waiter. No sooner had I crossed the threshold 
 of this apartment than I felt I had mown the first swath in 
 my golden-ripe crop of British "impressions." The coffee- 
 room of the Red-Lion, like so many other places and things 
 I was destined to see in England, seemed to have been waiting 
 for long years, with just that sturdy sufferance of time written 
 on its visage, for me to come and gaze, ravished but unamazed. 
 The latent preparedness of the American mind for even 
 the most delectable features of English life is a fact which I 
 fairly probed to its depths. The roots of it are so deeply 
 buried in the virgin soil of our primary culture, that, without 
 some great upheaval of experience, it would be hard to say 
 exactly when and where and how it begins. It makes an 
 American s enjoyment of England an emotion more fatal and 
 sacred than his enjoyment, say, of Italy or Spain. I had seen 
 
 * By permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton 
 Miffiin Company, the authorized publishers; and by permission of 
 Henry James. 
 
 43 
 
44 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 the coffee-room of the Red-Lion years ago, at home at Sara- 
 in Smollett, and Boswell. It was small, and subdivided into 
 six small compartments by a series of perpendicular screens 
 of mahogany, something higher than a man s stature, fur 
 nished on either side with a narrow uncushioned ledge, de 
 nominated in ancient Britain a seat. In each of the little 
 dining-boxes thus immutably constituted was a small table, 
 which in crowded seasons was expected to accommodate the 
 several agents of a fourtold British hungriness. . . . On 
 the floor was a Turkey carpet as old as the mahogany, 
 almost, as the Bank of England, as the Queen into which 
 the waiter in his lonely revolutions had trodden so many mas 
 sive soot-flakes and drops of overflowing beer, that the glow 
 ing looms of Smyrna would certainly not have recognized it. 
 To say that I ordered my dinner of this superior being would 
 be altogether to misrepresent the process, owing to which, 
 having dreamed of lamb and spinach, and a charlotte-russe, 
 I sat down in penitence to -a mutton-chop and a rice pudding. 
 Bracing my feet against the cross-beam of my little oaken 
 table, I opposed to the mahogany partition behind me that 
 vigorous dorsal resistance which expresses the old-English 
 idea of repose. The sturdy screen refused even to creak; 
 but my poor Yankee joints made up the deficiency. While 
 I was waiting for my chop there came into the room a person 
 whom I took to be my sole fellow-lodger. He seemed, like 
 myself, to have submitted to proposals for dinner; the table 
 on the other side of my partition had been prepared to re 
 ceive him. He walked up to the fire, exposed his back to it, 
 consulted his watch, and looked apparently out of the win 
 dow, but really at me. He was a man of something less than 
 middle age and more than middle stature, though indeed 
 you would have called him neither young nor tall. He was 
 chiefly remarkable for his exaggerated leanness. His hair, 
 very thin on the summit of his head, was dark, short, and 
 fine. His eye was of a pale, turbid gray, unsuited, perhaps, 
 to his dark hair and brow, but not altogether out of harmony 
 with his colorless, bilious complexion. His nose was aqui 
 line and delicate; beneath it hung a thin, comely, dark mus 
 tache. His mouth and chin were meagre and uncertain of 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 45 
 
 outline; not vulgar, perhaps, but weak. A cold, fatal, gentle 
 manly weakness, indeed, seemed expressed in his attenuated 
 person. His eyes was restless and deprecating; his whole 
 physiognomy, his manner of shifting his weight from foot to 
 foot, the spiritless droop of his head, told of exhausted pur 
 pose, of a will relaxed. His dress was neat and careful, with 
 an air of half-mourning, I made up my mind on three 
 points: he was unmarried, he was ill, he was not an English 
 man. The waiter approached him, and they murmured mo 
 mentarily in barely audible tones. I heard the words "claret," 
 "sherry," with a tentative, inflection, and finally "beer," with 
 a gentle affirmative. Perhaps he was a Russian in reduced 
 circumstances; he reminded me of a certain type of Rus 
 sian which I had met on the Continent. While I was weigh 
 ing this hypothesis for you see I was interested there ap 
 peared a short, brisk man with reddish-brown hair, a vulgar 
 nose, a sharp blue eye, and a red beard, confined to his lower 
 jaw and chin. My impecunious Russian was still standing on 
 the rug with his mild gaze bent on vacancy; the other marched 
 up to him, and with his umbrella gave him a playful poke in 
 the concave frontage of his melancholy waistcoat. "A penny- 
 ha penny for your thoughts!" said the new-comer. 
 
 His companion uttered an exclamation, stared, then laid 
 his two hands on the other s shoulders. ... As my 
 neighbors proceeded to dine, I became conscious that, 
 through no indiscretion of my own a large portion of their 
 conversation made its way over the top of our dividing 
 partition and mingled its savor with that of my simple re 
 past. The two voices were pitched in an unforgotten key, 
 and equally native to our Cisatlantic air; they seemed to 
 fall upon the muffled medium of surrounding parlance as the 
 rattle of pease on the face of a drum. They were Ameri 
 can, however, with a difference; and I had no hesitation in 
 assigning the lighter and softer of the two to the pale, thin 
 gentleman, whom I decidedly preferred to his comrade. The 
 latter began to question him about his voyage. 
 
 "Horrible, horrible! I was deadly sick from the hour we 
 left New York." 
 
 >: >j >J >:.: a 
 
46 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 There was a pause; after which: "You re the same cheer 
 ful old boy, Searle. Going to die to-morrow, eh?" 
 
 "I almost wish I were." 
 
 "You re not in love with England, then? I ve heard 
 people say at home that you dressed and talked and acted 
 like an Englishman. But I know Englishmen, and I know 
 you. You re not one of them, Searle, not you. You ll go 
 under here, sir; you ll go under as sure as my name is Sim 
 mons." 
 
 Following this, I heard a sudden clatter, as of the drop 
 ping of a knife and fork. "Well, you re a delicate sort of 
 creature, Simmons ! I have been wandering about all day in 
 this accursed city, ready to cry with home-sickness and heart- 
 sickness and every possible sort of sickness, and thinking, in 
 the absence of anything better, of meeting you here this even 
 ing, and of your uttering some syllable of cheer and com 
 fort, and giving me some feeble ray of hope. Go under? Am 
 I not under now? I can t sink lower, except to sink into 
 my grave!" 
 
 Mr. Simmons seems to have staggered a moment under this 
 outbreak of passion. But the next, "Don t cry, Searle," I 
 heard him say. "Remember the waiter. I ve grown English 
 man enough for that. For heaven s sake, don t let us have 
 any feelings. Feelings will do nothing for you here. It s 
 best to come to the point. Tell me in three words what you 
 expect of me." 
 
 I heard another movement, as if poor Searle had collapsed 
 in his chair. "Upon my word, Simmons, you are inconceiv 
 able. You got my letter?" 
 
 "Yes, I got your letter. I was never sorrier to get anything 
 in my life." 
 
 At this declaration Mr. Searle rattled out an oath, which 
 it was well perhaps that I but partially heard. "John Sim 
 mons," he cried, "what devil possesses you? Are you going 
 to betray me here in a foreign land, to turn out a false friend, 
 a heartless rogue?" 
 
 "Go on, sir," said sturdy Simmons. ... "I don t 
 want to say anything to make you feel sore. I pity you. 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 47 
 
 But you must allow me to say that you have acted like a 
 blasted fool!" 
 
 Mr. Searle seemed to have made an effort to compose him 
 self. "Be so good as to tell me what was the meaning of 
 your letter. " 
 
 "I was a fool, myself, to have written that letter. It came 
 of my infernal meddlesome benevolence. I had much better 
 have let you alone. To tell you the plain truth, I never was 
 so horrified in my life as when I found that on the strength 
 of that letter you had come out here to seek your fortune." 
 
 "What did you expect me to do?" 
 
 "I expected you to wait patiently till I had made further 
 inquiries and had written to you again." 
 
 "You have made further inquiries now?" 
 
 "Inquiries! I have made assaults." 
 
 "And you find I have no claim?" 
 
 "No claim to call a claim. It looked at first as if you 
 had a very pretty one. I confess the idea took hold of 
 
 "I ll have some brandy. Come, Searle," he resumed, 
 "don t challenge me to the arts of debate, or I ll settle right 
 down on you. Benevolence, as I say, was part of it. The 
 reflection that if I put the thing through it would be a very 
 pretty feather in my cap and a very pretty penny in my purse 
 was part of it. And the satisfaction of seeing a poor no 
 body of a Yankee walk right into an old English estate was 
 a good deal of it. Upon my word, Searle, when I think of it, 
 I wish with all my heart that, erratic genius as you are, you 
 had a claim, for the very beauty of it ! I should hardly care 
 what you did with the confounded property when you got it. 
 I could leave you alone to turn it into Yankee notions into 
 ducks and drakes, as they call it here. I should like to see 
 you stamping over it and kicking up its sacred dust in their 
 very faces!" 
 
 "You don t know me, Simmons!" said Searle, for all re 
 sponse to this untender benediction. 
 
 "I should be very glad to think I didn t, Searle. 
 It seems your brother George, some twenty years ago, put 
 
48 THE GREAT MODERN^ AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 forth a feeler. So you are not to have the glory of even 
 frightening them." 
 
 "I never frightened any one," said Searle. "I shouldn t 
 begin at this time of day. I should approach the subject like 
 a gentleman." 
 
 "Well, if you want very much to do something like a 
 gentleman, you ve got a capital chance. Take your dissap- 
 pointment like a gentleman." 
 
 I had finished my dinner, and I had become keenly inter 
 ested in poor Mr. Searle s mysterious claim ; so interested that 
 it was vexatious to hear his emotions reflected in his voice 
 without noting them in his face. I left my place, went over 
 to the fire, took up the evening paper, and established a post 
 of observation behind it. 
 
 Lawyer Simmons was in the act of choosing a soft chop 
 from the dish an act accompanied by a great deal of prying 
 and poking with his own personal fork. My disillusioned 
 compatriot had pushed away his plate ; he sat with his elbows 
 on the table, gloomily nursing his head with his hands. His 
 companion stared at him a moment, I fancied half tenderly; 
 I am not sure whether it was pity or whether it was beer and 
 brandy. 
 
 Searle disgustedly gave his plate another push. "Any 
 thing may happen, now !" he said. "I don t care a straw." 
 
 "You ought to care. Have another chop and you will care. 
 Have some brandy. Take my advice!" 
 
 Searle from between his two hands looked at him. "I have 
 had enough of your advice !" he said. 
 
 "A little more," said Simmons, mildly; "I shaVt trouble 
 you again. What do you mean to do?" 
 
 "I won t go home! I have crossed the ocean for the last 
 time." 
 
 "What is the matter? Are you afraid?" 
 
 "Yes, I m afraid! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me 
 that word! " 
 
 "You re more afraid to go than to stay?" 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 49 
 
 "I sha n t stay. I shall die." 
 
 "O, are you sure of that?" 
 
 "One can always be sure of that." 
 
 Mr. Simmons started and stared: his mild cynic had 
 turned grim stoic. "Upon my soul," he said, "one would 
 think that Death had named the day!" 
 
 "We have named it, between us." 
 
 This was too much even for Mr. Simmons s easy morality. 
 "I say, Searle," he cried, "I m not more of a stickler than 
 the next man, but if you are going to blaspheme, I shall wash 
 my hands of you. If you ll consent to return home with me 
 by the steamer of the 23d, I ll pay your passage down. More 
 than that, I ll pay your wine bill." 
 
 Searle meditated. "I believe I never willed anything in 
 my life," he said; "but I feel sure that I have willed this, 
 that I stay here till I take my leave for a newer world than 
 that poor old New World of ours. ... I have about 
 my person some forty pounds worth of British gold and 
 the same amount, say, of Yankee vitality. They ll last me 
 out together! After they are gone, I shall lay my head in 
 some English churchyard, beside some ivied tower, beneath 
 an English yew." 
 
 They had risen to their feet. Simmons had put on his 
 overcoat; he stood polishing his rusty black hat with his 
 napkin. "Do you mean to go down to the place?" he asked. 
 
 "Possibly. I have dreamed of it so much I should like to 
 see it." 
 
 "Shall you call on Mr. Searle?" 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" 
 
 "Something has just occurred to me," Simmons pursued, 
 with an unhandsome grin, as if Mephistopheles were playing 
 at malice. "There s a Miss Searle, the old man s sister." 
 
 "Well?" said the other, frowning. 
 
 "Well, sir, suppose, instead of dying, you should marry!" 
 
 Mr. Searle frowned in silence. Simmons gave him a tap 
 on the stomach. "Line those ribs a bit first!" The poor 
 gentleman blushed crimson and his eyes filled with tears. 
 
50 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "You are a coarse brute," he said. The scene was pathetic. 
 
 The next morning, not finding the innocent object of my 
 benevolent curiosity in the coffee-room, I learned from the 
 waiter that he had ordered breakfast in bed. Into this 
 asylum I was not yet prepared to pursue him. I spent the 
 morning running about London, chiefly on business, but 
 snatching by the way many a vivid impression of its huge 
 metropolitan interest. Beneath the sullen black and gray 
 of that hoary civic world the hungry American mind de 
 tects the magic colors of association. As the afternoon ap 
 proached, however, my impatient heart began to babble of 
 green fields; it was of English meadows I had chiefly 
 dreamed. Thinking over the suburban lions, I fixed upon 
 Hampton Court. The day was the more propitious that it 
 yielded just that dim, subaqueous light which sleeps so fondly 
 upon the English landscape. 
 
 At the end of an hour I found myself wandering through 
 the multitudinous rooms of the great palace. They follow 
 each other in infinite succession, with no great variety of in 
 terest or aspect, but with a sort of regal monotony, and a 
 fine specific flavor. They are most exactly of their various 
 times. You pass from great painted and panelled bed-cham 
 bers and closets, ante-rooms, drawing-rooms, council-rooms, 
 through king s suite, queen s suite, and prince s suite, until 
 you feel as if you were strolling through the appointed hours 
 and stages of some decorous monarchical day. On one side 
 are the old monumental upholsteries, the vast cold tarnished 
 beds and canopies, with the circumference of disapparelled 
 royalty attested by a gilded balustrade, and the great carved 
 and yawning chimney-places, where dukes-in-waiting may 
 have warmed their weary heels; on the other side, in deep 
 recesses, the immense windows, the framed and draped em 
 brasures where the sovereign whispered and favorites smiled, 
 looking out on the terraced gardens and the misty glades of 
 Bushey Park. The dark walls are gravely decorated by in 
 numerable dark portraits of persons attached to court and 
 state, more especially with various members of the Dutch- 
 looking entourage of William of Orange, the restorer of the 
 palace; with good store, too, of the lily-bosomed models of 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 51 
 
 Lely and Kneller. The whole tone of this long-drawn interior 
 is immensly sombre, prosaic, and sad. The tints of all things 
 have sunk to a cold and melancholy brown, and the great 
 palatial void seems to hold no stouter tenantry than a sort of 
 pungent odorous chill. I seemed to be the only visitor. I 
 held ungrudged communion with the formal genius of the 
 spot. Poor mortalized kings! ineffective lure of royalty! 
 This, or something like it, was the murmured burden of my 
 musings. They were interrupted suddenly by my coming 
 upon a person standing in devout contemplation before a 
 simpering countess of Sir Peter Lely s creation. On hear 
 ing my footstep this person turned his head, and I recog 
 nized my fellow-lodger at the Red-Lion. I was apparently 
 recognized as well ; I detected an air of overture in his glance. 
 In a few moments, seeing I had a catalogue, he asked the 
 name of the portrait. On my ascertaining it, he inquired, 
 timidly, how I liked the lady. 
 
 "Well," said I, not quite timidly enough, perhaps, "I 
 confess she seems to me rather a light piece of work." 
 
 He remained silent, and a little abashed, I think. As 
 we strolled away he stole a sidelong glance of farewell at 
 his leering shepherdess. To speak with him face to face 
 was to feel keenly that he was weak arid interesting. We 
 talked of our inn, of London, of the palace; he uttered his 
 mind freely, but he seemed to struggle with a weight of 
 deprsssion. It was a simple mind enough, with no great 
 culture, I fancied, but with a certain appealing native grace. 
 I foresaw that I should find him a true American, full of 
 that perplexing interfusion of refinement and crudity which 
 marks the American mind. His perceptions, I divined, were 
 delicate; his opinions, possibly gross. On my telling him 
 that I too was an American, he stopped short and seemed 
 overcome with emotion : then silently passing his arm into my 
 own, he suffered me to lead him through the rest of the 
 palace and down into the gardens. A vast gravelled platform 
 stretches itself before the basement of the palace, taking the 
 afternoon sun. A portion of the edifice is reserved as a 
 series of private apartments, occupied by state pensioners, 
 reduced gentlewomen in receipf of the Queen s bounty, and 
 
52 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 other deserving persons. Many of these apartments have 
 their little private gardens; and here and there, between their 
 verdure-coated walls, you catch a glimpse of these dim horti 
 cultural closets. My companion and I took many a turn up 
 and down this spacious level, looking down on the antique 
 geometry of the lower garden and on the stoutly woven 
 tapestry of vine and blossom which muffles the foundations 
 of the huge red pile. . . . There are few sensations so 
 exquisite in life as to stand with a companion in a foreign 
 land and inhale to the depths of your consciousness the alien 
 savor of the air and the tonic picturesqueness of things. 
 This common relish of local color makes comrades of 
 . strangers. My companion seemed oppressed with vague 
 amazement He stared and lingered and scanned the scene 
 with a gentle scowl. His enjoyment appeared to give him 
 pain. I proposed, at last, that we should dine in the 
 neighborhood and take a late train to town. We made our 
 way out of the gardens into the adjoining village, where we 
 found an excellent inn. Mr. Searle sat down to table with 
 small apparent interest in the repast, but gradually warm 
 ing to his work, he declared at the end of half an hour that 
 for the first time in a month he felt an appetite. 
 
 "You re an invalid?" I said. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. "A hopeless one!" 
 
 The little village of Hampton Court stands clustered 
 about the broad entrance of Bushey Park. After we had 
 dined we lounged along into the hazy vista of the great 
 avenue of horse-chestnuts. There is a rare emotion, familiar 
 to every intelligent traveller, in which the mind, with a great 
 >. passionate throb, achieves a magical synthesis of its im- 
 _, pressions. You feel England; you feel Italy. The reflection 
 for the moment has an extraordinary poignancy. I had known 
 it from time to time in Italy, and had opened my soul to it as 
 to the spirit of the Lord. Since my arrival in England I had 
 been waiting for it to come. A bottle of excellent Burgundy 
 at dinner had perhaps unlocked to it the gates of sense; it 
 came now with a conquering tread. Just the scene around me 
 was the England of my visions. Over against us, amid the 
 deep-hued bloom of its ordered gardens, the dark red palace, 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 53 
 
 with its formal copings and its vacant windows, seemed to 
 tell of a proud and splendid past; the little village nestling 
 between park and palace, around a patch of turfy common, 
 with its tavern of gentility, its ivy-towered church, its par 
 sonage, retained to my modernized fancy the lurking sem 
 blance of a feudal hamlet. . . . 
 
 "Well," I said to my friend, "I think there is no mistake 
 about this being England. We may like it or not, it s posi 
 tive ! No more dense and stubborn fact ever settled down on 
 an expectant tourist. It brings my heart into my throat." 
 
 Searle was silent. I looked at him; he was looking up at 
 the sky, as if he were watching some visible descent of the 
 elements. "On me too," he said, "it s settling down 1" Then 
 with a forced smile: "Heaven give me strength to bear it!" 
 
 "You have the advantage over me," my companion re 
 sumed, after a pause, "in coming to all this with an educated 
 eye. You already know the old. I have never known it but 
 by report. I have always fancied I should like it. In a 
 small way at home, you know, I have tried to stick to the 
 old. I must be a conservative by nature. People at home 
 a few people used to call me a snob." 
 
 "I don t believe you were a snob," I cried. "You look too 
 amiable." 
 
 He smiled sadly. "There it is," he said. "It s the old 
 story! I m amiable! I know what that means! I was too 
 great a fool to be even a snob ! If I had been I should prob 
 ably have come abroad earlier in life before before " 
 He paused, and his head dropped sadly on his breast. 
 
 The bottle of Bergundy had loosened his tongue. I felt 
 that my learning his story was merely a question of time. 
 Something told me that I had gained his confidence and he 
 would unfold himself. "Before you lost your health," I said. 
 
 "Before I lost my health," he answered. "And my prop 
 erty the little I had. And my ambition. And my self- 
 esteem." 
 
 "Come!" I said. "You shall get them all back. This 
 tonic English climate will wind you up in a month. 
 
54 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 And with the return of health, all the rest will return." 
 
 Just at this moment there came cantering down the shallow 
 glade of the avenue a young girl on a fine black horse one 
 of those lovely budding gentlewomen, perfectly mounted and 
 equipped, who form to American eyes the sweetest incident of 
 English scenery. She had distanced her servant, and, as she 
 came abreast of us, turned slightly in her saddle and looked 
 back at him. In the movement she dropped her whip. 
 Drawing in her horse, she cast upon the ground a glance of 
 maidenly alarm. "This is something better than a Lely," 
 I said. Searle hastened forward, picked up the whip, and 
 removing his hat with an air of great devotion, presented it 
 to the young girl. Fluttered and blushing, she reached for 
 ward, took it with softly murmured gratitude, and the next 
 moment was bounding over the elastic turf. Searle stood 
 watching her; the servant, as he passed us, touched his hat. 
 When Searle turned toward me again, I saw that his face 
 was glowing with a violent blush. "I doubt of your having 
 come abroad too late!" I said, laughing. 
 
 A short distance from where we had stopped was an old 
 stone bench. We went and sat down on it and watched the 
 light mist turning to sullen gold in the rays of the evening 
 sun. "We ought to be thinking of the train back to London, 
 I suppose," I said at last. 
 
 "O, hang the train!" said Searle. 
 
 "Willingly! There could be no better spot than this to 
 feel the magic of an English twilight." So we lingered, and 
 the twilight lingered around us a light and not a darkness. 
 As we sat, there came trudging along the road an individual 
 whom, from afar, I recognized as a member of the genus 
 "tramp." I had read of the British tramp, but I had never 
 yet encountered him, and I brought my historic consciousness 
 to bear upon the present specimen. As he approached us he 
 slackened pace and finally halted, touching his cap. He was 
 a man of middle age, clad in a greasy bonnet, with greasy 
 ear-locks depending from its sides. Round his neck was a 
 grimy red scarf, tucked into his waistcoat; his coat and 
 trousers had a remote affinity with those of a reduced hostler. 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 55 
 
 In one hand he had a stick; on his arm he bore a tattered 
 basket, with a handful of withered green stuff in the bottom. 
 His face was pale, haggard, and degraded beyond descrip 
 tion a singular mixture of brutality and finesse. He had a 
 history. From what height had he fallen, from what depth 
 had he risen ? Never was a form of rascally beggarhood more 
 complete. There was a merciless fixedness of outline about 
 him which filled me with a kind of awe. I felt as if I were 
 in the presence of a personage an artist in vagrancy. 
 
 "For God s sake, gentlemen," he said, in that raucous 
 tone of weather-beaten poverty suggestive of chronic sore- 
 throat exacerbated by perpetual gin, "for God s sake, gentle 
 men, have pity on a poor fern-collector!" turning up his 
 stale dandelions. "Food hasn t passed my lips, gentlemen, in 
 the last three days." 
 
 We gaped responsive, in the precious pity of guileless 
 Yankeeism. "I wonder/ thought I, "if half a crown would 
 be enough?" And our fasting botanist went limping away 
 through the park with a mystery of satirical gratitude super- 
 added to his general mystery. 
 
 "I feel as if I had seen my do <p pel- ganger," said Searle. 
 "He reminds me of myself. What am I but a tramp?" 
 
 Upon this hint I spoke. "What are you, my friend?" I 
 asked. "Who are you?" 
 
 A sudden blush rose to his pale face, so that I feared I had 
 offended him. He poked a moment at the sod with the point 
 of his umbrella, before answering. "Who am I?" he said 
 at last. "My name is Clement Searle. I was born in New 
 York. I have lived in New York. What am I? That s 
 easily told. Nothing ! I assure you, nothing." 
 
 "A very good fellow, apparently," I protested. 
 
 "A very good fellow! Ah, there it is! You ve said more 
 than you mean. It s by having been a very good fellow all 
 my days that I ve come to this. I have drifted through life. 
 I m a failure, sir a failure as hopeless and helpless as any 
 that ever swallowed up the slender investments of the widow 
 and the orphan. I don t pay five cents on the dollar. Of 
 what I was to begin with no memory remains. I have been 
 ebbing away, from the start, in a steady current which, at 
 
56 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 forty, has left this arid sand-bank behind. To begin with, 
 certainly, I was not a fountain of wisdom. All the more 
 reason for a definite channel for will and purpose and 
 direction. I walked by chance and sympathy and sentiment, 
 Take a turn through New York and you ll find my tattered 
 sympathies and sentiments dangling on every bush and flut 
 tering in every breeze; the men to whom I lent money, the 
 women to whom I made love, the friends I trusted, the dreams 
 I cherished, the poisonous fumes of pleasure, amid which 
 nothing was sweet or precious but the manhood they stifled ! 
 It was my fault that I believed in pleasure here below. I 
 believe in it still, but as I believe in God and not jn man! 
 I believed in eating your cake and having it. I respected 
 Pleasure, and she made a fool of me. Other men, treating her 
 like the arrant strumpet she is, enjoyed her for the hour, but 
 kept their good manners for plain-faced Business, with the 
 larger dowry, to whom they are now lawfully married. My 
 taste was to be delicate; well, perhaps I was so! I had a 
 little money; it went the way of my little wit. Here in my 
 pocket I have forty pounds of it left. The only thing I have 
 to show for my money and my wit is a little volume of verses, 
 printed at my own expense, in which fifteen years ago I 
 made bold to sing the charms of love and idleness. Six 
 months since I got hold of the volume; it reads like the 
 poetry of fifty years ago. The form is incredible. I hadn t 
 seen Hampton Court then. When I was thirty I married. 
 It was a sad mistake, but a generous one. The young girl 
 was poor and obscure, but beautiful and proud. I fancied 
 she would make an incomparable woman. It was a sad 
 mistake! She died at the end of three years, leaving no 
 children. ... I have always fancied that I was meant 
 for a gentler world. Before heaven, sir whoever you are 
 I m in practice so absurdly tender-hearted that I can afford 
 to say it, I came into the world an aristocrat. I was 
 born with a soul for the picturesque. It condemns me, I 
 confess; but in a measure, too, it absolves me. I found it 
 nowhere. I found a world all hard lines and harsh lights, 
 without shade, without composition, as they say of pictures, 
 without the lovely mystery of color. To furnish color, I 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 57 
 
 melted down the very substance of my own soul. I went 
 about with my brush, touching up and toning down; a very 
 pretty chiaroscuro you ll find in my track! Sitting here, in 
 this old park, in this old land, I feel I feel that I hover on 
 the misty verge of what might have been! I should have 
 been born here and not there ; here my vulgar idleness would 
 have been don t laugh now! would have been elegant 
 leisure. How it was that I never came abroad is more than 
 I can say. It might have cut the knot ; but the knot was too 
 tight. I was always unwell or in debt or entangled. Besides, 
 I had a horror of the sea with reason, heaven knows. A 
 year ago I was reminded of the existence of an old claim to 
 a portion of an English estate, cherished off and on by various 
 members of my family for the past eighty years. It s un 
 deniably slender and desperately hard to define. I am by 
 no means sure that to this hour I have mastered it. ... 
 A couple of months since there came out here on business of 
 his own a sort of half-friend of mine, a sharp New York 
 lawyer, an extremely common fellow, but a man with an eye 
 for the weak point and the strong point. It was with him 
 yesterday that you saw me dining. He undertook, as he 
 expressed it, to nose round and see if anything could be 
 made of this pretended right. The matter had never seriously 
 been taken up. A month later I got a letter from Simmons, 
 assuring me that things looked mighty well, that he should 
 be vastly amazed if I hadn t a case. I took fire in a humid 
 sort of way; I acted, for the first time in my life I sailed for 
 England. I have been here three days : it seems three months. 
 After keeping me waiting for thirty-six hours, last evening 
 my precious Simmons makes his appearance and informs 
 me, with his mouth full of mutton, that I was a blasted fool 
 to have taken him at his word ; that he had been precipitate ; 
 that I had been precipitate; that my claim was moonshine; 
 and that I must do penance and take a ticket for another 
 fortnight of seasickness in his agreeable society. . . . 
 Poor Simmons! I forgave him with all my heart. But for 
 him I shouldn t be sitting in this place, in this air, with these 
 thoughts. This is a world I could have loved. There s a 
 great fitness in its having been kept for the last. After this 
 
58 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 nothing would have been tolerable. I shall now have a 
 month of it, I hope, and I shall not have a chance to be 
 disenchanted. There s one thing!", and here, pausing, he 
 laid his hand on mine; I rose and stood before him, "I wish 
 it were possible you should be with me to the end." 
 
 "I promise you," I said, "to leave you only at your own 
 request. But it must be on condition of your omitting from 
 your conversation this intolerable flavor of mortality. The 
 end! Perhaps it s the beginning." . . . "Get well, and 
 the rest will take care of itself. I m interested in your claim. 
 
 What is the estimated value of your interest?" 
 
 "We were instructed from the first to accept a compro 
 mise. Compared with the whole property, our utmost right 
 is extremely small. Simmons talked of eighty-five thousand 
 dollars. Why eighty-five I m sure I don t know. Don t 
 beguile me into figures." 
 
 "Allow me one more question. Who is actually in pos 
 session?" 
 
 "A certain Mr. Richard Searle. I know nothing about 
 him." 
 
 "He is in some way related to you?" 
 
 "Our great-grandfathers were half-brothers. What does 
 that make?" 
 
 "Twentieth cousins, say. And where does your twentieth 
 cousin live?" 
 
 "At Lockley Park, Herefordshire." 
 
 I pondered awhile. "I m interested in you, Mr. Searle," I 
 said. "In your story, in your title, such as it is, and in this 
 Lockley Park, Herefordshire. Suppose we go down and see 
 it." 
 
 He rose to his feet with a certain alertness. "I shall make 
 a sound man of him, yet," I said to myself. 
 
 "I shouldn t have the heart," he said, "to accomplish the 
 melancholy pilgrimage alone. But with you I ll go any 
 where." 
 
 On our return to London we determined to spend three 
 days there together, and then go into the country. We felt to 
 excellent purpose the sombre charm of London, the mighty 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 59 
 
 mother-city of our mighty race, the great distributing heart ^ 
 of our traditional life. Certain London characteristics \ 
 monuments, relics, hints of history, local moods and mem- ? 
 ories are more deeply suggestive to an American soul than 
 anything else in Europe. With an equal attentive piety my 
 friend and I glanced at these things. Their influence on 
 Searle was deep and singular. His observation I soon per 
 ceived to be extremely acute. His almost passionate relish for 
 the old, the artificial, and social, wellnigh extinct from its 
 long inanition, began now to tremble and thrill with a tardy 
 vitality. I watched in silent wonderment this strange meta 
 physical renascence. 
 
 Between the fair boundaries of the counties of Hereford 
 and Worcester rise in a long undulation the sloping pastures 
 of the Malvern Hills. Consulting a big red book on the 
 - castles and manors of England, we found Lockley Park to 
 be seated near the base of this grassy range though in 
 what county I forget. In the pages of this genial volume, . 
 Lockley Park and its appurtenances made a very handsome 
 figure. We took up our abode at a certain little wayside 
 inn, at which in the days of leisure the coach must have 
 stopped for lunch, and burnished pewters of rustic ale been 
 tenderly exalted to "outsides" athirst with breezy progression. 
 Here we stopped, for sheer admiration of its steep thatched 
 roof, its latticed windows, and its homely porch. We allowed 
 a couple of days to elapse in vague, undirected strolls and 
 sweet sentimental observance of the land, before we pre 
 pared to execute the especial purpose of our journey. This 
 admirable region is a compendium of the general physi 
 ognomy of England. The noble friendliness of the scenery, 
 its subtle old-friendliness, the magical familiarity of multi 
 tudinous details, appealed to us at every step and at every , 
 glance. Deep in our souls a natural affection answered. The / 
 whole land, in the full, warm rains of the last of April, had 
 burst into sudden perfect spring. The dark walls of the 
 hedge-rows had turned into blooming screens; the sodden 
 verdure of lawn and meadow was streaked with a ranker 
 freshness. We went forth without loss of time for a long 
 walk on the hills. Reaching their summits, you find half 
 
60 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 England unrolled at your feet. A dozen broad counties, 
 within the vast range of your vision, commingle with their 
 green exhalations. Closely beneath us lay the dark, rich flats 
 of hedgy Worcestershire and the copse-checkered slopes of 
 rolling Hereford, white with the blossom of apples. At 
 widely opposite points of the large expanse two great 
 cathedral towers rise sharply, taking the light, from the 
 settled shadow of their circling towns the light, the in 
 effable English light! "Out of England," cried Searle, "it s 
 but a garish world 1" 
 
 The whole vast sweep of our surrounding prospect lay 
 answering in a myriad fleeting shades the cloudy process of 
 the tremendous sky. The English heaven is a fit antithesis 
 to the complex English earth. We possess in America the 
 infinite beauty of the blue; England possesses the splendor 
 of combined and animated clouds. Over against us, from our 
 station on the hills, we saw them piled and dissolved, com 
 pacted and shifted, blotting the azure with sullen rain spots, 
 stretching, breeze-fretted, into dappled fields of gray, burst- 
 into a storm of light or melting into a drizzle of silver. We 
 made our way along the rounded summits of these well- 
 grazed heights mild, breezy inland downs and descended 
 through long-drawn slopes of fields, green to cottage doors, 
 to where a rural village beckoned us from its seat among 
 the meadows. Close behind it, I admit, the railway shoots 
 fiercely from its tunnel in the hills; and yet there broods 
 upon this charming hamlet an old-time quietude and privacy, 
 which seems to make it a violation of confidence to tell its 
 name so far away. We struck through a narrow lane, a green 
 lane, dim with its height of hedges ; it led us to a superb old 
 farmhouse, now jostled by the multiplied lanes and roads 
 which have curtailed its ancient appanage. . . . Pass 
 ing out upon the high-road, we came to the common browsing- 
 patch, the "village green" of the tales of our youth. Nothing 
 was wanting: the shaggy, mouse-colored donkey, nosing the 
 turf with his mild and huge proboscis; the geese; the old 
 woman the old woman, in person, with her red cloak and 
 her black bonnet, frilled about the face and double- frilled 
 beside her decent, placid cheeks; the towering ploughman 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 61 
 
 With his white smock-frock, puckered on chest and back, 
 his short corduroys, his mighty calves, his big, red, rural face. 
 We greeted these things as children greet the loved pictures 
 in a story-book, lost and mourned and found again. It was 
 marvellous how well we knew them. Beside the road we 
 saw a ploughboy straddle, whistling, on a stile. Gainsbor 
 ough might have painted him. Beyond the stile, across the 
 level velvet of a meadow, a footpath lay, like a thread of 
 darker woof. We followed it from field to field and from 
 stile to stile. It was the way to church. At the church we 
 finally arrived, lost in its rook-haunted churchyard, hidden 
 from the workday world by the broad stillness of pastures 
 a gray, gray tower, a huge black yew, a cluster of village 
 graves, with crooked headstones in grassy, low relief. The 
 whole scene was deeply ecclesiastical. My companion was 
 overcome. 
 
 "You must bury me here," he cried. "It s the first church 
 I have seen in my life. How it makes a Sunday where it 
 stands!" 
 
 The next day we saw a church of statelier proportions. 
 We walked over to Worcester, through such a mist of local 
 color, that I felt like one of Smollett s pedestrian heroes, 
 faring tavenward for a night of adventures. As we neared 
 the provincial city we saw the steepled mass of the cathedral, 
 long and high, rise far into the cloud- freckled blue. And as 
 we came nearer still, we stopped on the bridge and viewed the 
 solid minister reflected in the yellow Severn. . . . On 
 the third morning we betook ourselves to Lockley Park, hav 
 ing learned that the greater part of it was open to visitors, 
 and that, indeed, on application, the house was occasionally 
 shown. 
 
 Within its broad enclosure many a declining spur of the 
 great hills melted into parklike slopes and dells. A long 
 avenue wound and circled from the outermost gate through 
 an trntrimmed woodland, whence you glanced at further 
 slopes and glades and copses and bosky recesses at every 
 thing except the limits of the place. It was as free and wild 
 and untended as the villa of an Italian prince; and I have 
 never seen the stern English fact of property put on such an 
 
62 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 air of innocence. The weather had just become perfect; it 
 was one of the dozen exquisite days of the English year 
 days stamped with refinement of purity unknown in more 
 liberal climes. It was as if the mellow brightness, as tender 
 as that of the primroses which starred the dark waysides like 
 petals wind-scattered over beds of moss, had been meted 
 out to us by the cubic foot, tempered, refined, recorded! 
 From this external region we passed into the heart of the 
 park, through a second lodge-gate, with weather-worn gild 
 ing on its twisted bars, to the smooth slopes where the great 
 trees stood singly and the tame deer browsed along the bed of 
 a woodland stream. Hence, before us, we perceived the dark 
 Elizabethan manor among its blooming parterres and ter 
 races. 
 
 "Here you can wander all day," I said to Searle, "like a 
 proscribed and exiled prince, hovering about the dominion of 
 the usurper." 
 
 "To think," he answered, "of people having enjoyed this 
 all these years! I know what I am what might I have 
 been? What does all this make of you?" 
 
 "That it makes you happy," I said, "I should hesitate to 
 believe. But it s hard to suppose that such a place has not 
 some beneficent action of its own." 
 
 "What a perfect scene and background it forms !" Searle 
 went on. "What legends, what histories it knows 1 My heart 
 is breaking with unutterable visions. There s Tennyson s 
 Talking Oak. What summer days one could spend here! 
 How I could lounge my bit of life away on this shady stretch 
 of turf! Haven t I some maiden-cousin in yon moated 
 grange who would give me kind leave?" And then turning 
 almost fiercely upon me: "Why did you bring me here? 
 Why did. you drag me into this torment of vain regrets?" 
 
 At this moment there passed near us a servant who had 
 emerged from the gardens of the great house. I hailed him 
 and inquired whether we should be likely to gain admittance. 
 He answered that Mr. Searle was away from home, and that 
 he thought it probable the housekeeper would consent to do 
 the honors of the mansion. I passed my arm into Searle s. 
 "Come," I said. "Drain the cup, bitter-sweet though it be. 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 63, 
 
 We shall go in." We passed another lodge-gate and entered 
 the gardens. The house was an admirable specimen of com 
 plete Elizabethan, a multitudinous cluster of gables and 
 porches, oriels and turrets, screens of ivy and pinnacles of 
 slate. Two broad terraces commanded the great wooded 
 horizon of the adjacent domain. Our summons was answered 
 by the butler in person, solemn and tout de noir habille. He 
 repeated the statement that Mr. Searle was away from home, 
 and that he would present our petition to the housekeeper. 
 We would be so good, however, as to give him our cards. 
 This request, following so directly on the assertion that Mr. 
 Searle was absent, seemed to my companion not distinctly 
 pertinent. "Surely not for the housekeeper," he said. 
 
 The butler gave a deferential cough. "Miss Searle is at 
 home." 
 
 "Yours alone will suffice," said Searle. I took out a card 
 and pencil, and wrote beneath my name, New York. Stand 
 ing with the pencil in my hand I felt a sudden impulse. 
 Without in the least weighing proprieties or results, I yielded 
 to it. I added above my name, Mr. Clement Searle. What 
 would come of it ? 
 
 Before many minutes the housekeeper attended us a 
 fresh rosy little old woman in a dowdy clean cap and a 
 scanty calico gown; an exquisite specimen of refined and 
 venerable servility. She had the accent of the country, but 
 the manners of the house. Under her guidance we passed 
 through a dozen apartments, duly stocked with old pictures, 
 old tapestry, old carvings, old armor, with all the constituent 
 properties of an English manor. The pictures were es 
 pecially valuable. The two Vandykes, the trio of rosy 
 Rubenses, the sole and sombre Rembrandt, glowed with 
 conscious authenticity. A Claude, a Murillo, a Greuze, and 
 a Gainsborough hung gracious in their chosen places. Searle 
 strolled about silent, pale, and grave, with bloodshot eyes and 
 lips compressed. He uttered no comment and asked no 
 question. Missing him, at last, from my side, I retraced my 
 steps and found him in a room we had just left, on a tar 
 nished silken divan, with his face buried in his hands. Be 
 fore him, ranged on an antique buffet, was a magnificent col- 
 
64 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 lection of old Italian majolica; huge platters radiant with 
 their steady colors, jugs and vases nobly bellied and em 
 bossed. There came to me, as I looked, a sudden vision of 
 the young English gentleman, who eighty years ago had 
 travelled by slow stages to Italy and been waited on at his 
 inn by persuasive toymen. What is it, Searle?" I asked. 
 "Are you unwell?" 
 
 He uncovered his haggard face and showed a burning 
 blush. Then smiling in hot irony: "A memory of the pastl 
 I was thinking of a china vase that used to stand on the 
 parlor mantel-shelf while I was a boy, with the portrait of 
 General Jackson painted on one side and a bunch of flowers 
 on the other. How long do you suppose that majolica has 
 been in the family?" 
 
 "A long time probably. It was brought hither in the last 
 century, into old, old England, out of old, old Italy, by some 
 old young buck of this excellent house with a taste for 
 chinoiseries. Here it has stood for a hundred years, keep 
 ing its clear, firm hues in this aristocratic twilight." 
 
 Searle sprang to his feet. "I say," he cried, "in heaven s 
 name take me away! I can t stand this. Before I know 
 it I shall do something I shall be ashamed of. I shall steal 
 one of their d d majolicas. I shall proclaim my identity 
 and assert my rights! I shall go blubbering to Miss Searle 
 and ask her in pity s name to keep me here for a month !" 
 
 If poor Searle could ever have been said to look "danger 
 ous" he looked so now. I began to regret my officious 
 presentation of his name, and prepared without delay to lead 
 him out of the house. We overtook the housekeeper in the 
 last room of the suite, a small, unused boudoir, over the 
 chimney-piece of which hung a noble portrait of a young man 
 in a powdered wig and a brocaded waistcoat. I was im 
 mediately struck with his resemblance to my companion. 
 
 "This is Mr. Clement Searle, Mr. Searle s great-uncle, 
 by Sir Joshua Reynolds," quoth the housekeeper. "He died 
 young, poor gentleman. He perished at sea, going to 
 America." 
 
 "He s the young buck," I said, "who brought the majolica 
 out of Italy." 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 65 
 
 "Indeed, sir, I believe he did," said the housekeeper, star 
 ing. 
 
 "He s the image of you, Searle," I murmured. 
 
 "He s wonderfully like the gentleman, saving his presence,** 
 said the housekeeper. 
 
 My friend stood gazing. "Clement Searle at sea go 
 ing to America " he muttered. Then harshly, to the house 
 keeper, "Why the deuce did he go to America?" 
 
 "Why, indeed, sir? You may well ask. I believe he had 
 kinsfolk there. It was for them to come to him." 
 
 Searle broke into a laugh. "It was for them to have come 
 to him! Well, well," he said, fixing his eyes on the little 
 old woman, "they have come to him at last!" 
 
 She blushed like a wrinkled rose-leaf. "Indeed, sir," she 
 said, "I verily believe that you are one of us!" 
 
 "My name is the name of that lovely youth," Searle went 
 on. "Kinsman, I salute you! Attend!" And he grasped 
 me by the arm. "I have an idea! He perished at sea. His 
 spirit came ashore and wandered forlorn till it got lodgment 
 again in my poor body. In my poor body it has lived, home 
 sick, these forty years, shaking its rickety cage, urging me, 
 stupid, to carry it back to the scenes of its youth. And I 
 never knew what was the matter with me! Let me exhale 
 my spirit here!" 
 
 The housekeeper essayed a timorous smile. The scene 
 was embarrassing. My confusion was not allayed when I 
 suddenly perceived in the doorway the figure of a lady. 
 "Miss Searle!" whispered the housekeeper. My first im 
 pression of Miss Searle was that she was neither young nor 
 beautiful. She stood with a timid air on the threshold, pale, 
 trying to smile, and twirling my card in her fingers. I im 
 mediately bowed. Searle, I think, gazed marvelling. 
 
 "If I am not mistaken," said the lady, "one of you gentle 
 men is Mr. Clement Searle." 
 
 "My friend is Mr. Clement Searle," I replied. "Allow me 
 to add that I alone am responsible for your having received 
 his name." 
 
 "I should have been sorry not to receive it," said Miss 
 
66 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Searle, beginning to blush. "Your being from America has 
 led me to to interrupt you." 
 
 "The interruption, madam, has been on our part. And 
 with just that excuse that we are from America." 
 
 Miss Searle, while I spoke, had fixed her eyes on my 
 friend, as he stood silent beneath Sir Joshua s portrait. The 
 housekeeper, amazed and mystified, took a liberty. "Heaven 
 preserve us, Miss! It s your great-uncle s picture come to 
 life." 
 
 "I m not mistaken, then/ said Miss Searle. "We are 
 distantly related." She had the aspect of an extremely 
 modest woman. She was evidently embarrassed at having to 
 proceed unassisted in her overture. Searle eyed her with 
 gentle wonder from head to foot. I fancied I read his 
 thoughts. This, then, was Miss Searle, his maiden-cousin, 
 prospective heiress of these manorial acres and treasures. 
 She was a person of about thirty-three years of age, taller 
 than most women, with health and strength in the rounded 
 amplitude of her shape. She had a small blue eye, a mas 
 sive chignon of yellow hair, and a mouth at once broad and 
 comely. She was dressed in a lustreless black satin gown, 
 with a short train. Around her neck she wore a blue silk 
 handkerchief, and over this handkerchief, in many convolu 
 tions, a string of amber beads. Her appearance was singular; 
 she was large, yet not imposing; girlish, yet mature. Her 
 glance and accent, in addressing us, were simple, too simple, 
 Searle, I think, had been fancying some proud cold beauty 
 of five-and-twenty ; he was relieved at finding the lady timid 
 and plain. His person was suddenly illumined with an old 
 disused gallantry. 
 
 "We are distant cousins, I believe. I am happy to claim 
 a relationship which you are so good as to remember. I 
 had not in the least counted on your doing so." 
 
 "Perhaps I have done wrong," and Miss Searle blushed 
 anew and smiled. "But I have always known of there 
 being people of our blood in America, and I have often 
 wondered and asked about them; without learning much, 
 however. To-day, when this card was brought me and I 
 knew of a Clement Searle wandering about the house like a 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 67 
 
 stranger, I felt as if I ought to do something. I hardly knew 
 what ! My brother is in London. I have done what I think 
 he would have done. Welcome, as a cousin." And with a 
 gesture at once frank and shy, she put out her hand. 
 
 "I m welcome indeed," said Searle, taking it, "if he would 
 have done it half as graciously." 
 
 "You ve seen the show," Miss Searle went on. "Perhaps 
 now you ll have some lunch." We followed her into a small 
 breakfast-room, where a deep bay-window opened on the 
 mossy flags of the great terrace. Here, for some moments, she 
 remained silent and shy, in the manner of a person resting 
 from a great effort. Searle, too, was formal and reticent, so 
 that I had to busy myself with providing small-talk. It was 
 of course easy to descant on the beauties of park and mansion. 
 Meanwhile I observed our hostess. She had small beauty and 
 scanty grace; her dress was out of taste and out of season; 
 yet she pleased me well. There was about her a sturdy 
 sweetness, a homely flavor of the sequestered chatelaine of 
 feudal days. To be so simple amid this massive luxury, so 
 mellow and yet so fresh, so modest and yet so placid, told of 
 just the spacious leisure in which I had fancied human life 
 to be steeped in many a park-circled home. Miss Searle was 
 to the Belle au Bois Dormant what a fact is to a fairy-tale 
 an interpretation to a myth. We, on our side, were to our 
 hostess objects of no light scrutiny. The best possible English 
 breeding still marvels visibly at the native American. Miss 
 Searle s wonderment was guileless enough to have been more 
 overt and yet inoffensive; there was no taint of offence in 
 deed in her utterance of the unvarying amenity that she had 
 met an American family on the Lake of Como whom she 
 would have almost taken to be English. 
 
 "If I lived here," I said, "I think I should hardly need 
 to go away, even to the Lake of Como." 
 
 "You might perhaps get tired of it. And then the Lake of 
 Como! If I could only go abroad again!" 
 
 "You have been but once?" 
 
 "Only once. Three years ago my brother took me to 
 Switzerland. We thought it extremely beautiful. Except 
 for this journey, I have always lived here. Here I was born. 
 
68 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 It s a dear old place, indeed, and I know it well. Sometimes 
 I fancy I m a little tired." And on my asking her how she 
 spent her time and what society she saw, "It s extremely 
 quiet," she went on, proceeding by short steps and simple 
 statements, in the manner of a person summoned for the 
 first time to define her situation and enumerate the elements 
 of her life. "We see very few people. I don t think there 
 are many nice people hereabouts. At least we don t know 
 them. Our own family is very small. My brother cares for 
 little else but riding and books. He had a great sorrow 
 ten years ago. He lost his wife and his only son, a dear little 
 boy, who would have succeeded him in the estates. Do you 
 know that I m likely to have them now? Poor me! Since 
 his loss my brother has preferred to be quite alone. I m sorry 
 he s away. But you must wait till he comes back. I expect 
 him in a day or two." She talked more and more, with a 
 rambling earnest vapidity, about her circumstances, her 
 solitude, her bad eyes, so that she couldn t read, her flowers, 
 her ferns, her dogs, and the curate, recently inducted by her 
 brother and warranted sound orthodox, who had lately begun 
 to light his altar candles; pausing every now and then to 
 blush in self surprise, and yet moving steadily from point to 
 point in the deepening excitement of temptation and occa 
 sion. Of all the old things I had seen in England, this mind 
 of Miss Searle s seemed to me the oldest, the quaintest, the 
 most ripely verdant; so fenced and protected by convention 
 and precedent and usage; so passive and mild and docile. 
 I felt as if I were talking with a potential heroine of Miss 
 Burney. As she talked, she rested her dull, kind eyes upon 
 her kinsman with a sort of fascinated stare. At last, "Did 
 you mean to go away," she demanded, "without asking for 
 us?" 
 
 "I had thought it over, Miss Searle, and had determined 
 not to trouble you. You have shown me how unfriendly I 
 should have been." 
 
 "But you knew of the place being ours and of our relation 
 ship?" 
 
 "Just so. It was because of these things that I came down 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 69 
 
 here because of them, almost, that I came to England. I 
 have always liked to think of them." 
 
 "You merely wished to look, then? We don t pretend 
 to be much to look at." 
 
 "You don t know what you are, Miss Searle," said my 
 friend, gravely. 
 
 "You like the old place, then?" 
 
 Searle looked at her in silence. "If I could only tell you," 
 he said at last. 
 
 "Do tell me ! You must come and stay with us." 
 
 Searle began to laugh. "Take care, take care," he cried. 
 "I should surprise you. At least I should bore you. I should 
 never leave you." 
 
 "O, you d get homesick for America!" 
 
 At this Searle laughed the more. "By the way," he cried 
 to me, "tell Miss Searle about America!" And he stepped 
 through the window out upon the terrace, followed by two 
 beautiful dogs, a pointer and a young stag-hound, who from 
 the moment we came in had established the fondest relation 
 with him. Miss Searle looked at him as he went, with a 
 certain tender wonder in her eye. I read in her glance, me- 
 thought, that she was interested. I suddenly recalled the last 
 words I had heard spoken by my friend s adviser in Lon 
 don: "Instead of dying you d better marry." If Miss Searle 
 could be gently manipulated. O for a certain divine tact! 
 Something assured me that her heart was virgin soil; that 
 sentiment had never bloomed there. If I could but sow the 
 seed ! There lurked within her the perfect image of one of 
 the patient wives of old. 
 
 "He has lost his heart to England," I said. "He ought 
 to have been borne here." 
 
 "And yet," said Miss Searle, "he s not in the least an 
 Englishman." 
 
 "How do you know that?" 
 
 "I hardly know how. I never talked with a foreigner 
 before; but he looks and talks as I have fancied foreigners." 
 
 "Yes, he s foreign enough!" 
 
 "Is he married?" 
 
 "He s a widower without children." 
 
70 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Has he property?" 
 
 "Very little. 
 
 "But enough to travel?" 
 
 I meditated. "He has not expected to travel far," I said 
 -at last. "You know he s in poor health." 
 
 "Poor gentleman ! So I fancied." 
 
 "He s better, though, than he thinks. He came here be 
 cause he wanted to see your place before he dies." 
 
 "Poor fellow!" And I fancied I perceived in her eye the 
 lustre of a rising tear. "And he was going off without my 
 seeing him?" 
 
 "He s a modest man, you see." 
 
 "He s very much of a gentleman." 
 
 "Assuredly!" 
 
 At this moment we heard on the terrace a loud, harsh cry. 
 "It s the great peacock!" said Miss Searle, stepping to the 
 window and passing out. I followed her. Below us on the 
 terrace, leaning on the parapet, stood our friend, with his 
 arm round the neck of the pointer. Before him, on the 
 grand walk, strutted a splendid peacock, with rufflled neck 
 and expanded tail. The other dog had apparently indulged 
 in a momentary attempt to abash the gorgeous fowl, but at 
 Searle s voice he had bounded back to the terrace and leaped 
 upon the parapet, where he now stood licking his new friend s 
 face. The scene had a beautiful old-time air: the peacock 
 flaunting in the foreground, like the very genius of antique 
 gardenry; the broad terrace, which flattered an innate taste 
 of mine for all deserted promenades to which people may have 
 adjourned from formal dinners, to drink coffee in old Sevres, 
 and where the stiff brocade of women s dresses may have 
 rustled autumnal leaves; and far around us, with one leafy 
 circle melting into another, the timbered acres of the park. 
 "The very beasts have made him welcome," I said, as we re 
 joined our companion. 
 
 "The peacock lias done for you, Mr. Searle," said his 
 cousin, "what he does only for very great people. A year ago 
 there came here a duchess to see my brother. I don t think 
 that since then he has spread his tail as wide for any one else 
 by a dozen feathers." 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 71 
 
 "It s not alone the peacock," said Searle. "Just now there 
 came slipping across my path a little green lizard, the first 
 I ever saw, the lizard of literature ! And if you have a ghost, 
 broad daylight though it be, I expect to see him here. Do 
 you know the annals of your house, Miss Searle?" 
 
 "O dear, no! You must ask my brother for all those 
 things." 
 
 "You ought to have a book full of legends and traditions. 
 You ought to have loves and murders and mysteries by the 
 roomful. I count upon it." 
 
 "O Mr. Searle. We have always been a very well-behaved 
 family. Nothing out of the way has ever happened, I think." 
 
 "Nothing out of the way? O horrors! We have done 
 better than that in America. Why, I myself!" and he gazed 
 at her a moment with a gleam of malice, and then broke into 
 a laugh. "Suppose I should turn out a better Searle than 
 you? Better than you, nursed here in romance and pictur- 
 esqueness. Come, don t disappoint me. You have some his 
 tory among you all, you have some poetry. I have been 
 famished all my days for these things. Do yo understand? 
 Ah, you can t understand! Tell me something! When I 
 think of what must have happened here! when I think of 
 the lovers who must have strolled on this terrace and wan 
 dered through those glades! of all the figures and passions 
 and purposes that must have haunted these walls! of the 
 births, the deaths, the joys and sufferings, the young hopes 
 and the old regrets, the intense experience " And here he 
 faltered a moment, with the increase of his vehemence. The 
 gleam in his eye, which I have called a gleam of malice, had 
 settled into a deep, unnatural light. I began to fear he had 
 become over-excited. But he went on with redoubled pas 
 sion. "To see it all evoked before me," he cried, "if the 
 Devil alone could do it, I d make a bargain with the Devil ( 
 O Miss Searle, I m a most unhappy man!" 
 
 "O dear, O dear!" said Miss Searle. 
 "Look at that window, that blessed oriel!" And he 
 pointed to a small, protruding casement above us, relieved 
 against the purple brick-work, framed in chiselled stone, and 
 curtained with ivy. 
 
72 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "It s my room," said Miss Searle. 
 
 "Of course it s a woman s room. Think of the forgotten 
 loveliness which has peeped from that window; think of the 
 old-time women s lives which have known chiefly that out 
 look on this bosky world. O gentle cousins ! And you, Miss 
 Searle, you re one of them yet." And he marched towards 
 her and took her great white hand. She surrendered it, 
 blushing to her eyes, and pressing the other hand to her breast. 
 "You re a woman of the past. You re nobly simple. It has 
 been a romance to see you. It doesn t matter what I say to 
 you. You didn t know me yesterday, you ll not know me 
 to-morrow. Let me to-day do a mad, sweet thing. Let me 
 fancy you the soul of all the dead women who have trod these 
 terrace-flags, which lie here like sepulchral tablets in the 
 pavement of a church. Let me say I worship you!" And he 
 raised her hand to his lips. She gently withdrew it, and for 
 a moment averted her face. Meeting her eyes for the next 
 moment, I saw that they were filled with tears. The Belle 
 au Bois Dormant was awake. 
 
 There followed an embarrassed pause. An issue was 
 suddenly presented by the appearance of the butler bearing a 
 letter. "A telegram, Miss," he said. 
 
 "Dear me!" cried Miss Searle, "I can t open a telegram. 
 Cousin, help me." 
 
 Searle took the missive, opened it, and read aloud. "I 
 shall be home to dinner. Keep the American." 
 
 II 
 
 "Keep the American!" Miss Searle, in compliance with 
 the injunction conveyed in her brother s telegram (with some 
 thing certainly of telegraphic curtness), lost no time in ex 
 pressing the pleasure it would give her to have my companion 
 remain. "Really you must," she said; and forthwith re 
 paired to the housekeeper, to give orders for the preparation 
 of a room. 
 
 "How in the world," asked Searle, "did he know of my 
 being here?" 
 
 "He learned, probably," I expounded, "from his solicitor 
 of the visit of your friend Simmons. Simmons and the 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 73 
 
 solicitor must have had another interview since your arrival 
 in England. Simmons, for reasons of his own, has com 
 municated to the solicitor your journey to this neighbor 
 hood, and Mr. Searle, learning this, has immediately taken 
 for granted that you have formally presented youself to his 
 sister. He s hospitably inclined, and he wishes her to do 
 the proper thing by you. More perhaps! I have my little 
 theory that he is the very Phcenix of usurpers, that his nobler 
 sense has been captivated by the exposition of the men of 
 law, and that he means gracefully to surrender you your 
 fractional interest in the estate." 
 
 "I give it up !" said my friend, musing. "Come what come 
 will!" 
 
 "You of course," said Miss Searle, reappearing and turn 
 ing to me, "are included in my brother s invitation. I have 
 bespoken your lodging as well. Your luggage shall im 
 mediately be sent for." 
 
 It was arranged that I in person should be driven over to 
 our little inn, and that I should return with our effects in 
 time to meet Mr. Searle at dinner. On my arrival, several 
 hours later, I was immediately conducted to my room. The 
 servant pointed out to me that it communicated by a door 
 and a private passage with that of my companion. I made 
 my way along this passage a low, narrow corridor, with a 
 long latticed casement, through which there streamed, upon 
 a series of grotesquely sculptured oaken closets and cup 
 boards, the lurid animating glow of the western sun 
 knocked at his door, and, getting no answer, opened it. In 
 an arm-chair by the open window sat my friend, sleeping 
 with arms and legs relaxed and head placidly reverted. It 
 was a great relief to find him resting from his rhapsodies, and 
 I watched him for some moments before waking him. There 
 was a faint glow of color in his cheek and a light parting 
 of his lips, as in a smile ; something nearer to mental sound 
 ness than I had yet seen in him. It was almost happiness, it 
 was almost health. I laid my hand on his arm and gently 
 shook it. He opened his eyes, gazed at me a moment, 
 vaguely recognizing me, then closed them again. "Let me 
 dream, let me dream !" he said. 
 
74 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "What are you dreaming about?" 
 
 A moment passed before his answer came. "About a tall 
 woman in a quaint black dress, with yellow hair, and a sweet, 
 sweet smile, and a soft, low, delicious voice 1 I m in love 
 with her." 
 
 "It s better to see her," I said, "than to dream about her. 
 Get up and dress, and we shall go down to dinner and meet 
 her." 
 
 "Dinner dinner " And he gradually opened his eyes 
 again. "Yes, upon my word, I shall dine!" 
 
 "You re a well man!" I said, as he rose to his feet. "You ll 
 live to bury Mr. Simmons." He had spent the hours of my 
 absence, he told me, with Miss Searle. They had strolled 
 together over the park and through the gardens and green 
 houses. "You must already be intimate!" I said, smiling. 
 
 "She is intimate with me," he answered. "Heaven knows 
 what rigmarole I ve treated her to!" They had parted an 
 hour ago, since when, he believed, her brother had arrived. 
 
 The slow-fading twilight still abode in the great drawing- 
 room as we entered it. The housekeeper had told us that 
 this apartment was rarely used, there being a smaller and 
 more convenient one for the same needs. It seemed now, how 
 ever, to be occupied in my comrade s honor. At the farther 
 end of it, rising to the roof, like a ducal tomb in a cathedral, 
 was a great chimney-piece of chiselled white marble, yel 
 lowed by time, in which a light fire was crackling. Before 
 the fire stood a small short man with his hands behind him; 
 near him stood Miss Searle, so transformed by her dress 
 that at first I scarcely knew her. There was in our entrance 
 and reception something profoundly chilling and solemn. We 
 moved in silence up the long room. Mr. Searle advanced 
 slowly a dozen steps to meet us. His sister stood motion 
 less. I was conscious of her masking her visage with a large 
 white tinselled fan, and of her eyes, grave and expanded, 
 watching us intently over the top of it. The master of Lock- 
 ley Park grasped in silence the proffered hand of his kins 
 man, and eyed him from head to foot, suppressing, I think, 
 a start of surprise at his resemblance to Sir Joshua s por 
 trait. "This is a happy day!" he said. And then turning to 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 75 
 
 me with a bow, "My cousin s friend is my friend." Miss 
 Searle lowered her fan. 
 
 The first thing that struck me in Mr. Searle s appearance 
 was his short and meagre stature, which was less by half a 
 head than that of his sister. The second was the preter 
 natural redness of his hair and beard. They intermingled 
 over his ears and surrounded his head like a huge lurid nim 
 bus. His face was pale and attenuated, like the face of a 
 scholar, a dilettante, a man who lives in a library, bending 
 over books and prints and medals. At a distance it had an 
 oddly innocent and youthful look; but on a nearer view it re 
 vealed a number of finely etched and scratched wrinkles, of a 
 singularly aged and cunning effect. It was the complexion of 
 a man of sixty. His nose was arched and delicate, identical 
 almost with the nose of my friend. In harmony with the 
 effect of his hair was that of his eyes, which were large and 
 deep-set, with a sort of vulpine keenness and redness, but 
 full of temper and spirit. Imagine this physiognomy grave 
 and solemn in aspect, grotesquely solemn, almost, in spite of 
 the bushy brightness in which it was encased set in motion 
 by a smile which seemed to whisper terribly, "I am the smile, 
 the sole and official, the grin to command," and you will have 
 an imperfect notion of the remarkable presence of our host; 
 something better worth seeing and knowing, I fancied as I 
 covertly scrutinized him, than anything our excursion had 
 yet introduced us to. Of how thoroughly I had entered into 
 sympathy with my companion and how effectually I had asso 
 ciated my sensibilities with his, I had small suspicion until, 
 within the short five minutes which preceded the announce 
 ment of dinner, I distinctly perceived him place himself, mor 
 ally speaking, on the defensive. To neither of us was Mr. 
 Searle, as the Italians would say, sympathetic. I might have 
 fancied from her attitude that Miss Searle apprehended our 
 thoughts. A signal change had been wrought in her since 
 the morning, during the hour, indeed (as I read in the light 
 of the wondering glance he cast at her) that had elapsed 
 since her parting with her cousin. She had not yet recovered 
 from some great agitation. Her face was pale and her eyes 
 red with weeping. These tragic betrayals gave an unexpected 
 
76 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 dignity to her aspect, which was further enhanced by the rare 
 picturesqueness of her dress. 
 
 Whether it was taste or whether it was accident, I know not ; 
 but Miss Searle, as she stood there, half in the cool twlight, 
 half in the arrested glow of the fire as it spent itself in the 
 vastness of its marble cave, was a figure for a cunning painter. 
 She was dressed in the faded splendor of a beautiful tissue 
 of combined and blended silk and crape of a tender sea-green 
 color, festooned and garnished and puffed into a massive 
 bouillonnement ; a piece of millinery, which, though it must 
 have witnessed a number of stately dinners, preserved still an 
 air of admirable elegance. Over her white shoulders she 
 wore an ancient web of the most precious and venerable lace, 
 and about her rounded throat a necklace of heavy pearls. I 
 went with her in to dinner, and Mr. Searle, following with 
 my friend, took his arm (as the latter afterwards told me) 
 and pretended sportively to conduct him. As dinner pro 
 ceeded, the feeling grew within me that a drama had begun to 
 be played in which the three persons before me were actors, 
 each of a most exacting part. The part of my friend, how 
 ever, seemed the most heavily charged, and I was filled with 
 a strong desire that he should summon his shadowy facul 
 ties to obey his shadowy will. The poor fellow sat playing 
 solemnly at self-esteem. With Miss Searle, credulous, pas 
 sive, and pitying, he had finally flung aside all vanity and 
 propriety, and shown her the bottom of his fantastic heart. 
 But with our host there might be no talking of nonsense nor 
 taking of liberties; there and then, if ever, sat a double-dis 
 tilled conservative, breathing the fumes of hereditary privi 
 lege and security. For an hour, then, I saw my poor friend 
 turn faithfully about to speak graciously of barren things. 
 He was to prove himself a sound American, so that his relish 
 of this elder world might seem purely disinterested. What 
 his kinsman had expected to find him, I know not; but with 
 all his finely adjusted urbanity, he was unable to repress a 
 shade of annoyance at finding him likely to speak graciously 
 at all. Mr. Searle was not the man to show his hand, but 
 I think his best card had been a certain implicit confidence 
 that this exotic parasite would hardly have good manners. 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 77 
 
 Our host, with great decency, led the conversation to America, 
 talking of it rather as if it were some fabled planet, alien to 
 the British orbit, lately proclaimed indeed to have the pro 
 portion of atmospheric gases required to support animal life, 
 but not, save under cover of a liberal afterthought, to be 
 admitted into one s regular conception of things. I, for my 
 part, felt nothing but regret that the spheric smoothness of 
 his universe should be strained to cracking by the intrusion 
 of our square shoulders. 
 
 "I knew in a general way," said Mr. Searle, "of my having 
 relations in America ; but you know one hardly realizes those 
 things. I could hardly more have imagined people of our 
 blood there, than I could have imagined being there myself. 
 There was a man I knew at college, a very odd fellow, a 
 nice fellow too; he and I were rather cronies; I think he 
 afterwards went to America; to the Argentine Republic, I 
 believe. Do you know the Argentine Republic? What an 
 extraordinary name, by the way ! And then, you know, there 
 was that great-uncle of mine whom Sir Joshua painted. He 
 went to America, but he never got there. He was lost at sea. 
 You look enough like him to have one fancy he did get there, 
 and that he has lived along till now. If you are he, you ve 
 not done a wise thing to show yourself here. He left a bad 
 name behind him. There s a ghost who comes sobbing about 
 the house every now and then, the ghost of one against whom 
 he wrought a great evil!" 
 
 "O brother!" cried Miss Searle, in simple horror. 
 
 "Of course you know nothing of such things," said Mr. 
 Searle. "You re too sound a sleeper to hear the sobbing of 
 ghosts." 
 
 "I m sure I should like immensely to hear the sobbing of 
 a ghost!" said my friend, with the light of his previous 
 eagerness playing up into his eyes. "Why does it sob? 
 Unfold the wondrous tale." 
 
 Mr. Searle eyed his audience for a moment gaugingly; and 
 then, as the French say, se receuillit, as if he were measuring 
 his own imaginative force. 
 
 He wished to do justice to his theme. With the five finger 
 nails of his left hand nervously playing against the tinkling 
 
78 THE GREAT MODERN, AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 crystal of his wineglass, and his bright eye telling of a glee 
 ful sense that, small and grotesque as he sat there, he was 
 for the moment profoundly impressive, he distilled into our 
 untutored minds the sombre legend of his house. "Mr. 
 Clement Searle, from all I gather, was a young man of great 
 talent but a weak disposition. His mother was left a widow 
 early in life, with two sons, of whom he was the older and 
 the more promising. She educated him with the utmost fond 
 ness and care. Of course, when he came to manhood she 
 wished him to marry well. His means were quite sufficient 
 to enable him to overlook the want of means in his wife; and 
 Mrs. Searle selected a young lady who possessed, as she con 
 ceived, every good gift save a fortune a fine, proud, hand 
 some girl, the daughter of an old friend an old lover, I 
 fancy, of her own. Clement, however, as it appeared, had 
 either chosen otherwise or was as yet unprepared to choose. 
 The young lady discharged upon him in vain the battery of 
 her attractions ; in vain his mother urged her cause. Clement 
 remained cold, insensible, inflexible. Mrs. Searle possessed 
 a native force of which in its feminine branch the family 
 seems to have lost the trick. A proud, passionate, imperious 
 woman, she had had great cares and a number of law-suits; 
 they had given her a great will. She suspected that her son s 
 affections were lodged elsewhere, and lodged amiss. Irritated 
 by his stubborn defiance of her wishes, she persisted in her 
 urgency. The more she watched him the more she believed 
 that he loved in secret. If he loved in secret, of course he 
 loved beneath him. He went about sombre, sullen, and pre 
 occupied. At last, with the fatal indiscretion of an angry 
 woman, she threatened to bring the young lady of her choice 
 who, by the way, seems to have been no shrinking blossom 
 to stay in the house. A stormy scene was the result. He 
 threatened that if she did so, he would leave the country and 
 sail for America. She probably disbelieved him; she knew 
 him to be weak, but she overrated his weakness. At all 
 events, the fair rejected arrived and Clement departed. On 
 a dark December day he took ship at Southampton. The 
 two women, desperate with rage and sorrow, sat alone in this 
 great house, mingling their tears and imprecations. A fort- 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 79 
 
 night later, on Christmas eve, in the midst of a great snow 
 storm, long famous in the country, there came to them a 
 mighty quickening of their bitterness. A young woman, 
 soaked and chilled by the storm, gained entrance to the house 
 and made her way into the presence of the mistress and her 
 guest. She poured out her tale. She was a poor curate s 
 daughter of Hereford. Clement Searle had loved her; loved 
 her all too well. She had been turned out in wrath from her 
 father s house. His mother, at least, might pity her; if not 
 for herself, then for the child she was soon to bring forth. 
 The poor girl had been a second time too trustful. The 
 women, in scorn, in horror, with blows, possibly, turned her 
 forth again into the storm. In the storm she wandered, and 
 in the deep snow she died. Her lover, as you know, perished 
 in that hard winter weather at sea; the news came to his 
 mother late, but soon enough. We are haunted by the 
 curate s daughter!" 
 
 There was a pause of some moments. "Ah, well we may 
 be!" said Miss Searle, with a great pity. 
 
 Searle blazed up into enthusiasm. "Of course you know," 
 and suddenly he began to blush violently, "I should be 
 sorry to claim any identity with my faithless namesake, poor 
 fellow. But I shall be hugely tickled if this poor ghost 
 should be deceived by my resemblance and mistake me for 
 her cruel lover. She s welcome to the comfort of it. What 
 one can do in the case I shall be glad to do. But can a ghost 
 haunt a ghost? I am a ghost!" 
 
 Mr. Searle stared a moment, and then smiling superbly: 
 "I could almost believe you are!" he said. 
 
 "O brother cousin!" cried Miss Searle, with the gentlest, 
 yet most appealing dignity, "how can you talk so horribly?" 
 
 This horrible talk, however, evidently possessed a potent 
 magic for my friend; and his imagination, chilled for a while 
 by the frigid contact of his kinsman, began to glow again 
 with its earlrer fire. From this moment he ceased to steer his 
 cockle-shell, to care what he said or how he said it, so long 
 as he expressed his passionate satisfaction in the scene about 
 him. As he talked I ceased even mentally to protest. I have 
 wondered since that I should not have resented the exhibition 
 
8o THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 of so rank and florid an egotism. But a great frankness for 
 the time makes its own law, and a great passion its own 
 channel. There was, moreover, an immense sweetness in the 
 manner of my friend s speech. Free alike from either adula 
 tion or envy, the very soul of it was a divine apprehension, 
 an imaginative mastery, free as the flight of Ariel, of the 
 poetry of his companion s situation and of the contrasted 
 prosiness of their attitude. 
 
 "How does the look of age come?" he demanded, at des 
 sert. "Does it come of itself, unobserved, unrecorded, un 
 measured ? Or do you woo it and set baits and traps for it, 
 and watch it like the dawning brownness of a meerschaum 
 pipe, and nail it down when it appears, just where it peeps 
 out, and light a votive taper beneath it and give thanks to it 
 daily? Or do you forbid it and fight it and resist it, and 
 yet feel it settling and deepening about you, as irrestible as 
 fate?" 
 
 "What the deuce is the man talking about?" said the smile 
 of our host. 
 
 "I found a gray hair this morning," said Miss Searle. 
 
 "Good heavens! I hope you respected it," cried Searle. 
 
 "I look at it for a long time in my little glass," said his 
 cousin, simply. 
 
 "Miss Searle, for many years to come, can afford to be 
 amused at gray hairs," I said. 
 
 "Ten years hence I shall be forty-three," she answered. 
 
 "That s my age," said Searle. "If I had only come here 
 ten years ago! I should have had more time to enjoy the 
 feast, but I should have had less of an appetite. I needed to 
 get famished for it." 
 
 "Why did you wait for the starving point?" asked Mr. 
 Searle. "To think of these ten years that we might have been 
 enjoying you!" And at the thought of these wasted ten years 
 Mr. Searle broke into a violent nervous laugh. 
 
 "I always had a notion, a stupid, vulgar notion, if there 
 ever was one, that to come abroad properly one ought to 
 have a pot of money. My pot was too nearly empty. At last 
 I came with my empty pot!" 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 81 
 
 Mr. Searle coughed with an air of hesitation. "You re a 
 you re in limited circumstances?" 
 
 My friend apparently was vastly tickled to have his bleak 
 situation called by so soft a name. "Limited circumstances!" 
 he cried with a long, light laugh; "I m in no circumstances 
 at all!" 
 
 "Upon my word!" murmured Mr. Searle, with an air of 
 being divided between his sense of the indecency and his sense 
 of the rarity of a gentleman taking just that tone about his 
 affairs. "Well well well!" he added, in a voice which 
 might have meant everything or nothing; and proceeded, with 
 a twinkle in his eye, to finish a glass of wine. His sparkling 
 eye, as he drank, encountered mine over the top of his glass, 
 and, for a moment, we exchanged a long deep glance a 
 glance so keen as to leave a slight embarrassment on the face 
 of each. "And you," said Mr. Searle, by way of carrying it 
 off, "how about your circumstances?" 
 
 "O, his," said my friend, "his are unlimited! He could 
 buy up Lockley Park!" He had drunk, I think, a rather 
 greater number of glasses of port I admit that the port was 
 infinitely drinkable than was to have been desired in the 
 interest of perfect self-control. He was rapidly drifting 
 beyond any tacit dissuasion of mine. A certain feverish 
 harshness in his glance and voice warned me that to attempt 
 to direct him would simply irritate him. As we rose from the 
 table he caught my troubled look. Passing his arm for a 
 moment into mine, "This is the great night!" he whispered. 
 "The night of fatality, the night of destiny!" 
 
 Mr. Searle had caused the whole lower region of the house 
 to be thrown open and a multitude of lights to be placed in 
 convenient and effective positions. Such a marshalled wealth 
 of ancient candlesticks and flambeaux I had never beheld. 
 Niched against the dark panelling, casting great luminous 
 circles upon the pendent stiffness of sombre tapestries, en 
 hancing and completing with admirable effect the vastness 
 and mystery of the ancient house, they seemed to people the 
 great rooms, as our little group passed slowly from one to 
 another, with a dim, expectant presence. We had a delight 
 ful hour of it. Mr. Searle at once assumed the part of cice- 
 
82 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 rone, and I had not hitherto done him justice Mr. Searle 
 became agreeble. While I lingered behind with Miss Searle, 
 he walked in advance with his kinsman. It was as if he had 
 said, "Well, if you want the old place, you shall have it 
 metaphysically!" To speak vulgarly, he rubbed it in. Carry 
 ing a great silver candlestick in his left hand, he raised it 
 and lowered it and cast the light hither and thither, upon 
 pictures and hangings and bits of carving and a hundred 
 lurking architectural treasures. Mr. Searle knew his house. 
 He hinted at innumerable traditions and memories, and 
 evoked with a very pretty wit the figures of its earlier occu 
 pants. He told a dozen anecdotes with an almost reverential 
 gravity and neatness. His companion attended, with a sort 
 of brooding intelligence. Miss Searle and I, meanwhile, 
 were not wholly silent. 
 
 "I suppose that by this time/ I said, "you and your cousin 
 are almost old friends." 
 
 She trifled a moment with her fan, and then raising her 
 homely candid gaze: "Old friends, and at the same time 
 strangely new! My cousin, my cousin," and her voice 
 lingered on the word, "it seems so strange to call him my 
 cousin, after thinking these many years that I had no cousin ! 
 He s a most singular man." 
 
 "It s not so much he as his circumstances that are singu 
 lar," I ventured to say. 
 
 "I m so sorry for his circumstances. I wish I could help 
 him in some way. He interests me so much." And here 
 Miss Searle gave a rich, mellow sigh. "I wish I had known 
 him a long time ago. He told me that he is but the shadow 
 of what he was." 
 
 I wondered whether Searle had been consciously playing 
 upon the fancy of this gentle creature. If he had, I believed 
 he had gained his point. But in fact his position had be 
 come to my sense so charged with opposing forces, that I 
 hardly ventured wholly to rejoice. "His better self just now," 
 I said, "seems again to be taking shape. It will have been a 
 good deed on your part, Miss Searle, if you help to restore 
 him to soundness and serenity." 
 
 "Ah, what can I do?" 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 83 
 
 "Be a friend to him. Let him like you, let him love you ! 
 You see in him now, doubtless, much to pity and to wonder 
 at. But let him simply enjoy awhile the grateful sense of 
 your nearness and dearness. He will be a better and stronger 
 man for it, and then you can love him, you can respect him 
 without restriction." 
 
 Miss Searle listened with a puzzled tenderness of gaze. 
 "It s a hard part for poor me to play!" 
 
 Her almost infantine gentleness left me no choice but to 
 be absolutely frank. "Did you ever play any part at all?" 
 I asked. 
 
 Her eyes met mine, wonderingly; she blushed, as with a 
 sudden sense of my meaning. "Never! I think I have 
 hardly lived." 
 
 "You ve begun now, perhaps. You have begun to care for 
 something outside the narrow circle of habit and duty. (Ex 
 cuse me if I am rather too outspoken: you know I m a for 
 eigner.) It s a great moment: I wish you joy." 
 
 "I could almost fancy you are laughing at me. I feel 
 more trouble than joy." 
 
 "Why do you feel trouble?" 
 
 She paused with her eyes fixed on our two companions. 
 "My cousin s arrival," she said at last, "is a great disturb 
 ance." 
 
 "You mean that you did wrong in recognizing him? In 
 that case the fault is mine. He had no intention of giving 
 you the opportunity." 
 
 "I did wrong, after a fashion! But I can t find it in my 
 heart to regret it. I never shall regret it! I did what I 
 thought proper. Heaven forgive me!" 
 
 "Heaven bless you, Miss Searle ! Is any harm to come of 
 it? I did the evil; let me bear the brunt!" 
 
 She shook her head gravely. "You don t know my 
 brother!" 
 
 "The sooner I do know him, then, the better!" And 
 hereupon I felt a dull irritation which had been gathering 
 force for more than an hour explode into sudden wrath. 
 "What on earth is your brother?" I demanded. She 
 turned away. "Are you afraid of him?" I asked. 
 
84 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 She gave me a tearful sidelong glace. "He s looking at 
 me!" she murmured. 
 
 I look at him. He was standing with his back to us, 
 holding a large Venetian hand-mirror, framed in rococco 
 silver, which he had taken from a shelf of antiquities, in just 
 such a position that he caught the reflection of his sister s 
 person. Shall I confess it? Something in this performance 
 so tickled my sense of the picturesque, that it was with a sort 
 of blunted anger that I muttered, "The sneak!" Yet I felt 
 passion enough to urge me forward. It seemed to me that 
 by implication I, too, was being covertly watched. I should 
 not be watched for nothing! "Miss Searle," I said, insist 
 ing upon her attention, "promise me something." 
 
 She turned upon me with a start and the glance of one 
 appealing from some great pain. "O, don t ask me!" she 
 cried. It was as if she were standing on the verge of some 
 sudden lapse of familiar ground and had been summoned 
 to make a leap. I felt that retreat was impossible, and 
 that it was the greater kindness to beckon her forward. 
 
 "Promise me," I repeated. 
 
 Still with her eyes she protested. "O, dreadful day!" she 
 cried, at last. 
 
 "Promise me to let him speak to you, if he should ask 
 you, any wish you may suspect on your brother s part not 
 withstanding." 
 
 She colored deeply. "You mean," she said, "you mean 
 that he has something particular to say." 
 
 "Something most particular!" 
 
 "Poor cousin!" 
 
 I gave her a deeply questioning look. "Well, poor cousin ! 
 But promise me." 
 
 "I promise," she said, and moved away across the long 
 room and out of the door. 
 
 "You re in time to hear the most delightful story!" said 
 my friend, as I rejoined the two gentlemen. They were 
 standing before an old sombre portrait of a lady in the dress 
 of Queen Anne s time, with her ill-painted flesh-tints show 
 ing livid in the candlelight against her dark drapery and 
 background. "This is Mistress Margaret Searle, a sort of 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 85 
 
 Beatrix Esmond, who did as she pleased. She married a 
 paltry Frenchman, a penniless fiddler, in the teeth of her 
 whole family. Fair Margaret, my compliments! Upon my 
 soul, she looks like Miss Searle! Pray go on. What came 
 of it all?" 
 
 Mr. Searle looked at his kinsman for a moment with an 
 air of distaste for his boisterous homage, and of pity for his 
 crude imagination. Then resuming, with a very effective 
 dryness of tone: "I found a year ago, in a box of very old 
 papers, a letter from Mistress Margaret to Cynthia Searle, 
 her elder sister. It was dated from Paris and dreadfully 
 ill-spelled. It contained a most passionate appeal for a 
 for pecuniary assistance. She had just been confined, she 
 was starving, and neglected by her husband; she cursed the 
 day she left England. It was a most dismal effusion. I 
 never heard that she found means to return." 
 
 "So much for marrying a Frenchman!", I said, senten- 
 tiously. 
 
 Mr. Searle was silent for some moments. "This was the 
 first," he said, finally," and the last of the family who has 
 been so d d un-English!" 
 
 "Does Miss Searle know her history?" asked my friend, 
 staring at the rounded whiteness of the lady s heavy cheek. 
 
 "Miss Searle knows nothing !" said our host, with zeal. 
 
 This utterance seemed to kindle in my friend a generous 
 opposing zeal. "She shall know at least the tale of Mistress 
 Margaret," he cried, and walked rapidly away in search of 
 her. 
 
 Mr. Searle and I pursued our march through the lighted 
 rooms. "You ve found a cousin," I said, "with a ven 
 geance." 
 
 "Ah, a vengeance?" said my host, stiffly. 
 
 "I mean that he takes as keen an interest in your annals 
 and possessions as yourself." 
 
 "O, exactly so!" and Mr. Searle burst into resounding 
 laughter. "He tells me," he resumed, in a moment, "that 
 he is an invalid. I should never have fancied it." 
 
 "Within the past few hours," I said, "he s a changed man. 
 
86 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Your place and your kindness have refreshed him im 
 mensely." 
 
 Mr. Searle uttered the little shapeless ejaculation with 
 which many an Englishman is apt to announce the concus 
 sion of any especial courtesy of speech. He bent his eyes 
 on the floor frowningly, and then, to my surprise, he sud 
 denly stopped and looked at me with a penetrating eye. 
 "I m an honest man!" he said. I was quite prepared to 
 assent; but he went on, with a sort of fury of frankness, as 
 if it was the first time in his life that he had been prompted 
 to expound himself, as if the process was mightily unpleas 
 ant to him and he was hurrying through it as a task. "An 
 honest man, mind you ! I know nothing about Mr. Clement 
 Searle! I never expected to see him. He has been to me 
 a a " And here Mr. Searle paused to select a word 
 which should vividly enough express what, for good or for 
 ill, his kinsman had been to him. "He has been to me an 
 amazement! I have no doubt he is a most amiable man! 
 You ll not deny, however, that he s a very odd style of per 
 son, I m sorry he s ill! I m sorry he s poor! He s my 
 fiftieth cousin! Well and good! I m an honest man. He 
 shall not have it to say that he was not received at my house." 
 
 "He, too, thank heaven! is an honest man!" I said, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Why the deuce, then," cried Mr. Searle, turning almost 
 fiercely upon me, "has he established this underhand claim 
 to my property?" 
 
 This startling utterance flashed backward a gleam of light 
 upon the demeanor of our host and the suppressed agitation 
 of his sister. In an instant the jealous soul of the unhappy 
 gentleman revealed itself. For a moment I was so amazed 
 and scandalized at the directness of his attack that I lacked 
 words to respond. As soon as he had spoken, Mr. Searle 
 appeared to feel that he had struck too hard a blow. "Ex 
 cuse me, sir," he hurried on, "if I speak of this matter with 
 heat. But I have seldom suffered so grievous a shock as on 
 learning, as I learned this morning from my solicitor, the 
 monstrous proceedings of Mr. Clement Searle. Great 
 heaven, sir, for what does the man take me? He pretends 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 87 
 
 to the Lord knows what .fantastic passion for my place. Let 
 him respect it, then. Let him, with his tawdry parade of 
 imagination, imagine a tithe of what I feel. I love my es 
 tate; it s my passion, my life, myself! Am I to make a 
 great hole in it for a beggarly foreigner, a man without 
 means, without proof, a stranger, an adventurer, a Bohe 
 mian? I thought America boasted that she had land for all 
 men! Upon my soul, sir, I have never been so shocked in 
 my life." 
 
 I paused for some moments before speaking, to allow his 
 passion fully to expend itself and to nicker up again if it 
 chose; for on my own part it seemed well that I should 
 answer him ence for all. "Your really absurd apprehen 
 sions, Mr. Searle," I said at last, "your terrors, I may call 
 them, have fairly overmastered your common-sense. You 
 are attacking a man of straw, a creature of base illusion; 
 though I m sadly afraid you have wounded a man of spirit 
 and of conscience. Either my friend has no valid claim on 
 your estate, in which case your agitation is superfluous; or 
 he has a valid claim " 
 
 Mr. Searle seized my arm and glared at me, as I may say; 
 his pale face paler still with the horror of my suggestion, 
 his great keen eyes flashing, and his flamboyant hair erect 
 and quivering. 
 
 "A valid claim !" he whispered. "Let him try it!" 
 
 We had emerged into the great hall of the mansion and 
 stood facing the main doorway. The door stood open into 
 the porch, through whose stone archway I saw the garden 
 glittering in the blue light of a full moon. As Mr. Searle 
 uttered the words I have just repeated, I beheld my com 
 panion come slowly up into the porch from without, bare 
 headed, bright in the outer moonlight, dark then in the 
 shadow of the archway, and bright again in the lamplight on 
 the threshold of the hall. As he crossed the threshold the 
 butler made his appearance at the head of the staircase on 
 our left, faltered .visibly a moment on seeing Mr. Searle; 
 but then, perceiving my friend, he gravely descended. He 
 bore in his hand a small plated salver. On the salver, 
 gleaming in the light of the suspended lamp, lay a folded 
 
88 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 note. Clement Searle came forward, staring a little and 
 startled, I think, by some fine sense of a near explosion. The 
 butler applied the match. He advanced toward my friend, 
 extending salver and note. Mr. Searle made a movement 
 as if to spring forward, but controlled himself. "Totten 
 ham 1" he shouted, in a strident voice. 
 
 "Yes, sir!" said Tottenham, halting. 
 
 "Stand where you are. For whom is that note?" 
 
 "For Mr. Clement Searle," said the butler, staring straight 
 before him as if to discredit a suspicion of his having read 
 the direction. 
 
 "Who gave it to you?" 
 
 "Mrs. Horridge, sir." (The housekeeper.) 
 
 "Who gave it Mrs. Horridge?" 
 
 There was on Tottenham s part just an infinitesimal 
 pause before replying. 
 
 "My dear sir," broke in Searle, completely sobered by the 
 sense of violated courtesy, "is n t that rather my business?" 
 
 "What happens in my house is my business; and mighty 
 strange things seem to be happening." Mr. Searle had be 
 come exasperated to that point that, a rare thing for an 
 Englishman, he compromised himself before a servant. 
 
 "Bring me the note!" he cried. The butler obeyed. 
 
 Really, this is too much I" cried my companion, affronted 
 and helpless. 
 
 I was disgusted. Before Mr. Searle had time to take the 
 note, I possessed myself of it. "If you have no regard for 
 your sister," I said, " let a stranger, at least, act for her." 
 And I tore the disputed thing into a dozen pieces. 
 
 "In the name of decency," cried Searle, "what does this 
 horrid business mean?" 
 
 Mr. Searle was about to break out upon him; but at this 
 moment his sister appeared on the staircase, summoned evi 
 dently by our high-pitched and angry voices. She had ex 
 changed her dinner-dress for a dark dressing-gown, removed 
 her ornaments, and begun to disarrange her hair, a heavy 
 tress of which escaped from the comb. She hurried down 
 ward, with a pale, questioning face. Feeling distinctly that, 
 for ourselves, immediate departure was in the air, and divin- 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 89 
 
 ing Mr. Tottenham to be a butler of remarkable intuitions 
 and extreme celerity, I seized the opportunity to request him, 
 sotto voce, to send a carriage to the door without delay. 
 "And put up our things," I added. 
 
 Our host rushed at his sister and seized the white wrist 
 which escaped from the loose sleeve of her dress. "What 
 was in that note?" he demanded. 
 
 Miss Searle looked first at its scattered fragments and 
 then at her cousin. "Did you read it?" she asked. 
 
 "No, but I thank you for it!" said Searle. 
 
 Her eyes for an instant communed brightly with his own; 
 then she transferred them to her brother s face, where the 
 light went out of them and left a dull, sad patience. An in 
 exorable patience he seemed to find it: he flushed crimson 
 with rage and the sense of his unhandsomeness, and flung 
 her away. "You re a child," he cried. "Go to bed." 
 
 In poor Searle s face as well the gathered serenity was 
 twisted into a sickened frown, and the reflected brightness of 
 his happy day turned to blank confusion. "Have I been 
 dealing these three hours with a madman?" he asked plain 
 tively. 
 
 "A madman, yes, if you will! A man mad with the love 
 of his home and the sense of its stability. I have held my 
 tongue till now, but you have been too much for me. Who 
 are you, what are you ? From what paradise of fools do you 
 come, that you fancy I shall cut off a piece of my land, my 
 home, my heart, to toss to you ? Forsooth, I shall share my 
 land with you ? Prove your infernal claim ! There is n t 
 that in it!" And he kicked one of the bits of paper on the 
 floor. 
 
 Searle received this broadside gaping. Then turning 
 away, he went and seated himself on a bench against the 
 wall and rubbed his forehead amazedly. I looked at my 
 watch, and listened for the wheels of our carriage. 
 
 Mr. Searle went on. "Was n t it enough that you should 
 have practiced against my property? Need you have come 
 into my very house to practice against my sister?" 
 
 Searle put his two hands to his face. "Oh, oh, oh!" he 
 softly roared. 
 
90 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Miss Searle crossed rapidly and dropped on her knees at 
 his side. 
 
 "Go to bed, you fool!" shrieked her brother. 
 
 "Dear cousin," said Miss Searle, "it s cruel that you are 
 to have to think of us so!" 
 
 "O, I shall think of you!" he said. And he laid a hand 
 on her head, 
 
 "I believe you have done nothing wrong!" she murmured. 
 
 "I ve done what I could," her brother pursued. "But it s 
 arrant folly to pretend to friendship when this abomination 
 lies between us. You were welcome to my meat and my 
 wine, but I wonder you could swallow them. The sight 
 spoiled my appetite!" cried the furious little man, with a 
 laugh. "Proceed with your case! My people in London 
 are instructed and prepared." 
 
 "I have a fancy," I said to Searle, "that your case has 
 vastly improved since you gave it up." 
 
 "Oho! you don t feign ignorance, then?" and he shook 
 his flaming chevelure at me. "It is very kind of you to give 
 it up!" And he laughed resoundingly. "Perhaps you will 
 also give up my sister!" 
 
 Searle sat in his chair in a species of collapse, staring at 
 his adversary. "O miserable man!" he moaned at last. "I 
 fancied we had become such friends!" 
 
 "Boh! you imbecile!" cried our host. 
 
 Searle seemed not to hear him. "Am I seriously ex 
 pected," he pursued, slowly and painfully, "am I seriously 
 expected to to sit here and defend myself to prove I 
 have done nothing wrong? Think what you please." And 
 he rose, with an effort, to his feet. "I know what you 
 think!" he added, to Miss Searle. 
 
 The carriage wheels resounded on the gravel, and at the 
 same moment the footman descended with our two portman 
 teaus. Mr. Tottenham followed him with our hats and coats. 
 
 "Good God!" cried Mr. Searle; "you are not going away!" 
 This ejaculation, under the circumstances, had a grand com 
 icality which prompted me to violent laughter. "Bless my 
 soul!" he added, "of course you are going." 
 
 "It s perhaps well," said Miss Searle, with a great effort, 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 91 
 
 inexpressibly touching in one for whom great efforts were 
 visibly new and strange, "that I should tell you what my 
 poor little note contained." 
 
 "That matter of your note, madam," said her brother, 
 "you and I will settle together!" 
 
 "Let me imagine its contents," said Searle. 
 
 "Ah! they have been too much imagined!" she answered 
 simply. "It was only a word of warning. I knew some 
 thing painful was coming." 
 
 Searle took his seat. "The pains and the pleasures of this 
 day," he said to his kinsman, "I shall equally never forget. 
 Knowing you," and he offered his hand to Miss Searle, "has 
 been the pleasure of pleasures. I hoped something more 
 was to come of it." 
 
 "A deal too much has come of it!" cried our host, irre- 
 pressibly. 
 
 Searle looked at him mildly, almost benignantly, from 
 head to foot ; and then closing his eyes with an air of sudden 
 physical distress: "I m afraid so! I can t stand more of 
 this." I gave him my arm, and crossed the threshold. As 
 we passed out I heard Miss Searle burst into a torrent of 
 sobs. 
 
 "We shall hear from each other yet, I take it !" cried her 
 brother, harassing our retreat. 
 
 Searle stopped and turned round on him sharply, almost 
 fiercely. "O ridiculous man!" he cried. 
 
 "Do you mean to say you shall not prosecute?" screamed 
 the other. "I shall force you to prosecute! I shall drag 
 you into court, and you shall be beaten beaten beaten!" 
 And this soft vocable continued to ring in our ears as we 
 drove away. 
 
 We drove, of course, to the little wayside inn whence we 
 had departed in the morning so unencumbered, in all broad 
 England, with either enemies or friends. My companion, as 
 the carriage rolled along, seemed utterly overwhelmed and 
 exhausted. "What a dream!" he murmured stupidly. 
 "What an awakening! What a long, long day! What a 
 hideous scene! Poor me! Poor woman!" When we had 
 resumed possession of our two little neighboring rooms, I 
 
92 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 asked him if Miss Searle s note had been the result of any 
 thing that had passed between them on his going to rejoin 
 her. "I found her on the terrace, he said, "walking a rest 
 less walk in the moonlight. I was greatly excited; I hardly 
 know what I said. I asked her, I think, if she knew the 
 story of Margaret Searle. She seemed frightened and 
 troubled, and she used just the words her brother had used, 
 I know nothing. For the moment, somehow, I felt as a 
 man drunk. I stood before her and told her, with great em 
 phasis, how sweet Margaret Searle had married a beggarly 
 foreigner, in obedience to her heart and in defiance of her 
 family. As I talked the sheeted moonlight seemed to close 
 about us, and we stood in a dream, in a solitiude, in a ro 
 mance. She grew younger, fairer, more gracious. I trem 
 bled with a divine loquacity. Before I knew it I had gone 
 far. I was taking her hand and calling her Margaret! 
 She had said that it was impossible; that she could do noth 
 ing; that she was a fool, a child, a slave. Then, with a 
 sudden huge conviction, I spoke of my claim against the 
 estate. It exists, then/ she said. It exists, I answered, 
 but I have foregone it. Be generous! Pay it from your 
 heart! For an instant her face was radiant. If I marry 
 you, she cried, it will repair the trouble. In. our mar 
 riage, I affirmed, the trouble will melt away like a rain 
 drop in the ocean. Our marriage! she repeated, wonder- 
 ingly; and the deep, deep ring of her voice seemed to shatter 
 the crystal walls of our illusion. I must think, I must 
 think! she said; and she hurried away with her face in her 
 hands. I walked up and down the terrace for some mo 
 ments, and then came in and met you. This is the only 
 witchcraft I have used!" 
 
 The poor fellow was at once so excited and so exhausted 
 by the day s events that I fancied he would get little sleep. 
 Conscious, on my own part, of a stubborn wakefulness, I 
 but partly undressed, set my fire a-blazing, and sat down to 
 do some writing. I heard the great clock in the little parlor 
 below strike twelve, one, half-past one. Just as the vibra 
 tion of this last stroke was dying on the air the door of 
 communication into Searle s room was flung open, and my 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 93 
 
 companion stood on the threshold, pale as a corpse, in his 
 nightshirt, standing like a phantom against the darkness 
 behind him. "Look at me!" he said, in a low voice, "touch 
 me, embrace, me, revere me! You see a man who has seen 
 a ghost!" 
 
 "Great heaven, what do you mean?" 
 
 "Write it down!" he went on. "There, take your pen. 
 Put it into dreadful words. Make it of all ghost-stories the 
 ghostliest, the truest ! How do I look ? Am I human ? Am 
 I pale? Am I red? Am I speaking English? A ghost, 
 sir! Do you understand?" 
 
 I confess, there came upon me, by contact, a great super 
 natural shock. I shall always feel that I, too, have seen a 
 ghost. My first movement I can t smile at it even now 
 was to spring to the door, close it with a great blow, and 
 then turn the key upon the gaping blackness from which 
 Searle had emerged. I seized his two hands; they were wet 
 with perspiration. I pushed my chair to the fire and forced 
 him to sit down in it. I kneeled down before him and held 
 his hands as firmly as possible. They trembled and quiv 
 ered; his eyes were fixed, save that the pupil dilated and 
 contracted with extraordinary force. I asked no questions, 
 but waited with my heart in my throat. At last he spoke. 
 "I m not frightened, but I m O excited! This is life! 
 This is living! My nerves my heart my brain! They 
 are throbbing with the wildness of a myriad lives ! Do you 
 feel it? Do you tingle? Are you hot! Are you cold? 
 Hold me tight tight tight! I shall tremble away into 
 waves waves waves, and know the universe and approach 
 my Maker!" He paused a moment and then went on: "A 
 woman as clear as that candle no, far clearer! In a 
 blue dress, with a black mantle on her head, and a little 
 black muff. Young, dreadfully pretty, pale and ill, with 
 the sadness of all the women who ever loved and suffered 
 _ pleading and accusing in her dead dark eyes. God knows I 
 never did any such thing! But she took me for my elder, 
 for the other Clement. She came to me here as she would 
 have come to me there. She wrung her hands and spoke to 
 me. Marry me! she moaned; marry me and right me! 
 
94 THE GREAT MODERN: AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 I sat up in bed just as I sit here, looked at her, heard her 
 heard her voice melt away, watched her figure fade away. 
 Heaven and earth! Here I am!" 
 
 I made no attempt either to explain my friend s vision 
 or to discredit it. It is enough that I felt for the hour the 
 irresistible contagion of his own agitation. On the whole, I 
 think my own vision was the more interesting of the two. 
 He beheld but the transcient, irresponsible spectre: I beheld 
 the human subject, hot from the spectral presence. Never 
 theless, I soon recovered my wits sufficiently to feel the neces 
 sity of guarding my friend s health against the evil results 
 of excitement and exposure. It was tacitly established that, 
 for the night, he was not to return to his room; and I soon 
 made him fairly comfortable in his place by the fire. Wish 
 ing especially to obviate a chill, I removed my bedding and 
 wrapped him about with multitudinous blankets and coun 
 terpanes. I had no nerves either for writing or sleep; so I 
 put out my lights, renewed the fire, and sat down on the 
 opposite side of the hearth. I found a kind of solemn en 
 tertainment in watching my friend. Silent, swathed and 
 muffled to his chin, he sat rigid and erect with the dignity 
 of his great adventure. For the most part his eyes were 
 closed ; though from time to time he would open them with a 
 vast, steady expansion and gaze unblinking into the fire 
 light, as if he again beheld without terror, the image of that 
 blighted maid. . . . The night passed wholly without 
 speech. Towards its close I slept for half an hour. When 
 I awoke the awakened birds had begun to twitter. Searie 
 sat unperturbed, staring at me. We exchanged a long look; 
 I felt with a pang that his glittering eyes had tasted their 
 last of natural sleep. How is it? are you comfortable?" 
 I asked. 
 
 He gazed for some time without replying. Then he spoke 
 with a strange, innocent grandiloquence, and with pauses 
 between his words, as if an inner voice were slowly prompt 
 ing him. "You asked me, when you first knew me, what I 
 was. Nothing/ I said, nothing. Nothing I have always 
 deemed myself. But I have wronged myself. I m a per 
 sonage! I m rare among men! I m a haunted man!" 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 95 
 
 Sleep had passed out of his eyes: I felt with a deeper 
 pang that perfect sanity had passed out of his voice. From 
 this moment I prepared myself for the worst. There was in 
 my friend, however, such an essential gentleness and con 
 servative patience, that to persons surrounding him the worst 
 was likely to come without hurry or violence. He had so 
 confirmed a habit of good manners that, at the core of rea 
 son, the process of disorder might have been long at work 
 without finding an issue. As morning began fully to dawn 
 upon us, I brought our grotesque vigil to an end. Searle 
 appeared so weak that I gave him my hands to help him to 
 rise from his chair; he retained them for some moments after 
 rising to his feet, from an apparent inability to keep his 
 balance. "Well," he said, "I ve seen one ghost, but I doubt 
 of my living to see another. I shall soon be myself as brave 
 a ghost as the best of them. I shall haunt Mr. Searle ! It 
 can only mean one thing, my near, dear death." 
 
 On my proposing breakfast, "This shall be my breakfast!" 
 he said; and he drew from his travelling-sack a phial of 
 morphine. He took a strong dose and went to bed. At 
 noon I found him on foot again, dressed, shaved, and ap 
 parently refreshed. "Poor fellow!" he said, " you have got 
 more than you bargained for a ghost-encumbered com 
 rade. But it won t be for long." It immediately became a 
 question, of course, whither we should now direct our steps. 
 
 "As I have so little time," said Searle, "I should like to 
 see the best, the best alone." I answered that, either for 
 time or eternity, I had imagined Oxford to be the best thing 
 in England; and for Oxford in the course of an hour we 
 accordingly departed. 
 
 Of Oxford I feel small vocation to speak in detail. It 
 must long remain for an American one of the supreme grat 
 ifications of travel. The impression it produces, the emo 
 tions it stirs, in an American mind, are too large and various 
 to be compassed by words. It seems to embody with un 
 dreamed completeness a kind of dim and sacred ideal of the 
 Western intellect, a scholastic city, an appointed home of 
 contemplation. No other spot in Europe, I imagine, extorts 
 from our barbarous hearts so passionate an admiration. A 
 
96 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 finer pen than mine must enumerate the splendid devices by 
 which it performs this great office ; I can bear testimony only 
 to the dominant tone of its effect. Passing through the 
 various streets in which the obverse longitude of the hoary 
 college walls seems to maintain an antique stillness, you 
 feel this to be the most dignified of towns. Over all, through 
 all, the great corporate fact of the University prevails and 
 penetrates, like some steady bass in a symphony of lighter 
 chords, like the mediaeval and mystical presence of the 
 Empire in the linked dispersion of lesser states. The plain 
 Gothic of the long street- fronts of the colleges blessed 
 seraglios of culture and leisure irritate the fancy like the 
 blank harem-walls of Eastern towns. Within their arching 
 portals, however, you perceive more sacred and sunless 
 courts, and the dark verdure grateful and restful to bookish 
 eyes. The gray-green quadrangles stand forever open with a 
 noble and trustful hospitality. The seat of the humanities 
 is stronger in the admonitory shadow of her great name than 
 in a marshalled host of wardens and beadles. Directly after 
 our arrival my friend and I strolled eagerly forth in the 
 luminous early dusk. We reached the bridge which passes 
 beneath the walls of Magdalen and saw the eight-spired 
 tower, embossed with its slender shaftings, rise in temperate 
 beauty the perfect prose of Gothic wooing the eyes to 
 the sky, as it was slowly drained of day. We entered the 
 little monkish doorway and stood in that dim, fantastic outer 
 court, made narrow by the dominant presence of the great 
 tower, in which the heart beats faster, and the swallows 
 niche more lovingly in the tangled ivy, I fancied, than else 
 where in Oxford. We passed thence into the great cloister, 
 and studied the little sculptured monsters along the en 
 tablature of the arcade. I was pleased to see that Searle be 
 came extremely interested; but I very soon began to fear 
 that the influence of the place would prove too potent for 
 his unbalanced imagination. I may say that from this 
 time forward, with my unhappy friend, I found it hard to 
 distinguish between the play of fancy and the labor of 
 thought, and to fix the balance between perception and il 
 lusion. He had already taken a fancy to confound his 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 97 
 
 identity with that of the earlier Clement Searle; he began 
 to speak almost wholly as from the imagined consciousness 
 of his old-time kinsman. 
 
 "This was my college, you know," he said, "the noblest 
 in all Oxford. How often I have paced this gentle cloister, 
 side by side with a friend of the hour! My friends are all 
 dead, but many a young fellow as we meet him, dark or 
 fair, tall or short, reminds me of them. Even Oxford, they 
 say, feels about its massive base the murmurs of the tide of 
 time; there are things eliminated, things insinuated! Mine 
 was ancient Oxford the fine old haunt of rank abuses, of 
 precedent and privilege. What cared I, who was a per 
 fect gentleman, with my pockets full of money? I had an 
 allowance of two thousand a year." 
 
 It became evident to me, on the following day, that his 
 strength had begun to ebb, and that he was unequal to the 
 labor of regular sight-seeing. He read my apprehension in 
 my eyes, and took pains to assure me that I was right. "I 
 am going down-hill. Thank heavens it s an easy slope, 
 coated with English turf and with an English churchyard 
 at the foot." The almost hysterical emotion produced by 
 our adventure at Lockley Park had given place to a broad, 
 calm satisfaction, in which the scene around us was re 
 flected as in the depths of a lucid lake. We took an after 
 noon walk through Christ-Church Meadow, and at the river- 
 bank procured a boat, which I pulled up the stream to Iffley 
 and to the slanting woods of Nuneham, the sweetest, flat 
 test, reediest stream-side landscape that the heart need de 
 mand. Here, of course, we encountered in hundreds the 
 mighty lads of England, clad in white flannel and blue, im 
 mense, fair-haired, magnificent in their youth, lounging 
 down the current in their idle punts, in friendly couples or in 
 solitude possibly portentous of scholastic honors; or pulling 
 in straining crews and hoarsely exhorted from the near 
 bank. When, in conjunction with all this magnificent sport, 
 you think of the verdant quietude and the silvery sanctities 
 of the college gardens, you cannot but consider that the youth 
 of England have their porridge well salted. As my com 
 panion found himself less and less able to walk, we repaired 
 
98 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 on three successive days to these scholastic domains, and 
 spent long hours sitting in their greenest places. They 
 seemed to us the fairest things in England and the ripest 
 and sweetest fruits of the English system. Locked in their 
 antique verdure, guarded (as in the case of New College) 
 by gentle battlements of silver-gray, outshouldering the 
 matted leafage of centenary vines, filled with perfumes and 
 privacy and memories, with students lounging bookishly on 
 the turf (as if tenderly to spare it the pressure of their 
 boot-heels), and with the great conservative presence of the 
 college front appealing gravely from the restless outer world, 
 they seem to lie down on the grass in forever, in the happy 
 faith that life is all a vast old English garden, and time an 
 endless English afternoon. This charmed seclusion was 
 especially grateful to my friend, and his sense of it reached 
 its climax, I remember, on the last afternoon of our three, 
 as we sat dreaming in the spacious garden of St. John s. 
 The long college fagade here, perhaps, broods over the lawn 
 with a more effective air of property than elsewhere. Searle 
 fell into unceasing talk and exhaled his swarming impres 
 sions with a tender felicity, compounded of the oddest mix 
 ture of wisdom and folly. Every student who passed us 
 was the subject of an extemporized romance, and every 
 feature of the place the theme of a lyric rhapsody. 
 
 "Isn t it all," he demanded, "a delightful lie? Mightn t 
 one fancy this the very central point of the world s heart, 
 where all the echoes of the world s life arrive only to falter 
 and die? Listen! The air is thick with arrested voices. 
 It is well there should be such places, shaped in the interest 
 of factitious needs; framed to minister to the book-begotten 
 longing for a medium in which one may dream unwaked, 
 and believe unconfuted; to foster the sweet illusion that all 
 is well in this weary world, all perfect and rounded, mellow 
 and complete in this sphere of the pitiful unachieved and 
 the dreadful uncommenced. The world s made! Work s 
 over! Now for leisure! England s safe! Now for 
 Theocritus and Horace, for lawn and sky! What a sense 
 it all gives one of the composite life of England, and how 
 essential a factor of the educated, British consciousness one 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 99 
 
 omits in not thinking of Oxford ! Thank heaven they had the 
 wit to send me here in the other time. I m not much with 
 it, perhaps; but what should I have been without it? The 
 misty spires and towers of Oxford seen far off on the level 
 have been all these years one of the constant things of 
 memory. Seriously, what does Oxford do for these people? 
 Are they wiser, gentler, richer, deeper? At moments when 
 its massive influence surges into my mind like a tidal wave, 
 I take it as a sort of affront to my dignity. My soul reverts 
 to the naked background of our own education, the dead 
 white wall before which we played our parts. I assent to 
 it all with a sort of desperate calmness; I bow to it with a 
 dogged pride. We are nursed at the opposite pole. Naked 
 come we into a naked world. There is a certain grandeur in 
 the absence of a mise en scene, a certain heroic strain in 
 those young imaginations of the West, which find nothing 
 made to their hands, which have to concoct their own 
 mysteries, and raise high into our morning air, with a ring 
 ing hammer and nails, the castles in which they dwell. 
 Noblesse oblige: Oxford obliges. What a horrible thing not 
 to respond to such obligations. If you pay the pious debt 
 to the last farthing of interest, you may go through life 
 with her blessing; but if you let it stand unhonored, you 
 are a worse barbarian than we! But for better or worse, in 
 a myriad private hearts, think how she must be loved ! How 
 the youthful sentiment of mankind seems visibly to brood 
 upon her ! Think of the young lives now taking color in her 
 corridors and cloisters. Think of the centuries tale of 
 dead lads dead alike with the close of the young days to 
 which these haunts were a present world and the ending of 
 the larger lives which a sterner mother-scene has gathered 
 into her massive history! What are those two young fel 
 lows kicking their heels over on the grass there? One of 
 them has the Saturday Review; the other upon my soul 
 the other has Artemus Ward! Where do they live, how do 
 they live, to what end do they live ? Miserable boys ! How 
 can they read Artemus Ward under these windows of 
 Elizabeth? What do you think loveliest in all Oxford? 
 The poetry of certain windows. Do you see that one yonder, 
 
ioo THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 the second of those lesser bays, with the broken mullion and 
 open casement? That used to be the window of my fidus 
 Achates, a hundred years ago. Remind me to tell you the 
 story of that broken mullion. Don t tell me it s not a com 
 mon thing to have one s fidus Achates at another college. 
 Pray, was I pledged to common things? He was a charm 
 ing fellow. By the way, he was a good deal like you. Of 
 course his cocked hat, his long hair in a black ribbon, his 
 cinnamon velvet suit, and his flowered waistcoat made a 
 difference! We gentlemen used to wear swords." 
 
 There was something surprising and impressive in my 
 friend s gushing magniloquence. ... He was becoming 
 more and more a disembodied observer and critic; the shell 
 of sense, growing daily thinner and more transparent, 
 transmitted the tremor of his quickened spirit. He re 
 vealed an unexpected faculty for becoming acquainted with 
 the lounging gownsmen whom we met in our vague peregri 
 nations. If I left him for ten minutes, I was sure to find 
 him, on my return, in earnest conversation with some affable 
 wandering scholar. Several young men with whom he had 
 thus established relations invHed him to their rooms and 
 entertained him, as I gathered, with boisterous hospitality. 
 For myself, I chose not to be present on these occasions; I 
 shrunk partly from being held in any degree responsible for 
 his vagaries, and partly from witnessing that painful ag 
 gravation of them which I feared might be induced by 
 champagne and youthful society. He reported these ad 
 ventures with less eloquence than I had fancied he might 
 use; but, on the whole, I suspect that a certain method in 
 his madness, a certain firmness in his most melting bonhomie, 
 had insured him perfect respect. Two things, however, be 
 came evident that he drank more champagne than was 
 good for him, and that the boyish grossness of his enter 
 tainers tended rather, on reflection, to disturb in his mind 
 the pure image of Oxford. At the same time it completed 
 his knowledge of the place. Making the acquaintance of 
 several tutors and fellows, he dined in Hall in half a dozen 
 colleges, and alluded afterwards to these banquets with a 
 sort of religious unction. One evening, at the close of one 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 101 
 
 of these entertainments, he came back to the hotel in a cab, 
 accompanied by a friendly student and a physician, looking 
 deadly pale. He had swooned away on leaving table, and 
 had remained so stubbornly unconscious as to excite great 
 alarm among his companions. The following twenty-four 
 hours, of course, he spent in bed; but on the third day he 
 declared himself strong enough to go out. On reaching the 
 street his strength again forsook him, and I insisted upon 
 his returning to his room. He besought me with tears in his 
 eyes not to shut him up. "It s my last chance," he said. 
 "I want to go back for an hour to that garden of St. John s. 
 Let me look and feel; to-morrow I die." It seemed to me 
 possible that with a Bath-chair the expedition might be 
 accomplished. The hotel, it appeared, possessed such a 
 convenience: it was immediately produced. It became neces 
 sary hereupon that we should have a person to propel the 
 chair. As there was no one available on the spot, I pre 
 pared to perform the office ; but just as Searle had got seated 
 and wrapped (he had come to suffer acutely from cold), 
 an elderly man emerged from a lurking-place near the door, 
 and, with a formal salute, offered to wait upon the gentleman. 
 We assented, and he proceeded solemnly to trundle the 
 chair before him. I recognized him as an individual whom 
 I had seen lounging shyly about the hotel doors, at intervals 
 during our stay, with a depressed air of wanting employ 
 ment and a hopeless doubt of finding any. . . . He was, 
 I suppose, some fifty years of age; but his pale, haggard, 
 unwholesome visage, his plaintive, drooping carriage, and 
 the irremediable decay of his apparel, seemed to add to the 
 burden of his days and experience. His eyes were blood 
 shot and weak-looking, his handsome nose had turned to 
 purple, and his sandy beard, largely streaked with gray, 
 bristled with a month s desperate indifference to the razor. 
 In all this rusty forlornness there lurked a visible assurance 
 of our friend s having known better days. Obviously, he 
 was the victim of some fatal depreciation in the market 
 value of pure gentility. There had been something terribly 
 pathetic in the way he fiercely merged the attempt to touch 
 the greasy rim of his antiquated hat into a rounded and 
 
102 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 sweeping bow, as from jaunty equal to equal. Exchanging 
 a few words with him as we went along, I was struck with 
 the refinement of his tone. 
 
 "Take me by some long roundabout way," said Searle, 
 "so that I may see as many college walls as possible." 
 
 "You can wander without losing youlway?" I asked of 
 our attendant. 
 
 "I ought to be able to, sir," he said, after a moment, with 
 pregnant gravity. And as we were passing Wadham Col 
 lege, "That s my college, sir," he added. 
 
 At these words, Searle commanded him to stop and come 
 and stand in front of him. "You say that is your college?" 
 he demanded. 
 
 "Wadham might deny me, sir; but Heaven forbid I should 
 deny Wadham. If you ll allow me to take you into the quad, 
 I ll show you my windows, thirty years ago!" 
 
 Searle sat staring, with his huge, pale eyes, which now 
 had come to usurp the greatest place in his wasted visage, 
 filled with wonder and pity. "If you ll be so kind," he said, 
 with immense politeness. But just as this degenerate son 
 of Wadham was about to propel him across the threshold of 
 the court, he turned about, disengaged his hands, with his 
 own hand, from the back of the chair, drew him alongside of 
 him and turned to me. "While we are here, my dear fel 
 low," he said, "be so good as to perform this service. You 
 understand?" I smiled sufferance at our companion, and 
 we resumed our way. The latter showed us his window of 
 thirty years ago, where now a rosy youth in a scarlet smok- 
 ing-fez was puffing a cigarette in the open lattice. Thence 
 we proceeded into the little garden, the smallest, I believe, 
 and certainly the sweetest of all the bosky resorts in Oxford. 
 I pushed the chair along to a bench on the lawn, wheeled 
 it about toward the fagade of the college, and sat down on 
 the grass. Our attendant shifted himself mournfully from 
 one foot to the other. Searle eyed him open-mouthed. At 
 length he broke out: "God bless my soul, sir, you don t 
 suppose that I expect you to stand! There s an empty 
 bench." 
 
 "Thank you," said our friend, bending his joints to sit. 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 103 
 
 "You English," said Searle, "are really fabulous! I 
 don t know whether I most admire you or despise you ! Now 
 tell me: Who are you? What are you? What brought you 
 to this?" 
 
 The poor fellow blushed up to his eyes, took off his hat, 
 and wiped his forehead with a ragged handkerchief. "My 
 name is Rawson, sir. Beyond that, it s a long story." 
 
 "I ask out of sympathy," said Searle. "I have a 
 fellow-feeling! You re a poor devil; I m a poor devil too." 
 
 "I m the poorest devil of the two," said the stranger, with 
 a little emphatic nod of the head. 
 
 "Possibly. I suppose an English poor devil is the poorest 
 of all poor devils. And then, you have fallen from a height. 
 From Wadham College as a gentleman commoner (is that 
 what they called you?) to Wadham College as a Bath-chair 
 man! Good heavens, man, the fall s enough to kill you!" 
 
 "I didn t take it all at once, sir. I dropped a bit one time 
 and a bit another." 
 
 "That s me, that s me!" cried Searle, clapping his hands. 
 
 "And now," said our friend, "I believe I can t drop 
 further." 
 
 "My dear fellow," and Searle clasped his hand and shook 
 it, "there s a perfect similarity in our lot." 
 
 Fearing that the conversation had taken a turn which 
 might seem to cast a rather fantastic light upon Mr. Raw- 
 son s troubles, I took the liberty of asking him with great 
 gravity how he made a living. 
 
 "I don t make a living," he answered, with tearful eyes, 
 "I can t make a living. I have a wife and three children, 
 starving, sir. You wouldn t believe what I have come to. 
 I sent my wife to her mother s, who can ill afford to keep 
 her, and came to Oxford a week ago, thinking I might pick 
 up a few half-crowns by showing people about the colleges. 
 But it s no use. I haven t the assurance. I don t look 
 decent. They want a nice little old man with black gloves, 
 and a clean shirt, and a silver-headed stick. What do I 
 look as if I knew about Oxford, sir?" 
 
104 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Dear me," cried Searle, "why didn t you speak to us 
 before?" 
 
 "I wanted to; half a dozen times I have been on the point 
 of it. I knew you were Americans." 
 
 "And Americans are rich!" cried Searle, laughing. "My 
 dear Mr. Rawson, American as I am, I m living on charity." 
 
 "And I m not, sir! There it is. I m dying for the want 
 of charity. You say you re a pauper; it takes an American 
 pauper to go bowling about in a Bath-chair. America s 
 an easy country." 
 
 "Ah me!" groaned Searle. "Have I come to Wadham 
 gardens to hear the praise of America?" 
 
 "Wadham gardens are very well!" said Mr. Rawson; 
 "but one may sit here hungry and shabby, so long as one 
 isn t too shabby, as well as elsewhere. . . . Shabby as I 
 sit here, I have a brother with his five thousand a year. 
 Being a couple of years my senior, he gorges while I starve. 
 There s England for you ! A very pretty place for him!" 
 
 "Poor England!" said Searle, softly. 
 
 "Has your brother never helped you?" I asked. 
 
 "A twenty-pound note now and then! I don t say that 
 there have not been times when I have sorely tried his 
 generosity. I have not been what I should. I married 
 dreadfully amiss. But the devil of it is that he started 
 fair and I started foul; with the tastes, the desires, the 
 needs, the sensibilities of a gentleman and nothing else! 
 I can t afford to live in England." 
 
 "This poor gentleman," said I, "fancied a couple of 
 months ago that he couldn t afford to live in America." 
 
 "I d change chances with him!" And Mr. Rawson gave 
 a passionate slap to his knee. 
 
 Searle reclined in his chair with his eyes closed and his 
 face twitching with violent emotion. Suddenly he opened 
 his eyes with a look of awful gravity. "My friend," he 
 said, "you re a failure! Be judged! Don t talk about 
 chances. Don t talk about fair starts and foul starts. I m 
 at that point myself that I have a right to speak. It lies 
 neither in one s chance nor one s start to make one a success ; 
 nor in anything one s brother can do or can undo. It lies 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 105 
 
 in one s will! You and I, sir, have had none; that s very 
 plain 1 We have been weak, sir; as weak as water. Here 
 we are, sitting staring in each other s faces and reading our 
 weakness in each other s eyes. We are of no account!" 
 
 Mr. Rawson received this address with a countenance in 
 which heartfelt conviction was oddly mingled with a vague 
 suspicion that a proper self-respect required him to resent its 
 unflattering candor. In the course of a minute a proper 
 self-respect yielded to the warm, comfortable sense of his 
 being understood, even to his light dishonor. "Go on, sir, 
 go on," he said. "It s wholesome truth." And he wiped his 
 eyes with his dingy handkerchief. 
 
 "Dear me!" cried Searle. "I ve made you cry. Well! 
 we speak as from man to man. I should be glad to think that 
 you had felt for a moment the side-light of that great un- 
 darkening of the spirit which precedes which precedes the 
 grand illumination of death." 
 
 Mr. Rawson sat silent for a moment, with his eyes fixed 
 on the ground and his well-cut nose more deeply tinged by 
 the force of emotion. Then at last, looking up: "You re a 
 very good-natured man, sir; and you ll not persuade me that 
 you don t come of a good-natured race. Say what you 
 please about a chance; when a man s fifty degraded, penni 
 less, a husband and father a chance to get on his legs 
 again is not to be despised. Something tells me that my 
 chance is in your country that great home of chances. I 
 can starve here, of course ; but I don t want to starve. Hang 
 it, sir, I want to live. I see thirty years of life before me 
 yet. If only, by God s help, I could spend them there! It s 
 a fixed idea of mine. I ve had it for the last ten years. It s 
 not that I m a radical. I ve no ideas! Old England s good 
 enough for me, but I m not good enough for old England. 
 I m a shabby man that wants to get out of a room full of 
 staring gentlefolks. I m forever put to the blush. It s a 
 perfect agony of spirit. Everything reminds me of my 
 younger and better self. O, for a cooling, cleansing plunge 
 into the unknowing and the unknown ! I lie awake thinking 
 of it." 
 
 Searle closed his eyes and shivered with a long-drawn 
 
106 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 tremor which I hardly knew whether to take for an expres 
 sion of physical or of mental pain. In a moment I per 
 ceived it was neither. "O my country, my country, my 
 country!" he murmured in a broken voice; and then sat for 
 some time abstracted and depressed. I intimated to our 
 companion that it was time we should bring our seance to a 
 close, and he, without hesitating, possessed himself of the 
 little handrail of the Bath-chair and pushed it before him. 
 We had got half-way home before Searle spoke or moved. 
 Suddenly in the High Street, as we were passing in front of 
 a chop-house, from whose open doors there proceeded a 
 potent suggestion of juicy joints and suet puddings, he 
 motioned to us to halt. "This is my last five pounds," he 
 said drawing a note from his pocket-book. Do me the 
 favor, Mr. Rawson, to accept it. Go in there and order a 
 colossal dinner. Order a bottle of Burgundy and drink it to 
 my immortal health!" Mr. Rawson stiffened himself up and 
 received the gift with momentarily irresponsive fingers. But 
 Mr. Rawson had the nerves of a gentleman. I saw the titil- 
 lation of his pointed finger-tips as they closed upon the crisp 
 paper; I noted the fine tremor in his empurpled nostril as it 
 became more deeply conscious of the succulent flavor of the 
 spot. He crushed the crackling note in his palm with a con 
 vulsive pressure. 
 
 "It shall be Chambertin!" he said, jerking a spasmodic 
 bow. The next moment the door swung behind him. 
 
 Searle relapsed into his feeble stupor, and on reaching 
 the hotel I helped him to get to bed. For the rest of the 
 day he lay in a half-somnolent state, without motion or 
 speech. The doctor, whom I had constantly in attendance, 
 declared that his end was near. He expressed great sur 
 prise that he should have lasted so long; he must have been 
 living for a month on a cruelly extorted strength. Toward 
 evening, as I sat by his bedside in the deepening dusk, he 
 aroused himself with a purpose which I had vaguely felt 
 gathering beneath his quietude. "My cousin, my cousin," 
 he said, confusedly. "Is she here?" It was the first time 
 he had spoken of Miss Searle since our exit from her 
 brother s house. "I was to have married her," he went on. 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 107 
 
 "What a dream! That day was like a stringe of verses 
 rhymed hours. But the last verse is bad measure. What s 
 the rhyme to love ? Above! Was she a simple person, a 
 sweet person? Or have I dreamed it? She had the heal 
 ing gift; her touch would have cured my madness. I want 
 you to do something. Write three lines, three words: Good 
 by; remember me; be happy. And then, after a long 
 pause: "It s strange a man in my condition should have a 
 wish. Need a man eat his breakfast before his hanging? 
 What a creature is man! what a farce is life! Here I lie, 
 worn down to a mere throbbing fever-point; I breath and 
 nothing more, and yet I desire! My desire lives. If I could 
 see her! Help me out with it and let me die." 
 
 Half an hour later, at a venture, I despatched at note to 
 Miss Searle: "Your cousin is rapidly dying. He asks to 
 see you." I was conscious of a certain unkindness in doing 
 so. It would bring a great trouble, and no power to face 
 the trouble. But out of her distress I fondly hoped a suffi 
 cient energy might be born. On the following day my 
 friend s exhaustion had become so total that I began to fear 
 that his intelligence was altogether gone. But towards even 
 ing he rallied awhile, and talked in a maundering way 
 about many things, confounding in a ghastly jumble the 
 memories of the past weeks and those of bygone years. "By 
 the way," he said suddenly, "I have made no will. I haven t 
 much to bequeath. Yet I ve something." He had been 
 playing listlessly with a large signet-ring on his left hand, 
 which he now tried to draw off. "I leave you this," work 
 ing it round and round vainly, "if you can get it off. What 
 mighty knuckles! There must be such knuckles in the 
 mummies of the Pharaohs. Well, when I m gone! Nay, I 
 leave you something more precious than gold-^the sense of 
 a great kindness. But I have a little gold left. Bring me 
 those trinkets." I placed on the bed before him several 
 articles of jewelry, relics of early elegance: his watch and 
 chain, of great value, a locket and seal, some shirt-buttons 
 and scarf-pins. He trifled with them feebly for some mo 
 ments, murmuring various names and dates associated with 
 
108 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 them. At last, looking up with a sudden energy, "What s 
 become of Mr. Rawson?" 
 
 "You want to see him?" 
 
 "How much are these things worth?" he asked, without 
 heeding me. "How much would they bring?" And he held 
 them up in his weak hands. "They have a great weight. 
 Two hundred pounds? I am richer than I thought! Raw- 
 son Rawson you want to get out of this awful England." 
 
 I stepped to the dbor and requested the servant, whom I 
 kept in constant attendance in the adjoining sitting-room, to 
 send and ascertain if Mr. Rawson was on the premises. He 
 returned in a few moments, introducing our shabby friend. 
 Mr. Rawson was pale, even to his nose, and, with his sup 
 pressed agitation, had an air of great distinction. I led him 
 up to the bed. In Searle s eyes, as they fell on him, there 
 shone for a moment the light of a high fraternal greeting. 
 
 "Gread God!" said Mr. Rawson fervently. 
 
 "My friend," said Searle, "there is to be one American 
 the less. Let there be one the more. At the worst, you ll be 
 as good a one as I. Foolish me! Take these trinkets; let 
 them help you on your way. They are gifts and memories, 
 but this is a better use. Heaven speed you! May America 
 be kind to you. Be .kind, at the last, to your own 
 country!" 
 
 From the collapse into which this beneficent interview 
 had plunged him, Searle gave few signs of being likely to 
 emerge. He breathed, as he had said, and nothing more. 
 The twilight deepened: I lit the night-lamp. The doctor 
 sat silent and official at the foot of the bed; I resumed my 
 constant place near the head. Suddenly Searle opened his 
 eyes widely. "She ll not come," he murmured. "Amen! 
 she s an English sister." Five minutes passed. He started 
 forward. "She has come, she is here!" he whispered. His 
 words conveyed to my mind so absolute an assurance, that 
 I lightly rose and passed into the sitting-room. At the same 
 moment, through the opposite door, the servant introduced 
 a lady. A lady, I say; for an instant she was simply such 
 tall, pale, dressed in deep mourning. The next moment I 
 
A PASSIONATE PILGRIM 109 
 
 had uttered her name "Miss Searle!" She looked ten 
 years older. 
 
 She met me, with both hands extended, and an immense 
 question in her face. "He has just spoken your name," I 
 said. And then, with a fuller consciousness of the change in 
 her dress and countenance: "What has happened?" 
 
 "O death, death!" said Miss Searle. "You and I are 
 left." 
 
 There came to me with her words a sort of sickening shock, 
 the sense of poetic justice having been grimly shuffled away. 
 "Your brother?" I demanded. 
 
 She laid her hand on my arm, and I felt its pressure 
 deepen as she spoke. "He was thrown from his horse in the 
 park. He died on the spot. Six days have passed, six 
 months." 
 
 She took my arm. A moment later we had entered the 
 room and approached the bedside. The doctor withdrew. 
 Searle opened his eyes and looked at her from head to foot. 
 Suddenly he seemed to perceive her mourning. "Already 1" 
 he cried audibly; with a smile, as I believe, of pleasure. 
 
 She dropped on her knees and took his hand. "Not for 
 you, cousin," she whispered. "For my poor brother." 
 
 He started in all his deathly longitude as with a galvanic 
 shock. "Dead! he dead! Life itself!" And then, after a 
 moment, with a slight rising inflection: "You are free?" 
 
 "Free, cousin. Sadly free. And now now with what 
 use for freedom?" 
 
 He looked steadily a moment into her eyes, dark in the 
 heavy shadow of her musty mourning veil. "For me," he 
 said, "wear colors!" 
 
 In a* moment more death had come, the doctor had silently 
 attested it, and Miss Searle had burst into sobs. 
 
 We buried him in the little churchyard in which he had 
 expressed the wish to lie; beneath one of the mightiest of 
 English yews and the little tower than which none in all 
 England has a softer and hoarier gray. A year has passed. 
 Miss Searle, I believe, has begun to wear colors. 
 
MLLE. OLYMPE ZABRISKI * 
 
 BY T. B. ALDRICH 
 
 T T" TE are accustomed to speak with a certain light irony 
 yy of the tendency which women have to gossip, as if 
 the sin itself, if it is a sin, were of the gentler sex, 
 and could by no chance be a masculine peccadillo. So far 
 as my observation goes, men are as much given to small talk 
 as women, and it is undeniable that we have produced the 
 highest type of gossiper extant. Where will you find, in or 
 out of literature, such another droll, delightful, chatty busy 
 body as Samuel Pepys, Esq., Secretary to the Admiralty in 
 the reigns of those fortunate gentlemen, Charles II and 
 James II of England? He is the king of tattlers, as Shakes 
 peare is the king of poets. 
 
 If it came to a matter of pure gossip, I would back Our 
 Club against the Sorosis or any women s club in existence. 
 Whenever you see in our drawing-room four or five young 
 fellows lounging in easy-chairs, cigar in hand, and now 
 and then bringing their heads together over the small round 
 Japanese table which is always the pivot of these social 
 circles, you may be sure they are discussing Tom s engage 
 ment, or Dick s extravagance, or Harry s hopeless passion 
 for the younger Miss Fleurdelys. It is here that old Tipple- 
 ton gets execrated for that everlasting bon mot of his which 
 was quite a success at dinner-parties forty years ago; it is 
 here the belle of the season passes under the scalpels of 
 merciless young surgeons; it is here B s financial condition 
 is handled in a way that would make B s hair stand on end; 
 it is here, in short, that everything is canvassed everything 
 
 * By permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton 
 Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers; and by permission of 
 Mrs. T. B. Aldrich. 
 
 1 10 
 
MLLE. OLYMPE ZABRISKI in 
 
 that happens in our set, I mean much that never happens, 
 and a great deal that could not possibly happen. It was 
 at Our Club that I learned the particulars of the Van Twiller 
 affair. 
 
 It was great entertainment to Our Club, the Van Twiller 
 affair, though it was rather a joyless thing, I fancy, for Van 
 Twiller. To understand the case fully it should be under 
 stood that Ralph Van Twiller is one of the proudest and most 
 sensitive men living. He is a lineal descendant of Wouter 
 Van Twiller, the famous old Dutch governor of New York, 
 Nieuw Amsterdam, as it was then; his ancestors have 
 always been burgomasters or admirals or generals, and his 
 mother is the Mrs. Vanrensselaer Vanzandt Van Twiller 
 whose magnificent place will be pointed out to you on the 
 right bank of the Hudson, as you pass up the historic river 
 towards Idlewild. Ralph is about twenty-five years old. 
 Birth made him a gentleman, and the rise of real estate 
 some of it in the family since the old governor s time made 
 him a millionaire. It was a kindly fairy that stepped in 
 and made him a good fellow also. Fortune, I take it, was 
 in her most jocund mood when she heaped her gifts in this 
 fashion on Van Twiller, who was, and will be again, when 
 this cloud blows over, the flower of Our Club. 
 
 About a year ago there came a whisper if the word 
 "whisper" is not too harsh a term to apply to what seemed 
 a mere breath floating gently through the atmosphere of the 
 billiard-room imparting the intelligence that Van Twiller 
 was in some kind of trouble. Just as everybody suddenly 
 takes to wearing square-toed boots, or to drawing his neck- 
 scarf through a ring, so it became all at once the fashion, 
 without any preconcerted agreement, for everybody to speak 
 of Van Twiller as a man in some way under a cloud. But 
 what the cloud was, and how he got under it, and why he 
 did not get away from it, were points that lifted themselves 
 into the realm of pure conjecture. There was no man in 
 the club with strong enough wing to his imagination to soar 
 to the supposition that Van Twiller was embarrassed in 
 money matters. Was he in love? That appeared nearly as 
 improbable; for if he had been in love all the world that 
 
112 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 is, perhaps a hundred first families would have known all 
 about it instantly. 
 
 "He has .the symptoms," said Delaney, laughing. "I 
 remember once when Jack Flemming " 
 
 "Ned!" cried Flemming, "I protest against any allusion 
 to that business." 
 
 This was one night when Van Twiller had wandered into 
 the club, turned over the magazines absently in the reading- 
 room, and wandered out again without speaking ten words. 
 The most careless eye would have remarked the great change 
 that had come over Van Twiller. Now and then he would 
 play a game of billiards with Bret Harte or John Hay, or 
 stop to chat a moment in the vestibule with Whitelaw Reid; 
 but he was an altered man. When at the club he was 
 usually to be found in the small smoking-room up-stairs, 
 seated on a fauteuil fast asleep, with the last number of The 
 Nation in his hand. Once if you went to two or three places 
 of an evening, you were certain to meet Van Twiller at them 
 all. You seldom met him in society now. 
 
 By and by came whisper number two, a whisper more 
 emphatic than number one, but still untraceable to any 
 tangible mouth-piece. This time the whisper said Van 
 Twiller was in love. But with whom? The list of possible 
 Mrs. Van Twillers was carefully examined by experienced 
 hands, and a check placed against a fine old Knickerbocker 
 name here and there, but nothing satisfactory arrived at. 
 Then that same still small voice of rumor, but now with an 
 easily detected staccato sharpness to it, said that Van Twiller 
 was in love with an actress! Van Twiller, whom it had 
 taken all these years and all this waste of raw material in 
 the way of ancestors to bring to perfection, Ralph Van 
 Twiller, the net result and flower of his race, the descendant 
 of Wouter, the son of Mrs. Vanrensselaer Vanzandt Van 
 Twiller in love with an actress! That was too ridiculous 
 to be believed and so everybody believed it. 
 
 Six or seven members of the club abruptly discovered in 
 themselves an unsuspected latent passion for the histrionic 
 art. In squads of two or three they stormed successively 
 all the theatres in town Booth s, Wallack s, Daly s Fifth 
 
MLLE. OLYMPE ZABRISKI 113 
 
 Avenue (not burnt down then), and the Grand Opera House. 
 Even the shabby home of the drama over in the Bowery, 
 where the Germanic Thespis has not taken out his naturali 
 zation papers, underwent rigid exploration. But no clew 
 was found to Van Twiller s mysterious attachment. The 
 opera bouffe, which promised the widest field for investiga 
 tion, produced absolutely nothing, not even a crop of sus 
 picions. One night, after several weeks of this, Delaney and 
 I fancied we caught a glimpse of Van Twiller in the private 
 box of an up-town theatre, where some thrilling trapeze 
 performance was going on which we did not care to sit 
 through; but we concluded afterwards it was only some 
 body that looked like him. Delaney, by the way, was 
 unusually active in this search. I dare say he never quite 
 forgave Van Twiller for calling him Muslin Delaney. Ned 
 is fond of ladies* society and that s a fact. 
 
 The Cimmerian darkness which surrounded Van Twiller s 
 inamorata left us free to indulge in the wildest conjectures. 
 Whether she was black-tressed Melpomene, with bowl and 
 dagger, or Thalia, with the fair hair and the laughing face, 
 was only to be guessed at. It was popularly conceded, how 
 ever, that Van Twiller was on the point of forming a dread 
 ful mesalliance. 
 
 Up to this period he had visited the club regularly. Sud 
 denly he ceased to appear. He was not seen on Broadway, 
 or in the Central Park, or at the houses he generally fre 
 quented. His chambers and mighty comfortable ones they 
 were on Thirty-fourth Street were deserted. He had 
 dropped out of the world, shot like a bright particular star 
 from his orbit in the heaven of best society. 
 
 "Where s Van Twiller?" 
 
 "Who s seen Van Twiller?" 
 
 "What has become of Van Twiller?" 
 
 Delaney picked up the Evening Post, and read, with a 
 solemnity that betrayed young Firkins into exclaiming, "By 
 Jove, now!" 
 
 "Married, on the 10th instant, by the Rev. Friar Laurence, 
 at the residence of the bride s uncle, Montague Capulet, 
 
H4 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Esq., Miss Adrienne Le Couvreur to Mr. Ralph Van Twiller, 
 both of this city. No cards." 
 
 "It strikes me," said Frank Livingstone, who had been 
 ruffling the leaves of a magazine at the other end of the 
 table, "that you fellows are in a great fever about Van 
 Twiller." 
 
 "So we are." 
 
 "Well, he has simply gone out of town." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Up to the old homestead on the Hudson." 
 
 "It s an odd time of year for a fellow to go into the 
 country." 
 
 "He has gone to visit his mother," said Livingstone. 
 
 "In February?" 
 
 "I didn t know, Delaney, there was any statute in Torce 
 prohibiting a man from visiting his mother in February 
 if he wants to." 
 
 Delaney made some light remark about the pleasure of 
 communing with Nature with a cold in her head, and the 
 topic was dropped. 
 
 Livingstone was hand in glove with Van Twiller, and if 
 any man shared his confidence it was Livingstone. He was 
 aware of the gossip and speculation that had been rife in the 
 club, but he either was not at liberty or did not think it 
 worth while to relieve our curiosity. In the course of a week 
 or two it was reported that Van Twiller was going to Europe ; 
 and go he did. A dozen of us went down to the Scotia to 
 see him off. It was refreshing to have something as positive 
 as the fact that Van Twiller had sailed. 
 
 II 
 
 Shortly after Van Twiller s departure the whole thing 
 came out. Whether Livingstone found the secret too heavy 
 a burden, or whether it transpired through some indiscretion 
 on the part of Mrs. Vanrensselaer Vanzandt Van Twiller, 
 I cannot say; but one evening the entire story was in the 
 possession of the club. 
 
 Van Twiller had actually been very deeply interested 
 
MLLE. OLYMPE ZABRISKI 115 
 
 not in an actress, for the legitimate drama was not her 
 humble walk in life, but in Mademoiselle Olympe 
 Zabriski, whose really perilous feats on the trapeze had 
 astonished New York the year before, though they had 
 failed to attract Delaney and me the night we wandered 
 into the up-town theatre on the trail of Van Twiller s 
 mystery. 
 
 That a man like Van Twiller should be fascinated for an 
 instant by a common circus-girl seems incredible; but it is 
 always the incredible thing that happens. Besides, Madem 
 oiselle Olympe was not a common circus-girl; she was a 
 most daring and startling gymnaste, with a beauty and a 
 grace of movement that gave to her audacious performance 
 almost an air of prudery. Watching her wondrous dexterity 
 and pliant strength, both exercised without apparent effort, 
 it seemed the most natural proceeding in the world 
 that she should do those unpardonable things. She had 
 a way of melting from one graceful posture into another, 
 like the dissolving figures thrown from a stereopticon. She 
 was a lithe, radiant shape out of the Grecian mythology, 
 now poised up there above the gas-lights, and now gleaming 
 through the air like a slender gilt arrow. 
 
 I am describing Mademoiselle Olympe as she appeared 
 to Van Twiller on the first occasion when he strolled into 
 the theatre where she was performing. To me she was a 
 girl of eighteen or twenty years of age (maybe she was much 
 older, for pearl-powder and distance keep these people per 
 petually young), slightly but exquisitely built, with sinews 
 of silver wire; rather pretty, perhaps, after a manner, but 
 showing plainly the effects of the exhaustive drafts she was 
 making on her physical vitality. Now, Van Twiller was an 
 enthusiast on the subject of calisthenics. "If I had a 
 daughter," Van Twiller used to say, "I wouldn t send her to 
 a boarding-school, or a nunnery; I d send her to a gym 
 nasium for the first five years. Our American women have 
 no physique. They are lilies, pallid, pretty, and perish 
 able. You marry an American woman, and what do you 
 marry? A headache. Look at the English girls. They are 
 at least roses, and last the season through." 
 
n6 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Walking home from the theatre that first night, it flitted 
 through Van Twiller s mind that if he could give this girl s 
 set of nerves and muscles to any one of the two hundred 
 high-bred women he knew, he would marry her on the spot 
 and worship her forever. 
 
 The following evening he went to see Mademoiselle 
 Olympe again. "Olympe Zabriski," he thought, as he 
 sauntered through the lobby, "what a queer name ! Olympe 
 is French, and Zabriski is Polish. It is her nom de guerre, 
 of course; her real name is probably Sarah Jones. What 
 kind of creature can she be in private life, I wonder? I 
 wonder if she wears that costume all the time, and if she 
 springs to her meals from a horizontal bar. Of course she 
 rocks the baby to sleep on the trapeze." And Van Twiller 
 went on making comical domestic tableaux of Mademoiselle 
 Zabriski, like the clever, satirical dog he was, until the 
 curtain rose. 
 
 This was on a Friday. There was a matinee the next 
 day, and he attended that, though he had secured a seat for 
 the usual evening entertainment. Then it became a habit 
 of Van Twiller s to drop into the theatre for half an hour or 
 so every night, to assist at the interlude, in which she ap 
 peared. He cared only for her part of the programme, and 
 timed his visits accordingly. It was a surprise to himself 
 when he reflected, one morning, that he had not missed a 
 single performance of Mademoiselle Olympe for two weeks. 
 
 "This will never do," said Van Twiller. "Olympe" he 
 called her Olympe, as if she were an old acquaintance, and 
 so she might have been considered by that time "is a won 
 derful creature; but this will never do. Van, my boy, you 
 must reform this altogether." 
 
 But half-past nine that night saw him in his accustomed 
 orchestra chair, and so on for another week. A habit leads 
 a man so gently in the beginning that he does not per 
 ceive he is led with what silken threads and down what 
 pleasant avenues it leads him! By and by the soft silk 
 threads become iron chains, and the pleasant avenues 
 Avernus ! 
 
 Quite a new element had lately entered into Van Twiller s 
 
MLLE. OLYMPE ZABRISKI 117 
 
 enjoyment of Mademoiselle Olympe s ingenious feats a 
 vaguely born apprehension that she might slip from that 
 swinging bar, that one of the thin cords supporting it might 
 snap, and let her go headlong from the dizzy height. Now 
 and then, for a terrible instant, he would imagine her lying 
 a glittering, palpitating heap at the foot-lights, with no color 
 in her lips ! Sometimes it seemed as if the girl were tempt 
 ing this kind of fate. It was a hard, bitter life, and nothing 
 but poverty and sordid misery at home could have driven her 
 to it. What if she should end it all some night, by just un 
 clasping that little hand? It looked so small and white from 
 where Van Twiller sat I 
 
 This frightful idea fascinated while it chilled him, and 
 helped to make it nearly impossible for him to keep away 
 from the theatre. In the beginning his attendance had not 
 interfered with his social duties or pleasures; but now he 
 came to find it distasteful after dinner to do anything but 
 read, or walk the streets aimlessly, until it was time to go to 
 the play. When that was over, he was in no mood to go 
 anywhere but to his rooms. So he dropped away by in 
 sensible degrees from his habitual haunts, was missed, and 
 began to be talked about at the club. Catching some intima 
 tion of this, he ventured no more in the orchestra stalls, but 
 shrouded himself behind the draperies of the private box in 
 which Delaney and I thought we saw him on one occasion. 
 
 Now, I find it very perplexing to explain what Van 
 Twiller was wholly unable to explain to himself. He was 
 not in love with Mademoiselle Olympe. He had no wish 
 to speak to her, or to hear her speak. Nothing could have 
 been easier, and nothing further from his desire, than to 
 know her personally. A Van Twiller personally acquainted 
 with a strolling female acrobat! Good heavens! That 
 was something possible only with the discovery of perpetual 
 motion. Taken from her theatrical setting, from her lofty 
 perch, so to say, on the trapeze-bar, Olympe Zabriski would 
 have shocked every aristrocratic fibre in Van Twiller s body. 
 He was simply fascinated by her marvellous grace and elan, 
 and the magnetic recklessness of the girl. It was very 
 young in him and very weak, and no member of the Sorosis s 
 
Ii8 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 or all the Sorosisters together, could have been more severe 
 on Van Twiller than he himself. To be weak, and to know 
 it, is something of a punishment for a proud man. Van 
 Twiller took his punishment, and went to the theatre, 
 regularly. 
 
 "When her engagement comes to an end," he meditated, 
 "that will finish the business." 
 
 Mademoiselle Olympe s engagement finally did come to 
 an end, and she departed. But her engagement had been 
 highly beneficial to the treasury-chest of the up-town theatre, 
 and before Van Twiller could get over missing her she had 
 returned from a short Western tour, and her immediate re 
 appearance was underlined on the play-bills. 
 
 On a dead-wall opposite the windows of Van Twiller s 
 sleeping-room there appeared, as if by necromancy, an ag 
 gressive poster with Mademoiselle Olympe Zabriski on 
 it in letters at least a foot high. This thing stared him in 
 the face when he woke up, one morning. It gave him a 
 sensation as if she had called on him overnight, and left her 
 card. 
 
 From time to time through the day he regarded that poster 
 with a sardonic eye. He had pitilessly resolved not to re 
 peat the folly of the previous month. To say that this moral 
 victory cost him nothing would be to deprive it of merit. 
 It cost him many internal struggles. It is a fine thing to 
 see a man seizing his temptation by the throat, and wrestling 
 with it, and trampling it under foot like St. Anthony. This 
 was the spectacle Van Twiller was exhibiting to the angels. 
 
 The evening Mademoiselle Olympe was to make her re 
 appearance, Van Twiller, having dined at the club and 
 feeling more like himself than he had felt for weeks, returned 
 to his chamber, and putting on dressing-gown and slippers, 
 piled up the greater portion of his library about him, and 
 fell to reading assiduously. There is nothing like a quiet 
 evening at home with some slight intellectual occupation, 
 after one s feathers have been stroked the wrong way. 
 
 When the lively French clock on the mantel-piece, a base 
 of malachite surmounted by a flying bronze Mercury with 
 its arms spread gracefully on the air, and not remotely sug- 
 
MLLE. OLYMPE ZABRISKI 119 
 
 gestive of Mademoiselle Olympe in the act of executing her 
 grand flight from the trapeze when the clock, I repeat, 
 struck nine, Van Twiller paid no attention to it. That was 
 certainly a triumph. I am anxious to render Van Twiller 
 all the justice I can at this point of the narrative, inasmuch 
 as when the half-hour sounded musically, like a crystal ball 
 dropping into a silver bowl, he rose from the chair auto 
 matically, thrust his feet into his walking shoes, threw his 
 overcoat across his arm, and strode out of the room. 
 
 To be weak and scorn your weakness, and not be able to 
 conquer it, is, as has been said, a hard thing; and I suspect 
 it was not with unalloyed satisfaction that Van Twiller found 
 himself taking his seat in the back part of the private box 
 night after night during the second engagement of Madem 
 oiselle Olympe. It was so easy not to stay away ! 
 
 In this second edition of Van Twiller s fatuity, his case 
 was even worse than before. He not only thought of Olympe 
 quite a number of times between breakfast and dinner, he 
 not only attended the interlude regularly, but he began, in 
 spite of himself, to occupy his leisure hours at night by 
 dreaming of her. This was too much of a good thing, and 
 Van Twiller regarded it so. Besides, the dream was always 
 the same a harrowing dream, a dream singularly adapted 
 to shattering the nerves of a man like Van Twiller. He 
 would imagine himself seated at the theatre (with all the 
 members of Our Club in the parquette), watching Madem 
 oiselle Olympe as usual, when suddenly that young lady 
 would launch herself desperately from the trapeze, and 
 come flying through the air like a firebrand hurled at his 
 private box. Then the unfortunate man would wake up 
 with cold drops standing on his forehead. 
 
 There is one redeeming feature in this infatuation of Van 
 Twiller s which the sober moralist will love to look upon, 
 the serene unconsciousness of the person who caused it. 
 She went through her role with admirable aplomb, drew 
 her salary, it may be assumed, punctually, and appears from 
 first to last to have been ignorant that there was a miserable 
 slave wearing her chains nightly in the left-hand proscenium- 
 box. 
 
120 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 That Van Twiller, haunting the theatre with the per 
 sistency of an ex-actor, conducted himself so discreetly as not 
 to draw the fire of Mademoiselle Olympe s blue eyes shows 
 that Van Twiller, however deeply under a spell, was not 
 in love. I say this, though I think if Van Twiller had not 
 been Van Twiller, if he had been a man of no family and 
 no position and no money, if New York had been Paris, and 
 Thirty-fourth Street a street in the Latin Quarter but it 
 is useless to speculate on what migh have happened. What 
 did happen is sufficient. 
 
 It happened, then, in the second week of Queen Olympe s 
 second unconscious reign, that an appalling Whisper floated 
 up the Hudson, effected a landing at a point between Spuy- 
 ten Duyvil Creek and Cold Spring, and sought out a stately 
 mansion of Dutch architecture standing on the bank of the 
 river. The Whisper straightway informed the lady dwelling 
 in this mansion that all was not well with the last of the 
 Van Twillers, that he v/as gradually estranging himself from 
 his peers, and wasting his nights in a play-house watching 
 a misguided young woman turning unmaidenly somersaults 
 on a piece of wood attached to two ropes. 
 
 Mrs. Vanrensselaer Vanzandt Van Twiller came down to 
 town by the next train to look into this little matter. 
 
 She found the flower of the family taking an early break 
 fast, at 11 A. M., in his cosey apartments on Thirty- fourth 
 Street. With the least possible circumlocution she confronted 
 him with what rumor had reported of his pursuits, and was 
 pleased, but not too much pleased, when he gave her an exact 
 account of his relations with Mademoiselle Zabriski, neither 
 concealing nor qualifying anything. As a confession, it was 
 unique, and might have been a great deal less entertaining, 
 Two or three times, in the course of the narrative, the matron 
 had some difficulty in preserving the gravity of her counte 
 nance. After meditating a few minutes, she tapped Varx 
 Twiller softly on the arm with the tip of her parasol, and 
 invited him to return with her the next day up the Hudson 
 and make a brief visit at the home of his ancestors. He 
 accepted the invitation with outward alacrity and inward 
 disgust. 
 
MLLE. OLYMPE ZABRISKI 121 
 
 When this was settled, and the worthy lady had with 
 drawn, Van Twiller went directly to the establishment of 
 Messrs. Ball, Black, and Company and selected, with uner 
 ring taste, the finest diamond bracelet procurable. For his 
 mother? Dear me, no! She had the family jewels. 
 
 I would not like to state the enormous sum Van Twiller 
 paid for this bracelet. It was such a clasp of diamonds as 
 would have hastened the pulsation of a patrician wrist. It 
 was such a bracelet as Prince Camaralzaman might have 
 sent to the Princess Badoura, and the Princess Badoura 
 might have been very glad to get. 
 
 In the fragrant Levant morocco case, where these happy 
 jewels lived when they were at home, Van Twiller thought 
 fully placed his card, on the back of which he had written 
 a line begging Mademoiselle Olympe Zabriski to accept the 
 accompanying trifle from one who had witnessed her grace 
 ful performances with interest and pleasure. This was not 
 done inconsiderately. "Of course I must enclose my card, 
 as I would to any lady," Van Twiller had said to himself; 
 "a Van Twiller can neither write an anonymous letter nor 
 make an anonymous present." Blood entails its duties as 
 well as its privileges. 
 
 The casket despatched to its destination, Van Twiller felt 
 easier in his mind. He was under obligations to the girl 
 for many an agreeable hour that might otherwise have passed 
 heavily. He had paid the debt, and he had paid it en 
 prince, as became a Van Twiller. He spent the rest of the 
 day in looking at some pictures at Goupil s, and at the club, 
 and in making a few purchases for his trip up the Hudson* 
 A consciousness that this trip up the Hudson was a disorderly 
 retreat came over him unpleasantly at intervals. 
 
 When he returned to his rooms late at night, he found a 
 note lying on the writing-table. He started as his eye caught 
 
 the words " Theatre" stamped in carmine letters on 
 
 one corner of the envelope. Van Twiller broke the seal 
 with trembling fingers. 
 
 Now, this note sometime afterwards fell into the hands 
 of Livingstone, who showed it to Stuyvesant, who showed it 
 
122 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 to Delaney, who showed it to me, and I copied it as a liter 
 ary curiosity. The note ran as follows: 
 
 MR VAN TWILLER DEAR SIR i am verry greatfull to you for that 
 Bracelett. it come just in the nic of time for me. The Mademoiselle 
 Zabriski dodg is about plaid out. My beard is getting to much for 
 me. i shall have to grow a mustash and take to some other line of 
 busyness, i dont no what now, but will let you no. You wont feel 
 bad if i sell that Bracelett. i have seen Abrahams Moss and he says 
 he will do the square thing. Pleas accep my thanks for youre Beau- 
 tifull and Unexpected present. 
 
 Youre respectfull servent, 
 
 CHARLES MONTMORENCI WALTERS. 
 
 The next day Van Twiller neither expressed nor felt any 
 unwillingness to spend a few weeks with his mother at the 
 old homestead. 
 
 And then he went abroad. 
 
A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI * 
 
 BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 
 
 LET this confession be topped with a vignette done in 
 broad, shadowless lines and few of them something 
 like this: 
 
 A little flyblown room, smelling of garlic; I cooling my 
 elbows on the oily slab of a table (breakfast for one) and 
 looking through a window at a glaring whitewashed fence 
 high enough to shut out the universe from my point of sight. 
 Yet it hid not all, since it brought into relief a panting cock 
 (with one leg in a string) which had so strained to com 
 press itself into a doubtful inch of shade that its suspended 
 claw clutched the air in real agony. 
 
 Having dazzled my eyes with this prospect, I turned grate 
 fully to the vanities of life that may be had for two francs 
 in Tahiti. Vide bill of fare. One fried egg, like the eye 
 of some gigantic Albino; potatoes hollowed out bombshell 
 fashion, primed with liver-sausage, very ingenious and pala 
 table. The naked corpse of a fowl that cared not to live 
 longer, from appearances, yet looked not happy in death. 
 
 Item: Wonder if there is a more ghastly spectacle than a 
 chicken cooked in the French style; its knees drawn up on 
 its breast like an Indian mummy, while its blue-black, par 
 boiled, and melancholy visage tearfully surveys its own un- 
 shrouded remains. After a brief season of meditation I 
 said, and I trust I meant it, "I thank the Lord for all these 
 blessings." Then I gave the corpse of the chicken Christian 
 burial under a fold of the window-curtain, disposed of the 
 fried eye of the Albino, and transformed myself into a mortar 
 for the time being, taking potato-bombshells according to 
 my calibre. 
 
 * By special arrangement. 
 
 123 
 
124 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 There was claret all the while and plenty of butterless 
 roll, a shaving of cheese, a banana, black coffee and cognac, 
 when I turned again to dazzle myself with the white fence, 
 and saw with infinite pity, a sentiment perhaps not un 
 mixed with a suspicion of cognac or some other temporary 
 humanizing element I saw for a fact that the poor cock 
 had wilted and lay flat in the sun like a last year s duster. 
 That was too much for me. I wheeled towards the door 
 where gleamed the bay with its lovely ridges of light ; canoes 
 drifting over it drew the eye after them irresistibly; I heard 
 the ship-calkers on the beach making their monotonous clat 
 ter, and the drone of the bareheaded fruit-sellers squatted in 
 rows chatting indolently with their eyes half shut. I could 
 think of nothing but bees humming over their own sweet 
 wares. 
 
 About this time a young fellow at the next table, who had 
 scarcely a mouthful of English at his command, implored 
 me to take beer with him; implying that we might, if de 
 sirable, become as tight as two bricks. I declined, much to 
 his admiration, he regarding my refusal as a clear case of 
 moral courage, whereas it arose simply and solely from my 
 utter inability to see his treat and go him one better. 
 
 A grown person in Tahiti has an eating hour allotted to 
 him twice a day, at 10 A. M. and 5 P. M. My time being up 
 I returned to the store in an indifferent frame of mind, and 
 upon entering the presence of my employer, who had arrived 
 a moment before me, I was immediately covered with the deep 
 humiliation of servitude and withdrew to an obscure corner, 
 while Monsieur and some naval guests took absinthe unblush- 
 ingly, which was, of course, proper enough in them. Call 
 it by what name you will, you cannot sweeten servility to my 
 taste. Then why was I there and in bondage? The spirit 
 of adventure that keeps life in us, yet comes near to worrying 
 it out of us now and then, lured me with my handful of dol 
 lars to the Garden of the Pacific. "You can easily get work," 
 said some one who had been there and didn t want it. If 
 work I must, why not better there than here, thought I ; and 
 the less money I take with me the surer am I to seek that 
 which might not attract me under other circumstances. A 
 
A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI 125 
 
 few letters which proved almost valueless; an abiding trust 
 in Providence, afterward somewhat shaken, I am sorry to 
 state, which convinces me that I can no longer hope to travel 
 as a shorn lamb; considerable confidence in the good feeling 
 of my f ellowmen ; together with the few dollars above referred 
 to, comprised my all when I set foot on the leaf-strewn and 
 shady beach of Papute. 
 
 Before the day was over I saw my case was almost hope 
 less; I was one too many in a very meagre congregation of 
 foreigners. In a week I was desperate, with poverty and dis 
 grace brooding like evil spirits on either hand. Every ten 
 minutes some one suggested something which was almost 
 immediately suppressed by the next man I met, to whom I 
 applied for further information. Teach, said one there 
 wasn t a pupil to be had in the dominion. Clerkships were 
 out of the question likewise. I might keep store, if I could 
 get anything to put in it; or go farther, as some one sug 
 gested, if I had money enough to get there. I thought it 
 wiser to endure the ills I had than fly to others that I knew 
 not of. In this state I perambulated to the green lanes of Pa 
 pute, conscious that I was drawing down tons of immaterial 
 sympathy from hearts of various nationalities, beating to the 
 music of regular salaries in hard cash, and the inevitable 
 ringing of their daily dinner-bell ; and I continued to peram 
 bulate under the same depressing avalanches for a fortnight 
 or more, a warning to the generation of the inexperienced 
 that persists in sowing itself broadcast upon the edges of the 
 earth, and learns too late how hard a thing it is to take root 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 One gloomy day I was seized in the market-place and led 
 before a French gentleman who offered me a bed and board 
 for such manual compensation as I might be able to give 
 him in his office during the usual business hours, namely, 
 from daybreak to some time in the afternoon, unless it 
 rained, when business was suspended, and I was dropped 
 until fair weather should set that little world wagging again. 
 
 I was invited to enter into the bosom of his family, in fact, 
 to be one of them, and no single man could ask to be more; 
 
126 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 to sit at his table and hope for better days, in which diversion 
 he proposed to join me with all his soul. 
 
 With an emotion of gratitude and a pang at being thus 
 early a subject of charity, I began business in Papute, and 
 learned within the hour how sharper than most sharps it is 
 to know only your own mother-tongue when you re away 
 from home. 
 
 Nightly I walked two hot and dusty miles through groves 
 of bread-fruit and colonnades of palms to my new master s. 
 I skirted, with loitering steps, a placid sea whose crystalline 
 depths sheltered leagues and leagues of sun-painted corals, 
 where a myriad fish, dyed like the rainbow, sported unceas 
 ingly. Springs gushed from the mountain, singing their 
 song of joy; the winds sang in the dark locks of the syca 
 more, while the palm boughs clashed like cymbals in rhyth 
 mical accompaniment; glad children chanted their choruses, 
 and I alone couldn t sing, nor hum, nor whistle, because it 
 doesn t pay to work for your board and pay for little neces 
 sities out of your own pocket, in any latitude that I ever 
 heard of. 
 
 We lived in a grove of ten thousand cocoa-palms crown 
 ing a hill-slope to the west. How all-sufficient it sounds as 
 I write it now, but how little I cared then, for many reasons I 
 My cottage had prior tenants, who disputed possession with 
 me, winged tenants who sought admission at every cranny, 
 and frequently obtained it in spite of me these were not 
 angels, but hens. My cottage had been a granary until it 
 got too poor a receptacle for grains, and a better shelter left 
 it open to the barn-fowls until I arrived. They hated me, 
 these hungry chickens; they used to sit in rows on the win 
 dow-sill and stare me out of countenance. A wide bed 
 stead, corded with thongs, did its best to furnish my apart 
 ment. A narrow, a very narrow and thin ship s mattress, 
 that had been a bed of torture for many a sea-sick soul before 
 it descended to me ; a flat pillow like a pancake, a condemned 
 horse-blanket contributed by a good-natured Kanack who 
 raked it from a heap of refuse in the yard, together with two 
 sacks of rice, the despair of those hens in the window, were 
 all I could boast of. With this inventory I strove (by par- 
 
A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI 127 
 
 ticular request) to be one of those who were comfortable 
 enough in the chateau adjoining. Summoned peremptorily 
 to dinner, I entered a little latticed saloon connected with the 
 chateau by a covered walk, discovered Monsieur seated at 
 table and already served with soup and claret; the remainder 
 of the company served themselves as they best could and I 
 saw plainly enough that the family bosom was so crowded 
 already, that I might seek in vain to wedge myself into any 
 corner of it, at least until some vacancy occurred. 
 
 After dinner, sat on a sack of rice in my room while it 
 grew dark and Monsieur received calls. Wandered down to 
 the beach at the foot of the hill and lay a long time on a bed 
 of leaves, while the tide was out and the crabs clattered 
 along shore and were very sociable. Natives began to kindle 
 their evening fires of cocoanut husks; smoke, sweet as in 
 cense, climed up to the plumes of the palm-trees and was 
 lost among the stars. Morsels of fish and bread-fruit were 
 offered me by the untutored savage, who welcomed me to his 
 frugal meal and desired that I should at least taste before 
 he broke his fast. Canoes shot out from dense, shadowy 
 points; fishers standing in the bows with a poised spear in 
 one hand, a blazing palm-branch held aloft in the other 
 shed a warm glow of light over their superb nakedness. 
 Bathed by the sea in a fresh, cool spring, and returned to my 
 little coop, which was illuminated by the glare of fifty float 
 ing beacons ; looking back from the door I could see the dark 
 outlines of the torch-bearers and hear their signal calls above 
 the low growl of the reef a half-mile farther out from shore. 
 It was a blessing to lie awake in my little room and watch 
 the flicker of those fires ; to think how Tahiti must look on a 
 cloudless night from some heavenly altitude. The ocean still 
 as death, the procession of fishermen sweeping from point to 
 point within the reef, till the island, flooded with starlight 
 and torchlight, lies like a green sea-garden in a girdle of 
 flame. 
 
 A shrill bell called me from my bed at dawn. I was not 
 unwilling to rise, for half the night I lay like a saint on the 
 tough thongs, having turned over in sleep, thereby missing the 
 mattress entirely. Made my toilet at a spring on the way 
 
128 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 into town; saw a glorious sunrise that was as good as break 
 fast, and found the whole earth and sea and all that in them 
 is singing again while I listened and gave thanks for that 
 privilege. At 10 A. M. I went to breakfast in the small res 
 taurant where I have sketched myself at the top of this chron 
 icle, and whither we may return and begin over again if it 
 please you. 
 
 I was about to remark that probably most melancholy and 
 homesickness may be cured or alleviated by a wholesome 
 meal of victuals; but I think I won t, for, on referring to 
 my note-book, I find that within an hour after my return to 
 the store I was as heart-sick as ever and wasn t afraid to 
 say so. It is scarcely to be wondered at; the sky was dark; 
 aboard a schooner some sailors were making that doleful 
 whine peculiar to them, as they hauled in to shore and tied up 
 to a tree in a sifting rain. Then everything was ominously 
 still as though something disagreeable were about to happen; 
 thereupon I doubled myself over the counter like a half-shut 
 jack-knife, and burying my face in my hands said to myself, 
 "O, to be alone with Nature! her silence is religion and her 
 sounds sweet music." After which the rain blew over, and I 
 was sent with a hand-cart and one underfed Kanack to a 
 wharf half a mile away to drag back several loads of pota 
 toes. We two hungry creatures struggled heroically to do 
 our duty. Starting with a multitude of sacks it was quite 
 impossible to proceed with, we grew weaker the farther we 
 went, so that the load had to be reduced from time to time, 
 and I believe the amount of potatoes deposited by the way 
 considerably exceeded the amount we subsequently arrived at 
 the store with. Finding life a burden, and seeing the legs 
 of the young fellow in harness with me bend under him in 
 his frantic efforts to get our cart out of a rut without empty 
 ing it entirely, I resolved to hire a substitute at my own ex 
 pense, and save my remaining strength for a new line of 
 business. Thus I was enabled to sit on the wharf the rest 
 of the afternoon and enjoy myself devising new means of 
 subsistence and watching the natives swim. 
 
 Some one before me found a modicum of sweets in his 
 cup of bitterness, and in a complacent hour set the good 
 
A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI 129 
 
 against the evil in single entry, summing up the same to his 
 advantage. I concluded to do it myself, and did it, thus : 
 
 EVIL GOOD 
 
 I find myself in a foreign land But I may do as I please in 
 with no one to love and none to consequence, and it is nobody s 
 love me. business save my own. 
 
 I am working for my board But I may quit as soon as I 
 and lodging (no extras), andnd feel like it, and shall have no oc- 
 it very unprofitable. casion to dun my employer for 
 
 back salary so long as I stop with 
 him. 
 
 My clothes are in rags. I shall But the weather is mild and 
 soon be without a stitch to my the fig-tree flourisheth. More- 
 back, over many a good savage has gone 
 
 naked before me. 
 
 I get hungry before breakfast But fasting is saintly. Day by 
 and feel faint after dinner. What day I grow more spiritual, and 
 are two meals a day to a man of shall shortly be a fit subject for 
 my appetite? translation to that better world 
 
 which is doubtless the envy of all 
 those who have lost it by over 
 eating and drinking. 
 
 Nothing can exceed the satisfaction with which I read and 
 reread this philosophical summary, but I had relapses every 
 few minutes so long as I lived in Tahiti. I remember one 
 Sunday morning, a day I had all to myself, when I cried 
 out of the depths and felt better after it. It was a real Sun 
 day. The fowls confessed it by the indifference with which 
 they picked up a grain of rice now and then as though they 
 weren t hungry. The family were moving about in an un 
 natural way some people are never themselves on the Lord s 
 day. The canoes lay asleep off upon the water, evidently 
 conscious of the long hours of rest they were sure of having. 
 To sum it all, it seemed as though the cover had been taken 
 off from the earth, and the angels were sitting in big circles 
 looking at us. Our clock had run down, and I found myself 
 half an hour too early at mass. Some diminutive native 
 children talked together with infinite gesticulation, like little 
 old men. At every lag in the conversation, two or three of 
 them would steal away to the fence that surrounded the 
 church and begin diligently counting the pickets thereof. 
 
130 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 They were evidently amazed at what they considered a sin 
 gular coincidence, namely, that the number of pickets, be 
 ginning at the front gate and counting to the right, tallied 
 exactly with the do. do. beginning at the do. do. and count 
 ing to the left; while they were making repeated efforts to 
 get at the heart of this mystery, the priest rode up on horse 
 back, dismounted in our midst, and we all followed him into 
 chapel to mass. 
 
 A young Frenchman offered me holy-water on the tips of 
 his fingers, and I immediately decided to confide in him to 
 an unlimited extent if he gave me the opportunity. It was 
 a serious disappointment when I found later that we didn t 
 know six words in any common tongue. Concluded to be 
 independent, and walked off by myself. Got very lonesome 
 immediately. Tried to be meditative, philosophical, botan 
 ical, conchological, and in less than an hour gave it up 
 homesick again, by Jove! 
 
 Strolled to the beach and sat a long time on a bit of wreck 
 partly imbedded in the sand; consoled by the surpassing 
 radiance of sunset, wondered how I could ever have repined, 
 but proceeded to do it again as soon as it grew dark. Some 
 natives drew near, greeting me kindly. They were evidently 
 lovers; talked in low tones, deeply interested in the most 
 trivial things, such as a leaf falling into the sea at our feet 
 and floating stem up, like a bowsprit; he probably made 
 some poetic allusion to it, may have proposed braving the 
 seas with her in a shallop as fairy-like, for both fell a dream 
 ing and were silent for some time, he worshipping her with 
 fascinated eyes, while she, woman-like, pretended to be all 
 unconscious of his admiration. 
 
 Silently we sat looking over the sea at Morea, just visible 
 in the light of the young moon like a spirit brooding upon 
 the waters, till I broke the spell by saying "Good night," 
 which was repeated in a chorus as I withdrew to my coop 
 and found my feathered guests had beaten in the temporary 
 barricade erected in the broken window, entered and made 
 themselves at home during my absence a fact that scarcely 
 endeared the spot to me. Next morning I was unusually 
 merry; couldn t tell why, but tried to sing as I made my 
 
A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI 131 
 
 toilet at the spring; laughed nearly all the way into town, 
 saying my prayers and blessing God, when I came suddenly 
 upon a horseshoe in the middle of the road. Took it as an 
 omen and a keepsake; horseshoes aren t shed everywhere nor 
 for everybody. I thought it the prophecy of a change, and 
 at once cancelled my engagement with my employer without 
 having set foot into his house farther than the dining-room, 
 or made any apparent impression upon the adamantine bosom 
 of his family. 
 
 After formally expressing my gratitude to Monsieur for 
 his renewed offers of hospitality, I turned myself into the 
 street and was once more adrift in the world. For the space 
 of three minutes I was wild with joy at the thought of my 
 perfect liberty. Then I grew nervous, began to feel un 
 happy, nay, even guilty, as though I had thrown up a good 
 thing. Concluded it was rash of me to leave a situation 
 where I got two meals and a mattress, with the privilege of 
 washing at my own expense. Am not sure that it wasn t 
 unwise, for I had no dinner that afternoon; and having no 
 bed either, I crept into the veranda of a house to let and 
 dozed till daybreak. 
 
 There was but one thing to live for now, namely, to sea 
 as much of Tahiti as possible, and at my earliest conven 
 ience return like the prodigal son to that father who would 
 doubtless feel like killing something appropriate as soon as 
 he saw me coming. I said as much to a couple of brothers 
 who are living a dream-life over yonder, and whose wildest 
 species of dissipation for the last seven years has been to 
 rise at intervals from their settees in the arbor, go deliber 
 ately to the farther end of the garden and eat several man 
 goes in cold blood. 
 
 To comprehend Tahiti, a man must lose himself in forests 
 whose resinous boughs are knotted with ribbons of sea-grass; 
 there, overcome by the music of sibilant waters sifting 
 through the antlers of the coral, he is supposed to sink upon 
 drifts of orange-blossoms only to be resuscitated by the spray 
 of an approaching shower crashing through the green soli 
 tudes like an army with chariots, so those brothers told, 
 with a mango poised in each hand; and they added that I 
 
132 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 should have an official document addressed to the best blood 
 in the kingdom, namely, Forty, chief of Tahiti, who would 
 undoubtedly entertain me with true barbarian hospitality, 
 better the world knows not. There was a delay for some 
 reason; I, rather impatient, and scarcely hoping to receive so 
 graceful a compliment from head-quarters, trudged on alone 
 with a light purse and an infinitesimal bundle of necessities, 
 caring nothing for the weather nor the number of miles 
 cleared per day, since I laid no plans save the one, to see as 
 much as I might with the best grace possible, keeping an eye 
 on the road for horseshoes. Through leagues of verdure I 
 wandered, feasting my five senses and finding life a holiday 
 at last. There were numberless streams to be crossed, where 
 I loafed for hours on the bridges, satisfying myself with sun 
 shine. Not a savage in the land was freer than I. No man 
 could say to me, "Why stand ye here idle?" for I could con 
 tinue to stand as long as I liked and as idly as it pleased me, 
 in spite of him ! There were bridgeless streams to be forded, 
 but the Tahitian is a nomad continually wandering from one 
 edge of his faithful world to the other. Moreover, he is the 
 soul of peace towards men of good-will; I was invariably 
 picked up by some bare-backed Hercules, who volunteered to 
 take me over the water on his brawny brown shoulders, and 
 could have easily taken two like me. It was good to be up 
 there while he strode through the swift current, for I felt that 
 he was perfectly able to carry me to the ends of the earth 
 without stopping, and that sense of reliance helped to reas 
 sure my faith in humanity. 
 
 As I wandered, from most native houses came the invita 
 tion to enter and eat. Night after night I found my bed in 
 the comer of some dwelling whither I had been led by the 
 master of it, with unaffected grace. It wasn t simply show 
 ing me to a spare room, but rather unrolling the best mat and 
 turning everything to my account so long as it pleased me to 
 tarry. Sometimes the sea talked in its sleep not a rod from 
 the house; frequently the mosquitoes accepted me as a deli 
 cacy and did their best to dispose of me. Once I awoke 
 with a headache, the air was so dense with the odor of orange- 
 blossoms. 
 
A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI 133 
 
 There was frequently a strip of blue bay that ebbed and 
 flowed languidly and had to be launched with; or a very 
 deep and melodious spring, asking for an interview, and, I 
 may add, it always got it. I remember one miniature castle 
 built in the midst of a grassy Venice by the shore. Its 
 moats, shining with gold-fish, were spanned with slender 
 bridges; toy fences of bamboo enclosed the rarer clumps of 
 foliage, and there was such an air of tranquillity pervading 
 it I thought I must belong there. Something seemed to say, 
 "Come in." I went in, but left very soon the place was so 
 fairy-like, I felt as though I were liable to step through it 
 and come out on some other side, and I wasn t anxious for 
 such a change. 
 
 I ate when I got hungry, a very good sort of a meal, con 
 sisting usually of a tiny piglet cooked in the native fashion, 
 swathed in succulent leaves and laid between hot stones till 
 ready for eating ; bread-fruit, like mashed potato, but a great 
 deal better; orange-tea and cocoa-milk, surely enough for 
 two or three francs. Took a sleep whenever sleep came 
 along, resting always till the clouds or a shadow from the 
 mountain covered me so as to keep cool and comfortable. 
 Natives passed me with salutations. A white man now and 
 then went by barely nodding, or more frequently eyeing me 
 with suspicion and giving me as much of his dust as he 
 found convenient. In the wider fellowship of nature, I fore 
 swore all blood relations and blushed for the representatives 
 of my own color as I footed it right royally. Therefore, I 
 was enabled to scorn the fellow who scorned me while he 
 flashed the steel hoofs of his charger in my face and dashed 
 on to the village we were both approaching with the dusk. 
 
 What a spot it was! A long lane as green as a spring 
 meadow, lying between wall-like masses of foliage whose 
 deep arcades were frescoed with blossoms and festooned with 
 vines. It seemed a pathway leading to infinity, for the 
 blood-red bars of sunset glared at its farther end as though 
 Providence had placed them there to keep out the unregener- 
 ated. Not a house visible all this time, nor a human, though 
 I was in the heart of the hamlet. Passing up the turf cush 
 ioned road on either hand, I beheld, through a screen of 
 
134 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 leaves, a log spanning a rivulet that was softly singing its 
 monody. At the end of each log the summer-house of some 
 Tahitian, who sat in his door smoking complacently. It was 
 a picture of still life with a suggestion of possible motion; a 
 village to put into a green-house, water, and keep fresh for 
 ever. Let me picture it once more one mossy street be 
 tween two babbling brooks, and every house thereof set each 
 in its own moated wilderness. This was Papeali. 
 
 Like rows of cages full of chirping birds those bamboo 
 huts were distributed up and down the street. As I walked 
 I knew something would cause me to turn at the right time 
 and find a new friend ready to receive me, for it always 
 does. So I walked slowly and without hesitation or impa 
 tience until I turned and met him coming out of his cage, 
 crossing the rill by his log and holding out his hand to me 
 in welcome. Back we went together, and I ate and slept 
 there as though it had been arranged a thousand years ago 
 perhaps it was ! There was a racket up at the farther end of 
 the lane, by the chief s house. Songs and nose-flutings upon 
 the night air; moreover, a bonfire and doubtless much nec 
 tar; too much, as usual, for I heard such cheers as the soul 
 gives when it is careless of consequences, and caught a 
 glimpse of the joys of barbarism such as even we poor Chris 
 tians cannot wholly withstand, but turning our backs think 
 we are safe enough. Commend me to him who has known 
 temptation and not shunned it, but actually withstood it! 
 
 It was the dance, as ever it is the dance where all the as 
 pirations of the soul find expression in the body; those bodies 
 that are incarnate souls or those souls that are spiritualized 
 bodies, inseparable, whatever they are, for the time being. 
 The fire glowed fervently; bananas hung out their tattered 
 banners like decorations; palms rustled their silver plumes 
 aloft in the moonlight ; the sea panted upon its sandy bed in 
 heavy sleep; the night-blooming cereus opened its waxen 
 chambers and gave forth its treasured sweets. Circle after 
 circle of swart savage faces were turned upon the flame-lit 
 arena where the dancers posed for a moment with their light 
 drapery gathered about them and held carelessly in one hand. 
 Anon the music chimed forth ; a reiteration of chords caught 
 
A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI 135 
 
 from the birds treble and the wind s bass. Full and re 
 sounding syllables, richly poetical, telling of orgies and of the 
 mysteries of the forbidden revels in the charmed valleys of the 
 gods, hearing which it were impossible not to be wrought 
 to madness, and the dancers thereat went mad, dancing with 
 infinite gesticulation, dancing to whirlwinds of applause till 
 the undulation of their bodies was serpentine, and at last in 
 frenzy they shrieked with joy, threw off their garments, and 
 Were naked as the moon. So much for a vision that kept me 
 awake till morning, when I plodded on in the damp grass 
 and tried to forget it, but couldn t exactly and never have to 
 this hour. Went on and on over more bridges spanning still- 
 flowing streams of silver, past springs that lay like great 
 crystals framed in moss under dripping fern-clad cliffs that 
 the sun never reaches. Came at last to a shining white 
 washed fort on an eminence that commands the isthmus con 
 necting the two hemispheres of Tahiti, where down I dropped 
 into a narrow valley full of wind and discord and a kind of 
 dreary neglect that made me sick for any other place. More 
 refreshment for the wayfarer, but to be paid for by the dish, 
 and therefore limited. Was obliged to hate a noisy fellow 
 with too much bushy black beard and a freckled nose, and to 
 like another who eyed me kindly over his absinthe, having 
 first mixed a glass for me. A native asked me where I was 
 going; being unable to give any satisfactory answer, he con 
 ducted me to his canoe, about a mile distant, where he cut a 
 saplmg for a mast, another for a gaff, twisted in a few mo 
 ments a cord of its fibrous bark, rigged a sail of his sleep 
 ing-blanket, and we were shortly waifted onward before a 
 light breeze between the reef and shore. 
 
 Three of us with a bull-pup in the bows dozed under the 
 afternoon sun. He of the paddle awoke now and then to 
 shift sail, beat the sea impetuously for a few seconds, and 
 fall asleep again. Voices roused me occasionally, greetings 
 from colonies of indolent Kanacks on shore, whose business 
 it was to sit there till they got hungry, laughing weariness to 
 scorn. 
 
 Close upon our larboard-bow lay one of the islands that 
 had bewitched me as I paced the shore but a few days previ- 
 
136 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 ously; under us the measureless gardens of the sea unmasked 
 a myriad of imperishable blossoms, centuries old some of 
 them, but as fair and fresh as though born within the hour. 
 All that afternoon we drifted between sea and shore, and 
 beached at sunset in a new land. Foot-sore and weary, I 
 approached a stable from which thrice a week stages were 
 despatched to Papute. 
 
 A modern pilgrim finds his scrip cumbersome, if he has 
 any, and deems it more profitable to pay his coachman than 
 his cobbler. 
 
 I climbed to my seat by the jolly French driver, who was 
 continually chatting with three merry nuns sitting just back 
 of us, returning to the convent in Papute after a vacation re 
 treat among the hills. How they enjoyed the ride as three 
 children might, and were quite wild with delight at meeting 
 a corpulent pere, who smiled amiably from his saddle and 
 offered to show them the interior of the pretty chapel at Faaa 
 (only three a s in that word) the very one I grew melan 
 choly in when I was a man of business. 
 
 So they hurled themselves madly from the high seat, one 
 after the other, scorning to touch anything so contaminating 
 as a man s hand, though it looked suicidal, as the driver 
 and I agreed while the three were at prayers by the altar. 
 Whipping up over the road townward, I could almost recog 
 nize my own footprints left since the time I used to take the 
 dust in my face three mornings a week from the wheels of 
 that very vehicle as I footed it in to business. Passing the 
 spring, my toilet of other days, drawing to the edge of the 
 town, we stopped being jolly and were as proper as befitted 
 travellers. We looked over the wall of the conrent garden 
 as we drove up to the gate, and saw the mother-superior 
 hurrying down to us with a cumbersome chair for the relief 
 of the nuns, but before she reached us they had cast them 
 selves to earth again in the face of destiny, and there was 
 kissing, crying, and commotion as they withdrew under the 
 gateway like so many doves seeking shelter. When the gate 
 closed after them, I heard them all cooing at once, but the 
 world knows nothing further. 
 
 Where would I be dropped? asked the driver. In the 
 
A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI 137 
 
 middle of the street, please you, and take half my little whole 
 for your ride, sir! He took it, dropped me where we stood, 
 and drove away, I pretending to be very much at my ease. 
 God help me and all poor hypocrites! 
 
 I sought a place of shelter, or rather retirement, for the 
 air is balm in that country. There was an old house in the 
 middle of a grassy lawn on a by-street. Two of its rooms 
 were furnished with a few papers and books, and certain 
 gentlemen who contribute to its support lounge in when they 
 have leisure for reading or a chat. I grew to know the place 
 familiarly. I stole a night s lodging on its veranda in the 
 shadow of a passion-vine, but, for fear of embarrassing 
 some early student in pursuit of knowledge, I passed the 
 second night on the floor of the dilapidated cook-house, 
 where the ants covered me. I endured the tortures of one 
 who bares his body to an unceasing shower of sparks; but I 
 survived. 
 
 There was, in this very cook-house, a sink six feet in 
 length and as wide as a coffin; the third night I lay like a 
 galvanized corpse with his lid off till a rat sought to devour 
 me, when I took to the streets and walked till morning. By 
 this time the president of the club, whose acquaintance I had 
 the honor of, tendered me the free use of any portion of the 
 premises that might not be otherwise engaged. With a gleam 
 of hope I began my explorations. Up a narrow and winding 
 stair I found a spacious loft. It was like a mammoth 
 tent, a solitary centre-pole its only ornament. Creeping into 
 it on all-fours, I found a fragment of matting, a dry crust, 
 an empty soda-bottle footprints on the sands of time. 
 
 "Poor soul!" I gasped, "where did you come from? What 
 did you come for? Whither, O, whither, have you flown?" 
 
 I might have added, How did you manage to get there? 
 But the present was so important a consideration, I had no 
 heart to look beyond it. The next ten nights I passed in the 
 silent and airy apartment of my anonymous predecessor. 
 Ten nights I crossed the unswept floor that threatened at 
 every step to precipitate me into the reading-room below. 
 With a faint heart and hollow stomach I threw myself upon 
 my elbow and strove to sleep. I lay till my heart stopped 
 
138 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 beating, my joints were wooden, and my four limbs corky 
 beyond all hope of reanimation. There the mosquito rev 
 elled, and it was a promising place for centipedes. 
 
 At either end of the building an open window admitted the 
 tip of a banana-leaf; up their green ribs the sprightly mouse 
 careered. I broke the backbones of these banana-leaves, 
 though they were the joy of my soul and would have adorned 
 the choicest conservatory in the land. Day was equally 
 unprofitable to me. My best friend said, "Why not return to 
 California? * Every one I met invited me to leave the coun 
 try at my earliest convenience. The American consul se 
 cured me a passage, to be settled for at home, and my career 
 in that latitude was evidently at an end. In my superfluous 
 confidence in humanity, I had announced myself as a cor 
 respondent for the press. It was quite necessary that I 
 should give some plausible reason for making my appearance 
 in Tahiti friendless and poor. "I am a correspondent, friend 
 less and poor," believing that any one would see truth in the 
 face of it, with half an eye. "Prove it," said one who knew 
 more of the world that I. Then flashed upon me the alarm 
 ing fact that I couldn t prove it, having nothing whatever in 
 my possession referring to it in the slightest degree. It 
 was a fatal mistake that might easily have been avoided, 
 but was too well established to be rectified. 
 
 In my chagrin I looked to the good old bishop for consola 
 tion. Approaching the Mission House through sunlit clois 
 ters of palms, I was greeted most tenderly. I would have 
 gladly taken any amount of holy orders for the privilege of 
 ending my troublous days in the sweet seclusion of the Mis 
 sion House. 
 
 As it was, I received a blessing, an autograph, and a 
 "God speed" to some other part of creation. Added to this 
 I learned how the address to the Forty Chiefs of Tahiti in 
 behalf of the foreign traveler, my poor self, had been des 
 patched to me by a special courier who found me not, and 
 doubtless the fetes I heard of and was forever missing marked 
 the march of that messenger, my proxy, in his triumphal 
 progress. In my innocent degradation it was still necessary 
 to nourish the inner man. 
 
A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI 139 
 
 /* 
 
 There is a market in Papute where, under one broad roof, 
 threescore hucksters of both sexes congregate long before 
 daylight, and, while a few candles illumine their wares, 
 patiently await custom. A half-dozen coolies with an eye 
 to business serve hot coffee and chocolate at a dime per cup 
 to any who choose to ask for it. By 7 A. M. the market is 
 so nearly sold out that only the more plentiful fruits of the 
 country are to be obtained at any price. A prodigal cannot 
 long survive on husks, unless he have coffee to wash them 
 down; I took my cup of it with two spoonfuls of sugar and 
 ants dipped out of a cigar box, and a crust of bread into the 
 bargain, sitting on a bench in the market-place, with a coolie 
 and a Kanack on either hand. 
 
 It was not the coffee nor the sugared ants that I gave my 
 dime for, but rather for the privilege of sitting in the midst 
 of men and women who were willing to- accept me as a friend 
 and helpmate, without questioning my ancestry, and any 
 one of whom would go me halves in the most disinterested 
 manner. Then there was sure to be some superb fellow close 
 at hand with a sensuous lip curled under his nostril, a 
 glimpse of which gave me a dime s worth of satisfaction and 
 more too. Having secreted a French roll, five cents, all hot, 
 under my coat, and gathered the bananas that would fall in 
 the yard so seasonably, I made my day as brief and com 
 fortable as possible by filling up with water from time to 
 time. 
 
 The man who had passed a grimy chop-house, wherein a 
 frowzy fellow sat at his cheap spread, without envying the 
 frowzy fellow his cheap spread cannot truly sympathize with 
 me. 
 
 The man who has not felt a great hollow in his stomach 
 which he found necessary to fill at the first fountain he 
 came to, or go over on his beam ends for lack of ballast, can 
 not fall upon my neck and call me brother. 
 
 At daybreak I haunted those street fountains, waiting my 
 turn while French cooks filled almost fathomless kegs, and 
 coolies filled potbellied jars, and Kanacks filled their hollow 
 bamboos that seemed fully a quarter of a mile in length. 
 There I meekly made my toilet, took my first course for 
 
140 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 breakfast, rinsed out my handkerchiefs and stockings, and 
 went my way. The whole performance was embarrassing, 
 because I was a novice and a dozen people watched me in 
 curious silence. I had also a boot with a suction in the toe; 
 there is dust in Papute; while I walked that boot loaded and 
 discharged itself in a manner that amazed and amused a 
 small mob of little natives who followed me in my free ex 
 hibition, advertising my shooting-boot gratuitously. 
 
 I was altogether shabby in my outward appearance, and 
 cannot honestly upbraid any resident of the town for his 
 neglect of me. I know that I suffered the agony of shame and 
 the pangs of hunger, but they were nothing to the utter loneli 
 ness I felt as I wandered about with my heart on my sleeve, 
 and never a bite from so much as a daw. 
 
 Did you ever question the possibility of a man s temporary 
 transformation under certain mental, moral, or physical con 
 ditions? There are times when he certainly isn t what he 
 was, yet may be more and better than he has been if you give 
 him time enough. 
 
 I began to think I had either suffered this transformation 
 or been maliciously misinformed as to my personality. Was 
 I truly what I represented myself to be, or had I been a living 
 deception all my days? No longer able to identify myself 
 as any one in particular, it occurred to me that it would be 
 well to address a few lines to the gentleman I had been in 
 the habit of calling "father," asking for some particulars 
 concerning his absent son. I immediately drew up this 
 document ready for mailing: 
 
 MOSQUITO HALL, CENTIPEDE AVENUE, 
 
 PAPUTE 
 
 DEAR SIR: A nondescript awaits identification at this 
 office. Answers to the names at the foot of this page, be 
 lieves himself to be your son, to have been your son, or about 
 to be something equally near and dear to you. He can re 
 peat several chapters of the New Testament at the shortest 
 notice; recites most of the Catechism and Commandments; 
 thinks he would recognize two sisters and three brothers at 
 sight, and know his mother with his eyes shut. 
 
A PRODIGAL IN TAHITI 141 
 
 He likewise confesses to the usual strawberry-mark in 
 fast colors. If you will kindly send by return mail a few 
 dollars, he will clothe, feed, and water himself and return 
 immediately to those arms, which, if his memory does not 
 belie him, have more than once sheltered his unworthy frame. 
 I have, dear sir, the singular fortune to be the article above 
 described. 
 
 The six months which would elapse before I could hope 
 for an answer would probably have found me past all recog 
 nition, so I ceased crying to the compassionate bowels of 
 Tom, Dick, and Harry, waiting with haggard patience the 
 departure of the vessel that was to bear me home with a 
 palpable C. O. D. tacked on to me. Those last hours were 
 brightened by the delicate attentions of a few good souls who 
 learned, too late, the shocking state of my case. Thanks to 
 them, I slept well thereafter in a real bed, and was sure 
 of dinners that wouldn t rattle in me like a withered kernel 
 in an old nutshell. 
 
 I had but to walk to the beach, wave my lily hand, heavily 
 tanned about that time, when lo! a boat was immediately 
 despatched from the plump little corvette "Cheveret," where 
 the tricolor waved triumphantly from sunrise to sunset, all 
 the year round. 
 
 Such capital French dinners as I had there, such offers 
 of bed and board and boundless sympathy as were made me 
 by those dear fellows who wore the gold-lace and had a 
 piratical-looking cabin all to themselves, were enough to 
 wring a heart that had been nearly wrung out in its battle 
 with life in Tahiti. 
 
 No longer I walked the streets as one smitten with the 
 plague; or revolved in envious circles about the market-place, 
 where I could have got my fill for a half-dollar, but had 
 neither the one nor the other. No longer I went at day 
 break to swell the procession at the water-spout, or sat on the 
 shore the picture of despair, waiting sunrise, finding it my 
 sole happiness to watch a canoe-load of children drifting out 
 upon the bay, singing like a railful of larks; nor walked 
 solitary through the night up and down the narrow streets 
 
142 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 wherein the gendarmes had learned to pass me unnoticed, 
 with my hat under my arm and my heart in my throat. 
 Those delicious moons always seduced me from my natural 
 sleep, and I sauntered through the cocoa-groves whose boughs 
 glistened like row after row of crystals, whose shadows were 
 as mosaics wrought in blocks of silver. 
 
 I used to nod at the low whitewashed "calabooses" fairly 
 steaming in the sun, wherein Herman Melville got some 
 chapters of Omoo. 
 
 Over and over again I tracked the ground of that delicious 
 story, saying to the bread-fruit trees that had sheltered him, 
 "Shelter me also, and whoever shall follow after so long as 
 your branches quiver in the wind." 
 
 O, reader of Omoo, think of "Motoo-Otoo" actually 
 looking warlike in these sad days, with a row of new can 
 nons around its edge, and pyramids of balls as big as cocoa- 
 nuts covering its shady centre. 
 
 Walking alone in those splendid nights I used to hear a 
 dry, ominous coughing in the huts of the natives. I felt as 
 though I were treading upon the brinks of half-dug graves, 
 and I longed to bring a respite to the doomed race. 
 
 One windy afternoon we cut our stern hawser in a fair 
 wind and sailed out of the harbor; I felt a sense of relief, 
 and moralized for five minutes without stopping. Then I 
 turned away from all listeners and saw those glorious green 
 peaks growing dim in the distance; the clouds embraced 
 them in their profound secrecy; like a lovely mirage Tahiti 
 floated upon the bosom of the sea. Between sea and sky was 
 swallowed up vale, garden, and water- fall; point after point 
 crowded with palms; peak above peak in that eternal crown 
 of beauty, and with them the nation of warriors and lovers 
 falling like the leaf, but unlike it, with no followers in the 
 new season. 
 
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT * 
 
 BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 AS Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main 
 street of Poker Flat on the morning of the twenty- 
 third of November, 1850, he was conscious of a 
 change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. 
 Two or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as 
 he approached, and exchanged significant glances. There 
 was a Sabbath lull in the air, which, in a settlement unused 
 to Sabbath influences, looked ominous. 
 
 Mr. Oakhurst s calm, handsome face betrayed small con 
 cern of these indications. Whether he was conscious of any 
 predisposing cause, was another question. "I reckon they re 
 after somebody," he reflected; "likely it s me." He returned 
 to his pocket the handkerchief with which he had been 
 whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat 
 boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further con 
 jecture. 
 
 In point of fact, Poker Flat was "after somebody." It 
 had lately suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two 
 valuable horses, and a prominent citizen. It was expe 
 riencing a spasm of virtuous reaction, quite as lawless and 
 ungovernable as any of the acts that had provoked it. A 
 secret committee had determined to rid the town of all im 
 proper persons. This was done permanently in regard of 
 two men who were then hanging from the boughs of a syca 
 more in the gulch, and temporarily in the banishment of 
 certain other objectionable characters. I regret to say that 
 some of these were ladies. It is but due to the sex, how 
 ever, to. state that their impropriety was professional, and. 
 
 *By arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company. 
 
 143 
 
144 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 it was only in such easily established standards of evil that 
 Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment. 
 
 Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included 
 in this category. A few of the committee had urged hang 
 ing him as a possible example, and a sure method of reim 
 bursing themselves from his pockets of the sums he had 
 won from them. "It s agin justice," said Jim Wheeler, "to 
 let this yer young man from Roaring Camp an entire 
 stranger carry away our money." But a crude sentiment 
 of equity residing in the breasts of those who had been 
 fortunate enough to win from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this 
 narrower local prejudice. 
 
 Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calm 
 ness, none the less coolly that he was aware of the hesitation 
 of his judges. He was too much of a gambler not to accept 
 Fate. With him life was at best an uncertain game, and he 
 recognized the usual percentage in favor of the dealer. 
 
 A body of armed men accompanied the deported wicked 
 ness of Poker Flat to the outskirts of the settlement. Be 
 sides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be a coolly desperate 
 man, and for those intimidation the armed escort was in 
 tended, the expatriated party consisted of a young woman 
 familiarly known as "The Duchess"; another, who had 
 gained the infelicitous title of "Mother Shipton"; and 
 "Uncle Billy," a suspected sluice-robber and confirmed 
 drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from the 
 spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only, 
 when the gulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker 
 Flat was reached, the leader spoke briefly and to the point. 
 The exiles were forbidden to return at the peril of their lives. 
 
 As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found 
 vent in a few hysterical tears from The Duchess, some 
 bad language from Mother Shipton, and a Parthian volley 
 of expletives from Uncle Billy. The philosophic Oakhurst 
 alone remained silent. He listened calmly to Mother Ship- 
 ton s desire to cut somebody s heart out, to the repeated state 
 ments of The Duchess that she would die in the road, and 
 to the alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle 
 Billy as he rode forward. With the easy good-humor char- 
 
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 145 
 
 acteristic of his class, he insisted upon exchanging his own 
 riding-horse, Five Spot, for the sorry mule which the 
 Duchess rode. But even this act did not draw the party 
 into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted her 
 somewhat draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; 
 Mother Shipton eyed the possessor of Five Spot with 
 malevolence, and Uncle Billy included the whole party in 
 one sweeping anathema. 
 
 The road to Sandy Bar a camp that, not having as yet 
 experienced the regenerating influences of Poker Flat, con 
 sequently seemed to offer some invitation to the emigrants 
 lay over a steep mountain range. It was distant a day s 
 severe journey. In that advanced season, the party soon 
 passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foot-hills 
 into the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was 
 narrow and difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of 
 her saddle upon the ground, declared her intention of going 
 no farther, and the party halted. 
 
 The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded 
 amphitheatre, surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs 
 of naked granite, sloped gently toward the crest of another 
 precipice that overlooked the valley. It was undoubtedly 
 the most suitable spot for a camp, had camping been ad 
 visable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half the 
 journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished, and the party were 
 not equipped or provisioned for delay. This fact he pointed 
 out to his companions curtly, with a philosophic commentary 
 on the folly of "throwing up their hand before the game was 
 played out." But they were furnished with liquor, which 
 in this emergency stood them in place of food, fuel, rest, and 
 prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, it was not long 
 before they were more or less under its influence. Uncle 
 Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose state into one of stupor, 
 the Duchess became maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. 
 Mr. Oakhurst alone remained erect, leaning against a rock, 
 calmly surveying them. 
 
 Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profes 
 sion which required coolness, impassiveness, and presence 
 of mind, and, in his own language, he "couldn t afford it" 
 
146 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN, STORIES 
 
 As he gazed at his recumbent fellow-exiles, the loneliness 
 begotten of his pariah-trade, his habits of life, his very vices, 
 for the first time seriously oppressed him. He bestirred him 
 self in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands and 
 face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat 
 habits, and for a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought 
 of deserting his weaker and more pitiable companions never 
 perhaps occurred to him. Yet he could not help feeling the 
 want of that excitement which, singularly enough, was most 
 conducive to that\calm equanimity for which he was notori 
 ous. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose a thousand 
 feet sheer above the circling pines around him; at the sky, 
 ominously clouded; at the valley below, already deepening 
 into shadow. And, doing so, suddenly he heard his own 
 name called. 
 
 A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open 
 face of the new-comer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Sim- 
 son, otherwise known as "The Innocent" of Sandy Bar. He 
 had met him some months before over a "little game," and 
 had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire fortune 
 amounting to some forty dollars of that guileless youth. 
 After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youth 
 ful speculator behind the door and thus addressed him; 
 "Tommy, you re a good little man, but you can t gamble 
 worth a cent. Don t try it over again." He then handed 
 him his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and 
 so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson. 
 
 There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and en 
 thusiastic greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he 
 said, to go to Poker Flat to seek his fortune. "Alone?" No, 
 not exactly alone; in fact a giggle he had run away with 
 Piney Woods. Didn t Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney? She 
 that used to wait on the table at the Temperance House? 
 They had been engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods had 
 objected, and so they had run away, and were going to 
 Poker Flat to be married, and here they were. And they 
 were tired out, and how lucky it was they had found a place 
 to camp and company. All this the Innocent delivered 
 rapidly, while Piney a stout, comely damsel of fifteen 
 
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 147 
 
 emerged from behind the pine-tree, where she had been blush 
 ing unseen, and rode to the side of her lover. 
 
 Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, 
 still less with propriety; but he had a vague idea that the 
 situation was not felicitous. He retained, however, his pres 
 ence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle Billy, who was about 
 to say something, and Uncle Billy was sober enough to rec 
 ognize in Mr. Oakhurst s kick a superior power that would 
 not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom 
 Simson from delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed 
 out the fact that there was no provision, nor means of mak 
 ing a camp. But, unluckily, "The Innocent" met this ob 
 jection by assuring the party that he was provided with an 
 extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery of 
 a rude attempt at a log-house near the trail. "Piney can 
 stay with Mrs. Oakhurst, said the Innocent, pointing to 
 the Duchess, "and I can shift for myself." 
 
 Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst s admonishing foot saved 
 Uncle Billy from bursting into a roar of laughter. As it 
 was, he felt compelled to retire up the canon until he could 
 recover his gravity. There he confided the joke to the tall 
 pine trees, with many slaps of his leg, contortions of his 
 face, and the usual profanity. But when he returned to the 
 party, he found them seated by a fire for the air had grown 
 strangely chill and the sky overcast in apparently amicable 
 conversation. Piney was actually talking in an impulsive, 
 girlish fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an in 
 terest and animation she had not shown for many days. The 
 Innocent was holding forth, apparently with equal effect, to 
 Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, who was actually relax 
 ing into amiability. "Is this yer a d d picnic?" said Uncle 
 Billy, with inward scorn, as he surveyed the sylvan group, 
 the glancing fire-light, and the tethered animals in the fore 
 ground. Suddenly an idea mingled with the alcholic fumes 
 that disturbed his brain. It was apparently of a jocular 
 nature, for he felt impelled to slap his leg again and cram 
 his fist into his mouth. 
 
 As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight 
 breeze rocked the tops of the pine-trees, and moaned through 
 
148 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 their long and gloomy aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and 
 covered with pine boughs, was set apart for the ladies. As 
 the lovers parted, they unaffectedly exchanged a kiss, so 
 honest and sincere that it might have been heard above the 
 swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent 
 Mother Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon 
 this last evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word 
 to the hut. The fire was replenished, the men lay down 
 before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep. 
 
 Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he 
 awoke benumbed and cold. As he stirred the dying fire, 
 the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought to his 
 cheek that which caused the blood to leave it snow! 
 
 He started to his feet with the intention of awakening 
 the sleepers, for there was no time to lose. But turning to 
 where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone. A 
 suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse to his lips. He 
 ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered; they 
 were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly 
 disappearing in the snow. 
 
 The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back 
 to the fire with his usual calm. He did not waken the 
 sleepers. The Innocent slumbered peacefully, with a smile 
 on his good humored, freckled face; the virgin Piney slept 
 beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though attended by 
 celestial guardians, and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket 
 over his shoulders, stroked his mustachios and waited for 
 the dawn. It came slowly in the whirling mist of snow- 
 flakes, that dazzled and confused the eye. What could be 
 seen of the landscape appeared magically changed. He 
 looked over the valley, and summed up the present and future 
 in two words "Snowed in!" 
 
 A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately 
 for the party, had been stored within the hut, and so escaped 
 the felonious fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that 
 with care and prudence they might last ten days longer. 
 "That is," said Mr. Oakhurst, sotto voce to the Innocent, 
 "if you re willing to board us. If you ain t and perhaps 
 you d better not you can wait till Uncle Billy gets back 
 
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 149 
 
 with provisions." For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst 
 could not bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy s rascality, 
 and so offered the hypothesis that he had wandered from 
 the camp and had accidentally stampeded the animals. He 
 dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother Shipton, who 
 of course knew the facts of their associate s defection. 
 "They ll find out the truth about us all, when they find out 
 anything," he added, significantly, "and there s no good 
 frightening them now." 
 
 Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the dis 
 posal of Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of 
 their enforced seclusion. "We ll have a good camp for a 
 week, and then the snow ll melt, and we ll all go back to 
 gether." The cheerful gayety of the young man and Mr. 
 Oakhurst s calm infected the others. The Innocent, with 
 the aid of pine boughs, extemporized a thatch for the roof 
 less cabin, and the Duchess directed Piney in the rearrange 
 ment of the interior with a taste and tact that opened the 
 blue eyes of that provincial maiden to their fullest extent. 
 
 "I reckon now you re used to fine things at Poker Flat," 
 said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal 
 something that reddened her cheek through its professional 
 tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not to "chatter." 
 But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search for the 
 trail, he heard the sound of happy laughter echoed from the 
 rocks. He stopped in some alarm, and his thoughts first 
 naturally reverted to the whiskey, which he had prudently 
 cached. "And yet it don t somehow sound like whiskey," 
 said the gambler. It was not until he caught sight of the 
 blazing fire through the still blinding storm, and the group 
 around it, that he settled to the conviction that it was "square 
 fun." 
 
 Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cached his cards with the 
 whiskey as something debarred the free access of the com 
 munity, I cannot say. It was certain that, in Mother Ship- 
 ton s words, he "didn t say cards once" during the evening. 
 Haply the time was beguiled by an accordion, produced 
 somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson, from his pack. 
 Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the manipulation 
 
150 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 of this instrument, Piney Woods managed to pluck several 
 reluctant melodies from its keys, to an accompaniment by 
 the Innocent on a pair of bone castinets. But the crowning 
 festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-meeting 
 hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang with great 
 earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a certain defiant 
 tone and Covenanter s swing to its chorus, rather than any 
 devotional quality, caused it speedily to infect the others, 
 who at last joined in the refrain: 
 
 I m proud to live in the service of the Lord, 
 And I m bound to die in His army. 
 
 The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above 
 the miserable group, and the flames of their altar leaped 
 heavenward, as if in token of the vow. 
 
 At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, 
 and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. 
 Oakhurst, whose professional habits had enabled him to live 
 on the smallest possible amount of sleep, in dividing the 
 watch with Tom Simson, somehow managed to take upon 
 himself the greater part of that duty. He excused himself 
 to the Innocent, by saying that he had "often been a week 
 without sleep." "Doing what?" asked Tom. "Poker!" 
 replied Oakhurst, sententiously, "when a man gets a streak 
 of luck nigger-luck he don t get tired. The luck gives 
 in first. Luck," continued the gambler, reflectively, "is a 
 mighty queer thing. All you know about it for certain is 
 that it s bound to change. And it s finding out when it s 
 .going to change that makes you. We ve had a streak of 
 bad luck since -we left Poker Flat you come along, and 
 slap you get into it, too. If you can hold your cards right 
 along you re all right. For," added the gambler, with cheer 
 ful irrelevance, 
 
 "I m proud to live in the service of the Lord, 
 And I m bound to die in His army." 
 
 The third day came, and the sun, looking through the 
 white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly 
 decreasing store of provisions for the morning meal. It 
 
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 151 
 
 was one of the peculiarities of that mountain climate that 
 its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the wintry landscape, 
 as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it revealed 
 drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut; a hope 
 less, uncharted, trackless sea of white lying below the rocky 
 shores to which the castaways still clung. Through the 
 marvellously clear air, the smoke of the pastoral village of 
 Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it, and 
 from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness, hurled in that 
 direction a final malediction. It was her last vituperative 
 attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested with a 
 certain degree of sublimity. It did her good, she privately 
 informed the Duchess. "Just to go out there and cuss, and 
 see." She then set herself to the task of amusing "the child," 
 as she and the Duchess were pleased to call Piney. Piney 
 was no chicken, but it was a soothing and ingenious theory 
 of the pair thus to account for the fact that she didn t swear 
 and wasn t improper. 
 
 When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy 
 notes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms ancl 
 long-drawn gasps by the flickering camp-fire. But music 
 failed to fill entirely the aching void left by insufficient food, 
 and a new diversion was proposed by Piney story-telling. 
 Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions caring to 
 relate their personal experiences, this plan would have 
 failed, too, but for The Innocent. Some months before he 
 had chanced upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope s ingenious 
 translation of the Iliad. He now proposed to narrate the 
 principal incidents of that poem having thoroughly 
 mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the words in the 
 current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest of that 
 night the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. Trojan 
 bully and wily Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great 
 pines in the canon seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of 
 Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet satisfaction. Most 
 especially was he interested in the fate of "Ash-heels," as 
 the Innocent persisted in denominating the "swift-footed 
 Achilles." 
 
 So with small food and much of Homer and the accor- 
 
152 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 dion, a week passed over the heads of the outcasts. The 
 sun again forsook them, and again from leaden skies the 
 snow-flakes were sifted over the land. Day by day closer 
 around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they looked 
 from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that 
 towered twenty feet above their heads. It became more and 
 more difficult to replenish their fires, even from the fallen 
 trees beside them, now half-hidden in the drifts. And yet 
 no one complained. The lovers turned from the dreary pros 
 pect and looked into each other s eyes, and were happy. Mr. 
 Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing game before 
 him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, as 
 sumed the care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton once the 
 strongest of the party seemed to sicken and fade. At mid 
 night on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to her side. "I m 
 going," she said, in a voice of querulous weakness, "but don t* 
 say anything about it. Don t waken the kids. Take the 
 bundle from under my head and open it." Mr. Oakhurst 
 did so. It contained Mother Shipton s rations for the last 
 week, untouched. "Give em to the child," she said, pointing 
 to the sleeping Piney. "You ve starved yourself," said the 
 gambler. "That s what they call it," said the woman, 
 querulously, as she lay down again, and, turning her face 
 to the wall, passed quietly away. 
 
 The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, 
 and Homer was forgotten. When the body of Mother Ship- 
 ton had been committed to the snow, Mr. Oakhurst took The 
 Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of snow-shoes, which 
 he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle. "There s one 
 chance in a hundred to save her yet," he said, pointing to 
 Piney; "but it s there," he added, pointing toward Poker 
 Flat. "If you can reach there in two days she s safe." 
 "And you?" asked Tom Simson. "I ll stay here," was the 
 curt reply. 
 
 The lovers parted with a long embrace. "You are not 
 going, too?" said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst ap 
 parently waiting to accompany him. "As far as the canon," 
 he replied. He turned suddenly, and kissed the 1 Duchess, 
 
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 153 
 
 leaving her pallid face aflame, and her trembling limbs rigid 
 with amazement. 
 
 Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm 
 again and the whirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the 
 fire, found that some one had quietly piled beside the hut 
 enough fuel to last a few days longer. The tears rose to 
 her eyes, but she hid them from Piney. 
 
 The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into 
 each other s faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke; but 
 Piney, accepting the position of the stronger, drew near and 
 placed her arm around the Duchess s waist. They kept this 
 attitude for the rest of the day. That night the storm 
 reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder the protect 
 ing pines, invaded the very hut. 
 
 Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the 
 fire, which gradually died away. As the embers slowly 
 blackened, the Duchess crept closer to Piney, and broke the 
 silence of many hours: "Piney, can you pray?" "No, dear," 
 said Piney, simply. The Duchess, without knowing exactly 
 why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney s 
 shoulder, spoke no more. And so reclining, the younger and 
 purer pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin 
 breast, they fell asleep. 
 
 The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery 
 drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine boughs, flew like 
 white-winged birds, and settled about them as they slept. 
 The moon through the rifted clouds looked down upon what 
 had been the camp. But all human stain, all trace of earthly 
 travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle mercifully 
 flung from above. 
 
 They slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken 
 when voices and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. 
 And when pitying fingers brushed the snow from their wan 
 faces, you could scarcely have told from the equal peace that 
 dwelt upon them, which was she that had sinned. Even 
 the Law of Poker Flat recognized this, and turned away, 
 leaving them still locked in each other s arms. 
 
 But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine 
 trees, they found the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with 
 
154 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 a bowie knife. It bore the following, written in pencil, in a 
 firm hand: 
 
 t 
 
 BENEATH THIS TREE 
 
 LIES THE BODY 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN OAKHURST, 
 
 WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCK 
 ON THE 23D OF NOVEMBER, 1850, 
 
 AND 
 
 HANDED IN HIS CHECKS 
 ON THE 7TH OF DECEMBER, 1850. 
 
 4 
 
 And pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side and 
 a bullet in his heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the 
 snow lay he who was at once the strongest and yet the 
 weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK* 
 
 BY FRANK STOCKTON 
 
 WELL, sir/ said old Silas, as he gave a preliminary 
 puff to the pipe he had just lighted, and so satis 
 fied himself that the draught was all right, "the 
 wind s a-comin , an so s Christmas. But it s no use bein 
 in a hurry fur either of em, fur sometimes they come afore 
 you want em, anyway." 
 
 Silas was sitting in the stern of a small sailing-boat which 
 he owned, and in which he sometimes took the Sandport 
 visitors out for a sail; and at other times applied to its more 
 legitimate, but less profitable use, that of fishing. That 
 afternoon he had taken young Mr. Nugent for a brief ex 
 cursion on that portion of the Atlantic Ocean which sends 
 its breakers up on the beach of Sandport. But he had found 
 it difficult, nay, impossible just now, to bring him back, for 
 the wind had gradually died away until there was not a 
 breath of it left. Mr. Nugent, to whom nautical experiences 
 were as new as the very nautical suit of blue flannel which 
 he wore, rather liked the calm; it was such a relief to the 
 monotony of rolling waves. He took out a cigar and lighted 
 it, and then he remarked: 
 
 "I can easily imagine how a wind might come before you 
 sailors might want it, but I don t see how Christmas could 
 come too soon." 
 
 "It come wunst on me when things couldn t a looked mor? 
 onready fur it," said Silas. 
 
 "How was that?" asked Mr. Nugent, settling himself a 
 little more comfortably on the hard thwart. "If it s a story, 
 let s have it. This is a good time to spin a yarn." 
 
 * From "The Christmas Wreck and Other Stories," copyright, 1886, 
 by Charles Scribner s Sons. By permission of the publishers. 
 
 155 
 
156 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Very well," said old Silas. "I ll spin her." 
 
 The bare-legged boy, whose duty it was to stay forward 
 and mind the jib, came aft as soon as he smelt a story, and 
 took a nautical position which was duly studied by Mr. 
 Nugent, on a bag of ballast in the bottom of the boat. 
 
 "It s nigh on to fifteen year ago," said Silas, "that I was 
 on the bark, Mary Auguster, bound for Sydney, New 
 South Wales, with a cargo of canned goods. We was some 
 where about longitood a, hundred an seventy, latitood nothin . 
 an it was the twenty-second o December, when we was 
 ketched by a reg lar typhoon which blew straight along, end 
 on, fur a day an a half. It blew away the storm sails; it 
 blew away every yard, spar, shroud, an every strand o* 
 riggin , an snapped the masts off, close to the deck; it blew 
 away all the boats; it blew away the cook s caboose, an 
 everything else on deck; it blew off the hatches, an sent em 
 spinnin in the air, about a mile to leeward; an afore it got 
 through, it washed away the cap n an all the crew cept me 
 an two others. These was Tom Simmons, the second mate, 
 an Andy Boyle, a chap from the Andirondack Mountins, 
 who d never been to sea afore. As he was a landsman he 
 ought, by rights, to a been swep off by the wind an water, 
 consid rin that the cap n an sixteen good seamen had gone 
 a ready. But he had hands eleven inches long, an that give 
 him a grip which no typhoon could git the better of. Andy 
 had let out that his father was a miller up there in York 
 State, an a story had got round among the crew that his 
 gran father an great gran father was millers too; an the 
 way the fam ly got such big hands come from their habit of 
 scoopin up a extry quart or two of meal or flour for them 
 selves when they was levelin off their customers measures. 
 He was a good-natered feller, though, an never got riled 
 when I d tell him to clap his flour-scoops onter a halyard. 
 
 "We was all soaked, an washed, an beat, an battered. 
 We held on some way or other till the wind blowed itself out, 
 an then we got on our legs an began to look about us to 
 see how things stood. The sea had washed into the open 
 hatches till the vessel was more n half full of water, an 
 that had sunk her so deep that she must a looked like a 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK 157 
 
 canal boat loaded with gravel. We hadn t had a thing to 
 eat or drink durin that whole blow, an we was pretty 
 ravenous. We found a keg of water which was all right, and 
 a box of biscuit, which was what you might call soft tack, 
 for they was soaked through and through with sea-water. 
 We eat a let of them so, fur we couldn t wait, an the rest 
 we spread on the deck to dry, fur the sun was now shinin 
 hot enough to bake bread. We couldn t go below much, fur 
 there was a pretty good swell on the sea, and things was 
 floatin about so s to make it dangerous. But we fished out 
 a piece of canvas, which we rigged up agin the stump of the 
 mainmast so that we could have somethin that we could sit 
 down an grumble under. What struck us all the hardest 
 was that the bark was loaded with a whole cargo of jolly 
 things to eat, which was just as good as ever they was, fur 
 the water couldn t git through the tin cans in which they 
 was all put up; an here we was with nothin to live on but 
 them salted biscuit. There was no way of gittin at any of 
 the ship s stores, or any of the fancy prog, fur everythin 
 was stowed away tight under six or seven feet of water, an* 
 pretty nigh all the room that was left between decks was 
 filled up with extry spars, lumber boxes, an other floatin 
 stuff. All was shiftin , an bumpin , an bangin every time 
 the vessel rolled. 
 
 "As I said afore, Tom was second mate, an I was bo s n. 
 Says I to Tom, the thing we ve got to do is to put up some 
 kind of a spar with a rag on it for a distress flag, so that 
 we ll lose no time bein took off. There s no use a-slavin 
 at anythin like that, says Tom, fur we ve been blowed off 
 the track of traders, an the more we work the hungrier we ll 
 git, an the sooner will them biscuit be gone/ 
 
 "Now when I heerd Tom say this I sot still, and began 
 to consider. Being second mate, Tom was, by rights, in 
 command of this craft ; but it was easy enough to see that if 
 he commanded there d never be nothin for Andy an me to 
 do. All the grit he had in him he d used up in holdin on 
 durin that typhoon. What he wanted to do now was to make 
 himself comfortable till the time come for him to go to Davy 
 Jones s Locker; an thinkin , most likely, that Davy couldn t 
 
158 THE GREAT MODERN. AMERICAN, STORIES 
 
 make it any hotter fur him than it was on that deck, still 
 in latitood nothin at all, fur we d been blowed along the line 
 pretty nigh due west. So I calls to Andy, who was busy 
 turnin over the biscuits on the deck. Andy/ says I, when he 
 had got under the canvas, we s goin to have a lection iur 
 skipper. Tom here is about played out. He s one candydate, 
 an* I m another. Now, who do you vote fur? An , mind 
 yer eye, youngster, that you don t make no mistake. I vote 
 fur you, says Andy. Carried unanermous! says I. An 
 I want you to take notice that I m cap n of what s left of the 
 Mary Auguster, an you two has got to keep your minds 
 on that, an obey orders. If Davy Jones was to do all that 
 Tom Simmons said when he heard this, the old chap 
 would be kept busier than he ever was yit. But I let him growl 
 his growl out, knowin he d come round all right, fur there 
 wasn t no help fur it, consid rin Andy an me was two to his 
 one. Pretty soon we all went to work, an got up a spar 
 from below which we rigged to the stump of the foremast, 
 with Andy s shirt atop of it. 
 
 "Them sea-soaked, sun-dried biscuit was pretty mean 
 prog, as you might think, but we eat so many of em that 
 afternoon an cordingly drank so much water that I was 
 obliged to put us all on short rations the next day. This 
 is the day before Christmas, says Andy Boyle, an to-night 
 will be Christmas Eve, an it s pretty tough fur us to be 
 sittin here with not even so much hard tack as we want, an 
 all the time thinkin that the hold of this ship is packed full 
 of the gayest kind of good things to eat. Shut up about 
 Christmas! says Tom Simmons. Them two youngsters of 
 mine, up in Bangor, is havin their toes and noses pretty 
 nigh froze, I spect, but they ll hang up their stockin s all the 
 same to-night, never thinkin that their dad s bein cooked 
 alive on an empty stomach. Of course they wouldn t hang 
 em up, says I, if they knowed what a fix you was in, but 
 they don t know it, an what s the use of grumblin at em 
 for bein a little jolly? Well/ says Andy, they couldn t be 
 more jollier than I d be if I could git at some of them fancy 
 fixin s down in the hold. I worked well on to a week at 
 Frisco puttin in them boxes, an the names of the things was 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK 159 
 
 on the outside of most of em, an I tell you what it is, mates, 
 it made my mouth water, even then, to read em, an I wasn t 
 hungry nuther, havin plenty to eat three times a day. There 
 was roast beef, an roast mutton, an duck, an chicken, an 
 soup, an peas, an beans, an termaters, an plum-puddin , 
 an mince-pie Shut up with your mince-pie 1 sung out 
 Tom Simmons. Isn t it enough to have to gnaw on these 
 salt chips, without hearin about mince-pie? An more n 
 that, says Andy, there was canned peaches, an pears, an 
 plums, an cherries. 
 
 "Now these things did sound so cool an good to me on that 
 broilin deck, that I couldn t stand it, an I leans over to 
 Andy, an I says: Now look-a here, if you don t shut up 
 talkin about them things what s stowed below, an what we 
 can t git at, nohow, overboard you go! That would make 
 you short-handed. says Andy, with a grin. Which is 
 more n you could say, says I, if you d chuck Tom an me 
 over alludin to his eleven-inch grip. Andy didn t say 
 no more then, but after a while he comes to me as I was 
 lookin round to see if anything was in sight, an says he, 
 I s pose you ain t got nuthin to say again my divin into the 
 hold just aft of the foremast, where there seems to be a bit 
 of pretty clear water, an see if I can t git up something? 
 You kin do it, if you like, says I, but it s at your own risk. 
 You can t take out no insurance at this office. All right 
 then, says Andy, an if I git stove in by floatin boxes, you 
 an Tom ll have to eat the rest of them salt crackers. Now, 
 boy, says I an he wasn t much more, bein only nineteen 
 year old you d better keep out o that hold. You ll just git 
 yourself smashed. An as to movin any of them there heavy 
 boxes, which must be swelled up as tight as if they was part 
 of the ship, you might as well try to pull out one of the 
 Mary Auguster s ribs. I ll try it, says Andy, fur to-mor- 
 rer is Christmas, an if I kin help it I ain t goin to be floatin 
 atop of a Christmas dinner without eatin any on it. I 
 let him go, fur he was a good swimmer and diver, an I did 
 hope he might root out somethin or other, fur Christmas is 
 about the worst day in the year fur men to be starvin on, 
 and that s what we was a-comin to. 
 
160 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Well, fur about two hours Andy swum, an* dove, an 
 come up blubberin , an dodged all sorts of floatin an 
 pitchin stuff, fur the swell was still on; but he couldn t even 
 be so much as sartain that he d found the canned vittles. 
 To dive down through hatchways, an among broken bulk 
 heads, to hunt fur any partiklar kind o boxes under seven 
 feet of sea-water, ain t no easy job ; an though Andy says he 
 got hold of the end of a box that felt to him like the big 
 uns he d noticed as havin the meat pies in, he couldn t move 
 it no more n if it had been the stump of the foremast. If 
 we could have pumped the water out of the hold we could 
 have got at any part of the cargo we wanted, but as it was, 
 we couldn t even reach the ship s stores, which, of course, 
 must have been mostly spiled anyway; whereas the canned 
 vittles was just as good as new. The pumps was all smashed, 
 or stopped up, for we tried em, but if they hadn t a-been we 
 three couldn t never have pumped out that ship on three 
 biscuit a day, and only about two days rations at that. 
 
 "So Andy he come up, so fagged out that it was as much 
 as he could do to get his clothes on, though they wasn t much, 
 an then he stretched himself out under the canvas an went 
 to sleep, an it wasn t long afore he was talking about roast 
 turkey an cranberry sass, an punkin pie, an sech stuff, 
 most of which we knowed was under our feet that present 
 minute. Tom Simmons he just b iled over, an sung out: 
 Roll him out in the sun and let him cook ! I can t stand no 
 more of this! But I wasn t goin to have Andy treated no 
 sech way as that, fur if it hadn t been fur Tom Simmons 
 wife an young uns, Andy d been worth two of him to any 
 body who was consid rin savin life. But I give the boy a 
 good punch in the ribs to stop his dreamin , fur I was as 
 hungry as Tom was, and couldn t stand no nonsense about 
 Christmas dinners. 
 
 "It was a little arter noon when Andy woke up, an he 
 went outside to stretch himself. In about a minute he give 
 a yell that made Tom and me jump. A sail I he hollered, a 
 sail! An you may bet your life, young man, that twasn t 
 more n half a second before us two had scuffled out from 
 under that canvas, an was standin by Andy. There she 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK 161 
 
 is! he shouted, not a mile to win ard. I give one look, 
 an then I sings out: Tain t a sail! It s a flag of distress ! 
 Can t you see, you land-lubber, that that s the Stars and 
 Stripes upside down? Why, s6 it is, said Andy, with a 
 couple of reefs in the joyfulness of his voice. An Tom, he 
 began to growl as if somebody had cheated him out of half 
 a year s wages. 
 
 "The flag that we saw was on the hull of a steamer that 
 had been driftin down on us while we was sittin under our 
 canvas. It was plain to see she d been caught in the typhoon 
 too, fur there wasn t a mast or a smoke stack on her; but her 
 hull was high enough out of the water to catch what wind 
 there was, while we was so low-sunk that we didn t make no 
 way at all. There was people aboard, and they saw us, an 
 waved their hats an. arms, an Andy an me waved ours, but 
 all we could do was to wait till they drifted nearer, fur we 
 hadn t no boats to go to em if we d a wanted to. 
 
 " I d like to know what good that old hulk is to us, said 
 Tom Simmons. She can t take us off. It did look to me 
 somethin like the blind leadin the blind; but Andy sings 
 out: We d be better off aboard of her, fur she ain t water 
 logged, an, more n that, I don t s pose her stores are all 
 soaked up in salt water. There was some sense in that, and 
 when the steamer had got to within half a mile of us, we was 
 glad to see a boat put out from her with three men in it. 
 It was a queer boat, very low, an flat, an not like any ship s 
 boat I ever see. But the two fellers at the oars pulled stiddy, 
 an pretty soon the boat was longside of us, an the three 
 men on our deck. One of em was the first mate of the other 
 wreck, an when he found out what was the matter with us, 
 he spun his yarn, which was a longer one than ours. His 
 vessel was the Water Crescent, nine hundred tons, from 
 Frisco to Melbourne, and they had sailed about six weeks 
 afore we did. They was about two weeks out when some of 
 their machinery broke down, an when they got it patched 
 up it broke agin worse than afore, so that they couldn t do 
 nothin with it. They kep along under sail for about a 
 month, makin ? mighty poor headway till the typhoon struck 
 em, an that cleaned their decks off about as slick as it did 
 
162 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 ours, but their hatches wasn t blowed off, an they didn t ship 
 no water wuth mentioning an the crew havin kep below, 
 none on em was lost. But now they was clean out of pro 
 visions and water, havin been short when the break-down 
 happened, fur they had sold all the stores they could spare 
 to a French brig in distress that they overhauled when about 
 a week out. When they sighted us they felt pretty sure they d 
 git some provisions out of us. But when I told the mate what 
 a fix we was in his jaw dropped till his face was as long 
 as one of Andy s hands. Howsomdever he said he d send 
 the boat back fur as many men as it could bring over, and 
 see if they couldn t get up some of our stores. Even if they 
 was soaked with salt water, they d be better than nothin . 
 Part of the cargo of the Water Crescent was tools an* 
 things fur some railway contractors out in Australier, an the 
 mate told the men to bring over some of them irons that might 
 be used to fish out the stores. All their ship s boats had been 
 blowed away, an the one they had was a kind of shore boat 
 for fresh water, that had been shipped as part of the cargo, 
 an* stowed below. It couldn t stand no kind of a sea, but 
 there wasn t nothin but a swell on; an when it came back 
 it had the cap n in it, an five men, besides a lot of chains an* 
 tools. 
 
 "Them fellers an us worked pretty nigh the rest of the 
 day, an we got out a couple of bar Is of water, which was 
 all right, havin been tight bunged; an a lot of sea biscuit, 
 all soaked an sloppy, but we only got a half bar l of meat, 
 though three or four of the men stripped an dove for more n 
 an hour. We cut up some of the meat, an eat it raw, an 
 the cap n sent some over to the other wreck, which had drifted 
 past us to leeward, an would have gone clean away from us 
 if the cap n hadn t had a line got out an made us fast to it 
 while we was workin at the stores. 
 
 "That night the cap n took us three, as well as the pro 
 visions we d got out, on board his hull, where the commoda- 
 tions was consid able better than they was on the half-sunk 
 Mary Auguster. An afore we turned in he took me aft, an 1 
 had a talk with me as commandin off cer of my vessel. That 
 wreck o yourn, says he, has got a vallyble cargo in it, which 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK 163 
 
 isn t spiled by bein under water. Now, if you could get 
 that cargo into port it would put a lot of money in your 
 pocket, fur the owners couldn t git out of payin you fur 
 takin charge of it, an havin it brung in. Now I ll tell you 
 what I ll do. I ll lie by you, an I ve got carpenters aboard 
 that ll put your pumps in order, an I ll set my men to work 
 to pump out your vessel. An then, when she s afloat all 
 right, I ll go to work agin at my vessel, which I didn t s pose 
 there was any use o doin ; but whilst I was huntin round 
 amongst our cargo to-day I found that some of the ma 
 chinery we carried might be worked up so s to take the place 
 of what is broke in our engin . We ve got a forge aboard an 
 I believe we can make these pieces of machinery fit, an git 
 goin agin. Then I ll tow you into Sydney, an we ll divide 
 the salvage money. I won t git nothin for savin my vessel, 
 coz that s my bizness; but you wasn t cap n o yourn, an* 
 took charge of her a purpose to save her, which is another 
 thing. 
 
 "I wasn t at all sure that I didn t take charge of the 
 Mary Auguster* to save myself an not the vessel, but I didn t 
 mention that, an* asked the cap n how he expected to live all 
 this time. Oh, we kin git at your stores easy enough, says 
 he, when the water s pumped out. They ll be mostly spiled, 
 says I. That don t matter, says he, men ll eat anythin , 
 when they can t git nothin else. An with that he left me 
 to think it over. 
 
 "I must say, young man, an you kin b lieve me if you 
 know anythin about sech things, that the idee of a pile of 
 money was mighty temptin to a feller like me, who had a girl 
 at home ready to marry him, and who would like nothin 
 better n to have a little house of his own, an a little vessel of 
 his own, an give up the other side of the world altogether. 
 But while I was goin over all this in my mind, an won- 
 derin if the cap n ever could git us into port, along comes 
 Andy Boyle, and sits down beside me. It drives me pretty 
 nigh crazy, says he, to think that to-morrer s Christmas, an 
 we ve got to feed on that sloppy stuff we fished out of our 
 stores, an not much of it nuther, while there s all that roast 
 turkey, an plum-puddin , an mince-pie, a-floatin out there 
 
164 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 just before our eyes, an we can t have none of it. You 
 hadn t oughter think so much about eatin , AndyP says I, 
 but if I was talkin about them things I wouldn t leave out 
 canned peaches. By George! Of a hot Christmas like this 
 is goin to be, I d be the j oiliest Jack on the ocean if I could 
 git at that canned fruit. Well, there s a way, says Andy, 
 that we might git some of em. A part of the cargo of this 
 ship is stuff for blastin rocks; catridges, lectric bat ries, an 
 that sort of thing; an there s a man aboard who s goin out to 
 take charge of em. I ve been talkin to this bat ry man, an* 
 I ve made up my mind it ll be easy enough to lower a little 
 catridge down among our cargo, an blow out a part of it/ 
 What ud be the good of it, says I, blowed into chips? 
 It might smash some, he said, but others would be only 
 loosened, an they d float up to the top, where we could get 
 em, specially them as was packed with pies, which must 
 be pretty light. Git out, Andy, says I, with all that stuff! 
 An he got out. 
 
 "But the idees he d put into my head didn t git out, an as 
 I laid on my back on the deck, lookin up at the stars, they 
 sometimes seemed to put themselves into the shape of little 
 houses, with a little woman cookin at the kitchen fire, an a 
 little schooner layin at anchor just off shore; an then agin 
 they d hump themselves up till they looked like a lot of new 
 tin cans with their tops off, an all kinds of good things to eat 
 inside, specially canned peaches the big white kind soft 
 an cool, each one split in half, with a holler in the middle 
 filled with juice. By George, sir, the very thought of a tin 
 can like that made me beat my heels agin the deck. I d been 
 mighty hungry, an had eat a lot of salt pork, wet an raw, 
 an now the very idee of it, even cooked, turned my stomach. 
 I looked up to the stars agin, an the little house an the little 
 schooner was clean gone, an the whole sky was filled with 
 nothin but bright new tin cans. 
 
 "In the mornin , Andy, he come to me agin. Have you 
 made up your mind, says he, about gittin some of them 
 good things for Christmas dinner? Confound you! says 
 I, you talk as if all we had to do was to go an git em/ An 
 that s what I b lieve we kin do, says he, with the help of that 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK 165 
 
 bat ry man. 5 Yes, says I, an blow a lot of the cargo into 
 flinders, an damage the "Mary Auguster" so s she couldn t 
 never be took into port. An then I told him what the cap n 
 had said to me, an what I was goin to do with the money. 
 A little catridge, says Andy, would do all we want, an 
 wouldn t hurt the vessel nuther. Besides that, I don t b lieve 
 what this cap n says about tinkerin up his engin . Tain t 
 likely he ll ever git her runnin agin, nor pump out the 
 "Mary Auguster" nuther. If I was you I d a durned sight 
 ruther have a Christmas dinner in hand than a house an 
 wife in the bush. I ain t thinkin o marryin a girl in 
 Australier, says I. An Andy he grinned, an said I wouldn t 
 marry nobody if I had to live on spiled vittles till I got her. 
 
 "A little after that I went to the cap n, an I told him 
 about Andy s idea, but he was down on it. It s your vessel, 
 an not mine, says he, an if you want to try to git a dinner 
 out of her I ll not stand in your way. But it s my pinion 
 you ll just damage the ship, an do nothin . Howsomdever 
 I talked to the bat ry man about it, an he thought it could be 
 done, an not hurt the ship nuther. The men was all in favor 
 of it, for none of em had forgot it was Christmas day. But 
 Tom Simmons, he was agin it strong, for he was thinkin 
 he d git some of the money if we got the Mary Auguster 
 into port. He was a selfish-minded man, was Tom, but it 
 was his nater, an I s pose he couldn t help it. 
 
 "Well, it wasn t long before I began to feel pretty empty, 
 an mean, an if I d a wanted any of the prog we got out 
 the day afore, I couldn t have found much, for the men had 
 eat it up nearly all in the night. An so, I just made up 
 my mind without any more foolin , an me, and Andy Boyle, 
 an the bat ry man, with some catridges an a coil of wire, 
 got into the little shore boat, and pulled over to the Mary 
 Auguster. There we lowered a small catridge down the 
 main hatch-way, an let it rest down among the cargo. Then 
 we rowed back to the steamer, uncoilin the wire as we went. 
 The bat ry man dumb up on deck, an fixed his wire to a 
 lectric machine, which he d got all ready afore we started. 
 Andy and me didn t git out of the boat; we had too much 
 sense for that, with all them hungry fellers waitin to jump 
 
166 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 in her; but we just pushed a little off, an sot waitin , with 
 our mouths a watering for him to touch her off. He seemed 
 to be a long time about it, but at last he did it, an that in 
 stant there was a bang on board the Mary Auguster that 
 made my heart jump. Andy an me pulled fur her like mad, 
 the others a-hollerin after us, an we was on deck in no 
 time. The deck was all covered with the water that had 
 been throwed up; but I tell you, sir, that we poked an fished 
 about, an Andy stripped an went down, an swum all round, 
 an we couldn t find one floatin box of canned goods. There 
 was a lot of splinters, but where they come from we didn t 
 know. By this time my dander was up, an I just pitched 
 around savage. That little catridge wasn t no good, an* 
 I didn t intend to stand any more foolin . We just rowed 
 back to the other wreck, an I called to the bat ry man to 
 come down, an bring some bigger catridges with him, fur if 
 we was goin to do anythin we might as well do it right. So 
 he got down with a package of bigger ones, an jumped into 
 the boat. The cap n he called out to us to be keerful, an 
 Tom Simmons leaned over the rail, an swored, but I didn t 
 pay no tension to nuther of em, an we pulled away. 
 
 "When I got aboard the Mary Auguster I says to the 
 bat ry man: We don t want no nonsense this time, an I 
 want you to put in enough catridges to heave up somethin 
 that ll do fur a Christmas dinner. I don t know how the 
 cargo is stored, but you kin put one big catridge midship, 
 another for ard, an another aft, an one or nuther of em 
 oughter fetch up something Well, we got the three cat 
 ridges into place. They was a good deal bigger than the one 
 we first used, an we j ined em all to one wire, an then we 
 rowed back, carryin the long wire with us. When we 
 reached the steamer, me an Andy was a goin to stay in the 
 boat as we did afore, but the cap n sung out that he wouldn t 
 allow the bat ry to be touched off till we come aboard. Trier s 
 got to be fair play, says he. It s your vittles, but it s my 
 side that s doin the work. After we ve blasted her this time 
 you two can go in the boat, an see what there is to get hold 
 of, but two of my men must go along. So me an Andy 
 had to go on deck, an two big fellers was detailed to go with 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK 167 
 
 us in the little boat when the time come; an then the bat ry 
 man, he teched her off. 
 
 "Well, sir, the pop that followed that tech was somethin to 
 remember. It shuck the water, it shuck the air, an it shuck 
 the hull we was on. A reg lar cloud of smoke, an flyin 
 bits of things rose up out of the Mary Auguster. An when 
 that smoke cleared away, an the water was all bilin with 
 the splash of various sized hunks that come rainin down 
 from the sky, what was left of the Mary Auguster was 
 sprinkled over the sea like a wooden carpet for water birds 
 to walk on. 
 
 "Some of the men sung out one thing, an* some another, 
 an I could hear Tom Simmons swear, but Andy an me 
 said never a word, but scuttled down into the boat, follered 
 close by the two men who was to go with us. Then we rowed 
 like devils for the lot of stuff that was bobbin about on the 
 water, out where the Mary Auguster had been. In we went, 
 among the floatin spars and ship s timbers, I keepin the 
 things off with an oar, the two men rowin , an Andy in the 
 bow. 
 
 "Suddenly Andy give a yell, an then he reached himself 
 for ard with sech a bounce that I thought he d go overboard. 
 But up he come in a minnit, his two leven-inch hands 
 gripped round a box. He sot down in the bottom of the 
 boat with the box on his lap, an his eyes screwed on some 
 letters that was stamped on one end. Pidjin pies! he sings 
 out. Tain t turkeys, nor tain t cranberries. But, by the 
 Lord Harry, it s Christmas pies all the same! After that 
 Andy didn t do no more work but sot holdin that box as if 
 it had been his fust baby. But we kep pushin on to see what 
 else there was. It s my pinion that the biggest part of that 
 bark s cargo was blown into mince meat, an the most of the 
 rest of it was so heavy that it sunk. But it wasn t all busted 
 up, an* it didn t all sink. There was a big piece of wreck 
 with a lot of boxes stove into the timbers, and some of these 
 had in em beef ready biled an packed into cans, an there 
 was other kinds of meat, an dif rent sorts of vegetables, an 
 one box of turtle soup. I look at every one of em as we 
 took em in, an when we got the little boat pretty well 
 
168 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 loaded I wanted to still keep on searching but the men, they 
 said that shore boat ud sink if we took in any more cargo, an 
 so we put back, I feelin glummer n I oughter felt, fur I had 
 begun to be afeared that canned fruit, such as peaches, was 
 heavy, an li ble to sink. 
 
 "As soon as we had got our boxes aboard, four fresh men 
 put out in the boat, an after awhile they come back with 
 another load; an I was mighty keerful to read the names on 
 all the boxes. Some was meat pies, an some was salmon, an 
 some was potted herrin s an some was lobsters. But nary a 
 thing could I see that ever had growed on a tree. 
 
 "Well, sir, there was three loads brought in, altogether, 
 an the Christmas dinner we had on the for ard deck of that 
 steamer s hull was about the jolliest one that was ever seen 
 of a hot day aboard -of a wreck in the Pacific Ocean. The 
 cap n kept good order, an when all was ready the tops was 
 jerked off the boxes, and each man grabbed a can an opened 
 it with his knife. When he had cleaned it out, he tuk 
 another without doin much questionin as to the bill of fare. 
 Whether anybody got pidjin pie cept Andy, I can t say, but 
 the way we piled in Delmoniker prog would a made people 
 open their eyes as was eatin their Christmas dinners on shore 
 that day. Some of the things would a been better, cooked 
 a little more, or het up, but we was too fearful hungry to 
 wait for that, an they was tip-top as they was. 
 
 "The cap n went out afterwards, an towed in a couple of 
 bar ls of flour that was only part soaked through, an he got 
 some other plain prog that would do fur futur use ; but none 
 of us give our minds to stuff like this arter the glorious 
 Christmas dinner that we d quarried out of the Mary Augus- 
 ter. Every man that wasn t on duty went below, and turned 
 in for a snooze. All cept me, an I didn t feel just altogether 
 satisfied. To be sure I d had an A 1 dinner, an though 
 a little mixed, I d never eat a jollier one on any Christmas 
 that I kin look back at. But, fur all that, there was a hanker 
 inside o me. I hadn t got all I d laid out to git, when we 
 teched off the Mary Auguster. The day was blazin hot, 
 an* a lot of the things I d eat was pretty peppery. Now/ 
 thinks I, if there had a-been just one can o peaches sech as 
 
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK 169 
 
 I see shinin in the stars last night/ an just then, as I was 
 walkin aft, all by myself, I seed lodged on the stump of the 
 mizzenmast, a box with one corner druv down among the 
 splinters. It was half split open, an I could see the tin cans 
 shinin through the crack. I give one jump at it, an 
 wrenched the side off. On the top of the first can I seed was 
 a picture of a big white peach with green leaves. That box 
 had been blowed up so high that if it had come down any 
 where cept among them splinters it would a smashed itself 
 to Hinders, or killed somebody. So fur as I know, it was the 
 only thing that fell nigh us, an by George, sir, I got it! 
 Then we went aft, an eat some more. Well, says Andy, as 
 we was a-eatin , how d ye feel now about blowin up your 
 wife, an your house, an that little schooner you was goin 
 to own?* 
 
 " Andy, says I, this is the joyfulest Christmas I ve had 
 yit, an if I was to live till twenty hundred I don t b lieve 
 I d have no joyfuller, with things comin in so pat, so don t 
 you throw no shadders. 
 
 " Shadders, says Andy, that ain t me. I leave that sort 
 of thing fur Tom Simmons. 
 
 " Shadders is cool, says I, an I kin go to sleep under 
 all he throws. 
 
 "Well, sir," continued old Silas, putting his hand on the 
 tiller and turning his face seaward, "if Tom Simmons had 
 kept command of that wreck, we all would a laid there an 
 waited an waited till some of us was starved, an the others 
 got nothin fur it, fur the cap n never mended his engin , an 
 it was more n a week afore we was took off, an then it was 
 by a sailin vessel, which left the hull of the Water Crescent 
 behind her, just as she would a had to leave the Mary 
 Auguster if that jolly old Christmas wreck had a-been there. 
 
 "An now sir," said Silas, "d ye see that stretch o little 
 ripples over yander, lookin as if it was a lot o herrin turnin 
 over to dry their sides? Do you know what that is? That s 
 the supper wind. That means coffee, an hot cakes, an a 
 bit of br iled fish, an pertaters, an p raps if the old woman 
 feels in a partiklar good humor some canned peaches, big 
 white uns, cut in half, with a holler place in the middle filled 
 with cool, sweet juice." 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE * 
 
 BY EDITH WHARTON 
 
 I 
 
 LETHBURY, surveying his wife across the dinner table, 
 found his transient glance arrested by an indefinable 
 change in her appearance. 
 
 "How smart you look! Is that a new gown?" he asked. 
 
 Her answering look seemed to deprecate his charging her 
 with the extravagance of wasting a new gown on him, and 
 he now perceived that the change lay deeper than any acci 
 dent of dress. At the same time, he noticed that she be 
 trayed her consciousness of it by a delicate, almost frightened 
 blush. It was one of the compensations of Mrs. Lethbury s 
 protracted childishness that she still blushed as prettily as 
 at eighteen. Her body had been privileged not to outstrip 
 her mind, and the two, as it seemed to Lethbury, were des 
 tined to travel together through an eternity of girlishness. 
 
 "I don t know what you mean," she said. 
 
 Since she never did, he always wondered at her bring 
 ing this out as a fresh grievance against him ; but his wonder 
 was unresentful, and he said good-humoredly : "You sparkle 
 so that I thought you had on your diamonds." 
 
 She sighed and blushed again. 
 
 "It must be," he continued, "that you ve been to a dress 
 maker s opening. You re absolutely brimming with illicit 
 enjoyment." 
 
 She stared again, this time at the adjective. His adjec 
 tives always embarrassed her: their unintelligibleness sav 
 oured of impropriety. 
 
 *From "The Descent of Man," copyright, 1904, by Charles 
 Scribner s Sons. By permission of the publishers and the author. 
 
 170 
 
THE MISSION OP JANE 171 
 
 "In short," he summed up, "you ve been doing something 
 that you re thoroughly ashamed of." 
 
 To his surprise she retorted: "I don t see why I should be 
 ashamed of it!" 
 
 Lethbury leaned back with a smile of enjoyment. When 
 there was nothing better going he always liked to listen to 
 her explanations. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 She was becoming breathless and ejaculatory. "Of course 
 you ll laugh you laugh at everything!" 
 
 "That rather blunts the point of my derision, doesn t it?" 
 he interjected; but she pushed on without noticing: 
 
 "It s so easy to laugh at things." 
 
 "Ah," murmured Lethbury with relish, "that s Aunt So- 
 phronia s, isn t it?" 
 
 Most of his wife s opinions were heirlooms, and he took a 
 quaint pleasure in tracing their descent. She was proud of 
 their age, and saw no reason for discarding them while they 
 were still serviceable. Some, of course, were so fine that she 
 kept them for state occasions, like her great-grandmother s 
 Crown Derby; but from the lady known as Aunt Sophronia 
 she had inherited a stout set of every-day prejudices that 
 were practically as good as new; whereas her husband s, as 
 she noticed, were always having to be replaced. In the early 
 days she had fancied there might be a certain satisfaction in 
 taxing him with the fact; but she had long since been silenced 
 by the reply: "My dear, I m not a rich man, but I never use 
 an opinion twice if I can help it." 
 
 She was reduced, therefore, to dwelling on his moral defi 
 ciencies ; and one of the most obvious of these was his refusal 
 to take things seriously. On this occasion, however, some 
 ulterior purpose kept her from taking up his taunt. 
 
 "I m not in the least ashamed!" she repeated, with the air 
 of shaking a banner to the wind; but the domestic atmos 
 phere being calm, the banner drooped unheroically. 
 
 "That," said Lethbury judicially, "encourages me to infer 
 that you ought to be, and that, consequently, you ve been 
 giving yourself the unusual pleasure of doing something I 
 shouldn t approve of." 
 
172 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 She met this with an almost solemn directness. "No/* 
 she said. "You won t approve of it. I ve allowed for that." 
 
 "Ah," he exclaimed, setting down his liqueur-glass. 
 "You ve worked out the whole problem, eh?" 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 "That s uncommonly interesting. And what is it?" 
 
 She looked at him quietly. "A baby." 
 
 If it was seldom given her to surprise him, she had at 
 tained the distinction for once. 
 
 "A baby?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ahuman baby?" 
 
 "Of course!" she cried, with the virtuous resentment of the 
 woman who has never allowed dogs in the house. 
 
 Lethbury s puzzled stare broke into a fresh smile. "A 
 baby I shan t approve of? Well, in the abstract I don t 
 think much of them, I admit. Is this an abstract baby?" 
 
 Again she frowned at the adjective; but she had reached 
 a pitch of exaltation at which such obstacles could not deter 
 her. 
 
 "It s the loveliest baby " she murmured. 
 
 "Ah, then it s concrete. It exists. In this harsh world 
 it draws its breath in pain " 
 
 "It s the healthiest child I ever saw!" she indignantly 
 corrected. 
 
 "You ve seen it, then?" 
 
 Again the accusing blush suffused her. "Yes I ve 
 seen it." 
 
 "And to whom does the paragon belong?" 
 
 And here indeed she confounded him. "To me I hope," 
 she declared. 
 
 He pushed his chair back with an articulate murmur. 
 "To you ?" 
 
 "To MS," she corrected. 
 
 "Good Lord !" he said. If there had been the least hint of 
 hallucination in her transparent gaze but no; it was as 
 clear, as shallow, as easily fathomable as when he had first 
 suffered the sharp surprise of striking bottom in it. 
 
 It occurred to him that perhaps she was trying to be funny : 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 173 
 
 he knew that there is nothing more cryptic than the humor 
 of the unhumorous. 
 
 "Is it a joke?" he faltered. 
 
 "Oh, I hope not. I want it so much to be a reality " 
 
 He paused to smile at the limitations of a world in which 
 jokes were not realities, and continued gently: "But since it 
 is one already " 
 
 "To us, I mean: to you and me. I want " her voice 
 wavered, and her eyes with it. "I have always wanted so 
 dreadfully ... it has been such a disappointment 
 . . . not to . . ." 
 
 "I see," said Lethbury slowly. 
 
 But he had not seen before. It seemed curious now that 
 he had never thought of her taking it in that way, had never 
 surmised any hidden depths beneath her outspread obvious 
 ness. He felt as though he had touched a secret spring in 
 her mind. 
 
 There was a moment s silence, moist and tremulous on her 
 part, awkward and slightly irritated on his. 
 
 "You ve been lonely, I suppose?" he began. It was odd, 
 having suddenly to reckon with the stranger who gazed at 
 him out of her trivial eyes. 
 
 "At times," she said. 
 
 "I m sorry." 
 
 "It was not your fault. A man has so many occupations; 
 and women who are clever or very handsome I suppose 
 that s an occupation too. Sometimes I ve felt that when 
 dinner was ordered I had nothing to do till the next day." 
 
 "Oh," he groaned. 
 
 "It wasn t your fault," she insisted. "I never told you 
 but when I chose that rose-bud paper for the front-room 
 upstairs, I always thought " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "It would be such a pretty paper for a baby to wake 
 up in. That was years ago, of course; but it was rather an 
 expensive paper . . . and it hasn t faded in the least 
 . . ." she broke off incoherently. 
 
 "It hasn t faded?" 
 
 "No and so I thought . . . as we don t use the room 
 
174 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 for anything . . . now that Aunt Sophronia is dead 
 . . . I thought I might . . . you might . . . 
 oh, Julian, if you could only have seen it just waking up in 
 its crib 1" 
 
 "Seen what where? You haven t got a baby upstairs?" 
 "Oh, no not yet," she said, with her rare laugh the 
 girlish bubbling of merriment that had seemed one of her 
 chief graces in the early days. It occurred to him that he 
 had not given her enough things to laugh about lately. But 
 then she needed such very elementary things : she was as dim- 
 cult to amuse as a savage. He concluded that he was not 
 sufficiently simple. 
 
 "Alice," he said almost solemnly, "what do you mean?" 
 She hesitated a moment: he saw her gather her courage 
 for a supreme effort. Then she said slowly, gravely, as 
 though she were pronouncing a sacramental phrase: 
 
 "I m so lonely without a little child and I thought per 
 haps you d let me adopt one . . . It s at the hospital 
 . . . its mother is dead . . . and I could . . . 
 pet it, and dress it, and do things for it ... and it s 
 such a good baby . . . you can ask any of the nurses 
 . , . it would never, never bother you by crying . . ." 
 
 II 
 
 Lethbury accompanied his wife to the hospital in a mood 
 of chastened wonder. It did not occur to him to oppose her 
 wish. He knew, of course, that he would have to bear the 
 brunt of the situation: the jokes at the club, the enquiries, 
 the explanations. He saw himself in the comic role of the 
 adopted father and welcomed it as an expiation. For in 
 his rapid reconstruction of the past he found himself cutting 
 a shabbier figure than he cared to admit. He had always 
 been intolerant of stupid people, and it was his punishment 
 to be convicted of stupidity. As his mind traversed the 
 years between his marriage and this unexpected assumption 
 of paternity, he saw, in the light of an overheated imagina 
 tion, many signs of unwonted crassness. It was not that he 
 had ceased to think his wife stupid : she was stupid, limited, 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 175 
 
 inflexible; but there was a pathos in the struggles of her 
 swaddled mind, in its blind Teachings toward the primal emo 
 tions. He had always thought she would have been happier 
 with a child; but he had thought it mechanically, because it 
 had so often been thought before, because it was in the nature 
 of things to think it of every woman, because his wife was so 
 eminently one of a species that she fitted into all the gen 
 eralizations of the sex. But he had regarded this generaliza 
 tion as merely typical of the triumph of tradition over expe 
 rience. Maternity was no doubt the supreme function of 
 primitive woman, the one end to which her whole organism 
 tended; but the law of increasing complexity had operated in 
 both sexes, and he had not seriously supposed that, outside 
 the world of Christmas fiction and anecdotic art, such truisms 
 had any special hold on the feminine imagination. Now he 
 saw that the arts in question were kept alive by the vitality 
 of the sentiments they appealed to. 
 
 Lethbury was in fact going through a rapid process of re 
 adjustment. His marriage had been a failure, but he had 
 preserved toward his wife the exact fidelity of act that is 
 sometimes supposed to excuse any divagation of feeling; so 
 that, for years, the tie between them had consisted mainly in 
 his abstaining from making love to other women. The ab 
 stention had not always been easy, for the world is surpris 
 ingly well-stocked with the kind of woman one ought to have 
 married but did not; and Lethbury had not escaped the solic 
 itation of such alternatives. His immunity had been pur 
 chased at the cost of taking refuge in the somewhat rarefied 
 atmosphere of his perceptions ; and his world being thus lim 
 ited, he had given unusual care to its details, compensating 
 himself for the narrowness of his horizon by the minute 
 finish of his foreground. It was a world of fine shadings 
 and the nicest proportions, where impulse seldom set a blund 
 ering foot, and the feast of reason was undisturbed by anj 
 intemperate flow of soul. To such a banquet his wife nat 
 urally remained uninvited. The diet would have disagreed 
 with her, and she would prqbably have objected to the other 
 guests. But Lethbury, miscalculating her needs, had hitherto 
 supposed that he had made ample provision for them, and 
 
 
176 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 was consequently at liberty to enjoy his own fare without 
 any reproach of mendicancy at his gates. Now he beheld her 
 pressing a starved face against the windows of his life, and 
 in his imaginative reaction he invested her with a pathos 
 borrowed from the sense of his own shortcomings. 
 
 In the hospital the imaginative process continued with in 
 creasing force. He looked at his wife with new eyes. Form 
 erly she had been to him a mere bundle of negations, a laby 
 rinth of dead walls and bolted doors. There was nothing 
 behind the walls, and the doors led no whither: he had 
 sounded and listened often enough to be sure of that. Now 
 he felt like a traveler who, exploring some ancient ruin, 
 comes on an inner cell, intact amid the general dilapidation, 
 and painted with images which reveal the forgotten uses of 
 the building. 
 
 His wife stood by a white crib in one of the wards. In 
 the crib lay a child, a year old, the nurse affirmed, but to 
 Lethbury s eye a mere dateless fragment of humanity pro 
 jected against a background of conjecture. Over this anony 
 mous particle of life Mrs. Lethbury leaned, such ecstasy 
 reflected in her face as strikes up, in Correggio s Night-piece, 
 from the child s body to the mother s countenance. It was 
 a light that irradiated and dazzled her. She looked up at 
 an enquiry of Lethbury s, but as their glances met he per 
 ceived that she no longer saw him, that he had become as in 
 visible to her as she had long been to him. He had to trans 
 fer his question to the nurse. 
 
 "What is the child s name?" he asked. 
 
 "We call her Jane," said the nurse. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Lethbury, at first, had resisted the idea of a legal adoption; 
 but when he found that his wife could not be brought to 
 regard the child as hers till it had been made so by process 
 of law, he promptly withdrew his objection. On one point 
 only he remained inflexible; and that was the changing of 
 the waif s name. Mrs. Lethbury, almost at once, had ex 
 pressed a wish to rechristen it : she fluctuated between Muriel 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 177 
 
 and Gladys, deferring the moment of decision like a lady 
 wavering between two bonnets. But Lethbury was unyield 
 ing. In the general surrender of his prejudices this one 
 alone held out. 
 
 "But Jane is so dreadful," Mrs. Lethbury protested. 
 
 "Well, we don t know that she won t be dreadful. She 
 may grow up a Jane." 
 
 His wife exclaimed reproachfully. "The nurse says she s 
 the loveliest " 
 
 "Don t they always say that?" asked Lethbury patiently. 
 He was prepared to be inexhaustibly patient now that he had 
 reached a firm foothold of opposition. 
 
 "It s cruel to call her Jane," Mrs. Lethbury pleaded. 
 
 "It s ridiculous to call her Muriel." 
 
 "The nurse is sure she must be a lady s child." 
 
 Lethbury winced : he had tried, all along, to keep his mind 
 off the question of antecedents. 
 
 "Well, let her prove it," he said, with a rising sense of 
 exasperation. He wondered how he could ever have allowed 
 himself to be drawn into such a ridiculous business; for the 
 first time he felt the fully irony of it. He had visions of 
 coming home in the afternoon to a house smelling of linseed 
 and paregoric, and of being greeted by a chronic howl as he 
 went up-stairs to dress for dinner. He had never been a 
 club-man, but he saw himself becoming one now. 
 
 The worst of his anticipations were unfulfilled. The baby 
 was surprisingly well and surprisingly quiet. Such infan 
 tile remedies as she absorbed were not potent enough to be 
 perceived beyond the nursery; and when Lethbury could be 
 induced to enter that sanctuary, there was nothing to jar his 
 nerves in the mild pink presence of his adopted daughter. 
 Jars there were, indeed: they were probably inevitable in the 
 disturbed routine of the household; but they occurred be 
 tween Mrs. Lethbury and the nurses, and Jane contributed to 
 them only a placid stare which might have served as a rebuke 
 to the combatants. 
 
 In the reaction from his first impulse of atonement, Leth 
 bury noted with sharpened perceptions the effect of the 
 change on his wife s character. He saw already the error 
 
178 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 of supposing thatit could work any transformation in her. 
 It simply magnified her existing qualities. She was like a 
 dried sponge put in water: she expanded, but she did not 
 change her shape. From the stand-point of scientific obser 
 vation it was curious to see how her stored instincts re 
 sponded to the pseudo-maternal call. She overflowed with 
 the petty maxims of the occasion. One felt in her the epi 
 tome, the consummation, of centuries of animal maternity, 
 so that this little woman, who screamed at a mouse and was 
 nervous about burglars, came to typify the cave-mother rend 
 ing her prey for her young. 
 
 It was less easy to regard philosophically the practical 
 effects of her borrowed motherhood. Lethbury found with 
 surprise that she was becoming assertive and definite. She 
 no longer represented the negative side of his life; she showed, 
 indeed, a tendency to inconvenient affirmations. She had 
 gradually expanded her assumption of motherhood till it 
 included his own share in the relation, and he suddenly found 
 himself regarded as the father of Jane. This was a contin 
 gency he had not forseen, and it took all his philosophy to 
 accept it; but there were moments of compensation. For 
 Mrs. Lethbury was undoubtedly happy for the first time in 
 years ; and the thought that he had tardily contributed to this 
 end reconciled him to the irony of the means. 
 
 At first he was inclined to reproach himself for still view 
 ing the situation from the outside, for remaining a spectator 
 instead of a participant. He had been allured, for a mo 
 ment, by the vision of several hands meeting over a cradle, 
 as the whole body of domestic fiction bears witness to their 
 doing; and the fact that no such conjunction took place he 
 could explain only on the ground that it was a borrowed 
 cradle. He did not dislike the little girl. She still re 
 mained to him a hypothetical presence, a query rather than 
 a fact; but her nearness was not unpleasant, and there were 
 moments when her tentative utterances, her groping steps, 
 seemed to loosen the dry accretions enveloping his inner self. 
 But even at such moments moments which he invited and 
 caressed she did not bring him nearer to his wife. He 
 now perceived that he had made a certain place in his life 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 179 
 
 for Mrs. Lethbury, and that she no longer fitted into it. It 
 was too late to enlarge the space, and so she overflowed and 
 encroached. Lethbury struggled against the sense of sub 
 mergence. He let down barrier after barrier, yielding pri 
 vacy after privacy; but his wife s personality continued to 
 dilate. She was no longer herself alone : she was herself and 
 Jane. Gradually, in a monstrous fusion of identity, she be 
 came herself, himself and Jane; and instead of trying to 
 adapt her to a spare crevice of his character, he found him 
 self carelessly squeezed into the" smallest compartment of the 
 domestic economy. 
 
 IV 
 
 He continued to tell himself that he was satisfied if his 
 wife was happy; and it was not till the child s tenth year 
 that he felt a doubt of her happiness. 
 
 Jane had been a preternaturally good child. During the 
 eight years of her adoption she had caused her foster-parents 
 no anxiety beyond those connected with the usual succession 
 of youthful diseases. But her unknown progenitors had 
 given her a robust constitution, and she passed unperturbed 
 through measles, chicken-pox and whooping-cough. If there 
 was any suffering it was endured vicariously by Mrs. Leth 
 bury, whose temperature rose and fell with the patient s, 
 and who could not hear Jane sneeze without visions of a 
 marble angel weeping over a broken column. But though 
 Jane s prompt recoveries continued to belie such premoni 
 tions, though her existence continued to move forward on an 
 even keel of good health and good conduct, Mrs. Lethbury s 
 satisfaction showed no corresponding advance. Lethbury, at 
 first, was disposed to add her disappointment to the long list 
 of feminine inconsistencies with which - the sententious ob 
 server of life builds up his favorable induction; but circum 
 stances presently led him to take a kindlier view of the case. 
 
 Hitherto his wife had regarded him as a negligible factor 
 in Jane s evolution. Beyond providing for his adopted 
 daughter, and effacing himself before her, he was not ex 
 pected to contribute to her well-being. But as time passed 
 
i8o THE GREAT MODERN, AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 he appeared to his wife in a new light. It was he who was 
 to educate Jane. In matters of the intellect, Mrs. Lethbury 
 was the first to declare her deficiencies to proclaim them, 
 even, with a certain virtuous superiority. She said she did 
 not pretend to be clever, and there was no denying the truth 
 of the assertion. Now, however, she seemed less ready, not to 
 own her limitations, but to glory in them. Confronted with 
 the problem of Jane s instruction she stood in awe of the 
 child. 
 
 "I have always been stupid, you know," she said to Leth 
 bury with a new humility, "and I m afraid I shan t know 
 what is best for Jane. I m sure she has a wonderfully good 
 mind, and I should reproach myself if I didn t give her every 
 opportunity/ She looked at him helplessly. "You must 
 tell me what ought to be done." 
 
 Lethbury was not unwilling to oblige her. Somewhere in 
 his mental lumber-room there rusted a theory of education 
 such as usually lingers among the impedimenta of the child 
 less. He brought this out, refurbished it, and applied it to 
 Jane. At first he thought his wife had not overrated the 
 quality of the child s mind. Jane seemed extraordinarily 
 intelligent. Her precocious definiteness of mind was en 
 couraging to her inexperienced preceptor. She had no diffi 
 culty in fixing her attention, and he felt that every fact he 
 imparted was being etched in metal. He helped his wife to 
 engage the best teachers, and for a while continued to take 
 an ex-official interest in his adopted daughter s studies. But 
 gradually his interest waned. Jane s ideas did not increase 
 with her acquisitions. Her young mind remained a mere 
 receptacle for facts : a kind of cold-storage from which any 
 thing which had been put there could be taken out at a mo 
 ment s notice, intact but congealed. She developed, more 
 over, an inordinate pride in the capacity of her mental store 
 house, and a tendency to pelt her public with its contents. 
 She was overheard to jeer at her nurse for not knowing when 
 the Saxon Heptarchy had fallen, and she alternately dazzled 
 and depressed Mrs. Lethbury by the wealth of her chronolog 
 ical allusions. She showed no interest in the significance of 
 the facts she amassed: she simply collected dates as another 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 181 
 
 child might have collected stamps or marbles. To her foster- 
 mother she seemed a prodigy of wisdom; but Lethbury saw, 
 with a secret movement of sympathy, how the aptitudes in 
 which Mrs. Lethbury gloried were slowly estranging her from 
 her child. 
 
 "She is getting too clever for me," his wife said to him, 
 after one of Jane s historical flights, "but I am so glad that 
 she will be a companion to you." 
 
 Lethbury groaned in spirit. He did not look forward to 
 Jane s companionship. She was still a good little girl; but 
 there was something automatic and formal in her goodness, 
 as though it were a kind of moral calisthenics which she went 
 through for the sake of showing her agility. An early con 
 sciousness of virtue had moreover constituted her the natural 
 guardian and adviser of her elders. Before she was fifteen 
 she had set about reforming the household. She took Mrs., 
 Lethbury in hand first; then she extended her efforts to the 
 servants, with consequences more disastrous to the domestic 
 harmony; and lastly she applied herself to Lethbury. She 
 proved to him by statistics that he smoked too much, and that 
 it was injurious to the optic nerve to read in bed. She took 
 him to task for not going to church more regularly, and 
 pointed out to him the evils of desultory reading. She sug 
 gested that a regular course of study encourages mental con 
 centration, and hinted that inconsecutiveness of thought is a 
 sign of approaching age. 
 
 To her adopted mother her suggestions were equally perti 
 nent. She instructed Mrs. Lethbury in an improved way of 
 making beef stock, and called her attention to the unhygienic 
 qualities of carpets. She poured out distracting facts about 
 bacilli and vegetable mould, and demonstrated that curtains 
 and picture -frames are a hot-bed of animal organisms. She 
 learned by heart the nutritive ingredients of the principal 
 articles of diet, and revolutionized the cuisine by an attempt 
 to establish a scientific average between starch and phos 
 phates. Four cooks left during this experiment, and Leth 
 bury fell into the habit of dining at his club. 
 
 Once or twice, at the outset, he had tried to check Jane s 
 ardor; but his efforts resulted only in hurting his wife s 
 
182 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 feelings. Jane remained impervious, and Mrs. Lethbury re 
 sented any attempt to protect her from her daughter. Leth 
 bury saw that she was consoled for the sense of her own in 
 feriority by the thought of what Jane s intellectual com 
 panionship must be to him; and he tried to keep up the 
 illusion by enduring with what grace he might the blighting 
 edification of Jane s discourse. 
 
 As Jane grew up he sometimes avenged himself by won 
 dering if his wife was still sorry that they had not called her 
 Muriel. Jane was not ugly; she developed, indeed, a kind 
 of categorical prettiness which might have been a projection 
 of her mind. She had a creditable collection of features, but 
 one had to take an inventory of them to find out that she 
 was good-looking. The fusing grace had been omitted. 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury took a touching pride in her daughter s first 
 steps in the world. She expected Jane to take by her com 
 plexion those whom she did not capture by her learning. 
 But Jane s rosy freshness did not work any perceptible rav 
 ages. Whether the young men guessed the axioms on her 
 lips and detected the encyclopaedia in her eye, or whether 
 they simply found no intrinsic interest in these features, cer 
 tain it is, that, in spite of her mother s heroic efforts, and of 
 incessant calls on Lethbury s purse, Jane, at the end of her 
 first season, had dropped hopelessly out of the running. A 
 few duller girls found her interesting, and one or two young 
 men came to the house with the object of meeting other young 
 women; but she was rapidly becoming one of the social su 
 pernumeraries who are asked out only because they are on 
 people s lists. 
 
 The blow was bitter to Mrs. Lethbury; but she consoled 
 herself with the idea that Jane had failed because she was 
 too clever. Jane probably shared this conviction; at all 
 events she betrayed no consciousness of failure. She had de 
 veloped a pronounced taste for society, and went out, un- 
 weariedly and obstinately, winter after winter, while Mrs. 
 Lethbury toiled in her wake, showering attentions on oblivious 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 183 
 
 hostesses. To Lethbury there was something at once tragic 
 and exasperating in the sight of their two figures, the one 
 conciliatory, the other dogged, both pursuing with unabated 
 zeal the elusive prize of popularity. He even began to feel 
 a personal stake in the pursuit, not as it concerned Jane but 
 as it affected his wife. He saw that the latter was the vic 
 tim of Jane s disappointment: that Jane was not above the 
 crude satisfaction of "taking it out" of her mother. Expe 
 rience checked the impulse to come to his wife s defence; and 
 when his resentment was at its height, Jane disarmed him 
 by giving up the struggle. 
 
 Nothing was said to mark her capitulation; but Lethbury 
 noticed that the visiting ceased and that the dressmaker s 
 bills diminished. At the same time Mrs. Lethbury made it 
 known that Jane had taken up charities; and before long 
 Jane s conversation confirmed this announcement. At first 
 Lethbury congratulated himself on the change; but Jane s 
 domesticity soon began to weigh on him. During the day 
 she was sometimes absent on errands of mercy; but in the 
 evening she was always there. At first she and Mrs. Leth 
 bury sat in the drawing-room together, and Lethbury smoked 
 in the library; but presently Jane formed the habit of joining 
 him there, and he began to suspect that he was included 
 among the objects of her philanthropy. 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury confirmed the suspicion. "Jane has grown 
 very serious-minded lately," she said. "She imagines that 
 she used to neglect you and she is trying to make up for it. 
 Don t discourage her," she added innocently. 
 
 Such a plea delivered Lethbury helpless to his daughter s 
 ministrations; and he found himself measuring the hours he 
 spent with her by the amount of relief they must be affording 
 her mother. There were even moments when he read a fur-, 
 live gratitude in Mrs. Lethbury s eye. 
 
 But Lethbury was no hero, and he had nearly reached the 
 limit of vicarious endurance when something wonderful hap 
 pened. They never quite knew afterward how it had come 
 about, or who first perceived it; but Mrs. Lethbury one day 
 gave tremulous voice to their discovery. 
 
 "Of course," she said, "he comes here because of Elise." 
 
 
184 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 The young lady in question, a friend of Jane s, was pos 
 sessed of attractions which had already been found to ex 
 plain the presence of masculine visitors. 
 
 Lethbury risked a denial. "I don t thing he does," he de 
 clared. 
 
 "But Elise is thought very pretty," Mrs. Lethbury insisted. 
 
 "I can t help that," said Lethbury doggedly. 
 
 He saw a faint light in his wife s eyes, but she remarked 
 carelessly: "Mr. Budd would be a very good match for 
 Elise." 
 
 Lethbury could hardly repress a chuckle: he was so ex 
 quisitely aware that she was trying to propitiate the gods. 
 
 For a few weeks neither said a word; then Mrs. Lethbury 
 once more reverted to the subject. 
 
 "It is a month since Elise went abroad," she said. 
 
 "Is it?" 
 
 "And Mr. Budd seems to come here just as often-" 
 
 "Ah," said Lethbury with heroic indifference; and his wife 
 hastily changed the subject. 
 
 Mr. Winstanley Budd was a young man who suffered from 
 an excess of manner. Politeness gushed from him in the 
 driest season. He was always performing feats of drawing- 
 room chivalry, and the approach of the most unobtrusive 
 female threw him into attitudes which endangered the furni 
 ture. His features, being of the cherubic order, did not lend 
 themselves to this role; but there were moments when he ap 
 peared to dominate them, to force them into compliance with 
 an aquiline ideal. The range of Mr. Budd s social benevo 
 lence made its object hard to distinguish. He spread his 
 cloak so indiscriminately that one could not always interpret 
 the gesture, and Jane s impassive manner had the effect 
 of increasing his demonstrations: she threw him into parox 
 ysms of politeness. 
 
 At first he filled the house with his amenities; but gradu 
 ally it became apparent that his most dazzling effects were 
 directed exclusively to Jane. Lethbury and his wife held 
 their breath and looked away from each other. They pre 
 tended not to notice the frequency of Mr. Budd s visits, they 
 struggled against an imprudent inclination to leave the young 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 185 
 
 people too much alone. Their conclusions were the result 
 of indirect observation, for neither of them dared to be 
 caught watching Mr. Budd: they behaved like naturalists 
 on the trail of a rare butterfly. 
 
 In his efforts not to notice Mr. Budd, Lethbury centred his 
 attentions on Jane; and Jane, at this crucial moment, wrung 
 from him a reluctant admiration. While her parents went 
 about dissembling their emotions, she seemed to have none to 
 conceal. She betrayed neither eagerness nor surprise; so 
 complete was her unconcern that there were moments when 
 Lethbury feared it was obtuseness, when he could hardly 
 help whispering to her that now was the moment to lower the 
 net. 
 
 Meanwhile the velocity of Mr. Budd s gyrations increased 
 with the ardor of courtship; his politeness became incandes 
 cent, and Jane found herself the centre of a pyrotechnical 
 display culminating in the "set piece" of an offer of marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury imparted the news to her husband one even 
 ing after their daughter had gone to bed. The announce 
 ment was made and received with an air of detachment, as 
 though both feared to be betrayed into unseemly exultation; 
 but Lethbury, as his wife ended, could not repress the in 
 quiry, "Have they decided on a day?" 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury s superior command of her features en 
 abled her to look shocked. "What can you be thinking of? 
 He only offered himself at five!" 
 
 "Of course of course " stammered Lethbury "but now 
 adays people marry after such short engagements " 
 
 "Engagement 1" said his wife solemnly, "There is no 
 engagement." 
 
 Lethbury dropped his cigar. "What on earth do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "Jane is thinking it over." 
 
 "Thinking it over?" 
 
 "She has asked for a month before deciding." 
 
 Lethbury sank back with a gasp. Was it genius or was it 
 madness? He felt incompetent to decide; and Mrs. Leth 
 bury s next words showed that she shared his difficulty. 
 
 "Of course I don t want to hurry Jane " 
 
i86 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Of course not," he acquiesced. 
 
 "But I pointed out to her that a young man of Mr. Budd s 
 impulsive temperament might might be easily discour- 
 aged" 
 
 "Yes; and what did she say?" 
 
 "She said that if she was worth winning she was worth 
 waiting for." 
 
 VI 
 
 The period of Mr. Budd s probation could scarcely have 
 cost him as much mental anguish as it caused his would-be 
 parents-in-law. 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury, by various ruses, tried to shorten the ordeal, 
 but Jane remained inexorable; and each morning Lethbury 
 came down to breakfast with the certainty of finding a letter 
 of withdrawal from her discouraged suitor. 
 
 When at length the decisive day came, and Mrs. Lethbury, 
 at its close, stole into the library with an air of chastened 
 joy, they stood for a moment without speaking; then Mrs. 
 Lethbury paid a fitting tribute to the proprieties by faltering 
 out: "It will be dreadful to have to give her up " 
 
 Lethbury could not repress a warning gesture; but even as 
 it escaped him he realized that his wife s grief was genuine. 
 
 "Of course, of course," he said, vainly sounding his own 
 emotional shallows for an answering regret. And yet it was 
 his wife who had suffered most from Jane ! 
 
 He had fancied that these sufferings would be effaced by 
 the milder atmosphere of their last weeks together; but feli 
 city did not soften Jane. Not for a moment did she relax her 
 dominion: she simply widened it to include a new subject. 
 Mr. Budd found himself under orders with the others; and 
 a new fear assailed Lethbury as he saw Jane assume pre- 
 nuptial control of her betrothed. Lethbury had never felt 
 any strong personal interest in Mr. Budd; but as Jane s 
 prospective husband the young man excited his sympathy. 
 To his surprise he found that Mrs. Lethbury shared the 
 feeling. 
 
 "I m afraid he may find Jane a little exacting," she said r 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 187 
 
 after an evening dedicated to a stormy discussion of the wed 
 ding arrangements. "She really ought to make some con 
 cessions. If he wants to be married in a black frock-coat 
 instead of a dark gray one " She paused and looked doubt 
 fully at Lethbury. 
 
 "What can I do about it?" he said. 
 
 "You might explain to him tell him that Jane isn t al 
 ways " 
 
 Lethbury made an impatient gesture. "What are you 
 afraid of? His finding her out or his not finding her out?" 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury flushed. "You put it so dreadfully!" 
 
 Her husband mused for a moment; then he said with an 
 air of cheerful hypocrisy: "After all, Budd is old enough to 
 take care of himself." 
 
 But the next day Mrs. Lethbury surprised him. Late 
 in the afternoon she entered the library, so breathless and 
 inarticulate that he scented a catastrophe. 
 
 "I ve done it!" she cried. 
 
 "Done what?" 
 
 "Told him." She nodded toward the door. "He s just 
 gone. Jane is out, and I had a chance to talk to him alone." 
 
 Lethbury pushed a chair forward and she sank into it. 
 
 "What did you tell him? That she is not always " 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury lifted a tragic eye. "No; I told him that 
 she always is " 
 
 "Always is ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 There was a pause. Lethbury made a call on his hoarded 
 philosophy. He saw Jane suddenly reinstated in her even 
 ing seat by the library fire; but an answering chord in him 
 thrilled at his wife s heroism. 
 
 "Well what did he say?" 
 
 Mrs. Lethbury s agitation deepened. It was clear that the 
 blow had fallen. 
 
 "He ... he said . . . that we ... had never 
 understood Jane ... or appreciated her . . ." The 
 final syllables were lost in her handkerchief, and she left 
 him marvelling at the mechanism of woman. 
 
 After that, Lethbury faced the future with an undaunted 
 
188 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 eye. They had done their duty at least his wife had done 
 hers and they were reaping the usual harvest of ingratitude 
 with a zest seldom accorded to such reaping. There was a 
 marked change in Mr. Budd s manner, and his increasing 
 coldness sent a genial glow through Lethbury s system. It 
 was easy to bear with Jane in the light of Mr. Budd s dis 
 approval. 
 
 There was a good deal to be borne in the last days, and 
 the brunt of it fell on Mrs. Lethbury. Jane marked her 
 transition to the married state by a seasonable but incon 
 gruous display of nerves. She became sentimental, hysterical 
 and reluctant. She quarrelled with her betrothed and 
 threatened to return the ring. Mrs. Lethbury had to inter 
 vene, and Lethbury felt the hovering sword of destiny. But 
 the blow was suspended. Mr. Budd s chivalry was proof 
 against all his bride s caprices and his devotion throve on 
 her cruelty. Lethbury feared that he was too faithful, too 
 enduring, and longed to urge him to vary his tactics. Jane 
 presently reappeared with the ring on her finger, and con 
 sented to try on the wedding-dress; but her uncertainties, her 
 reactions, were prolonged till the final day. 
 
 When it dawned, Lethbury was still in an ecstasy of ap 
 prehension. Feeling reasonably sure of the principal actors 
 he had centered his fears on incidental possibilities. The 
 clergyman might have a stroke, or the church might burn 
 down, or there might be something wrong with the license. 
 He did all that was humanly possible to avert such con 
 tingencies, but there remained that incalcuable factor known 
 as the hand of God. Lethbury seemed to feel it groping for 
 him. 
 
 At the altar it almost had him by the nape. Mr. Budd 
 was late; and for five immeasurable minutes Lethbury and 
 Jane faced a churchful of conjecture. Then the bridegroom 
 appeared, flushed but chivalrous, and explaining to his 
 father-in-law under cover of the ritual that he had torn his 
 glove and had to go back for another. 
 
 "You ll be losing the ring next," muttered Lethbury; but 
 Mr. Budd produced this article punctually, and a moment 
 or two later was bearing its wearer captive down the aisle. 
 
THE MISSION OF JANE 189 
 
 At the wedding-breakfast Lethbury caught his wife s eye 
 fixed on him in mild disapproval, and understood that his 
 hilarity was exceeding the bounds of fitness. He pulled him 
 self together and tried to subdue his tone; but his jubilation 
 bubbled over like a champagne-glass perpetually refilled. 
 The deeper his draughts the higher it rose. 
 
 It was at the brim when, in the wake of the dispersing 
 guests, Jane came down in her travelling-dress and fell on 
 her mother s neck. 
 
 "I can t leave you!" she wailed, and Lethbury felt as 
 suddenly sobered as a man under a douche. But if the bride 
 was reluctant her captor was relentless. Never had Air. 
 Budd been more dominant, more aquiline. Lethbury s last 
 fears were dissipated as the young man snatched Jane from 
 her mother s bosom and bore her off to the brougham. 
 
 The brougham rolled away, the last milliner s girl forsook 
 her post by the awning, the red carpet was folded up, and 
 the house door closed. Lethbury stood alone in the hall with 
 his wife. As he turned toward her, he noticed the look of 
 tired heroism in her eyes, the deepened lines of her face. 
 They reflected his own symptoms too accurately not to appeal 
 to him. The nervous tension had been horrible. He went 
 up to her, and an answering impulse made her lay a hand 
 on his arm. He held it there a moment. 
 
 "Let us go off and have a jolly little dinner at a restau 
 rant," he proposed. 
 
 There had been a time when such a suggestion would 
 have surprised her to the verge of disapproval; but now 
 she agreed to it at once. 
 
 "Oh, that would be so nice," she murmured with a great 
 sigh of relief and assuagement. 
 
 Jane had fulfilled her mission after all: she had drawn 
 them together at last. 
 
THE COURTING OF SISTER WISBY* 
 
 BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT 
 
 ALL the morning there had been an increasing temp 
 tation to take an out-door holiday, and early in the 
 afternoon the temptation outgrew my power of re 
 sistance. A far-away pasture on the long southwestern 
 slope of a high hill was persistently present to my mind, yet 
 there seemed to be no particular reason why I should think 
 of it. I was not sure that I wanted anything from the 
 pasture, and there was no sign, except the temptation, that 
 the pasture wanted anything of me. But I was on the 
 farther side of as many as three fences before I stopped to 
 think again where I was going, and why. 
 
 There is no use in trying to tell another person about that 
 afternoon unless he distinctly remembers weather exactly like 
 it. No number of details concerning an Arctic ice-blockade 
 will give a single shiver to a child of the tropics. This was 
 one of those perfect New England days in late summer, when 
 the spirit of autumn takes a first stealthy flight, like a spy, 
 through the ripening country-side, and, with feigned 
 sympathy for those who droop with August heat, puts her 
 cool cloak of bracing air about leaf and flower and human 
 shoulders. Every living thing grows suddenly cheerful and 
 strong; it is only when you catch sight of a horror-stricken 
 little maple in swampy soil a little maple that has second- 
 sight and fore-knowledge of coming disaster to her race 
 only then does a distrust of autumn s friendliness dim your 
 joyful satisfaction. 
 
 In the midwinter there is always a day when one has the 
 first foretaste of spring; in late August there is a morn- 
 
 * By permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton 
 Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers. 
 
 190 
 
THE COURTING OF SISTER WISBY 191 
 
 ing when the air is for the first time autumn-like. Per 
 haps it is a hint to the squirrels to get in their first supplies 
 for the winter hoards, or a reminder that summer will soon 
 end, and everybody had better make the most of it. We are 
 always looking forward to the passing and ending of winter, 
 but when summer is here it seems as if summer must always 
 last. As I went across the fields that day, I found myself 
 half lamenting that the world must fade again, even that 
 the best of her budding and bloom was only a preparation 
 for another springtime, for an awakening beyond the com 
 ing winter s sleep. 
 
 The sun was slightly veiled; there was a chattering group 
 of birds, which had gathered for a conference about their 
 early migration. Yet, oddly enough, I heard the voice of 
 a belated bobolink, and presently saw him rise from the 
 grass and hover leisurely, while he sang a brief tune. He 
 was much behind time if he were still a housekeeper; but 
 as for the other birds who listened, they cared only for their 
 own notes. An old crow went sagging by, and gave a croak 
 at his despised neighbor, just as a black reviewer croaked at 
 Keats so hard it is to be just to one s contemporaries. The 
 bobolink was indeed singing out of season, and it was im 
 possible to say whether he really belonged most to this 
 summer or to the next. He might have been delayed on his 
 northward journey; at any rate, he had a light heart now, to 
 judge from his song, and I wished that I could ask him a 
 few questions how he liked being the last man among the 
 bobolinks, and where he had taken singing lessons in the 
 South. 
 
 Presently I left the lower fields, and took a path that led 
 higher, where I could look beyond the village to the northern 
 country mountainward. Here the sweet fern grew thick and 
 fragrant, and I also found myself heedlessly treading on 
 pennyroyal. Nearby, in a field corner, I long ago made a 
 most comfortable seat by putting a stray piece of board and 
 bit of rail across the angle of the fences. I have spent many 
 a delightful hour there, in the shade and shelter of a young 
 pitch-pine and a wild-cherry tree, with a lovely outlook 
 toward the village, just far enough away beyond the green. 
 
192 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 slopes and tall elms of the lower meadows. But that day I 
 still had the feeling of being outward bound, and did not 
 turn aside nor linger. The high pasture land grew more and 
 more enticing. 
 
 I stopped to pick some blackberries that twinkled at me 
 like beads among their dry vines, and two or three yellow- 
 birds fluttered up from the leaves of a thistle and then came 
 back again, as if they had complacently discovered that I 
 was only an overgrown yellow-bird, in strange disguise but 
 perfectly harmless. They made me feel as if I were an in 
 truder, though they did not offer to peck at me, and we parted 
 company very soon. It was good to stand at last on the great 
 shoulder of the hill. The wind was coming in from the 
 sea, there was a fine fragrance from the pines, and the air 
 grew sweeter every moment. I took new pleasure in the 
 thought that in a piece of wild pasture land like this one 
 may get closest to Nature, and subsist upon what she gives 
 of her own free will. There have been no drudging, heavy- 
 shod ploughman to overturn the soil, and vex it into yield 
 ing artificial crops. Here one has to take just what Nature 
 is pleased to give, whether one is a yellow-bird or a human 
 being. It is very good entertainment for a summer wayfarer, 
 and I am asking my reader now to share the winter pro 
 vision which I harvested that day. Let us hope that the 
 small birds are also faring well after their fashion, but I 
 give them an anxious thought while the snow goes hurrying 
 in long waves across the buried fields, this windy winter 
 night. 
 
 I next went farther down the hill, and got a drink of fresh 
 cool water from the brook, and pulled a tender sheaf of sweet 
 flag beside it. The mossy old fence just beyond was the 
 last barrier between me and the pasture which had sent an 
 invisible messenger earlier in the day, but I saw that some 
 body else had come first to the rendezvous : there was a brown 
 gingham cape-bonnet and a sprigged shoulder-shawl bob 
 bing up and down, a little way off among the junipers. I 
 had taken such uncommon pleasure in being alone that I 
 instantly felt a sense of disappointment; then a warm glow 
 of pleasant satisfaction rebuked my selfishness. This could 
 
THE COURTING OF SISTER WISBY 193 
 
 be no one but dear old Mrs. Goodsoe, the friend of my child 
 hood and fond dependence of my maturer years. I had not 
 seen her for many weeks, but here she was, out on one of her 
 famous campaigns for herbs, or perhaps just returning from 
 a blueberrying expedition. I approached with care, so as 
 not to startle the gingham bonnet; but she heard the rustle 
 of the bushes against my dress, and looked up quickly, as 
 she knelt, bending over the turf. In that position she was 
 hardly taller than the luxuriant junipers themselves. 
 
 "I m a-gittin in my mulleins," she said briskly, "an I ve 
 been thinking o you these twenty times since I come out o* 
 the house. I begun to believe you must ha forgot me at 
 last." 
 
 "I have been away from home," I explained. "Why don t 
 you get in your pennyroyal too? There s a great plantation 
 of it beyond the next fence but one." 
 
 "Pennyr yal 1" repeated the dear little old woman, with an 
 air of compassion for inferior knowledge; " tain t the right 
 time, darlin . Pennyr yal s too rank now. But for mulleins 
 this day is prime. I ve got a dreadful graspin fit for em 
 this year; seems if I must be goin to need em extry. I 
 feel like the squirrels must when they know a hard winter s 
 comin ." And Mrs. Goodsoe bent over her work again, 
 while I stood by and watched her carefully cut the best full- 
 grown leaves with a clumsy pair of scissors, which might 
 have served through at least half a century of herb-gather 
 ing. They were fastened to her apron-strings by a long 
 piece of list. 
 
 "I m going to take my jack-knife and help you," I sug 
 gested, with some fear of refusal. "I just passed a flourish 
 ing family of six or seven heads that must have been grow 
 ing on purpose for you." 
 
 "Now be keerful, dear heart," was the anxious response; 
 "choose em well. There s odds in mulleins same s there is 
 in angels. Take a plant that s all run up to stalk, and there 
 ain t but little goodness in the leaves. This one I m at now 
 must ha been stepped on by some creatur and blighted of 
 its bloom, and the leaves is han some! When I was small 
 I used to have a notion that Adam an Eve must ha took 
 
194 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 mulleins fer their winter wear. Ain t they just like flannel, 
 for all the world? IVe had experience, and I know there s 
 plenty of sickness might be saved to folks if they d quit 
 horse-radish and such fiery, exasperating things, and use 
 mullein drarves in proper season. Now I shall spread these 
 an dry em nice on my spare floor in the garrit, an come to 
 steam em for use along in the winter there ll be the valley 
 of the whole summer s goodness in em, sartin." And she 
 snipped away with the dull scissors while I listened re 
 spectfully, and took great pains to have my part of the 
 harvest present a good appearance. 
 
 "This is most too dry a head," she added presently, a 
 little out of breath. "There ! I can tell you there s win rows 
 o young doctors, bilin over with book-larnin , that is truly 
 ignorant of what to do for the sick, or how to p int out those 
 paths that well people foller toward sickness. Book-fools 
 I call em, them young men, an some on em never ll live to 
 know much better, if they git to be Methuselahs. In my 
 time every middle-aged woman who had brought up a 
 family had some proper ideas of dealin with complaints. 
 I won t say but there was some fools amongst them, but 
 I d rather take my chances, unless they d forsook herbs 
 and gone to dealin with patent stuff. Now my mother 
 really did sense the use of herbs and roots. I never see any 
 body that come up to her. She was a meek-looking woman, 
 but very understandin mother was." 
 
 "Then that s where you learned so much yourself, Mrs. 
 Goodsoe," I ventured to say. 
 
 "Bless your heart, I don t hold a candle to her; tis but 
 little I can recall of what she used to say. No, her larnin 
 died with her," said my friend, in a self-deprecating tone. 
 "Why, there was as many as twenty kinds of roots alone 
 that she used to keep by her, that I forgot the use of; an 
 I m sure I shouldn t know where to find the most of em, any. 
 There was an herb" airb she called it "an herb called 
 Pennsylvany; and she used to think everything of noble- 
 liver-wort, but I never could seem to get the right effects from 
 it as she could. Though I don t know as she ever really did 
 use masterwort where somethin else wouldn t ha served. She 
 
THE COURTING OF SISTER WISBY 195 
 
 had a cousin married out in Pennsylvany that used to take 
 pains to get it to her every year or two, and so she felt t 
 was important to have it. Some set more by such things as 
 come from a distance, but I rec lect mother always used to 
 maintain that folks was meant to be doctored with the stuff 
 that grew right about em; twas sufficient, an so ordered. 
 That was before the whole population took to livin on 
 wheels, the way they do now. Twas never my idee that we 
 was meant to know what s goin on all over the world to 
 once. There s goin to be some sort of a set-back one o 
 these days, with these telegraphs an things, an letters comin 
 every hand s turn, and folks leavin their proper work to 
 answer em. I may not live to see it. Twas allowed to be 
 difficult for folks to git about in old times, or to git word 
 across the country, and they stood in their lot an place, and 
 weren t all just alike, either, same as pine-spills." 
 
 We were kneeling side by side now, as if in penitence for 
 the march of progress, but we laughed as we turned to look 
 at each other. 
 
 "Do you think it did much good when everybody brewed 
 a cracked quart mug of herb-tea?" I asked, walking away 
 on my knees to a new mullein. 
 
 "I ve always lifted my voice against the practice, far s I 
 could," declared Mrs. Goodsoe; an I won t deal out none o 
 the herbs I save for no such nonsense. There was three 
 houses along our road I call no names where you 
 couldn t go into the livin room without findin a mess o 
 herb-tea drorin on the stove or side o the fireplace, winter 
 or summer, sick or well. One was thorough wut, one would 
 be camomile, and the other, like as not, yellow dock ; but they 
 all used to put in a little new rum to git out the goodness, or 
 keep it from spilin ." (Mrs. Goodsoe favored me with a 
 knowing smile.) "Land, how mother used to laugh! But, 
 poor creatures, they had to work hard, and I guess it never 
 done em a mite o harm; they was all good herbs. I wish 
 you could hear the quawkin there used to be when they was 
 indulged with a real case o sickness. Everybody would col 
 lect from far an near; you d see em coming along the road 
 and across the pastures then; everybody clamorin that 
 
196 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 nothin would do no kind o good but her choice o teas or 
 drarves to the feet. I wonder there was a babe lived to grow 
 up in the whole lower part o the town; an if nothin else 
 peared to ail em, word was passed about that twas likely 
 Mis So-and-So s last young one was goin to be foolish. 
 Land, how they d gather! I know one day the doctor come 
 to Widder Peck s and the house was crammed so t he could 
 scercely git inside the door; and he says, just as polite, Do 
 send for some of the neighbors! as if there wa n t a soul 
 to turn to, right or left. You d ought to seen em begin to 
 scatter." 
 
 "But don t you think the cars and telegraphs have given 
 people more to interest them, Mrs. Goodsoe? Don t you be 
 lieve people s lives were narrower then, and more taken up 
 with little things?" I asked, unwisely, being a product of 
 modern times, 
 
 "Not one mite, dear," said my companion stoutly. "There 
 was as big thoughts then as there is now; these times was 
 born o them. The difference is in folks themselves ; but now, 
 instead o doin their own housekeepin and watchin their 
 own neighbors though that was carried to excess they git 
 word that a niece s child is ailin the other side o Massa 
 chusetts, and they drop everything and git on their best 
 clothes, and off they jiggit in the cars. Tis a bad sign when 
 folks wear out their best clothes faster n they do their every 
 day ones. The other side o Massachusetts has got to look 
 after itself by rights. An besides that, Sunday-keepin s 
 all gone out o fashion. Some lays it to one thing an some 
 another, but some o them old ministers that folks are all 
 a-sighin for did preach a lot o stoff that wa n t nothin but 
 chaff; twa n t the word o God out o either Old Testament 
 or New. But everybody went to meetin and heard it, and 
 come home, and was set to fightin with their next door 
 neighbor over it. Now I m a believer, and I try to live a 
 Christian life, but I d as soon hear a surveyor s book read 
 out, figgers an all, as try to get any simple truth out o most 
 sermons. It s them as is most to blame." 
 
 "What was the matter that day at Widow Peck s?" I has 
 tened to ask, for I knew by experience that the good, clear- 
 
THE COURTING OF SISTER WISBY 197 
 
 minded soul beside me was apt to grow unduly vexed and 
 distressed when she contemplated the state of religious teach 
 ing. 
 
 "Why, there wa n t nothin the matter, only a gal o Miss 
 Peck s had met with a dis pintment and had gone into 
 screechin fits. Twas a rovin creatur that had come along 
 hayin time, and he d gone off an forsook her betwixt two 
 days; nobody ever knew what become of him. Them Pecks 
 was Good Lord, anybody! kind o gals, and took up with 
 whoever they could get. One of em married Heron, the 
 Irishman; they lived in that little house that was burnt this 
 summer, over on the edge o the plains. He was a good- 
 hearted creatur, with a laughin eye and a clever word for 
 everybody. He was the first Irishman that ever came this 
 way, and we was all for gettin a look at him, when he 
 first used to go by. Mother s folks was what they call 
 Scotch-Irish, though; there was an old race of em settled 
 about here. They could foretell events, some on em, and 
 had second sight. I know folks used to say mother s grand 
 mother had them gifts, but mother was never free to speak 
 about it to us. She remembered her well, too." 
 
 "I suppose that you mean old Jim Heron, who was such 
 a famous fiddler?" I asked with great interest, for I am 
 always delighted to know more about that rustic hero, paro 
 chial Orpheus that he must have been ! 
 
 "Now, dear heart, I suppose you don t rememb3r him, do 
 you?" replied Mrs. Goodsoe, earnestly. "Fiddle! He d 
 about break your heart with them tunes of his, or else set 
 your heels flying up the floor in a jig, though you was minister 
 o the First Parish and all wound up for a funeral prayer. 
 I tell ye there win t no tunes sounds like them used to. It 
 used to seem to me summer nights when I was comin along 
 the plains road, and he set by the window playin , as if 
 there was a betwitched human creatur in that old red fiddle 
 o his. He could make it sound just like a woman s voice 
 tellin somethin over and over, as if folks could help her out 
 o her sorrows if she could only make em understand. I ve 
 set by the stone-wall and cried as if my heart was broke, and 
 dear knows it wa n t in them days. How he would twirl off 
 
198 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 them jigs and dance tunes! He used to make somethin* 
 han some out of em in fall an winter, playin at huskins 
 and dancin parties; but he was unstiddy by spells, as he got 
 along in years, and never knew what it was to be forehanded. 
 Everybody felt bad when he died; you couldn t help likin* 
 the creatur. He d got the gift that s all you could say 
 about it. 
 
 "There was a Mis Jerry Foss, that lived over by the 
 brook bridge, on the plains road, that had lost her husband 
 early, and was left with three child n. She set the world 
 by em, and was a real pleasant, ambitious little woman, and 
 was workin on as best she could with that little farm, when 
 there come a rage o scarlet fever, and her boy and two girls 
 was swept off and laid dead within the same week. Every 
 one o the neighbors did what they could, but she d had no 
 sleep since they was taken sick, and after the funeral she 
 set there just like a piece o marble, and would only shake 
 her head when you spoke to her. They all thought her 
 reason would go; and twould certain, if she couldn t have 
 shed tears. An one o the neighbors twas like mother s 
 sense, but it might have been somebody else spoke o Jim 
 Heron. Mother an one or two o the women that knew her 
 best was in the house with her. T was right in the edge 
 o the woods and some of us younger ones was over by the 
 wall on the other side of the road where there was a couple 
 of old willows I remember just how the brook damp felt 
 and we kept quiet s we could, and some other folks come 
 along down the road, and stood waitin on the little bridge, 
 hopin somebody d come out, I suppose, and they d git news. 
 Everybody was wrought up, and felt a good deal for her, you 
 know. By an by Jim Heron come stealin right out o the 
 shadows an set down on the doorstep, an twas a good while 
 before we heard a sound; then, oh, dear me! twas what* 
 the whole neighborhood felt for that mother all spoke in the 
 notes, an they told me afterwards that Mis Foss s face 
 changed in a minute, and she come right over an got into 
 my mother s lap she was a little woman an laid her 
 head down, and there she cried herself into a blessed sleep. 
 After awhile one o the other women stole out an told the 
 
THE COURTING OF SISTER WISBY 199 
 
 folks, and we all went home. He only played that one tune. 
 
 "But there 1" resumed Mrs. Goodsoe, after a silence, dur 
 ing which my eyes were filled with tears. "His wife always 
 complained that the fiddle made her nervous. She never 
 peared to think nothin o* poor Heron after she d once got 
 him." 
 
 "That s often the way," said I, with harsh cynicism, 
 though I had no guilty person in my mind at the moment; 
 and we went straying off, not very far apart, up through the 
 pasture. Mrs. Goodsoe cautioned me that we must not get 
 so far off that we could not get back the same day. The 
 sunshine began to feel very hot on our backs, and we both 
 turned toward the shade. We had already collected a large 
 bundle of mullein leaves, which were carefully laid into a 
 clean, calico apron, held together by the four corners, and 
 proudly carried by me, though my companion regarded them 
 with anxious eyes. We sat down together at the edge of the 
 pine woods, and Mrs. Goodsoe proceeded to fan herself with 
 her limp cape-bonnet 
 
 "I declare, how hot it is! The east wind s all gone again," 
 she said. "It felt so cool this forenoon that I overburdened 
 myself with as thick a petticoat as any I ve got. I m 
 despri t afeared of having a chill, now that I ain t so young 
 as once. I hate to be housed up." 
 
 "It s only August, after all," I assured her unnecessarily, 
 confirming my statement by taking two peaches out of my 
 pocket, and laying them side by side on the brown pine 
 needles between us. 
 
 "Dear sakes alive!" exclaimed the old lady, with evident 
 pleasure. "Where did you get them, now? Doesn t any 
 thing taste twice better out-o -doors ? I ain t had such a 
 peach for years. Do le s keep the stones, an I ll plant em; 
 it only takes four years for a peach pit to come to bear 
 ing, an ? I guess I m good for four years, thout I meet with 
 some accident. 53 
 
 I could not help agreeing, or taking a fond look at the 
 thin little figure, and her wrinkled brown face and kind, 
 twinkling eyes. She looked as if she had properly dried her 
 self, by mistake, with some of her mullein leaves, and was 
 
200 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 likely to keep her goodness, and to last the longer in con 
 sequence. There never was a truer, simple-hearted soul made 
 out of the old-fashioned country dust than Mrs. Goodsoe. I 
 thought, as I looked away from her across the wide country, 
 that nobody was left in any of the farmhouses so origi 
 nal, so full of rural wisdom and reminiscence, so really 
 able and dependable, as she. And nobody had made better 
 use of her time in a world foolish enough to sometimes 
 under-value medicinal herbs. 
 
 When we had eaten our peaches we still sat under the 
 pines, and I was not without pride <when I had poked about 
 in the ground with a little twig, and displayed to my crony 
 a long fine root, bright yellow to the eye, and a wholesome 
 bitter to the taste. 
 
 "Yis, dear, goldthread," she assented indulgently. "Seems 
 to me there s more of it than anything except grass an 7 hard 
 tack. Good for canker, but no better than two or three other 
 things I can call to mind; but I always lay in a good wisp 
 of it, for old times sake. Now, I want to know why you 
 should ha* bit it, and took away all the taste o your nice 
 peach? I was just thinkin j what a han some entertainment 
 we ve had. I ve got so I sociate certain things with certain 
 folks, and goldthread was somethin Lizy Wisby couldn t 
 keep house without, no ways whatever. I believe ::he took so 
 much it kind o" puckered her disposition,," 
 
 "Lizy Wisby?" I repeated inquiringly. 
 
 "You knew her, if ever, by the name of Mis Deacon 
 Brimblecom," answered my friend, as if this were only a 
 brief preface to further information, so I waited with re 
 spectful expectation. Mrs. Goodsoe had grown tired out in 
 the sun, and a good story would be an excuse for sufficient 
 rest. It was a most lovely place where we sat, half-way up 
 the long hillside; for my part, I was perfectly contented and 
 happy. "You ve often heard of Deacon Brimblecom?" she 
 asked, as if a great deal depended upon his being properly 
 introduced. 
 
 "I remember him," said I. "They called him Deacon 
 Brimfull, you know, and he used to go about with a witch- 
 hazel branch to show people where to dig wells." 
 
THE COURTING OP SISTER WISBY 201 
 
 "That s the one/ said Mrs. Goodsoe, laughing. "I didn t 
 know s you could go so far back. I m always divided be 
 tween whether you can remember everything I can, or are 
 only a babe in arms." 
 
 "I have a dim recollection of there being something 
 strange about their marriage," I suggested, after a pause, 
 which began to appear dangerous. I was so much afraid 
 the subject would be changed. 
 
 "I can tell you all about it," I was quickly answered. 
 "Deacon Brimblecom was very pious accordin to his lights 
 in his early years. He lived way back in the country then, 
 and there come a rovin preacher along, and set everybody 
 up that way all by the ears. I ve heard the old folks talk it 
 over, but I forget most of his doctrine, except some of his 
 followers was persuaded they could dwell among the angels 
 while yet on airth, and this Deacon Brimfull, as you call 
 him, felt sure he was called by the voice of a spirit bride. 
 So he left a good, deservin wife he had, an four children, 
 and built him a new house over to the other side of the land 
 he d had from his father. They didn t take much pains with 
 the buildin , because they expected to be translated before 
 long,, and then the spirit brides and them folks was goin 
 to appear and divide up the airth amongst em, and the 
 world s folks and on-believers was goin to serve em or be 
 sent to torments. They had meetin s about in the school- 
 houses, an* all sorts o goin s on; some on em went crazy, 
 but the deacon held on to what wits he had, an by an by 
 the spirit bride didn t turn out to be much of a housekeeper, 
 an he had always been used to good livin , so he sneaked 
 home ag in. One o mother s sisters married up to Ash Hill, 
 where it all took place; that s how I come to have the 
 particulars." 
 
 "Then how did he come to find his Eliza Wisby?" I 
 inquired. "Do tell me the whole story; you ve got mullein 
 leaves enough." 
 
 "There s all yisterday s at home, if I haven t," replied 
 Mrs. Goodsoe. "The way he come a-courtin o Sister Wisby 
 was this : she went a-courtin o him. 
 
 "There was a spell he lived to home, and then his poo/ 
 
202 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 wife died, and he had a spirit bride in good earnest, an the 
 children was placed about with his folks and hers, for they 
 was both out o good families; and I don t know what come 
 over him, but he had another pious fit that looked for all 
 the world like the real thing. He hadn t no family cares, and 
 he lived with his brother s folks, and turned his land in with 
 theirs. He used to travel to every meetin an conference 
 that was within reach of his old sorrel hoss s feeble legs; he 
 j ined the Christian Baptists that was just in their early 
 prime, and he was a great exhorter, and got to be called 
 deacon, though I guess he wa n t deacon, less it was for a 
 spare hand when deacon times was scercer n usual. An one 
 time there was a four-days protracted meetin to the church 
 in the lower part of the town. Twas a real solemn time; 
 somethin more n usual was goin forward, an* they collected 
 from the whole country round. Women folks liked it, an* 
 the men too; it give em a change, an they was quartered 
 round free, same as conference folks now. Some on em, for 
 a joke, sent Silas Brimblecom up to Lizy Wisby s, though 
 she d give out she couldn t accommodate nobody, because of 
 expectin her cousin s folks. Everybody knew twas a lie; 
 she was amazin close considerin she had plenty to do with. 
 There was a streak that wa n t just right somewheres in Lizy s 
 wits, I always thought. She was very kind in case o sick 
 ness, I ll say that for her. 
 
 "You know where the house is, over there on what they 
 call Windy Hill? There the deacon went, all unsuspecting 
 and stead o Lizy s resentin of him she put in her own hoss, 
 and they come back together to evenin meetin . She was 
 prominent among the sect herself, an he bawled and talked, 
 and she bawled and talked, an took up more n the time 
 allotted in the exercises, just as if they was showin off to 
 each what they was able to do at expoundin . Everybody 
 was laughin at em after the meetin broke up, and that next 
 day an the next, an all through, they was constant, and 
 seemed to be havin a beautiful occasion. Lizy had always 
 give out she scorned the men, but when she got a chance at 
 a particular one twas altogether different, and the deacon 
 
THE COURTING OF SISTER WISBY 203 
 
 seemed to please her somehow or nother, and There! you 
 don t want to listen to this old stuff that s past an gone?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do," said I. 
 
 "I run on like a clock that s onset her striking hand," 
 said Mrs. Goodsoe mildly. "Sometimes my kitchen time 
 piece goes on half the forenoon, and I says to myself the day 
 before yisterday I would let it be a warnin , and keep it in 
 mind for a check on my own speech. The next news that 
 was heard was that the deacon an Lizy well, opinions dif 
 fered which of em had spoke first, but them fools settled 
 it before the protracted meetin* was over, and give away 
 their hearts before he started for home. They considered 
 twould be wise, though, considerin their short acquaintance, 
 to take one another on trial a spell; twas Lizy s notion, and 
 she asked him why he wouldn t come over and stop with her 
 till spring, and then, if both continued to like, they could 
 git married any time twas convenient. Lizy, she come and 
 talked it over with mother, and mother disliked to offend 
 her, but she spoke pretty plain; and Lizy felt hurt, an 
 thought they was showin excellent judgment, so much harm 
 come from hasty unions and folks comin to a realizin sense 
 of each other s failin s when twas too late. 
 
 "So one day our folks saw Deacon Brimfull a-ridin by 
 with a gre t coopful of hens in the back o his wagon, and 
 bundles o stuff tied to top and hitched to the exes under 
 neath; and he riz a hymn just as he passed the house, and 
 was speedin the old sorrel with a wilier switch. Twas most 
 Thanksgivin time, an sooner n she expected him. New 
 Year s was the time she set; but he thought he d come while 
 the roads was fit for wheels. They was out to meetin to 
 gether Thanksgivin Day, an that used to be a gre t season 
 for marryin ; so the young folks nudged each other, and 
 some on em ventured to speak to the couple as they come 
 down the aisle. Lizy carried it off real well; she wa n t 
 afraid o what nobody said or thought, and so home they 
 went. They d got out her yaller sleigh and her hoss; she 
 never would ride after the deacon s poor old creatur, and I 
 believe it died long o the winter from stiffenin up. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Goodsoe, emphatically, after we had 
 
204 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 silently considered the situation for a short space of time, 
 "yes, there was consider ble talk, now I tell you ! The raskil 
 boys pestered em just about to death for a while. They used 
 to collect up there an rap on the winders, and they d turn 
 out all the deacon s hens long at nine o clock o night, and 
 chase em all over the dingle ; an one night they even lugged 
 the pig right out o the sty, and shoved it into the back 
 entry, an run for their lives. They d stuffed its mouth full 
 e something so it couldn t squeal till it got there. There 
 wa n t a sign o nobody to be seen when Lizy hasted out with 
 the light, and she an the deacon had to persuade the 
 creatur back as best they could; twas a cold night, and 
 they said it took em till towards mornin . You see the 
 deacon was just the kind of a man that a hog wouldn t budge 
 for; it takes a masterful man to deal with a hog. Well, 
 there was no end to the works nor the talk, but Lizy left em 
 pretty much alone. She did pear kind of dignified about it, 
 I must say!" 
 
 "And then, were they married in the spring?" 
 "I was tryin to remember whether it was just before Fasf 
 Day or just after," responded my friend, with a careful look 
 at the sun, which was nearer the west than either of us had 
 noticed. "I think likely twas along in the last o April, 
 any way some of us looked out o the window one Monday 
 mornin early, and says, Tor goodness sakel Lizy s sent 
 the deacon home again! His old sorrel havin passed away, 
 he was ridin in Ezry Welsh s hoss-cart, with his hen-coop 
 and more bundles than he had when he come, and looked as 
 meechin as ever you see. Ezry was drivin , and he let a 
 glance fly swiftly round to see if any of us was lookin out; 
 an then I declare if he didn t have the malice to turn right 
 in towards the barn, where he see my oldest brother, Joshuay, 
 an says he real natural, Joshuay, just step out with your 
 wrench. I believe I hear my kingbolt rattlin kind o loose/ 
 Brother, he went out an took in the sitooation, an the 
 deacon bowed kind of stiff. Joshuay was so full o laugh, 
 and Ezry Welsh, that they couldn t look one another in the 
 face. There wa n t nothing ailed the kingbolt, you know, 
 
THE COURTING OF SISTER WISBY 205 
 
 an when Josh riz up he says, Goin up country for a spell, 
 Mr. Brimblecom? 
 
 " I be/ says the deacon, lookin dreadful mortified and 
 cast down. 
 
 " Ain t things turned out well with you an Sister Wisby? 
 says Joshuay. You had ought to remember that the woman 
 is the weaker vessel. 
 
 " Hang her, let her carry less sail, then! the deacon bu st 
 out, and he stood right up an shook his fist there by the 
 hen-coop, he was so mad; an Ezry s hoss was a young 
 creatur, an started up and set the deacon right over back 
 wards into the chips. We didn t know but he d broke his 
 neck; but when he see the women folks runnin out he 
 jumped up quick as a cat, an clim into the cart, an off they 
 went. Ezry said he told him that he couldn t git along 
 with Lizy, she was so fractious in thundery weather ; if there 
 was a rumble in the daytime she must go right to bed an 
 screech, and twas night she must git right up an go an 
 call him out of a sound sleep. But everybody knew he d 
 never gone home unless she d sent him. 
 
 "Somehow they made it up ag in, him an Lizy, and she 
 had him back. She s been countin all along on not havin 
 to hire nobidy to work about the gardin an so on, an she 
 said she wa n t goin to let him have a whole winter s board 
 for nothin . So the old hens was moved back, and they was 
 married right off fair an square, an I don t know but they 
 got along well as most folks. He brought his youngest girl 
 down to live with em after a while, an she was a real 
 treasure to Lizy; everybody spoke well o Phcebe Brimblecom. 
 The deacon got over his pious fit, and there was consider ble 
 work in him if you kept right after him. He was an amazin 
 cider-drinker, and he airnt the name you know him by in 
 his latter days. Lizy never trusted him with nothin , but she 
 kep him well. She left everything she owned to Phcebe, when 
 she died, cept somethin to satisfy the law. There, they re 
 all gone now; seems to me sometimes, when I get thinkin , as 
 if I d lived a thousand years!" 
 
 I laughed, but I found Mrs. Goodsoe s thoughts had taken 
 a serious turn. 
 
206 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "There, I come by some old graves down here in the lower 
 edge of the pasture," she said as we rose to go. "I couldn t 
 help thinking how I should like to be laid right out in the 
 pasture ground, when my time comes; it looked sort o com 
 fortable, and I have ranged these slopes so many summers. 
 Seems as if I could see right up through the turf and tell 
 when the weather was pleasant, and get the goodness o the 
 sweet fern. Now, dear, just hand me my apernful o mul 
 leins out o the shade. I hope you won t come to need none 
 this winter, but I ll dry some special for you." 
 
 "I m going by the road," said I, "or else by the path across 
 the meadows, so I will walk as far as the house with you. 
 Aren t you pleased with my company?" for she demurred at 
 my going the least bit out of the way. 
 
 So we strolled toward the little gray house, with our 
 plunder of mullein leaves slung on a stick which we car 
 ried between us. Of course I went in to make a call, as if 
 I had not seen my hostess before; she is the last maker of 
 muster-gingerbread, and before I came away I was kindly 
 measured for a pair of mittens. 
 
 "You ll be sure to come an see them two peach-trees after 
 I get em well growin ?" Mrs. Goodsoe called after me when 
 I had said good-by, and was almost out of hearing down the 
 road. 
 
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER * 
 
 BY MARY E. WELKINS FREEMAN 
 
 FATHER!" 
 "What is it?" 
 "What are them men diggin* over there in the field 
 for?" 
 
 There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the lower 
 part of the old man s face, as if some heavy weight had set 
 tled therein; he shut his mouth tight, and went on harness 
 ing the great bay mare. He hustled the collar on to her 
 neck with a jerk. 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 The old man slapped the saddle upon the mare s back. 
 
 "Look here, father, I want to know what them men are 
 diggin over in the field for, an I m goin to know." 
 
 "I wish you d go into the house, mother, an tend to your 
 own affairs," the old man said then. He ran his words 
 together, and his speech was almost as inarticulate as a 
 growl. 
 
 But the woman understood ; it was her most native tongue. 
 "I ain t goin into the house till you tell me what them men 
 are doin over there in the field," said she. 
 
 Then she stood waiting. She was a small woman, short 
 and straight-waisted like a child in her brown cotton gown. 
 Her forehead was mild and benevolent between the smooth 
 curves of gray hair; there were meek downward lines about 
 her nose and mouth; but her eyes, fixed upon the old man, 
 looked as if the meekness had been the result of her own 
 will, never of the will of another. 
 
 They were in the barn, standing before the wide open 
 
 *From "A New England Nun and Other Stories," by Mary E. 
 Wilkins. Copyright, 1891, by Harper & Brothers. All rights re 
 served. By permission of the author. 
 
 207 
 
208 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 doors. The spring air, full of the smell of growing grass 
 and unseen blossoms, came in their faces. The deep yard 
 in front was littered with farm wagons and piles of wood; 
 on the edges, close to the fence and the house, the grass 
 was a vivid green, and there were some dandelions. 
 
 The old man glanced doggedly at his wife as he tightened 
 the last buckles on the harness. She looked as immovable 
 to him as one of the rocks in his pasture-land, bound to the 
 earth with generations of blackberry vines. He slapped the 
 reins over the horse, and started forth from the barn. 
 
 "Father!" said she. 
 
 The old man pulled up. "What is it?" 
 
 "I want to know what them men are diggin over there in 
 that field for." 
 
 "They re diggin a cellar, I s pose, if you ve got to know." 
 
 "A cellar for what?" 
 
 "A barn." 
 
 "A barn? You ain t goin to build a barn over there 
 where we was goin to have a house, father?" 
 
 The old man said not another word. He hurried the 
 horse into the farm wagon, and clattered out of the yard, 
 jouncing as sturdily on his seat as a boy. 
 
 The woman stood a moment looking after him, then she 
 went out of the barn across a corner of the yard to the 
 house. The house, standing at right angles with the great 
 barn and a long reach of sheds and out-buildings, was in 
 finitesimal compared with them. It was scarcely as com 
 modious for people as the little boxes under the barn eaves 
 were for doves. 
 
 A pretty girl s face, pink and delicate as a flower, was 
 looking out of one of the house windows. She was watch 
 ing three men who were digging over in the field which 
 bounded the yard near the road line. She turned quietly 
 when the woman entered. 
 
 "What are they digging for, mother?" said she. "Did he 
 tell you?" 
 
 "They re diggin for a cellar for a new barn." 
 
 "Oh, mother, he ain t going to build another barn?" 
 
 "That s what he says." 
 
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER 209 
 
 A boy stood before the kitchen glass combing his hair. 
 He combed slowly and painstakingly, arranging his brown 
 hair in a smooth hillock over his forehead. He did not 
 seem to pay any attention to the conversation. 
 
 "Sammy, did you know father was going to build a new 
 barn?" asked the girl. 
 
 The boy combed assiduously. 
 
 "Sammy!" 
 
 He turned, and showed a face like his father s under his 
 smooth crest of hair. "Yes, I s pose I did," he said, re 
 luctantly. 
 
 "How long have you known it?" asked his mother. 
 
 " Bout three months, I guess." 
 
 "Why didn t you tell of it?" 
 
 "Didn t think twould do no good." 
 
 "I don t see what father wants another barn for," said 
 the girl, in her sweet, slow voice. She turned again to the 
 window, and stared out at the digging men in the field. Her 
 tender, sweet face was full of a gentle distress. Her fore 
 head was as bald and innocent as a baby s with the light 
 hair strained back from it in a row of curl-papers. She was 
 quite large, but her soft curves did not look as if they cov 
 ered muscles. 
 
 Her mother looked sternly at the boy. "Is he goin tq 
 buy more cows?" 
 
 The boy did not reply; he was tying his shoes. 
 
 "Sammy, I want you to tell me if he s goin to buy more 
 cows." 
 
 "I s pose he is." 
 
 "How many?" 
 
 "Four, I guess." 
 
 His mother said nothing more. She went into the pan 
 try, and there was a clatter of dishes. The boy got his cap 
 from a nail behind the door, took an old arithmetic from 
 the shelf, and started for school. He was lightly built, but 
 clumsy. He went out of the yard with a curious spring in 
 the hips, that made his loose home-made jacket tilt up in 
 the rear. 
 
 The girl went to the sink, and began to wash the dishes 
 
210 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 that were piled up there. Her mother came promptly out 
 of the pantry, and shoved her aside. "You wipe em," said 
 she, "I ll wash. There s a good many this mornin ." 
 
 The mother plunged her hands vigorously into the water, 
 the girl wiped the plates slowly and dreamily. "Mother," 
 said she, "don t you think it s too bad father s going to build 
 that new barn, much as we need a decent house to live in?" 
 
 Her mother scrubbed a dish fiercely. "You ain t found 
 out yet we re women-folks, Nanny Penn," said she. "You 
 ain t seen enough of men-folks yet to. One of these days 
 you ll find it out, an* then you ll know that we know only 
 what men-folks think we do, so far as any use of it goes, an 
 how we d ought to reckon men-folks in with Providence, an 
 not complain of what they do any more than 4 we do of the 
 weather." 
 
 "I don t care; I don t believe George is anything like 
 that, anyhow," said Nanny. Her delicate faced flushed pink, 
 her lips pouted softly, as if she were going to cry. 
 
 "You wait an see. I guess George Eastman ain t no 
 better than other men. You hadn t ought to judge father, 
 though. He can t help it, cause he don t look at things 
 jest the way we do. An we ve been pretty comfortable 
 here, after all. The roof don t leak ain t never but once 
 -. that s one thing. Father s kept it shingled right up." 
 
 "I do wish we had a parlor." 
 
 "I guess it won t hurt George Eastman any to come to 
 see you in a nice clean kitchen. I guess a good many girls 
 don t have as good a place as this. Nobody s ever heard 
 me complain." 
 
 "I ain t complained either, mother." 
 
 "Well, I don t think you d better, a good father an a 
 good home as you ve got. S pose your father made you go 
 out an work for your livin ? Lots of girls have to that 
 ain t no stronger an better able to than you be." 
 
 Sarah Penn washed the frying-pan with a conclusive air. 
 She scrubbed the outside of it as faithfully as the inside. 
 She was a masterly keeper of her box of a house. Her one 
 living-room never seemed to have in it any of the dust 
 which the friction of life with inanimate matter produces. 
 
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER 211 
 
 She swept, and there seemed to be no dirt to go before the 
 broom; she cleaned, and one could see no difference. She 
 was like an artist so perfect that he has apparently no art. 
 To-day she got out a mixing bowl and a board, and rolled 
 some pies, and there was no more flour upon her than upon 
 her daughter who was doing finer work. Nanny was to be 
 married in the fall, and she was sewing on some white cam 
 bric and embroidery. She sewed industriously while her 
 mother cooked ; her soft milk-white hands and wrists showed 
 whiter than her delicate work. 
 
 "We must have the stove moved out in the shed before 
 long," said Mrs. Penn. "Talk about not havin things, it s 
 been a real blessin to be able to put a stove up in that shed 
 in hot weather. Father did one good thing when he fixed 
 that stove-pipe out there." 
 
 Sarah Penn s face as she rolled her pies had that expres 
 sion of meek vigor which might Eave characterized one of 
 the New Testament saints. She was making mince-pies. 
 Her husband, Adoniram Penn, liked them better than any 
 other kind. She baked twice a week. Andoniram often 
 liked a piece of pie between meals. She hurried this morn 
 ing. It had been later than usual when she began, and she 
 wanted to have a pie baked for dinner. However deep a 
 resentment she might be forced to hold against her hus 
 band, she would never fail in sedulous attention to his 
 wants. 
 
 Nobility of chanjex manifests itself at loop-holes when 
 it is not provideoTwith large doors. Sarah Penn s showed 
 itself to^dayin flaky dishes of pastry. So she made the 
 pies faithfully, While" across the table she could see, when 
 she glanced up from her work, the sight that rankled in her 
 patient and steadfast soul the digging of the cellar of the 
 new barn in the place where Adoniram forty years ago had v 
 promised her their new house shoulcl stand. 
 
 The pies were done for dinner. Adoniram and Sammy 
 were home a few minutes after twelve o clock. The dinner 
 was eaten with serious haste. There was never much con 
 versation at the table in the Penn family. Adoniram asked 
 
212 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 a blessing, and they ate promptly, then rose up and went 
 about their work. 
 
 Sammy went back to school, taking soft sly lopes out of 
 the yard like a rabbit. He wanted a game of marbles be 
 fore school, and feared his father would give him some 
 chores to do. Adoniram hastened to the door and called 
 after him, but he was out of sight. 
 
 "I don t see what you let him go for, mother," said he. 
 "I wanted him to help me unload that wood." 
 
 Adoniram went to work out in the yard unloading wood 
 from the wagon. Sarah put away the dinner dishes, while 
 Nanny took down her curl papers and changed her dress. 
 She was going down to the store to buy some more em 
 broidery and thread. 
 
 When Nanny was gone, Mrs. Penn went to the door. 
 "Father!" she called. 
 
 "Well, what it it!" 
 
 "I want to see you jest a minute, father.* 
 
 "I can t leave this wood nohow. I ve got to git it un 
 loaded an* go for a load of gravel afore two o clock. Sammy 
 had ought to helped me. You hadn t ought to let him go 
 to school so early." 
 
 "I want to see you jest a minute." 
 
 "I tell ye I can t, nohow, mother." 
 
 "Father, you come here." Sarah Penn stood in the door 
 like a queen; she held her head as if it bore a crown; there 
 was that patience which makes authority royal in her voice. 
 Adoniram went. 
 
 Mrs. Penn led the way into the kitchen, and pointed to a 
 chair. "Sit down, father," said she, "I ve got somethin I 
 want to say to you." 
 
 He sat down heavily; his face was quite stolid, but he 
 looked at her with restive eyes. "Well, what is it, mother?" 
 
 "I want to know what you re buildin that new barn for, 
 father?" 
 
 "I ain t got nothin to say about it." 
 
 "It can t be you think you need another barn?" 
 
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER 213 
 
 "I tell ye I ain t got nothin to say about it, mother; an I 
 ain t goin to say nothin ." 
 
 "Be you goin to buy more cows?" 
 
 Adoniram did not reply; he shut his mouth tight. 
 
 "I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father, look 
 here" Sarah Penn had not sat down; she stood before her 
 husband in the humble fashion of a Scripture woman "I m 
 goin to talk real plain to you; I never have sense I married 
 you, but I m gcin to now. I ain t never complained, an* 
 I ain t goin to complain now, but I m goin to talk plain. 
 You see this room here, father; you look at it well. You 
 see there ain t no carpet on the floor, an you see the paper 
 is all dirty, an droppin off the wall. We ain t had no new 
 paper on it for ten year, an then I put it on myself, an it 
 didn t cost but ninepence a roll. You see this room, father; 
 it s all the one I ve had to work in an eat in an sit in sence 
 we was married. There ain t another woman in the whole 
 town whose husband ain t got half the means you have but 
 what s got better. It s all the room Nanny s got to have her 
 company in ; an there ain t one of her mates but what s got 
 better, an their fathers not so able as hers is. It s all the 
 room she ll have to be married in. What would you have 
 thought, father, if we had had our weddin in a room no 
 better than this? I was married in my mother s parlor, with 
 a carpet on the floor, an stuffed furniture, an a mahogany 
 card-table. An this is all the room my daughter will have 
 to be married in. Look here, father!" 
 
 Sarah Penn went across the room as though it were a 
 tragic stage. She flung open a door and disclosed a tiny 
 bed room, only large enough for a bed and bureau, with a 
 path between. "There, father," said she "there s all the 
 room I ve had to sleep in forty years. All my children were 
 born there the two that died, an the two that s livin . I 
 was sick with a fever there." 
 
 She stepped to another door and opened it. It led into the 
 small, ill-lighted pantry. "Here," said she, "is all the but 
 tery I ve got every place I ve got for my dishes, to set away 
 my victuals in, an to keep my milk-pans in. Father, I ve 
 been takin care of the milk of six cows in this place, an* 
 
214 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 now you re goin to build a new barn, an* keep more cows, 
 an give me more to do in it." 
 
 She threw open another door. A narrow crooked flight 
 of stairs wound upward from it. "There, father," said she, 
 "I want you to look at the stairs that go up to them two 
 unfinished chambers that are all the places our son an* 
 daughter have had to sleep in all their lives. There ain t a 
 prettier girl in town nor a more ladylike one than Nanny, 
 an that s the place she has to sleep in. It ain t so good as 
 your horse s stall; it ain t so warm an tight." 
 
 Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband. 
 "Now, father," said she, "I want to know if you think 
 you re doin right an accordin to what you profess. Here, 
 when we was married, forty year ago, you promised me faith 
 ful that we should have a new house built in that lot over in 
 the field before the year was out. You said you had money 
 enough, an you wouldn t ask me to live in no such place as 
 this. It is forty year now, an you ve been makin more 
 money, an I ve been savin of it for you ever since, an you 
 ain t built no house yet. You ve built sheds an cow-houses 
 an one new barn, an now you re goin to build another. 
 Father, I want to know if you think it s right.. You re 
 lodgin your dumb beasts better than you are your own flesh 
 an blood. I want to know if you think it s right." 
 
 "I ain t got nothin to say." 
 
 "You can t say nothin without ownin it ain t right, father. 
 An* there s another thing I ain t complained; I ve got along 
 forty year, an I s pose I should forty more, if it wasn t for 
 that if we don t have another house. ! w Nanny she can t live 
 with us after she s married. She ll have to go somewhere 
 else to live away from us, an it don t seem as if I could 
 have it so, noways, father. She wasn t ever strong. She s 
 got considerable color, but there wasn t never any backbone to 
 her. I ve always took the heft of everything off her, an she 
 ain t fit to keep house an do everything herself. She ll be 
 all worn out inside of a year. Think of her doin all the 
 washin an ironin an bakin with them soft white hands an 
 arms, an sweepin ! I can t have it so, noways, father." 
 
 Mrs. Penn s face was burning; her mild eyes gleamed- 
 
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER 215 
 
 She had pleaded her little cause like a Webster; she had 
 ranged from severity to pathos; but her opponent employed 
 that obstinate silence which makes eloquence futile with 
 mocking echoes. Adoniram arose clumsily. 
 
 "Father, ain t you got nothin to say?" said Mrs. Perm. 
 
 "I ve got to go off after that load of gravel. I can t stan 
 here talkin all day." 
 
 "Father, won t you think it over, an* have a house built 
 there instead of a barn?" 
 
 "I ain t got nothin to say." 
 
 Adoniram shuffled out. Mrs. Penn went into her bed 
 room. When she came out, her eyes were red. She had a 
 roll of unbleached cotton cloth. She spread it out on the 
 kitchen table, and began cutting out some shirts for her hus 
 band. The men over in the field had a team to help them 
 this afternoon; she could hear their halloos. She had a 
 scanty pattern for the shirts; she had to plan and piece 
 the sleeves. 
 
 Nanny came home with her embroidery, and sat down 
 with her needlework. She had taken down her curl-papers, 
 and there was a soft roll of fair hair like an aureole over her 
 forehead; her face was as delicately fine and clear as porce 
 lain. Suddenly she looked up, and the tender red flamed 
 all over her face and neck. "Mother," said she. 
 
 "What say?" 
 
 "I ve been thinking I don t see how we re goin to have 
 any wedding in this room. I d be ashamed to have his 
 folks come if we didn t have anybody else." 
 
 "Mebbe we can have some new paper before then; I can 
 put it on. I guess you won t have no call to be ashamed of 
 your belongin s." 
 
 "We might have the wedding in the new barn," said 
 Nanny, with gentle pettishness. "Why, mother, what makes 
 you look so?" 
 
 Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curi 
 ous expression. She turned again to her work, and spread 
 out a pattern carefully on the cloth. "Nothin ," said she. 
 
 Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his two- 
 wheeled dump cart, standing as proudly upright as a Roman 
 
, I 
 
 216 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 charioteer. Mrs. Penn opened the door and stood there a 
 minute looking out; the halloos of the men sounded louder. 
 
 It seemed to her all through the spring months that she 
 heard nothing but the halloos and the noises of saws and 
 hammers. The new barn grew fast. It was a fine edifice 
 for this little village. Men came on pleasant Sundays, in 
 their meeting suits and clean shirt bosoms, and stood around 
 it admiringly. Mrs. Penn did not speak of it, and Adoni- 
 ram did not mention it to her, although sometimes, upon a 
 return from inspecting it, he bore himself with injured 
 dignity. 
 
 "It s a strange thing how your mother feels about the new 
 barn," he said, confidentially, to Sammy one day. 
 
 Sammy only grunted after an odd fashion for a boy; he 
 had learned it from his father. 
 
 The barn was all completed ready for use by the third 
 __ week in July. Adoniram had planned to move his stock 
 in on Wednesday; on Tuesday he received a letter which 
 changed his plans. He came in with it early in the morning. \ 
 "Sammy s been to the post-office," said he, "an I ve got a 
 letter from Hiram." Hiram was Mrs. Penn s brother, who 
 lived in Vermont. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Penn, "what does he say about the 
 folks?" 
 
 "I guess they re all right. He says he thinks if I come 
 up country right off there s a chance to buy jest the kind of 
 a horse I want." He stared reflectively out of the window at 
 the new barn. 
 
 Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping the 
 rolling-pin into the crust, although she was very pale, and 
 her heart beat loudly. 
 
 "I dun know but what I d better go," said Adoniram. 
 "I hate to go off jest now, right in the midst of hayin , but 
 the ten-acre lot s cut, an I guess Rufus an the others can git 
 along without me three or four days. I can t get a horse 
 round here to suit me, nohow, an I ve got to have another 
 for all that wood-haulin in the fall. I told Hiram to watch 
 out, an if he got wind of a good horse to let me know. I 
 guess I d better go." 
 
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER 217 
 
 "I ll get out your clean chirt an collar," said Mrs. Penn 
 calmly. 
 
 She laid out Adoniram s Sunday suit and his clean clothes 
 on the bed in the little bedroom. She got his shaving-water 
 and razor ready. At last she buttoned on his collar and 
 fastened his black cravat. 
 
 Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on ex 
 tra occasions. He held his head high, with a rasped dignity. 
 When he was all ready, with his coat and hat brushed, and 
 a lunch of pie and cheese in a paper bag, he hesitated on the 
 threshold of the door. He looked at his wife, and his man 
 ner was definitely apologetic. "// them cows come to-day, 
 Sammy can drive em into the new barn," said he; "an* 
 when they bring the hay up, they can pitch it in there." 
 
 "Well," replied Mrs. Penn. 
 
 Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. When 
 he had cleared the door- step, he turned and looked back 
 with a kind of nervous solemnity. "I shall be back by 
 Saturday if nothin happens," said he. 
 
 "Do be careful, father," returned his wife. 
 
 She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and 
 watched him out of sight. Her eyes had a strange, doubt 
 ful expression in them ; her peaceful forehead was contracted. 
 She went in, and about her baking again. Nanny sat sewing. 
 Her wedding-day was drawing nearer, and she was getting 
 pale and thin with her steady sewing. Her mother kept 
 glancing at her. 
 
 "Have you got that pain in your side this mornin ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "A little." 
 
 Mrs. Perm s face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed 
 forehead smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips firmly set. 
 She formed a maxim for herself, although incoherently with 
 her unlettered thoughts. "Unsolicited opportunities are the 
 guide-posts of the Lord to the new roads of life," she re 
 peated in effect, and she made up her mind to her course of 
 action. 
 
 "S posin I had wrote to Hiram," she muttered once, when 
 she was in the pantry "s posin I had wrote, an asked him 
 
218 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 if he knew of any horse? But I didn t, an father s goin 
 wan t none of my doin . It looks like a providence." Her 
 voice rang out quite loud at the last. 
 
 "What you talkin about, mother?" called Nanny. 
 
 "NothinV 
 
 Mrs. Penn hurried her baking ; at eleven o clock it was all 
 done. The load of hay from the west field came slowly 
 down the cart track, and drew up at the new barn. Mrs. 
 Penn ran out. "Stop!" she screamed, "stop!" 
 
 The men stopped and looked ; Sammy upreared from the 
 top of the load, and stared at his mother. 
 
 "Stop!" she cried out again. "Don t you put the hay in 
 that barn; put it in the old one." 
 
 "Why, he said to put it in here," returned one of the hay 
 makers, wonderingly. He was a young man, a neighbor s 
 son, whom Adoniram hired by the year to help on the farm. 
 
 "Don t you put the hay in the new barn; there s room 
 enough in the old one, ain t there?" said Mrs. Penn. 
 
 "Room enough," returned the hired man, in his thick, 
 rustic tones. "Didn t need the new barn, nohow, far as 
 room s concerned. Well, I s pose he changed his mind." 
 He took hold of the horses bridles. 
 
 Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen 
 windows were darkened, and a fragrance like warm honey 
 came into the room. 
 
 Nanny laid down her work. "I thought father wanted 
 them to put the hay into the new barn?" she said, wonder 
 ingly. 
 
 "It s all right," replied her mother. 
 
 Sammy slid, down from the load of hay, and came in to 
 see if dinner was ready. 
 
 "I ain t goin to get a regular dinner to-day, as long as 
 father s gone," said his mother. "I ve let the fire go out. 
 You can have some bread an milk an pie. I thought we 
 could get along." She set out some bowls of milk, some 
 bread, and a pie on the kitchen table. "You d better eat 
 your dinner now," said she. "You might jest as well get 
 through with it. I want you to help me afterwards." 
 
 Nanny and Sammy .stared at each other. There was 
 
 
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER 219 
 
 something strange in their mother s manner. Mrs. Penn did 
 not eat anything herself. She went into the pantry, and 
 they heard her moving dishes while they ate. Presently she 
 came out with a pile of plates. She got the clothes-basket 
 out of the shed, and packed them in it. Nanny and Sammy 
 watched. She brought out cups and saucers, and put them 
 in with the plates. 
 
 "What you goin to do, mother?" inquired Nanny, in a 
 timid voice. A sense of something unusual made her trem 
 ble, as if it were a ghost. Sammy rolled his eyes over his 
 pie. 
 
 "You ll see what I m goin to do," replied Mrs. Penn. 
 "If you re through, Nanny, I want you to go up-stairs an* 
 pack up your things; an I want you, Sammy, to help me 
 take down the bed in the bedroom." 
 
 "Oh, mother, what for?" gasped Nanny. 
 
 "You ll see." 
 
 During the next few hours a feat was performed by this 
 simple, pious New England mother which was equal in its 
 way to Wolfe s storming of the Heights of Abraham. It 
 took no more genius and audacity of bravery for Wolfe to 
 cheer his wondering soldiers up those steep precipices, under 
 the sleeping eyes of the enemy, than for Sarah Penn, at the 
 head of her children, to move all their little household goods 
 into the new barn while her husband was away. 
 
 Nanny and Sammy followed their mother s instructions 
 without a murmur; indeed, they were overawed. There is 
 a certain uncanny and superhuman quality about all such 
 purely original undertakings as their mother s was to them. 
 Nanny went back and forth with her light load, and Sam 
 my tugged with sober energy. 
 
 At five o clock in the afternoon the little house in which 
 the Penns had lived for forty years had emptied itself into 
 the new barn. 
 
 Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, and 
 is in a measure a prophet. The architect of Adoniram 
 Penn s barn, while he designed it for the comfort of four- 
 footed animals, had planned better than he knew for the 
 comfort of humans. Sarah Penn saw at a glance its possi- 
 
220 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 bilities. Those great box-stalls, with quilts hung before 
 them, would make better bedrooms than the one she had occu 
 pied for forty years, and there was a tight carriage-room. 
 The harness-room, with its chimney and shelves, would make 
 a kitchen of her dreams. The great middle space would 
 make a parlor, by-and-by, fit for a palace. Up stairs there 
 was as much room as down. With partitions and windows, 
 what a house would there be! Sarah looked at the row of 
 stanchions before the allotted space for cows, and reflected 
 that she would have her front entry there. 
 
 At six o clock the stove was up in the harness room, the 
 kettle was boiling, and the table set for tea. It looked 
 almost as home-like as the abandoned house across the yard 
 had ever done. The young hired man uailked, and Sarah 
 directed him calmly to bring the milk to the new barn. He 
 came gaping, dropping little blots of foam from the brim- 
 <mmg pails on the grass. Before the next morning he had 
 /spread the story of Adoniram Penri s wife moving into the 
 - new barn all over the little village. Men assembled in the 
 store and talked it over, women with shawls over their heads 
 \ scuttled into each other s houses before their work was done. 
 Any deviation from the ordinary course of life in this quiet 
 town was enough to stop all progress in it. Everybody 
 paused to look at the staid, independent figure on the side 
 track. There was a difference of opinion with regard to 
 her. Some held her to be insane; some, of a lawless and re 
 bellious spirit. 
 
 Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the fore 
 noon, and she was at the barn door shelling peas for dinner. 
 She looked up and returned his salutation with dignity, then 
 she went on with her work. She did not invite him in. The 
 saintly expression of her face remained fixed, but there was 
 an angry flush over it. 
 
 The minister stood awkwardly before her, and talked. 
 She handled the peas as if they were bullets. At last she 
 looked up, and her eyes showed the spirit that her meek front 
 had covered for a lifetime. 
 
 "There ain t no use talkin , Mr. Hersey," said she. "I ve 
 thought it all over an over, an I believe I m doin what s 
 
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER 221 
 
 right. I ve made it the subject of prayer, an it s betwixt 
 me an the Lord an Adoniram. There ain t no call for no 
 body else to worry about it." 
 
 "Well, of course, if you have brought it to the Lord in 
 prayer, and feel satisfied that you are doing right, Mrs. 
 Penn," said the minister, helplessly. His thin gray-bearded 
 face was pathetic. He was a sickly man; his youthful confi 
 dence had cooled; he had to scourge himself up to some of 
 his pastoral duties as relentlessly as a Catholic ascetic, and 
 then he was prostrated by the smart. 
 
 "I think it s right jest as much as I think it was right for 
 our forefathers to come over from the old country cause they 
 didn t have what belonged to em," said Mrs. Penn. She 
 arose. The barn threshold might have been Plymouth Rock 
 from her bearing. "I don t doubt you mean well, Mr. Her- 
 sey," said she, "but there are things people hadn t ought to 
 interfere with. I ve been a member of the church for over 
 forty years. I ve got my own mind an my own feet, an* 
 I m goin to think my own thoughts an go my own way, an* 
 nobody but the Lord is goin to dictate to me unless I ve a 
 mind to have him. Won t you come in an set down ? How 
 is Mrs. Hersey?" 
 
 "She is well, I thank you," replied the minister. He 
 added some more perplexed apologetic remarks; then he 
 retreated. 
 
 He could expouna the intricacies of every character study 
 in the Scriptures, he was competent to grasp the Pilgrim 
 Fathers and all historical innovators, but Sarah Penn was 
 beyond him. He could deal with primal cases, but parallel 
 ones worsted him. But, after all, although it was aside 
 from his province, he wondered more how Adoniram Penn 
 would deal with his wife than how the Lord would. Every 
 body shared the wonder. When Adoniram s four new cows 
 arrived, Sarah ordered three to be put in the old barn, the 
 other in the house shed where the cooking-stove had stood. 
 That added to the excitement. It was whispered that all 
 four cows were domiciled in the house. 
 
 Towards sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was expected 
 home, there was a knot of men in the road near the new 
 
222 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 barn. The hired man had milked, but he still hung around 
 the premises. Sarah Penn had supper all ready. There 
 were brown-bread and baked beans and a custard pie; it was 
 the supper that Adoniram loved on a Saturday night. She 
 had on a clean calico, and she bore herself imperturbably. 
 Nanny and Sammy kept close at her heels. Their eyes 
 were large, and Nanny was full of nervous tremors. Still 
 there was to them more pleasant excitement than anything 
 else. An inborn confidence in their mother over their father 
 asserted itself. 
 
 Sammy looked out of the harness-room window. "There 
 he is," he announced, in an awed whisper. He and Nanny 
 peeped around the casing. Mrs. Penn kept on about her 
 work. The children watched Adoniram leave the new horse 
 standing in the drive while he went to the house door. It 
 was fastened. Then he went around to the shed. That 
 door was seldom locked, even when the family was away. 
 The thought how her father would be confronted by the cow 
 flashed upon Nanny. There was a hysterical sob in her 
 throat. Adoniram emerged from the shed and stood looking 
 about in a dazed fashion. His lips moved; he was saying 
 something, but they could not hear what it was. The hired 
 man was peeping around a corner of the old barn, but nobody 
 saw him. 
 
 Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led him 
 across the yard to the new barn. Nanny and Sammy slunk 
 close to their mother. The barn doors, rolled back, and 
 there stood Adoniram, with the long mild face of the great 
 Canadian farm horse looking over his shoulder. 
 
 Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped sud 
 denly forward, and stood in front of her. 
 
 Adoniram stared at the group. "What on airth you all 
 down here for?" said he. "What s the matter over to the 
 house?" 
 
 "We ve come here to live, father," said Sammy. His shrill 
 voice quavered out bravely. 
 
 "What" Adoniram sniffed "what is it smells like cook- 
 in ?" said he. He stepped forward and looked in the open 
 door of the harness-room. Then he turned to his wife. His 
 
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER 223 
 
 old bristling face was pale and frightened. "What on airth 
 does this mean, mother?" he gasped. 
 
 "You come in here, father," said Sarah. She led the way 
 into the harness-room and shut the door. "Now, father," 
 said she, "you needn t be scared. I ain t crazy. There ain t 
 nothin to be upset over. But weVe come here to live, an* 
 we re goin to live here. WeVe got jest as good a right here 
 as new horses an cows. The house wasn t fit for us to live 
 in any longer, an I made up my mind I wa n t goin to stay 
 there. I ve done my duty by you forty year, an I m goin* 
 to do it now ; but I m goin to live here. You ve got to put in 
 some windows and partitions; an you ll have to buy some 
 furniture." 
 
 "Why, mother 1" the old man gasped. 
 
 "You d better take your coat off an get washefctiiere s 
 the wash basin an then we ll have supper." 
 
 "Why, mother!" 
 
 Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse to 
 the old barn. The old man saw him, and shook his head 
 speechlessly. He tried to take off his coat, but his arms 
 seemed to lack the power. His wife helped him. She 
 poured some water into the tin basin, and put in a piece of 
 soap. She got the comb and brush, and smoothed his thin 
 gray hair after he had washed. Then she put the beans, hot 
 bread, and tea on the table. Sammy came in, and the family 
 drew up. Adoniram sat looking dazedly at his plate, and 
 they waited. 
 
 "Ain t you goin to ask a blessin , father?" said Sarah. 
 
 And the old man bent his head and mumbled. 
 
 All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals, and 
 stared furtively at his wife; but he ate well. The home 
 food tasted good to him, and his old frame was too sturdily 
 healthy to be affected by his mind. But after supper he 
 went out, and sat down on the step of the smaller door at 
 the right of the barn, through which he had meant his Jer 
 seys to pass in stately file, but which Sarah designed for her 
 front house door, and he leaned his head on his hands. 
 
 After the supper dishes were cleared away and the milk- 
 pans washed, Sarah went out to him. The twilight was 
 
224 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 deepening. There was a clear green glow in the sky. Be- 
 fore them stretched the smooth level of field; in the distance 
 was a cluster of hay-stacks like the huts of a village; the air 
 was very cool and calm and sweet. The landscape might 
 have been an ideal one of peace. 
 
 Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of his 
 thin, sinewy shoulders. "Father 1" 
 
 The old man s shoulders heaved : he was weeping. 
 
 "Why, don t do so, father," said Sarah. 
 
 "I ll put up the partitions, an everything you want, 
 mother." 
 
 Sarah put her apron up to her face; she was overcome by 
 her own triumph. 
 
 Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no active 
 resistance, and went down the instant the right besieging tools 
 were used. "Why, mother," he said, hoarsely, "I hadn t no 
 idee you was so set on t as all this comes to." 
 
TOLD IN THE POORHOUSE * 
 
 BY ALICE BROWN 
 
 LE me see," said old Sally Flint, "was it fifty year ago, 
 or was it on y forty? Some er s betwixt 1825 an 26 
 it must ha been when they were married, an twas in 
 41 he died." 
 
 The other old women in the Poorhouse sitting-room gath 
 ered about her. Old Mrs. Forbes, who dearly loved a story, 
 unwound a length of yarn with peculiar satisfaction, and 
 put her worn shoe up to the fire. Everybody knew when 
 Sally Flint was disposed to open her unwritten book of folk 
 tales for the public entertainment; and to-day, having tied 
 on a fresh apron and bound a new piece of red flannel about 
 her wrist, she was, so to speak, in fighting trim. The other 
 members of the Poorhouse had scanty faith in that red flan 
 nel. They were aware that Sally had broken her wrist, 
 some twenty years before, and that the bandage was conse 
 quently donned on days when her "hand felt kind o cold," 
 or was "burnin like fire embers"; but there was an unspoken 
 suspicion that it really served as token of her inability to 
 work whenever she felt bored by the prescribed routine of 
 knitting and sweeping. No one had dared presume on that 
 theory, however, since the day when an untactful overseer 
 had mentioned it, to be met by such a stream of unpleasant 
 reminiscence concerning his immediate ancestry that he had 
 retreated in dismay, and for a week after, had served extra 
 pieces of pie to his justly offended charge. 
 
 "They were married in June," continued Sally. "No, 
 twa nt; twas the last o May. May thirty-fust no, May 
 ain t but thirty days, has it?" 
 
 *By permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton 
 Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers, and by permission of 
 the author. 
 
 225 
 
226 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 " Thirty days hath September, " quoted Mrs. Giles, with 
 importance. "That s about all I ve got left o my schooling 
 Miss Flint. May s got thirty-one days, sure enough. " 
 
 "Call it the thirty-fust, then. It s nigh enough, anyway. 
 Well, Josh Marden an* Lyddy Ann Crane was married, an* 
 for nine year they lived like two kittens. Old Sperry Dyer, 
 that wanted to git Lyddy himself, used to call em cup an* 
 sasser. There they be/ he d say, when he stood outside the 
 meetin -house door an they drove up, there comes cup an 
 sasser. Lyddy was a little mite of a thing, with great black 
 eyes; an if Josh hadn t been as tough as tripe, he d ha got 
 all wore out waitin on her. He even washed the potaters 
 for her, made the fires, an lugged water. Scairt to death if 
 she was sick ! She used to have sick headaches, an one day 
 he stopped choppin pine limbs near the house cause the 
 noise hurt Lyddy Ann s head. Another time, I recollect, she 
 had erysipelas in her face, an I went in to carry some elder- 
 blows, an found him readin the Bible. Lord! says I, 
 Josh, that s on y Genesis! twon t do the erysipelas a mite 
 o good for you to be settin there readin the begats! You 
 better turn to Revelations. But twa nt all on his side, 
 nuther. Twas give an take with them. It used to seem as 
 if Lyddy Ann kind o worshipped him. Josh we all called 
 him; but she used to say Joshuay, an look at him as if he 
 was the Lord A mighty." 
 
 "My! Sally!" said timid Mrs. Spenser, under her breath; 
 but Sally gave no heed, and swept on in the stream of her 
 recollections. 
 
 "Well, it went on for fifteen year, an then Mandy 
 Knowles, Josh s second cousin, come to help em with the 
 work. Mandy was a queer creatur. I ve studied a good 
 deal over her, an I dunno s I ve quite got to the bottom of 
 her yit. She was one o them sort o slow women, with a fat 
 face, an she hadn t got over dressin young, though Lyddy 
 an the rest of us that was over thirty was wearin caps an* 
 talkin about false fronts. But she never d had no beaux; 
 an when Josh begun to praise her an say how nice twas to 
 have her there, it tickled her e en a most to death. She d 
 lived alone with her mother an two old-maid aunts, an she 
 
TOLD IN THE POORHOUSE 227. 
 
 didn t know nothin about men-folks; I al ays thought she 
 felt they was different somehow kind o cherubim an* 
 seraphim an you d got to mind em as if you was the Chil- 
 dern of Isr el an they was Moses. Josh never meant a mite 
 o harm, 111 say that for him. He was jest man-like, that s 
 all. There s lots o different kinds here, Mis Niles, you 
 know, you ve buried your third an Josh was the kind that 
 can t see more n one woman to a time. He looked at Mandy, 
 an he got over seem Lyddy Ann, that s all. Things would 
 ha come out all right as right as they be for most married 
 folk if Lyddy Ann hadn t been so high-sperited; but she 
 set the world by Joshuay, an there twas. Ain t it nice to 
 have her here? he kep on sayin over n over to Lyddy, an 
 she d say Yes ; but byme-by, when she found he was al ays 
 on hand to bring a pail o water for Mandy, or to throw away 
 her suds, or even help hang out the clo es I see em hangin 
 out clo es one day when I was goin across their lot huckle- 
 berr in , an he did look like a great gump, an so did she 
 well, then, Lyddy Ann got to seemin kind o worried, an* 
 she had more sick headaches than ever. Twa nt a year afore 
 that, I d been in one day when she had a headache, an he 
 says, as if he was perfessin his faith in meetin , By gum ! I 
 wish I could have them headaches for her! an I thought o 
 speakin of it, about now, when I run in to borrer some sale- 
 ratus, an he hollered into the bedroom, Lyddy Ann, you got 
 another headache? If I had such a head as that, I d cut it 
 off! An all the time Mandy did act like the very Old 
 Nick, jest as any old maid would that hadn t set her mind on 
 menfolks till she was thirty-five. She bought a red-plaid 
 bow an pinned it on in front, an one day I ketched her at 
 the lookin -glass pullin out a gray hair. 
 
 " Land, Mandy, says I (I spoke right up), do you pull 
 em out as fast as they come? That s why you ain t no 
 grayer, I s pose. I was sayin the other day, " Mandy 
 Knowles is gittin on, but she holds her own pretty well. I 
 dunno how she manages it, whether she dyes or not," says I. 
 
 "An afore she could stop herself, Mandy turned round, 
 red as a beet, to look at Josh an see if he heard. He 
 stamped out into the wood-house, but Lyddy Ann never took 
 
228 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 her eyes off her work. Them little spiteful things didn t 
 seem to make no impression on her. I ve thought a good 
 many times sence, she didn t care how handsome other women 
 was, nor how scrawny she was herself, if she could on y 
 keep Josh. An Josh he got kind o fretful to her, an she 
 to him, an Mandy was all honey an cream. Nothin would 
 do but she must learn how to make the gingerbread he liked, 
 an iron his shirts ; an when Lyddy Ann found he seemed to 
 praise things up jest as much as he had when she done em, 
 she give em up, an done the hard things herself, an let 
 Mandy see to Josh. She looked pretty pindlin then, mark 
 my words, but I never see two such eyes in anybody s head. 
 I s pose twas a change for Josh, anyway, to be with a woman 
 like Mandy, that never said her soul s her own, for Lyddy d 
 al ays had a quick way with her; but, land! you can t tell 
 about men, what changes em or what don t. If you re tied 
 to one, you ve jest got to bear with him, an be thankful if he 
 don t run some kind of a rig an make you town-talk." 
 
 There was a murmur from gentle Lucy Staples, who had 
 been constant for fifty years to the lover who died in her 
 youth; but no one took any notice of her, and Sally Flint 
 went on : 
 
 "It come spring, an somehow or nuther Mandy found out 
 the last o March was Josh s birthday, an nothin would do 
 but she must make him a present. So she walked over to 
 Sudleigh, an bought him a great long pocket-book that you 
 could put your bills into without foldin em, an brought it 
 home, tickled to death because she d been so smart. Some o 
 this come out at the time, an some wa nt known till arter- 
 wards; the hired man told some, an a good deal the neigh 
 bors see themselves. An I ll be whipped if Mandy her 
 self didn t tell the heft on t arter twas all over. She wa n t 
 more n half baked in a good many things. It got round 
 somehow that the pocket-book was comin , an when I see 
 Mandy walkin home that arternoon, I ketched up my shawl 
 an* run in behind her, to borrer some yeast. Nobody thought 
 anything o birthdays in our neighborhood, an mebbe that 
 made it seem a good deal more n twas; but when I got in 
 there, I vow I was sorry I come. There set Josh by the 
 
TOLD IN THE POORHOUSE 229 
 
 kitchen table, sort o red an pleased, with his old pocket- 
 book open afore him, an he was puttin all his bills an* 
 papers into the new one, an sayin , every other word, 
 
 " Why, Mandy, I never see your beat ! Ain t this a nice 
 one, Lyddy? 
 
 "An Mandy was b ilin over with pride, an* she stood there 
 takin off her cloud; she d been in such a hurry to give it to 
 him she hadn t even got her things off fust. Lyddy stood 
 by the cupboard, lookin straight at the glass spoon-holder. 
 I thought arterwards I didn t b lieve she see it; an* if she 
 did, I guess she never forgot it. 
 
 " Yes, it s a real nice one, says I. 
 
 "I had to say suthin , but in a minute, I was most scairt. 
 Lyddy turned round, in a kind of a flash; her face blazed 
 all over red, an her eyes kind o went through me. She 
 stepped up to the table, an took up the old pocket-book. 
 
 " You ve got a new one, says she. May I have this? 
 
 " Course you may, says he. 
 
 "He didn t look up to see her face, and her voice was so 
 soft an still, I guess he never thought nothin of it. Then 
 she held the pocketbook up tight ag inst her dress waist an* 
 walked off into the bedroom. I al ays thought she never 
 knew I was there. An arterwards it come out that that old 
 pocket-book was one she d bought for him afore they was 
 married, earned it bindin shoes." 
 
 " Twas kind o hard," owned Mrs. Niles, bending for 
 ward, and, with hands clasped over her knees, peering into 
 the coals for data regarding her own marital experiences. 
 "But if twas all wore out did you say twas wore? 
 well, then I dunno s you could expect him to set by it. An* 
 twa n t as if he d give it away; they d got it between em." 
 
 "I dunno; it s all dark to me," owned Sally Flint. "I 
 guess twould puzzle a saint to explain men-folks, anyway, 
 but I ve al ays thought they was sort o numb about some 
 things. Anyway, Josh Marden was. Well, things went on 
 that way till the fust part o the summer, an then they come 
 to a turnm -p int. I s pose they d got to, some time, an it 
 might jest as well ha been fust as last. Lyddy Ann was 
 pretty miserable, an she d been dosin with thoroughwort an 
 
230 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 what all when anybody told her to; but I al ays thought she 
 never cared a mite whether she lived to see another spring. 
 The day I m comin to, she was standin over the fire fryin 
 fish, an Mandy was sort o fiddlin round, settin the table, 
 an* not doin much of anything arter all. I dunno how she 
 come to be so aggravating for she was al ays ready to do 
 her part, if she had come between husband an wife. You 
 know how hard it is to git a fish dinner! Well, Lyddy Ann 
 was tired enough, anyway. An when Josh come in, Mandy 
 she took a cinnamon-rose out of her dress, an* offered it to 
 him. 
 
 " Here s a flower for your button-hole, says she, as if 
 she wa n t more n sixteen. An then she set down in a chair, 
 an* fanned herself with a newspaper. 
 
 "Now that chair happened to be Lyddy Ann s at the table, 
 an she see what was bein done. She turned right round, 
 with the fish-platter in her hand, an says she, in an awful 
 kind of a voice, 
 
 " You git up out o my chair ! You ve took my husband 
 away, but you sha n t take my place at the table ! 
 
 "The hired man was there, washin his hands at the sink, 
 an he told it to me jest as it happened. Well, I guess they all 
 thought they was struck by lightnin , an Lyddy Ann most 
 of all. Josh he come to, fust. He walked over to Lyddy 
 Ann. 
 
 " You put down that platter! says he. An she begun to 
 tremble, an set it down. 
 
 "I guess they thought there was goin to be murder done, 
 for Mandy busted right out cryin an come runnin over to 
 me, an the hired man took a step an stood side o Lyddy 
 Ann. He was a little mite of a man, Cyrus was, but he 
 wouldn t ha stood no violence. 
 
 "Josh opened the door that went into the front entry, an* 
 jest p inted. You walk in there, he says, an you stay 
 there. That s your half o the house, an this is mine. 
 Don t you dast to darken my doors! 
 
 "Lyddy Ann she walked through the entry an into the 
 fore-room, an he shet the door." 
 
 "I wouldn t ha done it!" snorted old Mrs. Page, who had 
 
TOLD IN THE POORHOUSE 231 
 
 spent all her property in lawsuits over a right of way. 
 "Ketch me!" 
 
 "You would if you d V been Lyddy Ann!" said Sally 
 Flint, with an emphatic nod. Then she continued: "I 
 hadn t more n heard Mandy s story afore I was over there; 
 but jest as I put my foot on the door-sill, Josh he come for- 
 ard to meet me. 
 
 " What s wanted? says he. An I declare for t I was 
 so scairt I jest turned round an* cut for home. An* there set 
 Mandy, wringin her hands. 
 
 " What be I goin to do?* says she, over n* over. Who 
 ever d ha thought o this? 
 
 " The thing for you to do, says I, is to go straight home 
 to your mother, an I ll harness up an carry you. Don t you 
 step your foot inside that house ag in. Maybe ma am will 
 go over an pack up your things. You ve made mischief 
 enough. So we got her off that arternoon, an that was an 
 end of her. 
 
 "I never could see what made Josh think so quick that day. 
 We never thought he was brighter n common; but jest see how 
 in that flash o bein mad with Lyddy Ann he d planned out 
 what would be most wormwood for her! He gi n her the 
 half o* the house she d furnished herself with hair-cloth 
 chairs an a what-not, but twa n t the part that was fit to be 
 lived in. She stayed pretty close for three or four days, an* 
 I guess she never had nothin to eat. It made me kind o* 
 sick to think of her in there settin on her haircloth sofy, an* 
 lookin at her wax flowers an the coral on the what-not, an* 
 thinkin what end she d made. It was of a Monday she was 
 sent in there, an* Tuesday night I slipped over an put some 
 luncheon on the winder-sill ; but twas there the next day, an* 
 Cyrus see the old crower fly up an git it. An that same 
 Tuesday mornin , Josh had a j iner come an begin a parti 
 tion right straight through the house. It was all rough 
 boards, like a high fence, an it cut the front entry in two, an 
 went right through the kitchen so t the kitchen stove was 
 one side on t, an the sink the other. Lyddy Ann s side had 
 the stove. I was glad o that, though I s pose she most had 
 a fit every day to think o him tryin to cook over the air- 
 
232 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 tight in the settin -room. Seemed kind o queer to go to the 
 front door, too, for you had to open it wide an squeeze round 
 the partition to git into Lyddy Ann s part, an a little mite of 
 a crack would let you into Josh s. But they didn t have 
 many callers. It was a good long while afore anybody dared 
 to say a word to her; an as for Josh, there wa n t nobody 
 that cared about seein him but the tax-collector and pedlers. 
 
 "Well, the trouble Josh took to carry out that mad fit! 
 He split wood an laid it down at Lyddy Ann s door, an he 
 divided the eggs an milk, an shoved her half inside. He 
 bought her a separate barrel o flour, an all the groceries he 
 could think on; they said he laid money on her winder-sill. 
 But, take it all together, he was so busy actin like a crazed 
 one that he never got his taters dug till most time for the 
 frost. Lyddy Ann she never showed her head among the 
 neighbors ag in. When she see she d got to stay there, she 
 begun to cook for herself; but one day, one o the neighbors 
 heard her pleadin* with Josh, out in the cow-yard, while 
 he was milkin . 
 
 " O Joshuay/ she kep* a-sayin over n over, you needn t 
 take me back, if you ll on y let me do your work! You 
 needn t speak to me, an I ll live in the other part; but I 
 shall be crazy if you don t let me do your work. O Joshuay ! 
 O Joshuay! She cried an cried as if her heart would break, 
 but Josh went on milkin , and never said a word. 
 
 "I s pose she thought he d let her, the old hunks, for the 
 next day she baked some pies an set fm on the table in 
 his part. She reached in through the winder to do it. But 
 that night, when Josh come home, he hove em all out into 
 the back yard, an the biddies eat em up. The last time I 
 was there, I see them very pieces o pie-plate, white an blue- 
 edged, under the syringa bush. Then she kind o give up 
 hope. I guess But no! I m gittin ahead o my story. 
 She did try him once more. Of course his rooms got to 
 lookin like a hog s nest " 
 
 "My! I guess when she see him doin his own washin , 
 she thought the pocket-book was a small affair," interpolated 
 Mrs. Niles. 
 
 "She used to go round peerin into his winders when he 
 
TOLD IN THE POORHOUSE 233 
 
 wa n t there, an one day, arter he d gone off to trade some 
 steers, she jest spunked up courage an went in an cleaned 
 all up. I see the bed airin , an went over an ketched her at 
 it. She hadn t more n got through an stepped outside when 
 Josh come home, an what should he do but take the wheel- 
 barrer an , beat out as he was drivin oxen five mile, go 
 down to the gravel-pit an get a barrerful o gravel. He 
 wheeled it up to the side door, an put a plank over the steps, 
 an wheeled it right in. An then he dumped it in the middle 
 o his clean floor. That was the last o her tryin to do for 
 him on the sly. 
 
 "I should ha had some patience with him if twa n t for 
 one thing he done to spite her. Seemed as if he meant to 
 shame her that way afore the whole neighborhood. He 
 wouldn t speak to her himself, but he sent a painter by trade 
 to tell her he was goin to paint the house, an to ask her 
 what color she d ruther have. The painter said she acted 
 sort o wild, she was so pleased. She told him yaller; an 
 Josh had him go right to work on t next day. But he had 
 her half painted yaller, an his a kind of a drab, I guess 
 you d call it. He sold a piece o ma sh to pay for t. Dr. 
 Parks said you might as well kill a woman with a hatchet, as 
 the man did down to Sudleigh, as put her through such 
 treatment. My! ain t it growin late? Here, let me set back 
 by the winder. I want to see who goes by, to-day. An* 
 I ll cut my story short. 
 
 "Well, they lived jest that way. Lyddy Ann she looked 
 like an old woman, in a month or two. She looked every 
 minute as old as you do, Mis Gridley. Ain t you sixty- 
 nine? Well, she wa n t but thirty-six. Her hair turned 
 gray, an she was all stooped over. Sometimes I thought 
 she wa n t jest right. I used to go in to see if she d go 
 coltsfootin with me, or plummin ; but she never d make me 
 no answer. I recollect two things she said. One day, she 
 set rockin back ards an for ards in a straight chair, holdin 
 her hands round her knees, an she says, 
 
 " I ain t got no pride, Sally Flint! I ain t got no pride! 
 
 "An once she looked up kind o pitiful an says, Ain t it 
 queer I can t die? But, poor creatur , I never thought she 
 
234 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 knew what she was sayin . She d ha been the last one to 
 own she wa n t contented if she d had any gover ment over 
 her words. 
 
 "Well, Josh he d turned the hired man away because he 
 couldn t do for him over the air-tight stove, an he got men 
 to help him by day s works. An through the winter, he jest 
 set over the fire an sucked his claws, an thought how smart 
 he was. But one day twas awful cold, an we d been tryin 
 out lard, an the fat ketched fire, an everything was all up 
 in arms, anyway. Cyrus he was goin by Josh s, an he 
 didn t see no smoke from the settin -room stove. So he 
 jest went to the side door an walked in, an there set Josh in 
 the middle o the room. Couldn t move hand nor foot! 
 Cyrus didn t stop for no words, but he run over to our house, 
 hollerin , Josh Marden s got a stroke! An ma am left the 
 stove all over fat an run, an I arter her. I guess Lyddy Ann 
 must ha seen us comin , for we hadn t more n got into the 
 settin -room afore she was there. The place was cold as a 
 barn, an it looked like a hurrah s nest. Josh never moved, 
 but his eyes follered her when she went into the bedroom to 
 spread up the bed. 
 
 " You help me, Cyrus/ says she, kind o twittery-like, 
 but calm. We ll carry him in here. I can lift. 
 
 "But our men-folks got there jest about as they were 
 tryin to plan how to take him, an they h isted him onto the 
 bed. Cyrus harnessed up our horse an went after Dr. Parks, 
 an by the time he come, we d got the rooms so s to look 
 decent. An if you ll b lieve it! Lyddy Ann was in the 
 bedroom tryin to warm Josh up an make him take some 
 hot drink; but when I begun to sweep up, an swop towards 
 that gravel-pile in the middle o the floor, she come hurryin 
 up, all out o breath. She ketched the broom right out o 
 my hand. 
 
 " I ll sweep, bime-by, says she. Don t you touch that 
 gravel, none on ye! An so the gravel laid there, an we 
 walked round it, watchers an all. 
 
 "She wouldn t have no watcher in his bedroom, though; 
 she was determined to do everything but turn him an lift him 
 herself, but there was al ays one or two settin round to keep 
 
TOLD IN THE POORHOUSE 235 
 
 the fires goin an make sure there was enough cooked up. 
 I swan, I never see a woman so happy round a bed o sick 
 ness as Lyddy Ann was! She never made no fuss when 
 Josh was awake, but if he shet his eyes, she d kind o hang 
 over the bed an smooth the clo es as if they was kittens an* 
 once I ketched her huggin up the sleeve of his old barn coat 
 that hung outside the door. If ever a woman made a fool 
 of herself over a man that wa n t wuth it, twas Lyddy Ann 
 Alarden ! 
 
 "Well, Josh he hung on for a good while, an we couldn t 
 make out whether he had his senses or not. He kep his eyes 
 shet most o the time; but when Lyddy Ann s back was 
 turned, he seemed to know it somehow, an he d open em 
 an foller her all round the room. But he never spoke. I 
 asked the doctor about it. 
 
 " Can t he speak, doctor? says I. He can move that 
 hand a leetle to-day. Don t you s pose he could speak, if 
 he d a mind to? 
 
 "The doctor he squinted up his eyes he al ays done that 
 when he didn t want to answer an he says, 
 
 " I guess he s thinkin on t over. 
 
 "But one day, Lyddy Ann found she was all beat out, an 
 she laid down in the best bedroom an went to sleep. I set 
 with Josh. I was narrerin off, but when I looked up, he was 
 beckonin with his well hand. I got up, an went to the bed. 
 
 " Be you dry? says I. He made a little motion, an then 
 he lifted his hand an p inted out into the settin -room. 
 
 " Do you want Lyddy Ann? says I. She s laid down. 
 No, he didn t want her. I went to the settin -room door an 
 looked out, an I dunno how twas it all come to me. 
 
 " Is it that gravel-heap? says I. Do you want it carried 
 off, an the floor swop up? An he made a motion to say 
 Yes. I called Cyrus, an we made short work o that gravel. 
 When I d took up the last mite on t, I went back to the bed. 
 
 "Josh Harden, says I, can you speak, or can t you? 
 But he shet his eyes, an wouldn t say a word. 
 
 "When Lyddy Ann come out, I told her what he d done, 
 an then she did give way a little mite. Two tears come out 
 
236 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 o* her eyes, an* jest rolled down her cheeks, but she didn t 
 give up to em. 
 
 " Sally, says she, sort o peaceful, I guess I ll have a 
 cup o tea. 
 
 "Well, there was times when we thought Josh would git 
 round ag in, if he didn t have another stroke. I dunno 
 whether he did have another or not, but one night, he seemed 
 to be sort o sinkin away. Lyddy Ann she begun to turn 
 white, an she set down by him an rubbed his sick hand. He 
 looked at her fust time he had, fair an square an then 
 he begun to wobble his lips round an* make a queer noise 
 with em. She put her head down, an then she says, Yes, 
 Joshuay! yes, dear! An she got up an took the pocket-book 
 Mandy had gi n him off the top o the bureau, an laid it 
 down on the bed where he could git it. But he shook his 
 head, an said the word ag in, an a queer look as if she was 
 scairt an pleased flashed over Lyddy Ann s face. She 
 run into the parlor, an come back with that old pocket- 
 book he d give up to her, an she put it into his well hand. 
 That was what he wanted. His fingers gripped it up, an 
 he shet his eyes. He never spoke ag in. He died that night." 
 
 "I guess she died, too!" said Lucy Staples, under her 
 breath, stealthily wiping a tear from her faded cheek. 
 
 "No, she didn t, either!" retorted Sally Flint, hastily, 
 getting up to peer from the window down the country road. 
 "She lived a good many year, right in that very room he d 
 drove her out on, an she looked as if she owned the airth. 
 I ve studied on it consid able, an I al ays s posed twas be 
 cause she d got him, an that was all she cared for. There s 
 the hearse now, an two carriages, step an* step." 
 
 "Land! who s dead?" exclaimed Mrs. Forbes, getting 
 up in haste, while her ball rolled unhindered to the other end 
 of the room. 
 
 "It s Lyddy Ann Harden," returned Sally Flint, with the 
 triumphant quiet of one first at the goal. "I see it this 
 mornin in the County Democrat, when I was doin* up my 
 wrist, an you was all so busy." 
 
AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK 
 BRIDGE * 
 
 BY AMBROSE BIERCE 
 
 A MAN stood upon a railroad bridge in northern 
 Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty 
 feet below. The man s hands were behind his back, 
 the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his 
 neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head 
 and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards 
 laid upon the sleepers supporting the metals of the railway 
 supplied a footing for him and his executioners two private 
 soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in 
 civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short re 
 move upon the same temporary platform was an officer in 
 the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A 
 sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the 
 position known as "support," that is to say, vertical in front 
 of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm 
 thrown straight across the chest a formal and unnatural 
 position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not 
 appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was 
 occurring at the centre of the bridge; they merely blockaded 
 the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it. 
 
 Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight ; the rail 
 road ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, 
 then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtless there was an out 
 post farther along. The other bank of the stream was open 
 ground a gentle acclivity topped with a stockade of vertical 
 tree trunks, loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure 
 
 *From "In the Midst of Life," published by Boni & Liveright. 
 Copyright by The Neale Publishing Company. 
 
 237 
 
238 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon com 
 manding the bridge. Midway of the slope between bridge 
 and fort were the spectators a single company of infantry 
 in line, at "parade rest," the butts of the rifles on the ground, 
 the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right 
 shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant 
 stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the 
 ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting 
 the group of four at the centre of the bridge, not a man moved. 
 The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. 
 The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have 
 been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with 
 folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, 
 but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he 
 comes announced is to be received with formal manifesta 
 tions of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In 
 the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of 
 deference. 
 
 The man who was engaged in being hanged was ap 
 parently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, 
 if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a 
 planter. His features were good a straight nose, firm 
 mouth, broad forehead, from which his long dark hair was 
 combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar 
 of his well-fitting frock-coat. He wore a mustache and 
 pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and 
 dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would 
 hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. 
 Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military 
 code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, 
 and gentlemen are not excluded. 
 
 The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers 
 stepped aside and each drew away the plank upon which he 
 had been standing. The sergeant turned to the captain, 
 saluted and placed himself immediately behind that officer, 
 who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements left 
 the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two 
 ends of the same plank, which spanned three of the cross- 
 ties of the bridge. The end upon which the civilian stood 
 
AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE 239 
 
 almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had 
 been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now 
 held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former 
 the latter would step aside, the plank would tilt and the 
 condemned man go down between two ties. The arrange 
 ment commended itself to his judgment as simple and effec 
 tive. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged, 
 He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let 
 his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing 
 madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught 
 his attention and his eyes followed it down the current. How 
 slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream! 
 
 He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon 
 his wife and children. The water, touched to gold by the 
 early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at some 
 distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the piece of 
 drift all had distracted him. And now he became conscious 
 of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his 
 dear ones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor 
 understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the 
 stroke of a blacksmith s hammer upon the anvil; it had the 
 same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and 
 whether immeasurably distant or near by it seemed both. 
 Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a 
 death knell. He awaited each stroke with impatience and 
 he knew not why apprehension. The intervals of silence 
 grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. 
 With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in 
 strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust 
 of a knife; he feared he would shriek. What he heard was 
 the ticking of his watch. 
 
 He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. 
 "If I could free my hands," he thought, "I might throw off 
 the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could 
 evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, 
 take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank 
 God, is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones 
 are still beyond the invader s farthest advance." 
 
 As these thoughts, which hays here to be set down in 
 
240 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 words, were flashed into the doomed man s brain rather than 
 evolved from it, the captain nodded to the sergeant. The 
 sergeant stepped aside. 
 
 II 
 
 Peyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old 
 and highly respected Alabama family. Being a slave owner 
 and, like other slave owners, a politician he was naturally an 
 original secessionist and ardently devoted to the Southern 
 cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is 
 unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking 
 service with the gallant army that had fought the disastrous 
 campaigns ending with the fall of Corinth, and he chafed 
 under the inglorious restraint, longing for the release of his 
 energies, the larger life of the soldier, the opportunity for 
 distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would come, as it 
 comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did what he could. 
 No service was too humble for him to perform in aid of the 
 South, no adventure too perilous for him to undertake if con 
 sistent with the character of a civilian who was at heart a 
 soldier, and who in good faith and without too much qualifi 
 cation assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous 
 dictum that all is fair in love and war. 
 
 One evening while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a 
 rustic bench near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad 
 soldier rode up to the gate and asked for a drink of water. 
 Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to serve him with her own 
 white hands. While she was fetching the water her husband 
 approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news 
 from the front. 
 
 "The Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, 
 "and are getting ready for another advance. They have 
 reached the Owl Creek bridge, put it in order and built a 
 stockade on the north bank. The commandant has issued an 
 order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any 
 civilian caught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, 
 tunnels or trains will be summarily hanged. I saw the 
 order." 
 
AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE 241 
 
 "How far it is to the Owl Creek bridge?" Farquhar 
 asked. 
 
 "About thirty miles." 
 
 "Is there no force on this side the creek?" 
 
 "Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and 
 a single sentinel at this end of the bridge." 
 
 "Suppose a man a civilian and student of hanging 
 should elude the picket post and perhaps get the better of 
 the sentinel," said Farquhar, smiling, "what could he ac 
 complish?" 
 
 The soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he 
 replied. "I observed that the flood of last winter had lodged 
 a great quantity of driftwood against the wooden pier at 
 this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would burn like 
 tow." 
 
 The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier 
 drank. He thanked her ceremoniously, bowed to her hus 
 band and rode away. An hour later, after nightfall, he re- 
 passed the plantation, going northward in the direction from 
 which he had come. He was a Federal scout. 
 
 Ill 
 
 As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the 
 bridge he lost consciousness and was as one already dead. 
 From this state he was awakened ages later, it seemed to 
 him by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, fol 
 lowed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant agonies 
 seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every 
 fibre of his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash 
 along well-defined lines of ramification and to beat with an 
 inconceivably rapid periodicity. They seemed like streams of 
 pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. 
 As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of 
 fulness of congestion. These sensations were unaccom 
 panied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was 
 already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was 
 torment. He was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a 
 luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, 
 
242 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 without material substance, he swung through unthinkable 
 arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Then all at once, 
 with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward 
 with the noise of a loud plash; a frightful roaring "was in his 
 ears, and all was cold and dark. The power of thought was 
 restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had 
 fallen into the stream. There was no additional strangula 
 tion; the noose about his neck was already suffocating him 
 and kept the water from his lungs. To die of hanging at 
 the bottom of a river ! the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He 
 opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam 
 of light, but how distant, how inaccessible! He was still 
 sinking, for the light became fainter and fainter until it 
 was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten, 
 and he knew that he was rising toward the surface knew it 
 with reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. To be 
 hanged and drowned," he thought, "that is not so bad; but 
 I do not wish to be shot. No; I will not be shot; that is not 
 fair." 
 
 He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in. 
 his wrist apprised him that he was trying to free his hands. 
 He gave the struggle his attention, as an idler might observe 
 the fetft of a juggler, without interest in the outcome. What 
 splendid effort! What magnificent, what superhuman 
 strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord 
 fell away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands 
 dimly seen on each side in the growing light. He watched 
 them with a new interest as first one and then the other 
 pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away and 
 thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of 
 a water-snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he 
 shouted these words to his hands, for the undoing of the 
 noose had been succeeded by the direst pang that he had yet 
 experienced. His neck ached horribly; his brain was on 
 fire; his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a 
 great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole 
 body was racked and wrenched with an insupportable 
 anguish! But his disobedient hands gave no heed to the 
 command. They beat the water vigorously with quick, down- 
 
AN OCCURRENCE OWL CREEK BRIDGE 243 
 
 ward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his head 
 emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest 
 expanded convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning 
 agony his lungs engulfed a great draught of air, which in 
 stantly he expelled in a shriek ! 
 
 He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They 
 were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in 
 the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted 
 and refined them that they made record of things never before 
 perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their 
 separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on 
 the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves 
 and the veining of each leaf saw the very insects upon them: 
 the locusts, the brilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders stretch 
 ing their webs from twig to twig. He noted the prismatic 
 colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. 
 The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of 
 the stream, the beating of the dragon-flies wings, the strokes 
 of the water-spiders legs, like oars which had lifted their 
 boat all these made audible music. A fish slid along 
 beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body part 
 ing the water. 
 
 He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a 
 moment the visible world seemed to wheel slowly round, 
 himself the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort, 
 the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, the 
 two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette 
 against the blue sky. The shouted and gesticulated, pointing 
 at him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did not 
 fire; the others were unarmed. Their movements were 
 grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic. 
 
 Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck 
 the water smartly within a few inches of his head, spattering 
 his face with spray. He heard a second report, and saw one 
 of the sentinels with his rifle at his shoulder, a light cloud 
 of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in the water 
 saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own 
 through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a 
 gray eye and remembered having read that gray eyes were 
 
244 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 keenest, and that all famous marksmen had them. Never 
 theless, this one had missed. 
 
 A counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half 
 round; he was again looking into the forest on the bank 
 opposite the fort. The sound of a clear, high voice in a 
 monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and came 
 across the water with a distinctness that pierced and sub 
 dued all other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his 
 ears. Although no soldier, he had frequented camps enough 
 to know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawling, 
 aspirated chant ; the lieutenant on shore was taking a part in 
 the morning s work. How coldly and pitilessly with what 
 an even, calm intonation, presaging and enforcing tranquility 
 in the men with what accurately measured intervals fell 
 those cruel words: 
 
 "Attention, ^company! . . . Shoulder arms! . . . 
 Ready! . . . Aim! . . . Fire!" 
 
 Farquhar dived dived as deeply as he could. The water 
 roared in his ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard 
 the dulled thunder of the volley and, rising again toward 
 the surface, met shining bits of metal, singularly flattened, 
 oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched him on 
 the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. 
 One lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfort 
 ably warm and he snatched it out. 
 
 As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that 
 he had been a long time under water; he was perceptibly 
 farther down stream nearer to safety. The soldiers had 
 almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods flashed all at 
 once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels, 
 turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two 
 sentinels fired again, independently and ineffectually. 
 
 The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was 
 now swimming vigorously with the current. His brain was 
 as energetic as his arms and legs; he thought with the 
 rapidity of lightning. 
 
 "The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet s 
 error a second time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a 
 
AN, OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE 245 
 
 single shot. He has probably already given the command to 
 fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge them all!" 
 
 An appalling plash within two yards of him was followed 
 by a loud, rushing sound, diminuendo, which seemed to 
 travel back through the air to the fort and died in an ex 
 plosion which stirred the very river to its deeps ! A rising 
 sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded 
 him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the 
 game. As he shook his head free from the commotion of the 
 smitten water he heard the deflected shot humming through 
 the air ahead, and in an instant it was cracking and smashing 
 the branches in the forest beyond. 
 
 "They will not do that again," he thought, "the next 
 time they will use a charge of grape. I must keep my eye 
 upon the gun ; the smoke will apprise me the report arrives 
 too late; it lags behind the missile. That is a good gun." 
 
 Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round 
 spinning like a top. The water, the banks, the forests, the 
 now distant bridge, fort and men all were commingled and 
 blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only; 
 circular horizontal streaks of color that was all he saw. 
 He had been caught in the vortex and was being whirled 
 on with a velocity of advance and gyration that made him 
 giddy and sick. In a few moments he was flung upon the 
 gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream the 
 southern bank and behind a projecting point which con 
 cealed him from his enemies. The sudden arrest of his mo 
 tion, the abrasion of one of his hands on the gravel, re 
 stored him, and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers 
 into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and audibly 
 blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he 
 could think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. 
 The trees upon the bank were giant garden plants; he noted 
 a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the fragrance 
 of their blooms. A strange,- roseate light shone through 
 the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their 
 branches the music of aeolian harps. He had no wish to 
 perfect his escape was content to remain in that enchanting 
 spot until retaken. 
 
246 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 A whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high 
 above his head roused him from his dream. The baffled 
 cannoneer had fired him a random farewell. He sprang to 
 his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged into the 
 forest. 
 
 All that day he traveled, laying his course by the round 
 ing sun. The forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he 
 discover a break in it, not ever a woodman s road. He had 
 not known that he lived in so wild a region. There was 
 something uncanny in the revelation. 
 
 By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The 
 thought of his wife and children urged him on. At last he 
 found a road which led him in what he knew to be the right 
 direction. It was as wide and straight as a city street, yet it 
 seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no dwelling any 
 where. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested 
 human habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed 
 a straight wall on both sides, terminating on the horizon in 
 a point, like a diagram in a lesson in perspective. Over 
 head, as he looked up through this rift in the wood, shone 
 great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange 
 constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some 
 order which had a secret and malign significance. The wood 
 on either side was full of singular noises, among which 
 once, twice, and again he distinctly heard whispers in an 
 unknown tongue. 
 
 His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it he found 
 it horribly swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black 
 where the rope had bruised it. His eyes felt congested; he 
 could no longer close them. His tongue was swollen with 
 thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it forward from be 
 tween his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf had 
 carpeted the untraveled avenue he could no longer feel the 
 roadway beneath his feet I 
 
 Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while 
 walking, for now he sees another scene perhaps he has 
 merely recovered from a delirium. He stands at the gate 
 of his own home. All is as he left it, and all bright and 
 beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have traveled 
 
AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE 247 
 
 the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up 
 the wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; 
 his wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from 
 the veranda to meet him. At the bottom of the steps she 
 stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude 
 of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! 
 He springs forward with extended arms. As he is about to 
 clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the 
 neck; a blinding white light blazes all about him with a 
 sound like the shock of a cannon then all is darkness and 
 silence ! 
 
 Peyton Farquhar was dead ; his body, with a broken neck, 
 swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of 
 the Owl Creek bridge. 
 
THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE * 
 
 BY HAMLIN GARLAND 
 
 THE nearer the train drew toward La Crosse, the 
 soberer the little group of "vets" became. On the 
 long way from New Orleans they had beguiled tedium 
 with jokes and friendly chaff; or with planning with elabo 
 rate detail what they were going to do now, after the war. 
 A long journey, slowly, irregularly, yet persistently push 
 ing northward. When they entered on Wisconsin terri 
 tory they gave a cheer, and another when they reached 
 Madison, but after that they sank into a dumb expectancy. 
 Comrades dropped off at one or two points beyond, until 
 there were only four or five left who were bound for La 
 Crosse County. 
 
 Three of them were gaunt and brown, the fourth was 
 gaunt and pale, with signs of fever and ague upon him. One 
 had a great scar down his temple, one limped, and they all 
 had unnaturally large, bright eyes, showing emaciation. 
 There were no bands greeting them at the station, no banks 
 of gayly dressed ladies waving handkerchiefs and shouting 
 "Bravo!" as they came in on the caboose of a freight train 
 into the towns that had cheered and blared at them on their 
 way to war. As they looked out or stepped upon the platform 
 for a moment, while the train stood at the station, the loafers 
 looked at them indifferently. Their blue coats, dusty and 
 grimy, were too familiar now to excite notice, much less a 
 friendly word. They were the last of the army to return, and 
 the loafers were surfeited with such sights. 
 
 The train jogged forward so slowly that it seemed likely 
 to be midnight before they should reach La Crosse. The 
 
 * By permission of the author. 
 
 248 
 
THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 249 
 
 little squad grumbled and swore, but it was no use; the 
 train would not hurry, and, as a matter of fact, it was nearly 
 two o clock when the engine whistled "down brakes." 
 
 All of the group were farmers, living in districts several 
 miles out of the town, and all were poor. 
 
 "Now, boys," said Private Smith, he of the fever and ague, 
 "we are landed in La Crosse in the night. We ve got to stay 
 somewhere till mornin . Now I ain t got no two dollars to 
 waste on a hotel. I ve got a wife and children, so I m goin* 
 to roost on a bench and take the cost of a bed out of my 
 hide." 
 
 "Same here," put in one of the other men. "Hide ll grow 
 on again, dollars ll come hard. It s goin to be mighty hot 
 skirmishin to find a dollar these days." 
 
 "Don t think they ll be a deputation of citizens waitin 
 to scort us to a hotel, eh?" said another. His sarcasm was 
 too obvious to require an answer. 
 
 Smith went on, "Then at daybreak we ll start for home 
 at least, I will." 
 
 "Well, I ll be dummed if I ll take two dollars out o my 
 hide," one of the younger men said. "I m goin to a hotel, ef 
 I don t never lay up a cent." 
 
 "That ll do f r you," said Smith; "but if you had a wife 
 an three young uns dependin on yeh " 
 
 "Which I ain t, thank the Lord! and don t intend havin* 
 while the court knows itself." 
 
 The station was deserted, chill and dark, as they came 
 into it at exactly a quarter to two in the morning. Lit by 
 the oil lamps that flared a dull red light over the dingy 
 benches, the waiting room was not an inviting place. The 
 younger man went off to look up a hotel, while the rest re* 
 mained and prepared to camp down on the floor and benches. 
 Smith was attended to tenderly by the other men, who spread 
 their blankets on the bench for him, and, by robbing them 
 selves, made quite a comfortable bed, though the narrow 
 ness of the bench made his sleeping precarious. 
 
 It was chill, though August, and the two men, sitting 
 with bowed heads, grew stiff with cold and weariness, and 
 were forced to rise now and again and walk about to warm 
 
 
 
250 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 their stiffened limbs. It did not occur to them, probably, 
 to contrast their coming home with their going forth, or 
 with the coming home of the generals, colonels, or even 
 captains but to Private Smith, at any rate, there came a 
 sickness at heart almost deadly as he lay there on his hard 
 bed and went over his situation. 
 
 In the deep of the night, lying on a board in the town 
 where he had enlisted three years ago, all elation and en 
 thusiasm gone out of him, he faced the fact that with the 
 joy of home-coming was already mingled the bitter juice of 
 care. He saw himself sick, worn out, taking up the work 
 on his half-cleared farm, the inevitable mortgage standing 
 ready with open jaw to swallow half his earnings. He had 
 given three years of his life for a mere pittance of pay, and 
 now ! 
 
 Morning dawned at last, slowly, with a pale yellow dome 
 of light rising silently above the bluffs, which stand like some 
 huge storm-devastated castle, just east of the city. Out to the 
 left the great river swept on its massive yet silent way to the 
 south. Bluejays called across the water from hillside to 
 hillside through the clear, beautiful air, and hawks began to 
 skim the tops of the hills. The older men were astir early, 
 but Private Smith had fallen at last into a sleep, and they 
 went out without waking him. He lay on his knapsack, his 
 gaunt face turned toward the ceiling, his hands clasped on 
 his breast, with a curious pathetic effect of weakness and 
 appeal. 
 
 An engine switching near woke him at last, and he slowly 
 sat up and stared about. He looked out of the window and 
 saw that the sun was lightening the hills across the river. 
 He rose and brushed his hair as well as he could, folded his 
 blankets up, and went out to find his companions. They 
 stood gazing silently at the river and at the hills. 
 
 "Looks natcher l, don t it?" they said, as he came out. 
 
 "That s what it does," he replied. "An it looks good. 
 D yeh see that peak?" He pointed at a beautiful sym 
 metrical peak, rising like a slightly truncated cone, so high 
 that it seemed the very highest of them all. It was touched 
 
THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 251 
 
 by that morning sun and it glowed like a beacon, and a light 
 scarf of gray morning fog was rolling up its shadowed side. 
 
 "My farm s just beyond that. Now, if I can only ketch 
 a ride, we ll be home by dinner-time." 
 
 "I m talkin about breakfast," said one of the others. 
 
 "I guess it s one more meal o hardtack f r me." said 
 Smith. 
 
 They foraged around, and finally found a restaurant with 
 a sleepy old German behind the counter, and procured some 
 coffee, which they drank to wash down their hardtack. 
 
 "Time ll come," said Smith, holding up a piece by the 
 corner, "when this ll be a curiosity." 
 
 "I hope to God it will ! I bet I ve chawed hardtack enough 
 to shingle every house in the coolly. I ve chawed it when my 
 lampers was down, and when they wasn t. I ve took it dry, 
 soaked, and mashed. I ve had it wormy, musty, sour, and 
 blue-mouldy. I ve had it in little bits and big bits; fore 
 coffee an after coffee. I m ready f r a change. I d like t 
 git holt jest about now o some of the hot biscuits my wife 
 c n make when she lays herself out f r company. 
 
 "Well, if you set there gabblin , you ll never see yer wife." 
 
 "Come on," said Private Smith. "Wait a moment, boys; 
 le s take suthin . It s on me." He led them to the rusty 
 tin dipper which hung on a nail beside the wooden water- 
 pail, and they grinned and drank. Then shouldering their 
 blankets and muskets, which they were "takin home to the 
 boys," they struck out on their last march. 
 
 "They called that coffee Jayvy," grumbled one of them, 
 but it never went by the road where government Jayvy re 
 sides. I reckon I know coffee from peas." 
 
 They kept together on the road along the turnpike, and 
 up the winding road by the river, which they followed for 
 some miles. The river was very lovely, curving down along 
 its sandy beds, pausing now and then under broad bass- 
 wood trees, or running in dark, swift, silent currents under 
 tangles of wild grape vines, and drooping alders, and haw 
 trees. At one of these lovely spots the three vets sat down 
 on the thick green sward to rest, "on Smith s account." The 
 leaves of the trees were as fresh and green as in June, the 
 
252 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 jays called cheery greetings to them, and kingfishers darted 
 to and fro with swooping, noiseless flight. 
 
 "I tell yeh, boys, this knocks the swamps of Loueesiana 
 into kingdom come." 
 
 "You bet. All they c n raise down there is snakes, niggers, 
 and p rticler hell." 
 
 "An 5 fightin men," put in the older man. 
 
 "An fightin men. If I had a good hook an line I d 
 sneak a pick rel out o that pond. Say, remember that time 
 I shot that alligator" 
 
 "I guess we d better be crawlin along," interrupted Smith, 
 rising and shouldering his knapsack, with considerable 
 effort, which he tried to hide. 
 
 "Say, Smith, lemme give you a lift on that." 
 
 "I guess I c n manage," said Smith grimly. 
 
 "Course. But, yo see, I may not have a chance right off 
 to pay yeh back for the times you ve carried my gun and hull 
 caboodle. Say, now, gimme that gun, anyway." 
 
 "All right, if yeh feel like it, Jim." Smith replied, and 
 they trudged along doggedly in the sun, which was getting 
 higher and hotter each half-mile. 
 
 "Ain t it queer there ain t no teams comin along," said 
 Smith, after a long silence. 
 
 "Well, no, seein s it s Sunday." 
 
 "By jinks, that s a fact. It is Sunday. I ll git home in 
 time f r dinner, sure!" he exulted. "She don t hev dinner 
 usially till about one on Sundays." And he fell into a 
 muse, in which he smiled. 
 
 "Well, I ll git home jest about six o clock, jest about when 
 the boys are milkin the cows," said old Jim Cranby. "I ll 
 step into the barn, an then I ll say, Heafc/ why ain t this 
 milkin done before this time o day? An then won t they 
 yell!" he added, slapping his thigh in great glee. 
 
 Smith went on. *T11 jest go up the path. Old Rover ll 
 come down the road to meet me. He won t bark he ll know 
 me an he ll come down waggin his tail an showin ? his 
 teeth. That s his way of laughing An so I ll walk up to the 
 kitchen door, an I ll say, Dinner f r a hungry man! An 5 
 then she ll jump up, anW 
 
THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 253 
 
 He couldn t go on. His voice choked at the thought of 
 it. Saunders, the third man, hardly uttered a word, but 
 walked silently behind the others. He had lost his wife the 
 first year he was in the army. She died of pneumonia, 
 caught in the autumn rains while working in the fields in 
 his place. 
 
 They plodded along till at last they came to a parting of 
 the ways. To the right the road continued up the main 
 valley; to the left it went over the big ridge. 
 
 "Well, boys," began Smith, as they grounded their muskets 
 and looked away up the valley, "here s where we shake 
 hands. We ve marched together a good many miles, an* 
 now I s pose we re done." 
 
 "Yes, I don t think we ll do any more of it f r a. while. 
 I don t want to, I know." 
 
 " I hope I ll see yeh once in a while, boys, to talk over old 
 times." 
 
 "Of course," said Saunders, whose voice trembled a little, 
 too. "It ain t exactly like dyin ." They all found it hard 
 to look at each other. 
 
 "But we d ought r go home with you," said Cranby. 
 "You ll never climb that ridge with all them things on yer 
 back." 
 
 "Oh, I m all right! Don t worry about me. Every step 
 takes me nearer home, yeh see. Well, good-by, boys." 
 
 They shook hands. "Good-by. Good luck!" 
 
 "Same to you. Lemme know how you find things at 
 home." 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 He turned once before they passed out of sight, and waved 
 his cap, and they did the same, and all yelled. Then 
 all marched away with their long, steady, loping, veteran 
 step. The solitary climber in blue walked on for a time, 
 with his mind filled with the kindness of his comrades, and 
 musing upon the many wonderful days they had ,had to 
 gether in camp and field. 
 
 He though of his chum, Billy Tripp. Poor Billy! A 
 "mirrie" ball fell into his breast one day, fell wailing like a 
 
254 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 cat, and tore a great ragged hole in his heart. He looked 
 forward to a sad scene with Billy s mother and sweetheart. 
 They would want to know all about it. He tried to recall all 
 that Billy had said, and the particulars of it, but there was 
 little to remember, just that wild wailing sound high in the 
 air, a dull slap, a short, quick, expulsive groan, and the boy 
 lay with his face in the dirt in the ploughed field they were 
 marching across. 
 
 That was all. But all the scenes he had since been through 
 had not dimmed the horror, the terror of that moment, when 
 his boy comrade fell, with only a breath between a laugh and 
 a death-groan. Poor handsome Billy! Worth millions of 
 dollars was his young life. 
 
 These sombre recollections gave way at length to more 
 cheerful feelings as he began to approach his home coolly. 
 The fields and houses grew familiar, and in one or two he 
 was greeted by people seated in the doorways. But he was 
 in no mood to talk, and pushed on steadily, though he stopped 
 and accepted a drink of milk once at the well-side of a 
 neighbor. 
 
 The sun was burning hot on that slope, and his step grew 
 slower, in spite of his iron resolution. He sat down several 
 times to rest. Slowly he crawled up the rough, reddish- 
 brown road, which wound along the hill-side, under great 
 trees, through dense groves of jack oaks, with tree-tops far 
 below him on his left hand, and the hills far above him on 
 his right. He crawled along like some minute, wingless 
 variety of fly. / 
 
 He ate some hardtack, sauced with wild berries, when he 
 reached the summit of the ridge, and sat there for some time, 
 looked down into his home coolly. 
 
 Sombre, pathetic figure ! His wide, round, gray eyes gazing 
 down into the beautiful valley, seeing and not seeing, the 
 splendid cloud-shadows sweeping over the western hills and 
 across the green and yellow wheat far below. His head 
 dropped forward on his palm, his shoulders took on a tired 
 stoop, his cheek-bones showed painfully. An observer might 
 have said, "He is looking down upon his own grave." 
 
THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 255 
 
 II 
 
 Sunday comes in a Western wheat harvest with such sweet 
 and sudden relaxation to man and beast that it would be holy 
 for that reason, if for no other, and Sundays are usually fair 
 in harvest-time. As one goes out into the field in the hot 
 morning sunshine, with no sound abroad save the crickets 
 and the indescribably pleasant silken rustling of the ripened 
 grain, the reaper and the very sheaves in the stubble seem to 
 be resting, dreaming. 
 
 Around the house, in the shade of the trees, the men sit, 
 smoking, dozing, or reading the papers, while the women, 
 never resting, move about at the housework. The men eat on 
 Sundays about the same as on other days, and breakfast is no 
 sooner over and out of the way than dinner begins. 
 
 But at the Smith farm there were no men dozing or read 
 ing. Mrs. Smith was alone with her three children, Mary, 
 nine, Tommy, six, and little Ted, just past four. Her farm, 
 rented to a neighbor, lay at the head of a coolly or narrow 
 gully, made at some far-off post-glacial period by the vast and 
 angry floods of water which gullied these tremendous fur 
 rows in the level prairie furrows so deep that undisturbed 
 portions of the original level rose like hills on either side, 
 rose to quite considerable mountains. 
 
 The chickens wakened her as usual that Sabbath morning 
 from dreams of her absent husband, from whom she had not 
 heard for weeks. The shadows drifted over the hills, down 
 the slopes, across the wheat, and up the opposite wall in 
 leisurely way, as if, being Sunday, they could take it easy 
 also. The fowls clustered about the housewife as she went 
 out into the yard. Fuzzy little chickens swarmed out from 
 the coops, where their clucking and perpetually disgruntled 
 mothers tramped about, petulantly thrusting their heads 
 through the spaces between the slats. 
 
 A cow called in a deep, musical bass, and a calf answered 
 from a little pen near by, and a pig scurried guiltily out of 
 the cabbages. Seeing all this, seeing the pig in the cabbages, 
 the tangle of grass in the garden, the broken fence which she 
 had mended again and again the little woman, hardly more 
 
256 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 than a girl, sat down and cried. The bright Sabbath morn 
 ing was only a mockery without him I 
 
 A few years ago they had bought this farm, paying part, 
 mortgaging the rest in the usual way. Edward Smith was a 
 man of terrible energy. He worked "nights and Sundays," 
 as the saying goes, to clear the farm of its brush and of its 
 insatiate mortgage ! In the midst of his Herculean struggle 
 came the call for volunteers, and with the grim and unselfish 
 devotion to his country which made the Eagle Brigade able to 
 "whip its weight in wild-cats," he threw down his scythe and 
 grub-axe, turned his cattle loose, and became a bluecoated 
 cog in a vast machine for killing men, and not thistles. 
 While the millionaire sent his money to England for safe 
 keeping, this man, with his girl-wife and three babies, left 
 them on a mortgaged farm, and went away to fight for an 
 idea. It was foolish, but it was sublime for all that. 
 
 That was three years before, and the young wife, sitting on 
 the well-curb on this bright Sabbath harvest morning, was 
 righteously rebellious. It seemed to her that she had borne 
 her share of the country s sorrow. Two brothers had been 
 killed, the renter in whose hands her husband had left the 
 farm had proved a villain; one year the farm had been with 
 out crops, and now the over-ripe grain was waiting the tardy 
 hand of the neighbor who had rented it, and who was cut 
 ting his own grain first. 
 
 About six weeks before, she had received a letter saying, 
 "We ll be discharged in a little while." But no other word 
 had come from him. She had seen by the papers that his 
 army was being discharged, and from day to day other sol 
 diers slowly percolated in blue streams back into the state 
 and country, but still her hero did not return. 
 
 Each week she had told the children that he was coming, 
 and she had watched the road so long that it had become 
 unconscious; and as she stood at the well, or by the kitchen 
 door, her eyes were fixed unthinkingly on the road that 
 wound down the coolly. 
 
 Nothing wears on the human soul like waiting. If the 
 stranded mariner, searching the sun-bright seas, could once 
 give up hope of a ship, that horrible grinding on his brai 
 
THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 257 
 
 would cease. It was this waiting, hoping, on the edge of 
 despair, that gave Emma Smith no rest. 
 
 Neighbors said, with kind intentions: "He s sick, maybe, 
 an can t start north just yet. He ll come along one o these 
 days." 
 
 "Why don t he write?" was her question, which silenced 
 them all. This Sunday morning it seemed to her as if she 
 could not stand it longer. The house seemed intolerably 
 lonely. So she dressed the little ones in their best calico 
 dresses and home-made jackets, and, closing up the house, 
 set off down the coolly to old Mother Gray s. 
 
 "Old Widder Gray" lived at the "mouth of the coolly." 
 She was a widow woman with a large family of stalwart 
 boys and laughing girls. She was the visible incarnation of 
 hospitality and optimistic poverty. With Western open- 
 heartedness she fed every mouth that asked food of her, and 
 worked herself to death as cheerfully as her girls danced in 
 the neighborhood harvest dances. 
 
 She waddled down the path to meet Mrs. Smith with a 
 broad smile on her face. 
 
 "Oh, you little dears! Come right to your granny. 
 Gimme a kiss! Come right in, Mis Smith. How are 
 yeh, anyway? Nice mornin , ain t it? Come in an set 
 down. Everything s in a clutter, but that won t scare you 
 any." 
 
 She led the way into the best room, a sunny, square room, 
 carpeted with a faded and patched rag carpet, and papered 
 with white and green-striped wall-paper, where a few faded 
 effigies of dead members of the family hung in variously 
 sized oval walnut frames. The house resounded with sing 
 ing, laughter, whistling, tramping of heavy boots, and riot 
 ous scufflings. Half-grown boys came to the door and 
 crooked their fingers at the children, who ran out, and were 
 soon heard in the midst of the fun. 
 
 "Don t s pose you ve heard from Ed?" Mrs. Smith shook 
 her head. "He ll turn up some day, when you ain t lookin 
 for m." The good old soul had said that so many times 
 that poor Mrs. Smith derived no comfort from it any longer. 
 
258 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Liz heard from Al the other day. He s comin some day 
 this week. Anyhow, they expect him." 
 
 "Did he say anything of " 
 
 "No, he didn t," Mrs. Gray admitted. "But then it was 
 only a short letter, anyhow. Al ain t much for writin , any 
 how. But come out and see my new cheese. I tell yeh, I 
 don t believe I ever had better luck in my life. If Ed 
 should come, I want you should take him up a piece of this 
 cheese." 
 
 It was beyond human nature to resist the influence of that 
 noisy, hearty, loving household, and in the midst of the sing 
 ing and laughing the wife forgot her anxiety, for the time at 
 least, and laughed and sang with the rest. 
 
 About eleven o clock a wagon-load more drove up to the 
 door, and Bill Gray, the widow s oldest son, and his whole 
 family from Sand Lake Coolly piled out amid a good- 
 natured uproar. Every one talked at once, except Bill, who 
 sat in the wagon with his wrists on his knees, a straw in his 
 mouth, and an amused twinkle in his blue eyes. 
 
 "Ain t heard nothin* o Ed, I s pose?" he asked in a kind 
 of bellow. Mrs. Smith shook her head. Bill, with a deli 
 cacy very striking in such a great giant, rolled his quid in 
 his mouth, and said : 
 
 "Didn t know but you had. I hear two or three of the 
 Sand Lake boys are comin . Left New Orleens some time 
 this week. Didn t write nothin about Ed, but no news is 
 good news in such cases, mother always says." 
 
 "Well, go put out yer team," said Mrs. Gray, "an go n 
 bring me in some taters, an , Sim, you go see if you c n find 
 some corn. Sadie, you put on the water to bile. Come 
 now, hustle yer boots, all o yeh. If I feed this yer crowd, 
 we ve got to have some raw materials. If y think I m goin* 
 to feed yeh on pie you re jest mightily mistaken." 
 
 The children went off into the fields, the girls put dinner 
 on to boil, and then went to change their dresses and fix their 
 hair. "Somebody might come," they said. 
 
 "Land sakes, / hope not! I don t know where in time 
 I d set em, less they d eat at the second table," Mrs. Gray 
 laughed, in pretended dismay. 
 
THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 259 
 
 The two older boys, who had served their time in the 
 army, lay out on the grass before the house, and whittled 
 and talked desultorily about the war and the crops, and 
 planned buying a threshing-machine. The older girls and 
 Mrs. Smith helped enlarge the table and put on the dishes, 
 talking all the time in that cherry, incoherent, and meaning 
 ful way a group of such women have a conversation to be 
 taken for its spirit rather than for its letter, though Mrs. 
 Gray at last got the ear of them all and dissertated at length 
 on girls. 
 
 "Girls in love ain t no use in the whole blessed week," 
 she said. "Sundays they re a-lookin down the road, ex- 
 pectin he ll come. Sunday afternoons they can t think o 
 nothin else, cause he s here. Monday mornin s they re 
 sleepy and kind o dreamy and slimpsy, and good f r nothin 
 on Tuesday and Wednesday. Thursday they git absent- 
 minded, an* begin to look off toward Sunday again, an* 
 mope aroun and let the dishwater git cold, right under their 
 noses. Friday they break dishes, an go off in the best room 
 an snivel, an look out o the winder. Saturdays they have 
 queer spurts o workin like all p ssessed, an spurts o friz- 
 zin their hair. An* Sunday they begin it all over again." 
 
 The girls giggled and blushed all through this tirade 
 from their mother, their broad faces and powerful frames 
 anything but suggestive of lackadaisical sentiment. But 
 Mrs. Smith said: 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Gray, I hadn t ought to stay to dinner. 
 You ve got 
 
 "Now you set right down! If any of them girls beaux 
 comes, they ll have to take what s left, that s all. They ain t 
 s posed to have much appetite, nohow. No, you re goin to 
 stay if they starve, an they ain t no danger o that." 
 
 At one o clock the long table was piled with boiled pota 
 toes, cords of boiled corn on the cob, squash and pumpkin 
 pies, hot biscuits, sweet pickles, bread and butter, and honey. 
 Then one of the girls took down a conch-shell from a nail, 
 and going to the door, blew a long, fine, free blast, that 
 showed there was no weakness of lungs in her ample chest 
 
260 THE GREAT MOD^RN^ AMERICAN STORIES, 
 
 Then the children came out of the forest of corn, out of the 
 creek, out of the loft of the barn, and out of the garden. 
 
 "They come to their feed f r all the world jest like the pigs 
 when y holler poo-eel See em scoot I" laughed Mrs. 
 Gray, every wrinkle on her face shining with delight. 
 
 The men shut up their jack-knives, and surrounded the 
 horse-trough to souse their faces in the cold, hard water, and 
 in a few moments the table was filled with a merry crowd, 
 and a row of wistful-eyed youngsters circled the kitchen wall, 
 where they stood first on one leg and then on the other, in 
 impatient hunger. 
 
 "Now pitch in, Mrs. Smith," said Mrs. Gray, presiding 
 over the table. "You know these men critters. They ll eat 
 every grain of it, if yeh give em a chance. I swan, they re 
 made o India-rubber, their stomachs is, I know it." 
 
 "Haf to eat to work," said Bill, gnawing a cob with a 
 swift, circular motion that rivalled a corn-sheller in results. 
 
 "More like workin to eat," put in one of the girls, with a 
 giggle. "More eat n work with you." 
 
 "You needn t say anything, Net. Any one that ll eat 
 seven ears " 
 
 "I didn t no such thing. You piled your cobs on my 
 plate." 
 
 "That ll do to tell Ed Varney. It won t go down here 
 where we know yeh." 
 
 "Good land! Eat all yeh want! They s plenty more in 
 the fiel s, but I can t afford to give you young uns tea. The 
 tea is for us women-folks, and specially f r Mis Smith an 
 Bill s wife. We re a-goin to tell fortunes by it." 
 
 One by one the men filled up and shoved back, and one by 
 one the children slipped into their places, and by two o clock 
 the women alone remained around the debris-covered table, 
 sipping their tea and telling fortunes. 
 
 As they got well down to the grounds in the cup, they 
 shook them with a circular motion in the hand, and then 
 turned them bottom-side up quickly in the saucer, then 
 twirled them three or four times one way, and three or four 
 times the other, during a breathless pause. Then Mrs. Gray 
 
THE RETURN, OF A PRIVATE 261 
 
 lifted the cup, and, gazing into it with profound gravity, pro 
 nounced the impending fate. 
 
 It must be admitted that, to a critical observer, she had 
 abundant preparation for hitting close to the mark, as when 
 she told the girls that "somebody was comin ." "It s a 
 man," she went on gravely. "He is cross-eyed " 
 
 "Oh, you hush 1" cried Nettie. 
 
 "He has red hair, and is death on b iled corn and hot 
 biscuit." 
 
 The others shrieked with delight. 
 
 "But he s goin to get the mitten, that red-headed feller is, 
 for I see another feller comin up behind him." 
 
 "Oh, lemme see, lemme see!" cried Nettie. 
 
 "Keep off," said the priestess, with a lofty gesture. "His 
 hair is black. He don t eat so much, and he works more." 
 
 The girls exploded in a shriek of laughter, and pounded 
 their sister on the back. 
 
 At last came Mrs. Smith s turn, and she was trembling 
 with excitement as Mrs. Gray again composed her jolly face 
 to what she considered a proper solemnity of expression. 
 
 "Somebody is comin* to you" she said, after a long pause. 
 "He s got a musket on his back. He s a soldier. He s al 
 most here. See?" 
 
 She pointed at two little tea-stems, which really formed a 
 faint suggestion of a man with a musket on his back. He 
 had climbed nearly to the edge of the cup. Mrs. Smith grew 
 pale with excitement. She trembled so she could hardly 
 hold the cup in her hand as she gazed into it. 
 
 "It s Ed," cried the old woman. "He s on the way home. 
 Heavens an earth! There he is now!" She turned and 
 waved her hand out toward the road. They rushed to the 
 door to look where she pointed. 
 
 A man in a blue coat, with a musket 011 his back, was 
 toiling slowly up the hill on the sun-bright, dusty road, 
 toiling slowly, with bent head half hidden by a heavy knap 
 sack. So tired it seemed that walking was indeed a process 
 of falling. So eager to get home he would not stop, would 
 not look aside, but plodded on, amid the cries of the locusts, 
 the welcome of the crickets, and the rustle of the yellow 
 
262 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 wheat. Getting back to God s country, and his wife and 
 babies ! 
 
 Laughing, crying, trying to call him and the children at 
 the same time, the little wife, almost hysterical, snatched her 
 hat and ran out into the yard. But the soldier had disap 
 peared over the hill into the hollow beyond, and, by the 
 time she had found the children, he was too far away for 
 her voice to reach him. And, besides, she was not sure it 
 was her husband, for he had not turned his head at their 
 shouts. This seemed so strange. Why didn t he stop to 
 rest at his old neighbor s house? Tortured by hope and 
 doubt, she hurried up the coolly as fast as she could push 
 the baby wagon, the blue-coated figure just ahead pushing 
 steadily, silently forward up the coolly. 
 
 When the excited, panting little group came in sight of 
 the gate they saw the blue-coated figure standing, leaning 
 upon the rough rail fence, his chin on his palms, gazing at 
 the empty house. His knapsack, canteen, blankets, and 
 musket lay upon the dusty grass at his feet. 
 
 He was like a man lost in a dream. His wide, hungry 
 eyes devoured the scene. The rough lawn, the little un- 
 painted house, the field of clear yellow wheat behind it, down 
 across which streamed the sun, now almost ready to toucty 
 the high hill to the west, the crickets crying merrily, a cat on 
 the fence near by, dreaming, unmindful of the stranger in 
 blue- 
 How peaceful it all was. O God! How far removed 
 from all camps, hospitals, battle lines. A little cabin in a 
 Wisconsin coolly, but it was majestic in its peace. How did 
 he ever leave it for those years of tramping, thirsting, killing ? 
 Trembling, weak with emotion, her eyes on the silent 
 figure, Mrs. Smith hurried up to the fence. Her feet made 
 no noise in the dust and grass, and they were close upon him 
 before he knew of them. The oldest boy ran a little ahead. 
 He will never forget that figure, that face. It will always 
 remain as something epic, that return of the private. He 
 fixed his eyes on the pale face covered with a ragged beard. 
 "Who are you, sir?" asked the wife, or, rather, started to 
 ask, for he turned, stood a moment, and then cried: 
 
THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 263 
 
 "Emma!" 
 
 "Edward!" 
 
 The children stood in a curious row to see their mother 
 kiss this bearded, strange man, the elder girl sobbing sym 
 pathetically with her mother. Illness had left the soldier 
 partly deaf, and this added to the strangeness of his manner. 
 
 But the youngest child stood away, even after the girl had 
 recognized her father and kissed him. - The man turned then 
 to the baby, and said in a curiously unpaternal tone : 
 
 "Come here, my little man; don t you know me?" But 
 the baby backed away under the fence and stood peering at 
 him critically. 
 
 "My little man!" What meaning in those words! This 
 baby seemed like some other woman s child, and not the 
 infant he had left in his wife s arms. The war had come 
 between him and his baby he was only a strange man to 
 him, with big eyes ; a soldier, with mother hanging to his arm, 
 and talking in a loud voice. 
 
 "And this is Tom," the private said, drawing the oldest 
 boy to him. "He ll come and see me. He knows his poor 
 old pap when he comes home from the war." 
 
 The mother heard the pain and reproach in his voice and 
 hastened to apologize. 
 
 "You ve changed so, Ed. He can t know yeh. This is 
 papa, Teddy; come and kiss him Tom and Mary do. 
 Come, won t you?" But Teddy still peered through the 
 fence with solemn eyes, well out of reach. He resembled a 
 half-wild kitten that hesitates, studying the tones of one s 
 voice. 
 
 "I ll fix him," said the soldier, and sat down to undo his 
 knapsack, out of which he drew three enormous and very 
 red apples. After giving one to each of the older children, 
 he said: 
 
 "Now I guess he ll come. Eh, my little man? Now come 
 see your pap." 
 
 Teddy crept slowly under the fence, assisted by the over- 
 zealous Tommy, and a moment later was kicking and squall 
 ing in his father s arms. Then they entered the house, into 
 the sitting room, poor, bare, art-forsaken little room, too, 
 
264 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 with its rag carpet, its square clock, and its two or three 
 chromos and pictures from Harper s Weekly pinned about. 
 
 "Emma, I m all tired out," said Private Smith, as he 
 flung himself down on the carpet as he used to do, while his 
 wife brought a pillow to put under his head, and the children 
 stood about munching their apples. 
 
 "Tommy, you run and get me a pan of chips, and Mary, 
 you get the tea-kettle on, and I ll go and make some biscuit." 
 
 And the soldier talked. Question after question he poured 
 forth about the crops, the cattle, the renter, the neighbor. He 
 slipped his heavy government brogan shoes off his poor, tired, 
 blistered feet, and lay out with utter, sweet relaxation. He 
 was a free man again, no longer a soldier under command. 
 At supper he stopped once, listened and smiled. "That s 
 old Spot. I know her voice. I s pose that s her calf out 
 there in the pen. I can t milk her to-night, though. I m 
 too tired. But I tell you, I d like a drink o her milk. 
 What s become of old Rove?" 
 
 "He died last winter. Poisoned, I guess." There was a 
 moment of sadness for them all. It was some time before the 
 husband spoke again, in a voice that trembled a little. 
 
 "Poor old feller! He d a* known me half a mile away. 
 I expected him to come down the hill to meet me. It ud 
 a been more like comin home if I could a seen him comin 
 down the road an waggin his tail, an laughin that way he 
 had. I tell yeh, it kind o took hold o me to see the blinds 
 down an the house shut up." 
 
 "But, yeh see, we we expected you d write again fore 
 you started. And then we thought we d see you if you did 
 come," she hastened to explain. 
 
 "Well, I ain t worth a cent on writin . Besides, it s just 
 as well yeh didn t know when I was comin . I tell you, it 
 sounds good to hear them chickens out there, an turkeys, an 
 the crickets. Do you know they don t have just the same kind 
 o crickets down South? Who s Sam hired t help cut yer 
 grain?" 
 
 "The Ramsey boys." 
 
 "Looks like a good crop; but I m afraid I won t do much 
 gettin it cut. This cussed fever an ague has got me down 
 
THE RETURN OF A PRIVATE 265 
 
 pretty low. I don t know when I ll get rid of it. I ll bet 
 IVe took twenty-five pounds of quinine if I ve taken a bit. 
 Gimme another biscuit. I tell yeh, they taste good, Emma. 
 I ain t had anything like it say, if you d a hear d me 
 braggin to th boys about your butter n biscuits I ll bet 
 your ears ud a burnt." 
 
 The private s wife colored with pleasure. "Oh, you re 
 always a-braggin about your things. Everybody makes good 
 butter." 
 
 "Yes; old lady Snyder, for instance." 
 
 "Oh, well, she ain t to be mentioned. She s Dutch." 
 
 "Or old Mis Snively. One more cup o tea, Mary. That s 
 my girl ! I m feeling better already. I just b lieve the mat 
 ter with me is, I m starved." 
 
 This was a delicious hour, one long to be remembered. 
 They were like lovers again. But their tenderness, like that 
 of a typical American family, found utterance in tones, rather 
 than in words. He was praising her when praising her bis 
 cuit, and she knew it. They grew soberer when he showed 
 where he had been struck, one ball burning the back of his 
 hand, one cutting away a lock of hair from his temple, and 
 one passing through the calf of his leg. The wife shuddered 
 to think how near she had come to being a soldier s widow. 
 Her waiting no longer seemed hard. This sweet, glorious 
 hour effaced it all. 
 
 Then they rose, and all went out into the garden and 
 down to the barn. He stood beside her while she milked old 
 Spot. They began to plan fields and crops for next year. 
 
 His farm was weedy and encumbered, a rascally renter had 
 run away with his machinery (departing between two days), 
 his children needed clothing, the years were coming upon him, 
 he was sick and emaciated, but his heroic soul did not quail. 
 With the same courage with which he had faced his Southern 
 march he entered upon a still more hazardous future. 
 
 Oh, that mystic hour! The pale man with big eyes stand 
 ing there by the well, with his young wife by his side. The 
 vast moon swinging above the eastern peaks, the cattle wind 
 ing down the pasture slopes with jangling bells, the crickets 
 singing, the stars blooming out sweet and far and serene; 
 
266 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 the katydids rhythmically calling, the little turkeys crying 
 querulously, as they settled to roost in the poplar tree near 
 the open gate. The voices at the well drop lower, the little 
 ones nestle in their father s arms at last, and Teddy falls 
 asleep there. 
 
 The common soldier of the American volunteer army had 
 returned. His war with the South was over, and his fight, 
 his daily running fight with nature and against the injus 
 tice of his fellow-men, was begun again. 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE * 
 By HENRY B. FULLER 
 
 FAR, so good/ said Michael A. Brannigan, lead- 
 ing his young charge away from the sloppy bar. 
 "But you don t want to stop here. It ain t enough 
 to drink with the boys; you ought to dance now with some 
 of the girls." 
 
 "All right," returned Jameson Bates with great readi 
 ness. He was "mixing," and it was neither time nor place 
 for anything like half-measures. 
 
 The air of the hall was hazy with dust and smoke. Now 
 and then came a whiff from across a beer-sodden area of 
 sav/dust. The band, up in a dingy corner of the gallery, 
 was just beginning on Casey Would Dance with the Straw 
 berry Blonde. 
 
 "You ve got it in you," said Brannigan, eying the toe that 
 Jameson was beating upon the battered floor. 
 
 "Never waltzed before in my life!" returned Jameson with 
 a grimace. 
 
 "You didn t?" queried his guide with a note of disap 
 pointment. 
 
 "But I m going to now," finished Jameson. 
 
 "Can you?" asked the other doubtfully. 
 
 "I guess so. It s always looked easy. For the matter of 
 that, never ran for alderman before. Ain t finding that very 
 hard, either. * 
 
 "You ll get through all right," said Brannigan, grinning 
 in the young fellow s smooth, fair face. 
 
 "Sure thing," returned Jameson. 
 
 * By permission of the author and Curtis Publishing Company. 
 
 26f 
 
268 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 The Sons and Daughters of the Golden Signet were just 
 taking the floor again. 
 
 "Let me introduce you to a girl or two," said Brannigan. 
 
 "Let me introduce meself," returned Jameson. 
 
 Edgar Jameson Bates was twenty-five years old. He was 
 six feet tall, weighed one hundred and seventy pounds, was 
 sound as a nut and strong as an ox. He had been centre 
 rush at Yale, had hunted the Rocky Mountain sheep up 
 beyond Calgary, and for the past year and a half had been 
 more or less engaged in the practice of law. But Jameson 
 was never meant to quibble and squabble; nor had he ever 
 felt drawn, like his elder brother, into the "business" into 
 the great concern that their father had originated and devel 
 oped and had made a household word the country through. 
 Something more, something different was needed to give out 
 let to his superabundant energies. His nibble at the law had 
 brought him within range of the City Voters League and 
 the Property Owners Protective Association, and other or 
 ganizations that were working toward the amelioration of 
 local conditions. Presently came the day when Jameson felt 
 the sudden impulse to put his young strength to the wheel 
 and to help lift the municipal coach from the mire. "I ll 
 join the Board of Aldermen," he said. 
 
 Michael Aloysius Brannigan welcomed the new recruit 
 gladly; at last the ward might be got out of the hands of the 
 condemned Republicans. What Michael Brannigan said 
 was likely to go. He was the captain of his ward and an 
 important wheel in the general municipal machinery. He 
 was a city boiler inspector. He drew the salary, and the 
 work was done by somebody else or by nobody. He him 
 self did not know a flue from a flange and made but a pre 
 tense of keeping a record of inspections. Now and then a 
 steam laundry blew up and made a page for the papers. But 
 if Michael did not give satisfaction in this cramped field, 
 he succeeded admirably in a wider one; he was never so 
 happy as when managing for the general body of citizens 
 those concerns which the general body of citizens should 
 have managed for themselves. Michael, in short, was one 
 of the muddy ditches through which the ardent young patriot 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE 269 
 
 must flounder as best he may if he desires to enter the fair 
 field of public service that lies beyond. 
 
 Jameson was too robust to be fastidious ; he saw, moreover, 
 that the game must be played with the men actually on the 
 board. He applied to Michael Aloysius. The great man s 
 first response was non-committal. However, he invited the 
 neophyte to mingle with the Sons and Daughters. If he 
 turned out a good "mixer" he might do. 
 
 "That girl in red is the one for me," declared Jameson. 
 
 Brannigan had looked at the girl in red first involunta 
 rily. Jameson had seen him do so. Brannigan was not 
 aware of this. 
 
 "Yes, the one in red," repeated Jameson. "She s a beaut. 
 Watch me." 
 
 Jameson had caught the tone of the assembly quite miracu 
 lously. After that, to catch the step of the dance was but a 
 trifle. He walked over briskly to the girl in red and made 
 known his modest ambition. She seemed a vigorous, posi 
 tive creature, and could pull him through, as he felt with 
 relief, if anybody could. As they stepped out to take the 
 floor another young man, with heavy shoulders, a super 
 abundant mustache and a careful brown scallop on his fore 
 head, turned away forestalled and thwarted. 
 
 "No previous claim?" smiled Jameson, gathering her fin 
 gers in his big, smooth hand. These were smooth, too as 
 well-cared-for and ladylike as one might wish. 
 
 "First come," replied the girl, lifting her black eyebrows 
 with quite an air. Perhaps, after all, she entertained a 
 slight grudge against the other for his heavy, lumbering 
 tardiness. 
 
 "Time counts," said Jameson sententiously, as he took an 
 opening step. 
 
 "Well, let s keep it," she replied briefly. The first false 
 start rectified, she carefully laid her face a face framed in 
 a wide flange of jet-black hair against his shoulder; clearly 
 she was meaning to abandon herself completely to the melt 
 ing rhythm of the cornet, the trombone, the two fiddles and 
 the flute. Jameson accommodated himself as well as he 
 could to the creakle and swish of her satin skirt trimmed li>- 
 
270 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 erally yet inexpensively with wide-meshed black lace, and 
 kept his feet out of tangle with more or less success. Every 
 body in Harmony Hall was watching him; not a soul there 
 but knew who he was and what he was after. He himself 
 had never before seen a single one of the lot, save Brannigan 
 and him but once. "Are they for me, or ag in me?" won 
 dered Jameson as he looked out over the top of the girl s hair. 
 
 He kept it up fearlessly. He had a natural sense of 
 rhythm and had always been light on his feet. But the 
 deuce seemed in it he was barely holding his own. There 
 was a titter from a girl whom he might have asked first, but 
 hadn t, and a single derisive note of laughter from the mus 
 cular young man with the scalloped hair. "So it goes," 
 muttered Jameson; "if I were doing well, they d like it still 
 less." 
 
 His partner suddenly lifted her flaring frame of hair from 
 his shoulder and looked across that wide ridge with angry 
 eyes. She was not to be balked in her triumph; if the per 
 formance called for the aid of a second mind, that mind was 
 here. She set her straight lips firmly and took command. 
 Respect, reluctant yet complete, ruled once more through the 
 place. 
 
 "Well, you re a wonder," said Jameson as they toppled 
 suddenly into a pair of rough chairs set against the wall. 
 "You pulled me through in great shape." 
 
 "I came here to dance" she returned. 
 
 Her tone might have implied either reproach or determi 
 nation. 
 
 "And haven t you?" he asked. "You could dance on a 
 cinder-pile. You could dance with a clothes-horse. What 
 is your name?" 
 
 "Well, that s a question! What difference does it make?" 
 
 "What difference? The name of the first young lady I 
 ever danced with in my life?" 
 
 She stared at him. 
 
 "Well, you have got the nerve!" 
 
 "I need it in this business. What kind of an office do you 
 Work in?" 
 
 Such flattery was irresistible. 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE 271 
 
 "My name is Marguerite Ryan," she answered with a toss 
 of the head. 
 
 " Marguerite ! " he replied, throwing up his own. "Non 
 sense! Neyer in the world 1" 
 
 "My name is Marguerite Ryan," she reiterated. "What 
 do you mean by telling me it isn t?" 
 
 "Come, now," insinuated Jameson very quietly; "your 
 mother calls you Maggie; you know she does. And your lit 
 tle brother calls you Mag." 
 
 The girl s eyes sparkled angrily. You leave my mother 
 out. My name," she repeated, "is Marguerite " 
 
 "Your name," interrupted Jameson in a calm, gentle tone, 
 "is Margaret. It s a very beautiful one, and one that be 
 comes you. Don t let anybody change it; don t let anybody 
 tinker with it. Margaret Ryan," he repeated, looking out 
 with seeming abstraction upon the clearing floor in front of 
 them; "what could be better? What sweeter? What more 
 musical?" 
 
 The girl gave a gasp. He had ruffled her with one hand, 
 it seemed, to smooth her with the other. He had threatened 
 to humble her, yet had raised her higher than she stood be 
 fore. Taking it all around, he had let her off rather easily. 
 
 "Margaret Ryan, if you say so," she acquiesced presently. 
 "What s yours?" 
 
 Jameson smiled as he answered. Everybody in the hall 
 knew his name, this girl included; everybody in the city 
 knew it. The entire community recognized in his father, 
 Granger Bates, the head and front of one of the great indus 
 trial concerns of the West, the employer of thousands of 
 hands and a prime mover in manufacture and transportation. 
 Not one whit behind was his wife, a social light par excel 
 lence; she was the president of the Woman s National 
 League; she was the "Susan Lathrop Bates" whose name 
 stood carved in imperishable stone among the gables and 
 gargoyles that shut in the campus of the University; and on 
 more than one memorable occasion she had led, with a state- 
 liness and magnificance that had intimidated her son himself, 
 the grand march at the Charity Ball. As for his own deeds 
 of prowess, were they not written in 
 
272 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 " Jameson! " cried the girl mockingly. "Nonsense! 
 Never in the world! 
 
 "My name," he reiterated, in her own solemn tone of ex 
 postulation, "is Edgar Jameson Bates " 
 
 "Not a bit of it!" she retorted quickly. "Your father 
 calls you Jim, you know he does. And your mother calls 
 you Jimmy!" 
 
 "Guessed it the first shot!" cried Jameson, delighted. 
 "You re a winner no mistake!" 
 
 "What is she like?" 
 
 "Mother?" Jameson shrugged his shoulders; this girl 
 knew all about his mother. The great lady s picture was in 
 the public prints once a month throughout the year, and 
 daily paragraphs were made of her simplest doings. "Oh," 
 he replied, humoring the other s fantasy, "she s a solid, 
 husky person like me no nonsense about her." 
 
 "Well, I d let somebody else say it." 
 
 "What! can t I speak a good word for my own mother?" 
 
 "And two for yourself." 
 
 "And two hundred for you." 
 
 "I haven t heard them yet." 
 
 "You re going to." 
 
 "What for? To bring my uncle round?" 
 
 "Your uncle? Who s he?" 
 
 "Didn t I see him send you over to me?" 
 
 "What! Is Michael Brannigan your uncle? I never 
 knew it I swear I didn t. I came of my own accord. 
 There s some one girl here, thought I, who ought to be 
 taken out first, and who expects to be, and who deserves to 
 be; one who s prettier than any of the others, and more 
 spirited, and more stylish " 
 
 "That will do to say!" interrupted Margaret, waving aside 
 a superfluous finish. 
 
 "That s why I say it. Well, what kind of an office do you 
 work in?" 
 
 "What makes you think I work in any kind?" asked the 
 girl, now almost wishing that she didn t. 
 
 "Why, you don t suppose I thought you worked in a de 
 partment store, do you?" 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE 273 
 
 This appreciation charmed her. "Well, if you want to 
 know, I m in the County Building in the Recorder s depart 
 ment." 
 
 "I understand," said Jameson. "You write all day in 
 those big books." 
 
 "And what do you do?" 
 
 "I m a lawyer sort o . Perhaps you copy some of my 
 things now and then. I m death on deeds." 
 
 "And on words, too, eh?" 
 
 "I m not so shy there, either." 
 
 "Well, if you want to get this nomination it will take more 
 than talk." 
 
 "What nomination?" asked Jameson innocently. 
 
 "Oh, you!" said the girl. "I knew about it all along!" 
 she added. 
 
 "Oh, me!" replied Jameson. "I knew all along you did!" 
 
 "Well, then, get up and hustle." 
 
 "What am I doing now? Do you mean it s time for 
 another washout at the bar?" 
 
 "No, I don t. That sort of thing isn t so very necessary, 
 I don t believe. Nor so very nice, either. Do you see that 
 girl over in that far-away corner?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Not very pretty, eh?" 
 
 "Not very." 
 
 "A good deal of a dowdy, besides?" 
 
 "I should say so." 
 
 "Well, you ve got me on the string all right, so go over 
 and dance with her. She s got a kind of a pull, too at 
 least her father has." 
 
 "Dance?" objected Jameson. "You know what my danc 
 ing is. Besides, I want to stay where I am." 
 
 "Do you think I m going to sit here much longer? Go; 
 you ll find the poor thing glad enough to take the will for the 
 deed. If her father and my uncle agree " 
 
 ,"Well, you know best," said Jameson, rising dejectedly, 
 "if I could have another waltz with you, afterward " 
 
 "Not on your life," said Margaret emphatically. "As I 
 told you before, I came here to dance" 
 
274 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Good-by, then." 
 
 "Good-by." 
 
 "Till we meet again." 
 
 "That will never be. By to-morrow my name might be 
 Kate or Sally or Dorothy Jane, for all you ll be able to re 
 member." 
 
 "It will be Margaret, just the same." 
 
 "Well, don t forget that Ryan follows it and that Miss 
 comes before." 
 
 "I hope I know how to address a a letter to a lady," 
 said Jameson solemnly. "What is the rest of the super 
 scription?" 
 
 "I m in the directory, like all the public employees. But 
 you needn t look there." 
 
 "I shall, though." 
 
 "I forbid you." 
 
 "Then what street-car line do I take?" 
 
 "Well, for cold cheek!" 
 
 "So you won t see me again? not even for a quadrille?" 
 asked Jameson, lingering. 
 
 "Well, I might consider that" returned the girl guardedly. 
 
 II 
 
 "He ll do," said Brannigan. "And he s the only one who 
 can pull the old Third over on the right side of the line." 
 
 "That s what we need," observed His Honor sententiously. 
 
 "But how about Callahan?" asked the city clerk. Calla- 
 kan was the stout young man with the scalloped hair. He 
 was secretary of the Steamfitters Union and had a fol 
 lowing of his own. His following, as it immediately devel 
 oped, included the thirty-seven precinct captains of the 
 ward, and they had united in indorsing him for alderman. 
 
 Brannigan swore loudly on hearing of this unauthorized 
 action, and scattered a long train of minor oaths through 
 the dim and dirty corridors of the municipal edifice as he 
 ploughed his way out toward his own bailiwick. He had the 
 thirty-seven hailed before him, and asked them who was run- 
 ming this campaign, anyway? 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE 275 
 
 "Bates is the man," he emitted amongst various sulphur 
 ous breathings, "and I m going to have him nominated." 
 
 The thirty-seven acquiesced. They attended the ward 
 convention in force and applauded their leader all through 
 his nominating address, as he spread out his big, fat hands 
 to show how clean they were, and rolled up his eyes to the 
 ceiling to evidence the purity of his aims, his motives, his 
 ambitions. They applauded Jameson Bates, too, whose 
 speech of acceptance was stuffed with reckless promises for 
 the general good (each of which he kept, or tried to), but 
 whose every word and gesture bore an ironical implication 
 that he saw through them and they through him, and that 
 they were all a pack of humbugging rascals together. Yes, 
 Jameson quite carried them away; clearly he was not half so 
 good as they had feared. 
 
 Jameson dined at a flashy restaurant of doubtful repute, 
 along with six or eight of the precinct captains. As he was 
 lying at the end of the showcase, near the droplight. Al 
 most instinctively his hand sought the volume and began 
 frilling over its leaves in search of the final pages of the R s. 
 "I m half way there," he thought; "so why shouldn t I do 
 the decent thing and go and thank her?" He pressed another 
 handful of cigars upon his followers and swung aboard a 
 passing car. 
 
 Poplar Avenue turned out to be a ramshackle street set 
 higgledy-piggledy with various ugly little edifices, brick and 
 frame. The sidewalks were full of sudden rises, falls and 
 dislocations, and far below, in the midst of the mud, were 
 certain indications that pointed to the possibility of a rotting 
 wooden pavement. No. 783 rose high above its humbler 
 neighbors with a certain pert tinnishness of cornice and bay- 
 window about its front of red brick and white limestone, but 
 Jameson soon saw that each of its four floors was a separate 
 flat. "H m," he said, considering the whole bare, ugly pros 
 pect, "after this I shall never take elms and asphalt for 
 granted." 
 
 The door of the third flat was opened by a plain, substan 
 tial woman who wore a serviceable black dress and who had 
 her hair drawn smoothly across her temples. "Mother, sure 
 
276 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 enough," said Jameson. "She s all right." Mother an 
 nounced that "Maggie" would be in "right away." She put 
 Jameson on a sofa upholstered in a kind of pink and silver 
 brocade and adorned with certain superfluous hangings, 
 danglings and festoonings. Then, with the delicacy of her 
 class, she retired and was seen no more. 
 
 Jameson poked at the sofa with an incredulous finger. 
 
 "Well, I ve seen them often enough in the windows of the 
 instalment stores, and now I m actually sitting on one! 
 Fancy!" Sheraton and Chippendale seemed a long way off. 
 "Never mind that, though," he added. 
 
 After some little time by no means "right away" 
 Margaret came in. She wore a dress of electric blue, made 
 with a variety of liberal revers, wings, flounces and the like, 
 and trimmed with an abundance of wide braid. She seemed 
 to feel that the effect of her costume was very quiet, refined, 
 ladylike. She herself, however, was just a bit flushed and 
 breathless. Such a call was an event. So was such a dress. 
 
 "Well, here I am," said Jameson, rising with cordial 
 abruptness. "You can t keep me down, you see." 
 
 "Who wants to keep a good man down, I should like to 
 know?" 
 
 "I m glad you think I m good." 
 
 "I never had any doubts about it. I felt it the first time 
 I saw you." 
 
 "Oh, come," protested Jameson. "Not too good?" 
 
 "No better than you ought to be. Just good enough. Sit 
 down again." 
 
 She set him an example by sinking into a big, pudgy easy- 
 chair. She carefully deployed her slim, well-kept fingers 
 over one arm of it. 
 
 "Well, didn t I guess right about you?" he asked, eyeing 
 the fingers. 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "About the office. Of course I knew you never weighed 
 out nails." 
 
 "I should say not. Well, you got through all right?" 
 
 "Slick as a whistle. Poor Callahan, though cut out 
 again." 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE 277 
 
 "Don t mention Callahan. He doesn t interest me." 
 
 "He did up to the time of that quadrille." 
 
 "Well, maybe; but that s over. I knew it was a go for 
 you," she added. 
 
 "You did? How soon?" 
 
 "As soon as you came over and asked me to dance. *A 
 man who can handle things like that, thought I What 
 made you ask me first, anyway?" 
 
 "Because you re so dark, I expect. I m so light myself, 
 you see. I made one mistake, though." 
 
 "What was that? Thinking you could waltz by inspira 
 tion?" 
 
 "No. I thought at first your eyes were black. They re 
 blue." 
 
 "Of course they are. Did you want them black?" 
 
 "Not on your life! What! when the pupils are a blue 
 that almost is black, and big enough to crowd the iris almost 
 out of sight? And when your eyebrows are black, and your 
 eyelashes, too, and your I don t know what to call them, 
 but I mean that little fringe on the under edge of " 
 
 "Dear me, you ll know my eyes next time you see them!" 
 
 "Certain sure. Tell me truly, are you Irish?" 
 
 "Of course I am. Not red Irish, though; black. I got 
 my eyes and my hair from Spain." 
 
 "I know; the Dons of the Armada. Tell me: were your 
 forefathers kings?" 
 
 "My great-great-great " 
 
 "Keep it up," said Jameson. 
 
 " great-grandfather was king of oh, laugh, if you 
 want to!" 
 
 "I don t. Go ahead." 
 
 "And my mother is a lady even if we do live on the 
 wrong side of the tracks." 
 
 "So is mine. Don t you suppose I know a lady when I 
 see one?" 
 
 "And my father is an honest man even if he does work 
 in the Special Assessment department. It s his principle 
 that s kept him back." 
 
 "And is my father a scamp ? Not much ! What if he has 
 
278 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 got five millions? he made every dollar of them honestly. 
 He may not be one of your hidalgos, but he is one of Nature s 
 noblemen, all the same. Say, are those five millions going 
 to hurt my prospects?" 
 
 "Not if you show yourself to the voters." 
 
 "I m going to begin to-morrow. Glad hand all around, 
 and three or four speeches every day for the next month. 
 Don t you think I can do the heart-to-heart act?" 
 
 "I should say yes. You can jolly to beat the band." 
 
 "Come and hear me." 
 
 "I m going to. Who is it you get it from? Your father?" 
 
 "No. Just a gift from Heaven, I guess. Father doesn t 
 talk much. He acts." 
 
 "How did he begin?" 
 
 "He was a machinist. And my grandfather, my mother s 
 father, was a carpenter. My mother herself " 
 
 "Yes, do tell me about her." 
 
 " was a washerwoman." 
 
 "Never in the world!" 
 
 "So she says. And I ll bet a cent that if she had a little 
 back shed with a bench and a washtub in it " 
 
 "Look here," cried the girl with a face expressive of 
 limitless admiration and sympathy, "I m just beginning to 
 understand you." 
 
 "Poof!" said Jameson, tossing his head nonchalantly, 
 "I understood you from the word go. At the same time," he 
 went on, "she s a queen, just like your great-great-great " 
 
 "Oh, stop, do," cried Margaret in distress. 
 
 " a society queen, I mean, and a grand old girl any 
 way you put it." 
 
 "I m sure she is. I d give anything to know her." 
 
 "Easy thing, that. She ll call." 
 
 "Would she?" 
 
 "Sure. I m her favorite son. My elder brother, Billy 
 Will-yum, I mean has turned out something of a prig." 
 
 "Would she, truly? But not not not because it s 
 politics?" 
 
 "Oh, cut politics. You re worth something in yourself, 
 ain t you?" 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE 279 
 
 "I ve always hoped so." 
 
 "Well, don t call it a hope. Call it a certainty. That 
 would be nearer right." 
 
 The girl smiled modestly, deprecatingly, almost appeal- 
 ingly. The amazon of Harmony Hall, no longer under the 
 necessity of enforcing respect in a rough public gathering, 
 was now completely obscured; even the character of a mid 
 dle-class maiden earnestly parrying the advances of a half- 
 known young millionaire was finally as good as laid aside. 
 "She s a lady, after all that s what she is," murmured 
 Jameson with conviction; "and I ve been about ten times 
 too gay." 
 
 Margaret fingered the deplorable trappings of her chair 
 with a fine effect of conscious pensiveness. Jameson studied 
 a crayon portrait overhead, a mild, middle-aged face with 
 a goat s beard doubtless the just man in the Special Assess 
 ment department. 
 
 "People might think our talk rather personal," she pres 
 ently observed. 
 
 "Or that we had about talked ourselves out," he rejoined, 
 coming back from the brief silence. 
 
 "Have we?" 
 
 "Not a bit; we ve hardly begun yet. Well, why shouldn t 
 we be personal ? Why shouldn t we talk about what interests 
 us? I m sure you interest me. And I thought I was in 
 teresting you. If I m not " He made a pretense of 
 search for his hat. 
 
 "Don t ask me where it is," she said. "Do you know," 
 she resumed presently, "that I copied one of your deeds day 
 before yesterday? one you signed yourself as somebody s 
 attorney." 
 
 "Oh, that quit-claim?" 
 
 "Volume 6937, page 231. Document number one million 
 eight hundred and thirty-six thousand nine hun " 
 
 "You must have taken your own time with it. I ve been 
 sending to the Recorder s for the original for the past week." 
 
 "I did. You filled out the body yourself, too, didn t you? 
 You write a very good hand for a lawyer." 
 
 "Call me that, if you like." 
 
280 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Till I can call you alderman." 
 
 "You have a very good hand yourself," ventured Jameson. 
 "Now, as a fact, I am an expert palm " 
 
 "You sha n t read mine!" she retorted, drawing her hand 
 back. "I don t encourage any such " 
 
 "You re quite right," he replied gravely. "I beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 "Society!" she commented witheringly. 
 
 "Well, does that hurt?" 
 
 "Talk as you did at first. Oh, well, take it, if you want 
 to." 
 
 "I don t need to. I think I know about what s likely to 
 happen to you." 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 "Too dreadful?" 
 
 "That will be for you to say." 
 
 "My future rests with myself, then?" 
 
 "That s pretty close to it " 
 
 There was a clumsy scuffling along the corridor. "Where s 
 Mag?" asked a sharp little voice. 
 
 " Mag ! There! what did I tell you Margaret?" 
 
 "I won t allow you to " 
 
 The cause of the disturbance appeared between the stuffy 
 portieres a boy of ten, all legs, awkwardness, curiosity and 
 freckles. 
 
 "Go away, Jimmy," said his sister. 
 
 "Come in, Jimmy," said his sister s caller. 
 
 Jimmy came in and looked at Jameson and grinned. 
 Jameson gave him a dazzling smile and tousled his red hair. 
 "Me own name, exactly," he said, and Jimmy grinned all the 
 wider. Peter Callahan had once tried to tousle Jimmy s 
 hair and had had his shins kicked for his pains. No, 
 Peter could never be a successful candidate; he seemed 
 doomed to defeat all around. 
 
 Jimmy went out as soon as Jameson left. The light was 
 fled, the savor departed. He cast a careless glance at sister 
 Margaret, now in reverie on the sofa, and shuffled back 
 down the corridor. 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE 281 
 
 Margaret continued to dream. They all began by tousling 
 Jimmy s head. Could this last tousler be a serious one? 
 And what might be expected to follow? Jimmy, always 
 quick to detect a fraud, was thoroughly satisfied and con 
 vinced. Heigh-ho! One thing was clear, however: she 
 should have her fill of oratory during the coming fortnight. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "It s the easiest proposition going," Jameson explained 
 to his mother, as he deftly struck the tip off his egg. "Nine- 
 tenths of it is in temperament, and the other tenth is in 
 conforming or in seeming to conform to the general 
 average of thought and manners. In other words, be a man 
 first and a gentleman afterward. And a jollier always." 
 
 "But our standard of " his mother began. 
 
 "Democracy has no use for a standard. The standard* 
 is replaced by the average. " 
 
 His mother looked doubtfully at his red eyes and listened 
 with solicitude to his raucous tones. 
 
 "I see what you are thinking of, ma. But I m not a 
 drinker, as you very well know; while as for this talking 
 the plaster off of ceilings, it will be over in a week more." 
 
 "But these awful creatures that keep coming to the house. 
 Do you really have to jolly them, as you call it?" 
 
 "Oh, there are plenty that are worse. Yes, I do. And 
 it s a lucky thing that I can. And it s a still luckier thing 
 that I can do it with sincerity they re mighty quick to 
 catch the false tone. Why, mother, we were pretty plain 
 folks ourselves, once." 
 
 "Yes, I know we were. We can be yet, should occasion re 
 quire. And do you have to drink with them all day long?" 
 
 "I m not so sure on that point. But there was no time 
 for a preliminary study of the situation, so I fell in with 
 existing arrangements." 
 
 "And that explains, too, your Mr. Branni Branni " 
 
 "Brannigan? Yes." 
 
 "If you had only begun by having a petition circulated 
 among our friends and neighbors " 
 
282 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Oh, come, mother, how is it when you go to the theatre? 
 You don t scramble in any old way; you go in past the 
 regular doorkeeper." 
 
 "Is that man the regular doorkeeper? Who made him 
 such, I should like to know? What business has he to 
 stand there?" 
 
 "Can t say. But there he is, and it s simpler to recognize 
 the fact. Filson, give us another round of the toast. I 
 get your vote, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the man respectfully. "You get every 
 vote in the house. You d get fifty, sir, instead of five, if we 
 had them." 
 
 Susan Bates stirred her coffee thoughtfully. "And there 
 are those odious pictures in the papers. For years they ve 
 been calling upon our young men of wealth and position to 
 come forward, and now when one does come " 
 
 "Mother, dear, you wouldn t have them ignore me alto 
 gether?" 
 
 "I know. But those squibs, those caricatures, those pink 
 tea cartoons " 
 
 "A little more of pink tea would mean a good deal less 
 of pink eye !" 
 
 "And those insulting interruptions at your meetings; those 
 silly, malapropos questions and comments " 
 
 "Have I ever failed to return as good as was sent? Or 
 better?" 
 
 "I don t think I m overfastidious, Jimmy, but that last 
 meeting of yours seemed to me to be very cheap and nasty." 
 
 "Dear ma, the world itself is rather cheap and nasty. 
 Haven t you found that out yet?" 
 
 "No, my boy; and I don t like to hear you say that you 
 have." 
 
 "I don t quite mean that, of course. But if a man s 
 going to help it along a bit " 
 
 "That s just what your father and I want you to do." 
 
 " he must do it, sometimes, in its own cheap way and 
 on its own cheap terms." 
 
 His mother looked at him soberly. "If you get in, I shall 
 want you to become yourself again right away, too." 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE 283 
 
 "I shall; never fear. By the way, if you want to do a 
 little a little electioneering for me " 
 
 "Well?" For a surprising self-consciousness had sud 
 denly developed in his tone and air. 
 
 "I m not in yet, you know, and every little helps. If you 
 feel inclined, you might make a bit of a call on some con- 
 stits of mine over beyond the tracks. They have influence, 
 and" 
 
 "H m," said his mother. 
 
 "I really wish you would," said her son. 
 
 "I hadn t quite expected" 
 
 "It s all right, mother. Should I ask it of you if I had 
 the slightest doubt about the propriety of it? They re ladies, 
 both of them." 
 
 "Very well, if you wish," she said, much in the dark. 
 
 "I wuddent go in no car-r age, nayther," he counseled. 
 "I d hoof it or ilse take the sthrate car. And make it some 
 Saturday afternoon, if you can." 
 
 "Why, Jameson Bates I" exclaimed the good woman. 
 "Still, if it s politics" 
 
 Jameson flushed. "Pure politics," he said. Then: "Fil- 
 son, if Katie has got that slippery elm boiled down, you may 
 bring me the bottle and I ll put it in my pocket now." 
 
 Mrs. Bates made her trip to the other side of the ward 
 the next Saturday afternoon, and found both the Ryan 
 ladies at home. 
 
 "But where were the poplars ?" she asked Jameson. 
 
 "Where was the avenue ?" he returned. Then he said 
 he hoped she had made a good impression. "For the hus 
 band and father is a big power in the ward," he declared. 
 
 "Was that his picture over the sofa?" asked his mother, 
 plainly skeptical as to Ryan s "power." 
 
 "Well, what did you think of his wife?" 
 
 Susan Bates had come to immediate terms with Cornelia 
 Ryan. She had found her a woman of tact, good feeling and 
 sensibility regardless of her being on the wrong side of 
 the tracks. "She is not only one of your constits, but a very 
 deroted one, I should judge." 
 
 "Oh, yes," returned Jameson easily. On two or three 
 
284 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 subsequent calls he had coaxed Cornelia Ryan from her re 
 tirement and had frankly given her a taste of his quality. 
 "The girl is rather a bright one, too," he added carelessly. 
 
 "Is she?" said her mother. "I found her a little prim and 
 sedate formal, as well, I might say." 
 
 "Heavens 1" thought Jameson. "Has Margaret been try 
 ing to be- genteel 1" 
 
 "Still, she seemed to be intelligent enough at least she 
 was pretty familiar with some of your speeches." 
 
 "Yes," said Jameson with the vastest indifference; "I ve 
 noticed her in the audience once or twice. Queer taste of 
 hers politics. Take her all round, she s the most singular 
 girl I know; as different from " 
 
 "Jameson Bates, why did you have me go there? Tell me 
 the truth!" 
 
 "You ll know pretty soon. Hark! there s another voter 
 at the phone. I can t keep him waiting." And Jameson 
 hurried away. 
 
 IV 
 
 A week later, whiskey and slippery elm were alike of the 
 past, and Edgar Jameson Bates was an alderman-elect. 
 "My boy, you ve turned the trick," said Michael Aloysius 
 Brannigan, in a state of extreme elation. 
 
 On the Monday evening following Jameson took his seat 
 along with the other new members of the Council and par 
 ticipated in his first session. Every desk in the wide semi 
 circle was banked with flowers; wives, mothers, sweethearts, 
 in early spring finery, shared the desks and helped crowd 
 the aisles. It was the first Council with a fair majority of 
 honest men that the town had known in twenty years. If 
 the golden age had returned, why not welcome it with floral 
 offering and festive apparel? 
 
 Susan Bates shared her son s desk and passed the floral 
 "tributes" in review. 
 
 "Whose is that?" she asked, motioning toward a green 
 harp compact of smilax and marguerites that towered just be 
 hind her. 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE 285 
 
 "That s for Gilroy, of the Seventh." 
 
 "Whom is that for?" pointing to a six-foot warrior 
 done, tomahawk and all, in red carnations. 
 
 "That s from Casey s Indians, in the Twenty-eighth." 
 
 She came back to her son s own desk. "Who sent you this 
 horseshoe in calla lilies?" 
 
 "The Lincoln Republicans of my own ward. Their votes 
 helped to put me here. How s that for an indorsement of 
 your reviled son?" 
 
 "And this? this?" pursued his mother. 
 
 "H m," said Jameson. "This" was a sort of twofold ar 
 rangement in white carnations, crossed by a diagonal line of 
 purple immortelles the whole suggestive of an open book, 
 with a pen laid upon it. It seemed to refer at once to his 
 own legal studies and to the activities of some fair copyist. 
 
 His mother caught at the card. "Miss Margaret Ryan," 
 she read. "Your Miss Ryan?" 
 
 "My Miss Ryan," he replied, as the mayor, rising from his 
 empowered desk, let fall his gavel and opened the pro 
 ceedings. 
 
 Susan Bates followed the course of business to the best 
 of her ability as it went along under the stir and stimulus of 
 novel conditions. She gave her closest heed to the halting 
 manoeuvres of new members and to the zigzag rhetoric of old 
 ones. She studied intently the language and physiognomy of 
 each speaker as he arose from out the floral jungle. "Such 
 foreheads! Such grammar 1" she said to her son in a ter 
 rified whisper. 
 
 "Pooh, mother I" he rejoined; "this is the best Council 
 in years." 
 
 "A ah!" she sighed with a world of meaning, and re 
 turned to the study of Margaret Ryan s tribute. 
 
 Jameson kept his ears open for the roll-calls that followed 
 one another with striking frequency, and his eyes open for 
 the giver of the floral book. When his mother looked down, 
 he looked up. When she looked to the right he took occasion 
 to glance off toward the left. Presently he discovered the 
 object of his search hidden behind a miniature arch of 
 triumph three desks away. Susan was thoughtfully studying 
 
286 THE GREAT MODERN. AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 the open book; Margaret, with a face full of strained in 
 tensity, was studying Susan; and Jameson, partly sheltered 
 by his calla lilies, studied Margaret. Presently he moved 
 out from his shelter and caught her eye and smiled and 
 drew down one corner of his mouth "All s well," it said. 
 The girl s strained look broke into a smile of response; then 
 she flushed and her eyes dropped, and she retired again 
 behind her arch of triumph. Susan pondered over the book, 
 and the appalling syntax of Alderman Ziegler flowed along 
 unheeded. 
 
 As the session broke up Jameson signaled to the girl to 
 meet him and his mother at the exit. Margaret timed herself 
 accordingly, and joined them, along with her cousin, a well- 
 to-do plumber, who at once showed himself on this public 
 ground, at least as a man and a brother. Jameson looked 
 anxiously at his mother, whom on many an occasion he had 
 seen terrifyingly gracious, as he said : 
 
 "You remember Miss Ryan, ma ? It s she who has pulled 
 me through the campaign." And Susan greeted the girl with 
 a plain, homely good will the best way and the only. 
 
 "Let me thank you on my Jimmy s account," she said. 
 
 "There! * Jimmy !" murmured the girl. 
 
 "And do not forget to return my call," Susan Bates added, 
 as she moved away by her son s side. 
 
 Two or three evenings later Jameson was again in Poplar 
 Avenut, sitting on the florid dumpy sofa and reading Mar 
 garet Ryan s palm. 
 
 "It s all as plain as day," he declared, bending over her 
 hand. "You are about to resume your royal state, to be a 
 society queen on the other side of the tracks. Come, make 
 a stagger at it. Why, you can do it without turning a hair. 
 Not one in a hundred is half so well fitted for the part " 
 
 "Your mother?" hesitated the girl. 
 
 "Well, what of her? Isn t she your sort?" 
 
 "Yes; but" 
 
 "And you re hers. Never fear about that. Come, let s 
 pool our issues we ll make a pretty even thing of it. You 
 put in a bookkeeper and a plumber, and we put in a ma 
 chinist and a carpenter. We both contribute a certain 
 
STRIKING AN AVERAGE 287 
 
 amount of royalty and a fair degree of gentility. Take it 
 all around, we hit off the same average and stack up about 
 the same size. To add to that, we re both in politics. And 
 we ought to stay in together." He bent over her hand 
 again. "You have helped me to my place, and now you are 
 to share its honors and responsibilities." 
 
 "You read all that there?" 
 
 "Yes, and a good deal more." 
 
 "How long will it take you to read the rest?" 
 
 "A lifetime." 
 
 "You are sure she likes me?" 
 
 "Society" as a remote abstraction might be joked at lightly; 
 but to live, perhaps, under the same roof with it I 
 
 "You are sure you like me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I guarantee the rest. Come; to tell the -truth, I 
 need you in my business. You pulled me through that 
 waltz; you pulled me through the campaign. You must be 
 consistent now, and promise to pull me through life." 
 
 "Poor boy! I m sorry for you ! I will. I do." 
 
EFFIE WHITTLESY* 
 
 BY GEORGE ADE 
 
 MRS, Wallace assisted her husband to remove his over 
 coat and put her warm palms against his red and 
 wind-beaten cheeks. 
 
 "I have good news," said she. 
 
 "Another bargain sale?" 
 
 "Pshaw, no! A new girl, and I really believe she s a 
 jewel. She isn t young or good-looking, and when I asked 
 her if she wanted any nights off she said she wouldn t go 
 but after dark for anything in the world. What do you 
 think of that?" 
 
 "That s too good to be true." 
 
 "No, it isn t. Wait and see her. She came here from the 
 intelligence office about two o clock and said she was will 
 ing to lick right in. You wouldn t know the kitchen. She 
 has it as clean as a pin." 
 
 "What nationality?" 
 
 "None that is, she s a home product. She s from the 
 country and green! But she s a good soul, I m sure. As 
 soon as I looked at her, I just felt sure that we could trust 
 her." 
 
 "Well, I hope so. If she is all that you say, why, for 
 goodness sake give her any pay she wants put lace cur 
 tains in her room and subscribe for all the story papers on 
 the market." 
 
 "Bless you, I don t believe she d read them. Every time 
 I ve looked into the kitchen she s been working like a Trojan 
 and singing Beulah Land. : 
 
 "Oh, she sings, does she? I knew there d be some draw 
 back." 
 
 * By permission of the author. 
 
EFFIE WHITTLESY 289 
 
 "You won t mind that. We can keep the doors closed." 
 
 The dinner-table was set in tempting cleanliness. Mrs. 
 Wallace surveyed the arrangement of glass and silver and 
 gave a nod of approval and relief. Then she touched the 
 bell and in a moment the new servant entered. 
 
 She was a tall woman who had said her last farewell to 
 girlhood. 
 
 Then a very strange thing happened. 
 
 Mr. Wallace turned to look at the new girl and his eyes 
 enlarged. He gazed at her as if fascinated either by cap 
 or freckles. An expression of wonderment came to his face 
 and he said, "Well, by George!" 
 
 The girl had come very near the table when she took the 
 first overt glance at him. Why did the tureen sway in her 
 hands? She smiled in a frightened way and hurriedly set 
 the tureen on the table. 
 
 Mr. Wallace was not long undecided, but during that 
 moment of hesitancy the panorama of his life was rolled 
 backward. He had been reared in the democracy of a small 
 community, and the democratic spirit came uppermost. 
 
 "This isn t Erne Whittlesy?" said he. 
 
 "For the land s sake!" she exclaimed, backing away, and 
 this was a virtual confession. 
 
 "You don t know me." 
 
 "Well, if it ain t Ed Wallace!" 
 
 Would that words were ample to tell how Mrs. Wallace 
 settled back in her chair blinking first at her husband and 
 then at the new girl, vainly trying to understand what it 
 meant. 
 
 She saw Mr. Wallace reach awkwardly across the table and 
 shake hands with the new girl and then she found voice to 
 gasp, "Of all things!" 
 
 Mr. Wallace was confused and without a policy. He was 
 wavering between his formal duty as an employer and his 
 natural regard for an old friend. Anyway, it occurred to him 
 that an explanation would be timely. 
 
 "This is Erne Whittlesy from Brainerd," said he. "I used 
 to go to school with her. She s been at our house often. I 
 
290 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 haven t seen her for I didn t know you were in Chicago," 
 turning to Effie. 
 
 "Well, Ed Wallace, you could knock me down with a 
 feather," said Effie, who still stood in a flustered attitude a 
 few paces back from the table. "I had no more idee when 
 I heard the name Wallace that it d be you, though knowing 
 of course, you was up here. Wallace is such a common name 
 I never give it a second thought. But the minute I seen you 
 law! I knew who it was, well enough." 
 
 "I thought you were still at Brainerd," said Mr. Wallace, 
 after a pause. 
 
 "I left there a year ago November, and come to visit 
 Mort s people. I s pose you know that Mort has a position 
 with the street-car company. He s doin so well. I didn t 
 want to be no burden on him, so I started out on my own 
 hook, seem* that there was no use of goin back to Brainerd 
 to slave for two dollars a week. I had a good place with 
 Mr. Sanders, the railroad man on the north side, but I left 
 becuz they wanted me to serve liquor. I d about as soon 
 handle a toad as a bottle of beer. Liquor was the ruination 
 of Jesse. He s gone to the dogs been off with a circus some- 
 wheres for two years." 
 
 "The family s all broken up, eh!" asked Mr. Wallace. 
 
 "Gone to the four winds since mother died. Of course 
 you know that Lora married Huntford Thomas and is livin* 
 on the old Murphy place. They re doin about as well as you 
 could expect, with Huntford as lazy as he is." 
 
 "Yes? That s good," said Mr. Wallace. 
 
 Was this an old settlers reunion or a quiet family dinner? 
 The soup had been waiting. 
 
 Mrs. Wallace came into the breach. 
 
 "That will be all for the present, Effie," said she. 
 
 Effie gave a startled "Oh!" and vanished into the kitchen. 
 
 "It means," said Mr. Wallace, "that we were children to 
 gether, made mud pies in the same puddle and sat next to 
 each other in the old school-house at Brainerd. She is a 
 Whittlesy. Everybody in Brainerd knew the Whittlesys. 
 Large family, all poor as church mice, but sociable and 
 freckled. Effie s a good girl." 
 
EFFIE WHITTLESY 291 
 
 "Erne! Effie! And she called you Ed!" 
 
 "My dear, there are no misters in Brainerd. Why shouldn t 
 she call me Ed ! She never heard me called anything else." 
 
 "She ll have to call you something else here. You tell her 
 so." 
 
 "Now, don t ask me to put on any airs with one of the 
 Whittlesys, because they know me from away back. Erne has 
 seen me licked at school. She has been at our house, almost 
 like one of the family, when mother was sick and needed 
 another girl. If my memory serves me right, I ve taken her 
 to singing-school and exhibitions. So I m in no position to 
 lord it over, and I wouldn t do it any way. I d hate to have 
 her go back to Brainerd and report that she met me here in 
 Chicago and I was too stuck up to remember old times and 
 requested her to address me as Mister Wallace/ Now, you 
 never lived in a small town." 
 
 "No, I never enjoyed that privilege," said Mrs. Wallace, 
 dryly. 
 
 "Well, it is a privilege in some respects, but it carries 
 certain penalties with it, too. It s a very poor schooling for 
 a fellow who wants to be a snob." 
 
 "I would call it snobbishness to correct a servant who 
 addresses me by my first name. Ed indeed ! Why, I never 
 dared to call you that." 
 
 "No, you never lived in Brainerd." 
 
 "And you say you used to take her to singing-school?" 
 
 "Yes, ma am twenty years ago, in Brainerd. You re not 
 surprised, are you ? You knew when you married me that I 
 was a child of the soil, who worked his way through col 
 lege and came to the city in a suit of store clothes. I ll 
 admit that my past does not exactly qualify me for the Four 
 Hundred, but it will be great if I ever get into politics." 
 
 "I don t object to your having a past, but I was just think 
 ing how pleasant it will be when we give a dinner-party to 
 have her come in and address you as Ed. " 
 
 Mr. Wallace patted the table-cloth cheerily with both 
 hands and laughed. 
 
 "I really don t believe you d care," said Mrs. Wallace. 
 
 "Effie isn t going to demoralize the household," he said, 
 
292 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 consolingly. "Down in Brainerd we may be a little slack on 
 the by-laws of etiquette, but we can learn in time." 
 
 Mrs. Wallace touched the bell and Erne returned. 
 
 As she brought in the second course, Mr. Wallace deliber 
 ately encouraged her by an amiable smile, and she asked, 
 "Do you get the Brainerd papers?" 
 
 "Yes every week." 
 
 "There s been a good deal of sickness down there this 
 winter. Lora wrote to me that your uncle Joe had been 
 kind o poorly." 
 
 "I think he s up and around again." 
 
 "That s good." 
 
 And she edged back to the kitchen. 
 
 With the change for dessert she ventured to say: "Mort 
 was wonderin about you the other day. He said he hadn t 
 saw you for a long time. My! You ve got a nice house 
 here." 
 
 After dinner Mrs. Wallace published her edict. Erne 
 would have to go. Mr. Wallace positively forbade the 
 "strong talking-to" which his wife advocated. He said it 
 was better that Efne should go, but she must be sent away 
 gently and diplomatically. 
 
 Erne was "doing up" the dishes when Mr. Wallace lounged 
 into the kitchen and began a roundabout talk. His wife, 
 seated in the front room, heard the prolonged murmur. 
 Ed and Erne were going over the familiy histories of 
 Brainerd and recalling incidents that may have related to 
 mud pies or school exhibitions. 
 
 Mrs. Wallace had been a Twombley, of Baltimore, and no 
 Twombley, with relatives in Virginia, could humiliate her 
 self into rivalry with a kitchen girl, or dream of such a 
 thing, so why should Mrs. Wallace be uneasy and con 
 stantly wonder what Ed and Erne were talking about? 
 
 Mrs. Wallace was faint from loss of pride. The night 
 before they had dined with the Gages. Mr. Wallace, a 
 picture of distinction in his evening clothes, had shown him 
 self the bright light of the seven who sat at the table. She 
 had been proud of him. Twenty-four hours later a servant 
 emerges from the kitchen and hails him as "Ed" ! 
 
EFFIE WHITTLESY 293 
 
 The low talk in the kitchen continued. Mrs. Wallace 
 had a feverish longing to tiptoe down that way and listen, 
 or else go into the kitchen, sweepingly, and with a few 
 succinct commands, set Miss Whittlesy back into her menial 
 station. But she knew that Mr. Wallace would misinterpret 
 any such move and probably taunt her with joking references 
 to her "jealousy," so she forbore. 
 
 Mr. Wallace, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth (Efne 
 had forbidden him to smoke in the kitchen), leaned in the 
 doorway and waited to give the conversation a turn. 
 
 At last he said: "Efne, why don t you go down and visit 
 Lora for a month or so? She d be glad to see you." 
 
 "I know, Ed, but I ain t a Rockefeller to lay off work a 
 month at a time an go around visitin* my relations. I d like 
 to well enough but " 
 
 "O pshaw! I can get you a ticket to Brainerd to-mor 
 row and it won t cost you anything down there." 
 
 "No, it ain t Chicago, that s a fact. A dollar goes a good 
 ways down there. But what ll your wife do? She told me 
 to-day she d had an awful time gettin any help." 
 
 "Well to tell you the truth, Efne, you see you re an old 
 friend of mine and I don t like the idea of your being here 
 in my house as a well, as a hired girl." 
 
 "No, I guess I m a servant now. I used to be a hired girl 
 when I worked for your ma, but now I m a servant. I don t 
 see as it makes any difference what you call me, as long as 
 the work s the same." 
 
 "You understand what I mean, don t you? Any time you 
 come here to my house I want you to come as an old acquaint 
 ance a visitor, not a servant." 
 
 "Ed Wallace, don t be foolish. I d as soon work for you as 
 any one, and a good deal sooner." 
 
 "I know, but I wouldn t like to see my wife giving orders 
 to an old friend, as you are. You understand, don t you?" 
 
 "I don t know. I ll quit if you say so." 
 
 "Tut! tut! I ll get you that ticket and you can start for 
 Brainerd to-morrow. Promise me, now." 
 
 "I ll go, and tickled enough, if that s the way you look at 
 it." 
 
294 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "And if you come back, I can get you a dozen places to 
 work." 
 
 Next evening Effie departed by carriage, although pro 
 testing against the luxury. 
 
 "Ed Wallace," said she, pausing in the hallway, "they 
 never will believe me when I tell it in Brainerd." 
 
 "Give them my best and tell them I m about the same 
 as ever." 
 
 "I ll do that. Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 Mrs. Wallace, watching from the window, saw Effie dis 
 appear into the carriage. 
 
 "Thank goodness," said she. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Wallace, to whom the whole episode had 
 been like a cheering beverage, "Fve invited her to call when 
 she comes back." 
 
 "To call here?" 
 
 "Most assuredly. I told her you d be delighted to see her 
 at any time." 
 
 "The idea ! Did you invite her, really ?" 
 
 "Of course I did 1 And I m reasonably certain that she ll 
 come." 
 
 "What shall I do?" 
 
 " I think you can manage it, even if you never did live 
 in Brainerd." 
 
 Then the revulsion came and Mrs. Wallace, with a re 
 turn of pride in her husband, said she would try. 
 
THE LOST PHCEBE* 
 
 BY THEODORE DREISER 
 
 THEY lived together in a part of the country which 
 was not so prosperous as it had once been, about three 
 miles from one of those small towns that, instead of 
 increasing in population, is steadily decreasing. The terri 
 tory was not very thickly settled; perhaps a house every 
 other mile or so, with large areas of corn- and wheat-land 
 and fallow fields that at odd seasons had been sown to 
 timothy and clover. Their particular house was part log and 
 part frame, the log portion being the old original home of 
 Henry s grandfather. The new portion, of now rain-beaten, 
 time-worn slabs, through which the wind squeaked in the 
 chinks at times, and which several overshadowing elms and a 
 butternut-tree made picturesque and reminiscently pathetic, 
 but a little damp, was erected by Henry when he was twenty- 
 one and just married. 
 
 That was forty-eight years_before. The furniture inside, 
 like the house outside, was old and mildewy and reminiscent 
 of an earlier day. You have seen the what-not of cherry wood, 
 perhaps, with spiral legs and fluted top. It was there. The 
 old-fashioned four-poster bed, with its ball-like protuber 
 ances and deep curving incisions, was there also, a sadly 
 alienated descendant of an early Jacobean ancestor. The 
 bureau of cherry was also high and wide and solidly built, 
 but faded-looking, and with a musty odor. The rag carpet 
 that underlay all these sturdy examples of enduring furni 
 ture was a weak, faded, lead-and-pink-colored affair woven 
 by Phcebe Ann s own hands, when she was fifteen years 
 younger than she was when she died. The creaky wooden 
 
 * From " Free and Other Stories," copyright, 1919, Boni & 
 Liveright. Permission of the author. 
 
 295 
 
296 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 loom on which it had been done now stood like a dusty, 
 bony skeleton, along with a broken rocking-chair, a worm- 
 eaten clothes-press Heaven knows how old a lime-stained 
 bench that had once been used to keep flowers on outside 
 the door, and other decrepit factors of household utility, 
 in an east room that was a lean-to against this so-called 
 main portion. All sorts of other broken-down furniture were 
 about this place; an antiquated clothes-horse, cracked in two 
 of its ribs ; a broken mirror in an old cherry frame, which had 
 fallen from a nail and cracked itself three days before their 
 youngest son, Jerry, died; an extension hat-rack, which once 
 had had porcelain knobs on the ends of its pegs; and a sew 
 ing-machine, long since outdone in its clumsy mechanism 
 by rivals of a newer generation. 
 
 The orchard to the east of the house was full of gnarled 
 old apple-trees, worm-eaten as to trunks and branches, and 
 fully ornamented with green and white lichens, so that it 
 had a sad, greenish-white, silvery effect in moonlight. The 
 low outhouses, which had once housed chickens, a horse or 
 two, a cow, and several pigs, were covered with patches of 
 moss as to their roof, and the sides had been free of paint for 
 so long that they were blackish gray as to color, and a little 
 spongy. The picket-fence in front, with its gate squeaky 
 and askew, and the side fences of the stake-and-rider type 
 were in an equally run-down condition. As a matter of 
 fact, they had aged synchronously with the persons who 
 lived here, old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phcebe Ann. 
 
 They had lived here, these two, ever since their marriage, 
 forty-eight years before, and Henry had lived here before that 
 from his childhood up. His father and mother, well along in 
 years when he was a boy, had invited him to bring his wife 
 here when he had first fallen in love and decided to marry; 
 and he had done so. His father and mother were the com 
 panions of himself and his wife for ten years after they were 
 married, when both died; and then Henry and Phcebe were 
 left with their five children growing lustily apace. But all 
 sorts of things had happened since then. Of the seven chil 
 dren, all told, that had been born to them, three had died; 
 one girl had gone to Kansas ; one boy had gone to Sioux Falls, 
 
THE LOST PHCEBE 297 
 
 never even to be heard of after; another boy had gone to 
 Washington; and the last girl lived five counties away in 
 the same State, but was so burdened with cares of her own 
 that she rarely gave them a thought. Time and a common 
 place home life that had never been attractive had weaned 
 them thoroughly, so that, wherever they were, they gave 
 tittle thought as to how it might be with their father and 
 toother. 
 
 Old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phoebe were a loving 
 couple. ^ou_perhaps.know how it is with simple natures that 
 fasten themselves like lichens on the stones of circumstance 
 and weather their days to a crumbling conclusion. The great 
 world sounds widely, but it has no call for them. They have 
 no soaring intellect. The orchard, the meadow, the corn 
 field, the pig-pen, and the chicken-lot measure the range of 
 their human activities. When the wheat is headed it is 
 reaped and threshed ; when the corn is browned and frosted 
 it is cut and shocked; when the timothy is in full head it is 
 cut, and the hay-cock erected. After that comes winter, with 
 the hauling of grain to market, the sawing and splitting of 
 wood, the simple chores of fire-building, meal-getting, occa 
 sional repairing, and visiting. Beyond these and the 
 changes of weather the snows, the rains, and the fair days 
 there are no immediate, significant things. All the rest of life j 
 is a far-off, clamorous phantasmagoria, flickering like J 
 Northern lights in the night, and sounding as faintly as 
 cow-bells tinkling in the distance. 
 
 Old Henry and his wife Phcebe were as fond of each other 
 as it is possible for two old people to be who have nothing 
 else in this life to be fond of. He was a thin old man, 
 seventy when she died, a queer, crotchety person with coarse 
 gray-black hair and beard, quite straggly and unkempt. He 
 looked at you out of dull, fishy, watery eyes that had deep- 
 brown crow s-feet at the sides. His clothes, like the clothes 
 of many farmers, were aged and angular and baggy, stand 
 ing out at the pockets, not fitting about the neck, pro 
 tuberant and worn at elbow and knee. Phcebe Ann was thin 
 and shapeless, a very umbrella of a woman, clad in shabby 
 black, and with a black bonnet for her best wear. As time 
 
J 
 
 298 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 had passed, and they had only themselves to look after, their 
 movements had become slower and slower, their activities 
 fewer and fewer. The annual keep of pigs had been reduced 
 from five to one grunting porker, and the single horse which 
 Henry now retained was a sleepy animal, n^ over-nourished 
 and_jiot very clean. The chickens, of which formerly there 
 "was~aTIarge flock, had almost disappeared, owing to ferrets, 
 foxes, and the lack of proper care, which produces disease. 
 The former healthy garden was now a straggling memory of 
 itself, and the vines and flower-beds that formerly orna 
 mented the windows and dooryard had now become choking 
 thickets. A will had been made which divided the small 
 tax-eaten property equally among the remaining four, so 
 that it was really of no interest to any of them. Yet these 
 two lived together in peace and sympathy, only that now and 
 then old Henry would become unduly cranky, complaining al 
 most invariably that something had been neglected or mis 
 laid which was of no importance at all. 
 
 "Phcebe, where s my corn-knife? You ain t never minded 
 to let my things alone no more." 
 
 "Now you hush, Henry," his wife would caution him in 
 a cracked arrd squeaky voice. "If you don t, I ll leave yuh. 
 I ll git up and walk out of here some day, and then where 
 would y be? Y ain t got anybody but me to look after yuh, 
 so yuh just behave yourself. Your corn knife s on the 
 mantel where it s allus been unless you ve gone an put it 
 summers else." 
 
 Old Henry, who knew his wife would never leave him under 
 any circumstances, used to speculate at times as to what 
 he would do if she were to die. That was the one leaving 
 that he really feared. As he climbed on the chair at night to 
 wind the old, long-pendulumed, double-weighted clock, or 
 went finally to the front and the back door to see that they 
 were safely shut in, it was a comfort to know that Phcebe 
 was there, properly esconced on her side of the bed, and that 
 if he stirred restlessly in the night, she would be there to ask 
 what he wanted. 
 
 "Now, Henry, do lie still! You re as restless as a 
 chicken." 
 
THE LOST PHCEBE 299 
 
 "Well, I can t sleep, Phoebe." 
 
 "Well, yuh needn t roll so, anyhow. Yuh kin let me sleep." 
 
 This usually reduced him to a state of somnolent ease. 
 If she wanted a pail of water, it was a grumbling pleasure 
 for him to get it; and if she did rise first to build the fires, 
 he saw that the wood was cut and placed within easy reach. 
 They divided this simple world nicely between them. 
 
 As the years had gone on, however, fewer and fewer people 
 had called. They were well-known for a distance of as 
 much as ten square miles as old Mr. and Mrs. Reifsneider, 
 honest, moderately Christian, but too old to be really in 
 teresting any longer. The writing of letters had become an 
 almost impossible burden too difficult to continue or even 
 negotiate via others, although an occasional letter still did 
 arrive from the daughter in Pemberton County. Now and 
 then some old friend stopped with a pie or cake or a roasted 
 chicken or duck, or merely to see that they were well; but 
 even these kindly minded visits were no longer frequent. 
 
 One day in the early spring of her sixty-fourth year Mrs. 
 Reifsneider took sick, and from a low fever passed into some 
 indefinable ailment which, because of her age, was no longer 
 curable. Old Henry drove to Swinnerton, the neighboring 
 town, and procured a doctor. Some friends called, and the 
 immediate care of her was taken off his hands. Then one 
 chill spring night she died, and old Henry, in a fog of sorrow 
 and uncertainty, followed her body to the nearest graveyard, 
 an unattractive space with a few pines growing in it. Al 
 though he might have gone to the daughter in Pemberton 
 or sent for her, it was really too much trouble and he was 
 too weary and fixed. It was suggested to him at once by 
 one friend and another that he come to stay with them 
 awhile, but he did not see fit. He was so old and so fixed in 
 his notions and so accustomed to the exact surroundings 
 he had known all his days, that he could not think of leav 
 ing. He wanted to remain near where they had put his 
 Phoebe; and the fact that he would have to live alone did 
 not trouble him in the least. The living children were 
 notified and the care of him offered if he would leave, but 
 he would not. 
 
300 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "I kin make a shift for myself," he continually announced 
 to old Dr. Morrow, who had attended his wife in this case. 
 "I kin cook a little, and, besides, it don t take much more n 
 coffee an bread in the mornin s to satisfy me. I ll get along 
 now well enough. Yuh just let me be." And after many 
 pleadings and proffers of advice, with supplies of coffee and 
 bacon and baked bread duly offered and accepted, he was 
 left to himself. For a while he sat idly outside his door 
 brooding in the spring sun. He tried to revive his interest 
 in farming, and to keep himself busy and free from thought 
 by looking after the fields, which of late had been much ne 
 glected. It was a gloomy thing to come in of an evening, 
 however, or in the afternoon, and find no shadow of Phoebe 
 where everything suggested her. By degrees he put a few 
 of her things away. At night he sat beside his lamp and 
 read in the papers that were left him occasionally or in a 
 Bible that he had neglected for years, but he could get little 
 solace from these things. Mostly he held his hand over his 
 mouth and looked at the floor as he sat and thought of what 
 had become of her, and how soon he himself would die. He 
 made a great business of making his coffee in the morning and 
 frying himself a little bacon at night; but his appetite was 
 gone. The shell in which he had been housed so long 
 seemed vacant, and its shadows were suggestive of immed 
 icable griefs. So he lived quite dolefully for five long 
 months, and then a change began. 
 
 It was one night, after he had looked after the front and 
 the back door, wound the clock, blown out the light, and gone 
 through all the selfsame motions that he had indulged in for 
 years, that he went to bed not so much to sleep as to think. 
 It was a moonlight night. The green-lichen-covered or 
 chard just outside and to be seen from his bed where he now 
 lay was a silvery affair, sweetly spectral. The moon shone 
 through the east windows, throwing the pattern of the panes 
 on the wooden floor, and making the old furniture, to which 
 he was accustomed, stand out dimly in the room. As usual 
 he had been thinking of Phcebe and the years when they had 
 been young together, and of the children who had gone, and 
 the poor shift he was making of his present days. The 
 
THE LOST PHCEBE 301 
 
 house was coming to be in a very bad state indeed. The 
 bed-clothes were in disorder and not clean, for he made a 
 wretched shift of washing. It was a terror to him. The 
 roof leaked, causing things, some of them, to remain damp 
 for weeks at a time, but he was getting into that brooding 
 state where he would accept anything rather than exert him 
 self. He preferred to pace slowly to and fro or to sit and 
 think. 
 
 By twelve o clock of this particular night he was asleep, 
 however, and by two had waked again. The moon by this 
 time had shifted to a position on the western side of the 
 house, and it now shone in through the windows of the liv 
 ing-room and those of the kitchen beyond. A certain com 
 bination of furniture a chair near a table with his coat on 
 it, the half-open kitchen door casting a shadow, and the posi 
 tion of a lamp near a paper gave him an exact " representa 
 tion of Phoebe leaning over the table as he had often seen her 
 do in life. It gave him a great start. Could it be she or 
 her ghost? He had scarcely ever believed in spirits; and 
 still . He looked at her fixedly in the feeble half-light, 
 his old hair tingling oddly at the roots, and then sat up. 
 The figure did not move. He put his thin legs out of the 
 bed and sat looking at her, wondering if this could really be 
 Phoebe. They had talked of ghosts often in their lifetime, 
 of apparitions and omens; but they had never agreed that 
 such things could be. It had never been a part of his wife s 
 creed that she could have a spirit that could return to walk 
 the earth. Her after-world was quite a different affair, a 
 vague heaven, no less, from which the righteous did not 
 trouble to return. Yet here she was now, bending over the 
 table in her black skirt and gray shawl, her pale profile out 
 lined against the moonlight. 
 
 "Phoebe/ he called, thrilling from head to toe, and putting 
 out one bony hand, "have yuh come back?" 
 
 The figure did not stir, and he arose and walked uncer 
 tainly to the door, looking at it fixedly the while. As he 
 drew near, however, the apparition resolved itself into its 
 primal content his old coat over the high backed chair, the 
 lamp by the paper, the half-open door. 
 
302 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Well," he said to himself, his mouth open, "I thought 
 shore I saw her." And he ran his hand strangely and 
 vaguely through his hair, the while his nervous tension re 
 laxed. Vanished as it had, it gave him the idea that she 
 might return. 
 
 Another night, because of this first illusion, and because 
 his mind was now constantly on her and he was old, he 
 looked out of tlie window that was nearest his bed and com 
 manded a hen-coop and pig-pen and a part of the wagon- 
 shed, and there, a faint mist exuding from the damp of the 
 ground, he thought he saw her again. It was one of those 
 little wisps of mist, one of those faint exhalations of the earth 
 that rise in a cool night after a warm day, and nicker like 
 small white cypresses of fog before they disappear. In life 
 it had been a custom of hers to cross this lot from her kitchen 
 door to the pig-pen to throw in any scrap that was left from 
 her cooking, and here she was again. He sat up and 
 watched it strangely, doubtfully, because of his previous 
 experience, but inclined, because of the nervous titillation 
 that passed over his body, to believe that spirits really were, 
 and that Phoebe, who would be concerned because of his 
 lonely state, must be thinking about him, and hence return 
 ing. What other way would she have? How otherwise 
 could she express herself? It would be within the province 
 of her charity so to do, and like her loving interest in him. 
 He quivered and watched it eagerly; but, a faint breath of 
 air stirring, it wound away toward the fence and disappeared. 
 
 A third night, as he was actually dreaming, some ten days 
 later, she came to his bedside and put her hand on his head. 
 
 "Poor Henry!" she said. "It s too bad." 
 
 He roused out of his sleep, actually to see her, he thought, 
 moving from his bed-room into the one living-room, her 
 figure a shadowy mass of black. The weak straining of his 
 eyes caused little points of light to nicker about the outlines 
 of her form. He arose, greatly astonished, walked the floor 
 in the cool room, convinced that Phoebe was coming back to 
 him. If he only thought sufficiently, if he made it perfectly 
 clear by his feeling that he needed her greatly, she would 
 come back, this kindly wife, and tell him what to do. She 
 
THE LOST PHCEBE 303 
 
 would perhaps be with him much of the time, in the night, 
 anyhow; and that would make him less lonely, this state 
 more endurable. 
 
 In age and with the feeble it is not such a far cry from 
 the subtleties of illusion to actual hallucination, and in due 
 time this transition was made for Henry. Night after night 
 he waited, expecting her return. Once in his weird mood 
 he thought he saw a pale light moving about the room, and 
 another time he thought he saw her walking in the orchard 
 after dark. It was one morning when the details of his 
 lonely state were virtually unendurable that he woke with 
 the thought that she was not dead. How he had arrived at 
 this conclusion it is hard to say. His mind had gone. In 
 its place was a fixed illusion. He and Phcebe had had a 
 senseless quarrel. He had reproached her for not leaving his 
 pipe where he was accustomed to find it, and she had left. 
 It was an aberrated fulfillment of her old jesting threat that 
 if he did not behave himself she would leave him. 
 
 "I guess I could find yuh ag in," he had always said. 
 But her cackling threat had always been : 
 
 "Yuh ll not find me if I ever leave yuh. I guess I kin git 
 some place where yuh can t find me." 
 
 This morning when he arose he did not think to build the 
 fire in the customary way or to grind his coffee and cut his 
 bread, as was his wont, but solely to meditate as to where he 
 should search for her and how he should induce her to come 
 back. Recently the one horse had been dispensed with 
 because he found it cumbersome and beyond his needs. He 
 took down his soft crush hat after he had dressed himself, 
 a, new glint of interest and determination in his eye, and 
 taking his black crook cane from behind the door, where he 
 had always placed it, started out briskly to look for her 
 among the nearest neighbors. His old shoes clumped 
 soundly in the dust as he walked, and his gray-black locks, 
 now grown rather long, straggled out in a dramatic fringe or 
 halo from under his hat. His short coat stirred busily as he 
 walked, and his hands and face were peaked and pale. 
 
 "Why, hello, Henry! Where re yuh goin this mornin ?" 
 inquired Farmer Dodge, who, hauling a load of wheat to 
 
304 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 market, encountered him on the public road. He had not 
 seen the aged farmer in months, not since his wife s death, 
 and he wondered now, seeing him looking so spry. 
 
 "Yuh ain t seen Phoebe, have yuh?" inquired the old man, 
 looking up quizzically. 
 
 "Phoebe who?" inquired Farmer Dodge, not for the men 
 ment connecting the name with Henry s dead wife. 
 
 "Why, my wife Phcebe, o course. Who do yuh s pose I 
 mean?" He stared up with a pathetic sharpness of glance 
 from under his shaggy, gray eyebrows. 
 
 "Wall, I ll swan, Henry, yuh ain t jokin , are yuh?" said 
 the solid Dodge, a pursy man, with a smooth, hard, red face. 
 "It can t be your wife yuh re talkin about. She s dead." 
 
 "Dead! Shucks!" retorted the demented Reifsneider. 
 "She left me early this mornin , while I was sleepin . She 
 allus got up to build the fire, but she s gone now. We had 
 a little spat last night, an I guess that s the reason. But I 
 guess I kin find her. She s gone over to Matilda Race s, 
 that s where she s gone." 
 
 He started briskly up the road, leaving the amazed Dodge 
 to stare in wonder after him. 
 
 "Well, I ll be switched!" he said aloud to himself. "He s 
 clean out n his head. That poor old feller s been livin* 
 down there till he s gone outen his mind. I ll have to notify 
 the authorities." And he flicked his whip with great enthu 
 siasm. "Geddap!" he said, and was off. 
 
 Reifsneider met no one else in this poorly populated region 
 until he reached the whitewashed fence of Matilda Race and 
 her husband three miles away. He had passed several other 
 houses en route, but these not being within the range of his 
 illusion were not considered. His wife, who had known 
 Matilda well, must be here. He opened the picket-gate 
 which guarded the walk, and stamped briskly up to the door. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Reifsneider," exclaimed old Matilda herself, 
 a stout woman, looking out of the door in answer to his 
 knock, "what brings yuh here this mornin ?" 
 
 "Is Phoebe here?" he demanded eagerly. 
 
 "Phoebe who? What Phcebe?" replied Mrs. Race, curious 
 as to this sudden development of energy on his part. 
 
THE LOST PHCEBE 305 
 
 "Why, my Phoebe, o course. My wife Phcebe. Who do 
 yuh s pose? Ain t she here now?" 
 
 "Lawsy mel" exclaimed Mrs. Race, opening her mouth. 
 "Yuh pore manl So you re clean out n your mind now. 
 Yuh come right in and sit down. I ll git yuh a cup o* 
 coffee. O course your wife ain t here; but yuh come in an* 
 sit down. I ll find her fer yuh after a while. I know where 
 she is." 
 
 The old farmer s eyes softened, and he entered. He was 
 so thin and pale a specimen, pantalooned and patriarchal, 
 that he aroused Mrs. Race s extremest sympathy as he took 
 off his hat and laid it on his knees quite softly and mildly. 
 
 "We had a quarrel last night, an she left me," he volun 
 teered. 
 
 "Laws! laws!" sighed Mrs. Race, there being no one pres 
 ent with whom to share her astonishment as she went to her 
 kitchen. "The pore man! Now somebody s just got to look 
 after him. He can t be allowed to run around the country 
 this way lookin for his dead wife. It s tumble." 
 
 She boiled him a pot of coffee and brought in some of her 
 new-baked bread and fresh butter. She set out some of her 
 best jam and put a couple of eggs to boil, lying whole-heart 
 edly the while. 
 
 "Now yuh stay right there, Uncle Henry, till Jake comes 
 in, an I ll send him to look for Phcebe. I think it s more n 
 likely she s over to Swinnerton with some o* her friends. 
 Anyhow, we ll find out. Now yuh just drink this coffee an* 
 eat this bread. Yuh must be tired. Yuh ve had a long 
 walk this morninV Her idea was to take counsel with Jake, 
 "her man," and perhaps have him notify the authorities. 
 
 She bustled about, meditating on the uncertainties of life, 
 while old Reifsneider thrummed on the rim of his hat with 
 his pale ringers and later ate abstractedly of what she offered. 
 His mind was on his wife, however, and since she was not 
 here, or did not appear, it wandered vaguely away to a 
 family by the name of Murray, miles away in another direc 
 tion. He decided after a time that he would not wait for 
 Jack Race to hunt his wife but would seek her for him- 
 iclf. He must be on, and urge her to come back. 
 
306 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Well, I ll be goin ," he said, getting up and looking 
 strangely about him. "I guess she didn t come here after 
 all. She went over to the Hurrays, I guess. I ll not wait 
 any longer, Mis Race. There s a lot to do over to the house 
 to-day." And out he marched in the face of her protests 
 taking to the dusty road again in the warm spring sun, his 
 cane striking the earth as he went. 
 
 It was two hours later that this pale figure of a man ap 
 peared in the Murrays doorway, dusty, perspiring, eager. 
 He had tramped all of five miles, and it was noon. An 
 amazed husband and wife of sixty heard his strange query, 
 and realized also that he was mad. They begged him to stay 
 to dinner, intending to notify the authorities later and see 
 what could be done; but though he stayed to partake of a 
 little something, he did not stay long, and was off again to 
 another distant farmhouse, his idea of many things to do 
 and his need of Phcebe impelling him. So it went for that 
 day and the next and the next, the circle of his inquiry ever 
 widening. 
 
 The process by which a character assumes the significance 
 of being peculiar, his antics weird, yet harmless, in such a 
 community is often involute and pathetic. This day, as has 
 been said, saw Reifsneider at other doors, eagerly asking his 
 unnatural question, and leaving a trail of amazement, sym 
 pathy, and pity in his wake. Although the authorities were 
 informed the county sheriff, no less it was not deemed 
 advisable to take him into custody; for when those who knew 
 old Henry, and had for so long, reflected on the condition of 
 the county insane asylum, a place which, because of the pov 
 erty of the district, was of staggering aberration and sick 
 ening environment, it was decided to let him remain at large ; 
 for, strange to relate, it was found on investigation that at 
 night he returned peaceably enough to his lonesome domicile 
 there to discover whether his wife had returned, and to brood 
 in loneliness until the morning. Who would lock up a thin, 
 eager, seeking old man with iron-gray hair and an attitude 
 of kindly, innocent inquiry, particularly when he was well 
 known for a past of only kindly servitude and reliability? 
 Those who had known him best rather agreed that he should 
 
THE LOST PHCEBE 307 
 
 be allowed to roam at large. He could do no harm. There 
 were many who were willing to help him as to food, old 
 clothes, the odds and ends of his daily life at least at first 
 His figure after a time became not so much a common-place 
 as an accepted curiosity, and the replies, "Why, no, Henry; 
 I ain t see her, * or "No, Henry; she ain t been here to-day," 
 more customary. 
 
 For several years thereafter then he was an odd figure in 
 the sun and rain, on dusty roads and muddy ones, encount 
 ered occasionally in strange and unexpected places, pursuing 
 his endless search. Undernourishment, after a time, al 
 though the neighbors and those who knew his history gladly 
 contributed from their store, affected his body ; for he walked 
 much and ate little. The longer he roamed the public high 
 way in this manner, the deeper became his strange hallucina 
 tion; and finding it harder and harder to return from his 
 more and more distant pilgrimages, he finally began taking a 
 few utensils with him from his home, making a small package 
 of them, in order that he might not be compelled to return. 
 In an old tin coffee-pot of large size he placed a small tin 
 cup, a knife, fork, and spoon, some salt and pepper, and to 
 the outside of it, by a string forced through a pierced hole, 
 he fastened a plate, which could be released, and which was 
 his woodland table. It was no trouble for him to secure the 
 little food that he needed, and with a strange, almost relig 
 ious dignity, he had no hesitation in asking for that much. 
 By degrees his hair became longer and longer, his once black 
 hat became an earthen brown, and his clothes threadbare 
 and dusty. 
 
 For all of three years he walked, and none knew how 
 wide were his perambulations, nor how he survived the 
 storms and cold. They could not see him, with homely rural 
 understanding and forethought, sheltering himself in hay 
 cocks, or by the sides of cattle, whose warm bodies protected 
 him from the cold, and whose dull understandings were not 
 opposed to his harmless presence. Overhanging rocks and 
 trees kept him at times from the rain, and a friendly hay-loft 
 or corn-crib was not above his humble consideration. 
 
 The involute progression of hallucination is strange. 
 
308 THE GREAT MODERN^ AMERICAN STORIES. 
 
 From asking at doors and being constantly rebuffed or de 
 nied, he finally came to the conclusion that although his 
 Phcebe might not be in any of the houses at the doors of 
 which he inquired, she might nevertheless be within the sound 
 of his voice. And so, from patient inquiry, he began to call 
 sad, occasional cries, that ever and anon waked the quiet 
 landscapes and ragged hill regions, and set to echoing his 
 thin "O-o-o Phcebe! O-o-o Phcebe!" It had a pathetic, 
 albeit insane, ring, and many a farmer or plowboy came to 
 know it even from afar and say, "There goes old Reif- 
 sneider." 
 
 Another thing that puzzled him greatly after a time and 
 after many hundreds of inquiries was, when he no longer 
 had any particular dooryard in view and no special inquiry 
 to make, which way to go. These cross-roads, which occas 
 ionally led in four or even six directions, came after a time 
 to puzzle him. But to solve this knotty problem, which be 
 came more and more of a puzzle, there came to his aid another 
 hallucination. Phoebe s spirit or some power of the air or 
 wind or nature would tell him. If he stood at the centre of 
 the parting of the ways, closed his eyes, turned thrice about, 
 and called "O-o-o Phcebe!" twice, and then threw his cane 
 straight before him, that would surely indicate which way to 
 go, for Phcebe, or one of these mystic powers would surely 
 govern its direction and fall! In whichever direction it 
 went, even though, as was not infrequently the case, it took 
 him back along the path he had already come, or across 
 fields, he was not so far gone in his mind but that he gave 
 himself ample time to search before he called again. Also 
 the hallucination seemed to persist that at some time he 
 would surely find her. There were hours when his feet were 
 sore, and his limbs weary, when he would stop in the heat to 
 wipe his seamed brow, or in the cold to beat his arms. Some 
 times, after throwing away his cane, and finding it indicat 
 ing the direction from which he had just come, he would 
 shake his head wearily and philosophically, as if contemp 
 lating the unbelievable or an untoward fate, and then start 
 briskly off. His strange figure came finally to be known in 
 
THE LOST PHCEBE 
 
 the farthest reaches of three or four counties. Old Reif- 
 sneider was a pathetic character. His fame was wide. 
 
 Near a little town called Watersville, in Green County, 
 perhaps four miles from that minor centre of human activity, 
 there was a place or precipice locally known as the Red 
 Cliff, a sheer wall of red sandstone, perhaps a hundred feet 
 high, which raised its sharp face for half a mile or more 
 above the fruitful cornfields and orchards that lay beneath, 
 and which was surmounted by a thick grove of trees. The 
 slope that slowly led up to it from the opposite side was 
 covered by a rank growth of beech, hickory, and ash, through 
 which threaded a number of wagon-tracks crossing at vari 
 ous angles. In fair weather it had become old Reifsneider s 
 habit, so inured was he by now to the open, to make his bed 
 in some such patch of trees as this, to fry his bacon or boil 
 his eggs at the foot of some tree, before laying himself down 
 for the night. Occasionally, so light and inconsequential 
 was his sleep, he would walk at night. More often, the 
 moonlight or some sudden wind stirring in the trees or a 
 reconnoitering animal arousing him, he would sit up and 
 think, or pursue his quest in the moonlight or the dark, a 
 strange, unnatural, half wild, half savage-looking but utterly 
 harmless creature, calling at lonely road crossings, staring at 
 dark and shuttered houses, and wondering where, where 
 Phoebe could really be. 
 
 That particular lull that comes in the systole-diastole of 
 this earthly ball at two o clock in the morning invariably 
 aroused him, and though he might not go any farther he 
 would sit up and contemplate the darkness or the stars, won 
 dering. Sometimes in the strange processes of his mind 
 he would fancy that he saw moving among the trees the figure 
 of his lost wife, and then he would get up to follow, taking 
 his utensils, always on a string, and his cane. If she seemed 
 to evade him too easily he would run, or plead, or, sud 
 denly losing track of the fancied figure, stand awed or dis 
 appointed, grieving for the moment over the almost insur 
 mountable difficulties of his search. 
 
 It was in the seventh year of these hopeless peregrinations, 
 in the dawn of a similar springtime to that in which his wife 
 
3io THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 had died, that he came at last one night to the vicinity of this 
 self-same patch that crowned the rise to the Red Cliff. His 
 far-flung cane, used as a divining-rod at the last cross 
 roads, had brought him hither. He had walked many, 
 many miles. It was after ten o clock at night, and he was 
 very weary. Long wandering and little eating had left him 
 but a shadow of his former self. It was a question now not 
 so much of physical strength but of spiritual endurance 
 which kept him up. He had scarcely eaten this day, and now, 
 exhausted, he set himself down in the dark to rest and possi 
 bly to sleep. 
 
 Curiously on this occasion a strange suggestion of the 
 presence of his wife surrounded him. It would not be long 
 now, he counseled with himself, although the long months 
 had brought him nothing, until he should see her, talk to 
 her. He fell asleep after a time, his head on his knees. At 
 midnight the moon began to rise, and at two in the morning, 
 his wakeful hour, was a large silver disk shining through the 
 trees to the east. He opened his eyes when the radiance be 
 came strong, making a silver pattern at his feet and lighting 
 the woods with strange lusters and silvery, shadowy forms. 
 As usual, his old notion that his wife must be near occurred 
 to him on this occasion, and he looked about him with a 
 speculative, anticipatory eye. What was it that moved in 
 the distant shadows along the path by which he had entered 
 a pale, flickering will-o -the-wisp that bobbed gracefully 
 among the trees and riveted his expectant gaze? Moonlight 
 and shadows combined to give it a strange form and a 
 stranger reality, this fluttering of bog-fire or dancing of wan 
 dering fire-flies. Was it truly his lost Phcebe? By a cir 
 cuitous route it passed about him, and in his fevered state 
 he fancied that he could see the very eyes of her, not as 
 she was when he last saw her in the black dress and shawl, 
 but now a strangely younger Phcebe, gayer, sweeter, the one 
 whom he had known years before as a girl. Old Reifsnei- 
 der got up. He had been expecting and dreaming of this 
 hour all these years, and now as he saw the feeble light 
 dancing lightly before him he peered at it questioningly, one 
 thin hand in his gray hair. 
 
THE LOST PHCEBE 311 
 
 Of a sudden there came to him now for the first time in 
 many years the full charm of her girlish figure as he had 
 known it in boyhood, the pleasing, sympathetic smile, the 
 brown hair, the blue sash she had once worn about her waist 
 at a picnic, her gray, graceful movements. He walked 
 around the base of the tree, straining with his eyes, forgetting 
 for once his cane and utensils, and following eagerly after. 
 On she moved before him, a will-o -the-wisp of the spring, 
 a little flame above her head, and it seemed as though among 
 the small saplings of ash and beech and the thick trunks of 
 hickory and elm that she signaled with a young, a lightsome 
 hand. 
 
 "O Phcebe! Phoebe!" he called. "Have yuh really 
 come? Have yuh really answered me?" And hurrying 
 faster, he fell once, scrambling lamely to his feet, only to 
 see the light in the distance dancing illusively on. On and 
 on he hurried until he was fairly running, brushing his rag 
 ged arms against the trees, striking his hands and face 
 against impeding twigs. His hat was gone, his lungs were 
 breathless, his reason quite astray, when coming to the edge 
 of the cliff he saw her below among a silvery bed of apple- 
 trees now blooming in the spring. 
 
 "O Phcebe!" he called. "O Phcebe! Oh, no, don t leave 
 me!" And feeling the lure of a world where love was 
 young and Phcebe, as this vision presented her, a delightful 
 epitome of their quondam youth, he gave a gay cry of "Oh, 
 wait, Phcebe!" and leaped. 
 
 Some farmer-boys, reconnoitering this region of bounty 
 and prospect some few days afterward, found first the tin 
 utensils tied together under the tree where he had left them, 
 and then later at the foot of the cliff, pale, broken, but elate, 
 a molded smile of peace and delight upon his lips, his body, 
 His old hat was discovered lying under some low-growing 
 saplings, the twigs of which had held it back. No one of all 
 the simple population knew how eagerly and joyously he had 
 found his lost mate. 
 
A FAILURE * 
 
 By EDITH WYATT 
 
 THROUGH the rooms and halls of a high building on 
 Wabash Avenue there sound all day, and sometimes 
 far into the night, the note and phrase and rhythm of 
 beating music. Scales and chords, throbbing violin tones, 
 clear piano arpeggios, and soaring voices quiver in the air; 
 and almost at the same moment one may hear wavering 
 through the open doors of studios and practice-rooms en 
 deavor at the technique of art, and its result swelling through 
 the transoms of music and concert-halls. 
 
 In one of the rooms of this building toiled like a galley- 
 slave Professor Alberto Wright, a violin master. He was a 
 tall, thin, brown gentleman, of Italian-American parentage, 
 dressed always in Prince Albert coat, tapering gray trousers, 
 and a puffing white satin tie. In the winter he wore an 
 overcoat with a deep chinchilla collar, and it was in this he 
 had his photograph taken to give to the pupils at Christmas 
 time, with "From your loving teacher, Alberto C. Wright," 
 written in a swashing, black hand across the corner. 
 
 Far from being a loving teacher, Professor Alberto was as 
 cross and tyrannical a master as possible. Still his pupils 
 all liked him, and the more sensible stoutly admired him, 
 for his work was done with honesty and enthusiasm; and 
 his crossness arose from a native inability to understand why 
 any moral and intelligent person should do otherwise than 
 devote his whole time and energies to learning the violin. A 
 few of his pupils really were inspired by him to such a de 
 votion; the rest were chiefly without talent or ear, inade 
 quately diligent, and horribly berated ; but among the inade- 
 
 *By permission of, and arrangement with, Doubleday, Page & 
 Company, and the author. 
 
 312 
 
A FAILURE 313 
 
 quately diligent was one pupil who had a very fine musical 
 talent. 
 
 This was a Southern girl, a Miss Hallie Patterson, gifted 
 with a quick ear, an instinctive musical understanding, and 
 a talent for sympathetic expression on the violin. She had 
 played it ever since she was four years old, when she had 
 picked it up from her father s Negro-man, Poley. 
 
 Miss Hallie was extremely pretty, with brown curls and 
 lazy, drifting eyes; she dressed outrageously, almost always 
 wearing her brother s round felt hat; and she was so indo 
 lent that Professor Alberto often nearly wept at her slov 
 enly runs and double thirds. She lived with her father, Dr. 
 Patterson, her semi-invalid mother, Mrs. Patterson, her sis 
 ter, Linda, her young brother, Clement, and Poley, in a 
 large frame house, out on the West Side. When the doctor 
 had moved into this house, twelve years before, he had had 
 the ceilings frescoed, velvet carpets put on the floors, and 
 small statuettes of Italian marble placed at the windows; 
 and the house had received almost no attention since. Mrs. 
 Patterson cared not a pin for the place. The doctor, after 
 his one week s brilliant dash into housekeeping, was soon ab 
 sorbed in his business again ; and Hallie and Linda managed 
 the house and brought themselves up, with Poley s assistance. 
 
 They certainly managed the house very ill. It was bare 
 and dingy and almost always so cold that one had to wear a 
 shawl. Hallie, Linda, and Mrs. Patterson always wore 
 shawls; Clement grumbled frightfully about the cold, and in 
 the wintriest weather kept his coat-collar ostentatiously 
 turned up, and wore a bicycle-cap during dinner, while 
 Professor Alberto, young Mr. Waters, Claudie Dawson, and 
 other youthful admirers of Miss Hallie and Miss Linda, 
 often sat through the meal at the doctor s with teeth posi 
 tively chattering. Hallie and Linda had left school when 
 they were about twelve years old, and they spent all their 
 time in taking drives in a shambling cast-off phaeton of the 
 doctor s with an old family-horse, in talking to a pet rac 
 coon in the back yard, and in receiving calls. They were 
 both pretty, both entirely amiable and indolent and devoted 
 to easy, unambitious pleasures; and they both exercised a 
 
314 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 remarkable fascination over men and boys of all kinds, so 
 that when Miss Hallie was not driving in the phaeton or 
 feeding the coon, her attention was always occupied with 
 some affair. 
 
 She simply had no conception of work, and when Professor 
 Alberto would ask, crossly, "Miss Hallie, might I ask in 
 what valuable way you spend your time that not one scrap 
 is left for practice?" she would merely glance non-commit- 
 tally around the room, smiling sweetly. 
 
 "Will you do me the goodness to tell me that, Miss Hallie ?" 
 
 "Why, Mistah Wright, the reason I coulden practice yes- 
 tahday was, I jus ran out to Austin with Mistah Watahs 
 and Sist Linda and a friend to get a few wild-flowahs." 
 
 Professor Alberto nearly choked with rage at these mo 
 ments. In his early acquaintance with Miss Hallie he had 
 visited the Pattersons in the hope of inducing Mrs. Patterson 
 to spur her daughter to practice a hope soon dashed. 
 
 "Ah wish Hallie would practice a little," she said, plain 
 tively, in reply to Professor Alberto s remarks, "though Ah d 
 rathah she took the piano instead of the fiddle, it seems so 
 much moah lady-like. A hm passionat ly fond of music 
 mahself, Mistah Wright. Ah think every lady ought to 
 know a little something about it an that s why Ah wanted 
 to have daughtah take it up." 
 
 Mr. Wright twisted slightly in his chair. 
 
 "Do you play Juanita, Mistah Wright? It s right 
 pretty Clemmie, deah, please don t do that. It looks so 
 rude" 
 
 Clement was carelessly chinning himself at the parlor tran 
 som. 
 
 "Don t you think so, Professor?" Mr. Wright glanced 
 discreetly at the floor. "The do get on my nerves some 
 times, Mistah Wright, racketing around the way the do. 
 Ah jus can t do anything with them. The don t pay any 
 attention to mah advice . Daughtah Linda sometimes she 
 almost weahs me to the bone. Now theah was Mistah Roy 
 Pottah, a lovely fellow. Ah ve almost nevah been so taken 
 with any of the guhls company as Ah was with Mistah Roy 
 Pottah." She lowered her voice. "And Jetuhmined to 
 
A FAILURE 315 
 
 many daughtah Linda. Well. He took it very well. As 
 Ah say, he was a lovely fellow; and so sweet with Clemmie. 
 He gave him moah lovely books, Willie s Trial and His 
 One Fault: 
 
 "Darned old stiff," muttered Clement. 
 
 "And now he is engaged to a lovely guhl in Kans City. 
 Someone, Ah hope, who can appreciate him," she raised her 
 voice a little with didactic intent to strike the ear of Miss 
 Linda, passing at the moment in teaching the five-step to 
 Claudie Dawson. 
 
 The next morning at breakfast Mrs. Patterson observed 
 plaintively to Hallie: 
 
 "Daughtah, Ah think you ought to try to practice moah 
 foah Mistah Wright. He is a chawming gentleman, and Ah 
 can see he is jus wrapped up in his music." 
 
 "Well, mother, I will. But Clem hid my violin yes 
 terday." 
 
 "Yes, sir. You bet I did; an the next time you borrow 
 my rub boots without telling me, an I look for em for an 
 hour, I ll hide it again." 
 
 "Hush, Clemmie! Daughtah, Ah wish you wouldn t bor 
 row Clemmie s things so much. Ah hate to see you in his 
 hats the whole time; and Ah don t like to see you wearing 
 that black lace scarf around your neck every day, Hallie. It 
 is handsome, Ah will allow, an* becoming but so odd. 
 Othah young ladies weah linen collahs." 
 
 "Well, I asked Poley to get me some collars downtown." 
 
 "Miss Hallie, clean fergit tell you. Dee all out of youah 
 size. Dee get it in to-day. 
 
 This was the manner of Miss Hallie s spurring to work. 
 However, one spring, after a winter of blame and despair 
 with Mr. Wright, she was suddenly inspired with an inten 
 tion to do better. After all, she liked music better than any 
 thing else; and the long effort of Mr. Wright and the popu 
 larity and success of a celebrated violinist visiting the city 
 touched her with a wish to endeavor to succeed in her art 
 and with an impatience of her technical faults. 
 
 She practiced for a month diligently and with good re 
 sults, and when, late in May, Mr. Wright determined to 
 
316 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 give a chamber concert, a pupils recital, and bestow on her 
 the most important numbers, she was more than ever stirred. 
 
 For while Mr. Wright with one hand depressed this con 
 cert to the level of a simple, almost domestic occasion, with 
 the other he raised it to the rank of an important musical 
 event. 
 
 Hallie thought very little about it at first; but as time 
 went on she became more and more painfully aware that 
 she must keep up to the mark a feeling she extremely dis 
 liked. 
 
 Mr. Wright, meanwhile, sometimes pretended that the con 
 cert was of no moment, and at others represented to Miss 
 Hallie that it was the beginning of her musical career and 
 if she failed in it she would be little better than damned. 
 He kept inviting more and more musicians, musical critics, 
 and friends of musical art to come to the chamber concert; 
 he had one pupil he particularly wished they should hear. 
 He thought she had a career before her since she certainly 
 had a brilliant musical talent. 
 
 On the day of the concert Mr. Wright was so nervous that 
 he even communicated his nervousness to Miss Hallie. He 
 told her several times that she must not forget that someone 
 would carry in her violin-stand and put it up for her. At 
 the same time she must forget the audience and put all her 
 energies into her work. But remember to stand facing the 
 house; and not to keep looking at the piano when it was time 
 for it to come in, in the concerto that gave a very awk 
 ward appearance. She ought to have flowers. Everything 
 counted in the beginning of a career. He tore out at the last 
 moment and bought her some no one else, he was sure, 
 could do it so quickly and handed them to her furiously. 
 
 Looking out from the side of the concert-stage, poor Miss 
 Hallie could see that the chamber was crowded, and with a 
 critical, musical audience; though in the front row sat a 
 comfortable group of Dr. Patterson, Clement, Linda, Claudie 
 Dawson, and several of the youthful admirers. Poley was 
 wandering restlessly near the entrance. He was almost as 
 nervous as Professor Alberto. 
 
 The concert opened with two colorless trilling numbers 
 
A FAILURE 317 
 
 by frightened pupils; and then Miss Hallie came out on the 
 platform with her violin. She looked very youthful and a 
 little pale and scared in Mrs. Patterson s best black grena 
 dine dress and a little bonnet. Her hand was quivering and 
 she was unable to lift her eyes to the audience. She settled 
 her violin under her chin, tightened a string with a desperate 
 sense that now, now was actually the moment she had 
 thought about so long, and began the introduction of the 
 Norwegian Dance of Mr. Wright s selection. 
 
 Once the first familiar notes had sounded she was at ease 
 in her performance. She played with her native perception 
 and fire and more than her ordinary power and mastery. 
 She completely filled her hearers sense and her own with the 
 splendid rhythm of the fierce Norwegian music, until, ab 
 sorbed in her rendition, she glanced up carelessly, and, at 
 the sight of all the faces and eyes about her, panic possessed 
 her. 
 
 Her hand faltered. Grieg s music vanished from her 
 mind as though it had been swept off with a sponge. She 
 turned white and giddy, the room began to reel before her; 
 and then it seemed she plunged down a bottomless abyss. 
 
 The next thing she knew was that she was lying on a 
 couch in Professor Alberto s studio, with her father standing 
 beside her and Poley, Clement, and Linda looking in at her 
 from the door. 
 
 "Lie still, daughter, lie still," said her father, gently. He 
 poured a little wine for her, and after she had drunk it Miss 
 Hallie sat up on the couch and began to cry. She could 
 hear the music of the next number sounding dimly through 
 the transom. "Oh, how terribly Mistah Wright will feel," 
 she said. "I don t know what was the matter with me. 
 Heavens ! I nevah will go on that platform again. I want 
 you to tell Professor that I nevah will go neah that platform. 
 I simply can t stand it." 
 
 The doctor gazed on her in distress and softly closed the 
 door on Linda, Clement, and Poley. He soothed Miss Hallie 
 as well as he could, gave her a little wine, took off her unac 
 customed bonnet, and clumsily smoothed her hair, with 
 anxiety and tenderness written on his lank, kind face. 
 
318 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES^ 
 
 "And, besides, I can t stand it to see Mistah Wright again, 
 befoh we go home." 
 
 The recollection of Mr. Wright s uncontrolled gloom arose 
 before the doctor. "Perhaps that would be as well," he 
 assented. 
 
 "My daughter," he continued, gravely. "I know you feel 
 now that life is closed to you. At your age that is natural. 
 I thought many times when I was a young man that I could 
 not possibly continue in the medical careah." He looked 
 down at the floor. "And I never can have the success I 
 once expected. But my work has been very much to me. 
 You know we sometimes get more ourselves from our work 
 than anyone else could give us." Miss Hallie was an honest 
 girl. "But, fathah," she said, quakingly, "I nevah took my 
 music like that. I don t really care to practise much, though 
 I m awfully fond of music. I like it about as much as any 
 thing I know of." 
 
 "Well, that is a relief, in some ways," said the doctor. 
 "But so much seemed to be made of this." 
 
 "No, that was all Mistah Wright. He sort of worked me 
 up, I reckon. He always said I hadn t any application or any 
 ambition, an I guess it s true, I haven t." The tears began 
 to fall over her face. 
 
 "Don t, daughter, don t," said the doctor, hastily, "it s bad 
 for your eyes, my dear." 
 
 "Well, fathah, I guess if I had ambition I d cry lots 
 harder. Dear! How disappointed Poley will be," she be 
 gan to laugh a little, and the doctor smiled, too, more from a 
 good-hearted pleasure at seeing her rally than from any 
 humerous perception of Poley s attitude. When Miss Hallie 
 was safely started for home in the carriage with Poley, 
 the doctor waited till after the concert was over and the 
 sympathetic musical friends had dispersed, and talked long 
 with Mr. Wright, who found him far more satisfactory than 
 any other of the Pattersons. 
 
 "You have taught my daughter nobly, sir," he said, 
 "Nobly. I appreciate your work with her, but for many 
 reasons temperamental and othah reasons she could 
 never have a musical careah. In my profession, and aH 
 
A FAILURE 319 
 
 professional work, sir, I have learned to appreciate the 
 necessity of not yielding to a sudden mood, and ah applica 
 tion" 
 
 Professor Alberto nearly fell on the doctor s neck. 
 
 That evening, while the doctor was sitting in his office, 
 he heard Hallie s violin quivering and singing through the 
 frescoed parlors. Mrs. Patterson, in complainant confi 
 dences, was murmuring to young Mr. Waters at one end of 
 the room, and Clement, Linda, and some of the youthful 
 admirers were sitting out on the front steps, all rather silent, 
 and a little tired from the exhausting day. Linda had nearly 
 fallen asleep once or twice. 
 
 The fragrance of Professor Alberto s roses wafted through 
 the empty rooms on the cool spring wind through the open 
 windows. The tones of Hallie s violin rose and fell on the 
 still air in the Suwanee River and Dixie, and in their 
 wild lilting melody there sounded to the girl all the joys of 
 her regained ease and liberty. "And I wish I was in Dixie, 
 Away! Away! In Dixie s land I ll take my stand, to live 
 and die in Dixie Land"; here for no reason but that of 
 countless vague associations there sounded to her fancy a 
 hundred happy days of waltzing and dancing in her father s 
 parlors, of hours in the barn with Poley and long drives with 
 Linda in the old phaeton, of innumerable worthless moments 
 radiant with careless joy and freedom. 
 
 The lamp-light from the street fell in dusky and purple- 
 flecked lights and shadows on the floor, and an overwhelming 
 tenderness for the familiar house and its kind, funny ways 
 swept her. At the moment everything in her whole life, its 
 every circumstance, seemed to her suffused and radiant with 
 the warmest loveliness. She played on and on, her heart 
 beating high with happiness. Perhaps she really was get 
 ting more from her work than anyone else would have given 
 her. 
 
THE YELLOW WALL-PAPER* 
 
 BY CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON OILMAN 
 
 IT is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John 
 and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer. 
 A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say 
 a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity 
 but that would be asking too much of fate! 
 
 Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer 
 about it. 
 
 Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have 
 stood so long untenanted ? 
 
 John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in 
 
 John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with 
 faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly 
 at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down 
 in figures. 
 
 John is a physician, and perhaps (I would not say it 
 to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great 
 relief to my mind) perhaps that is one reason I do not get 
 well faster. 
 
 You see he does not believe I am sick ! And what can one 
 do? 
 
 If a physician of high standing, and one s own husband, 
 assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the 
 matter with one but temporary nervous depression a slight 
 hysterical tendency what is one to do? 
 
 My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, 
 and he says the same thing. 
 
 So I take phosphates or phosphites whichever it is and 
 tonics, and journeys, and air, and exercise, and am abso 
 lutely forbidden to "work" until I am well again. 
 
 Personally, I disagree with their ideas. 
 
 *By permission of the author. 
 
 320 
 
THE YELLOW WALL-PAPER 321 
 
 Personally, I believe that congenial work, with, excite 
 ment and change, would do me good. 
 
 But what is one to do? 
 
 I did write for a while in spite of them; but it does 
 exhaust me a good deal having to be so sly about it, or 
 else meet with heavy opposition. 
 
 I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less op 
 position and more society and stimulus but John says the 
 very worst thing I can do is to think about my condition, and 
 I confess it always makes me feel bad. 
 
 So I will let it alone and talk about the house. 
 
 The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, rtanding 
 well back from the road, quite three miles from the village. 
 It makes me think of English places that you read about, for 
 there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of 
 separate little houses for the gardeners and people. 
 
 There is a delicious garden! I never saw such a garden 
 = large and shady, full of box-bordered paths, and lined 
 with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them. 
 
 There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now. 
 
 There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about 
 the heirs and co-heirs; anyhow, the place has been empty 
 for years. 
 
 That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but I don t care 
 ~-there is something strange about the house I can feel 
 it. 
 
 I even said so to John one moonlight evening, but he said 
 what I felt was a draught, and shut the window,, 
 
 I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I m sure 
 I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this 
 nervous condition. 
 
 But John says if I feel so I shall neglect proper self- 
 control; so I take pains to control myself before him, at 
 least, and that makes me very tired. 
 
 I don t like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that 
 opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window, and 
 such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings ! But John would 
 not hear of it. 
 
 He said there was only one window and not room for two 
 beds, and no near room for him if he took another. 
 
322 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir with 
 out special direction. 
 
 I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; 
 he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful 
 not to value it more. 
 
 He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to 
 have perfect rest and all the air I could get. "Your ex 
 ercise depends on your strength, my dear," said he, "and 
 your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can ab 
 sorb all the time." So we took the nursery at the top of 
 the house. 
 
 It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with win 
 dows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It 
 was nursery first and then playroom and gymnasium, I 
 should judge ; for the windows are barred for little children, 
 and there are rings and things in the walls. 
 
 The paint and paper look as if a boys school had used it. 
 It is stripped off the paper in great patches all around 
 the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a 
 great place on the other side of the room low down. I never 
 saw a worse paper in my life. 
 
 One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing 
 every artistic sin. 
 
 It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pro 
 nounced enough constantly to irritate and provoke study, and 
 when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little dis 
 tance they suddenly commit suicide plunge off at outrage 
 ous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions. 
 
 The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering 
 unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sun 
 light. ^ 
 
 It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sul 
 phur tint in others. 
 
 No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it my 
 self if I had to live in this room long. 
 
 There comes John, and I must put this away he hates to 
 have me write a word. 
 
THE YELLOW WALL-PAPER 323 
 
 We have been here two weeks, and I haven t felt like writ 
 ing before, since that first day. 
 
 I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious 
 nursery, and there is nothing to hinder my writing as much 
 as I please, save lack of strength. 
 
 John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases 
 are serious. 
 
 I am glad my case is noj serious! 
 
 But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing. 
 
 John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows 
 there is no reason to suffer, and that satisfies him. 
 
 Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me 
 so not to do my duty in any way ! 
 
 I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and 
 comfort, and here I am a comparative burden already! 
 
 Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little 
 I am able to dress and entertain, and order things. 
 
 It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a 
 dear baby! 
 
 And yet I cannot be with him, it makes me so nervous. 
 
 I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs 
 at me so about this wall-paper ! 
 
 At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he 
 said that I was letting it get the better of me, and that 
 nothing was worse for a nervous patient that to give way 
 to such fancies. 
 
 He said that after the wall-paper was changed it would be 
 the heavy bedstead, and then the barred windows, and then 
 that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on. 
 
 "You know the place is doing you good," he said, "and 
 really, dear, I don t care to renovate the house just for a 
 three months rental." 
 
 "Then do let us go downstairs," I said, "there are such 
 pretty rooms there." 
 
 Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little 
 goose, and said he would go down cellar, if I wished, and 
 have it whitewashed into the bargain. 
 
 But he is right enough about the beds and windows and 
 things. 
 
324 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES. 
 
 It is an airy and comfortable room as any one need wish, 
 and, of course, I would not be so silly as to make him un 
 comfortable just for a whim. 
 
 I m really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that 
 Jhorrid paper. 
 
 Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious 
 deep-shaded arbors, the riotous old-fashioned flowers, and 
 bushes and gnarly trees. 
 
 Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a 
 little private wharf belonging to the estate. There is a 
 beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. 
 I always fancy I see people walking in these numerous paths 
 and arbors, but John has cautioned me not to give way to 
 fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative power 
 and habit of story-making, a nervous weakness like mine is 
 sure to lead to all manner of excited fancies, and that I 
 ought to use my will and good sense to check the tendency. 
 So I try. 
 
 I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write 
 a little it would relieve the press of ideas and rest me. 
 
 But I find I get pretty tired when I try. 
 
 It is so discouraging not to have any advice and compan 
 ionship about my work. When I get really well, John says 
 we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a long visit; 
 but he says he would as soon put fireworks in my pillow 
 case as to let me have those stimulating people about now. 
 
 I wish I could get well faster. 
 
 But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me 
 as if it knew what a vicious influence it had ! 
 
 There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a 
 broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside down. 
 
 I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the 
 everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and 
 those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one 
 place where two breadths didn t match, and the eyes go all 
 up and down the line, one a little higher than the other. 
 
 I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing be 
 fore, and we all know how much expression they have! I 
 used to lie awake as a child and get more entertainment and 
 
THE YELLOW WALL-PAPER 325 
 
 terror out of blank walls and plain furniture than most chil 
 dren could find in a toy-store. 
 
 I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big, old 
 bureau used to have, and there was one chair that always 
 seemed like a strong friend. 
 
 I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too 
 fierce I could always hop into that chair and be safe. 
 
 The furniture in this room is no worse than inharmonious, 
 however, for we had to bring it all from downstairs. I 
 suppose when this was used as a playroom they had to take 
 the nursery things out, and no wonder! I never saw such 
 ravages as the children have made here. 
 
 The wall-paper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and 
 it sticketh closer than a brother they must have had per 
 severance as well as hatred. 
 
 Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the 
 plaster itself is dug out here and there, and this great heavy 
 bed which is all we found in the room, looks as if it had 
 been through the wars. 
 
 But I don t mind it a bitonly the paper. 
 
 There comes John s sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and 
 so careful of me ! ~I Inust not let her find me writing. 
 
 She is a perfect and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes 
 for no better profession. I verily believe she thinks it is the 
 writing which made me sick! 
 
 But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off 
 from these windows. 
 
 There is one that commands the road, a lovely shaded 
 winding road, and one that just looks off over the country. 
 A lovely country, too, full of great elms and velvet meadows. 
 
 This wall-paper has a kind of sub-pattern in a different 
 shade, a particularly irritating one, for you can only see it 
 in certain lights, and not clearly then. 
 
 But in the places where it isn t faded and where the sun 
 is just so I can see a strange, provoking, formless sort of 
 figure, that seems to skulk about behind that silly and con 
 spicuous front design. 
 
 There s sister on the stairs ! 
 
326 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Well, the Fourth of July is over ! The people are all gone 
 and I am tired out. John thought it might do me good to 
 see a little company, so we just had mother and Nellie and 
 the children down for a week. 
 
 Of course I didn t do a thing. Jennie sees to everything 
 now. 
 
 But it tired me all the same. 
 
 John says if I don t pick up faster he shall send me to 
 Weir Mitchell in the fall. 
 
 But I don t want to go there at all. I had a friend who 
 was in his hands once, and she says he is just like John and 
 my brother, only more so ! 
 
 Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far. 
 
 I don t feel as if it was worth while to turn my hand 
 over for anything, and I m getting dreadfully fretful and 
 querulous. 
 
 I cry at nothing, and cry most of the time. 
 
 Of course I don t when John is here, or anybody else, but 
 when I am alone. 
 
 And I am alone a good deal just now. John is kept in 
 town very often by serious cases, and Jennie is good and 
 lets me alone when I want her to. 
 
 So I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely lane, 
 sit on the porch under the roses, and lie down up here a good 
 deal. 
 
 I m getting really fond of the room in spite of the wall 
 paper. Perhaps because of the wallpaper. 
 
 It dwells in my mind so ! 
 
 I lie here on this great immovable bed it is nailed down, 
 I believe and follow that pattern about by the hour. It is 
 as good as gymnastics, I assure you. I start, we ll say, at 
 the bottom, down in the corner over there where it has not 
 been touched, and I determine for the thousandth time that 
 I will follow that pointless pattern to some sort of a con 
 clusion. 
 
 I know a little of the principle of design, and I know this 
 thing was not arranged on any laws of radiation, or alterna 
 tion, or repetition, or symmetry, or anything else that I evet 
 heard of. 
 
THE YELLOW WALL-PAPER 327 
 
 It is repeated, of course, by the breadths, but not other 
 wise. 
 
 Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the 
 bloated curves and flourishes a kind of "debased Roman 
 esque" with delirium tremens go waddling up and down in 
 isolated columns of fatuity. 
 
 But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the 
 sprawling outlines run off in great slanting waves of optic 
 horror, like a lot of wallowing sea-weeds in full chase. 
 
 The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems 
 so, and I exhaust myself trying to distinguish the order of its 
 going in that direction. 
 
 They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that 
 adds wonderfully to the confusion. 
 
 There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, 
 and there, when the crosslights fade and the low sun shines 
 directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation after all, the 
 interminable grotesques seem to form around a common 
 centre and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction. 
 
 It makes me tired to follow it. I will take a nap I guess. 
 * # * * * * # * 
 
 I don t know why I should write this. 
 
 I don t want to. 
 
 I don t feel able. 
 
 And I know John would think it absurd. But I must 
 say what I feel and think in some way it is such a relief! 
 
 But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief. 
 
 Half the time now I am awfully lazy, and lie down ever 
 so much. 
 
 John says I mustn t lose my strength, and has me take 
 cod liver oil and lots of tonics and things, to say nothing of 
 ale and wine and rare meat. 
 
 Dear John! He loves me very dearly, and hates to have 
 me sick. I tried to have a real earnest reasonable talk with 
 him the other day, and tell him how I wish he would let me 
 go and make a visit to Cousin Henry and Julia. 
 
 But he said I wasn t able to go, nor able to stand it after 
 I got there; and I did not make out a very good case for 
 myself, for I was crying before I had finished. 
 
328 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. 
 Just this nervous weakness I suppose. 
 
 And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just 
 carried me upstairs and laid me on the bed, and sat by me 
 and read to me till it tired my head. 
 
 He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, 
 and that I must take care of myself for his sake, and keep 
 well. 
 
 He says no one but myself can help me out of it, that I 
 must use my will and self-control and not let any silly fancies 
 run away with me. 
 
 There s one comfort, the baby is well and happy, and does 
 not have to occupy this nursery with the horrid wallpaper. 
 
 If we had not used it, that blessed child would have! 
 What a fortunate escape ! Why, I wouldn t have a child of 
 mine, an impressionable little thing, live in such a room for 
 worlds. 
 
 I never thought of it before, but it is lucky that John kept 
 me here after all, I can stand it so much easier than a baby, 
 you see. 
 
 Of course I never mention it to them any more I am too 
 wise but I keep watch for it all the same. 
 
 There are things in that paper that nobody knows but me, 
 or ever will. 
 
 Behind that outside pattern the dim shapes get clearer 
 every day. 
 
 It is always the same shape, only very numerous. 
 
 And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about 
 behind that pattern. I don t like it a bit. I wonder I 
 
 begin to think I wish John would take me away from here ! 
 #####*#* 
 
 It is so hard to talk with John about my case, because he 
 is so wise, and because he loves me so. 
 
 But I tried it last night. 
 
 It was moonlight. The moon shines in all around just as 
 the sun does. 
 
 I hate to see it sometimes, it creeps so slowly, and always 
 comes in by one window or another. 
 
 John was asleep and I hated to waken him, so I kept still 
 
THE YELLOW WALLPAPER 329 
 
 and watched the moonlight on that undulating wallpaper 
 till I felt creepy. 
 
 The faint figure behind seemed to shake the pattern, just 
 as if she wanted to get out. 
 
 I got up softly and went to feel and see if the paper did 
 move, and when I came back John was awake. 
 
 "What is it, little^girl?" he said. "Don t go walking about 
 like that youlf get cold." 
 
 I thought it was a good time to talk so I told him that I 
 really was not gaining here, and that I wished he would 
 take me away. 
 
 "Why darling!" said he, "our lease will be up in three 
 weeks, and I can t see how to leave before. 
 
 "The repairs are not done at home, and I cannot possibly 
 leave town just now. Of course if you were in any danger, 
 I could and would, but you really are better, dear, whether 
 you can see it or not. I am a doctor, dear, and I know. 
 You are gaining flesh and color, your appetite is better, I 
 feel really much easier about you." 
 
 "I don t weigh a bit more," said I, "nor as much; and my 
 appetite may be better in the evening when you are here, but 
 it is worse in the morning when you are away!" 
 
 "Bless her little heart!" said he with a big hug, "she shall 
 be as sick as she pleases! But now let s improve the shin 
 ing hours by going to sleep, and talk about it in the morn 
 ing!" 
 
 "And you won t go away?" I asked gloomily. 
 
 "Why, how can I, dear? It is only three weeks more and 
 then we will take a nice little trip of a few days while 
 Jennie is getting the house ready. Really, dear, you are 
 better!" 
 
 "Better in body perhaps " I began, and stopped short, 
 for he sat up straight and looked at me with such a stern, 
 reproachful look that I could not say another word. 
 
 "My darling," said he, "I beg of you, for my sake and 
 for our child s sake, as well as for your own, that you will 
 never for one instant let that idea enter your mind! There 
 is nothing so dangerous, so fascinating, to a temperament like 
 
330 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 yours. It is a false and foolish fancy. Can you not trust 
 me as a physician when I tell you so?" 
 
 So of course I said no more on that score, and we went to 
 sleep before long. He thought I was asleep first, but I 
 wasn t, and lay there for hours trying to decide whether that 
 front pattern and the back pattern really did move together or 
 separately. 
 
 ******** 
 
 On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of se 
 quence, a defiance of law, that is a constant irritant to a 
 normal mind. 
 
 The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and 
 infuriating enough, but the pattern is torturing. 
 
 You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well 
 underway* in following, it turns a back-somersault and there 
 you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down, and 
 tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream. 
 
 The outside pattern is a florid arabesque, reminding one 
 of a fungus. If you can imagine a toadstool in joints, an 
 interminable string of toadstools, budding and sprouting in 
 endless convolutions why, that is something like it. 
 
 That is, sometimes ! 
 
 There is one marked peculiarity about this paper, a thing 
 nobody seems to notice but myself, and that is that it changes 
 as the light changes. 
 
 When the sun shoots in through the east window I always 
 watch for that first, long, straight ray it changes so quickly 
 that I never can quite believe it. 
 
 That is why I watch it always. 
 
 By moonlight the moon shines in all night when there is 
 a moon I wouldn t know it was the same paper. 
 
 At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, 
 lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it becomes bars! 
 The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as 
 plain as can be. 
 
 I didn t realize for a long time what the thing was that 
 showed behind, that dim sub-pattern, but now I am quite 
 sure it is a woman. 
 
 By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pat- 
 
THE YELLOW WALL-PAPER 331 
 
 tern that keeps her so still. It is so puzzling. It keeps me 
 quiet by the hour. 
 
 I lie down ever so much now. John says it is good for 
 me, and to sleep all I can. 
 
 Indeed he started the habit by making me lie down for an 
 hour after each meal. 
 
 It is a very bad habit I am convinced, for you see I don t 
 sleep. 
 
 And that cultivates deceit, for I don t tell them I m awake 
 O, no! 
 
 The fact is I am getting a little afraid of John. 
 
 He seems very queer sometimes, and even Jennie has an 
 inexplicable look. 
 
 It strikes me occasionally, just as a scientific hypothesis, 
 that perhaps it is the paper! 
 
 I have watched John when he did not know I was look 
 ing, and come into the room suddenly on the most innocent 
 excuses, and I ve caught him several times looking at the 
 paper! And Jennie too. I caught Jennie with her hand on 
 it once. 
 
 She didn t know I was in the room, and when I asked her 
 in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with the most restrained 
 manner possible, what she was doing with the paper she 
 turned around as if she had been caught stealing, and looked 
 quite angry asked me why I should frighten her so ! 
 
 Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, 
 that she had found yellow smooches on all my clothes and 
 John s, and she wished we would be more careful! 
 
 Did not that sound innocent? But I know she was 
 studying that pattern, and I am determined that nobody 
 shall find it out but myself! 
 
 ******** 
 
 Life is very much more exciting now than it used to be. 
 You see I have something more to expect, to look forward 
 to, to watch. I really do eat better, and am more quiet than 
 I was. 
 
 John is so pleased to see me improve ! He laughed a little 
 the other day, and said I seemed to be flourishing in spite of 
 my wallpaper. 
 
332 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 I turned it off with a laugh. I had no intention of telling 
 him it was because of the wallpaper he would make fun of 
 me. He might even want to take me away. 
 
 I don t want to leave now until I have found it out. 
 There is a week more, and I think that will be enough. 
 ******** 
 
 I m feeling ever so much better! I don t sleep much at 
 night, for it is so interesting to watch developments; but I 
 sleep a good deal in the daytime. 
 
 In the daytime it is tiresome and perplexing. 
 
 There are always new shoots on the fungus, and new 
 shades of yellow all over it. I cannot keep count of them, 
 though I have tried conscientiously. 
 
 It is the strangest yellow, that wallpaper! It makes me 
 think of all the yellow things I ever saw not beautiful ones 
 like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things. 
 
 But there is something else about that paper the smell! 
 I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with 
 so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a 
 week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or 
 not, the smell is here. 
 
 It creeps all over the house. 
 
 I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the 
 parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs. 
 
 It gets into my hair. 
 
 Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and 
 surprise it there is that smell 1 
 
 Such a peculiar odor, too ! I have spent hours in trying to 
 analyze it, to find what it smelled like. 
 
 It is not bad at first, and very gentle, but quite the 
 subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met. 
 
 In this damp weather it is awful, I wake up in the night 
 and find it hanging over me. 
 
 It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burn 
 ing the house to reach the smell. 
 
 But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of 
 that it is like is the color of the paper ! A yellow smell. 
 
 There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near 
 the mopboard. A streak that runs round the room. It 
 
 
THE YELLOW WALL-PAPER 333 
 
 goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed, a long, 
 straight, even smooch, as if it had been rubbed over and 
 over. 
 
 I wonder how it was done and who did it, and what they 
 did it for. Round and round and round round and round 
 and round it makes me dizzy ! 
 
 * * * * * * * * 
 
 I really have discovered something at last. 
 
 Through watching so much at night, when it changes so, 
 I have finally found out. 
 
 The front pattern does move and no wonder! The 
 woman behind shakes it! 
 
 Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, 
 and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her 
 crawling shakes it all over. 
 
 Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the 
 very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes 
 them hard. 
 
 And she is all the time trying to climb through. But no 
 body could climb through that pattern: it strangles so; I 
 think that is why it has so many heads.^> 
 
 They get through, and then the pattern strangles them 
 off and turns them upside down, and makes their eyes white ! 
 
 If those heads were covered or taken off it would not be 
 
 half so bad. 
 
 ******** 
 
 I think that woman gets out in the daytime! 
 
 And I ll tell you why privately I ve seen her! 
 
 I can see her out of every one of my windows ! 
 
 It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, 
 and most women do not creep by daylight. 
 
 I see her in that long shaded lane, creeping up and down. 
 I see her in those dark grape arbors, creeping all around the 
 garden. 
 
 I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along, 
 and when a carriage comes she hides under the blackberry 
 vines, 
 
 I don blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be 
 caught creeping by daylight ! 
 
334 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. I can t 
 do it at night, for I know John would suspect something 
 at once. 
 
 And John is so queer now, that I don t want to irritate 
 him. I wish he would take another room! Besides, I don t 
 want anybody to get that woman out at night but myself. 
 
 I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows 
 at once. 
 
 But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at 
 one time. 
 
 And though I always see her, she may be able to creep 
 faster than I can turn ! 
 
 I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, 
 creeping as fast as a cloud shadow in a high wind. 
 
 ******** 
 
 If only that top pattern could be gotten off from the under 
 one! I mean to try it, little by little. 
 
 I have found out another funny thing, but I shan t tell 
 it this time! It does not do to trust people too much. 
 
 There are only two more days to get this paper off, and I 
 believe John is beginning to notice. I don t like the look in 
 his eyes. 
 
 And I heard him ask Jennie a lot of professional ques 
 tions about me. She had a very good report to give. 
 
 She said I slept a good deal in the daytime. 
 
 John knows I don t sleep very well at night, for all I m so 
 quiet ! 
 
 He asked me all sorts of questions, too, and pretended to 
 be very loving and kind. 
 
 As if I couldn t see through him ! 
 
 Still, I don t wonder he acts so, sleeping under this paper 
 for three months. 
 
 It only interests me, but I feel sure John and Jennie are 
 
 secretly affected by it. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Hurrah! This is the last day, but it is enough. John to 
 stay in town over night, and won t be out until this evening. 
 
 Jennie wanted to sleep with me the sly thing! but I told 
 her I should undoubtedly rest better for a night all alone. 
 

 THE YELLOW WALL-PAPER 335 
 
 That was clever, for really I wasn t alone a bit ! As 
 soon as it was moonlight and that poor thing began to crawl 
 and shake the pattern, I got up and ran to help her. 
 
 I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled, and before 
 morning we had peeled off yards of that paper. 
 
 A strip about as high as my head and half around the 
 room. 
 
 And then when the sun came and that awful pattern be 
 gan to laugh at me, I declared I would finish it to-day 1 
 
 We go away to-morrow, and they are moving all my furni 
 ture down again to leave things as they were before. 
 
 Jennie looked at the wall in amazement, but I told her 
 merrily that I did it out of pure spite at the vicious thing. 
 
 She laughed and said she wouldn t mind doing it herself, 
 but I must not get tired. 
 
 How she betrayed herself that time ! 
 
 But I am here, and no person touches this paper but Me 
 not alive! 
 
 She tried to get me out of the room it was too patent! 
 But I said it was so quiet and empty and clean now that I 
 believed I would lie down again and sleep all I could; and 
 not to wake me even for dinner I would call when I 
 woke. 
 
 So now she is gone, and the servants are gone, and the 
 things are gone, and there is nothing left but that great bed 
 stead nailed down, with the canvas mattress we found on it. 
 
 We shall sleep downstairs to-night, and take the boat home 
 to-morrow. 
 
 I quite enjoy the room, now it is bare again. 
 
 How those children did tear about here ! 
 
 This bedstead is fairly gnawed ! 
 
 But I must get to work. 
 
 I have locked the door and thrown the key down into the 
 front path. 
 
 I don t want to go out ,and I don t want to have anybody 
 come in, till John comes. 
 
 I want to astonish him. 
 
 I ve got a rope up here that even Jennis did not find. If 
 
336 THE GREAT MODERN^ AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 that woman does get out, and tries to get away, I can tie 
 her! 
 
 But I forgot I could not reach far without anything to 
 stand on! 
 
 This bed will not move ! 
 
 I tried to lift and push it until I was lame, and then I 
 got so angry I bit off a little piece at one corner but it 
 hurt my teeth. 
 
 Then I peeled off all the paper I could reach standing on 
 the floor. It sticks horribly and the pattern just enjoys it! 
 All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and waddling 
 fungus growths just shriek with derision! 
 
 I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To 
 jump out of the window would be admirable exercise, but 
 the bars are too strong even to try. 
 
 Besides I wouldn t do it. Of course not. I know well 
 enough that a step like that is improper and might be mis 
 construed. 
 
 I don t like to look out of the windows even there are 
 so many of those creeping women, and they creep so fast. 
 
 I wonder if they all come out of that wallpaper as I did? 
 
 But I am securely fastened now by my well-hidden rope 
 you don t get me out in the road there ! 
 
 I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when 
 it comes night, and that is hard! 
 
 It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep 
 around as I pleasej 
 
 I don t want to go outside. I won t, even if Jennie asks 
 me to. 
 
 For outside you have to creep on the ground, and every 
 thing is green instead of yellow. 
 
 But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my 
 shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so 
 I cannot lose my way. 
 
 Why there s John at the door! 
 
 It is no use, young man, you can t open it! 
 
 How he does call and pound! 
 
 Now he s crying for an axe. 
 
 Jt would be a shame to break down that beautiful door ! 
 
THE YELLOW WALL-PAPER 337 
 
 "John dear!" said I in the gentlest voice, "the key is down 
 by the front steps, under a plantain leaf!" 
 
 That silenced him for a few moments. 
 
 Then he said, very quietly indeed, "Open the door, my 
 darling!" 
 
 "I can t," said I. "The key is down by the front door 
 under a plantain leaf!" 
 
 And then I said it again, several times, very gently and 
 slowly, and said it so often that he had to go and see, and he 
 got it of course, and came in. He stopped short by the door. 
 
 "What is the matter?" he cried. "For God s sake, what 
 are you doing!" 
 
 I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over 
 my shoulder. 
 
 "I ve got out at last," said I, "in spite of you and Jane. 
 And I ve pulled off most of the paper, so you can t put me 
 back!" 
 
 Now why should that man have fainted? But he did,, 
 and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep 
 over him every time I 
 
THE LITTLE ROOM * 
 
 BY MADELENE YALE WYNNE 
 
 66 TT OW would it do for a smoking room?" 
 
 "Just the very place! Only, you know, Roger, 
 you must not think of smoking in the house. I 
 am almost afraid that having just a plain, common man 
 around, let alone a smoking man, will upset Aunt Hannah. 
 She is New England Vermont New England boiled 
 down." 
 
 "You leave Aunt Hannah to me; I ll find her tender side. 
 I m going to ask her about the old sea-captain and the 
 yellow calico." 
 
 "Not yellow calico blue chintz." 
 
 "Well, yellow shell then." 
 
 "No, no! don t mix it up so; you won t know yourself what 
 to expect, and that s half the fun." 
 
 "Now you tell me again exactly what to expect; to tell the 
 truth, I didn t half hear about it the other day; I was wool 
 gathering. It was something queer that happened when you 
 were a child, wasn t it?" 
 
 "Something that began to happen long before that, and 
 kept happening, and may happen again but I hope not." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 "I wonder if the other people in the car can hear us?" 
 
 "I fancy not; we don t hear them not consecutively, at 
 least." 
 
 "Well, mother was born in Vermont, you know; she was 
 the only child by a second marriage. Aunt Hannah and 
 Aunt Maria are only half-aunts to me, you know." 
 
 "I hope they are half as nice as you are." 
 
 "Roger, be still they certainly will hear us." 
 
 * By special arrangement. 
 
 338 
 
THE LITTLE ROOM 339 
 
 Well, don t you want them to know we are married?" 
 
 "Yes, but not just married. There s all the difference in 
 the world." 
 
 "You are afraid we look too happy!" 
 
 "No, only I want my happiness all to myself." 
 
 "Well, the little room?" 
 
 "My aunts brought mother up; they were nearly twenty 
 years older than she. I might say Hiram and they brought 
 her up. You see, Hiram was bound out to my grandfather 
 when he was a boy, and when grandfather died Hiram said 
 he Vposed he went with the farm, long o the critters, and 
 he has been there ever since. He was my mother s only 
 refuge from the decorum of my aunts. They are simply 
 workers. They make me think of the Maine woman who 
 wanted her epitaph to be: She was a hard working 
 woman. " 
 
 "They must be almost beyond their working-days. How 
 old are they?" 
 
 "Seventy, or thereabouts; but they will die standing; or, at 
 least, on a Saturday night, after all the house-work is done up. 
 They were rather strict with mother, and I think she had 
 a lonely childhood. The house is almost a mile away from 
 any neighbors, and off on top of what they call Stony Hill. 
 It is bleak enough up there, even in summer." 
 
 "When mamma was about ten years old they sent her to 
 cousins in Brooklyn, who had children of their own, and 
 knew more about bringing them up. She stayed there till 
 she was married; she didn t go to Vermont in all that time, 
 and of course hadn t seen her sisters, for they never would 
 leave home for a day. They couldn t even be induced to go 
 to Brooklyn for her wedding, so she and father took their 
 wedding trip up there." 
 
 "And that s why we are going up there on our own?" 
 
 "Don t, Roger; you have no idea how loud you speak." 
 
 "You never say so except when I am going to say that one 
 little word." 
 
 "Well, don t say it, then, or say it very, very quietly." 
 
 "Well, what was the queer thing?" 
 
 "When they got to the house, mother wanted to take 
 
340 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 father right off into the little room; she had been telling 
 him about it, just as I am going to tell you, and she had said 
 that of all the rooms, that one was the only one that seemed 
 pleasant to her. She described the furniture and the books 
 and paper and everything, and said it was on the north 
 side, between the front and back room. Well, when they 
 went to look for it, there was no little room there; there was 
 only a shallow china-closet. She asked her sisters when the 
 house had been altered and a closet made of the room that 
 used to be there. They both said the house was exactly as 
 it had been built that they had never made any changes, 
 except to tear down the old wood-shed and build a smaller 
 one. 
 
 "Father and mother laughed a good deal over it, and 
 when anything was lost they would always say it must be in 
 the little room, and any exaggerated statement was called 
 little-roomy/ When I was a child I thought that was a 
 regular English phrase, I heard it so often. 
 
 "Well, they talked it over, and finally they concluded that 
 my mother had been a very imaginative sort of a child, and 
 had read in some book about such a little room, or perhaps 
 even dreamed it, and then had made believe, as children do, 
 till she herself had really thought the room was there." 
 
 "Why, of course, that might easily happen." 
 
 "Yes, but you haven t heard the queer part yet; you wait 
 and see if you can explain the rest as easily. 
 
 "They staid at the farm two weeks, and then went to 
 New York to live. When I was eight years old my father 
 was killed in the war, and mother was broken-hearted. She 
 never was quite strong afterwards, and that summer we 
 decided to go up to the farm for three months. 
 
 "I was a restless sort of a child, and the journey seemed 
 very long to me; and finally, to pass the time, mamma told 
 me the story of the little room, and how it was all in her 
 own imagination, and how there really was only a china- 
 closet there. 
 
 "She told it with all the particulars; and even to me, who 
 knew beforehand that the room wasn t there, it seemed just 
 as real as could be. She said it was on the north side, be- 
 
THE LITTLE ROOM 341 
 
 tween the front and back rooms; that it was very small, and 
 they sometimes called it an entry. There was a door also 
 that opened out-of-doors, and that one was painted green, 
 and was cut in the middle like the old Dutch doors, so that 
 it could be used for a window by opening the top part only. 
 Directly opposite the door was a lounge or couch; it was 
 covered with blue chintz India chintz some that had 
 been brought over by an old Salem sea-captain as a 
 Venture. He had given it to Hannah when she was a 
 young girl. She was sent to Salem for two years to school. 
 Grandfather originally came from Salem." 
 
 "I thought there wasn t any room or chintz." 
 
 "That is just it. They had decided that mother had 
 imagined it all, and yet you see how exactly everything was 
 painted in her mind, for she had even remembered that 
 Hiram had told her that Hannah could have married the 
 sea-captain if she had wanted to! 
 
 "The India cotton was the regular blue stamped chintz, 
 with the peacock figure on it. The head and body of the 
 bird were in profile, while the tail was full front view be 
 hind it. It had seemed to take mamma s fancy, and she drew 
 it for me on a piece of paper as she talked. Doesn t it 
 seem strange to you that she could have made all that up, 
 or even dreamed it ? 
 
 "At the foot of the lounge were some hanging shelves with 
 some old books on them. All the books were leather-colored 
 except one; that was bright red, and was called the Ladies 
 Album. It made a bright break between the other thicker 
 books. 
 
 "On the lower shelf was a beautiful pink sea-shell, lying 
 on a mat made of balls of red shaded worsted. This shell 
 was greatly coveted by mother, but she was only allowed to 
 play with it when she had been particularly good. Hiram 
 had shown her how to hold it close to her ear and hear the 
 roar of the sea in it. 
 
 "I know you will like Hiram, Roger; he is quite a char 
 acter in his way. 
 
 "Mamma said she remembered, or thought she remembered, 
 having been sick once, and she had to lie quietly for some 
 
342 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 days on the lounge; then was the time she had become so 
 familiar with everything in the room, and she had been 
 allowed to have the shell to play with all the time. She had 
 had her toast brought to her in there, with make-believe tea. 
 It was one of her pleasant memories of her childhood; it 
 was the first time she had been of any importance to any 
 body, even herself. 
 
 "Right at the head of the lounge was a light-stand, as 
 they called it, and on it was a very brightly polished brass 
 candlestick and a brass tray with snuffers. That is all I 
 remember of her describing, except that there was a braided 
 rag rug on the floor, and on the wall was a beautiful flowered 
 paper roses and morning-glories in a wreath on a light 
 blue ground. The same paper was in the front room." 
 
 "And all this never existed except in her imagination?" 
 
 "She said that when she and father went up there, there 
 wasn t any little room at all like it anywhere in the house; 
 there was a china-closet where she had believed the room to 
 be." 
 
 "And your aunts said there had never been any such 
 room." 
 
 "That is what they said." 
 
 "Wasn t there any blue chintz in the house with a pea 
 cock figure?" 
 
 "Not a scrap, and Aunt Hannah said there had never 
 been any that she could remember; and Aunt Maria just 
 echoed her she always does that. You see, Aunt Hannah is 
 an up-and-down New England woman. She looks just like 
 herself; I mean, just like her character. Her joints move up 
 and down or backward and forward in a plain square 
 fashion. I don t believe she ever leaned on anything in 
 her life, or sat in an easy-chair. But Maria is different; 
 she is rounder and softer she hasn t any ideas of her own, 
 she never had any. I don t believe she would think it right 
 or becoming to have one that differed from Aunt Hannah s, 
 so what would be the use of having any? She is an echo, 
 that s all. 
 
 "When mamma and I got there, of course I was all ex 
 citement to see the china-closet, and I had a sort of feeling 
 
THE LITTLE ROOM 343 
 
 that it would be the little room after all. So I ran ahead 
 and threw open the door, crying, Come and see the little 
 room. 
 
 "And Roger," said Mrs. Grant, laying her hand in his, 
 "there really was a little room there, exactly as mother had 
 remembered it. There was the lounge, the peacock chintz, 
 the green door, the shell, the morning-glory, and the rose 
 paper, everything exactly as she had described it to me." 
 
 "What in the world did the sisters say about it?" 
 
 "Wait a minute and I will tell you. My mother was 
 in the front hall still talking with Aunt Hannah. She 
 didn t hear me at first, but I ran out there and dragged her 
 through the front room, saying, The room is here it is all 
 right 
 
 "It seemed for a minute as if my mother would faint. She 
 clung to me in terror. I can remember now how strained her 
 eyes looked and how pale she was. 
 
 "I called out to Aunt Hannah and asked her when they 
 had had the closet taken away and the little room built; for 
 in my excitement I thought that was what had been done. 
 
 " That little room has always been there, said Aunt 
 Hannah, ever since the house was built. 
 
 " But mamma said there wasn t any little room here, only 
 a china-closet, when she was here with papa, said I. 
 
 " No, there has never been any china-closet there; it has 
 always been just as it is now, said Aunt Hannah. 
 
 "Then mother spoke; her voice sounded weak and far off. 
 She said, slowly, and with an effort, Maria, don t you re 
 member that you told me that there had never been any little 
 room here, and Hannah said so too, and then I said I 
 must have dreamed it? 
 
 " No, I don t remember anything of the kind, said Maria, 
 without the slightest emotion. I don t remember you ever 
 said anything about any china-closet. The house has never 
 been altered; you used to play in this room when you were 
 a child, don t you remember? 
 
 " I know it, said mother, in that queer slow voice that 
 made me feel frightened. Hannah, don t you remember my 
 finding the china-closet here, with the gilt-edged china on 
 
344 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 the shelves, and then you said the china-closet had always 
 been here? 
 
 " No/ said Hannah, pleasantly but unemotionally, no, 
 I don t think you ever asked me about any china-closet, and 
 we haven t any gilt-edged china that I know of. 
 
 "And that was the strangest thing about it. We never 
 could make them remember that there had ever been any 
 question about it. You would think they could remember 
 how surprised mother had been before, unless she had im 
 agined the whole thing. Oh, it was so queer! They were 
 always pleasant about it, but they didn t seem to feel any 
 interest or curiosity. It was always this answer: The 
 house is just as it was built; there have never been any 
 changes, so far as we know. 
 
 "And my mother was in an agony of perplexity. How 
 cold their gray eyes looked to me! There was no reading 
 anything in them. It just seemed to break my mother down, 
 this queer thing. Many times that summer, in the middle of 
 the night, I have seen her get up and take a candle and creep 
 softly down-stairs. I could hear the steps creak under her 
 weight. Then she would go through the front room and 
 peer into the darkness, holding her thin hand between the 
 candle and her eyes. She seemed to think the little room 
 might vanish. Then she would come back to bed and toss 
 about all night, or lie still and shiver; it used to frighten 
 me. 
 
 "She grew pale and thin, and she had a little cough; 
 then she did not like to be left alone. Sometimes she would 
 make errands in order to send me to the little room for some 
 thing a book, or her fan, or her handkerchief; but she 
 would never sit there or let me stay in there long, and some 
 times she wouldn t let me go in there for days together. Oh, 
 it was pitiful!" 
 
 "Well, don t talk any more about it, Margaret, if it makes 
 you feel so," said Mr. Grant. 
 
 "Ch yes, I want you to know all about it, and there isn t 
 much more no more about the room. 
 
 "Mother never got well, and she died that autumn. She 
 used often to sigh, and say, with a wan little laugh, There 
 
THE LITTLE ROOM 345 
 
 is one thing I am glad of, Margaret ; your father knows now 
 all about the little room/ I think she was afraid I dis 
 trusted her. Of course, in a child s way, I thought there was 
 something queer about it, but I did not brood over it. I was 
 too young then, and took it as a part of her illness. But, 
 Roger, do you know, it really did affect me. I almost hate 
 to go there after talking about it; I somehow feel as if it 
 might, you know, be a china-closet again." 
 
 "That s an absurd idea." 
 
 "I know it; of course it can t be. I saw the room, and 
 there isn t any china-closet there, and no gilt-edged china in 
 the house, either." 
 
 And then she whispered: "But, Roger, you may hold my 
 hand as you do now, if you will, when we go to look for the 
 little room." 
 
 "And you won t mind Aunt Hannah s gray eyes?" 
 
 "I won t mind anything." 
 
 It was dusk when Mr. and Mrs. Grant went into the gate 
 under the two old Lombardy poplars and walked up the 
 narrow path to the door, where they were met by the two 
 aunts. 
 
 Hannah gave Mrs. Grant a frigid but not unfriendly kiss; 
 and Maria seemed for a moment to tremble on the verge of 
 an emotion, but she glanced at Hannah, and then gave her 
 greeting in exactly the same repressed and non-committal 
 way. 
 
 Supper was waiting for them. On the table was the gilt- 
 edged china. Mrs. Grant didn t notice it immediately, till 
 she saw her husband smiling at her over his teacup ; then she 
 felt fidgety, and couldn t eat. She was nervous, and kept 
 wondering what was behind her, whether it would be a little 
 room or a closet. 
 
 After supper she offered to help about the dishes, but, 
 mercy ! she might as well have offered to help bring the sea 
 sons round; Maria and Hannah couldn t be helped. 
 
 So she and her husband went to find the little room, or 
 closet, or whatever was to be there. 
 
 Aunt Maria followed them, carrying the lamp, which she 
 set down, and then went back to the dish-washing. 
 
346 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Margaret looked at her husband. He kissed her, for she 
 seemed troubled; and then, hand in hand, they opened the 
 door. It opened into a china-closet. The shelves were 
 neatly draped with scalloped paper; on them was the gilt- 
 edged china, with the dishes missing that had been used at 
 the supper, and which at that moment were being carefully 
 washed and wiped by the two aunts. 
 
 Margaret s husband dropped her hand and looked at her. 
 She was trembling a little, and turned to him for help, for 
 some explanation, but in an instant she knew that something 
 was wrong. A cloud had come between them; he was hurt, 
 he was antagonized. 
 
 He paused for an appreciable instant, and then said, 
 kindly enough, but in a voice that cut her deeply: 
 
 "I am glad this ridiculous thing is ended; don t let us 
 speak of it again." 
 
 "Ended!" said she. "How ended?" And somehow her 
 voice sounded to her as her mother s voice had when she 
 stood there and questioned her sisters about the little room. 
 She seemed to have to drag her words out. She spoke slowly : 
 "It seems to me to have only begun in my case. It was just 
 so with mother when she " 
 
 "I really wish, Margaret, you would let it drop. I don t 
 like to hear you speak of your mother in connection with it. 
 It " He hesitated, for was not this their wedding-day? 
 "It doesn t seem quite the thing, quite delicate, you know, to 
 use her name in the matter." 
 
 She saw it all now; he didn t believe her. She felt a chill 
 sense of withering under his glance. 
 
 "Come," he added, "let us go out, or into the dining-room, 
 somewhere, anywhere, only drop this nonsense." 
 
 He went out; he did not take her hand now he was 
 vexed, baffled, hurt. Had he not given her his sympathy, 
 his attention, his belief and his hand? and she was fool 
 ing him. What did it mean? She so truthful, so free from 
 morbidness a thing he hated. He walked up and down 
 under the poplars, trying to get into the mood to go and 
 join her in the house. 
 
 Margaret heard him go out; then she turned and shook 
 
THE LITTLE ROOM 347 
 
 the shelves; she reached her hand behind them and tried to 
 push the boards away; she ran out of the house on to the 
 north side and tried to find in the darkness, with her hands, 
 a door, or some steps leading to one. She tore her dress on 
 the old rose-trees, she fell and rose and stumbled, then she 
 sat down on the ground and tried to think. What could she 
 think was she dreaming? 
 
 She went into the house and out into the kitchen, and 
 begged Aunt Maria to tell her about the little room what 
 had become of it, when they had built the closet, when had 
 they bought the gilt-edged china? 
 
 They went on washing dishes and drying them on the spot 
 less towels with methodical exactness; and as they worked 
 they said that there had never been any little room, so far as 
 they knew; the china-closet had always been there, and the 
 gilt-edged china had belonged to their mother, it had always 
 been in the house. 
 
 "No, I don t remember that your mother ever asked about 
 any little room," said Hannah. "She didn t seem very well 
 that summer, but she never asked about any changes in the 
 house; there hadn t ever been any changes." 
 
 There it was again: not a sign of interest, curiosity, or 
 annoyance, not a spark of memory. 
 
 She went out to Hiram. He was telling Mr. Grant about 
 the farm. She had meant to ask him about the room, but 
 her lips were sealed before her husband. 
 
 Months afterwards, when time had lessened the sharp 
 ness of their feelings, they learned to speculate reasonably 
 about the phenomenon, which Mr. Grant had accepted as 
 something not to be scoffed away, not to be treated as a poor 
 joke, but to be put aside as something inexplicable on any 
 ordinary theory. 
 
 Margaret alone in her heart knew that her mother s words 
 carried a deeper significance than she had dreamed of at 
 that time. "One thing I am glad of, your father knows 
 now," and she wondered if Roger or she would ever know. 
 
 Five years later they were going to Europe. The pack 
 ing was done; the childvec. were lying asleep, with their 
 traveling things ready to be slipped on for an early start. 
 
348 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Roger had a foreign appointment. They were not to be 
 back in America for some years. She had meant to go up 
 to say good-by to her aunts; but a mother of three children 
 intends to do a great many things that never get done. One 
 thing she had done that very day, and as she paused for a 
 moment between the writing of two notes that must be posted 
 before she went to bed, she said : 
 
 "Roger, you remember Rita Lash? Well, she and Cousin 
 Nan go up to the Adirondacks every autumn. They are 
 clever girls, and I have intrusted to them something I want 
 done very much." 
 
 "They are the girls to do it, then, every inch of them." 
 
 "I know it, and they are going to." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Why, you see, Roger, that little room " 
 
 Oh " 
 
 "Yes, I was a coward not to go myself, but I didn t find 
 time, because I hadn t the courage." 
 
 "Oh! that was it, was it?" 
 
 "Yes, just that. They are going, and they will write us 
 about it." 
 
 "Want to get?" 
 
 "No; I only want to know." 
 
 Rita Lash and Cousin Nan planned to go to Vermont on 
 their way to the Adirondacks. They found they would have 
 three hours between trains, which would give them time to 
 drive up to the Keys farm, and they could still get to the 
 camp that night. But, at the last minute, Rita was pre 
 vented from going. Nan had to go to meet the Adirondack 
 party, and she promised to telegraph Rita when she arrived 
 at the camp. Imagine Rita s amusement when she re 
 ceived this message: "Safely arrived; went to Keys farm; 
 it is a little room." 
 
 Rita was amused, because she did not in the least think 
 Nan had been there. She thought it was a hoax ; but it put 
 it into her mind to carry the joke further by really stopping 
 herself when she went up, as she meant to do the next week. 
 She did stop over. She introduced herself to the two maiden 
 
THE LITTLE ROOM 349 
 
 ladies, who seemed familiar, as they had been described by 
 Mrs. Grant. 
 
 They were, if not cordial, at least not disconcerted at her 
 visit, and willingly showed her over the house. As they did 
 not speak of any other stranger s having been to see them 
 lately, she became confirmed in her belief that Nan had not 
 been there. 
 
 In the north room she saw the roses and morning-glory 
 paper on the wall, and also the door that should open into 
 what? 
 
 She asked if she might open it. 
 
 "Certainly," said Hannah; and Maria echoed, "Certainly." 
 
 She opened it, and found the china-closet. She expe 
 rienced a certain relief; she at least was not under any spell 
 Mrs. Grant left it a china-closet; she found it .the same. 
 Good. 
 
 But she tried to induce the old sisters to remember that 
 there had at various times been certain questions relating to 
 a confusion as to whether the closet had always been a closet. 
 It was no use ; their stony eyes gave no sign. 
 
 Then she thought of the story of the sea-captain, and 
 said, "Miss Keys, did you ever have a lounge covered with 
 India chintz, with a figure of a peacock on it, given to you 
 in Salem by a sea-captain, who brought it from India?" 
 
 "I dun no as I ever did," said Hannah. That was all. 
 She thought Maria s cheeks were a little flushed, but her eyes 
 were like a stone wall. 
 
 She went on that night to the Adirondacks. When Nan 
 and she were alone in their room she said: "By-the-way, 
 Nan, what did you see at the farm-house, and how did you 
 like Maria and Hannah?" 
 
 Nan didn t mistrust that Rita had been there, and she 
 began excitedly to tell her all about her visit. Rita could 
 almost have believed Nan had been there if she hadn t known 
 it was not so. She let her go on for some time, enjoying her 
 enthusiasm, and the impressive way in which she described 
 her opening the door and finding the "little room." Then 
 Rita said: "Now, Nan, that is enough fibbing. I went to 
 the farm myself on my way up yesterday, and there is no 
 
350 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 little room, and there never has been any; it is a china- 
 closet, just as Mrs. Grant saw it last." 
 
 She was pretending to be busy unpacking her trunk, and 
 did not look up for a moment; but as Nan did not say any 
 thing, she glanced at her over her shoulder. Nan was act 
 ually pale, and it was hard to say whether she was most 
 angry or frightened. There was something of both in her 
 look. And then Rita began to explain how her telegram 
 had put her in the spirit of going up there alone. She hadn t 
 meant to cut Nan out. She only thought Then Nan 
 broke in: "It isn t that; I am sure you can t think it is that. 
 But I went myself, and you did not go; you can t have been 
 there, for it is a little room" 
 
 Oh, what a night they had ! They couldn t sleep. They 
 talked and argued, and then kept still for a while, only to 
 break out again, it was so absurd. They both maintained 
 that they had been there, but both sure the other one was 
 either crazy or obstinate beyond reason. They were 
 wretched; it was perfectly ridiculous, two friends at odds 
 over such a thing; but there it was "little room," "china- 
 closet," "china-closet," "little room." 
 
 The next morning Nan was tacking up some tarlatan at a 
 window to keep the midges out. Rita offered to help her, as 
 she had done for the past ten years. Nan s "No, thanks," 
 cut her to the heart. 
 
 "Nan," said she, "come right down from that step-ladder 
 and pack your satchel. The stage leaves in just twenty 
 minutes. We can catch the afternoon express train, and we 
 will go together to the farm. I am either going there or 
 going home. You had better go with me." 
 
 Nan didn t say a word. She gathered up the hammer and 
 tacks, and was ready to start when the stage came round. 
 
 It meant for them thirty miles of staging and six hours of 
 train, besides crossing the lake; but what of that, compared to 
 having a lie lying round loose between them ! Europe would 
 have seemed easy to accomplish, if it would settle the ques 
 tion. 
 
 At the little junction in Vermont they found a farmer with 
 a wagon full of meal-bags. They asked him if he could not 
 
THE LITTLE ROOM 351 
 
 take them up to the old Keys farm and bring them back in 
 time for the return train, due in two hours. 
 
 They had planned to call it a sketching trip, so they said, 
 "We have been there before, we are artists, and we might 
 find some views worth taking; and we want also to make a 
 short call upon the Misses Keys." 
 
 "Did ye calculate to paint the old house in the picture?" 
 
 They said it was possible they might do so. They wanted 
 to see it, anyway. 
 
 "Waal, I guess you are too late. The house burnt dovn 
 last night, and everything in it." 
 
AUNT S ANNA TERRY * 
 
 By LANDON R. DASHIELL 
 
 DAT ain my true name. Miss Honey jes call me dat. 
 My name is Mrs. Leah Heber Jenkins an I se been 
 sellin fried chicken an coffee, pies an milk fuh 
 mo n twenty years at de depot uv dis here town where mo n 
 ten .train* p?,ss ewy day. I allers make ernuf ter feed me 
 an my good-fuh-nothin son an ter keep a roof over we-alls 
 haids, his n an mine, dat is, when he was little. Now dat 
 he is done growed up he s allers up ter some devilment, 
 drank an sich, an I has a hard ole time, you jes bet yo 
 sweet life I does. Dey got him in jail now, cause a white 
 gent man done tole me twas de bes place fuh him to larn 
 some sense, ef he got any. I se tryin it, but I se got my 
 doubts. 
 
 Ewy day, rain an shine, I se brought my waiter uv good 
 eatin s an my bilin hot coffee ter dis depot an in all dat 
 time I ain done payin dem stallmint tickets on my house 
 an lot on de aidge uv town where I raises my chickens. 
 
 Dere was a time when we-all colored women folks could 
 sell we-alls eatin s fum de flatform, but dat done been 
 stopped a long an a merry ago. De railroad done bought de 
 hotel an dem black boys, callin deyself waiters fum de 
 hotel, sells fum de flatform an we-all has ter sell fum de 
 yuther side uv de train. Dem boys ain nothin but heath 
 ens an idols an de wuss kinder black trash, so I don pay 
 no tention ter em. 
 
 One drizzly mawnin bout seben erclock I took my 
 waiter full, my stool, an my umberrell ter de depot an sot 
 myself down ter wait fuh Number 19, due at seben-fifteen an* 
 allers late. I took two cat-naps fo I heerd her whistle and 
 
 *By permission of the author. 
 
 352 
 
AUNT SANNA TERRY 353 
 
 pres ny here she come, ringin an tootin an snortin , jes 
 like she was de one an only. I sot my waiter on de stool an 
 prop my umberrell over it an watched de winders fuh hun 
 gry folks. One winder flewed up an a pale-face young 
 lady look out at me an smile. 
 
 "Oh! Auntie," she say, "fuh goodness sake gim me two 
 pieces uv chicken an a cup uv coffee. I been travelin sence 
 fo fo erclock dis mawnin an I se jes starvinV 
 
 I knowed she was quality folks when I fus seen her, an 
 when she talked I knowed it fuh sho. I picked de bes fuh 
 her an po d out a cup uv my good coffee soon as I could. 
 She et up de chicken like smoke an ast fuh mo , but she jes 
 sip at de coffee. Den she pop her haid out uv de winder 
 ergin. 
 
 "Dey tells me dat dis train stops here half a hour," she 
 say, "so I se goin to git off an talk ter you a while." 
 
 I was busy with yuther hungry folks an I jes say, hearty 
 like, "Come erlong, Honey, an talk much as you wanter." 
 She look so puitty an smile so sweet dat I couldn t keep dese 
 ole eyes off her. 
 
 "Do you know you has de bes fried chicken I ever tasted 
 an your pie looks jes as good, but your coffee is vile, puf- 
 fickly vile!" 
 
 Jes like dat she said it ter me an* me been makin coffee 
 evvy sence fo she was bornded. But she was quality an 
 talk jes as puitty, but it made me sorter mad fuh ter hear 
 my coffee spoke uv sich a pernickety way. I hilt myself up 
 wid my bes manners an look at her. "Some folks," I say, 
 "don t know dey own business when dey see it comin down 
 de road." 
 
 "Well," she say, "you see I has ter drink it an it is my 
 business in a way." She spoke gentle an I knowed dat she 
 done been riz up as well as me ter know dat manners is a 
 sign uv quality. "Well ma am," I says, "I se sorry you 
 don t like it. Most folks, dem uv de quality, thinks it are 
 fine." I bow to her. 
 
 "Now don t be offended," she say, "I want to be your fren 
 an* give you a few sirgestions." Not knowin* what dey is 
 J didn t said nothin . "Perhaps, howsomever, you don t 
 
354 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 need no help." I tole her I had a hard time fuh ter make 
 dem two eends meet what folks is allers talkin bout. Den 
 she talked erlong so puitty dat soon I done tole her all my 
 troubles. She stood leanin erginst de fence wid her little 
 short skirt showin mo n jes her little feet. My! my! dat 
 skirt was short, but it didn t seem ter make no sorter dif 
 ference to her. She picked a mawnin -glory blossom off de 
 fence an pulled it ter pieces while she was studyin like. 
 
 "Now I se goin ter say sumpin dat you may not like," she 
 say, "but jes believe dat I wants ter help you." She look at 
 me outen de cornder uv her eye an I knowed she wanted ter 
 fin out ef I was one uv dem easy fended folks. I call my 
 manners ter stan by. "You have heerd people say dat clean 
 liness is nex ter godliness?" I nod my haid, but I ain 
 never heerd enny but preacher folks say it an dey pay much 
 tention ter it. I ain never fin it in de Bible, de onlies 
 book I got time ter read. 
 
 "Well," she say, "cleanliness is a big part uv godliness. 
 I know you are a good woman," she kep on, crinklin up 
 her eyes an smilin at me tell I felt real at home wid. her. 
 "I se good accordin ter my lights," says I. 
 
 "I want you ter do sumpin fuh me," she say. (I might 
 er knowed it was comin ter dat !) "I want you ter wear here 
 at de depot a white cap, a large white ap on an white cotton 
 gloves an a lovely white han kerchief folded ercross dis way," 
 smilin an* crossin her little white ban s over her puitty 
 front. 
 
 "Lawd-a-mussy, Honey, I ain got time ter truck wid all 
 dat foolishness, an mo n dat I ain go no money fuh ter git 
 all dem things." "If you will use the things I will sen you 
 a supply uv em when I gets home ter-day," she say. 
 
 "Honey, I sho is bleeged ter you, but I can wear no 
 gloves. Dese here han s is done serve widout gloves sence 
 I was little an I spec dey is goin on doin it. I don min 
 de ap on an sich, but dem gloves goes erginst my grain." 
 "Ah! please try it, fuh my sake," she say. "I will be back 
 here in a week fum termorrow an it would joice my heart 
 ter see you look so enticin ." 
 
 "I dont know bout enticin / I say, "but don I look all 
 
AUNT SANNA TERRY 355 
 
 right?" "Not a patch on wliat you kin look!" she say, 
 "Mo soinover, jes now you had to slap dat po , hungry, yel- 
 ler dog away fum yo waiter an dat ain neither clean nor 
 sannerterry." Den she pout her puitty mouth out wid all 
 dem foolishest words she was er sayin . 
 
 "I mos gineral kicks dat good-fuh-nothin , bone-eatin 
 hound, but I se been er slappin er kickin him, er one like 
 him, fuh mo n twenty years. I don reckon, Miss Honey, dat 
 you notis dat I allers puts my chicken an my pie in paper 
 bags when I han s em ter folks." "Yes, I know you do," 
 she say, "an ,we won t argue bout dat. If you will do as I 
 sirgest you will double your sales in a week. Try it an let 
 me know. I will send de package anyway." Her train was 
 comin an she smiled good-bye while I hustled ter sell what 
 I could. 
 
 Nex day, shonuff, de package come an a note ter*say de 
 day she would be back. I thought I would wait tell dat day 
 ter dress up in dem sirgestions, but what she done say bout 
 double sales onsettled my min so dat I couldn t wait. I 
 member d all her young an foolish talkmints an I knowed 
 twon no good comin by mixin cleanliness an godliness de 
 way she say. It did n soun right ter me. Dat Produgal 
 Boy did n had no shirt ter his back, an John de Baptis did n 
 had no gloves fuh ter eat his locusses an wil honey wid. 
 Jezebel an Sheba seem ter me to be de onlies ? ones ter do all 
 de dressin up an den twon fuh no good puppose. 
 
 Howsomever, I went ter de depot dat ebenin , mad fo 
 I start in cas some uv dem fresh brats try ter sass me, an 
 I wan ter be ready fuh em. I had on all de sirgestions but 
 dem gloves. I couldn go em, but I spec Miss Honey will 
 bring me to em yit. Ef I didn t look like de Queen uv 
 Sheba I looked like a big fat fool an felt wuss. I hilt my 
 haid high an sot my stool down in de place where it berlong, 
 an lift my waiter off my haid and sot it on de stool. All de 
 time I could hear what de yuthers was sayin an it pear 
 like ter me dat I could hear sumpin fum dat black trash on 
 de flatform. 
 
 "Fuh Gawd sake, look at Sis Leah Jenkins!" say Sis 
 
356 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Malviny Jones, her wid de scar. "Is she done los her 
 min ?" 
 
 "All dat truck ter wash, too," say one uv de yuthers, "an* 
 makin herself dat spicuous. Tain like Sis Leah ter do dat 
 way; at her aidge an size she ought ter know better. Look 
 like trouble wid dat boy uv hern done turn her min ." 
 
 "Look at de Queen uv de May, fuh Gawd sake!" I heered 
 fum de flatform fum one uv dem Niggerdemusses. Dat was 
 ernuff fer Leah! I went over de track an step up on de 
 flatform an slapped de face uv de foremus one, an he shet 
 up. De yuthers back off an* I followed dem up an shuck 
 my fits an tole em dey was jes de ve y spittin image of dat 
 generation of vipers in de Bible an hell won t hot ernuff fuh 
 em. I d fix em sho as I was a Christian woman. Some 
 uv em look solemn an some uv em laff, but dey didn said 
 no mo . Dey knowed I could lay out two er three uv em wid 
 my fisses. I ain goin ter fight enny mo n I has ter, but de 
 incipiency uv dese young niggers is almos 5 onpossible fuh 
 a lady ter stan . Laffin at me! de low-down trash! I ll 
 larn em some sense. I made my min up den an dere fuh 
 ter wear all dem sirgestions, gloves an. all, dat Miss Honey 
 done sont me ef I had ter kill some uv dem smarties on de 
 flatform. I ain feared uv nothin but de Lawd. 
 
 Arter a while Number 6 come in an* folkses haids was 
 stickin out all de winders, hollerin "Chicken! Pie! here!" 
 Some uv em look at me an wave dey han an one say, 
 "Don she look sweet?" Dat was de fus kin word I heered 
 dat ebenin . Well, I was busy ! I never was so busy befo . 
 An de money come in, too. Fo de nex train come I slip on 
 dem gloves cause my han s was real dirty by dat time. Fus 
 I flung some bones ter dat yeller dog an give him a kick ter 
 member me by. Ewybody wanted my chicken an ast me 
 so many questions dat I was mos confusticated. But dey 
 kep on buyin an dat jes suit me down ter de groun . I 
 sold mo n mo . When de train was gone de yuthers come 
 roun me an ast questions, tryin ter fin a way ter make me 
 talk. I ain no talker an mo n dat I was still mad wid em 
 all fuh dey sass. I knowed some uv em would be tryin 
 ter follow my sperience fo long. 
 
AUNT SANNA TERRY 357 
 
 "Sis* Leah," said Sis Lily Langtry, she wid de flat nose, 
 "Don you Sis Leah me tell you lain better manners," says 
 I, an she shet up. 
 
 De day my Miss Honey come back was bright an* hot. I 
 was at my place wid all dem things on, wash d an i on d 
 overnight. I jes couldn t keep my face straight when I sawn 
 her lookin outen de winder as de train come ter a stop. 
 
 "My! Leah, how gran you look!" she say, "I have half 
 hour ter wait an I want ter hear ewything an eat evvy- 
 thing!" 
 
 When I had done my sales an she had done et, I gave her 
 de stool an sot myself on a turn d over box an den I tole 
 her ewything where done happen sence she went erway. 
 Mo n dat, I tole her how dem low-down hounds on de flat- 
 form done gimme some uv dere sass. She laffed an I 
 laffed wid her an tole her dey was all feered uv me fum dat 
 time. 
 
 "How much has you made dis week?" she ast. "Twenty 
 dollars, Miss Honey, "mo n I ever is make befo in two." 
 "Good," she say, "you are goin ter make mo n mo fum dis 
 time on, cause I se brought you a percolator fuh ter make 
 coffee. We are goin ter have such good coffee dat people 
 will travel jes ter tas e it!" She laff so loud an look so 
 puitty an sweet dat I didn t said nothin tall bout my doubts 
 bout dat coffee. 
 
 "Well," I say, "I se got so much trade now dat I has ter 
 git a oman ter fry my chickens an bake my pies an you 
 know I has ter pay her, Miss Honey." 
 
 "Dat don make no difference," she say, " cause you se 
 goin to make heap mo ." 
 
 "Honey, what is dat perambulator an what does you do 
 wid it?" "It takes the place uv dis horrid coffee-pot," she 
 say. "We are not goin ter have enny mo biled coffee." 
 
 "Well, Honey, tain go be fitten fuh ter drink den. Coffee 
 is got ter be biled er tis jes slop." She laffed so hard dat 
 I was s prised, but was too perlite ter tell her so. I jes 
 laffed sof an lady-like. 
 
 "Does you use cream an what kin uv sugar?" she ast. 
 "I bleeged ter tell you de truf. I uses milk an dis here gran- 
 
358 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 bolated sugar. I don never use dem lumps cause de octan- 
 gurality uv dat sugar spile de frugality uv de coffee. I don 
 use it fuh nothin ," I say, an she jes laffed sof, an crinkle 
 up her eyes at me. 
 
 Den she set ter work ter show me how ter use dat peram 
 bulator. She open her suit-case dat one ov dem young 
 blacks fotch fum de flatform an took out de whole perambu 
 lator. She lit de little tin can where came wid it an sot it 
 under a qua t can in a rack fuh ter git hot water, an Gawd 
 knows ennybody kin do dat. Den she scoiled out de peram 
 bulator, and took an fill a little cup wid holes in it dat be 
 longs inside de perambulator, wid some good-smellin coffee 
 an I notis it took a lot ter fill it. Den she put de contrap 
 tion back in de perambulator an tuk an po d in bout two 
 pints uv bilin water, when ewybody know you ought ter put 
 in cold water de fus . Arter dat she sot de pot on de little 
 rack an* soon de water commence ter bubble an squirt up 
 thu a pipe an dreen back thu de coffee. When it had done 
 bubble an skuirt fuh bout fifteen minits she say de coffee 
 was ready an sont me ter de hotel for a pot uv cream. 
 Cream indeed! I could see my twenty dollars a week wid 
 all dis sweet nonsense would soon go up ter de spout. Den 
 where would Leah be? 
 
 "Now, Leah, you has seen me make it an you can do it 
 jes as well an maybe better. Keep it hot an allers serve it 
 wid cream an you kin go on usin de granbolated sugar. 
 Yo kin sell mo n you kin make. Call it drip coffee. 
 Good-bye!" 
 
 "Miss Honey," I say, "don go tell you say whedder sho- 
 nuff yu think dis is a good business fuh me. I se po an 
 I se got ter pay dem stallmint tickets on my house and lot." 
 
 "You jes try it an I ll stan by you, but you won t need 
 me long." Den she wave her han an step on de train an* 
 kep on lookin back to wave her han ter me, ole Leah ! 
 
 "Well, Leah," I says ter myself, "wid de help uv de Lawd 
 we will try ter fotch a livin outen dis mighty foolish-seemin 
 business ter me an ter Him." 
 
 I was low in my min uv ebenin s tell I could count my 
 money fuh dat day an somehow it look all right. Pear like 
 
AUNT SANNA TERRY 359 
 
 my Honey Child did had some sense in her puitty little haid. 
 I had near ernuff ter pay two stallmint tickets by de eend uv 
 de business. I allers made de pies myself yearly in de 
 mawnin . Mo n dat I didn t had no trouble wid dat peram 
 bulator, nor wid de coffee, only folks couldn t git ernuff. 
 Dey kep on callin fuh dat drippin coffee tell twan no mo . 
 But I didn t part wid my ole pot uv biled coffee cause dere 
 was some dat want ole biled coffee wid milk, an dey got it. 
 
 Twas a long mont fo I seen Miss Honey ergin. One 
 day she trip offen de train an come ter me. She stood quiet 
 while I han up ter a gent mun at de winder two pieces uv 
 chicken, two pieces uv pie, an two cups uv dripping coffee, 
 an he was a good-lookin man at dat. 
 
 "Leah," she says, "I jes got a few minits. How s busi 
 ness?" 
 
 "Fse so glad ter see you, Miss Honey," I say. "Good- 
 mawnin ter you." I allers is pertickler to watch my man 
 ners cause sometimes de nices folks fergits em an comes 
 breezin an blowin ter business. " Good-ma wnin , Leah," 
 she say, wid a smile. 
 
 "May de Lawd bless you, Miss Honey, fuh comin my way 
 dat time you was so hungry. Your Vice is done help me 
 sho. Ewybody loves my fixin s an I loves em now myself, 
 eben ter de gloves. I sells out mo waiters full den dey all 
 put togedder an I sho is making good money." 
 
 She jes clap her han s fuh joy. "One think I got ter tell 
 you, howsomever, bout dis perambulated coffee. Tain 
 ernuff ter saterfy dem as likes it an I has ter charge ten 
 cent a cup count uv de cream. But some uv em still wants 
 de ole biled coffee wid milk, an dey gets it fuh five cent a 
 cup." 
 
 "Now how bout your son an de stallmints?" she ast. 
 
 "Dis here place has done gone probation, Miss Honey, an 
 he can t git nothin fuh ter git drunk on. He s got a job 
 now hol in him down. I has paid all de stallmints but two 
 an next week I will git my deed. De good Lawd blessed 
 m<*when He sont you my way. My trade is prestablished in 
 de Lawd an His mussev retches fum de horizin ter de 
 
 
360 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 rosettin uv de sun!" Den I wipe my eyes cause she looi 
 so kin an lovin at me. 
 
 I notis a tall straight-up man watchin my Honey Chile! 
 fum de back flatform uv de train an I ast her why dil 
 straight-up man was lookin at her so hard an who was he 
 
 "Who is he?" she say, an laffed, "Oh! he s jes a man. 
 I s picioned sumpin an started ter say dat he knew how tei 
 look at folks, but I membered my manners an didn said 
 nothin . Den dat man got hisself offen de back flatform u\ 
 de train an comes up ter we-all an lift offen his hat. "We ve 
 got three minits, my dear," he says. 
 
 Den I look at Miss Honey an I knowed by sumpiri diit 
 my Honey Child had done gone an got herself married an. 3 
 I jes thew my ole arms round her an bless her an bless 
 him an dey run fuh de train. No wonder he look at her 
 so hard an got two uv all de eatin s offen my waiter. Bless 
 dey hearts! 
 
 Dey come out on de back flatform as de train start an 
 I called ter em, "Don you-all want me fuh ter come an 
 cook fuh you all?" 
 
 Miss Honey jes laffed an say, "Not yet," but he standiri 
 behime her wave a chicken leg at me an noddin his haicl, 
 say, "Yes!" 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS * 
 
 By VIRGINIA TRACY 
 
 leaves me to starve," said Estella, cutting off a 
 leg of the chicken and throwing it to the nearest 
 dog. "Leaves me to starve in the gutter and leaves 
 Regina, his own flesh and blood look at that child, Kate, 
 look at her! What sort of a brute could desert a child like 
 that? Was her mother s comfort, yes, she was! leaves 
 Regina without a rag to her back." She absent-mindedly 
 put a piece of chicken into her mouth and leaned her elbows 
 on the table. 
 
 "I really don t know what we shall do about the rent," 
 said Mrs. Donnelly. "When he came for it this morning he 
 told Barbara he d be back this afternoon, and it s a hot day 
 for anybody to be out, let alone a fat fellow like him. You 
 can t put off the landlord himself like you can an agent, any 
 way. I could pay ten dollars on account next Saturday 
 night. If he won t take that, or your alimony doesn t come, 
 I don t know what will become of us." 
 
 "I m sure I don t know either," said Estella. "It seems 
 such a nuisance to move. Speak for it then." "Woof I 
 Woof I" said Dooley, the fatter of the Scotch terriers. "I 
 thought we were going to be so happy here, too, when we first 
 came. He seemed such a nice, unassuming sort of man." 
 
 Tony, who was washing the household linen in the kitchen, 
 put his head through the doorway. It was rather a lordly little 
 black head and belonged to a young fellow of a slender mid 
 dle height, motions extraordinarily light and free, and blue, 
 humorous, inquisitive, confidential eyes. Said he: "I beg 
 your pardon, Estella, but the big dishpan has it gone to 
 heaven?" 
 
 *By permission of the author, and the Century Company. 
 
 361 
 
362 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "It s out on the fire-escape," replied Estella, "with gaso 
 line in it. I put all the old gloves I could find into gasoline 
 this morning, so that if any of us should happen to get an 
 engagement, they d have clean gloves anyway." 
 
 Tony withdrew. He had not looked at Estella, but at 
 Barbara, the Beauty, who sat in the window-sill and con 
 tinued to look neither at him nor at Estella nor at the rioi: 
 of the dogs and the chicken-bones and Regina upon the un 
 carpeted floor, but across the shining roof-tops to the Palis 
 ades. 
 
 The mistress of this Harlem flat was Mrs. Baker, Estella. 
 Cortelyou in stage life. Mr. Baker was divorced. He was 
 a prosperous person and paid a considerable alimony, with 
 which he was not always sufficiently prompt. With Mrs. 
 Baker lived her infant daughter, Regina Rosalys, and her 
 younger sister, Barbara Floyd. Also she had as summer 
 boarders Mr. Anthony Regnault, a young actor who seldom 
 happened to be out of work, Mr. Fred Donnelly, not much 
 older, who seldom happened to be in it, and Mrs. Kate Don 
 nelly, an elderly typist, who had married a brother Don 
 nelly, deceased. All the boarders paid far more than their 
 board, when they had it, and nothing at all when they had 
 not. At the present movement, they had been some time 
 through lunch without having as yet cleared away its re 
 mains, and Estella and Mrs. Donnelly, whose employer was 
 away on his own vacation, had been regaling the company 
 with accounts of the Russian coronation, which they read 
 from the newspapers that strewed the room. Fred Donnelly, 
 who was busy pinning the edge of his tie over a spot he had 
 just discovered on his shirt-front, gloomily commented upon 
 Estella s last remark: "I guess it ll be a long enough day be 
 fore any of us get an engagement!" 
 
 "You forget Tony!" said his sister-in-law. 
 
 "I ain t ever let to," Fred responded with some savagery. 
 "I can t you stop gorging on those papers a minute? 
 They re two months old." 
 
 "That makes em all the lovelier," replied Estella. "Tony 
 threw them off the kitchen shelf this morning, and I felt so 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 363 
 
 good to read it all over again. You feel sure, then, that it s 
 all true." 
 
 "Tony s generous with his old newspapers. That s be 
 cause he s signed for a job. But. he don t begin till No 
 vember. November Lord! you can t believe there s ever 
 going to be such a month." 
 
 "Oh, we may all be working by then," cried Estella in her 
 voice of tragic fire. "You can t tell. You don t suppose 
 we re going to go on like this, do you?" 
 
 "Not if we don t pay the rent, we ain t," said Fred. 
 "We ll have fifteen dollars the week after next, Barbara and 
 me, if we pose for those kinetoscope things. But we owe all 
 that now, in little bills." 
 
 "That reminds me, Tony," Estella called, "I wish you 
 could get both the tablecloths ironed by to-night, cause 
 you can t do it to-morrow. No; they re going to shut off the 
 gas to-night; we had a notice from em yesterday." 
 
 "Well, this fellow was just right," declared Mrs. Don 
 nelly, glaring up from her newspaper; "this one that refused 
 :o kiss the Czarina s hand. It s a nasty, silly thing to do. 
 They ll never catch me doing it." 
 
 "Nor me, I m afraid," said Tony, reappearing with a 
 Ducket that brimmed wet tableclothes. He paused for a 
 noment in the doorway and leaned there, exceedingly com 
 fortable and cool. Indeed, on this midsummer afternoon, 
 when the unshaded dining-room appeared altogether hud- 
 Iled and tousled and hot, there was in the look of this very 
 :ompetent amateur laundryman something so tranquil, so 
 liry and sylvan, that it might have suggested a beneficient 
 gentleman-dryad but for the absurd great pipe which was 
 langing out of his mouth. "I ll take these up to the roof 
 low, Estella; I ve just hung out the smaller pieces. We 
 :an t tell but that later Barbara ll help me take them down. 
 But I do hope, Stella Cortelyou, that the next flat we appro- 
 3riate will have a coal range. If we are to have no fire to 
 iron with to-morrow, how shall we cook?" 
 
 "I suppose we ll have to go out to our meals. I ve got my 
 wedding-ring yet. He can force me to part with that, 
 
364 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Tommy Baker can, but he can t force me to let our chik 
 starve." 
 
 "That must be very disenchanting for Tommy," TOD) 
 answered. "But I think I ll leap out with a chair or two b< 
 fore it comes to our eating up your wedding-ring, Estella." 
 
 Regina Rosalys, who was at that moment recuperating 
 from her wrestling matches with the dogs, said suddenly: 
 
 "Anny Bobs gah go ring." 
 
 "No, no, darling. Poor Auntie Barbara hasn t got an) 
 ring at all. You lost Auntie Barbara s little blue ring dowr 
 the stationary washstand, don t you remember?" 
 
 "No, no, Anny Bobs gah go ring." Regina s fat little 
 hands formed an oblong about the size of a cucumber. "Big, 1 
 she persisted, nodding. 
 
 "She means that Indian bracelet," said Estella. Tony 
 looked anxiously and a little fearfully at Barbara, and for 
 got to joke. At that moment the door bell rang. Tony 
 leaned back into the kitchen and pressed the little electric 
 button which opened the street door. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Estella, "that s the expressman with my money 
 now." She rose and ran into the hall. 
 
 There was a waiting silence. Tony continued to lean on 
 the doorway and look at the girl in the window-seat. She 
 had gray eyes of a miraculous, deep clearness, but she kept 
 these turned away in a far-off quiet, profound enough to 
 strike cold upon a suitor s heart. Tony had to content him 
 self with the faint bright color in the oval of her cheeks; the 
 pale rose of her faded and shrunken cotton blouse stopped in 
 a little drawn circle at her throat; the throat itself was very 
 white and regal looking under the piled fairness of Barbara s 
 brown hair. One hand dropped, motionless, against her old 
 gray skirt, and Tony smiled to it wistfully. It was a mod 
 est smile, under a trick of audacity. Tony was three-and- 
 twenty, and all women except Barbara had done their best to 
 spoil him, except Barbara, who had remained silent the 
 summer through before his love. By the community be 
 fore which so much of it had, perforce, to be carried on, the 
 love-making was encouragingly ignored, but the community 
 was beginning to get restless, because from the lady it re- 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 365 
 
 :eived no confidence. The summer was sunning itself away, 
 ind still Barbara rested, whether or not to be wooed, pas 
 sive, idle, enigmatic, lovely; and still prayerfully, and with 
 left derision, Tony continued publicly to woo her. Now, 
 :hough he could not catch her glance, his eyes spoke declara 
 tions twenty times a minute, and formally proposed to her. 
 Fhey besought, commanded, laughed at her, adored her. 
 Suddenly, when there seemed least hope, she turned round and 
 ooked at him. It was a very steadfast, searching look, and 
 rony tingled and rejoiced to meet it. He lifted his head 
 lappily, with a singular pride, and at the little motion the 
 ;irl put her hand sharply to her throat and turned away. 
 
 "He s a long time coming upstairs," said Fred. 
 
 At that moment Estella ran back into the hall of the flat 
 ind closed the door with the effect of a subdued cyclone. 
 
 "It s not the expressman!" she called, in a shrieking whis- 
 )er. "The top of his head looks like the milkman, and his 
 rill s due." Tony laughed aloud. 
 
 "Tell him to come again/ suggested Kate Donnelly, still 
 brtified by immersion in the coronation glories. 
 
 "Told him that last time," said Fred. 
 
 "Oh, well, maybe he wasn t coming here," said Estella, 
 istening a moment, and continued. "Maybe it was only the 
 anitor, after all. Once before the alimony didn t come, and 
 hen it turned out the expressman had brought it two or 
 hree times, only the downstairs bell didn t ring, so to-day 
 ! asked the janitor to ring the bell every time he went past, 
 
 I d feel quite easy." 
 
 The upstairs bell unkindly rang. 
 
 "Ssh!" hissed Estella; "pretend we re out." 
 
 "Is he to suppose the downstairs door was opened by a 
 pook?" Tony whispered. 
 
 "Well, you needn t talk. You did it." She came back into 
 he dining-room, and sat down with infinite non-rustling 
 recautions. "I m sure I d like to pay him as well as any- 
 >ody. Indeed, nobody has the horror of debt I ve got. I 
 remble with it when I wake in the night. It s born in me, 
 
 don t know why. But I can t pay what I haven t got, not 
 
 1 I was to coin my blood for it." The bell rang again. 
 
366 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Well, he can just tire himself out at that," Estella added. 
 "I should think he d know we d have opened it before if 
 we d wanted him." 
 
 Tony s eyes overran with laughter. Regina threw herself 
 into Barbara s lap, and Barbara put her face into the black 
 mop of Regina s curls, and began to whisper a story to her. 
 
 "I wish I was out of the whole business," muttered Fred; 
 "out of the profession, I mean. I wish I knew another 
 durned thing to do. I had a chance to be a dentist once, 
 but I was too good for it then. When that old aunt of mine 
 in Ireland dies, I bet I take my share of what she leaves and 
 buy an interest in a. business. And when you re all down 
 on your luck, you can come to me, people, and I ll help you 
 out." 
 
 "My share in that pneumatic tire 11 be worth thousands 
 of dollars by then," said Mrs. Donnelly, refolding her news 
 paper. "They ve got a backer for it now who s going to 
 put it right on the market. Will Knowles says there s a 
 fortune in it, and he s an inventor." 
 
 "I was thinking the other day it would be nice to invent 
 something," replied Estella; "but I never get mine finished, 
 somehow." 
 
 The enemy without gave a final knock and ring, and de 
 parted. He was pursued downstairs by the barks of the 
 terriers and the shrieks of Regina, who at that moment 
 rushed, all three, into each other s arms. 
 
 "Look here," said Fred; "are you sure it wasn t Mr. Bates, 
 come for the rent? He told Barbara he d be here at three 
 o clock." 
 
 "Mercy! Look out of the window, Barbara, and see who 
 it was." Barbara leaned out and down, watching. 
 
 "Well, I vow!" said Mrs. Donnelly. "Do you know what 
 those Gostioffs, or whatever their name is, have been doing? 
 The Czar said everybody could make their crowns out of 
 silver-gilt, because some of em are as poor as church mice, 
 and those Gostioffs have been over to Paris and had theirs 
 made out of solid gold!" 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 367 
 
 "It s in the paper. And he s just come of age, a while 
 ago, and paid all his debts." 
 
 "Seems rather an excessive person," Tony commented. 
 
 Mrs. Donnelly made a little clucking noise to her news 
 paper: "Tsu! Tsu! well, poor boy, he does all he can." 
 
 "Who?" demanded Fred. 
 
 "The Emperor of all the Russias," answered Tony, laugh 
 ing from under his eyelashes at Kate. "Kate s very partial 
 to him. I sometimes feel quite piqued." 
 
 "Well, I don t care. He s a very good man; he wants " 
 
 "They say," remarked Estella dreamily, "that she s got 
 a gold typewriter set with diamonds." 
 
 "It was the milkman," announced Barbara, drawing in her 
 head. 
 
 Estella had picked up an illustrated weekly, and she now 
 passed it with a tender smile to Mrs. Donnelly. "Wouldn t 
 Barbara look sweet fixed just the way the Czarina is? Those 
 pearl ropes I ll bet they re yards long they re just the sort 
 of thing that suits Barbara." 
 
 Mrs. Donnelly gravely regarded the Czarina s likeness. 
 "She looks very handsome," she said. "I hope she ll be 
 happy. She s got a kind of a sad look. I knew a girl once, 
 a nice, pretty girl as could be she looked something like our 
 Barbara, too, only Barbara s the handsomest of the lot had 
 something that same look at her wedding, and before the 
 very first year was out he had run off to Canada with a pot 
 of money he was a partner in a wholesale bicycle busi 
 ness and another woman, and she, poor thing, had to take 
 in boarders." 
 
 Estella sat up, clutched her floating yellow dressing-sack 
 about her neck, and with the other hand shoved back the 
 toppling mass of her black hair. "Well!" she cried, "I d 
 like to know what you mean by that, Kate Donnelly! I 
 didn t think I should ever be insulted at my own lunch- 
 table by people talking as if it were a disgrace to take 
 boarders ! You ought to honor me for it, or any other honest 
 way of making my living. I ve got my fatherless child to 
 support, and I m proud of it, and as God is my witness, I 
 think a woman can be a lady, no matter how little money 
 
368 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 she has. And if you mean to insinuate anything against 
 Tom Baker, I can tell you that whatever my troubles with 
 my husband may have been and I think you might have 
 had more consideration for Regina than to mention a woman 
 there never was a breath against his honesty, and he never 
 quarrelled with but one of his employers in his life, that 
 would bring men he knew home, drunk, to sleep in the office, 
 and that diamond bracelet I gave him to get the doctor s 
 bill on once when he was out of work, he went and got out 
 and gave it back to me as soon as I got my divorce!" 
 
 There was a glass pitcher full of lemonade on the table. 
 Estella helped herself to a long drink, and added: "And 
 even so, I shouldn t call you exactly boarders, anyway." 
 
 Mrs. Donnelly arose in trembling majesty and took her 
 hat off the mantelpiece. "I ll send you my address, Estella 
 Baker," she said, "as soon as I get one. And you can 
 send your bill in when you like. I wouldn t speak to a dog 
 as you ve spoken to me, and I wouldn t take it from you if 
 you were the Queen of England. And as for calling us 
 boarders, I should think you wouldn t, with Tony working 
 like a black slave, and Fred putting off the butcher, and me 
 paying regular every Saturday. I wouldn t have stayed here 
 to have my ears deafened the way you screech, Estella Baker, 
 for anybody but Tony, that was the sweetest child I ever 
 saw when I used to go on as extra in the Amazon marches 
 at his father s theatre, before that sneaking hound of a 
 Gillespie got it away from him though I ve worked hard 
 here to help you, and glad to do it, as you well know. I hope, 
 when I m gone " 
 
 "Before you go, Kate, dear," said Tony, putting his pipe 
 on the mantelpiece, "we d better clear off the table, or I 
 fear Barbara will be f6rced to work." 
 
 Barbara rose hurriedly, but like a creature moving in a 
 sleep, and Mrs. Donnelly snatched up a plate with one 
 hand, and with the other pushed the young girl back into 
 the window-seat. "Stay where you are," said she, and strode 
 majestically into the kitchen. Her brother-in-law, who had 
 not bestowed so much as a glance upon the previous debate, 
 now lifted a newspaper in his turn. "There s a cut of the 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 369 
 
 Felix house," he said. "Down below, you know, on River 
 side Drive, the white stone place. Good print, isn t it? I 
 wish I d gone in for photography when I had that chance 
 three years ago." 
 
 "I never thought I d much care about having that house," 
 said Estella. "The windows come so low down, I d always 
 be afraid Regina would fall out. Still, of course, you could 
 put wires across them." 
 
 "Forgot the tablecloths." cried Tony, running in and 
 snatching up the bucket. "None of you thought of them, of 
 course loafers ! If I have a sunstroke on the roof, say I 
 died true." Tony peered into the pitcher of lemonade as he 
 passed it. "Oof! Little drops of lemon. Nothing more 
 spirited for the laborer, the poor laborer, Mrs. Tommy?" 
 At the hall door "I will return to you, Barbara," he said 
 to the back of that young lady s head, and vanished. 
 
 "Tony s gone pok?" asked Regina. 
 
 "I wonder," said Estella, "if Tony s written those words 
 for Barbara to sing Sunday night." 
 
 "Anny Bobs ta Rina pok?" Regina persisted. 
 
 "No, no," said Estella, "Auntie Barbara can t take Regina 
 to the park now; it s too hot." 
 
 "Too hot?" 
 
 "Yes; too hot. Make Auntie sick. Poor Auntie." 
 
 "Poo Anny; Anny Bobs ta Rina pok?" 
 
 "No; now, Regina, you re naughty." 
 
 Regina puffed out an under-lip and nodded: "Rina awn 
 do finey aws," she said plaintively. 
 
 "Oh, Regina, why don t you learn to talk plainer? Oo 
 bid dirl, ess oo is bid dirl! You mostly know what she 
 says, Fred." 
 
 "She said, Regina wants to go on the flying horses. r 
 
 "Oh, darling, mamma hasn t any money for that no, 
 indeed, Barbara, car- fare and everything! You can go on 
 the flying horses when mamma gets an engagement. Here 
 here s a nickel. You can play with that." 
 
 Regina turned the nickel over and over in the creases of 
 her warm little hand, and Fred returned to his former state- 
 
370 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 ment "I guess it ll be a long day before any of us get an 
 engagement." 
 
 "I ll bet you anything you like," cried Estella, "that I ll 
 be starring in my own play before the year s out. That 
 play s bound to succeed, because it speaks right to people s 
 hearts. I wrote every word of it out of my own soul. There 
 isn t a line in it without a throb, and yet the comedy interest s 
 good, too. I think Barbara ll be quite sweet in that. She s 
 a little tall for comedy, but then . You know Dick Tanne- 
 hill. He says it s the greatest play that s been written in 
 America since The Banker s Daughter. " 
 
 Mrs. Donnelly, who had been going to and from the 
 kitchen with the dishes, now swept away the tablecloth, and 
 Estella, still clutching the lemonade, and waving the butter- 
 knife, leaned back to give her free play. She concluded, 
 "He asked me why I didn t let Olga Nethersole have it." 
 
 "Well, dearie," said Mrs. Donnelly, "Why don t you? 
 I m sure you deserve a little luck." 
 
 "Well," said Estella, "I guess not. Nobody ll ever play 
 that part but me. There s plenty of managers would be 
 glad to take the play, and put their own old stars into it; 
 night and day I m afraid some one will steal my ideas. If 
 I could only get a good part in New York and show people 
 just once what I could do, there d be plenty of managers 
 ready to back me in my play afterward!" 
 
 Fred yawned. "Stella," said he, "when you do get an en 
 gagement, you quarrel with the stage-manager and come 
 home." 
 
 Estella planted her elbows on the table. "That s because 
 they ve got such old fuss-budgets of stage managers. I 
 guess after I ve sat up all night wearing myself to pieces 
 studying my art I m not going to be dictated to by those 
 ignorant things. It was mean of that old Dawkins, though, 
 to fight with me when I d had my pink crepe dress made for 
 their old piece, and I hadn t even got it paid for yet. Wasn t 
 that a sweet dress, Kate? I wore my real coral and gold 
 belt with it, that Tommy gave me while we were married. 
 He always said he did like me to look nice, Tommy did. 
 I ve got plenty of clothes to take an engagement, if I could 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 371 
 
 only get one. I wish the dogs hadn t broken Whopper, and 
 I d ask her when we any of us were going to get anything." 
 
 "We always ask her that, and she always lies. We d 
 better ask her when the alimony s coming." 
 
 Estella looked at the pieces of the broken planchette which 
 were scattered over the floor. "They looked so cunning 
 breaking it up and Tony would name her that," she added, 
 with apparent irrelevance. "Hand me the cards, Fred, and 
 let me see if I can see anything." 
 
 As she shuffled the pack, her mind went back to the pink 
 crepe. 
 
 "If she likes to fix it over, I ll let Barbara wear that dress 
 to Helen Graham s Sunday night, and I can take her blue 
 waist; you know, Kate, that one you made out of the old 
 pair of sleeves." 
 
 She looked cordially at Barbara, but the girl did not 
 answer nor turn her head. 
 
 "She s dreaming," said Fred. "Love s young dream, 
 Barbara? Estella, do you see a dark man?" 
 
 "Let her be," pleaded Mrs. Donnelly; "maybe she is really 
 thinking about Tony." 
 
 "You make me tired, Kate!" said the fraternal Fred. 
 "You bet Tony can do his own love-making. You bet he 
 can look after himself. I wonder," he added in a half- 
 voice, "if she says things to him, though, when they re alone. 
 He keeps on so." 
 
 "You never can tell," Estella sighed. 
 
 "She might be very glad to have the chance of him!" 
 Mrs. Donnelly almost cried aloud. 
 
 "I guess my sister doesn t need to be glad of anybody, 
 Kate Donnelly, and he s very unsettled and extravagant; 
 I ve always heard so." 
 
 "Oh, rot!" said Fred, getting in ahead of his sister-in-law. 
 "What of it? He s only a boy, and most of the year he s 
 more money than he knows what to do with. I don t know 
 why it should be worse for him to throw gold dollars around 
 than for anybody else to do it." 
 
 "Slander loves a shining mark," said Mrs. Donnelly 
 sententiously. 
 
372 THE GREAT MODERN^ AMERICANA STORIES 
 
 Fred laughed. "Well, there s nothing so very shining 
 about Tony, except a first-class job with the great Engle 
 in the fall. But, of course, he s lucky to have that, at his 
 age ; and I daresay it s his luck and his good looks and those 
 kid ways of his starts those notions. He s really a corking 
 fellow, Tony is, and straight, as far as I know. But if he 
 buys a girl a pair of gloves and I don t say he doesn t like 
 a pretty girl there s as much cackle as if another man had 
 bought her Fifth Avenue. And he s too easy-tempered; he 
 lets stories get around about him, things that matter. Look 
 at that old gander last week at Reilly s said it was Mrs. 
 Rexal who got him that part with Rexal, and you know 
 what people say." 
 
 "Oh!" said Barbara, "it s all cowardly. It s a lie." 
 ("Why, she s awake after all," laughed Fred.) She turned 
 in upon them from the window, and her live voice broke 
 into the room with its curious, little throaty richness. "I 
 I don t deceive myself about Tony. I daresay he s wild, I 
 daresay he s unreliable, but we must all know that he was 
 never base." Her face flushed and paled, her hands 
 clinched in her lap. "We re unsteady and extravagant our 
 selves, Estella, and what should we have done this summer, 
 who would have given us any pleasure, who would have 
 helped us, who would have worked for us, what should we 
 have done here, without Tony? I remember all the time, 
 even if we re only a caprice of his, even if he doesn t mean a 
 word he says, we are his debtors a thousand, thousand times !" 
 
 The hall door opened, and they heard Tony banging the 
 bucket and whistling "My girl s a high-born lady" as he 
 went into his own room. 
 
 "My dear! my dear!" Estella warned her. 
 
 "That s right, Barbara," said Fred. "I tell you the truth, 
 I didn t think you had so much sense. There s nothing the 
 matter with Tony except a first-class appetite for being 
 happy. Look at him all this summer till his next season s 
 manager puts a stop to it goes and makes a darned jockey 
 of himself, for ten dollars a week, riding their plug steeple 
 chasers in a backwoods melodrama. Does anybody say a 
 word for him about that? Why, no. You d think they all 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 373 
 
 did it! But he went to dinner at the Waldorf last night 
 with a fellow I know that had made some money at Brighton, 
 and a couple of girls, and I ll bet you everybody on Broad 
 way s talking about it." 
 
 "At the Waldorf? Is that where he was?" cried Barbara. 
 "Last night 1" She leaned forward and stared at Fred in 
 tently. Something in her accent recalled to the assemblage 
 their own last night s dinner; the little, hot, untidy dining- 
 room, and the scramble in getting the dishes washed up, and 
 the fact that the ice had given out. Only Estella remembered 
 for the first time that Barbara had dressed her hair elabo 
 rately yesterday afternoon, and had tried to press out her 
 white lace waist, and had scorched it. She remembered in 
 the same flash that the morning before, Tony had praised the 
 stately habit of dressing for dinner. She pushed away the 
 cards, and in her turn looked at Barbara, as Barbara was 
 looking at Fred. 
 
 "Was that where he was?" said the girl again. 
 
 "I m sure he had every right to be!" cried Kate. 
 
 "I m sure we should be the last to question that right," 
 Barbara said. 
 
 " Feathered like a peacock, just as gay, " sang Tony s 
 whistle, clipped suddenly by the sound of splashing water. 
 
 "That boy s got his head under the faucet again!" ex 
 claimed Mrs. Donnelly. "He ll give himself neuralgia." 
 
 "Why, Barbara!" Estella cried; "yesterday was " 
 
 "Oh, yes," she moved her hands helplessly in her lap, "I 
 was twenty yesterday." 
 
 "Oh, dearie! I m so sorry! I never thought of it." 
 
 "Tony never knew of it," said Kate. 
 
 "Why, no," Barbara replied; "why should he?" 
 
 "Here he comes now," said Fred. 
 
 He came in as radiant with idleness as he had lately been 
 with work, and very fresh from his encounter with the 
 faucet, whose drops were still shining, bright and cold, in 
 his black hair. There was what Estella called a divan at one 
 side of the room. Tony composed himself upon, its cushions 
 with a fan and a glass of lemonade and lounged there, 
 staring at the ceiling like a contented child. He found con- 
 
374 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 siderable diversion in teaching himself to drink without 
 changing his attitude and, while he was acquiring this art, 
 the talk tried to jerk itself past his interruption. Every 
 body had been a little startled by Barbara s outbreak, every 
 body felt that Fred would better have kept his knowledge 
 to himself, and a little uneasy bewilderment, as at a 
 treachery to Tony, shadowed more lively interests and quieted 
 the loud talk. They looked rather gravely at the profile view 
 which was once more accorded them of Barbara s head. 
 
 "What s the matter, Estella?" asked Tony, glancing at 
 the newspapers. "Aren t there any murders?" At the con 
 tinued silence he lifted his head. "Hello 1 What s the 
 scandal?" 
 
 "You are!" said Estella. "The idea of you being around 
 here, anyhow, and me with a sister that s just twenty!" 
 
 "There has to be somebody to watch Fred," said Tony. 
 
 "It s Fred s been giving you away. Oh, he didn t mean 
 to! But he says you throw your money around." 
 
 "He wants to show you what a beautiful nature I have," 
 said the accused. He looked lovingly at Fred, because he 
 had black murder in his heart. He looked with anxious 
 stealth at Barbara, but Barbara seemed not to notice. 
 
 "He says people say things about you," Estella continued. 
 
 "Slander loves a shining mark," repeated Mrs. Donnelly , 
 with solemn emphasis. 
 
 "Nice Kate!" said Tony. He went and sat down on the 
 floor by her chair, and stroked her hand. "Good Kate! 
 Pretty Kate!" 
 
 "I m sure," continued Mrs. Donnelly, pretending to push 
 him off, "nobody could be a better boy around the house than 
 he is. Could they, now could they? I bet you d all want 
 him back, fast enough, if he went away! I ve known him 
 since he was no bigger than that," measuring about the height 
 of a footstool, "and never saw a cross word come out of his 
 mouth, and I can tell you, if this never having a cent is hard 
 on us, he s had more money to throw away when he was a 
 child on a rocking-horse than would pay this miserable old 
 rent time and again, and not a complaint out of him." 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 375 
 
 "Good Tony!" said that gentleman. Ho added in a tone 
 of profound conviction, "Noble Tony!" 
 
 Estella studied him with her chin in her hand. 
 "Yes," she said, "you re a very sweet boy. But you re 
 Irish." 
 
 "I once had a father, Mrs. Baker, and he was French." 
 "Well, goodness, that only makes it worse!" 
 "Oh, dear!" said Tony drowsily, "where French and Irish 
 meet, and make a mixture that is not discreet. That s for 
 you, Barbara, who love the poets!" He opened his eyes and 
 stared sadly at his hostess. "It s inelegant to display such 
 a prejudice against the foreign, dear Estella." 
 
 "I hope you ve written those new verses to Gus Kevins 
 song, since you re so smart; Barbara won t have time to learn 
 them Sunday night, Tony Regnault, if you ve put them off 
 again, and she won t sing the old ones. Mr. Nevins s going 
 to be there to hear her, Sunday, and he s going to sing him 
 self." 
 
 "Dear me, how unnecessary of him!" said Tony. He 
 went back to the couch where his banjo lay, and began to 
 touch an air upon it as he spoke the lines. Certainly, he 
 looked at Barbara. 
 
 The sleeping princess quiet lay 
 And dreamed the empty years away, 
 
 Her love delayed; 
 
 And princes came and princes went, 
 And mighty kings magnificent 
 As they above her beauty bent 
 Were all afraid, afraid. 
 
 And no man knew what word would wake, 
 Nor for what fortune s golden sake, 
 
 Or deed of love, 
 
 That shining princess would arise, 
 Unveil the kindness of her eyes, 
 And stretch the hand that he would prize 
 
 All worlds above, above. 
 
 A beggar at the palace gate 
 
 Had a light heart to tempt his fate 
 
 And entered in ; 
 
 He wished no other joy but this, 
 And this for death he would not miss; 
 He touched her sweet mouth with a kiss 
 
 She waked for him, for him! 
 
376 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Oh!" cried Mrs. Donnelly, "isn t that lovely!" 
 
 "That last line doesn t rhyme, Tony," said Estella, with 
 severity. 
 
 "Will you sing it, Barbara?" Tony asked. 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "It s very charming. You were 
 very kind to write it. But I don t think I shall sing it. I 
 don t think I shall sing at all." 
 
 Said Tony: "That pink thing you have on is very becom 
 ing to you, my own." 
 
 "You musn t call Barbara that, Tony!" cried Estella. 
 "It doesn t sound well. I can t have it." 
 
 "Not even when it isn t true?" Tony pleaded. "Not even 
 to please Barbara? If you ll move over a little, Barbara, 
 I ll sit by you a minute." He secured to himself a part of 
 the window seat, and remained there, swinging his heels 
 and playing "Daisy" on the banjo. Barbara s slim young 
 stateliness, aided by her trailing skirts, made her look almost 
 as tall as he, and far more resolute. She seemed to him, 
 as he studied her out of the corner of an eye, to be very 
 pale and very tragically sweet. 
 
 "I m glad, Estella," he said, "that you are beginning to 
 awaken to a sense of your responsibilities about us. We shall 
 be almost grown up in a minute. These pretty babes went 
 hand in hand! you remember what happened to their 
 wicked guardian, Mrs. Baker, after the robin-redbreasts had 
 covered them with leaves? I am afraid Barbara would be 
 rather long for robin-redbreasts; she would keep them busy." 
 
 Estella smiled disdainfully. "You look like a yard of 
 pump-water, the both of you," said she. 
 
 "The each of us, Estella. And it s still incorrect to be 
 cross with my physique Napoleon was once slender. Bar 
 bara s, to be sure," lifting Barbara s lovely wrist between his 
 thumb and finger, and critically regarding it "Barbara s, 
 to be sure, is no great shakes." 
 
 She did not smile, she did not even withdraw her hand. 
 Tony laid it carefully in her lap. "Cheer up, Anny Bobs!" 
 he whispered. 
 
 At this moment the entire apartment was filled with the 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 377 
 
 roar of Regina s rage. "Mahmu a my nicky-Mahmu a my 
 nicky." 
 
 "What?" said everyone; "what is it?" 
 
 "Mahmu a my nicky! A my nicky! Bah Mahmu!" 
 
 Fred was stooping over Regina. "Mohammed ate my 
 nickel," he translated. Mohammed was the older terrier. 
 
 "A my nicky," assented Regina. 
 
 "Ate her nickel ? Heavens, swallowed it ? It ll kill him !" 
 Estella fell on her knees and glared down the throat of 
 Mohammed, who wagged his tail feebly. "Bah Mahmu!" 
 cried Regina, beating the air and howling lustily. "A my 
 nicky! Mahmu a my nicky!" 
 
 "Do you think it ll kill him?" persisted Estella; "was 
 Stella s old boy? Did want doctor?" 
 
 "Wa my nicky!" entreated Regina. 
 
 "It seems to me extremely forehanded of him," said Tony 
 to Regina. "You know you nearly ate it yourself." 
 
 Regina stopped crying and stared at him. She began 
 slowly to smile and dimple, and presently extended a hand. 
 "Nicky," said she. 
 
 Tony laid a copper on her palm. "Penny," he said; "not 
 nicky. Nough." 
 
 Regina went over to Estella and pulled her arm. "Mah- 
 ma, nicky." 
 
 Estella closed Mohammed s mouth with her fingers and 
 kissed his nose. "Him eat nickels?" she inquired. "No, I 
 haven t got another nickel for you, Regina, I haven t got 
 Oh, don t cry. Here, you can have my pearl heart. And 
 here," reaching for a clean napkin and a blue pencil from 
 a crowded trunk-lid at her back, "we ll make rag-dolly, shall 
 we?" 
 
 Tony leaped upon her, and wrenched the napkin from her 
 grasp. "I would never wish to interfere with any of your 
 little diversions, Estella," said he, returning in triumph to 
 his seat, "but it is I who wash the linen." 
 
 "Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord!" yawned Fred. "What a 
 deadly drag it is! I wonder shall I ever work again?" 
 
 "I wonder," said Estella, "why it s always us who can t get 
 parts? We can all act." 
 
378 THE GREAT MODERN, AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "Well," said Fred, "we could if we were let. But the 
 question now is Mr. Bates told Barbara he d be here, after 
 that blamed rent, at three o clock, and it s about that now; 
 what are we going to tell him?" 
 
 "If I could only get a backer for my play " began 
 Estella. "Oh, I do wish you d stop fooling with that banjo, 
 Tony, you put me out so!" 
 
 "Say, look here, Tony!" cried Fred, "since you ve got a 
 job coming to you I know it isn t the proper thing, but 
 couldn t you get something in advance from your manage 
 ment?" 
 
 "Oh!" cried Mrs. Donnelly, "and start out in debt and be 
 all the season getting even!" 
 
 Tony looked hopefully at Barbara, but Barbara positively 
 frowned. 
 
 "Unh-unh!" said Tony, shaking his head at Fred. 
 "Nev-er bor-row from the man-age-ment. If you do 
 you ll never save a cent" he struck a discreet tinkle from 
 the banjo, and added: "In the mean-time, who will pay 
 the rent?" 
 
 Without turning her head round to the company, Barbara 
 said; "I daresay we shan t have to pay the rent at all, if I 
 marry Mr. Bates." 
 
 They were too surprised to speak, but as they gradually 
 recovered their breath they turned and stared at her; all 
 but Tony, who went on touching the banjo and looked at it 
 carefully. Estella leaned forward and knocked on the table 
 with the handle of the butter-knife. 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" she said. 
 
 Barbara put up one hand and smoothed her back hair with 
 deliberate fingers. "When I went into the hall this morning 
 to see if I couldn t inveigle him to go away" Tony lifted his 
 head quickly and angrily, and frowned from Barbara to 
 Estella "as I was asked to do," Barbara continued, "he 
 asked me if I would marry him. Or rather he asked me to 
 think about it. He s coming back at three to to help us 
 think about it. He wants to speak to you, Estella." 
 
 "Well, I m not going to have anything to do with it!" 
 Estella cried. "And you needn t frown at me, Tony Reg- 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 379 
 
 nault, for I was taking the curling-irons out of the gas- 
 range that very minute, or I would have gone out to him 
 myself. Nobody shall ever say I forced her into it. I 
 wouldn t wreck the life of my own sister, not if he was to 
 pay me for it in diamonds! But God knows, Tony, what s 
 to become of her, the way things are; for even if ever she 
 can make up her mind and marry you, you re all alike, you 
 actors; I wouldn t trust a girl s heart to the best of you, 
 though it s true Jim Folso did take care of his mother till 
 the day she died I know that myself sent her ten dollars 
 a week year out and in; he s had to borrow it from Tommy, 
 many a time. No, sir, she ll have to decide it for her own 
 self, Barbara will." 
 
 And at this moment, as though by special arrangement 
 with a dramatic deity, there was a ring at the front door. 
 
 "It needn t be he, you know," said Estella, confronting a 
 a circle of stricken faces. 
 
 But it was he. Fred went to the door, and ushered in a 
 large, plump, blond gentleman in the elder middle years. 
 He had his coat on his arm and his hat in his hand, and he 
 was mopping his face and forehead with a huge clean 
 handkerchief. 
 
 "Good-day, all," said he. "No, don t trouble yourself 
 for me, ma am," to Estella, who had risen, mute and regal, 
 and was schooling herself to the manner of a dowager em 
 press. He accepted a chair, however, and looked around 
 with simple confidence upon the company. "It is hot ! When 
 you come to my time of life, you feel the stairs." 
 
 "You ll have a glass of lemonade, Mr. Bates," said Tony. 
 He had brought a glassful and his own fan to the landlord, 
 and the two men looked at each other as the glass changed 
 hands. 
 
 "Thank you," said Mr. Bates, "I don t object." 
 
 An embarrassed silence followed these civilities. Tony 
 had cuddled on to the couch again with his inevitable banjo, 
 and the terriers had come forward and were sniffing at Mr. 
 Bates s legs. Dooley drew back suddenly and showed his 
 teeth ; Mohammed instantly broke into a volley of shrill yelps. 
 
 "Knows I m the landlord," tactfully remarked Mr. Bates, 
 
380 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 setting down his glass and smiling jovially around. He 
 snapped his fingers at Dooley, "Nice boy, good fellow." 
 The dogs thrust their bodies back and their heads forward 
 and continued to grumble and to growl. "Well, I guess from 
 what Miss Barbara told me this morning, you didn t want 
 to see me to-day." 
 
 "I ll be frank with you, Mr. Bates," said Estella. "My 
 allowance hasn t come yet. God is my witness, I expected 
 it the day before yesterday. Though why I should expect 
 it from a man that forsakes his own child, and that I never 
 would have married if I hadn t been infatuated with him 
 a girl s infatuation, Mr. Bates, you know what that is I 
 don t know. But I was so sure it would come to-day, while 
 that lace sale was on at Siegel & Cooper s I thought of dress 
 ing to be ready right after lunch didn t I, Barbara ? But it 
 hasn t come. I m sure you re the last man, Mr. Bates, that 
 would want me to take the bread out of my child s mouth." 
 
 "Must be a pretty mean man," said Mr. Bates; "won t 
 send money to keep his own little girl. But you know, Mrs. 
 Baker, I know people talk, especially the Irish, but owners 
 have to make their property pay, someways." 
 
 "Oh, well," said Estella, "after all, this isn t a flat you 
 could really expect much rent for. If I d had my money 
 this month, there s a lot of things I d have spoken to you 
 about. We haven t any awnings, for one thing, and it makes 
 the place like a bake-oven, and it makes it look like a tene 
 ment; though, for that matter, there isn t a tenement but what 
 has awnings. And that woman in the flat over us, you ll have 
 to speak to her. She says insulting things about my dogs, 
 down the airshaft. Yes, she does; she means to insult me, 
 because I told her she ought to be ashamed to let her parrot 
 use such language. I couldn t let Regina listen to it, Mr. 
 Bates, indeed I couldn t. And the storeroom leaks, or a 
 pipe s burst in it, or something, and I shan t pay my rent at 
 all if my Saratoga trunk is damaged, for there s a lot of 
 wardrobe in it, and things no money could replace. My white 
 satin I only wore it two weeks is in there, and my hus 
 band s miniature s in that trunk. I shouldn t like to see that 
 damaged." 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 381 
 
 "Well, well," said Mr. Bates, heartlessly putting the 
 miniature of Mr. Baker to one side: "I guess you know it 
 isn t altogether about the rent I came. I guess maybe Miss 
 Barbara s told you about what I said to her this morning. 
 No, ma am, no, gent men, don t go. I know it s not the usual 
 thing, but you ve always seemed sort of like a family here, 
 and I know you ll all talk about it when I m gone, so might s 
 well have it now. And I m counting that maybe you ll kind 
 of help me out. I m not supposing" he turned a pair of 
 patient eyes on Barbara, and the tame, kindly lovingness in 
 them seemed at once to shield and to caress her "I m not 
 supposing Miss Barbara s what s called in love with me. 
 T wouldn t be natural. But I think she might like me if 
 she came to know me and gave me a fair show. Especially 
 when she knows more o the way people get along than she 
 does now; she d see how different I d treat her from the way 
 a lot of men do that have got wives and don t know how 
 to use em. I always thought this was a kind of rough world 
 for women, and I d like to do what s really right by one of 
 them." 
 
 Nobody answered, but Tony lifted a long grave look to his. 
 
 "And so I thought," continued Mr. Bates, "that some of 
 you who haven t such fancy ideas as it s natural enough 
 she s got, would speak to her, and tell her that if if you 
 don t see something as pretty as you d like, it s best to take 
 something that s all wool." 
 
 He was greatly pleased at this flower of speech, and 
 looked up quickly and brightly at Barbara, and Barbara 
 smiled. She had a slow smile of infinite possibilities, and 
 Mr. Bates looked at it a little before he proceeded: "I ve got 
 money, a couple of hundred thousand, one way and another, 
 and more making and I ve got health and good habits, and 
 the store I set by her, you wouldn t believe it. Well, I guess 
 she s kind of notiony and high-spirited, and I don t seem 
 much to her, but I m relying you ll tell her those are things 
 make life comfortable and worth having just the same; and 
 I should think you, Mrs. Baker, that s had your own troubles 
 in your time, would feel kind o scared to have anything so 
 
382 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 pretty and so kind of high-headed and proud, around like 
 this." 
 
 "God is my witness, Mr. Bates " began Estella leaning 
 forward. 
 
 "Not," hurriedly continued the suitor, "not as I ve got 
 anything to say against your profession. Those that like 
 it why, let em, I say. But it ain t the life for a woman, 
 is it? Now, is it? Nor, I shouldn t think myself, for a 
 man either. I don t mean any disrespect, but it does seem 
 to me a lady like Miss Barbara s got something more com 
 ing to her than this, and what s more," he added, medita 
 tively, "it seems like it don t pay." 
 
 Tony, who was leaning on his knees with his chin in his 
 hands, lifted his guileless eyes, and said sweetly; "It s only 
 fair to the profession, Mr. Bates, to tell you that we are not 
 its most victorious exponents." 
 
 "Likely, likely," admitted Mr. Bates, a little mystified. 
 "But we can keep a woman out of it, Mr. Reeno, and take 
 her clean away from all this stage business." 
 
 "You don t think," inquired Tony this was the only 
 base advantage Tony took "you don t think she ought to 
 have anything to say about it, herself the being taken clean 
 away from all this stage business?" 
 
 "Not when she s got a man to look after her," said Mr. 
 Bates, "and give her a comfortable home." 
 
 "Oh!" admitted Tony, and confided a twinkle to the 
 flooring. 
 
 "Well, my dear," said Estella, "it s a very great respon 
 sibility for me, and I don t want to urge you. But if I d 
 married Mr. Fettercamp when he wanted me to, we d all be 
 rolling in our own carriages this minute. There was his 
 sister married an Italian prince, and she wasn t a circum 
 stance to Barbara. She s dead, now, poor girl, but she mar 
 ried him. But, no, I would have Tommy Baker because I 
 loved him indeed, I did, Barbara Floyd, I loved him madly 
 but there s no use marrying for love when you can t even 
 be sure he ll send you your alimony right. And because I 
 wrecked my life, Barbara, I d like to see you marry some 
 body worthy. I d say the same if it was Regina. Regina 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 383 
 
 Regina Baker, don t you put that penny in your mouth. 
 Come here come here to mamma." 
 
 Regina advanced slowly, and Estella gathered the curls 
 out of her warm little neck and hastily polished off her face 
 with a handkerchief. "Don t you know Mr. Bates, darling? 
 What do nice little girls say to gentlemen?" 
 
 Regina ducked her head, made an unintelligible sound and 
 extended her hand. 
 
 "How-de-do, miss," said Mr. Bates, shaking the hand. 
 "I m sorry I didn t think to bring you some candy. Better 
 luck next time, eh? Why, why, you mustn t begin to cry, 
 little girl. Don t you want to be friends with me!" Regina 
 nodded. "Don t you want to grow up and have a pony to 
 ride, and learn the piano?" 
 
 "Awn go finey aws," said Regina. 
 
 "She wants to go on the flying horses," translated the 
 patient Fred. "Merry-go-round, you know." 
 
 "And so she shall!" assented Mr. Bates. 
 
 Regina glowed with joy. "An Anny Bobs?" 
 
 "And Auntie Barbara?" Mr. Bates repeated after Fred, 
 "why yes, indeed." 
 
 Regina, in a kind of vacuous triumph, smiled around the 
 room and had an inspiration. "An Tony?" 
 
 "Why," responded Mr. Bates hesitatingly, "maybe he 
 wouldn t want to." 
 
 A perfect torrent of joyous sounds, intended to be affirma 
 tive, burst from Regina s lips. In the vigor of her confidence 
 she flung herself upon the legs of Mr. Bates and beat his 
 knees. "Oh, yef ! As time, as time, aw lone, Rina an Anny 
 Bobs and Tony go finey aws, go roun an roun an roun, an 
 Tony caw go ring!" 
 
 There was a suspicion of thickness in the voice of the 
 translator: "Once, last time, nobody else happened to be 
 there. Tony and Barbara rode, too, and Tony caught the 
 gold ring; you know, with those little blunt swords." 
 
 "Why, he s a very clever young man," Mr. Bates affably 
 replied. 
 
 Regina smote his knees and shrieked with joy. "Oh, yef!" 
 she repeated, "an Anny Bobs gah go ring." 
 
384 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 "You said it was Mr. Tony caught the gold ring, little 
 girl." 
 
 "That s what she means to say," said Fred. 
 
 "No! no!" Regina passionately insisted. 
 
 "Anny Bobs gah go ring! Anny Bobs gah go ring now! 
 Rina fine it." 
 
 "Well, well, Regina," Estella interrupted, "Mr. Bates 
 can t talk to you all day!" 
 
 "I paid it her as a reward of merit. I assure you, I gave 
 the man a dime for it," said Tony, softly, with a little blush. 
 
 Mr. Bates passed over the insignificance of Tony s shabby 
 boyhood with the good temper of a potentate. "Well," said 
 he, giving his face a final wipe, "I guess I ve said what I 
 laid out to. I didn t come here to talk soft. That part of 
 it s just my business, and hers if she ll have it." He got 
 up and took his hat and went over to Barbara. "Miss Bar 
 bara," he said, "if you can make out to like me like me well 
 enough to have me you ll never regret it." He held out 
 his hand, and Barbara gave him hers with her long boyish 
 clasp. Kate followed him to the door and let him out 
 
 An unpleasant silence settled upon the company. Its 
 members were suddenly set face to face with decision and 
 responsibility; they were crowded and jostled and made to 
 feel strange and ill at ease, here, in the dilapidated cheer 
 of their own home, by the encroaching wisdom of other worlds. 
 Barbara continued to sit idly in the blinding sunshine, like 
 a person passive before the issue of events and indifferent to 
 it. The fierce light seemed to set her apart from counsel 
 and from tenderness and to blare aloud her beauty. 
 
 Estella, after two or three clearings of her throat, inquired 
 with a kind of trembling pomp: "And what do you think 
 about it yourself, my dear?" 
 
 Barbara rose and came slowly to the table. She stood 
 stroking the edge of it with her hand, and finally she said: 
 "I ll tell you what I think. I think that if I were married 
 to Mr. Bates, I shouldn t have to run out into the hall to ogle 
 landlords to cheat them out of their rent. I think I shouldn t 
 have to pretend to be out when the milkman comes, nor 
 wheedle the butcher, nor have the gas turned off. I shouldn t 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 385 
 
 have to walk out of a hateful mess like this" Estella 
 gasped "dressed as if I were going to a beauty show, 
 because I wanted work, and into offices where I should be 
 looked over as if I were a horse. I think I shouldn t owe 
 every stitch I wear and everything I put into my mouth to 
 my sister s divorced husband. That s what I think. I think 
 I should be looked out for and taken care of and kept away 
 from hurt, as other women are!" 
 
 Estella began: "Well, of all the" 
 
 "And I think," continued Barbara, her voice rising to a 
 hysteric pitch, "that my husband would be respected every 
 where, and would work for me and be true and good, and 
 not depend for his pleasure upon a friend s getting some 
 money, and taking him out to dinner with girls " 
 
 "Oh, oh! Barbara!" cried Fred. 
 
 "It was such a good dinner, Barbara!" said Tony. Un 
 questionably, his smile was coming back. 
 
 The dogs at the same moment began to quarrel over a bone 
 and their voices rose in ear-splitting dispute. Estella cuffed 
 one of them and the other carried the bone into the sitting- 
 room, from whence issued ecstatic lickings and crunchings. 
 
 In the comparative pause Mrs. Donnelly s tearful indig 
 nation burst upon Barbara: "We all know what you mean 
 by that last, Barbara Floyd," she cried. "And I guess there 
 are other people, besides you, in this house that are sick and 
 tired of being poor, and the fuss there is about meals, and 
 that have spent all their money on you, and whose fathers 
 were rich and famous, and thought nothing of living at Del- 
 monico s, before ever you were born. If the butcher is 
 swindled out of his meat, I don t see but you eat your share 
 of it. If you think it s messy here, why don t you get up 
 and clean it ? Tony s scrubbed the kitchen while you ve been 
 lolling there, and you wouldn t know how to cook anything 
 but a boiled egg and a pickle to this day if it wasn t for 
 Tony. You re a bad, ungrateful girl, Barbara Floyd, and 
 Tony" 
 
 Estella pitched her voice above the voices of Mrs. Donnelly 
 and the dogs : "Don t you try to bully my sister, Kate Don 
 nelly, she" 
 
386 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Tony struck the table sharply with his hand. "Come, 
 Barbara," he said. "We must get the washing down now." 
 He held the door open for her, and without looking round 
 she went past him into the hall. 
 
 At the head of the top flight of stairs there was a door with 
 a heavy, sliding weight, and Tony, who had run upstairs in 
 advance, pushed it open, and with a wave of the hand, like 
 a lavish host, welcomed Barbara to the great, shining roof. 
 It was very wide and hot and silent, and little airs that the 
 sidewalk never knew drifted over its cornices. Said Tony: 
 " To where, beyond the voices, there is peace. >; 
 
 Barbara stepped out fearlessly between the glare of the 
 red roofs and the glare of the blue and golden sky. With a 
 happy breath she turned her unshielded face up to the light. 
 This stretch of gleaming tin had long been their private gar 
 den, and they had known it in many kinds of weather. "Oh, 
 Tony!" she said, in a little soft, fluttered, laughing voice, 
 "we needn t bother about the washing yet, need we?" 
 
 "Come," said Tony. "I ve found a place where we can 
 see the river. I found it for us this morning. Musn t tell!" 
 
 "No," she said, and put her hand out to him, like a child. 
 "Show me." 
 
 Behind its newer and broader substitute an old chimney 
 rose out of the roof s western bulwark, from which it parted 
 company a few feet above the ground in an angle of crumb 
 ling brick and mortar. Tony jumped into the niche of this 
 angle and held down a hand to Barbara. "Step up and I ll 
 lift you," he directed. She was beside him in an instant, 
 and found herself breast-high above the parapet, which 
 served as an elbow rest. It was too broad to let them see 
 straight down into the common, cluttered street, and beyond 
 the shops and the low buildings over the way stumbled the 
 vine-smothered huts of squatters; past a bit of leafy, broken 
 ground the wide green of market gardens was dotted with the 
 gold of sunflowers and the scarlet of geraniums, a single 
 close-shorn lawn was banked with the white and the mystic 
 blue of hydrangeas. Further yet, between the shimmer of 
 poplars and the frown of purple hills, the river flashed and 
 drifted. 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 387 
 
 "It s good here," said Tony. 
 
 Barbara stretched her arm across the parapet as though 
 she stretched it into the coolness of fresh water. "There s a 
 yacht a white one; watch! Going down the river! Let s 
 pretend it s going straight to sea, Tony what fun! Across 
 the sea." 
 
 "We re going with it, you know. Just ourselves, of course, 
 and a telescope, maybe, and plenty of honey wrapped up in 
 a five-pound note. All the little fishes will come and beg 
 us for the honey, and you ll give it to them out of your hands, 
 till I shall be jealous. It isn t nice to be jealous. I wouldn t 
 let even a little fish suffer it, if I were you, Barbara Why, 
 Barbara! what foolishness you talk! And you don t even 
 hear me!" 
 
 "I wish I could see all this from my own window," she 
 said. 
 
 "Ah, but you can t! I had to show it to you, Barbara. 
 It was quite easy to find, but you know you never found it." 
 The little rosy ruffle of Barbara s sleeve lay on the rough edge 
 of the parapet, and Tony bent his head and kissed it. "I 
 was sure you d like it here. Be good," he said. 
 
 The voices of some children singing ring-games on a near 
 fire-escape rose with an accent of their own natures to the 
 two truants on the housetop. Otherwise they seemed the 
 only living souls in a universe made up of two expanses; 
 below them, the wide, sparkling, burning roofs, with one 
 distant fringe of leaves and waters, and above, the radiant, 
 hot blue, luminous and quivering, and scarcely tinged by 
 the white clouds which slowly sailed across it and banked 
 themselves on the horizon into palaces and temples. Toward 
 the west, where the sun blazed in a splendor that even the 
 eyes of lovers dared not meet, the heavens were almost white 
 not in pallor, but effulgence, like light incarnate. Small, 
 lazy breezes floated through the sunshine, and brushed, fresh 
 and sweet, against their faces. 
 
 "Barbara," said Tony, leaning forward and catching her 
 by both wrists, "where did Regina find my ring?" 
 
 She was startled both by the suddenness of his attack and 
 by the strength of his hold, and straining back upon his 
 
388 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 grasp she remained alert and silent, like a deer. He waited 
 a moment, but she continued passionately quiet, passion 
 ately studious of his face. In the pause, the voices of the 
 children arose with a new clearness : 
 
 And on his breast he wore a star, 
 Pointing to the East and West. 
 
 "Barbara!" 
 
 "Hush!" she insisted. Her breath was fluttering on her 
 lips, and her eyes shining into his: 
 
 Go choose your East, go choose your West 
 Go choose the one that you love best. 
 
 "You kept that ring!" he said. "You kept it because of 
 me!" Almost as he spoke she had leaped down and away 
 from him, and was running across the roof. 
 
 He caught up with her on the low platform of wooden 
 slats amid the flutter of the wet linens. 
 
 "Help me take these in," she called to him: "Estella will 
 be angry." She was struggling with the clothes-pins, and 
 their fingers met over a row of pillow-slips. 
 
 "They re not dry yet. Listen, I" 
 
 "There s a breeze come up. It will dry them in a minute." 
 She was moving further and further away. 
 
 "Why, see, my sweet, you don t know what you re saying ! 
 I want to tell you " 
 
 "Oh," she cried, pausing oppressedly, "what does every 
 body tell me? That you are idle, that you are extravagant, 
 that you that you that girls " 
 
 "Barbara," he said, "though they follow me in their thou 
 sands and their ten thousands, though their dead bodies 
 strew my pathway, I will be blind to them. I love you, 
 Barbara." 
 
 She retreated again, making as though to reach the door, 
 and he stood still in a sudden bitterness, with a little wound 
 in the dignity of his love. The next instant he was startled 
 to see her, who was so light and true of step, stumble and 
 lose her footing on a broken slat and sink down in a heap 
 with her hands over her face. 
 
THE LOTUS EATERS 389 
 
 He ran up and bent over her without touching her. "Oh, 
 my dear!" he asked; "what is it? Are you hurt? Or were 
 you angry? Would you like me to go away? What is it?" 
 
 She lifted her face to his and put her arms around his neck. 
 
 "I was thinking of you," she said. 
 
 Half an hour later as they still sat on the platform the 
 roof rang with their names, and from under their damp 
 canopy of tablecloths and towels they perceived Estella in 
 the doorway. 
 
 "Come on!" she called. "Why, whatever s kept you? 
 Come on ! The alimony s come, and we re all going to Coney 
 Island for dinner!" 
 
 "Don t be so noisy, Estella 1" said Tony. "We re en 
 gaged." 
 
 "Really? Really, Barbara? Well, I m glad of it- 
 Yes, Regina," she called over her shoulder, "come up. 
 Mamma s here. Well, I m very glad. And I ll have my 
 white satin cleaned for her as soon as I can. How jolly 
 we re going out to dinner! Like a party for you, Barbara." 
 
 "Splendid!" said Tony. "The alimony baked meats did 
 coldly furnish forth the marriage tables." 
 
 He sprang up and handed Barbara to her feet. There 
 fell to the ground something Barbara had been showing 
 Tony a slender ribbon, as long as a watch-chain, and, 
 dangling from its end, a great, clumsy, ridiculous gilt ring. 
 Regina, who came staggering through the doorway, fell upon 
 this latter object with a shriek of joyous recognition. "Anny 
 Bobs gah go ring!" she cried. "Rina awn go finey aws, go 
 finey aws, go roun an roun an roun!" 
 
JEAN-AH POQUELIN* 
 
 BY G. W. CABLE 
 
 IN the first decade of the present century, when the newly 
 established American Government was the most hateful 
 thing in Louisiana when the Creoles were still kicking 
 at such vile innovations as the trial by jury, American dances, 
 anti-smuggling laws, and the printing of the Governor s proc 
 lamation- in English when the Anglo-American flood that 
 was presently to burst in a crevasse of immigration upon the 
 delta had thus far been felt only as slippery seepage which 
 made the Creole tremble for his footing there stood, a short 
 distance above what is now Canal Street, and considerably 
 back from the line of villas which fringed the river-bank on 
 Tchoupitoulas Road, an old colonial plantation-house half in 
 ruin. 
 
 It stood aloof from civilization, the tracts that had once 
 been its indigo fields given over to their first noxious wild- 
 ness, and grown up into one of the horridest marshes within 
 a circuit of fifty miles. 
 
 The house was of heavy cypress, lifted up on pillars, grim, 
 solid, and spiritless, its massive build a strong reminder of 
 days still earlier, when every man had been his own peace 
 officer and the insurrection of the blacks a daily contingency. 
 Its dark, weather-beaten roof and sides were hoisted up above 
 the jungly plain in a distracted way, like a gigantic ammuni 
 tion-wagon stuck in the mud and abandoned by some re 
 treating army. Around it was a dense growth of low water 
 willows, with half a hundred sorts of thorny or fetid bushes, 
 savage strangers alike to the "language of flowers" and to the 
 botanist s Greek. They were hung with countless strands of 
 discolored and prickly smilax, and the impassable mud below 
 
 *From "Old Creole Days," copyright, 1879, 1883, by Charles 
 Scribner s Sons. By permission of the publishers, and the author. 
 
 390 
 
JEAN-AH POQUELIN 391 
 
 bristled with chevaux de frise of the dwarf -palmetto. Two 
 lone forest-trees, dead cypresses, stood in the centre of the 
 marsh, dotted with roosting vultures. The shallow strips of 
 water were hid by myriads of aquatic plants, tinder whose 
 coarse and spiritless flowers, could one have seen it, was a 
 harbor of reptiles, great and small, to make one shudder to 
 the end of his days. 
 
 The house was on a slightly raised spot, the levee of a 
 draining canal. The waters of this canal did not run; they 
 crawled, and were full of big, ravening fish and alligators, 
 that held it against all comers. 
 
 Such was the home of old Jean Marie Poquelin, once an 
 opulent indigo planter, standing high in the esteem of his 
 small, proud circle of exclusively male acquaintances in the 
 old city; now a hermit, alike shunned by and shunning all 
 who had ever known him. "The last of his line," said the 
 gossips. His father lies under the floor of the St. Louis 
 Cathedral, with the wife of his youth on one side, and the 
 wife of his old age on the other. Old Jean visits the spot 
 daily. His half-brother alas! there was a mystery; no one 
 knew what had become of the gentle, young half-brother, 
 more than thirty years his junior, whom once he seemed so 
 fondly to love, but who, seven years ago, had disappeared 
 suddenly, once for all, and left no clew of his fate. 
 
 They had seemed to live so happily in each other s love. 
 No father, mother, wife to either, no kindred upon earth. 
 The elder a bold, frank, impetuous, chivalric adventurer; 
 the younger a gentle, studious, book-loving recluse; they lived 
 upon the ancestral estate like mated birds, one always on the 
 wing, the other always in the nest. 
 
 There was no trait in Jean Marie Poquelin, said the old 
 gossips, for which he was so well known among his few 
 friends as his apparent fondness for his "little brother." 
 "Jacques said this," and "Jacques said that," he "would 
 leave this or that, or anything to Jacques," for "Jacques 
 was a scholar," and "Jacques was good," or "wise," or 
 "just," or "far-sighted," as the nature of the case required; 
 and "he should ask Jacques as soon as he got home," since 
 Jacques was never elsewhere to be seen. 
 
392 THE GREAT MODERN^ AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 It was between the roving character of the one brother, 
 and the bookishness of the other, that the estate fell into 
 decay. Jean Marie, generous gentleman, gambled the slaves 
 away one by one, until none was left, man or woman, but one 
 old African mute. 
 
 The indigo-fields and vats of Louisiana had been gen 
 erally abandoned as unremunerative. Certain enterprising 
 men had substituted the culture of sugar; but while the re 
 cluse was too apathetic to take so active a course, the other 
 saw larger, and, at that time, equally respectable profits, first 
 in smuggling, and later in the African slave-trade. What 
 harm could he see in it? The whole people said it was 
 vitally necessary, and to minister to a vital public necessity, 
 good enough, certainly, and so he laid up many a doub 
 loon, that made him none the worse in the public regard. 
 
 One day old Jean Marie was about to start upon a voyage 
 that was to be longer, much longer, than any that he had yet 
 made. Jacques had begged him hard for many days not to 
 go, but he laughed him off, and finally said, kissing him: 
 
 "Adieu, tit jrere." 
 
 "No," said Jacques, "I shall go with you." 
 
 They left the old hulk of a house in the sole care of the 
 African mute, and went away to the Guinea coast together. 
 
 Two years after, old Poquelin came home without his ves 
 sel. He must have arrived at his house by night. No one 
 saw him come. No one saw "his little brother"; rumor 
 whispered that he, too, had returned, but he had never been 
 seen again. 
 
 A dark suspicion fell upon the old slave-trader. No 
 matter that the few kept the many reminded of the tenderness 
 that had ever marked his bearing to the missing man. The 
 many shook their heads. "You know he has a quick and 
 fearful temper"; and "why does he cover his loss with mys 
 tery ?" "Grief would out with the truth." 
 
 "But," said the charitable few, "look in his face; see that 
 expression of true humanity." The many did look in his 
 face, and, as he looked in theirs, he read the silent question : 
 "Where is thy brother Abel?" The few were silenced, his 
 former friends died off, and the name of Jean Marie Poquelin 
 
JEAN -AH POQUELIN 393 
 
 became a symbol of witchery, devilish crime, and hideous 
 nursery fictions. 
 
 The man and his house were alike shunned. The snipe 
 and duck hunters forsook the marsh, and the woodcutters 
 abandoned the canal. Sometimes the hardier boys who 
 ventured out there snake-shooting heard a slow thumping of 
 oar-locks on the canal. They would look at each other for 
 a moment half in consternation, half in glee, then rush from 
 their sport in wanton haste to assail with their gibes the un 
 offending, withered old man who, in rusty attire, sat in the 
 stern of a skiff rowed homeward by his white-headed Afri 
 can mute. 
 
 "O Jean-ah Poquelin! O Jean-ah! Jean-ah Poquelin!" 
 
 It was not necessary to utter more than that. No hint of 
 wickedness, deformity, or any physical or moral demerit; 
 merely the name and tone of mockery: "Oh, Jean-ah Poque 
 lin!" and while they tumbled one over another in their need 
 less haste to fly, he would rise carefully from his seat, while 
 the aged mute, with downcast face, went on rowing, and roll 
 ing up his brown fist and extending it toward the urchins, 
 would pour forth such an unholy broadside of French impre 
 cation and invective as would all but craze them with de 
 light. 
 
 Among both blacks and whites the house was the object 
 of a thousand superstitions. Every midnight, they affirmed, 
 the feu follet came out of the marsh and ran in and out of 
 the rooms, flashing from window to window. The story of 
 some lads, whose words in ordinary statements were worth 
 less, was generally credited, that the night they camped in 
 the woods, rather than pass the place after dark, they saw, 
 about sunset, every window blood-red, and on each of the 
 four chimneys an owl sitting, which turned his head three 
 times round, and moaned and laughed with a human voice. 
 There was a bottomless well, everybody professed to know, 
 beneath the sill of the big front door under the rotten 
 veranda ; whoever set his foot upon that threshold disappeared 
 forever in the depth below. 
 
 What wonder the marsh grew as wild as Africa! Take 
 all the Faubourg Ste. Marie, and half the ancient city, you 
 
394 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 would not find one graceless dare-devil reckless enough, to 
 pass within a hundred yards of the house after nightfall. 
 
 The alien races pouring into old New Orleans began to 
 find the few streets named after the Bourbon princes too 
 strait for them. The wheel of fortune, beginning to whirl, 
 threw them off beyond the ancient corporation lines, and 
 sowed civilization and even trade upon the lands of the 
 Graviers and Girods. Fields became roads, roads streets. 
 Everywhere the leveller was peering through his glass, rods- 
 men were whacking their way through willow-brakes and 
 rose-hedges, and the sweating Irishmen tossed the blue clay 
 up with their long-handled shovels. 
 
 "Ha! that is all very well," quoth the Jean-Baptistes, 
 feeling the reproach of an enterprise that asked neither co 
 operation nor advice of them, "but wait till they come yonder 
 to Jean Poquelin s marsh; ha! ha! ha!" The supposed pre 
 dicament so delighted them, that they put on a mock terror 
 and whirled about in an assumed stampede, then caught their 
 clasped hands between their knees in excess of mirth, and 
 laughed till the tears ran; for whether the street-makers 
 mired in the marsh, or contrived to cut through old "Jean- 
 ah s" property, either event would be joyful. Meantime a 
 line of tiny rods, with bits of white paper in their split tops, 
 gradually extended its way straight through the haunted 
 ground, and across the canal diagonally. 
 
 "We shall fill that ditch," said the men in mud-boots, and 
 brushed close along the chained and pad-locked gate of 
 the haunted mansion. Ah, Jean-ah Poquelin, those were not 
 Creole boys, to be stampeded with a little hard swearing. 
 
 He went to the governor. That official scanned the odd 
 figure with no slight interest. Jean Poquelin was of short, 
 broad frame, with a bronzed leonine face. His brow was 
 ample and deeply furrowed. His eye, large and black, was 
 bold and open like that of a war-horse, and his jaws shut 
 together with the firmness of iron. He dressed in a suit of 
 Attakapas cottonade, and his shirt, unbuttoned and thrown 
 back from the throat and bosom, sailor-wise, showed a her 
 culean breast, hard and grizzled. There was no fierceness or 
 defiance in his look, no harsh ungentleness, no symptom of 
 
JEAN -AH POQUELIN 395 
 
 his unlawful life or violent temper; but rather a peaceful 
 and peaceable fearlessness. Across the whole face, not 
 marked in one or another feature, but, as it were, laid softly 
 upon the countenance like an almost imperceptible veil, was 
 the imprint of some great grief. A careless eye might easily 
 overlook it, but, once seen, there it hung faint, but unmis 
 takable. 
 
 The Governor bowed. 
 
 "Parlez-vous frangais?" asked the figure. 
 
 "I would rather talk English, if you can do so," said the 
 Governor. 
 
 "My name, Jean Poquelin." 
 
 "How can I serve you, Mr. Poquelin?" 
 
 "My ouse is yond ; dans le marais la-bas" 
 
 The Governor bowed. 
 
 "Dat marais billong to me." 
 
 "Yes, sir.". 
 
 "To me; Jean Poquelin; I hown im meself." 
 
 "Well, sir?" 
 
 "He don t billong to you; I get him from me father." 
 
 "That is perfectly true, Mr. Poquelin, as far as I ara 
 aware." 
 
 "You want to make strit pass yond ?" 
 
 "I do not know, sir; it is quite probable; but the city 
 will indemnify you for any loss you may suffer you will get 
 paid, you understand." 
 
 "Strit can t pass dare." 
 
 "You will have to see the municipal authorities about that, 
 Mr. Poquelin." 
 
 A bitter smile came upon the old man s face : 
 
 "Pardon, Monsieur, you is not le Gouverneur?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Mais, yes. You har le Gouverneur yes. Veh-well. I 
 come to you. I tell you, strit can t pass at me ouse." 
 
 "But you will have to see" 
 
 "I come to you. You is le Gouverneur. I know not the 
 new laws. I ham a Fr-r-rench-a-man ! Fr-rench-a-man 
 have something aller au contraire he come at his Gouver- 
 neur. I come at you. If me not had been bought from me 
 
396 THE GREAT MODERN, AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 king like bossals in the hold time, ze king gof France 
 would-a-show Monsieur le Gouverneur to take care of his 
 men to make strit in right places. Mais, I know; we billong 
 to Monsieur le President. I want you do somesin for me, 
 eh?" 
 
 "What is it?" asked the patient Governor. 
 
 "I want you tell Monsieur le President, strit can t pass 
 ? at me ouse. " 
 
 "Have a chair, Mr. Poquelin;" but the old man did not 
 stir. The Governor took a quill and wrote a line to a city 
 official, introducing Mr. Poquelin, and asking for him every 
 possible courtesy. He handed it to him, instructing him 
 where to present it. 
 
 "Mr. Poquelin," he said with a conciliatory smile, "tell 
 me, is it your house that our Creole citizens tell such odd 
 stories about?" 
 
 The old man glared sternly upon the speaker, and with 
 immovable features said: 
 
 "You don t see me trade some Guinea nigga ?" 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 "You don t see me make some smugglin ?" 
 
 "No, sir; not at all." 
 
 "But, I am Jean Marie Poquelin. I mine me hown biz- 
 niss. Dat all right? Adieu." 
 
 He put his hat on and withdrew. By and by he stood, 
 letter in hand, before the person to whom it was addressed. 
 This person employed an interpreter. 
 
 "He says," said the interpreter to the officer, "he come 
 to make you the fair warning how you muz not make the 
 street pas at his ouse." 
 
 The officer remarked that "such impudence was refresh 
 ing"; but the experienced interpreter translated freely. 
 
 "He says: Why you don t want? " said the interpreter. 
 
 The old slave-trader answered at some length. 
 
 "He says," said the interpreter, again turning to the officer, 
 "the marass is too unhealth for peopl to live." 
 
 "But we expect to drain his old marsh; it s not going to 
 be a marsh." 
 
 "II dit . . ." the interpreter explained in French. 
 
JEAN -AH POQUELIN 397 
 
 The old man answered tersely. 
 
 "He says the canal is a private," said the interpreter. 
 
 "Oh! that old ditch; that s to be filled up. Tell the old 
 man we re going to fix him up nicely." 
 
 Translation being duly made, the man in power was 
 amused .to see a thunder-cloud gathering on the old man s 
 face. 
 
 "Tell him," he added, "by the time we finish, there ll not 
 be a ghost left in his shanty." 
 
 The interpreter began to translate, but 
 
 "/ comprends, J comprends," said the old man, with an 
 impatient gesture, and burst forth, pouring curses upon the 
 United States, the President, the Territory of Orleans, the 
 Congress, the Governor and all his subordinates, striding out 
 of the apartment as he cursed, while the object of his male 
 dictions roared with merriment and rammed the floor with 
 his foot. 
 
 "Why, it will make his old place worth ten dollars to one," 
 said the official to the interpreter. 
 
 " Tis not for de worse of de property," said the interpreter. 
 
 "I should guess not," said the other, whittling his chair, 
 "seems to me as if some of these old Creoles would liever 
 live in a crawfish hole than to have a neighbor." 
 
 "You know what make old Jean Poquelin make like that ? 
 I will tell you. You know " 
 
 The interpreter was rolling a cigarette, and paused to 
 light his tinder; then, as the smoke poured in a thick double 
 stream from his nostrils, he said, in a solemn whisper: 
 
 "He is a witch." 
 
 "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other. 
 
 "You don t believe it? What you want to bet?" cried the 
 interpreter, jerking himself half up and thrusting out one arm 
 while he bared it of its coat-sleeve with the hand of the 
 other. "What you want to bet?" 
 
 "How do you know?" asked the official. 
 
 "Dass what I goin to tell you. You know, one evening 
 I was shooting some grosbec. I killed three; but I had 
 trouble to fin them, it was becoming so dark. When I have 
 
398 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 them I start to come home; then I got to pas at Jean Poque- 
 lin s house." 
 
 "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other, throwing his leg over the 
 arm of his chair. 
 
 "Wait," said the interpreter. "I come along slow, not mak 
 ing some noises; still, still " 
 
 "And scared," said the smiling one. 
 
 "Mais* wait. I get all pas the ouse. Ah! I say, all 
 right! Then I see two thing before! Hah! I get as cold 
 and humide, and shake like a leaf. You think it was 
 nothing? There I see, so plain as can be (though it was 
 making nearly dark), I see Jean Marie Po-que-lin walkin 
 right in front, and right there beside of him was something 
 like a man but not a man white like paint! 1 drop on 
 the grass from scared they pass ; so sure as I live twas the 
 ghos of Jacques Poquelin, his brother!" 
 
 "Pooh!" said the listener. 
 
 "Ill put my han in the fire," said the interpreter. 
 
 "But did you never think," asked the other, "that that 
 might be Jack Poquelin, as you call him, alive and well, and 
 for some cause hid away by his brother I * 
 
 "But there har no cause!" said the other, and the entrance 
 of third parties changed the subject. 
 
 Some months passed and the street was opened. A canal 
 was first dug through the marsh, the small one which passed 
 so close to Jean Poquelin s house was filled, and the street. 
 or rather a sunny road just touched a corner of the old 
 mansion s dooryard. The morass ran dry. Its venomous 
 denizens slipped away through the bulrushes; the cattle roam 
 ing freely upon its hardened surface trampled the super 
 abundant undergrowth. The bellowing frogs croaked to 
 westward. Lilies and the flower-de-luce sprang up in the 
 place of reeds ; smilax and poison-oak gave way to the purple- 
 plumed iron- weed and pink spiderwort; the bindweeds ran 
 everywhere, blooming as they ran, and on one of the dead 
 cypresses a giant creeper hung its green burden of foliage and 
 lifted its scarlet trumpets. Sparrows and red-birds flitted 
 through the bushes, and dewberries grew ripe beneath. Over 
 all these came a sweet, dry smell of salubrity which the place 
 
JEAN- AH POQUELIN 399 
 
 had not known since the sediments of the Mississippi first 
 lifted it from the sea. 
 
 But its owner did not build. Over the willow-brakes, and 
 down the vista of the open street, bright new houses, some 
 singly, some by ranks, were prying in upon the old man s 
 privacy. They even settled down towards his southern side. 
 First a wood-cutter s hut or two, then a market gardener s 
 shanty, then a painted cottage, and all at once the faubourg 
 had flanked and half surrounded him and his dried-up marsh. 
 
 Ah! then the common people began to hate him. "The 
 old tyrant!" "You don t mean an old tyrant?" Well, then, 
 why don t he build when the public need demands it ? What 
 does he live in that unneighborly way for?" "The old 
 pirate!" "The old kidnapper!" How easily even the most 
 ultra Louisianians put on the imported virtues of the North 
 when they could be brought to bear against the hermit. 
 "There he goes, with the boys after him! Ah! ha! ha! 
 Jean-ah Poquelin! Ah! Jean-ah! Aha! aha! Jean-ah 
 Marie! Jean-ah Poquelin! The old villain!" How mer 
 rily the swarming Americains echo the spirit of persecution! 
 "The old fraud," they say, "pretends to live in a haunted 
 house, does he ? We ll tar and feather him some day. Guess 
 we can fix him." 
 
 He cannot be rowed home along the old canal now; he 
 walks. He has broken sadly of late, and the street urchins 
 are ever at his heels. It is like the days when they cried: 
 "Go up, thou bald-head," and the old man now and then 
 turns and delivers ineffectual curses. 
 
 To the Creoles to the incoming lower class of supersti 
 tious Germans, Irish, Sicilians, and others he became an 
 omen and embodiment of public and private ill- fortune. 
 Upon him all the vagaries of their superstitions gathered and 
 grew. If a house caught fire, it was imputed to his machina 
 tions. Did a woman go off in a fit, he had bewitched her. 
 Did a child stray off for an hour, the mother shivered with 
 the apprehension that Jean Poquelin had offered him to 
 strange gods. The house was the subject of every bad boy s 
 invention who loved to contrive ghostly lies. "As long as 
 that house stands we shall have bad luck. Do you not see 
 
400 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 our pease and beans dying, our cabbages and lettuce going to 
 seed and our gardens turning to dust, while every day you 
 can see it raining in the woods? The rain will never pass 
 old Poquelin s house. He keeps a fetich. He has conjured 
 the whole Faubourg Ste. Marie. And why, the old wretch? 
 Simply because our playful and innocent children call after 
 him as he passes." 
 
 A "Building and Improvement Company/ which had not 
 yet got its charter, "but was going to," and which had not, 
 indeed, any tangible capital yet, but "was going to have 
 some," joined the "Jean-ah Poquelin" war. The haunted 
 property would be such a capital site for a market-house! 
 They sent a deputation to the old mansion to ask its occupant 
 to sell. The deputation never got beyond the chained gate 
 and a very barren interview with the African mute. The 
 President of the Board was then empowered (for he had 
 studied French in Pennsylvania and was considered quali 
 fied) to call and persuade M. Poquelin to subscribe to the 
 company s stock; but 
 
 "Fact is, gentlemen," he said at the next meeting, "it 
 would take us at least twelve months to make Mr. Pokaleen 
 understand the rather original features of our system, and 
 he wouldn t subscribe when we d done ; besides, the only way 
 to see him is to stop him on the street." 
 
 There was a great laugh from the Board; they couldn t 
 help it. "Better meet a bear robbed of her whelps," said 
 one. 
 
 "You re mistaken as to that," said the President. "I did 
 meet him, and stopped him, and found him quite polite. But 
 I could get no satisfaction from him ; the fellow wouldn t talk 
 in French, and when I spoke in English he hoisted his old 
 shoulders up, and gave the same answer to everything I said." 
 
 "And that was ?" asked one or two impatient of the 
 pause. 
 
 "That it don t worse w ile." 
 
 One of the Board said: "Mr. President, this market- 
 house project, as I take it, is not altogether a selfish one; the 
 community is to be benefited by it. We may feel that we are 
 working in the public interest (the Board smiled know- 
 
JEAN- AH POQUELIN 401 
 
 ingly), if we employ all possible means to oust this old 
 nuisance from among us. You may know that at the time 
 the street was cut through, this old Poquelann did all he 
 could to prevent it. It was owing to a certain connection which 
 I had with that affair that I heard a ghost story (smiles, 
 followed by a sudden dignified check), a ghost story, which, 
 of course, I am not going to relate; but I may say that my 
 profound conviction, arising from a prolonged study of that 
 story, is, that this old villain, John Poquelann, has his 
 brother locked up in that old house. Now, if this is so, and 
 we can fix it on him, I merely suggest that we can make the 
 matter highly useful. I don t know," he added, beginning to 
 sit down, "but that it is an action we owe to the community 
 hem!" 
 
 "How do you propose to handle the subject?" asked the 
 President. 
 
 "I was thinking," said the speaker, "that, as a Board of 
 Directors, it would be unadvisable for us to authorize any 
 action involving trespass; but if you, for instance, Mr. 
 President, should, as it were, for mere curiosity, request some 
 one, as, for instance, our excellent Secretary, simply as a 
 personal favor, to look into the matter this is merely a 
 suggestion." 
 
 The Secretary smiled sufficiently to be understood that, 
 while he certainly did not consider such preposterous serv 
 ice a part of his duties as secretary, he might, notwithstand~ 
 ing, accede to the President s request; and the Board ad 
 journed. 
 
 Little White, as the Secretary was called, was a mild, 
 kind-hearted little man, who, nevertheless, had no fear of 
 anything, unless it was the fear of being unkind. 
 
 "I tell you frankly," he privately said to the President, 
 "I go into this purely for reasons of my own." 
 
 The next day, a little after nightfall, one might have de 
 scried this little man slipping along the rear fence of the 
 Poquelin place, preparatory to vaulting over into the rank, 
 grass-grown yard, and bearing himself altogether more after 
 the manner of a collector of rare chickens than according to 
 the usage of secretaries. 
 
402 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 The picture presented to his eye was not calculated to en 
 liven his mind. The old mansion stood out against the 
 western sky, black and silent. One long, lurid pencil-stroke 
 along a sky of slate was all that was left of daylight. No 
 sign of life was apparent; no light at any window, unless it 
 might have been on the side of the house hidden from view. 
 No owls were on the chimneys, no dogs were in the yard. 
 
 He entered the place, and ventured up behind a small cabin 
 which stood apart from the house. Through one of its many 
 crannies he easily detected the African mute crouched before 
 a flickering pine-knot, his head on his knees, fast asleep. 
 
 He concluded to enter the mansion, and, with that view, 
 stood and scanned it. The broad rear steps of the veranda 
 would not serve him; he might meet some one midway. He 
 was measuring, with his eye, the proportions of one of the 
 pillars which supported it, and estimating the practicability 
 of climbing it, when he heard a footstep. Some one dragged 
 a chair out toward the railing, then seemed to change his 
 mind and began to pace the veranda, his footfalls resound 
 ing on the dry boards with singular loudness. Little White 
 drew a step backward, got the figure between himself and the 
 sky, and at once recognized the short, broad-shouldered form 
 of old Jean Poquelin. 
 
 He sat down upon a billet of wood, and, to escape the 
 -stings of a whining cloud of mosquitoes, shrouded his face 
 and neck in his handkerchief, leaving his eyes uncovered. 
 
 He had sat there but a moment when he noticed a strange, 
 sickening odor, faint, as if coming from a distance, but 
 loathsome and horrid. 
 
 Whence could it come ? Not from the cabin ; not from the 
 marsh, for it was as dry as powder. It was not in the air; 
 it seemed to come from the ground. 
 
 Rising up, he noticed, for the first time, a few steps before 
 him a narrow footpath leading toward the house. He 
 glanced down it Ha! right there was some one coming 
 ghostly white! 
 
 Quick as thought, and as noiselessly, he lay down at full 
 length against the cabin. It was bold strategy, and yet, there 
 was no denying it, little White felt that he was frightened. 
 
JEAN- AH POQUELIN 403 
 
 "It is not a ghost," he said to himself. "I know it cannot 
 be a ghost"; but the perspiration burst out at every pore, and 
 the air seemed to thicken with heat. "It is a living man," he 
 said in his thoughts. "I hear his footsteps, and I hear old 
 Poquelin s footsteps, too, separately, over on the veranda. I 
 am not discovered; the thing has passed; there is that odor 
 again ; what a smell of death ! Is it coming back ? Yes. It 
 stops at the door of the cabin. Is it peering in at the sleep 
 ing mute ? It moves away. It is in the path again. Now it 
 is gone." He shuddered. "Now, if I dare venture, the 
 mystery is solved." He rose cautiously, close against the 
 cabin, and peered along the path. 
 
 The figure of a man, a presence if not a body but whether 
 clad in some white stuff or naked the darkness would not 
 allow him to determine had turned, and now, with a seem 
 ing painful gait, moved slowly from him. "Great Heaven I 
 can it be that the dead do walk?" He withdrew again the 
 hands which had gone to his eyes. The dreadful object 
 passed between two pillars and under the house. He 
 listened. There was a faint sound as of feet upon a staircase; 
 then all was still except the measured tread of Jean Poquelin 
 walking on the veranda, and the heavy respirations of the 
 mute slumbering in the cabin. 
 
 The little Secretary was about to retreat; but as he looked 
 once more toward the haunted house a dim light appeared 
 in the crack of a closed window, and presently old Jean 
 Poquelin came, dragging his chair, and sat down close 
 against the shining cranny. He spoke in a low, tender tone 
 in the French tongue, making some inquiry. An answer 
 came from within. Was it the voice of a human? So un 
 natural was it so hollow, so discordant, so unearthly that 
 the stealthy listener shuddered again from head to foot, and 
 when something stirred in some bushes near by though it 
 may have been nothing more than a rat and came scuttling 
 through the grass, the little Secretary actually turned and 
 fled. As he left the enclosure he moved with bolder leisure 
 through the bushes; yet now and then he spoke aloud: "Oh, 
 oh! I see, I understand!" and shut his eyes in his hands. 
 
 How strange that henceforth little White was the cham- 
 
404 THE GREAT MODERN r AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 pion of Jean Poquelin ! In season and out of season where- 
 ever a word was uttered against him the Secretary, with a 
 quiet, aggressive force that instantly arrested gossip, de 
 manded upon what authority the statement or conjecture 
 was made; but as he did not condescend to explain his own 
 remarkable attitude, it was not long before the disrelish and 
 suspicion which had followed Jean Poquelin so many years 
 fell also upon him. 
 
 It was only the next evening but one after his adventure 
 that he made himself a source of sullen amazement to one 
 hundred and fifty boys, by ordering them to desist from their 
 wanton hallooing. Old Jean Poquelin, standing and shak 
 ing his cane, rolling out his long-drawn maledictions, paused 
 and stared, then gave the Secretary a courteous bow and 
 started on. The boys, save one, from pure astonishment, 
 ceased but a rumantly little Irish lad, more daring than 
 any had yet been, threw a big hurtling clod that struck 
 old Poquelin between the shoulders and burst like a shell. 
 The enraged old man wheeled with uplifted staff to give 
 chase to the scampering vagabond, and, he may have tripped, 
 or he may not, but he fell full length. Little White hastened 
 to help him up, but he waved him off with a fierce impreca 
 tion and staggering to his feet resumed his way homeward. 
 His lips were reddened with blood. 
 
 Little White was on his way to the meeting of the Board. 
 He would have given all he dared spend to have staid away, 
 for he felt both too fierce and too tremulous to brook the 
 criticisms that were likely to be made. 
 
 "I can t help it, gentlemen; I can t help you to make a 
 case against the old man, and I m not going to." 
 
 "We did not expect this disappointment, Mr. White." 
 
 "I can t help that, sir. No, sir, you had better not appoint 
 any more investigations. Somebody ll investigate himself into 
 trouble. No. sir, it isn t a threat, it is only my advice, but 
 I warn you that whoever takes the task in hand will rue it to 
 his dying day which may be hastened, too." 
 
 The President expressed himself "surprised." 
 
 "I don t care a rush," answered little White, wildly and 
 foolishly. "I don t care a rush if you are, sir. No, my 
 
JEAN -AH POQUELIN 405 
 
 nerves are not disordered; my head s as clear as a bell. No, 
 I m not excited." 
 
 A Director remarked that the Secretary looked as though 
 he had waked from a nightmare. 
 
 "Well, sir, if you want to know the fact, I have; and if 
 you choose to cultivate old Poquelin s society you can have 
 one, too." 
 
 "White," called a facetious member, but White did not 
 notice. "White," he calkd again. 
 
 "What?" demanded White, with a scowl. 
 
 "Did you see the ghost?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; I did," cried White, hitting the table, and 
 handing the President a paper which brought the Board to 
 other business. 
 
 The story got among the gossips that somebody (they 
 were afraid to say little White) had been to the Poquelin 
 mansion by night and beheld something appalling. The 
 rumor was but a shadow of the truth, magnified and distorted 
 as is the manner of shadows. He had seen skeletons walk 
 ing, and had barely escaped the clutches of one by making the 
 sign of the cross. 
 
 Some madcap boys with an appetite for the horrible 
 plucked up courage to venture through the dried marsh by 
 the cattle-path, and come before the house at a spectral hour 
 when the air was full of bats. Something which they but 
 half saw half a sight was enough sent them tearing back 
 through the willow-brakes and acacia bushes to their homes, 
 where they fairly dropped down, and cried: 
 
 "Was it white?" "No yes nearly so we can t tell 
 but we saw it." And one could hardly doubt, to look at 
 their ashen faces, that they had, whatever it was. 
 
 "If that old rascal lived in the country we come from," 
 said certain Americains, "he d have been tarred and 
 feathered before now, wouldn t he, Sanders?" 
 
 "Well, now he just would." 
 
 "And we d have rid him on a rail, wouldn t we?" 
 
 "That s what I allow." 
 
 "Tell you what you could do." They were talking to 
 some rollicking Creoles who had assumed an absolute neces- 
 
406 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 sity for doing something. "What is it you call this thing 
 where an old man marries a young girl, and you come out 
 with horns and " 
 
 "Charivari?" asked the Creoles. 
 
 "Yes, tha s it. Why don t you shivaree him?" Felicitous 
 suggestion. 
 
 Little White, with his wife beside him, was sitting on 
 their doorsteps on the sidewalk, as Creole custom had taught 
 them, looking toward the sunset. They had moved into the 
 lately-opened street. The view was not attractive on the 
 score of beauty. The houses were small and scattered, and 
 across the flat commons, spite of the lofty tangle of weeds 
 and bushes, and spite of the thickets of acacia, they needs 
 must see the dismal old Poquelin mansion, tilted awry and 
 shutting out the declining sun. The moon, white and slender, 
 was hanging the tip of its horn over one of the chimneys. 
 
 "And you say," said the Secretary, "the old black man has 
 been going by here alone? Patty, suppose old Poquelin 
 should be concocting some mischief; he don t lack provoca 
 tion; the way that clod hit him the other day was enough 
 to have killed him. Why, Patty, he dropped as quick as 
 that! No wonder you haven t seen him. I wonder if they 
 haven t heard something about him up at the drug-store. 
 Suppose I go and see." 
 
 "Do," said his wife. 
 
 She sat alone for half an hour, watching that sudden going 
 out of day peculiar to the latitude. 
 
 "That moon is ghost enough for one house," she said, as 
 her husband returned. "It has gone right down the chim 
 ney." 
 
 "Patty," said little White, "the drug-clerk says the boys 
 are going to shivaree old Poquelin to-night. I m going to 
 try to stop it." 
 
 "Why, White," said his wife, "you d better not. You ll 
 get hurt." 
 
 "No, I ll not." 
 
 "Yes, you will." 
 
 "I m going to sit out here until they come along. They re 
 compelled to pass right by here." 
 
JEAN-AH POQUELIN 407 
 
 "Why, White, it may be midnight before they start; you re 
 not going to sit out here till then." 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 "Well, you re very foolish," said Mrs. Whie in an under 
 tone, looking anxious, and tapping one of the steps with her 
 foot. 
 
 They sat a very long time talking over little family mat 
 ters. 
 
 "What s that?" at last said Mrs. White. 
 
 "That s the nine-o clock gun," said White, and they re 
 lapsed into a long-sustained, drowsy silence. 
 
 "Patty, you d better go in and go to bed," said he at last. 
 
 "I m not sleepy." 
 
 "Well, you re very foolish," quietly remarked little White, 
 and again silence fell upon them. 
 
 "Patty, suppose I walk out to the old house and see if I 
 can find out anything." 
 
 "Suppose," said she, "you don t do any such listen!" 
 
 Down the street arose a great hubbub. Dogs and boys 
 were howling and barking; men were laughing, shouting, 
 groaning, and blowing horns, whooping, and clanking cow 
 bells, whinnying, and howling, and rattling pots and pans. 
 
 "They are coming this way," said little White. "You had 
 better go into the house, Patty." 
 
 "So had you." 
 
 "No. I m going to see if I can t stop them." 
 
 "Why, White!" 
 
 "I ll be back in a minute," said White, and went toward 
 the noise. 
 
 In a few moments the little Secretary met the mob. The 
 pen hesitates on the word, for there is a respectable differ 
 ence, measurable only on the scale of the half-century, be 
 tween a mob and a charivari. Little White lifted his inef 
 fectual voice. He faced the head of the disorderly column, 
 and cast himself about as if he were made of wood and 
 moved by the jerk of a string. He rushed to one who seemed, 
 from the size and clatter of his tin pan, to be a leader. "Stop 
 these fellows, Bienvenu, stop them just a minute, till I tell 
 them something." Bienvenu turned and brandished his in- 
 
408 THE GREAT MODERN, AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 struments of discord in an imploring way to the crowd. 
 They slackened their pace, two or three hushed their horns 
 and joined the prayer of little White and Bienvenu for 
 silence. The throng halted. The hush was delicious. 
 
 "Bienvenu," said little White, "don t shivaree old Poquelin 
 to-night; he s" 
 
 "My fwang," said the swaying Bienvenu, "who tail you I 
 goin to chaliivahi someoody, eh ? You sink bickause I make 
 a little playf ool wiz zis tin pan zat I am dhonk ?" 
 
 "Oh, no, Bienvenu, old fellow, you re all right. I was 
 afraid you might not know that old Poquelin was sick, 
 you know, but you re not going there, are you? * 
 
 "My fwang, I vay soy to tail you zat you ah dhonk as de 
 dev*. I am shem of you. I ham ze servan of ze publique. 
 Zese citoyens goin to wickwest Jean Poquelin to give to the 
 Ursuline two hondred fifty dolla " 
 
 "He quoi!" cried a listener, "Cinq cent piastres, oui!" 
 
 "Oui!" said Bienvenu, "and if he wiffuse we make him 
 some lit musique; ta-ra-ta!" He hoisted a merry hand and 
 foot, then frowning, added: "Old Poquelin got no bizniz 
 dhink s much w isky." 
 
 "But, gentlemen," said little White, around whom a circle 
 had gathered, "the old man is very sick." 
 
 "My faith!" cried a tiny Creole, "we did not make him to 
 be sick. W en we have say we going make le charivari, do 
 you want that we hall tell a lie? My faith! sfools!" 
 
 "But you can shivaree somebody else," said desperate little 
 White. 
 
 "Oui!" cried Bienvenu, "et chahivahi Jean-ah Poquelin 
 tomo w!" 
 
 "Let us go to Madame Schneider!" cried two or three, and 
 amid huzzas and confused cries, among which was heard a 
 stentorian Celtic call for drinks, the crowd again began to 
 move. 
 
 "Cent piastres pour I hopital de charite!" 
 
 "Hurrah!" 
 
 "One hondred dolla for Charity Hospital !" 
 
 "Hurrah!" 
 
JEAN -AH POQUELIN 409 
 
 "Whang!" went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, and pande 
 monium gaped again. They were off at a right angle. 
 
 Nodding, Mrs. White looked at the mantle-clock. 
 
 "Well, if it isn t away after midnight." 
 
 The hideous noise down street was passing beyond earshot. 
 She raised a sash and listened. For a moment there was 
 silence. Some one came to the door. 
 
 "Is that you, White ?" 
 
 "Yes." He entered. "I succeeded, Patty/ 
 
 "Did you?" said Patty, joyfully. 
 
 "Yes. They ve gone down to shivaree the old Dutch 
 woman who married her step-daughter s sweetheart. They 
 say she has got to pay a hundred dollars to the hospital 
 before they stop." 
 
 The couple retired, and Mrs. White slumbered. She was 
 awakened by her husband snapping the lid of his watch. 
 
 "What time?" she asked. 
 
 "Half-past three. Patty, I haven t slept a wink. Those 
 fellows are out yet. Don t you hear them?" 
 
 "Why, White, they re coming this way!" 
 
 "I know they are," said White, sliding out of bed and 
 drawing on his clothes, "and they re coming fast. You d 
 better go away from that window, Patty. My ! what a 
 clatter!" 
 
 "Here they are," said Mrs. White, but her husband was 
 gone. Two or three hundred men and boys passed the place 
 at a rapid walk straight down the broad, new street, toward 
 the hated house of ghosts. The din was terrific. She saw little 
 White at the head of the rabble brandishing his arms and 
 trying in vain to make himself heard; but they only shook 
 their heads laughing and hooting the louder, and so passed, 
 bearing him on before them. 
 
 Swiftly they pass out from among the houses, away from 
 the dim oil lamps of the street, out into the broad starlit 
 commons, and enter the willowy jungles of the haunted 
 ground. Some hearts fail and their owners lag behind and 
 turn back, suddenly remembering how near morning it is. 
 But the most part push on, tearing the air with their clamor. 
 
 Down ahead of them in the long, thicket-darkened way 
 
4io THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 there is singularly enough a faint, dancing light. It must 
 be very near the old house ; it is. It has stopped now. It is 
 a lantern, and is under a well-known sapling which has 
 grown up on the wayside since the canal was filled. Now 
 it swings mysteriously to and fro. A goodly number of the 
 more ghost-fearing give up the sport; but a full hundred 
 move onward at a run, doubling their devlish howling and 
 banging. 
 
 Yes; it is a lantern, and there are two persons under the 
 tree. The crowd draws near drops into a walk; one of the 
 two is the old African mute; he lifts the lantern up so that 
 it shines on the other; the crowd recoils; there is a hush of all 
 clangor, and all at once, with a cry of mingled fright and 
 horror from every throat, the whole throng rushes back, drop 
 ping everything, sweeping past little White and hurrying on, 
 never stopping until the jungle is left behind, and then to 
 find that not one in ten has seen the cause of the stampede, 
 and not one of the tenth is certain what it was. 
 
 There is one huge fellow among them who looks capable of 
 any villany. He finds something to mount on, and, in the 
 Creole patois, calls a general halt. Bienvenu sinks down, 
 and, vainly trying to recline gracefully, resigns the leader 
 ship. The herd gather round the speaker; he assures them 
 that they have been outraged. Their right peaceably to 
 traverse the public streets has been trampled upon. Shall 
 such encroachments be endured? It is now daybreak. Let 
 them go now by the open light of day and force a free passage 
 of the public highway. 
 
 A scattering consent was the response, and the crowd, 
 thinned now and drowsy, straggled quietly down toward the 
 old house. Some drifted ahead, others sauntered behind, 
 but every one, as he again neared the tree, came to a stand 
 still. Little White sat upon a bank of turf on the opposite 
 side of the way looking very stern and sad. To each new 
 comer he put the same question : 
 
 "Did you come here to go to old Poquelin s?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He s dead." And if the shocked hearer started away he 
 would say: "Don t go away." 
 
JEAN- AH POQUELIN 411 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I want you to go to the funeral presently." 
 
 If some Louisianian, too loyal to dear France or Spain 
 to understand English, looked bewildered, some one would 
 interpret for him; and presently they went. Little White 
 led the van, the crowd trooping after him down the middle 
 of the way. The gate, that had never been seen before un 
 chained, was open. Stern little White stopped a short dis 
 tance from it; the rabble stopped behind him. Something 
 was moving out from under the veranda. The many 
 whisperers stretched upward to see. The African mute came 
 very slowly toward the gate, leading by a cord in the nose a 
 small brown bull, which was harnessed to a rude cart. On 
 the flat body of the cart, under a black cloth, were seen the 
 outlines of a long box. 
 
 "Hats off, gentlemen," said White, as the box came in 
 view, and the crowd solemnly uncovered. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said little White, "here comes the last re 
 mains of Jean Marie Poquelin, a better man, I m afraid, with 
 all his sins, yes a better, a kinder man to his blood, a man 
 of more self-forgetful goodness than all of you put to 
 gether will ever dare to be." 
 
 There was a profund hush as the vehicle came creaking 
 through the gate ; but when it turned away from them toward 
 the forest, those in front started suddenly. There was a back 
 ward rush, then all stood still again staring one way; for 
 there, behind the bier, with eyes cast down and labored step, 
 walked the living remains all that was left of little Jacques 
 Poquelin, the long-hidden brother a leper, as white as snow. 
 
 Dumb with horror, the cringing crowd gazed upon the 
 walking death. They watched, in silent awe, the slow cortege 
 creep down the long, straight road and lessen on the view, 
 until by and by it stopped where a wild, unfrequented path 
 branched off into the undergrowth toward the rear of the 
 ancient city. 
 
 "They are going to the Terre aux Lepreux," said one in 
 in the crowd. The rest watched them in silence. 
 
 The little bull was set free; the mute, with the strength 
 of an ape, lifted the long box to his shoulder. For a moment 
 
412 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 more the mute and the leper stood in sight, while the former 
 adjusted his heavy burden; then, without one backward 
 glance upon the unkind human world, turning their faces 
 toward the ridge in the depths of the swamp known as the 
 Leper s Land, they stepped into the jungle, disappeared, and 
 were never seen again. 
 
BRER RABBIT, BRER FOX, AND 
 THE TAR BABY 
 
 BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 YESTERDAY the lady whom Uncle Remus calls "Miss 
 Sally" missed her little six-year-old. Making search 
 for him through the house, she heard the sound of 
 voices on the back piazza, and, looking through the window, 
 saw the child sitting by Uncle Remus. His head rested 
 against the old man s arm, and he was gazing with an 
 expression of the most intense interest into the rough, 
 weather-beaten face, that beamed so kindly upon him. This 
 is what "Miss Sally" heard: 
 
 "Bimeby, one day, arter Mr. Fox bin doin all dat he 
 could fer ter ketch Mr. Rabbit, an Mr. Rabbit bin doin all 
 he could fer to keep im fum it, Mr. Fox say to hisse f dat 
 he d put up a game on Mr. Rabbit, an* he hadn t mo n got 
 de wuds out n his mouf twell Mr. Rabbit come a lopin up 
 de big road lookin ez plump, an ez fat, an* ez sassy ez a 
 Morgan hoss in a barley-patch. 
 
 " Hoi on dar, Brer Rabbit, sez Mr. Fox, sezee. 
 
 " I ain t got time, Brer Fox, sez Mr. Rabbit, sezee, sorter 
 mendin his licks. 
 
 " But I wanter have some confab wid you, Brer Rabbit, 
 sezee. 
 
 " All right, Brer Fox, but you better holler fum whar you 
 stan . I m monst us full uv fleas dis mawnin , sezee. 
 
 " I seed Brer B ar yistiddy/ sez Mr. Fox, sezee, en he 
 sorter raked me over de coals kaze you an me didn t make 
 frens an live naberly, an I tole im dat I d see you. 
 
 "Den Mr. Rabbit scratch one year wid his off hinefoot 
 sorter jub usly, an den he ups an sez, sezee : 
 
 " All a settin , Brer Fox. Spose n you drap roun ter- 
 morrer an take dinner wid me. We ain t got no great doin s 
 
414 THE GREA T MODERN. AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 at our house, but I speck de old oman an* de chilluns kin 
 sorter scramble roun an git up sump n fer ter stay yo 
 stummuck. 
 
 " I m gree ble, Brer Rabbit, sez Mr. Fox, sezee. 
 Den I ll pen on you, sez Mr. Rabbit, sezee. 
 
 " Nex day, Mr. Rabbit an Miss Rabbit got up soon, fo 
 day, an raided on a gyarden like Miss Sally s out dar, an* 
 got some cabbage, an some roas n years, an some sparrer- 
 grass, an dey fixed up a smashin dinner. Bimeby one er 
 de little Rabbits, playing out in de back-yard, come runnin 
 in hollerin , Oh, ma! oh, ma! I seed Mr. Fox a comin ! 
 An den Mr. Rabbit he tuck de chilluns by dere years an* 
 made um set down, an den him and Miss Rabbit sorter 
 dallied roun waitin for Mr. Fox. An dey kep on waitin , 
 but no Mr. Fox. Arter while Mr. Rabbit goes to de do , 
 easy like, an peep out, an dar, stickin out fum behime de 
 cornder, wuz de tip eend uv Brer Fox s tail. Den Mr. 
 Rabbit shot de do an sot down, an put his paws behine his 
 years an begin for ter sing : 
 
 " De place wharbouts you spill de grease, 
 
 Right dar youer boun ter slide, 
 An whar you fine a bunch uv ha r, 
 You ll sholy fine de hide. " 
 
 "Nex day, Brer Fox sont word by Mr. Mink an* skuse 
 hisse f kaze he wuz too sick fer ter come, an he ax Mr. 
 Rabbit fer to come an eat dinner wid him, an Mr. Rabbit 
 say he wuz gree ble. 
 
 "Bimeby, when de shadders wuz at dere shortes , Mr. 
 Rabbit he sorter bresh up an santer down unto Mr. Fox s 
 house, an when he got dar, he hear somebody groanin , an* 
 he look in de door an dar he see Mr. Fox settin up in a 
 rockin cheer all wrapped up wid flannels, an he look 
 mighty weak. Mr. Rabbit look all roun , but he don t see no 
 dinner De dish-pan was settin on de table, an close by 
 wuz a kyarvin knife. 
 
 " Look like you gwineter have chicken fer dinner, Brer 
 Fox, sez Mr. Rabbit, sezee. 
 
 " Yes, Brer Rabbit, deyer nice, an fresh, an tender, sez 
 Brer Fox, sezee. 
 
BRER RABBIT, BRER FOX, AND TAR BABY 415 
 
 "Den Mr. Rabbit sorter pull his mustash an sez: You 
 ain t got no calamus root, is you, Brer Fox? I got so now 
 that I can t eat no chicken cept she s seasoned up wid 
 calamus root. An wid dat Mr. Rabbit lipt out er de do and 
 dodged mong de bushes, an sot dar watchin fer Mr. Fox; 
 an he didn t watch long, nudder, kaze Mr. Fox flung off de 
 flannels an crope out er de house an got whar he could 
 close in on Mr. Rabbit, an bimeby Mr. Rabbit hollered out : 
 Oh, Brer Fox! I ll put yo calamus root out here on dis 
 stump. Better come git it while hit s fresh, and wid dat 
 Mr. Rabbit galloped off home. An Mr. Fox ain t never 
 cotch im yet; an w at s more, honey, he ain t gwineter." 
 
 "Didn t the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?" 
 asked the little boy to whom the old man delights to relate 
 his stories. 
 
 "He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho s you bawn Brer 
 Fox did. One day atter Brer Rabbit fool im wid dat 
 calamus root, Brer Fox went ter wuk en got im some tar, en 
 mixt it wid some turkentime, en fixt up a contrapshun dat he 
 call a Tar Baby, en he tuck dish yer Tar Baby en sot er in 
 de big road, den he laid off in de bushes fer to see wat de 
 news wuz gwine to be. En he didn t hatter wait long, 
 nudder, case bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin down de 
 road lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity des ez sassy ez a 
 hotel nigger. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit come 
 prancin long twell he spied de Tar Baby, en den he fotch 
 up on his behime legs like he wuz stonished. De Tar 
 Baby, he sot dar, en Brer Fox, he lay low. 
 
 " Mawnin ! sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. Nice wedder dis 
 mawnin , sezee. 
 
 "Tar Baby ain t sayin nothin , en Brer Fox, he lay low. 
 
 " How duz yo sym turns seem ter segashuate? sez Brer 
 Rabbit, sezee. 
 
 "Brer Fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar 
 Baby, he ain t saying nuthin . 
 
 " How you come on, den? Is you deaf? sez Brer Rabbit, 
 sezee. Caze if you is, I kin Loller louder, sezee. 
 
 "Tar Baby lay quiet, en Brer Fox he lay low. 
 
 " Youer stuck up, dat s w at you is, says Brer Rabbit^ 
 
416 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 sezee, en I m gwine to kyore you, dat s Vat I m agwineter 
 do, sezee. 
 
 "Brer Fox he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, but Tar 
 Baby ain t sayin nothin . 
 
 " I m gwineter larn you howter talk ter spectable people 
 ef hit s de las ack, sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. Ef you don t 
 take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I m gwineter bus you 
 wide open/ sezee. 
 
 "Tar Baby stay still, en Brer Fox he lay low. 
 
 "Brer Rabbit keep on axin im, en de Tar Baby keep on 
 sayin nothin , twell present y Brer Rabbit drew back wid 
 his fis , en blip he tuck him side er de head. Right dar s 
 whar he broke his molasses jug. His fis stuck, en he 
 couldn t pull loose. De tar hilt im. 
 
 " If you don t lemme loose, I ll hit you agin, sez Brer 
 Rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch him a wipe wid de udder 
 ban , en dat stuck. Brer Fox he lay low. 
 
 " Turn me loose, fo I kick de natal stuffin outen you, 
 sez Brer Rabbit, sezee; but de Tar Baby hilt on, en den 
 Brer Rabbit lose de use un his feet in de same way. Brer 
 Fox, he lay low. Den Brer Rabbit squalled out dat ef de 
 Tar Baby didn t turn im loose he d butt him cranksided. 
 En he butted, en his head got fastened. Den Brer Fox, he 
 sa ntered fort , lookin des ez innercent ez wunner yo 
 mammy s mockin birds. 
 
 " Howdy, Brer Rabbit, sez Brer Fox, sezee. You look 
 sorter stuck up dis mawnin , sezee, en den he rolled on de 
 groun en laft en laft twell he couldn t laugh no mo . I 
 speck you ll take dinner wid me dis time, Brer Rabbit. I 
 done laid in some calamus root, en I ain t gwinter take no 
 skuse/ sez Brer Fox, sezee." 
 
 Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam 
 out of the ashes. 
 
 "Did the fox eat the rabbit?" asked the little boy to whom 
 the story had been told. 
 
 "Dat s all de fur de tale goes," replied the old man. "He 
 mout, en den again he moutent. Some say Jedge B ar come 
 long en loosed im some say he didn t. I hear Miss Sally 
 callin . You better run long." 
 
BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 ADE, GEORGE (1866- ), was born in Kentland, Indi 
 ana. He is a graduate of Purdue University, of which he be 
 came later a trustee. His first newspaper work was done in 
 Lafayette, Indiana. In 1890 he went to Chicago, where he was a 
 reporter and special writer for The Chicago Dally News until 
 1900. He has taken an active interest in politics and was a dele 
 gate to the Republican National Convention in 1908. He now 
 resides on a farm in Indiana. He is unmarried. He is a member 
 of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. 
 
 Artie, A Story of the Streets and Town (1896) ; Pink Marsh, 
 A Story of the Streets and Town (1897) ; Doc Home (1898) ; 
 Fables in Slang ( 1899) ; More Fables ( 1900) ; Forty Modern 
 Fables (1901); The Girl Proposition, A Bunch of He and She 
 Fables (1902) ; People You Know (1903) ; Breaking Into So 
 ciety (1903); "Circus Day (1903); True Bells (1904); In Pas 
 tures New (1906); The Slim Princess (1907); Knocking the 
 Neighbors (1912); In Babel, Stories of Chicago (1912); Ade s 
 Fables (1914); Hand-made Fables (1920). 
 
 Operas and Plays: The Sultan of Sulu (1902) ; The County 
 Chairman (1903); Peggy from Paris (1903); Sho-gun (1904); 
 The College Widow (1904) ; The Bad Samaritan (1905) ; Just 
 Out of College (1905) ; Marse Covington (1906) ; Mrs. Peek- 
 ham s Carouse (1906); Father and the Boys (1907); The Fair 
 Co-ed (1908); The Old Town (1909); Nettie (1914). 
 
 ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY (1836-1907), was born in 
 Portsmouth, New Hampshire, of colonial ancestry. He was 
 taken to New Orleans to live until he was nine. While he was 
 preparing for college his father died and he went to New York 
 to work in his uncle s counting-room from 1852-1855. During 
 this time he wrote a little verse. He secured a position as 
 proof-reader for a publisher and later became a reader. He 
 contributed to magazines among them Putnam s, The Knicker 
 bocker, and The Evening Mirror. He was on the staff of The 
 New York Home Journal. During the Civil War he was a war 
 correspondent for The Tribune. In 1865 he was married; his 
 only children were two sons, twins. From 1881-1890 he was 
 editor of The Atlantic Monthly. After retiring from this posi 
 tion he continued to live in Boston until his death. 
 
 Daisy s Necklace (1856) ; Out of His Head, A Romance In 
 
 419 
 
420 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Prose (1862) ; The Story of a Bad Boy (1870) ; Marjorie Daw 
 and Other People (1873); Prudence Palfrey, a Novel (1874); 
 The Queen of Sheba (1877); The Stillwater Tragedy (1880); 
 From Ponkapog to Pesth (1883); Merceded (1883); Pauline 
 Pavlovna, A Drama in One Act; An Old Town by the Sea 
 (1893) ; Two Bites at a Cherry and Other Tales (1894) ; Judith 
 and Holof ernes, A Poem (1896) ; Poems, in 2 vols. (1901) ; 
 Ponkapog Papers (1903) ; A Sea Turn and Other Matters; The 
 Sister s Tragedy. 
 
 BIERCE, AMBROSE (1842-?),^^ born in Mieggs County, 
 Ohio. His father was a farmer. He served throughout the 
 Civil War and was brevetted major for distinguished service. 
 In 1866 he edited The News Letter, San Francisco. He spent 
 several years in London, where he was associated with London 
 Fun and edited a paper called The Lantern, which was financed 
 by the ex-Empress Eugenie of France. In 1876 he returned to 
 California. He edited successively The Argonaut and The Wasp 
 and contributed to The Examiner and The Overland Monthly. 
 He made daring and bitter personal attacks in his writings. In 
 the eighties he wrote many short stories, a great number of 
 which were ghost stories. He lived for several years in Wash 
 ington, D. C. In 1914 he went to Mexico to fight with Villa 
 and has never been heard from since. 
 
 An edition of his collected works has been published by the 
 Neale Publishing Co. 
 
 In the Midst of Life, Stories of Soldiers and Civilians (1891) ; 
 The Monk and the Hangman s Daughter (1892); Black Beetles 
 in Amber (Poems) (1892) ; Can Such Things Be? (1894) J Fan 
 tastic Fables (1899); Shapes of Clay (Verse) (1903); The 
 Cynic s Word Book (1906) ; The Shadow on the Dial (1909) ; 
 Write it Right (1909); V. I, Ashes of the Beacon, The Land 
 Beyond the Blow, For the Ahkoond, John Smith, Liberator, 
 Bits of Autobiography; V. 7, The Devil s Dictionary; V. 8, 
 Negligible Tales; V. 9, Tangential Views; V. 10, The Opinion- 
 ator, The Reviewer, The Controversialist, The Timorous Re 
 porter, The March Hare; V. n, Antepenultimate; V. 12, In Mot 
 ley: Wings of Beasts. 
 
 BROWN, ALICE (1857- ), was born at Hampton Falls, 
 New Hampshire, of a family of farmers. She was educated 
 in the little district school near her father s farm and later at 
 a seminary in Exeter. She taught school for several years 
 in the country and in Boston hating it every minute. She 
 gave up this profession for writing, which she had always 
 wished to do. Her first contributions were to The Christian 
 Register and The Youth s Companion. Many of her stories 
 
BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY 421 
 
 have appeared in The Atlantic and in Harper s. In 1915 her 
 play Children of Earth received the $10,000 prize offered by 
 Winthrop Ames. Miss Brown now lives on her farm in New 
 Hampshire. 
 
 Meadow-grass, Tales of New England Life (1895) ; The Rose 
 of Hope (1896) ; The Day of His Youth (1897) ; Tiverton Tales 
 (1899); King s End (1901); Margaret Warrener (1901); The 
 County Road (1906); The Court of Love (1906); High Noon 
 (1906); Life of Mercy Otis Warren (1006); Paradise (1906); 
 The Mannerings (1906); Rose MacLeod (1908); The Story of 
 Thyrza (1909); Country Neighbors (1910); John Winter- 
 bourne s Family (1910); The One-Footed Fairy (1911); My 
 Love and I (1912) ; The Secret of the Clan (1912) ; Robin 
 Hood s Barn (1913); Vanishing Points (1913); Joint Owners 
 in Spain, A Comedy in One Act (1914) ; Children of Earth, A 
 Play of New England (1915); The Prisoner (1916); Bromley 
 Neighborhood (1917) ; The Road to Castaly and Later Poems 
 (1917) ; The Flying Teuton and Other Stories (1918) ; By Oak 
 and Thorn (English Travels); Fools of Nature; Robert Louis 
 Stevenson (with Louise Imogen Guiney). 
 
 CABLE, GEORGE WASHINGTON (1844- ), was born 
 in New Orleans, where the scene of many of his stories is laid. 
 He was educated in the public schools. He has received hon 
 orary degrees from Yale, Bowdoin, Washington and Lee. Dur 
 ing the Civil War he served in a cavalry troop for the Con 
 federacy. After the war he became a reporter on The New 
 Orleans Picayune and remained with the paper until 1879. He 
 was the founder of the Home Culture Clubs, now known as 
 the Northampton People s Institute, designed as a means of 
 self-education for working people. He has both lectured and 
 written for these clubs. He is a member of the Simplified 
 Spelling Board and the American Academy of Arts and Letters. 
 Since 1886 he has lived at Northampton, Massachusetts. Many 
 of his stories have been contributed to Scribner s. 
 
 Old Creole Days (1879) ; The Grandissimes (1880) ; Madame 
 Delphine (1881) ; Social Statistics of Cities, History and Pres 
 ent Conditions of New Orleans and Report on the City of 
 Austin, Texas (1881) ; The Creoles of Louisiana (1884); Dr. 
 Sevier (1884); Professional Christianity (1885); The Silent 
 South (1885); Bonaventure (1888); Strange True Stories of 
 Louisiana (1889) ; The Negro Question (1890) ; John Marsh, 
 Southerner (1894) ; Famous Adventures and Prison Escapes of 
 the Civil War (G. W. Cable and other authors) (1896) ; Strong 
 Hearts (1899); The Cavalier (1001) ; Bylow Hill (1002); Kin- 
 caid s Battery (1908) ; Posson Jone and Pere Rapheal (1909) ; 
 The Amateur Garden (1914); Gideon s Band (1914). 
 
422 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 DREISER, THEODORE (1871- ), was born in Terre 
 Haute, Indiana; educated in the public schools and Indiana 
 University. He first wrote for newspapers. Going to Chicago 
 in 1892, he wrote for The Chicago Daily Globe, He was editor 
 of Every Month (a literary and musical magazine) from 1895-8. 
 Later he became a special magazine writer, contributing to 
 Harpers, McClure s, Century, Cosmopolitan, and Munsey s. In 
 1905-6 he was editor of Smith s Magazine; in 1906-7 of The 
 Broadway Magazine; 1907-10 editor-in-chief of the Butterick 
 publications, including The Delineator, Designer, New Idea, and 
 English Delineator. 
 
 Sister Carrie (1900) ; Jennie Gerhardt, A Novel (1911) ; The 
 Financier, A Novel (1912) ; A Traveller at Forty (1913) ; The 
 Titan (1914); The "Genius" (1915); Plays of the Natural and 
 Supernatural (The Girl in the Coffin, The Blue Sphere, Laugh 
 ing Gas, In the Dark, The Spring Recital, The Light in the 
 Window, "Old Ragpicker") (1916) ; A Hoosier Holiday (1916) ; 
 The Hand of the Potter, A Tragedy (1917); Free and Other 
 Stories (1918); Twelve Men (1919) ; Hey Rub-a-Dub-Dub 
 (1920); The Bulwark (in preparation). 
 
 FREEMAN, MARY E. WILKINS (1862- ), was born 
 at Randolph, Massachusetts. She was educated at Mt. Holyoke 
 Seminary. When she began writing for magazines she had an 
 immediate success. Her first stories and poems were for chil 
 dren. Many of her short stories have appeared first in Harper s 
 Magazine. In 1902 she married Dr. Charles M. Freeman of 
 Metuchen, N. J., and has resided there since her marriage. 
 
 A Humble Romance and Other Stories ( 1887) ; A New Eng 
 land Nun and Other Stories (1891); Young Lucretia (1892); 
 Jane Field (18192); Jiles Corey (1893); Pembroke, A Novel 
 1894); Madelon (1896); Jerome, a Poor Man (1897); Silence 
 1898) ; Evelina s Garden (1899) ; The Love of Parson Lord 
 ;i90o); The Heart s Highway (1900); The Portion of Labor 
 1901); Understudies, Short Stories (1901); Six Trees (1903); 
 "he Wind in the Rose Bush (1903) ; The Givers, Short Stories 
 (1904); Doc Gordon (1906); The People of Our Neighborhood 
 (1006); By the Light of the Soul (1907); The Shoulders of 
 Atlas (1908); The Winning Lady (1909); The Green Door 
 (1910); The Butterfly House (1912); Yates Pride (1912); The 
 Copy-Cat and Other Stories (1914) ; The Jamesons ; The Debtor ; 
 The Fair Lavinia. 
 
 FULLER, HENRY B. (1857- ), was born in Chicago, 
 of New England parents. His first two books were set in Euro 
 pean backgrounds. His third book, "The Cliff -dwellers," deals 
 with conditions in the slums of Chicago. 
 
BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY 423 
 
 The Chevalier of Pensiere-Vani (1890) ; The Chatelaine of 
 La Trinite (1892); The Cliff-Dwellert (1893); With the Pro 
 cession (1895); The Puppet-Booth, Twelve Plays (1896); From 
 the Other Side: Stories of Transatlantic Travel (1898); The 
 Last Refuge (1900); Under the Skylights (1901) ; Waldo Trench 
 and Others ( 1908) ; Lines, Long and Short Biographical 
 Sketches in Various Rhymes (1917); On the Stairs (1918); 
 Bertram Cope s Year (1919). 
 
 GARLAND, HAMLIN. (1860- ), was born in West Sa 
 lem, Wisconsin, and was educated in private schools between 
 school terms he worked on the farm. He lived for a time in 
 Iowa, where the scene of his story, "Boy Life on the Prairie," 
 and other stories is laid. From time to time he taught school. 
 He tramped through the eastern states. He took up a land 
 claim in Dakota, but remained there only a short time, remov 
 ing to Boston. He studied and taught English and American 
 literature in the Boston School of Oratory. In 1893 he went to 
 Chicago. He was married in 1899 and now lives in New York. 
 He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. 
 
 Main-Travelled Roads (1890) ; Jason Edwards (1891) ; A Lit 
 tle Norsk (1891); A Member of the Third House (1892); 
 Prairie Folk (1892); A Spoil of Office (1892); Crumbling 
 Idols (1894); Prairie Songs (1894); Rose of Butcher s Cooly 
 (1895) ; Wayside Courtships (1897) ; The Spirit of Sweet Water 
 (1898); Ulysses S. Grant: His Life and Character (1898); 
 The Eagle s Heart (1900); Her Mountain Lover (1901); The 
 Captain of the Gray Horse Troop (1902) ; Hesper (1903) ; Light 
 of the Star (1904); The Tyranny of the Dark (1905); Boy 
 Life on the Prairie (1907); The Long Trail (1907); Money 
 y[agic (1907) ; The Shadow World (1908) ; Cavanaugh Forest 
 Ranger (1909); Victor Olnee s Discipline (1911); Other Main- 
 Travelled Roads (1913); A Son of the Middle Border (1917). 
 
 HALE, EDWARD EVERETT (1822-1909), was born in 
 Boston, where he always lived. He was educated in private 
 schools and at Harvard, where he was graduated in 1839. For 
 two years he taught school while reading theses in preparation 
 for becoming a Congregationalist minister. After six years of 
 work he received charge of a church in Worcester. Later he 
 was the minister of the South Congregational (Unitarian) 
 Church of Boston. He was active in organizing societies to 
 broaden the scope of the church. For some time he was the 
 editor of The Daily Advertiser, of which he was South Amer 
 ican editor. In this work he became an authority on Spanish- 
 
424 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 American history. As a boy he had learned to set type in the 
 office of this paper, which was owned by his father, and had 
 also been a reporter on it. Other papers of which he was editor 
 were: The Christian Examiner, The Sunday School Gazette, 
 Lend a Hand, and Old and New. This last paper ran for only 
 six years after it was founded in 1869, and then merged into 
 Scribner s monthly. His first published story was "My Double 
 and How He Undid Me," which appeared in The Atlantic in 1859. 
 
 Collected works published by Little, Brown & Company. 
 
 The Rosary (1848) ; Margaret Percival in America (1850) ; 
 Sketches of Christian History (1850) ; Letters on Irish Emi 
 gration (1852); Kansas and Nebraska (1854); Ninety Days 
 Worth of Europe (1861) ; The Man Without a Country (1863) ; 
 The President s Words (with Rev. John Williams) (1865) ; 
 If, Yes and Perhaps (1868); Puritan Politics in England and 
 New England (1869); The Ingham Papers (1869); How To 
 Do It (1870); His Level Best and Other Stories (1870); Daily 
 Bread and Other Stories (1870) ; Ups and Downs, An Every 
 Day Novel (1871); Sybaris, and Other Homes (1871); Christ 
 mas Eve and Christmas Day (1874); In His Name (1874); 
 A Summer s Vacation: Four Sermons (1874); Workingmen s 
 Homes, Essays and Stories (1874) ; The Good Time Coming 
 or Our New Crusade (1875); One Hundred Years (1875); 
 Philip Nolan s Friends (1876); Back to Back (1877); Gone to 
 Texas, or the Wonderful Adventures of a Pullman (1877) ; 
 What Career? (1878); Mrs! Merriam s Scholars (1878); The 
 Life in Common (1879) ; The Bible and Its Revision (1879) ; 
 The Kingdom of God (1880); Crusoe in New York (1880); 
 Stories of War (1880); June to May (1881) ; Stories of the 
 Sea (1881) ; Stories of Adventure (1881) ; Stories of Discovery 
 (1883); Seven Spanish Cities (1883); Fortunes of Rachel 
 (1884) ; Christmas in a Palace (1884) ; Christmas at Narragan- 
 sett (1884) ; Stories of Invention (1885) ; Easter (1886); Frank 
 lin in France (1887); The Life of Washington (1887); The 
 History of the United States; Poems; The Story of Massa 
 chusetts; If Jesus Came to Boston; James Russell Lowell and 
 His Friends; Ralph Waldo Emerson; Historic Boston and Its 
 Neighborhood; The Foundations of the Republic; Curtis, Whit- 
 tier, and Longfellow; Tarry at Home Travels; Tom Torrey s 
 Tariff Talks; We, the People: a Series of Papers on Topics of 
 To-day ^(1903). 
 
 Contributions to: Proceedings of the American Antiquarian 
 Society; The American Peace Society, Boston; The American 
 Unitarian Association. 
 
 HARRIS, JOEL CHANDLER (1848-1908), was born in 
 Eatonton, Georgia. When he was twelve years old he became 
 
BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY 425 
 
 a printer s boy. His employer, who owned a fine library, per 
 mitted him to read what he wished in it. The boy saw much 
 of the negroes on the estate of the editor and owner of the 
 paper, talked to them, and listened to their tales. In 1864 his 
 employer fled from the invasion of Sherman s army, leaving 
 Harris, sixteen years old, in charge of the paper, The Coun 
 tryman. He, however, soon decided to move to the city ; he 
 wrote for papers in Macon and Forsyth, Georgia, in New 
 Orleans, and in Savannah. In Savannah he was on the staff 
 of The Daily News until he was made editor of The Atlanta 
 Constitution, in 1876, where he remained for twenty-five years. 
 He began writing his negro stories for that paper. Toward 
 the end of his life he edited a magazine which he called Uncle 
 Remus Home Magazine. He was married in 1873 to Miss LaRue 
 of Canada. 
 
 Uncle Remus : His Songs and Sayings ( 1880) ; Nights with 
 Uncle Remus (1883) ; Mingo and Other Sketches in Black and 
 White (1884); Free Jo and Other Georgian Sketches (1887); 
 Balaam and His Master and Other Sketches and Stories (1891) ; 
 Uncle Remus and His Friends (1892); Little Mr. Thimble 
 Finger and His Queer Country (1894) J Daddy Jake, the Run 
 away, and Short Stories Told After Dark (1896) ; Georgia from 
 the Invasion of De Soto to Recent Times (1896) ; Stories of 
 Georgia (1896) ; On the Plantation, a Story of a Georgia Boy s 
 Adventures During the War (1897) ; Aaron in the Wild Woods 
 (1897); Tales of the Home Folks in Peace and War (1898); 
 The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Anne (1899); Plantation Pa 
 geants (1899) ; The Tar Baby and Other Rhymes of Uncle 
 Remus (1904) ; Told by Uncle Remus New Stories of the Old 
 Plantation (1906). 
 
 HARTE, FRANCIS BRET (1839-1902), was born in Al 
 bany, New York. His father was a school teacher. He was 
 educated in the public schools. When he was fifteen he went 
 to California, where he lived in remote mountain settlements. 
 He started a school, but it was a failure. He became a com 
 positor at Eureka. He was a miner, and for a time an express 
 messenger. In 1857 he went to San Francisco to work as a 
 compositor. While engaged in this work the attention of the 
 editor of the paper for which he worked was attracted by 
 some of his sketches and he printed some of them. Harte was 
 appointed secretary of the U. S. Mint in San Francisco, and 
 while holding this position wrote stories, sketches and poems. 
 In 1868 he was made the first editor of The Overland Monthly. 
 His first contribution was "The Luck of Roaring Camp," of 
 which the other editors of the magazine staff disapproved. He 
 insisted that it be published immediately it attracted much at 
 tention throughout the country. In 1870 he was appointed pro- 
 
426 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 fessor of literature in the University of California, but he held 
 the position for one year only before moving to New York. 
 He contributed regularly to The Atlantic Monthly, In the early 
 eighties he entered the consular service; he was stationed for 
 two years in Germany, and for five years at Glasgow, Scotland. 
 
 His complete works are published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 
 
 Condensed Novels (1867) ; Poems (1870) ; The Luck of Roar 
 ing Camp and Other Sketches (1871) ; East and West Poems 
 (1871) ; Poetical Works (1873); Mrs. Skagg s Husbands (1873) ; 
 Echoes of the Foot Hills (1874) ; Tales of the Argonauts 
 (1875); Two Men of Sandy Bar (1876); Thankful Blossom 
 (1876) ; The Story of a Mine (1877) ; Drift from Two Shores 
 (1878) ; The Twins of Table Mountain (1879) ; Flip, and Found 
 at Blazing Star (1882); In the Carquinez Woods (1883); On 
 the Frontier (1884); By Shore and Sedge (1885); Maruja, a 
 Novel (1885) ; Snowbound .at Eagle s (1886) ; A Millionaire of 
 Rough and Ready (1887) ; The Queen of the Pirate Isle (1887) ; 
 The Argonauts of North Liberty (1888); A Phyllis of the 
 Sierras (1888) ; Cressy (1889) ; The Heritage of Dedlow Marsh 
 ( 1889) ; A Waif of the Plains ( 1890) ; Condensed Novels 
 (1902). 
 
 JAMES, HENRY (1843-1916), was born in New York City. 
 His father was a well-known theological writer of the Sweden- 
 borgian sect. Henry James was educated for the most part 
 in Europe in Geneva, Paris, Boulogne-sur-mer. He studied 
 law at the Tiarvard Law School. After 1869 he made his home 
 in England with the exception of the years 1874-5, when he was 
 a member of the editorial staff of The Atlantic Monthly, to 
 which he contributed many of his short stories. A large number 
 of his novels appeared first in serial form in Harper s, The 
 Atlantic, Cornhill Magazine (English). 
 
 Poor Richard (1867); Gabrielle de Bergerac (1869); Watch 
 and Ward (1871); Roderick Hudson (1871); Trans-Atlantic 
 Sketches (1875); A Passionate Pilgrim and Other Stories 
 (1875); The American (1878); Daisy Miller (1878); An Inter 
 national Episode (1878); The Europeans (1878); Pension Beau- 
 repas (1878); French Poets and Novelists (1878); Hawthorne, 
 in English Men of Letters Series; Confidance (1879) ; Washing 
 ton Square (1880); A Bundle of Letters (1880); Diary of a 
 Man of Fifty (1880); The Portrait of a Lady (1881) ; The 
 Siege of London (1883); Portraits of Places (1884); A Little 
 Tour in France (1884); Tales of Three Cities (1884); The 
 Author of Beltraffio (1885); The Bostonians (1886); Princess 
 Casamassima (1881); Partial Portraits (1888); The Reverbera 
 tor (1888); A London Life (1889); The Tragic Muse (1890); 
 
BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY 427 
 
 Theatricals Two Comedies Tenants Disengaged ( 1894) ; Ter 
 minations (1896); The Spoils of Poynton (1897); The Other 
 House (1897) ; What Maysie Knew (1897) ; In the Cage (i8t>8) ; 
 The Two Magics (1898) ; The Awkward Age (1899); The Soft 
 Side (1900) ; The Sacred Fount (1901) ; The Wings of a Dove 
 (1902); The Better Sort (1903); The Question of Our Speech 
 and the Lesson of Balzac: Two Lectures (1905); The Ameri 
 can Scene (1906) ; Views and Reviews (1908) ; Italian Hours 
 (1909); Julia Bride (1009); The Finer Grain (1910); The 
 Outcry (1911); A Small Boy and Others (1913); Notes on 
 Novelists with Some Other Notes (1914); Within the Rim and 
 Other Essays (1914) ; Notes of a Son and Brother (1914) ; The 
 Question of the Mind (1915) ; The Ivory Tower (Unfinished 
 1918) ; The Sense of the Past (Unfinished 1918) ; Travelling 
 Companions (1919); A Landscape Painter (1919); The Golden 
 Bowl. 
 
 Other short stories reprinted in collected works edited by 
 Chas. Scribner s Sons: including The Turn of the Screw; The 
 Madonna of the Future. 
 
 JEWETT, SARAH ORME (1849-1909), was born in South 
 Berwick, Maine, of New England ancestry. Her father was a 
 country doctor, and in making his professional calls he fre 
 quently took his daughter with him. In that way she became 
 acquainted with many New England types of whom she wrote. 
 
 Deephaven (1877); Country Byways (1881) ; A Marsh Island 
 (1885); A White Heron and Other Stories (1886); The King 
 of Folly Island and Other People (1888) ; Strangers and Way 
 farers (1890); Tales of New England (1892); A Native of 
 Wimby and Other Tales (1893); The Country of the Pointed 
 Firs (1896); The Normans (1901); Play Days, a Book of 
 Stories for Children (1906) ; Letters of Sarah Orme Jewett 
 (edited by A. Fields) (1911). 
 
 OILMAN, CHARLOTTE PERKINS (STETSON) (1860- 
 ), was born in Hartford, Connecticut, a descendant of 
 Lyman Beecher. She has been twice married, first in 1884 to 
 C. W. Stetson, and second in 1900 to George H. Gilman of 
 New York. In 1890 she became a lecturer on ethics, econom 
 ics, and sociology and spoke throughout this country and abroad. 
 She also contributed to magazines. She is chiefly interested 
 in labor problems and the advance of women. In 1909 she 
 founded The Forerunner, of which she was the editor until 
 it was discontinued. She is a member of the American Academy 
 of Political and Social Science, and the American Sociological 
 Association. 
 
 Woman and Economics (1898) ; In This Our World, and 
 
428 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Other Poems (1898); The Yellow Wall-Paper (1899); Concern 
 ing Children (1900); The Home: Its Work and Influence 
 (1903); Human Work (1904); The Man-Made World, or Our 
 Androcentric Culture (1910) ; What Diantha Did, a Novel 
 (1910); The Crux (1911); Moving the Mountain (1911); also 
 pamphlets on the woman question published by the National 
 American Woman Suffrage Association. 
 
 SPpFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT (1835- ), was 
 born in Maine, but moved to Massachusetts when a child and 
 went to school in Newburyport, where she lived. Her first story 
 attracted much attention when it appeared in The Atlantic 
 Monthly. It was a tale of Paris, although the young authoress 
 had never been outside of New England. The editor suspected 
 it of being a translation but was reassured of its genuineness 
 by Mr. T. W. Higginson, at that time pastor of the church 
 Miss Prescott attended. In 1865 Miss Prescott married Mr. 
 Spofford, a prominent lawyer of Boston. She has lived in 
 Boston since her marriage. 
 
 Sir Rohan s Ghost, a Romance (1860) ; New England Legends 
 (1871); The Thief in the Night (1872); Art Decoration Ap 
 plied to Furniture ( 1878) ; Azariari, an Episode ( 1881 ) ; A 
 Master Spirit (1896) ; In Titian s Garden and Other Poems 
 (1897); Old Madame and Other Tragedies (1900); The Chil 
 dren of the Valley (1901) ; The Great Procession (1902) ; Four 
 Days of God (1905); Old Washington (1906) ; A Fairy Change 
 ling (1910) ; The Making of a Fortune (1911) ; The King s 
 Easter (1912); A Little Book of Friends (1916); The Marquis 
 of Carabas ; A Lost Jewel ; Hester Stanley at St. Mark s ; Hester 
 Stanley s Friends; The Scarlet Poppy; House and Hearth; The 
 Servant Girl Question; Ballads About Authors; The Amber 
 Gods; A Master Spirit; An Inheritance; The Maid He Mar 
 ried ; Priscilla s Love Story. 
 
 STOCKTON, FRANK R. (1834-1902), was born in Phila 
 delphia, Pennsylvania, and educated there in the public school 
 and high school. He first worked as a wood-engraver, illus 
 trating and later writing children s stories. He contributed to 
 The Philadelphia Post, N. Y. Hearth and Home, Scribne^s, 
 and Si. Nicholas and was on the staff of the last three at dif 
 ferent times. While doing editorial work he v/rote children s 
 stories. "The Lady or the Tiger?" was written for a literary 
 society, and later published. He and his wife lived in New Jer 
 sey until he bought an estate in West Virginia. 
 
 Collected works in 23 volumes, published by Chas. Scribner s 
 Sons, N. Y.: v. i, The Late Mrs. Null (1886) ; v. 2, The Squirrel 
 Inn. The Merry Chanter (1890); v. 3, Rudder Grange (1879); 
 
BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY 429 
 
 v. 4, The Hundredth Man (1887) ; v. 5, Ardis Claverden (1890) ; 
 v. 6, Dusky Philosophy. The Great War Syndicate. The Knife 
 That Killed Po Hanay. The Stories of the Three Burglars 
 (1889); v. 7, The House of Martha (1891); v. 8, Euphemia 
 Among the Pelicans. Pomona s Daughter. Pomona s Travels. 
 The Rudder Grangers in England (1891) ; v. 9, The Adventures 
 of Captain Horn (1895) ; v. 10, Mrs. Cliff s Yacht (1897) ; v. 
 11, The Great Storm of Sardes. The Watch Devil; v. 12. The 
 Girl of Cobhurst (1898); v. 13. The Casting Away of Mrs. 
 Leeks and Mrs. Aleshim. The Vizier of the Two Horned Alex 
 ander; v. 14. The Associate Hermits; v. 15. The Baker of 
 Bambury. A Borrowed Month. Derelict. The Discourager of 
 Hesitancy. Every Man His Own Letter- Writer. The Lady or 
 the Tiger? On the Training of Parents. Our Story. The 
 Spectral Mortgage. That Same Old Cover. The Transformed 
 Ghost. The Watch-Maker s Wife; v. 16. As One Woman to 
 Another. Asaph. The Cloverfield s Carriage. My Bull Calf. 
 My Terminal Moraine. Our Fire-Screen. Plain Fishing. The 
 Remarkable Wreck of the "Thomas Hyke." The Story of As 
 sisted Fate. A Tale of Negative Gravity. An Unhistoric Page; 
 v. 17. Amos Kilbright, His Adscititious Experiences. The 
 Banished King. The Battle of the Third Cousins. The Bee- 
 man of Orne. The Bishop s Ghost and the Printer s Baby. 
 Christmas Before Last. The Christmas Shadrach. The Clocks 
 of Rondaine. The Griffin and the Minor Canon. Old Pipes 
 and the Driad. The Philopena. The Philosophy of Relative 
 Existences. Prince Hassak s March. The Queen s Museum; 
 v. 18. Captain Eft s Best Ear. The Christmas Wreck. "His 
 Wife s Deceased Sister." Love Before Breakfast. The Magic 
 Egg. Mr. Tolmon. My Unwilling Neighbor. My Will and 
 What Came of It. Our Archery Club. A Piece of Red Calico. 
 The Staying Power of Sir Rohan. The Widow s Cruise; v. 19. 
 Afield and Afloat. "Come in New Year." The Ghosts in My 
 Tower. The Governor General. The Great Staircase at Lan- 
 dover Hall. The Landsman s Tale. Old Applejoy s Ghost. 
 The Romance of a Mule-car. A Sailor s Knot. The Skipper 
 and El Capitan. Struck by a Boomerang; v. 21. John Gay- 
 ther s Garden ; v. 22. The Captain s Toil-Gate ; v. 23. A Bicycle 
 of Cathay, Also a Bibliography and Biography. 
 
 Stories of New Jersey (1896) ; Buccaneers and Pirates of Our 
 Coasts (1898). 
 
 STODDARD, CHARLES WARREN (1843-1909), was born 
 in Rochester, N. Y. ; educated in the public schools there and 
 in California, and at the University of California. Ill health 
 prevented his graduation from the university. He later received 
 the degrees of L.H.D. from the Catholic University of America, 
 and Ph.D. from Santa Clara College, California. For seven 
 years he was travelling correspondent of The San Francisco 
 
430 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Chronicle. He spent five years in the South Seas. He was 
 professor of English Literature in the University of Notre 
 Dame, Indiana, from 1-885-7. After 1889 he held the same chair 
 in the Catholic University of America. 
 
 Poems (1867); South Sea Idyls (1873); Marshallah, a Flight 
 Into Egypt (1881) ; The Lepers of Molokai (1885) ; A Troubled 
 Heart (1885); Lazy Letters From Low Latitudes (1894); The 
 Wonder Worker of Padua (1896); A Trip to Hawaii (1897); 
 A Cruise Under the Crescent from Suez to San Marco (1898) ; 
 Over the Rocky Mountains to Alaska; In the Footprints of 
 the Padres (1902); Exits and Entrances, a Book of Essays 
 and Sketches (1903) ; For the Pleasure of His Company (1903) ; 
 Father Damien, a Sketch (1903); The Island of Tranquil De 
 lights (1904); Old Mission Idyls (1906); The Confessions of a 
 Reformed Poet (1907); The Dream Lady (1907); Poems 
 (1907). 
 
 TRACY, VIRGINIA (1875- ), was born in New York 
 City and educated mainly at a private school in Chicago. She 
 is a member of a stage family and herself became an actress 
 when she was eighteen. She played with Mrs. Carter in The 
 Heart of Maryland, and with Robert Mantell. She left the 
 stage after ten years on account of ill health and wrote many 
 short stories dealing with stage life most of them appearing 
 in Collier s. 
 
 Her only published books are: They Also Serve (Short 
 Stories) (1908); Merely Players (Short Stories) (1909); Per 
 sons Unknown (Detective Story) (1914). 
 
 TWAIN, MARK (SAMUEL L. CLEMENS) (1835-1910), 
 was born in Florida, Missouri, whence he moved to Hannibal, 
 where he went to school. When he was twelve years old his 
 father died and he went to work as an apprentice in the local 
 newspaper office and remained for three years. He then came 
 east to New York, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, and back to St. 
 Louis still doing newspaper work in all these places. He had 
 always longed to become a pilot on a Mississippi River boat, 
 and he now realised his ambition. He continued at this from 
 1857 until the Civil War, when he entered the Confederate army. 
 His next move was to Nevada, as secretary for his brother. 
 He also worked as a silver miner, but was unsuccessful and 
 went back to newspaper work. Reaching San Francisco, he 
 wrote for The Morning Call, took another turn at mining, and 
 then became a lecturer. In 1867 he went to Europe with some 
 friends, and when he returned he wrote Innocents Abroad, which 
 had an immediate success. He married in 1870. He purchased 
 The Buffalo Express and edited it for a short time, before de- 
 
BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY 431 
 
 ciding to settle in Hartford, Connecticut, and devote his time 
 to writing. His works are translated into most European lan 
 guages. He founded a publishing firm of his own, C. L. Webster 
 & Co., which was a failure and involved him in heavy losses. 
 His only child was a daughter who survived him. 
 
 The Jumping Frog (1867) ; Innocents Abroad (1869) ; Auto 
 biography and First Romance (1871) ; The Gilded Age (with 
 C. D. Warner) (1873) ; Roughing It (1872) ; Sketches, Old and 
 New (1873); Tom Sawyer (1876); Punch Brother, Punch 
 (1878); A Tramp Abroad (1880); The Prince and the Pauper 
 (1880); The Stolen White Elephant (1882); Life on the Mis 
 sissippi (1883); The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885); 
 A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur s Court ( 1889) ; The 
 American Claimant, etc. (1892); Merry Tales (1892); The 
 1,000,000 Bank Note (1893) ; Pudd n-head Wilson (1894) i Tom 
 Sawyer Abroad (1894) ; Joan of Arc (1896) ; More Tramps 
 Abroad (1897); Following the Equator (1898); The Man That 
 Corrupted Hadleyburg (1000) ; Edmund Burke on Croker and 
 Tammany (1901) ; A Double-Barrelled Detective Story (1902); 
 Articles on Christian Science (1903); A Dog s Tale (1903); 
 Editorial Wild Oats (1905); King Leopold s Soliloquy (1905); 
 Eve s Diary (1905) ; A Horse s Tale (1906) ; The $30,000 Be 
 quest (1906) ; Christian Science (1907) ; Extract from Captain 
 Stormfield s Visit to Heaven (1909) ; Is Shakespeare Dead? 
 (1909) ; The Curious Republic of Gondour and Other Whimsical 
 Sketches (1919); In Defense of Harriet Shelley and Other 
 Essays; What Is Man, and Other Essays; The Mysterious 
 Stranger ; Autobiography. 
 
 WYATT, EDITH (FRANKLIN) (1873- ), was born in 
 Tomah, Wisconsin, and educated in the Chicago public schools 
 and at Bryn Mawr College, which she attended for two years. 
 She is at present living in Chicago. Among the magazines to 
 which she has contributed are The Atlantic, McClure s, and 
 The North American Review. 
 
 Every One His Own Way (1901) ; True Love (1903) ; Making 
 Both Ends Meet: the Income and Outlay of New York Work 
 ing Girls (with S. A. Clark) (1911) ; Great Companions (Short 
 Stories and Essays) (1917) ; The Wind in the Corn and Other 
 Poems (1917). 
 
 WHARTON, EDITH //S6>- ;, was born in New York 
 City, a descendant of distinguished Revolutionary ancestors. 
 She was educated at home. From her youth she was familiar 
 with the literature of France, Germany, and Italy, and was 
 most influenced by the writings of Goethe. Among the English 
 novelists her taste is for George Eliot. In 1885 she married 
 
432 THE GREAT MODERN AMERICAN STORIES 
 
 Edward Wharton, of Boston. She has spent much of her life 
 in Italy. During the war she was most active in relief work in 
 France, and has been decorated by the French government for 
 her services. 
 
 The Decoration of Houses (1897) J The Greater Inclination 
 (8 Short Stories) (1899); The Touch Stone (1900); Crucial 
 Instances (1901); The Valley of Decision (1902); Sanctuary 
 (1903); The Descent of Man and Other Stories (1904); Ital 
 ian Villas and Their Gardens ( 1904) ; Italian Backgrounds 
 (1905); The House of Mirth (1905); Madame de Treymes 
 (1907); The Fruit of the Tree (1907); The Hermit and the 
 Wild Woman and Other Stories (1908) ; A Motor Flight 
 Through France (1908); Artemis to Actaeon and Other Verse 
 (1909) ; Summer, A Novel (1909) ; The Reef (1912) ; The Cus- 
 torn of the Country (1913) ; Ethan Frome (1914) ; The Book of 
 the Homeless (1915) ; Fighting France (1915) ; Xinger and 
 Other Stories (1916); Tales of Men and Ghosts (1917); The 
 Marne (1918); French Ways and Their Meaning; The Joy of 
 Living. 
 
 WYNNE, MADELENE YALE (1847-1913), was born in 
 Newport, New York. Besides her interest in writing she de 
 voted much time to artistic work in metals. She studied at 
 the Boston Art Museum and at the Art Students League in 
 New York. She was president of the Deerfield (Mass.) Arts 
 and Crafts Society. She lived in Chicago. 
 
 Her only published book was The Little Room and Other 
 Stories (1895). 
 
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